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hyunjincanraptoo · 4 months ago

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Knee socks

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: smut, sub!hyunjin

Genre: college au

Alexa, play Knee Socks by Arctic Monkeys

It was supposed to be a quiet study night.

Notes scattered across the coffee table, textbooks open, laptop screens flickering with unread slides. But Hyunjin hadn’t processed a single word in the last twenty minutes. He was leaning back on the couch, highlighter resting uselessly between his fingers, his gaze kept glued to your legs. More specifically, to your knee socks. That soft, ribbed material clung so deliciously to your thighs, peeking out under your skirt like it knew exactly how to torture him.

You, of course, noticed. You always noticed. You’d made a habit of teasing him since the semester started— loud, flirty energy wrapped in glossy lips and sharp eyeliner. You were the hot girl who had everyone’s attention in the lecture hall, and Hyunjin was the complete opposite. He was just the quiet one in the corner, the art student who tried to stay chill, pretended he didn’t care when you stole his pens or whispered something wicked into his ear during lunch break. But he did. He always did. Because he’d had a crush on you since week one.

You stretched your arms over your head, spine arching lazily, and his eyes followed the curve of your body like it was a reflex. Your skirt lifted slightly just a flash of thigh above the socks and his throat almost closed. “You’re not focusing”, you said, lips curled into a smirk. “I’m trying”, he admitted, sinking deeper into the couch, “My brain’s fried” “I’m trying,” he groaned, head tilted back against the cushion. “But it’s like my brain refuses to process anything”.

You smirked softly, “Maybe you just need a different kind of stimulation”. That got his attention, “Yeah? Like what, a shot of espresso? A slap to the face?”. Chuckling, you leaned closer, “No”, you said, voice dangerously slow, “Like… cockwarming”

The silence after that was thick and tangible. Hyunjin’s breath caught, eyes widening just enough to show you how caught off guard he really was. And then, a slow flush crept up his neck, “You’re not serious”, he said, but it sounded more like a dare than a denial. You tilted your head. “You said you need to study, right? I’ll sit on your lap. You stay in me. No movement, just warmth. You focus and I’ll even quiz you while we do it”.

Hyunjin blinked, mouth parting in disbelief, “You’re fucking evil”, he whispered, already shifting upright, tugging at his sweats. And that was how, ten minutes later, you were straddling him on the couch, thighs hugging his hips, skirt bunched around your waist, your knee socks brushing against his thighs as he sank deep inside you slowly— inch by inch, until you were full and snug and he was breathless beneath you.

Hyunjin exhaled a shaky moan against your shoulder, “Shit…”. You kissed his cheek— gentle, unhurried. “Focus now”, you whispered, “You’ve got three chapters to review”. But he was trembling already, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to buck his hips. Every time you shifted your weight just slightly or whispered a question into his ear, he twitched inside you, eyes fluttering shut with the effort it took to stay still.

And you? You were still— so perfectly still —settled on his lap like you belonged there. Warm, tight, pulsing around him with every shallow breath you took. It should’ve felt calming, grounding even. But it was maddening. Hyunjin had never known torture could feel like this.

His hands rested on your thighs, fingertips twitching now and then like he didn’t trust himself to move. You’d gone back to your notes, flipping pages like nothing was happening, like he wasn’t buried inside you, thick and aching, so hard it almost hurt.

He tried— fuck, he tried— to read the paragraph again, “…Chiaroscuro is a technique used in visual arts to create strong contrasts between light and dark…”, he mumbled weakly, blinking at the page. You chuckled softly, hips shifting just barely. Barely. But enough to provoke him.

His breath hitched sharply, nails digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your skirt, “Don’t”, he groaned, “Don’t do that” “Do what?”, you asked innocently, pen tapping against your lips. “That thing. That little… move”, you tilted your head, clearly amused, “I didn’t move” “You did… fuck, I felt it”. You gave him a slow smirk, leaned in close, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “Maybe I just wanted to remind you I’m still here. Since you’re supposed to be so focused”.

He let out a low, frustrated whine— something like a laugh mixed with a desperate groan, “I can’t focus. You’re warm and wet and squeezing the life out of me just by breathing”. You kissed the corner of his jaw, soft and lingering, “Poor baby”. His hips jerked slightly, instinctive, uncontrolled, making you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, “Hyunjin!”, you scolded him.

He shut his eyes, panting now, “I said no moving”, you muttered, “You said it would help”, he replied, trying to gather himself, trying to sink into stillness again. You smiled, “It is helping. You’re learning how to practice self control” “Or you’re going to kill me”.

During the following minutes, he was so responsive— every breath a whimper, every glance at your thighs a confession he didn’t mean to make, “You’re trembling”, you teased softly, brushing his hair off his forehead. “I know”, he groaned, eyes squeezed shut. The room was quiet except for the sound of rustling paper, shallow breaths, and his occasional soft groans against your skin.

You leaned down again, whispering softly, almost cruelly, “Let’s see if you can get through three pages without twitching”. He swallowed hard, “You’re mean”. And yet he stayed inside you, trembling under your warmth, hands shaking slightly every time you shifted your weight just a little too much. And you just smiled, gently brushing your fingers through his hair while his thighs quivered beneath yours. Every muscle in him was pulled tight, vibrating with the effort to stay still— simply because you asked him to. Because he wanted to be good for you.

As your fingers were lazily toying with the ends of his hair, gently scratching his scalp, he desperately tried to finish the damn chapter. “Two pages left”, you whispered, but he barely nodded, teeth sunk into his bottom lip as his eyes skimmed over the paragraph again. You could see how hard he was trying, see the way he swallowed, slow and heavy.

And you didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out in the quiet, “You’re so pretty like this”. His eyes shifted up to meet yours instantly, “What?”. You blinked, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “I said: you’re pretty when you’re trying so hard not to lose it”. His breath hitched again, jaw clenching, “You can’t just say stuff like that” “Why not?” “Because I’m already about to lose my mind. You say things like that and I…”. He trailed off, eyes fluttering closed out of frustration, “I don’t know what to do with it”.

You leaned closer, mouth just barely brushing his, “You let yourself feel it”. His eyes opened again, “Why you always do that?”, he said quietly. “Do what?” “Say things like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know what you do to me”. His voice cracked just slightly on the last word, and something in your chest tightened, “I know”, you whispered, “I do”.

And then it hung in the air thicker than the silence before it.

“I like you,” he said, suddenly, “Fuck, I’ve liked you for so long”. You blinked slowly, “I try to act like it’s casual,” he went on, fingers curling around your waist, “but I look at you and I just… I want everything. Not just this. Not just the heat or the tension or the way you whisper in my ear like it’s a joke”.

You stared at him without even being able to breathe, “I want all of it”, he said. “Your body in my bed late at night and your voice in my kitchen by the morning making me coffee. I want to know what you look like when you’re in love”. You blinked again, now harder, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

“I thought we were just classmates,” you began, “Yn…”, he said gently, “It was never like that”. There was nothing playful in his gaze anymore. You swallowed thickly, fingers slipping into his hair again, tugging him just slightly closer, “Then maybe”, you whispered, brushing your lips against his, “We should just not play pretend anymore”

You were the one who moved first. His mouth was on yours, open and hungry, the kiss deep and needy. Your hips rolled down hard, and he whimpered, sounding high, broken, desperate. His hands clawed at your waist, your back, eyes wide and glossy as you moved again, slowly grinding down until he was gasping under you. “Please”, he gasped, “Please, I… fuck, I can’t…” “Shhh”, you cooed, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, “Be good and let me ride you”.

He nodded frantically, hands clinging to you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. You set a slow, deep rhythm, letting him feel every inch of you, moaning sweetly at how perfectly he fits inside you. Hyunjin was gone beneath you, his eyes fluttering, lips parted, moaning softly every time your fingers brushed his skin, every time your body squeezed tighter around him.

You kissed him hard, messy and hot, swallowing the shaky whimper he made when you clenched around him on purpose. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers playing across your bare back, pulling you closer against him, chest to chest. The room felt thick with heat now, his breath ragged in your ear, his voice wrecked. You tangled your fingers in his hair, forehead pressed to his, feeling every tremble in his breath. Your name spilled from his mouth like a mantra, over and over, until his voice was raw and you were gasping with him, chasing the end together.

He whimpered— just softly, the sound barely escaping his lips. You pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Tell me if you want me to stop”. He shook his head quickly, “No, please… don’t”, his voice cracked on the last word. You smiled gently and reached between your bodies, stroking the part of him that didn’t quite fit inside you. His hands clenched into fists on either side of the couch, knuckles white as you drive him insane.

His head fell back, throat exposed, quiet moans caught in his chest, “You’re so good for me”, you praised softly. “I bet you’ve thought about this before,” you continued, still rocking slowly, just enough to make him see stars, “Me riding you quietly. Sitting pretty and warm on your cock while you try to pretend you’re not falling apart”. “I- I did,” he confessed, breath catching, “I’ve thought about it so many times… shit….” “I know you have”. You leaned in, tongue tracing the shell of his ear, “And now look at you. Just a desperate little thing under me”.

Something in him snapped at that— his hands flew to your hips, but not to guide, not to take control, just to hold. To beg, silently, for more, “You want to cum?”, you asked, voice thick with lust. He nodded quickly, face flushed in a deep red, “Beg for it, then” you whispered. He whined again, hips twitching helplessly beneath you, “Please… please let me… I need it”, he gasped, “I need you… I can’t hold it anymore…” “Then cum for me”, you breathed against his lips, clenching down around him just enough to send him over the edge.

He shattered beneath you with a broken cry, body trembling violently as he spilled inside you, clinging to your hips like he’d fall apart if he let go. You held him close, riding out the aftershocks, kissing his neck tenderly, fingers stroking his hair damp with sweat as he collapsed beneath you. “You did so well”, you whispered against his skin, “So sweet for me”. And he just nodded, dazed and dizzy, still buried deep inside you, still full of you, barely able to breathe, but glowing with something soft and blissed out, like he’d just experienced something sacred— like he’d give anything to stay just like this a little longer.

You stayed curled on his lap, his arms still wrapped around your waist, both of you warm and breathless and trembling in the silence. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just breathing, heartbeats tangled, skin flushed and slick and trembling in the quiet aftermath.

And then, softly, he spoke again, “I meant it”, he whispered, “Every word”. You kissed him gently, forehead to forehead, “I know. Me too”.

And that was it. No more pretending. Just tangled bodies, warm skin, and the quiet knowledge that something had changed— not just between your bodies, but in the tender space between your hearts.

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sugaronmytonguedotmp4 · 2 months ago

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oh this one as well

i love this photo because it encourages you to use your imagination

#i love this photo #the chiaroscuro of it all #his eyes are so bright in contrast with the brow #eyes blissfully closed as though he has found pleasure in something #or whatever #hes hot and i wish he were eating me out

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harmonysanreads · 7 months ago

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Chiaroscuro

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Dr Ratio x [ Gender Neutral ] Reader

Synopsis: There is a wilted daffodil resting between the pages of Ratio's memories. Tags: POV Dr. Ratio, Fluff and Humor and Angst, Hurt/Comfort (?), Slow-burn (oh my), Right Person Wrong Time (oh dear), Strangers to Friends, Reader is Older than Ratio, We speak in the Language of Flowers here, Literary References and Allusions, Exploration of Academic Struggles, Jealous!Ratio, Exploration of Grief, Slight Yandere!Dr Ratio, My Interpretations of Ratio's Past and Ideologies (because hyv won't tell me), Brief Aventurine Appearance TW(s): Toxic Relationships, Toxic Family Dynamics, Implications of Physical Abuse (not condoned by Ratio) Author's Note: At long last, my ‘thesis’ on Dr. Ratio is finished :') I've been working on this fic since June 2024 and finally gathered enough willpower to push through the rest of it. I started this fic with the sole goal of torturing Ratio but ended up falling in love with him halfway through this fic- as such the direction may have shifted orz Please forgive any unintentional errors and get cozy <3

「 Word Count : 11k 」「 Artwork Credits 」「 Read On AO3 」

i. Panorama.

They say, the best years of a human's life are spent before boards painted with chalk scribbles and around those of one's ages, filled with careless laughter and weaving hopes for the distant future.

Veritas Ratio has always disagreed with this belief and backed his own with a multitude of reasoning. For one, those so crowned ‘best years’ are not to be wasted through wishing your fantasies would come to fruition on their own. Secondly, his experiences run contrary to the images illustrated by the majority of the population. Which, fall as it might within the grounds of personal grudge, has enough weight to not be disregarded entirely, he'd argue if necessary.

If confronted on his bitter feelings regarding the schooling years of a person's life, there is a possibility that the erudite Doctor will falter and then incoherently mutter something about it not being a downright horrifying experience.

The chances of receiving further clarification from that point decreases significantly and will be entirely dependent on Ratio's mood, which, isn't perceived to be the most agreeable on most days.

In the rare case that luck shines upon the inquirer and Veritas Ratio's stern edges soften with nostalgia, there will be but one name that'll leave his lips in an uncharacteristically somber cadence.

If certain events had transpired differently, the recollections of that day would've been far sweeter than it is now — but still, the parasite known as nostalgia begs to alter his memories. It attempts to soothe the cuts gained from reaching towards aspirations far beyond his capabilities with cursory glances from the sun, and daisy petals hidden in the crevices of dusty tomes.

In the days Veritas Ratio treaded in an environment where nearly everything was twice his height, carrying expectations no one would bother to understand, he'd pledged to himself to not fold before irrational demands just because he wasn't a sight one would normally see in an institution full of burgeoning adults.

He was no stranger to the attention his genius brought, far more so the unwanted part of it.

Which was why he'd stubbornly made his goals clear to his titular peers within the first week of his attendance, much to their bewilderment.

Any suggestions for free ‘assignment completion service’ was shut down curtly and neither did the prodigious new student bother to partake in other youthful activities — but surprisingly, Veritas's distant countenance hadn't succeeded in putting a dent to his overall popularity.

Perhaps that is the reason the requests for private tutoring sessions and borrowing of notes never did cease, because despite his attitude, no one could deny his intelligence. And that, ultimately became his label in that university. Consequently, no one went out of their way to seek him out unless it concerned academics — except one person.

Ratio thinks he might've been witnessing a meteor streak the night sky instead, because relatively speaking, he couldn't trace where you appeared from with just his bare eyes.

(Though now that he thinks again, it might've been because he'd not bothered to look beyond the white board of the lecture halls, haughty as he'd been.)

—And as momentary as said event, you'd stunned him with an inquiry that did not match any of the others that'd preceded your kind.

“Why are you all alone during lunch, little boy? Whoa, you're studying even now?”

He’d barely missed the astonished gleam in your eyes when he parted from marking an important section from his book in a flinch. The unacquainted sight beside his desk had put the functions of his brain at a temporary standstill, before resuming with a barrage of questions as you observed him rather amusedly.

The small smile that appeared on your face next halted any of those inquiries from gaining voice as Veritas's reflexes worked to catch the objects tossed his way.

“Take these for now. Skipping meals isn't good for you, you know? You can't achieve your dreams if you don't take care of your health first.”

Veritas blinked owlishly at the apple and sandwich now resting on his lap, the words of advice you stated in a rather sing-song tone barely registering in his head as he vacillated between demanding your identity and scoffing at your audacity.

Much to his chagrin, you evaded his burning stare and waltzed out of the vacant lecture hall before he could even open his parched mouth, again.

(What he recalls first before this peculiar interaction now is how the usually mundane sunlight had embraced your form that day.)

He only saw more and more of you from then onwards, much to his initial displeasure. For some mysterious reason, you'd made it your hobby to nag at and subtly coddle him in ways that made any other passing student raise eyebrows.

Whether it be dragging him to places and sometimes forcing him to eat lunch or separating him from his beloved books to 'refresh his mind' at some other corner of the campus, you never faltered ; despite all the scowls and passive aggressive quips he sneaked in.

Only after some research did Veritas discover you to be one among the seniors and, he'd admit it somewhat begrudgingly, you were a senior in every sense of the word.

Although, that knowledge did not aid him in answering the most begging question: why were you going out of your way to guide him through the perilous terrains of university? He'd initially suspected you to demand recompense in the same ways the others coveted.

Perhaps you were an expert manipulator, struggling to wrap up your last year in the institute and as a result, decided to prey on the genius through teasing words and coddling.

Ratio was fully prepared to face you when you showed your true face — except, his hypothesis ended in utter failure as that expected unravelling never came.

So, on another of your usual kidnappings meetings under the old oak tree at the far end of the campus, Veritas decided to soothe the scorching paranoia in his head.

“It’s because you remind me of my little siblings! It's been such a long time since I've seen them and I just really miss them, you know?”

He doesn't know. Neither the sentiments that are apparently driving you to take care of him nor whether you're being sincere.

Here's the most annoying thing about you: despite how much of a genius Veritas is crowned to be, he's experienced repeated failures in deducing what lies beneath that benign smile of yours.

At least there are formulas and theories to explain or, get closer to the enigmas of the universe. But whatever and whoever moulded you into your present state had clearly forgotten to leave a loophole behind for curious minds like his to decipher.

“Besides, I understand how you must be feeling in this environment where everyone is half a decade older than you — even though you like to act tough. I know that there's a seed of loneliness that's ready to burst into a giant tree with the right incentive and you're just holding onto the last of your sanity to not let that happen.”

Ratio's fingers halt midway through flipping to a different page of his book. Your observation silences him long enough to make the rustles of leaves permeate the atmosphere, before he forces his brows to furrow and his lips to quirk down.

“It’s rude to make assumptions about someone you barely know.”

The purple head watched as you leaned against the palm of your hand, as though the sneer on his face was nothing worth fretting.

“Aww, did I catch little Veri off guard? No need to be in such denial, I saw you gape like an owl at my words. But owls are my favorite bird, don't worry!” The hostile expression on his face morphs into surprise as you ruffle his hair with your free hand with more enthusiasm than required.

“Rest assured, I'll take care of you for as long as I'm here, little Veri.”

“I’d appreciate it more if you don’t.”

That earned him a laugh and messier hair.

ii. Anamorphosis

Little Veri.

If there was something he despised more than the shrill voices of his classmates, it'd be that nickname. You might've been accurate in your choice of words in a literal sense, but for the first time, honesty had bruised his ego.

The prodigy was not accustomed to being treated his age, he was always commended as ‘mature’ and being ‘beyond his years’. Yet you had never even bothered mentioning this and instead, always poked at the suppressed child that slumbered at the deepest corner of his heart.

What he loathed even more was how every repeat of that ridiculous nickname actually made him feel quote-on-quote ‘little’. No, how you allowed a leeway for that teenage heart to peek through from under a canopy of knowledge and caution.

Intentionally or not, you carved a shelter for that little boy to crawl beneath in moments that no one would care to glance at.

It was a matter of great shame although, while his teachers had handed him the basics to deciphering the laws of the universe, no one had bothered to teach him how to respond to such kindness.

Upon further digging, the genius was surprised to find that your merit resided in the top five of your entire year. While he hadn't taken you for a dimwit (he'd rather eat dirt than utter such sacrilege) his astonishment stemmed from the fact that he'd never seen an academic material accompanying you on campus.

He’d even thought your sole task was to bother him with your half-a-decade years old wisdom upon a particular session of agitation. But after clarity grasped his mind, he realized that his suspicions were simply baseless in an institution as competitive as Veritas Prime.

Instead of journals and papers concerning your major, Veritas often saw you seeking refuge in musings soaked in fantasy and your rationale behind such escapades puzzled the mind of his younger self greatly.

“And then the male lead gave a bouquet of bluebells to the female lead, declaring his feelings! Isn't that so romantic?”

Ratio scrutinized your form hunched over from giddiness derived from materials that appeared alien to his eyes, stacks of textbooks wept at the corner of the table in abandonment.

“Bluebells? I thought people gave roses for matters like this?” sunset orange eyes swept over the incredulity blooming on your visage.

You sighed as though he was the most exasperating person you had the misfortune of dealing with, “It’s because bluebells are the symbol of eternal and undying love. Roses are undoubtedly lovely but as you said, if anyone was to give roses to someone, everyone and their grandmas would have an inkling about what is happening between them! Giving someone a bouquet of bluebells on the other hand, is far more secretive and exciting.”

“I don't really understand but alright.”

Ratio almost drops his pen at the flick to his forehead, “So unromantic! You're never getting a girlfriend if you continue being like this, kid!”

His free hand whips up to shield his skin against further damage, he feels the muscles of his temple twitch in profound irritation. “I don't need—”

“Yes yes, you're too preoccupied with the pursuit of knowledge to bother with fickle things like romance blah blah blah.” Ratio's eye roll almost synchronizes with yours.

Veritas knows and he isn't ashamed to admit that he's not a romantic person. The path he walks on has no necessity for abstruse emotional attachment and sentimentalities.

On the contrary, what he abstained from seemed to be the centrepiece of your interest.

Your eyelashes flutter as you rest your elbows on the table, eyes searching for a trace of your wishes among the litany of bookshelves, “But if anyone was to confess to me, I'd want them to give me a bouquet of bluebells instead of trying to articulate their feelings.”

Ratio raised a brow as your sigh echoed throughout the grand library, “And how, pray tell, would they know of your preference?”

“That’s the thing, little Veri!” you snapped your fingers as though you'd solved the greatest dilemma plaguing mankind, “I wouldn't talk about these fantasies to just anyone. If someone was to give me a bouquet of bluebells, it'd mean that we're close enough to know these secrets and then there'd be a high chance that the feelings are mutual. No awkward moments, we'd know what we are without even speaking!”

The purple head observed as you rambled, the light from the sinking afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass shone on you. A scoff escaped him before he could stomp it down, his arms crossed almost derisively.

“And is that your sole ambition in life?”

“Of course not,” your reply was brisk and simple, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You met Ratio's perplexed gaze with an unusual calm, “If by ambition, you mean what I want to do after all this studying, well — I want to be a teacher.”

Veritas couldn't hold back the surprise from soaking his words this time, “A teacher? Why?”

But you seemed to find great entertainment in his reaction, if your twinkling eyes was anything to go by and the genius isn't even taken aback this time; your sources of amusement would never be the guesswork of anyone.

Your shoulders shifted as you shrugged, “Why not? Teaching is one of the most noble professions out there, but it warrants great caution and wisdom. Hmm, come to think of it— what do you want to be, Veri?”

Ratio nearly flinched as you expertly shifted the attention to him, glossing over it with a fake cough. “I…” his throat constricted as you leaned in ever so slightly, “—don’t know.”

“Whaaaat?” you backed away just as quickly, dragging the syllables of that word to emphasize your disappointment. “Tsk tsk, so you're just studying blindly without any clear goal? That isn't going to get you far, regardless of how intelligent you are.”

He knows that, but what is he supposed to do if his mind blanks when he tries to envision himself in any conventional field? In fact, he considers it as one of the flaws of the educational system. How a student is always urged to find their place in the grand scheme of matters but never guided through them ; or, at least, given clear pointers.

It'd also be careless to label Veritas completely clueless about his situation. What he does cradle, or was compelled to bear was not borne of his personal wishes. But with time, his mind accepted it as his own, though a part of his heart always ached with emptiness.

You cleared your throat upon noticing that a great conflict had rendered the genius speechless, “Well... as for the reason as to why I want to be a teacher, it's because I want to help those students who struggle to find their way in this vast world. Regardless of where they rank in the merit position or what ‘status’ society has assigned them. Granted, this struggle may continue even after someone has graduated and while I may not be able to help every single person, I still want to try my best. After all, that should be the goal of our educational system — in my opinion, at least!”

You chuckled somewhat bashfully afterwards, remnants of it settled on the way your lips curled. There was something so succinct yet undoubtedly natural about that smile, like petrichor and he felt a pang of regret hitting his ribcage for not noticing it before.

Although it might not appeal to some, to many it brought solace even before the sun could sweep aside the canopies of darkened clouds.

Something that's appearance was preceded only by the tears of the skies, it stunned the mind that such beauty could be unearthed from a phenomenon so seemingly insignificant.

And that realization appalled the young scholar.

iii. Tenebrism

Ratio did not comprehend the value of your presence until he was deprived of it.

Due to certain circumstances, the genius had learned to be contingent with the fact that he'd have to navigate the majority of his life all by himself. Of course, ignoring simpletons and self-centered personnel came easy to him as well.

What the scholar wasn't conscious of, or was too prideful to acknowledge was the harrowing vacancy in some obscure corner of his heart that yearned for a deeper connection. It would take little effort for him to rationalize this longing with his age and return his attention to far more pressing concerns.

But it seemed that the more he tried to silence the wails of his feelings, the more cacophonous they became.

You'd spoiled Veritas a good amount, with your willing enthusiasm to tail after him whenever you had the reprieve.

So, when you abruptly stopped your usual pursuit in exchange of accompanying another person whose face he couldn't bother to remember, the young scholar was left to deal with a surge of emotions he had little control over.

Said emotions, were tame enough to be kept under check within the first few weeks as he learnt that the purpose of this sudden acquaintance had been for the completion of a group project.

Where the scholar's composure did start to falter was when you maintained your distance from him even after the fulfilment of said project.

And Ratio despised the sparks of resentment that'd flare up in his chest each time you'd pass him by while chatting so deliriously with that no-name stranger.

He was thrown in a limbo the first time he witnessed someone else in the position that he held and although he stubbornly convinced his mind that it was for the best ; each time the scene would replay in the corridors and crevices of the university, Veritas could see yellow hyacinths bloom in his peripheral.

He's certain now that he must've been losing his mind, or at least was on the verge of (and for such a childish cause at that) because he took shelter in a superstitious practice and ignored as many meals as he could in the futile hope that you'd come back and reprimand him again.

Ratio would have applauded you if he hadn't been so consumed by all those unsavory chemical reactions in his mind.

It didn't help his case that the first time he'd bothered to take in the environment, he was reminded of the fact that, you had others who'd accept you, but he only had you.

His frustration must've reached a new peak, because not even the most persistent of his irritable classmates were brave enough to approach him as he continued to brood hopelessly.

It wouldn't be long until he would gather the motivation to finally propel himself out of that dark space, but the method his younger self employed to do so, embarrasses the present him to no end.

“They did what?”

Veritas needn't open his eyes to picture your visage colored in shock, he opted instead to maintain his somber facade, arms folded, and brows furrowed to complete the act.

“But I never thought them to be that kind of person, quite the opposite, in fact.” followed your reluctant admission.

Ratio outstretched his palm as though enticing you to accept the news, “One can deduce so much about the ocean by gazing at its surface. The facts are before you, with substantial evidence. Whether you believe them or not depends entirely on you. I only thought I should inform you before it reaches the Principal, that is.”

He could envision your eyes oscillating between his firm countenance and the unseen prospects proposed by his words. Discreetly, he peered at your fidgeting and unconsciously held his breath.

He'd done the calculations before approaching you, the worry oozing from your gaze confirms that you've heard word of it from his ‘associates’ already and the fact that you didn't try to defend the person further tells him you've done some digging through the news portals of the university yourself.

Step by step, you've unknowingly assisted in concluding this problem.

The young scholar silences the quivers of his conscience before they can rage and foil all progress. As for this friend of yours, there were embers left behind from misdeeds of long ago. He merely reignited that flame so that those crimes would face proper punishment — although which was not his principal goal. To make sure you don't get caught in the inferno was, or at least, that's what he tells his conscience.

A half-resigned hum from you saves the scholar from spiralling, “I’ll believe you and will avoid them for the time being. Though I have my own theories, you have a point. There is no telling what is beneath a person's exterior.”

Veritas simply nods to that conclusion.

Your eyelashes flutter as you drift into a brief reverie, before fixating on his rigid person. “Ah, but what is going on with you, kiddo? You've been skipping meals again, haven't you?”

The young scholar blinks in stupefaction at the shrunken proximity between you two, the single finger beneath his chin with which you scrutinize his visage nearly burns his skin. He can hardly process what observation you're making through the dizzying fragrance of jasmines.

“I am in perfect health, as you can see—”

“For so long! It's only a matter of when that you'll faint while calculating nonsense.” you sharply interject and withdraw the searing contact. Strangely, Ratio makes no face this time.

“Come to think of it, it's been a while since we've had lunch together. Oh, I have so much to share with you! Let's not waste anymore time, let's go!”

There is good cause for why the wise warn against temptations. Bit by bit, piece by piece, oh so painfully obstinate — you fed him that poison, rendering his sharp mind a mess of inebriating chemical reactions.

You were none the wiser to the impact your fickle gestures made on him and soon, Ratio's biggest weakness, curiosity silenced the prodding of his conscience.

He gained little incentive to step far away from the leering shadows, as the brilliance of the sun made it so his fixation wouldn't stray towards the darkness.

iv. Tachisme

“Suffering is part and parcel of extensive intelligence and a feeling heart. A man who is really great, it seems to me, must suffer considerably here below.”

Your sigh weighs down on the silence of the university's library, a dull thud causing a crack on it as you set down the tome on the dark wooden table.

“I couldn't help but think of you while reading this novel.” bright orange eyes watch the way you cushion your cheek against your knuckles minutely.

“Suffering, misery, sadness, whatever you name it is inconsequential to any human being. But I feel like, those who are labelled as being ‘different’ than the majority experience a certain kind of those challenges. The ones that are weighty on the tongue when they attempt to express it, perhaps inscrutable to even themselves.” Ratio mulls over your musings, briefly closing his eyes.

“Everyone’s experiences are bound to be different.” comes his easy response.

The furrow in your brows suggests the conflict his words stirred instead of assurance, “You take everything so coolly, but I can't help but worry for you. You may be calm and certain about everything now but there's no guarantee you'll always be this way. On top of it all, you reject close relationships, thus narrowing your options to lean on someone should a sizable problem come.”

Ratio catches himself before his eyes can roll sideways, “Surely you didn't drag me out of a lecture just to nag me again?” his subconscious notes the reduced exasperation that prospect stirs within himself.

You often worry for a future that has yet to seize anyone. While the young scholar commends your far-sightedness, he really cannot understand the use of losing one's mind over events that haven't happened yet.

Thinking ahead is helpful, turning that habit into an obsessive frenzy is not.

He observes the way your frown expands, deepens and ultimately loosens up with a sigh. You refrain from broaching the topic further, another quality he appreciates.

Though you don't make an attempt to defend yourself, you refuse to voice out anything else as well, settling your eyes to a distant point in existence.

For once Veritas is ruffled by the silence, so he makes an attempt to change the subject — because counting your eyelashes isn't the most productive thing for a scholar to do.

“It’s not everyday I see you carrying something that doesn't have hearts and glitters on the cover page.” his eyes settle pointedly on the book before you.

You scoff, “One does not survive in Veritas Prime simply from reading light novels.” there's a trace of pride in your admission.

“Oh? So, what does ‘one’ do to maintain their spot in the top five?” Ratio quirks a brow, holding your gaze.

The witty response he anticipates gets replaced by another sigh, puzzling him for an instance, “I’m assuming this is about me never studying within campus. Well, I just like keeping my study space and my socializing space separate. Listening to lectures here and doing the heavy lifting in my room. It's what works for me, in any case.”

There's genuine interest in his next questions, “And what do you do when you get bored while studying? Or when you feel like you can't concentrate anymore?”

You twirl a stray lock of your hair, cheek still resting on your knuckles, “Take a bath to sober myself up, I guess. When your mind is full of garbage, your body will likely not be the cleanest either.”

You shrug, your nonchalant attitude renders his mind to a blank slate. For a while he does nothing but think about your words, though the response he gives matches none of the context.

“I feel like there is so much I don't know about you.”

It's your turn to be surprised, but unfortunately for Ratio, the sight is still too brisk. You break into a fit of laughter, wiggling your brows as though you know something.

“Silly little Veri, let me tell you something. People are like icebergs! We can only see their tips with our bare eyes but to know them in their full capacity, we have to dive down.”

“But the waters are cold.” the young scholar pushes.

Your giggles soften to a smile, “That’s exactly the point.” and you refuse to elaborate further, again.

To reach the heart of the iceberg, one must push through the freezing depths of the ocean. Whether Veritas Ratio has that willpower, is a question left for his future self.

v. Sotto in su

As the days lapsed, more and more memories anchored themselves in Ratio's mind. They brought with them a different seed of emotion, every exchange with his enigmatic senior nurtured and coaxed it to sprout tender leaves.

Before his syllabus could be replaced, the fact had been known to everyone regardless of their relation to the prodigy. If your recurring appearances in Ratio's life and his noticeable tolerance for your presence was anything to go by, it was apparent to anyone with a conscious mind that his opinion of you was at a level above everyone else's.

Exchanges between different years wasn't an uncommon phenomenon, but a friendship with the notoriously detached prodigy was an understandable bewilderment. Though, the students at Veritas Prime quickly learned to use it to their advantage rather than criticizing it — a unanimous realization that Ratio was just a bit more agreeable in your presence.

Not that Ratio was unaware of their schemes, the fact that they construed that he'd tolerate them solely because of your connection further cemented his belief that all these wannabe researchers were still light-years away from the truth they speak to seek.

Albeit, after noticing that he'd been more approachable for students who genuinely wanted to learn rather than to fulfill some pecuniary purpose — he begrudgingly admitted that, there was an influence taking place.

Veritas swiftly ignored the rumors. While not one to waste his time, being with you brought along perspectives that challenged his thinking style. To him, truth has always been beautiful because it will not change, even through the failures in understanding it.

But you're a human being, change is rooted in your constitution.

The cycle of erosion and accretion that makes you you hinders even a brilliant scholar like him in grasping the characteristics of your soul. This form of beauty he was not acquainted with before, admittedly.

Relying too much on either rigidity or malleability will pose problems. It is through the search of a balance can we discover the answers.

It may not be obvious at first glance, but you aspire to guide others through the murky depths of ignorance while pondering this apparent equilibrium — since neither extremes can be eliminated. As strange as that selflessness initially appeared to him, Ratio has developed a sense of respect for your ambitions.

Unfortunately, or fortunately for him, it seemed as though you knew exactly what was transpiring.

In fact, you were conscious of a lot of things ; it's just that you preferred to pretend that you didn't for reasons that he hasn't comprehended yet.

For the longest time he interpreted that thoughtful sparkle in your eyes as just another play of light. Whenever his reactions to your teasing would come off as more animated than last and the flush that he'd try so hard to not let extend to his cheeks do just that — you'd have that nearly imperceptible realization reflected in your eyes. It scratched at the parchedness Ratio hadn't even recognized to be there.

His fear was confirmed to be true one afternoon in a vacant lecture hall, though not through words.

“Is this for me?” sunset orange eyes shone against the shadows that fell on his back.

“Well, do you see anyone else here?” your huff and his eyeroll synchronize.

You patiently held the book covered in elaborate illustrations of flowers for his taking, though what captured the scholar's attention most was the single yellow bloom tied atop with a violet ribbon on the book. He recognized the book to be a copy of the floriography manual he often saw tucked between your collections.

“You’re probably wondering ‘what value will this book bring to you’. Well, as I've said before, studious scholars should never limit their perspectives.” you almost shove the gift into his hands in response to his stunned countenance.

“And,” an accidental brush of your fingers against his hand sends an unwanted shudder through his arteries, “Happy birthday, little Veri.”

You withdraw just as quickly, the hues of the setting sun softening the smile on your face.

Ratio forces himself to look elsewhere, "You're still going to use that ridiculous nickname, huh? What a way to welcome me into adulthood." he mutters, the words leaving a bitter aftertaste that he tries to mask with sarcasm.

He feels your chuckle probing at his heart, taunting the quickened pace in which it revolts against its cage. You shift your gaze to the golden petals resting atop the book, a somber sigh tumbling from your lips.

“— Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon ;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not yet attained his noon.”

Many see fit to celebrate their first step into adulthood with enthusiastic celebrations, Ratio's eighteenth birthday brought with it a clinging bittersweetness — not that he allowed himself to dwell on it for long, his future plans taking precedence over sentiments.

The lone daffodil had been tucked between a random section of the book you gifted, hidden away from his sight. The border between cowardice and courage was thin, nearly translucent in the manner the result dictated what it would turn out to be.

The journey of uncovering the mysteries of the universe is a similar pursuit. Emerge victorious and you'll be brave, fail and you'll be heralded foolish. Ratio was far from a coward or a foolish man, sometimes not going head-fast into uncertain territories is the mark of intelligence.

He allowed the daffodil to wilt and turned not a page, for he knew in some deep crevice of his subconscious that it'd blight the clarity of his mind with another flood of emotions he did not have the capacity to process.

Luckily, his agony met a premature end as you departed from Veritas Prime by the end of the year with a certificate in hand.

Who knows how many sleepless nights and crushed dreams paved the path for the ink lines on that single piece of parchment. Ratio had been there as the first to congratulate you, it was the least he could do.

He did not proceed farther than that, as you'd made it clear that there would forever be a line he would be unable to trespass.

Ratio was fully aware of the limitations the silly crush that accumulated over the time in your acquaintance brought and he expressed no interest in pushing those boundaries either.

He found solace in the fact that he'd met you at all. He wouldn't say you illuminated his life, for even you always believed it was the individual themselves who possessed that power.

You nudged him towards the path to find his light and that lesson, he wanted to honor all his life.

The memories of your time would stay treasured in his mind and the curve of your smile would be preserved in marble. Without the echo that his ears yearned to capture, he saw fit to isolate his senses from unnecessary stimulation.

Though you'd never grace the corridors of Veritas Prime again, the footprints of your presence etched deep in the genius's memories would never fade.

vi. Trompe l'oeil

His next encounter with you was a tad unexpected, just at the horizon of Ratio putting the full stop to his years at the university.

Veritas’s fingers slackened around the handle of his umbrella, a page or two of the manuscript of his thesis slipping past his grip and drifting along the roaring wind — but his eyes couldn't chase after them. Much too fixated on the way your shoulder bumped with theirs, not at all by accident.

The rain soon cloaked your figures from his spying gaze, the droplets soaking the ends of his clothes failed still to snatch his attention away. In spite of the thunderous cries of the sky, the echo of your laugh was all he could hear.

—

Time never ceased its relentless march; life followed its direction and events moulded more memories.

For the sake of productivity, he had no choice but to push back his curiosity and stay away from your life. His studies and workload helped generously in keeping his mind from wandering to frightful territories at inconvenient instances, though a certain spark nestled deep somewhere in his subconscious.

Before long, his name resounded far beyond the gates of Veritas Prime.

Veritas Ratio, now Dr. Ratio, felt his nerves flare again as he looked at the latest discussions on the university’s online forum, the words “Dr. Ratio Will Surely Snag A Place At The Genius Society, Won’t He?” in bold only tickled his annoyance further.

Ordinarily, he would stay as far away as possible from discussions concerning himself — which was easier said than done.

Aggrandizing anything always leads to disappointment. Ratio's surroundings loved to goad his path, but he knew, such chatter would morph to whispers the moment their expectations were proven false.

Dr. Ratio’s brooding came to a halt at the collision, his reflexes acted and he clasped onto the stranger’s arm before they could fall. He heard leaves crunching under his boots, strangers threw cursory glances at the near-accident.

His lips parted in what a spectator could assume to be the beginning of an apology, but paused upon noticing the words resignation letter on the paper in the stranger's grasp.

Orange eyes flickered, trailing upward, within the fabric of scarlet you burrowed deep in search of comfort from the scare.

You mimicked his earlier attempt, craning your neck for a second to meet his gaze and halting in recognition.

“Veritas… Ratio?”

The addressed scholar blinks, blurting out before he could think, “That’s not what you used to call me.”

There's a scintilla of surprise in your eyes at his unintentional jest, he anticipates a laugh next, but only an awkward quirk of your lips greets him.

Your eyes dart around your environment, before returning to his grasp. Feeling the weight of your stare, he releases his hold with a fake cough.

“I… apologize.” his hand found refuge on the nape of his neck.

“It’s okay, accidents... happen, you know.” you wave him off with your free hand.

A breeze passes through the gap between you two.

It might've just been Ratio’s misjudgement, but he felt as if you were about to run away for a millisecond. Your fingers tightened around the paper in your hold, you gathered yourself with a deep inhale.

“Congratulations on obtaining your fourth doctorate degree! I often discuss your papers in my classes, you are an inspiration to so many people.”

A flicker of sunlight filtered through the leaves above fell and there appeared that smile he knew. Years had gone by, yet the mystery in it remained still out of his reach.

“Thank you,” he tilted his head downward, “I’m glad to hear that you pursued your dream.”

Ratio sneaked a glance, your nod faded into silence. His gaze lingered on your face, the concentrated flush on your right cheek made his brows furrow.

He was no fool to the tension in the air and your unusual fidgety demeanor. He briefly contemplated if he should just depart.

However, he couldn't deny the fact that questions had accumulated throughout the interval of your absence from his life. The differences between the you before him and the you from his memories begged him to probe, to study and learn.

He felt himself drawn to the paper in your hand again, a glint on your ring finger caught his eye. Among the myriad of inquiries battling to escape his lips, the one that’d warred the longest emerged victorious.

“Did they…” he began, uncertain.

“Give you a bouquet of bluebells?”

Your flighty gaze froze to confusion for a moment as you tried to decode his words, Ratio mirrored your gaze as you failed to answer. You quickly blinked away any hints of shock, a forceful bite stopped the trembling of your lips.

(He felt a twist somewhere in his heart.)

“Can we… talk somewhere else?” you suggested. Despite it being the middle of autumn, there's a storm brewing in your eyes.

—

Veritas could see splinters on the cup in his grip, the dark beverage within threatening to spill.

A passing waitress threw the table a concerned glance, but could not find the courage to intervene. The sight of your antsy wringing of hands in his peripheral alerted him to breathe. He loosened his grip on the poor cup of coffee just in time, a burdened exhale following suit.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “So, what do you intend to do now?”

You fiddled with the band on your ring finger ; within the vacancy of the cafe, to Ratio, it felt as if even such an insignificant gesture gained voice.

The insistence of your silence prompted him to continue, “The culmination of your hard-work, one that stole almost all of your life ; all of those sleepless nights, unsaid sacrifices for the sole wish of helping others — all of it, you're going to let go, just like that? Just because an idiot claims they know better?”

Dr. Ratio could not understand, no matter which angle he looked at it from. The answer to your dilemma was crystal clear to the scholar, he’d be willing to bet it’d be clear to anyone with a functioning brain — and yet, you hesitate.

You continue to shuffle and avert your gaze, sometimes parting your lips to speak but withdrawing the next second.

A person that's found the tunnel’s end should run towards it, but you remain at the precipice of darkness.

“I…” The purple head straightens up at the sound of your voice, it is weak, hopeless ; a complete stranger to who you once were.

You abruptly gather your things, “I’m sorry, please forget I ever said anything —” an innocent glass is knocked off in your haste.

Cold, your hand is chillingly cold as Ratio grabs it, preventing you from running away. The unnatural temperature of it temporarily unsettles the man, but the situation at hand prompts him to push the observation back.

You try to force your wrist out of his grasp, but he presses on, “Can’t you see, that they are ruining you? This is not who you used to be! Your so-called 'fiance' is destroying you, they’ll not stop until you're nothing but a shell of yourself and they can reshape you to their liking!”

“I really have to go —” a vein pops on Ratio’s forehead, the wanton glass hits the floor.

“And why go? To receive another slap from them?” he feels your palm dampen from sweat, pieces of shattered crystal splaying across the tiles.

You look at him in disbelief and he blinks, the sharpness of his words finally cutting him.

The incipiency of an apology gathers at the tip of his tongue, but you halt it from escaping.

“Whatever happens between us, is none of your business, Veritas Ratio.”

If your hand was simply cold, your glare is freezing. It stuns the scholar enough to make his clasp loosen, you quickly snatch your hand away.

You’re two steps in when Veritas rushes to add, unwilling to back down, “But it was still you who reached out to me.”

The scholar hears the pause in your heels, you don't turn to address him and he doesn't move to obstruct your path either.

The bell signals your departure as the waitress from before rushes to clean the broken glass, leaving Ratio alone with his thoughts.

—

Veritas Ratio has had scarce attachments to worry about in his life.

For better or for worse, it appeared as though the direction of his life was steered towards one particular destination, everything else proved to be transient.

While his surroundings eroded and flourished within the touch of mortal delights, he remained but a spectator, destined to observe but never indulge.

Love. A simple word, yet any singular meaning behind which could still not be agreed upon.

He saw it in the way parents cradled their children, in the eyes of a couple that brushed past him in the streets. Flighty like the union between another pair of his former classmates, strengthened like the wrinkly hold of that couple that sold flowers down the street ; its form, just like its definition, is infinite.

The scholar thinks he's felt it somewhere in his past, or at least the vestiges of it — within the glow of a cryptic smile and a mind that did not yield.

Troublesome as it’d been, it did not conquer him. Ultimately, he wielded enough willpower to move on.

Some say, brilliant minds that toil too long in the territories of the unknown, become dense to the simpler aspects of life. Ratio did not see the inconvenience in this notion for a long time, not when it aided him more than burden him.

That is, until the encounter at the cafe.

If nothing else, it was clear to the prodigy that you had changed, for the worst at that.

The 'you' he’d known would know how to pick yourself up, or more accurately, that ‘you’ wouldn't have allowed things to escalate this far at all.

You would've left this rotten excuse of a relationship the first time they raised their voice, you would never concede to that fatal act of disrespect, under no circumstance would you let such an excuse of a human have such control — he… he hoped.

Ratio leaned back in his chair, a frown creeping in to his face.

For all these outrageous claims that he's been making of the you he was familiar with, how much did he actually know?

Is a year’s observation enough to grant him that badge of familiarity?

It is as you said, who is he to judge you at all?

Within the gloom of his study, his eyes unconsciously met with those etched in marble, the curve of a sun-kissed smile. He hand moved on its own, turning the table-lamp towards the sculpture and indeed, the light has always suited you more than him.

His recollections backtrack to the hazy gaze he saw that day, the encumbrance in them hoisting him up to chase after the itch for answers.

An uncounted number of hours passed, only after perusing a decent pile of tomes did it finally click in his head.

Ratio had no excuses or motivation to defend himself, he most certainly handled the situation poorly.

When the average attempts of leaving such relationships is between seven and twelve, it was insensitive of him to confront you like that.

Cognitions clouded in rage, he ignored the questions he should've asked, the sense of security he should've provided — the one you sought from him — and cornered you abruptly.

Foolish foolish foolish — he felt his fingers tug at his hair, breaths stuck in his lungs. Rationale does not always succeed in helping others see reason, how could he be so careless with you, of all people?

He didn't even know what stage of this hell you were at, how many times you’ve attempted to leave and what leverage they have over you.

Well, it would be most accurate to say he didn't know anything at all and yet, he arrogantly told you to 'just leave'.

The purple-head forced himself to breathe, the self-loathing could be shelved for a later day, what's more important now is finding you again.

He stood up from the heap of tomes, only to pause, does he deserve to seek you out again?

He betrayed your trust and you shut him off for good, should he even bother now?

A distant tug held him back.

Much like before, there is that line between you two that he cannot cross, must not cross.

He’s no longer a teenager in documents, but he doubts you see him as anything more than that ‘little Veri’.

—

The echoes of passing vehicles ricocheted around the streets, but Dr. Ratio’s attention stayed transfixed on the ivory petals in front of him.

A week or so had passed, the ruminations of those doubts kept him away from the confrontation and stole his nights.

It would be easy to cure this ailment, finding you would be but a matter of a few swipes. But that uncertainty, the ghost of a past insecurity, clung to his resolve. As such, peace abandoned him for a while.

A zephyr whispered to him, “Asphodels,”

He hummed without much thought, sunset orange eyes tracing the dulcet lines in those blooms.

“ ‘My regrets will follow you to the grave’, it's not everyday you see someone looking at these flowers with such care.”

If anyone looked straight into the scholar’s eyes at that moment, they'd for sure be able to witness the cogs turning in his brain in them.

Ratio finds you startled once he whips to his left, your presence finally registering in his head.

A prayer, a yearning, your name escapes his lips. But any further speech is obstructed from taking shape.

You’re the first to recover, “I apologize for running away like that the other day. It… was cowardly of me to tell you to mind your own business when I was the one who confided in you first.” your head lowers in appeal.

He’s sure of it now, you must be on the quest of giving him a heart-attack, what with these continuous surprises you’re throwing at him.

Well, if not a fatality, they're at least doing a wondrous job in preventing him from processing the fact in its entirety — you're here, you’re here, you're here.

You found him, again. Just like all those years ago in the lecture hall, all those times he was skipping lunch, on his eightieth birthday and that other day ; it was always you finding him.

(Has he ever broken through his pride and cowardice and tried to find you instead?)

The scholar hastens to join you, “No, it was my incompetence in failing to understand your situation that pushed you to leave. I completely failed to provide you with safety when you trusted me. For that, I beg your forgiveness.”

He couldn't see it, but he could picture your disbelief at his behavior. Your fist mirrored his, “No, it was clearly my stupidity—”

“Nonsense!” his exclamation earned him a flinch from you. He subconsciously straightened up to drive his point across, “It was me who —”

In the hurry and flurry of emotions, your head bumped with his, ending his tirade prematurely.

Your eyes settle on him, a car runs past your perplexed figures and then, the streets get cloaked in quietude ; before being filled with your giggle.

Against his control, his lips twitch and laughter bubbles in his chest. He allows them to gain voice and join yours.

You fan your face with your hand as the chuckles skid to an end, Ratio feels his cheeks warmed when he inhales. But none of you bother addressing the previous argument, its result apparent.

You take a deep breath and exhale. The scholar sees sun-glitter in your pupils, “I left them, by the way.”

That sobers him.

“Your…”

“Fiancé, yes. Or well, ex-fiancé now.” as if on cue, Ratio catches your now vacant ring finger.

“They tried to beg me to stay. But to be honest, it was not the first time they appealed to my sympathy.” you find interest in the pavement, searching for the remnants of your memories in their cracks.

“... But I really put my foot down this time. And oh, I didn't quit my job either, in case you were wondering.” you heave, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“And where are you residing now — if you don't mind me asking?”

“I’m temporarily staying at a friend's house. Don't worry, I’m at a safe place.” you reassure, detecting the underlying concern in his inquiry.

Ratio’s shoulders sag as he exhales, the receding adrenaline dulling his worries. Turns out you didn't really need his help, not that he's astonished. It was in your nature to extend help towards others but thinking twice before asking for help.

(Although he's in no position to criticize, he so wished that you’d find it in yourself to rely on him a bit more.)

“If you ever need anything, just give me a call or a text. You still have my number, correct?” he glances down to gauge your expression.

When you nod, he murmurs a faint ‘good’ and silence takes over. He contemplates if he should add anything else, but the serenity in the atmosphere prompts him to push back those concerns.

“Well, goodbye for today?” you suggest, snapping him back to reality.

He raises his hand to do just that, but a different thought alarms him.

“Let me walk you home.” he pushes back the cringe at the excess firmness to his tone, rushing to add, “Please?”

For a blink or two, you looked at him as though you’ve just sighted an alien. He assumes it's the ‘out-of-character’ tendencies he’s been portraying that has you double-check. It seems that he was not the only one comparing the present and the past.

Luck appeared by his side — or perhaps it was just your pity — and you conceded without any complaint, letting him join your steps. The scholar barely hid his glee through his gait.

The planet that housed Veritas Prime would get decorated in the lovely shades of ripened maple leaves around this time. Civilians gathered in groups beneath these scenes, some enjoying a leisurely picnic, others focused on getting their desired pictures.

Ratio noticed your wanton glance at a pair on a picnic mat, his lips tugging down at the tell-tale signs of where your thoughts ran towards.

But before he could do anything, you turned away and picked up your pace ; the pair’s laughter but background noise.

With some haste, he caught up to you. Racking his brain to distract your mind, he found himself empty-handed.

Four doctorates and yet, his mind goes blank when he needs it the most. He couldn't be any more disappointed in himself.

Just as he’s about to start a mental berating though, you side-step a rock and Ratio’s hand bumps with yours, their frigidity alerting him.

He stops in his tracks, and you do too, looking up quizzically at him.

He extends his palm, “Give me your hand,”

Your confusion only increases, “What? Why?”

“It’s too cold. Are you certain you aren't sick?” he thinks back to the encounter he had with you at the cafe, the chill he felt when he grasped your hand. He initially thought it a coincidence, but now, he was really concerned.

“Ahh, this, you see,” you flex your fingers, a feeble attempt at warming them up. “My hands kind of respond to the temperature? Don't ask because I don't know exactly why either, during winter, they're usually cold like this. But in summer, they're very warm.”

Ratio quirks a brow, “Just the fact that it tends to happen doesn't make it any less uncomfortable, does it?”

“No…” you trail off, “But! That's what my fiance— I mean, ex-fiance would always tell me, to just get used to it.”

Your eyes flicker back to Ratio’s, the disbelief in them telling you enough of what you need to know.

The scholar ran a hand through his hair, he shuddered to ponder what other garbage they had fed your brain.

His sigh is carried by a passing breeze, “It’s okay. They aren't here to dictate your life anymore.” he once again offers you his hand, another hope-filled prayer.

You look at his extended palm and back to his patient gaze, your fingers fisting in themselves for a moment before loosening.

He sees the ebb and flow of doubt and hope in their movements, inching closer and closer to his.

He cradles your hand when it reaches him, your fingers slipping easily through the gaps of his. The difference in temperature alerts his reflexes for a second before he calms them down.

He stuffs your intertwined hands in his coat pocket — your gasp fades behind you as he resumes his gait.

Ratio does not dare glance in your direction, but he knows you're watching, scrutinizing him. It reminds him of the look you had at the end of your university days, the memory of the incident that followed makes his throat parched.

Your grip is unusually weak, combined with the knowledge of your situation, the scholar can't stop himself from adding.

“Have you been eating well? Tell me if you haven't, I'll take you to have a proper meal. But don't lie about these matters, you can't achieve your dreams if you don't take care of yourself first.”

You freeze at his words and Ratio makes the mistake of returning your stare.

Seeing no change in his serious expression though, you shake your head with a chuckle, assuring him of your health.

The clicking of both of your shoes against the pavement is the only thing keeping his heart-beat at bay, his attention from focusing too much on the feel of your hand in his and the myriad of chemical reactions flooding his reward system.

When the coldness in your hand has been completely replaced with the warmth from his, you gesture to him that you’ve reached your destination.

He feels an unexpected reluctance in letting you go, something in his gut pushing him to hold on — but he ignores it.

You pause before opening the gates, glancing at him from over your shoulder.

He looks up in time to see your smile, it's not like all those times you’ve smiled before — no, no. This time, lilac petals cling to its corners.

Ratio covered his mouth with his hand, hiding the stupid curve of his lips from anyone's eyes. The lingering warmth from your hand finally allowed his heart to beat with fervor.

He wanted nothing more than to give you a bouquet of bluebells at that moment.

vii. Sfumato

The day Dr. Ratio returned to your side with the pledged bluebells, was beautiful.

The canopy of winter had begun to be swept aside as nascent leaves heralded spring, twitters of birds ornamented the breeze.

When fresh fountain ink meets parchment, it spreads with a thin halo of blue — the sky of that moment brought back this image in his mind. The sun found amusement in steering behind ivory clouds ; a cheeky, one sided game of hide and seek played with light and dark.

The sun made a mistake, a sidestep allowed rays to escape and fall on the lace ribbon of the bouquet.

Sun-glitter followed the lead of Ratio’s arm, over the arch of his wrist, finding their way from beneath the crevices of his fingers — shining, glimmering, as lapis petals caressed the tombstone.

How strange, didn't it usually rain and roar for scenes like these in those light novels of yours?

Veritas could not feel his breaths, it's as if the mechanisms of his respiratory system halted for that matter, he couldn't even feel his eyes flutter.

Idiocy.

He contemplated turning away altogether, what was he even thinking, bringing bluebells to the cemetery like a young lover?

A dead leaf crunched from his retreating step, the note stunning him in place.

Perhaps he should've brought the chopped off, bleeding excuse of a skull of that man — if only, if only if only any being, any listening existence in this wretched world would reassure him that it’d bring you back.

The scholar felt his fingers lax from their cocoon, but he knew, that would be impracticable. If a life for a life resurrected the other, his fingers wouldn't tremble in usurping that leverage and bringing justice to your final moments.

But he knew, oh how the erudite scholar despised knowledge for the first time in his life — that it’d soothe him, but leave a hollow far worse in his heart.

A sigh forced its way past his lips, onerous was its euphony. Windswept locks of violet poked at the way crystalline orange held onto the engraving on the silver stone ; the name, once his boon, now his bane.

Splinters of marble flew, papers, pens, innocent objects were tossed aside like fickle trash. Rouge flecked once pristine alabaster. Midst the carnage, a book fell betwixt Veritas’s path.

A withered daffodil lamented rationality’s fall.

Newspapers and channels boldly flashed the incident for a week — individual apprehended for the charge of murdering their ex-fiancé — before being swallowed by other, more fascinating pieces of events.

Ratio found himself scoffing at their tone, picking apart their every word and spacing, frowning at how quick people's interest moved on.

Indeed, the world waits for none. The ones lingering are always tormented.

With the last person in close association with you behind the bars of the psych ward and your acquaintances grieving, the scholar took it upon himself to deliver your files and belongings to your family.

But that decision turned out to be a lesson, the universe once again pointing out without mercy the mediocrity of his knowledge.

“Does that mean we’ll have to turn to the streets now?” whispered a little too loudly, a little too carelessly, your step-mother to your father.

Ignorance.

Perhaps Ratio’s disbelief had been too loud on his face, for your father shushed her quickly and attempted to smooth over the slip-up with a barely-strung lament.

But the scholar had learned what was to be surmised from this family, all of their next speeches effortlessly ignored by him.

So the reason you ultimately didn't quit your job was for them, Veritas's eyes dimmed. Feelings were never his forte, this messy heap of them he had no clue what to do with.

And the siblings you used to so dearly miss back in your university days? The second-oldest after you put back her headphones after he finished delivering the news and the youngest couldn't even recall your name.

Ratio seldom used the phrase, but it was truly a miracle he left that fetid establishment without causing damage.

He decided against disclosing your remaining belongings to them and instead, gave them away for charity as written in a journal he accidentally stumbled upon while sorting through them.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew this would happen.

But you refused to confide in anyone, tolerating the farce of a content life.

Ratio could not understand, did not even know where to begin in decoding what was going through your head when you lied to him and what had coerced him into believing it.

Of course you didn't leave them, that would've been too perfect and too merciful an end and clearly, the universe would not allow it. Of course he needed to be shown how much of an idiot he still is, the extent of his wishful thinking.

Ratio concurs he deserves it.

But did you deserve to meet such an end? No, your life shouldn't have been shaped this way to begin with! And yet, it had been.

For long did he stare off into vacant space, casting aside the need for slumber, attempting to answer what was to be done now. The silence beckoned him, that it was nothing.

Perhaps, you were at peace now at last.

Perhaps the craving for this serenity was what had prompted you from not fighting off that axe.

Perhaps, you had closed your eyes without any regrets.

When the haze in his head cleared a bit, he visited your grave again. Dust had gathered on the lifeless petals of the bluebells he’d left, the scholar tenderly rid them from the surface.

He dug a section beside your resting place and planted fresh asphodels. An elderly woman saw the scene in passing but did not comment, pity clung at the edges of her eyes.

Foolishness.

In fear of the tides of time burying the traces of your foot-steps, Ratio chased after them. The places you spoke so fondly of, the flowers and stories you cherished and the students you stood proud beside.

They spoke of your passion, your vision and your resilience to him.

They say, even a lifetime of ‘knowing’ someone is not sufficient in knowing them.

Although he’d known you for a miniscule timeframe, he squandered no effort in trying to understand you. Only at this juncture, did your nature become clear to him. You were an expert in keeping your lips shut, a seasoned performer of half-truths and no stranger to the art of survival.

It was no coy act, you trusted no one with your actual thoughts and motivations — that was the naked truth.

So then, it begs the question, what exactly did you try so hard to eradicate?

Supposing that this universe suffers from a common ailment, and it is so persistent, so adhesive, so elusive that it plagues the dullest to the most brilliant mind — that despite all attempts at curing it, only its surface has been scratched. And this truth had been so frustrating, even you could not stand back.

Ratio tapped his fingers against his desk, what other malady does an educator aspire to cure other than ignorance?

Foolishness? Idiocy? Stupidity? All synonymous, yet capable of clasping and corrupting irrespective of a person’s standing in the path of life.

To rid them, scholars, researchers and teachers attempt to disseminate knowledge with the vow of indiscrimination.

But Dr. Ratio knew, the oasis of knowledge is but a mirage in the desert of ignorance. For the populace to reach that base awareness, to recognize that mirage — that, is what is needed.

The scholar saw the early light of dawn from betwixt the crevices of his window, the hinges groaned as he pushed them open and for the first time — the sun embraced him and the shadows fell behind his form.

But the meteor that briefly illuminated his sky, is gone — as tends to be their destiny. He can do nothing but carry the memories of its glow.

—

Light glinted over the edge of the cone, approaching footsteps reminded the doctor to tuck it away from prying eyes.

Ratio tsk-ed upon feeling the absence of his headpiece, cracks on the alabaster had demanded a remake.

The scholar’s eyes met with the ones cradling the remnants of a bygone sunset, melting into hues of ocean blue.

“Doc! Didn't expect to see you here.” drawled an unfortunately familiar man. Ratio offered a blink in greeting.

“Yes, how astonishing it is to see a member of the Intelligentsia Guild in its corridors.” the doctor muttered plainly, the Stoneheart in the spotlight merely maintained his smile.

Ratio noticed his other hand to be occupied, “And what about you? Busy squandering your time as usual, gambler?”

Contrary to his expectations, the quirk of Aventurine’s lips widened as though he’d struck gold, he smoothed over the lapels of his suit. The erudite scholar subconsciously braced himself for whatever trick was to be brought next.

“Now now, it's not squandering if you're spending it with a dear person.” he winked.

Veritas caught a silhouette peeking from behind the blonde, “Meaning?”

“Ah, how uncourteous of me.” though there's a note of glee in his voice. “Allow me to introduce you to…”

Dr. Ratio observed as a figure emerged from Aventurine’s shadow, the passing question of how he hadn't noticed them sooner was pushed aside as they joined the Stoneheart in the spotlight.

“My dearest, precious jewel or— how did you prefer it again? Hmm I can't seem to remember~” an elbow to his side and huff broke through his theatrics ; the vacant halls gained life through laughter, petrichor bloomed in their notes.

“Just kidding, my bluebell.”

A meteor crossed the orbit of Ratio’s life again.

Thank you so much for reading!

TAGLIST : @abyssmal-skies @danijaci @birdloverr @teabutmakeitazure @cherriiirose @bleh09 @scurfi @justcallmemidnight @mochinon-yah @feral-ish @lavandulawrites @persicipen @stickyspeckledlight

#dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio x you #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere dr ratio #yandere dr ratio x reader #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail x reader #dr ratio fluff #dr ratio angst #right on the one year anniversary of ratio's first in-game appearance bro—

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bloodmoonmary · 1 month ago

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oh, ophelia . . . heaven help the fool who falls in love. ͏𓍼

. . . the candles flickered—or was it her moving between them?—and benedict found himself arrested by the play of light upon a face that seemed not so much beautiful as inevitable, as if all the ballroom's chiaroscuro had arranged itself solely to frame this moment of her passing. she moved (but how does one describe the movement of a being who exists outside time?) with that peculiar grace of the newly immortal, not yet accustomed to the weightlessness of eternity. the lamplight caught in her hair—no, not caught, that implies violence—rather the light pooled in her hair as moonlight pools in still water, and he thought absently how curious it was that after forty years of nights he could still be surprised by beauty.

mary (for that was her name, though names seemed such mortal things) felt the weight of his gaze as one feels the first drops of rain—a presence both sudden and expected. she had known he would be watching, just as she knew the rose by the terrace window would bloom tomorrow night, just as she knew the exact quality of silence that falls between two heartbeats. turning (when had she decided to turn?), she met his eyes across the sea of satin and sweat, and in that moment some essential truth presented itself: they had been moving toward this encounter not for minutes or months, but across the vast expanse of their separate eternities.

later—though time had become such a fluid concept—they would find themselves in the garden, where the scent of jasmine hung heavy as memory. "do you ever," mary began, then paused, her fingers brushing a petal that trembled (or was it her hand that trembled?), "do you ever feel that we are not the hunters, but the hunted? that eternity pursues us rather than the other way around?" benedict considered this as he considered all things—not as answers to be solved but as colors to be mixed upon the palette of his mind. the moon cast her face in silver, and he saw with sudden clarity how young she still was, this girl-woman caught between centuries.

their conversations unfolded like origami creatures—each revealing new facets when examined from different angles. in the library one evening (or was it morning? the curtains were drawn against the sun's impertinence), mary found herself speaking of her mortal childhood with a vividness that surprised her. "i can still feel the exact warmth of my mother's hands shaping my hair into braids," she murmured, "though i cannot recall what color her eyes were." benedict, who had been sketching the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder, set down his charcoal. "memory is a fickle thing," he said, "it preserves the scent of lavender but loses the face of god."

when the revelation came (as all truths must, inevitably), it arrived not with drama but with the quiet certainty of dawn. his fangs gleamed briefly in the lamplight, and mary found herself smiling not at the sight but at the realization that she had known all along, just as one knows the ending of a familiar story even while pretending otherwise. "i wondered when you would show me," she said, and the words hung between them like cobwebs catching moonlight.

three months later (three months! what were months to creatures who measured time in centuries?), beneath that same jasmine-scented sky, benedict would press his forehead to hers and whisper something about lifetimes. mary would think (as the stars wheeled overhead in their ancient dance) how strange it was to find eternity in another's eyes when she had spent so long believing it to be a solitary pursuit. and they would dance then, not to the music of violins but to the silent rhythm of celestial bodies moving through the dark, two immortal points of light finally recognizing their shared constellation.

#vampire dr. ᥫ᭡#desired reality #loa #shifting #dr #shiftblr #law of assumption #manifesting #reality shifting

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mustelidsinlove · 6 months ago

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Dramione one shots that are never far from my thoughts

[in no particular order; mind the tags — some of these are dark]

As Sharp as Any Thorn by Argosy [E, 8.8k]

The road to redemption is a winding one. Christmas at Grimmauld Place, Post HBP.

Art: Night and Her Daughter Sleep (detail), Mary L. Macomber, 1902

Scenes from a Marriage by hiddenhibernian [T, 5.4k]

They say love isn't about what you say, it's what you do. If you see it that way, Hermione doesn't have any reason to complain.

Art: The Lovers, Akseli Gallen-Kallela, c. 1907-1917

Grit by witchsoup [T, 4k]

Hermione attempts to diagnose a secretive patient suffering major curse damage.

Art: Hands Grasping 7, Susan Manspeizer, 2018

remedia amoris by magneticwave [M, 14.7k]

The most amazing thing about Malfoy is not that he managed to build a successful Ministry career out of the total disgrace of his family, but that somehow Hermione only despises him half of the time that they work together.

Art: Circe Offering up the Cup to Ulysses (detail), John William Waterhouse, 1891

Inside by onebedtorulethemall [M, 7.5k]

Something is wrong with Draco Malfoy.

Art: Illustration from The West Wing, Edward Gorey, 1963

With Teeth by provocative_envy [M, 5.4k]

Albus Dumbledore had been wrong about Voldemort’s horcruxes.

Art: Escape Before the Dawn, Devinez, 2023

On the Virtues of Inexhaustible Burning by PacificRimbaud [T, 5k]

In which Draco Malfoy wrestles geology and Hermione receives several gifts.

Art: Saint Augustine (detail), Philippe de Champaigne, c. 1645-1650

I am Sleeping on a Time Bomb by i forgot to blink [M, 4k]

The war is over, and they go to Antarctica.

Art: Barne Glacier, Herbert Pointing, 1911

Tromp as Writ by a_rum_of_one's_own [E, 7.2k]

‘Merlin and Morgana, what’s that?’ he breathed. ‘Muggle underwear. We’re beyond chemises, you know.’ ‘Granger,’ he said. ‘Granger. You can’t. This isn’t fair.'

Art: Saturnina Canaleta de Girona (detail), Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz, 1856

Reset by provocative_envy [M, 4.5k]

And the fear—the fear that he’s learned to swallow, choke on, bury the crushed and fragmented shards of—it's turning the space between him and her and the last six weeks, the last six months, into a gaping yawning brutally invincible chasm; a wall to scale and a cliff to jump and a step he’s never quite been brave enough to take. She takes it for him. Of course she does.

Art: Joan of Arc, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882

Chiaroscuro by ifyouwereamelody [T, 5.1k]

Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for sixth year a changed man. Marked, dangerous, and tasked with something terrible, he finds himself haunted by memories of the year before — a bright spark of connection that now he's got no choice but to douse.

Art: Vengeance is Sworn (detail) from the Revenge Triptych, Francesco Hayez, 1851

The Street Where You Live by scullyvasan [T, 10.5k]

Muggle childhood AU. Single mother Narcissa Malfoy co-parents her son Draco and functionally parents the little girl down the street. Light homages to Books 1-4 but no wands, no wizards, no Hogwarts — just human magic and the passing years at work.

Art: Daydreams, Thomas Couture, 1859

The Running Club by winterwells [E, 10.4k]

Hermione returns to Hogwarts for the "Seventh Year Was A Cluster F*** So Let's All Do It Again!" year. The war has left its mark, and she copes in the best way she can. Running. And she might pick up some stragglers along the way...

Art: Stripes of Silence, Lu Guada, 2012

Whistle by witchsoup [T, 1.5k]

Hermione spends the majority of her time on the tube, or dashing around Sainsbury's hunting for the last of the vegetarian wraps for her two-thirds-complete meal deal. Though it would be somewhat off-brand, she feels that it's well within her rights to ask David Cameron to lower the price of a meal deal, while he's at it. Possibly her rent, too.

Art: Untitled, Isabel Bishop, c. 1940s-1960s

Lights Out by Phoebe [E, 10.2k]

She smiles, and it enrages him further. Granger is afraid of many things. She's afraid of what lies outside Hogwarts, what could be lurking within the walls. She's afraid of Voldemort, and probably of his father. And she is inexplicably, illogically afraid of the dark. But she's not afraid of him.

Art: The Woman with the Candle (detail), Cornelis Visscher II, c. 1643-1658

Salvage by storycat9 [T, 1k]

Who is Hermione Granger when there’s no one left to protect?

Art: After Igor Svyatoslavich's fighting with the Cumans, Viktor Vasnetsov, 1880

The Object Lesson by Fleurizel [M, 13.6k]

When Hermione is forced to spend a weekend at the Bulstrodes’ country estate glad-handing for the Ministry, she finds an unlikely ally in the only other house guest who hadn’t fled the country when the war broke out: Draco Malfoy.

Art: Hands of the Puppeteer, Mexico City, Tina Modotti, 1929

i think i've seen this film before by magneticwave [T, 24.8k]

It doesn’t occur to Harry until supper that night, while Luna makes a Spanish tortilla with pink and blue potatoes from her garden, that Granger might actually be his friend now. Not just a transferable friend, comfortable with him because she’d grown up with a strangely domestic alternative version of him with short hair, but a real friend. Since he’s not sure how to feel about it, he eats his half of the tortilla in a silent daze and then helps Luna go over the last of the proofs for next week’s Quibbler.

Art: Still Life with Orange by Süleyman Seyyid Bey, c. 1900

Party Lines by PacificRimbaud [E, 10k]

As the dust settles in the 2000 United States Presidential election, Ivy League student Hermione Granger goes to three different parties, in an effort to think about something- anything- other than the state of Florida. So does that argumentative trust fund prick, Draco Malfoy. A college AU all about enemies who...aren't.

Art: Jasper Johns, Edisto Beach, Ugo Mulas, 1964

i have gone at dusk through narrow streets by i forgot to blink [T, 4k]

Draco, Hermione, and what came before and after the end.

Art: Interior Strandgade 30, Vilhelm Hammershøi, 1901

Breathe by Argosy [T, 14.5k]

The war is over and everyone wants something from Hermione. But that's nothing new; she can handle it. Really.

Art: Cupid and Psyché (detail), François Gérard, 1798

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moonchildstyles · 2 years ago

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big fat question for vamp H!! would y/n suggest him turning her, will that ever be a thing?? and would H be overwhelmed if the suggestion was brought up?

I’m assuming this is ab chiaroscuro vamp h but if it’s not im sorry😭😭 it’s kind of explained in the main piece that she doesn’t have to change to like be a him forever and all just bc they’re bonded and all! So I don’t really see her suggesting it unless it’s like literally last resort something completely awful that he can’t fix happened and she’s going to die otherwise someldlf so I don’t really see it happening tbh ! I always picture her as his human 🩷

#if this isn’t for chiaroscuro tho #in oleander I don’t know what they would do just bc Harry doesn’t know much ab being a vampire anyway #so idk if that would be something that would cross their minds until something made it #and I haven’t really figured out their brand of vampire yet so idk what that would look like #anon #ask

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humble-solitude · 2 months ago

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(Always check the original post on my Tumblr if you're seeing this from a reblog because I update it, so you can see the most recent additions)

Shadowvanilla Ao3 Fics that I think are a good read:

Jambound [I know there are some people that complain about them being out of character but it's good writing anyway]

You are here—Therefore I grieve

Camellias

MY CHERISHED FLAVOR [ read at your own risk]

Chiaroscuro

Free me from my chains

-<•>- by Owlsirr

Dollfaced [ from the same Author as Jambound ]

Joyful Confessions Delivered by Idiots

A ridiculous bouquet in the spring rain

Falling for you was Anything but a Mistake

Beast Among Heroes

An Honest Lie [ serie Antinomy]

A Distorted Truth [ serie Antinomy]

Oblivion

Old Line of Heroes.

Blue Flowers On Thursdays.

A Healer’s Journey to redeem the Villain

The Milkmaid [ serie Eldritch vanilla cookie AU, Genderbend and Eldrich horror ]

To stand beside an unnamed star [ serie Eldrich vanilla cookie AU]

This must be fallacy (because you make me feel so loved) [ It's his own AU ]

Feverish Frenzie [ It's another AU ]

In the Eye of the Vanilla Beholder

Is this Farce about Us? [ It's not strictly only shadowvanilla, it's also polybeasts and polyancients and affomilk but there's also the platonic relationship tag and because it's new I still haven't figured out which of them is platonic ]

Change the Fates' Design [ one of the few travel-time Fics I like of them ]

₊⊹𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 ₊⊹

Arranged Lilies

nothing left to lose [ Time-loop fic]

Your Typical Villain Story [ it's a regressor AU that I'm hoping the Author will develop further]

The Time Between Shadows [ from the same Author as Your Typical Villain Story, I'm waiting for it to develop]

Malinger [ while it's slow to update and like one comment pointed out there are a few plot holes I like how the storyline is going, I'm cheering for Smilk ]

Pure Vanilla's Lullaby

You'll Be the Saddest Part of Me [ it's both a Shadowvanilla fic and a Shadowlily one but while Shadowvanilla isn't the focus I think it's a pretty good read, currently on hiatus]

Stream: START!

Cómo domesticar a un dios del engaño

Tempus Fugit [ the other time-travel fic I like of them but really slow to update]

Broken Porcelain Puppets

Bound Paths: Once upon a time [it's a serie]

The Whole Universe Baked into You

To Blindside a Beast

The Price of Deceit

Liebesträume No. 3 in F Minor

To find freedom

A Guide to Making Friends

my hate's immense - his name's in vain (destroying God will cure my pain.) [ our eulogy serie but I gave the name of one for easier search ]

Judas

Where The Fount of Knowledge Never Fell [ serie Where Shadow Milk Cookie Never Came To Be ]

When We Spoke of Witches Beneath the Milky Way [ it's an established relationship but it's interesting anyway ]

Seeking the Truth at Blueberry Yogurt Academy [ part 2 of When We Spoke of Witches Beneath the Milky Way ]

Healing the Corrupted Soul

Trapped In A Cycle

5 times Pure Vanilla Tried getting into Shadow Milk's pants and the 1 Time he Succeeded [ flustered Smilk is funny ]

Friends, huh? (yeah right) [ serie You know you're better than this ]

Two Sides of the Same Coin [ it's an AU but they are so in denial it's funny ]

Vanilla wafer walls and shadows of doubt

Self proclaimed angel

P.s: It's not necessarily a list with only good quality writing, 100% in-character characters or canon-compliant, and it's not to be taken seriously when I say I think they're good if you dislike them, because I just wanted to share what I think it's something fun to read to pass the time and I'm not a writing critic anyway

P.s.s: one or two fics need an Ao3 account to read, and most of them are only a few chapters and slow to update, I mean it when I say they are fics to pass the time until something else updates

P.s.s.s: these ones aren't Shadowvanilla (or with any ship) but if you are a multishipper I wanted to share these too

The Time We Met Was In Chaos [ serie The Five Beasts In An Apartment: The Sitcom AU]

When it doubt, Get Roommates! (Aka Lovers)

Uncorrupted Jam, Uncorrupted Beast! (Please believe us😭😭)

The Resolute Volition

The Devouring Hour ( CRK AU)

#cookie run kingdom #shadow milk cookie #cr kingdom #crk #beast yeast #cookie run kingdom au #pure vanilla cookie #awakened pure vanilla cookie #pure vanilla crk #shadow milk crk #shadowvanilla

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nekodatta · 1 month ago

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I wanted to get some thoughts out about the ending(s) of Clair Obscure: Expedition 33 and why no matter what you choose, they hit players so hard.

(Obviously, spoilers)

------

For me, the most tragic part of the ending is not if one picks one or the other option, but that the inhabitants of the Canvas were pretty much doomed from the start and they didn't know it. It makes the whole game so unbelievably tragic. Expedition journals were sometimes funny, sometimes silly, sometimes somber, but they always carried this sense of respect for their sacrifice, the idea that they were passing the torch and leaving something so the next Expedition could do better, no matter how small.

Realising that they never pretty much had a chance to succeed makes it... Heartbreaking.

And that's what makes the game such an effective tragedy story. You're left frustrated and in disbelief.

I mourned all the inhabitants of the Canvas at the end of Act 2 as soon as I realised what the true scope of the problem was.

You want there to be a third option, one that saves them. That option is even hinted at in game, first by the letter, then by Verso, when telling Maelle to leave the Canvas now, that she can always come back later, and leave it be.

But that option is not available because both parties involved are human and stubborn and flawed themselves, and each only chooses one extreme solution. Black or white, chiaroscuro, "Clair Obscur". It was right there in the title.

For me the two endings really only change one fundamental thing: if Maelle lives or not.

In the Maelle ending, she decides to spend her life in the canvas even if it will end up killing her, at which point the Canvas will be destroyed anyway.

In the Verso ending, the Canvas gets destroyed immediately and Maelle is forced out.

I won't get into the whole discussion of ethics or about how it's a metaphor to deal about grief and the Dessendres drama and Verso's soul in the canvas, because I want to focus exclusively on the inhabitants of the Canvas.

They were living in a doomed world and didn't realise it. It was a doomed world because the ""gods"" that made them were too flawed to simply leave this world be and instead made it their own way of dealing with grief. Humans didn't even exist before Aline painted literally an entire other sentient species into the Canvas for painted Verso.

It's messed up and tragic and frustrating and they should have never been put in that position to begin with.

But they (the humans at least )still fought for that small possibility of defeating the Paintress and put an end to the Gommage.

You're left saddened and frustrated at the end of the game because you ask yourself:

"What was the point of the Expedition? What was the point of all other Expeditions before them? Why did I spend X amount of hours playing in the shoes of characters that don't get to decide what happens to them?"

Well... what was the point of Gustave reuniting with Sophie in the Prologue mere hours before her Gommage? She was just going to die anyway, no? Why did Gustave even bother?

Because it was important for him that that moment *still happened*. Because "tomorrow comes".

In Esquie's words,

"It's better to have lost a rock than never have had a rock."

And that's why in the end, I chose the Verso ending. Maelle gets out of the Canvas, it gets destroyed, but she brings with her a whole lifetime of memories of the Canvas's world. Memories of Lumiére, of the gestrals, the grandis, every place she saw in the Canvas, of Gustave and Lune and Sciel and Esquie and Monoco and everyone else.

And she will carry those memories with her and honor them, instead of losing herself inside them.

She's the only one in the Dessendre family that truly knows what it means to *live* an entire life inside a Canvas, and maybe she'll bring her unique perspective with her so that a tragedy like that of the Canvas we played in never happens again.

#expedition 33 spoilers #expedition 33 ending #e33 spoilers #e33 #clair obscur: expedition 33 #clair obscur spoilers

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madameisaacpereire · 2 months ago

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if you want to touch something

❝Everything fades away aside from his tongue, licking kisses into her skin greedily with one hand on the back of her neck to hold her in place.❞

A summer night at the country house.

period typical birth control advice (which is bad) & unprotected sex ahead! nsfw, minors dni. EDIT: this has been modified from its original format (x reader) and now reads as henry winter x macaulay cousin oc. im sorry if this is disappointing, but sparrow has become her own person by mistake. on the bright side, this piece is just about 1k words longer as a result!

read on ao3 + sparrow masterlist.

He wants Claire because he cannot have Camilla, because she resembles her just enough for him to pretend he can. She might not be an academic, but it doesn’t exactly take one to see that. His eyes follow Camilla around each room as though she’s a goddess come to earth. He wants Claire because he cannot compete with Charles.

She wishes she cared. Silky smooth red wine sloshes up and drips from the lip of her wine glass, rolling over her fingers and down her wrist. She collects it on her tongue, warm and dry and bitter, without a thought. She doesn’t seduce purposefully. Not much, not ever. Claire is not like Camilla in that respect.

Not for lack of trying, of course, but because she’s clumsier. She can’t seem to figure out that delicate balance of showing affection and pulling back. It isn’t in her nature. Claire shows interest in people and things wholeheartedly. Her wine glass finds purchase on a side table, forgotten as Charles pulls her to her feet. Claire always wants to dance. It’s the only time she feels at home in her body, the only language other than art that she speaks at the proper volume

Her dress of ruddy brown silk swishes around her ankles as her older cousin leads her through a well practiced foxtrot, so smooth it seems their feet never touch the floor. In her peripheral vision Camilla slouches deep into the couch, half full wine glass in hand. An empty one sits where Claire left hers moments ago. Hasn’t it always been this way? Camilla takes what she wants and more. Claire sweeps up her scraps pro re nata. And it doesn’t upset her, not really, not much, because she knows her cousin can’t help it. That’s just the way she is.

The room whirls around her in a fuzzy gold tinted chiaroscuro; books drenched in shadow, faces half illuminated by lamplight. She and Charles dance until her lungs feel tight, legs unsteady. Longer, still. They dance until she stumbles, nearly falling over the side of a chair occupied by Henry Winter, a friend of her cousins.

Henry stops her with a hand pressed against her low back, familiar, calm and steady. His touch brands deep into her bones, sends a thrill into her low stomach. It reminds her of every other time he has touched her in that exact spot— the two of them alone in dimly lit rooms, her hand pressed flat to his chest, his mouth hovering beside her ear— and she still feels its ghost when he pushes her back up to standing.

“Careful, sparrow.” Charles laughs as he tugs her away.

She has been called such for as long as she can recall, though she hardly remember why. Perhaps it’s simply because she liked reading about birds back then. Perhaps it’s because she was short and rather stout in comparison to her elder cousins, not to mention chirpier. Whatever the case, this childhood obsession, however fleeting, is how she knows not all sparrows are created equal.

There are two families of sparrows in the States. They’re very nearly identical unless one looks closely enough. Only then can one make out the changes in body and beak. It reminds Claire of Charles, Camilla, and herself. The difference between them is the same as the difference between the passer montanus and spizella passerina: one, more residential and solitary by nature, the other flocking together with like. Different species entirely, though all three cousins are of the same order, at the very least.

She finally collapses on the rug before Camilla, a rumpled, giggling heap. She is flushed all the way up to her ears, her long blonde hair coming untucked from its braid. She can feel his gaze on her before she glances over to see it, the way one does when a stranger stares intently from across the supermarket. His eyes are the emptiest, most bottomless blue she has ever had the pleasure of losing herself in. There’s no pretense of tenderness. One cannot help who they love; he does not love Claire at all.

Someone hands her a fresh glass of wine, which she tips to her lips immediately. She tears her gaze from Henry after the first sip, unable to handle the way her heart beats in her throat when he watches her like that. Not now. Not in present company.

He looks at Camilla like he believes she’s easy to bruise, as if she bleeds ambrosia and needs protecting. But he looks at Claire like he's peeling back each layer of clothing, skin, and sinew, until he can study each beat of her heart. As though he’s learning every valve and ventricle, absorbing each emotion from within.

Perhaps he’d look at Camilla like this, if she’d allow it. But she doesn’t, so this is something for Claire alone. He winks solemnly. Claire cannot keep herself from smiling, even as she tears her eyes from him and tries her best to pretend that she hasn’t missed even a moment of conversation.

Time folds in around her, humid with familiarity. She allows herself to get lost in the fabric of it for as long as she can stand to be. A number of hours are scumbled over, softened to a blur that only comes clear in small fragments later, as she tries hard to remember when, precisely, she had unbraided her hair.

The texture of the parlor carpet beneath her fingers, whiskey alchemized into amber beneath lamplight. A man’s pale, slim hand pressed against Charles’s back, guiding him from the room. A wine glass of fragile crystal shattered into glimmering pieces as crimson liquid soaks into the wood floor around it. Moments so small. So silly, in the grand scheme.

It’s late, or early, as she stumbles onto the front porch. The others have gone to sleep, and an ache is forming beneath her temples; a debt collector requesting payment due after an evening of drinking with reckless abandon. Besides this, there is a dull blistering feeling on the bottom of her foot, a small scrape along her wrist. She sinks down onto the front steps to inspect these injuries she does not recall receiving.

Summer air is cooler in Vermont than Virginia, she notices. Goosebumps dance up her arms. There is a deep crack in the bottom of her foot, apparently, stained the brown of dried blood. She thinks back on the broken wine glass and wonders, leaning her head against the railing. It’s damp with dew, but cool enough to soothe the thrumming in her skull. Her neck feels weak and the sockets behind her eyes throb bright and angry. She shuts them a minute.

“It’s mountain lion season, you know.” A heavy, monotone voice draws her from rest.

And here it is: the private moment she’s been craving all evening. She looks over her shoulder, ignoring the pinprick of pain beneath her forehead as she does. There Henry stands, in all his glory. His suit jacket has been left indoors and a Lucky Strike hangs between his lips. She watches him strike a match, then hold it up to his cigarette. It glows bright red as it catches, mellowing to orange once the match is gone. It’s only then that he deigns to look at her again.

He reminds her of a Red Tailed Hawk, broad and towering in the dark. For a moment, she wonders whether he’ll sink his talons into her shoulders and carry her away; for a moment, she considers her death by his hand. Something about that feels too close to the truth, the end of summer looming ahead like a death date. She blinks a few times, eyes gritty and dry.

“Worried?”

It’s borderline humiliating, the way the corners of her mouth tip up once she has his undivided attention. The way her entire face heats up— so intensely, in fact, that if she didn’t have a headache prodding at her already, she’d be getting one— and her limbs feel weaker than drink or exhaustion can force them to.

“Camilla wouldn’t like it very much if I let you get hurt.” He takes a step or two toward her.

“I suppose you’ll have to sit out and keep watch.” She looks back out into the yard, finally able to make out a few shadows. The sky must be lightening.

He hums once and takes another pull from his cigarette. Another difference between Camilla and Claire: Claire has never smoked. Not for any puritanical reason, just that she has never been particularly attracted to the idea, but now she finds herself curious. Wanting to take the cigarette from his lips and place it between her own, a kiss one step removed, if only to taste something as he tastes it. To experience something through his senses. To know him better, maybe.

The stairs creak beside her. He sits, one leg clumsier than the other. She wills herself to keep looking forward, to pretend she doesn’t feel as though she is only alive on one side of her body— the side nearest him. It doesn’t do much good. She knows what this is and stalls anyway, savoring what might be a romantic moment if his affections weren’t so devoutly bound elsewhere.

She pinches the skirt of her dress and rubs it between two fingers. A nervous gesture. There’s a certain tightness to her movements, buried beneath the weakness that weighs her down. It’s the feeling of being trapped, of wanting to run but not being able to. The back of her head feels both weightless and too heavy.

In the recesses of her mind, she wishes this weren’t another instance of her accepting Camilla’s sloppy seconds. But wishing does no good— it only brings an ache into her sternum, one he’ll never be able to quench. So she pushes the ache down between her thighs, giving it a more useful place to belong.

“Can I?” She looks over and half reaches for his cigarette, movements too forceful and defined to be accidental. Whether she wants it to be or not, it is clear that she has been rehearsing this in her mind.

Henry considers her with a look that makes her feel like The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Deijman, skin rolled back so he might peer into her brain. She feels, suddenly and all at once, as though her body is being replaced with television snow. Awareness of her headache dulls as her heart rate picks up, and she almost worries that his eyes might untether her from this plane entirely.

He holds his cigarette out to her. Their fingers brush as she takes it from him, almost causing her to drop it. A slight twitch of his mouth suggests he finds this amusing. She brings the cigarette to her lips and breathes in deep, the way she has seen both of her cousins do countless times. The smoke is suffocating and it itches just behind her dampening eyes.

It stings some as it rushes into her lungs, corrupting them with tar. She does her best not to cough and almost succeeds, but nearly every first timer does. It’s inevitable. A cough catches in her throat as she breathes the smoke out, flat and dry. She holds the cigarette back out to him, fingers pressed over her lips as her body curls in on itself. Each cough reverberates like a hammer between her ears.

A dizzy sort of clarity begins to sink in, however, twisting her mind’s eye into hyper focus. She’s shakier, body more topsy turvy than before, but it’s exhilarating too. Pleasant. Henry watches her catch her breath in silence, smoking easily. He looks curious and entertained in a way that discomfits her. He has witnessed Claire trying to be something— someone— else. What’s worse, he enjoys watching her search for ways to capture his attention, granting it the same detached, indulgent amusement one might lend to a child trying to capture lake water in their palms.

“Good?” He asks once she has composed herself, stamping his cigarette out beneath his heel.

“No,” She laughs and wipes at the corner of her watery blue eye, “Not at all.”

He nods once, as if he has received the answer he knew he would. He reaches over, gentle and quick, and tips her face toward him. Their lips meet before she can blink, a sensation far more dizzying to her than the nicotine flooding her body. He kisses the way he seems to do everything else: deliberate, rough, dictatorial. It’s warm and slick and she feels it everywhere. He kisses her as though he’s trying to work her down to the bone, to kiss through her in hopes of finding some hidden secret.

It draws a small, helpless noise from the base of her throat. Not quite a whimper, too short and dull, but it encourages him all the same. He kisses across her cheek and jaw in the same graceless manner, all spit, teeth, and force as he works his way down to her neck. Her skin blisters beneath his mouth. She trembles.

Claire doesn’t feel delicate often— this is a descriptor most often reserved for Camilla, the sharper and slimmer of the two, while Claire is often referred to as satin soft, as durable— but right now she feels as if her body is made from thinnest ice, created solely to melt beneath his touch. Everything fades away aside from his tongue, licking kisses into her skin greedily with one hand on the back of her neck to hold her in place.

She delights in allowing him to paw at her this way, in letting him gorge himself on the closest thing to Camilla he will ever be able to touch. It feels cheap— of course it feels cheap, it is— but also feels too good to call off. What is it hurting, anyway? Nothing. Just herself, in the end. She leans into his touch entirely, at his mercy.

And, as suddenly as he starts, he stops. He presses one closed mouth kiss to the space between her neck and shoulder and sits up, nudging his slightly askew glasses back into place. Her eyes blink open dazedly, still half gone. She re-distributes awareness throughout her body, forcing it away from the still damp, rapidly cooling places he kissed.

It’s unnatural for one to have this sort of effect on another, she thinks. It shouldn’t be legal. Especially not when it’s him reducing her to little more than kinetic sand. A man made up of nothing but coarse skin and stiff movements, not quite handsome. It isn’t right that she’d die for him if he asked her to in one of these stolen moments, absolutely and without question.

He studies her as if he’s documenting and comparing each fresh reaction with previous encounters, identifying what renders her speechless most efficiently— what takes her longest to come back from. In fact, Claire’s sure that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s nothing if not a quick study, especially in areas he’s vaguely interested in. It’s only natural for him to want to excel at this, too.

When he stands to head inside, he doesn’t ask her to follow. But she scrambles to her feet anyway, and trails after him. Through the house, which feels too still. Everywhere is mussed, just slightly, things out of order or put away haphazardly, as is the way of drunk people.

Henry leaves his bedroom door cracked, enough for Claire to slide her fingers around the side and press it open. The same fingers she dragged her tongue across hours before, collecting wine and unwittingly striking want into Henry’s stomach. They’re still a touch sticky, faint pink stripes where the wine once was. So faint that Claire doesn’t notice. But he does. Claire isn’t Camilla, and still he notices everything.

He’s on her again as soon as the door closes. She can’t think when he unzips the side of her dress and pushes it off her shoulder, mouth picking up where it left off and annexing every inch of freshly uncovered skin. All that exists is the dark behind her eyelids and the current of energy thrumming between their bodies. Claire doesn’t know up from down as he stumbles across the room with her, hands resting on her hips. She grips onto the front of his shirt as if he’ll disappear at any moment.

She lets go when he untangles himself from her, letting out a soft groan of impatient complaint. He quiets her with a kiss and nudges her dress down until it falls, pooling around her ankles. The silk catches the low lighting, reminiscent of a painting she can’t remember the name of. He folds his glasses onto the nightstand. His hand lands on the curve of her waist, the bed brushes against the backs of her thighs, and she’s lost again.

His body follows hers down, blanketing her bare skin indecently. His kisses travel lower, enthusiastic enough that she’s certain she’ll be left with more than one bruise tattooed against her pale ribcage. She bends toward his kiss, embracing the pleasant sting as he works closer to the agony she has been dutifully ignoring all evening.

His lips brush against her hip and thigh as he curves his fingers into the damp center of her underwear, tugging them off this way. It’s taunting as it is inefficient, lightly brushing against where she craves him most for only a moment. But this is all the teasing she needs or ever gets, enough to make her desperate beyond belief, and his mouth is exactly where she wants it soon enough. Nothing about it is soft or slow; it is needful and unyielding.

From the moment he starts she’s gasping, one hand in his hair, the other clamped hard against her own mouth. Tears prick the corners of her eyes as his fingers dig into her thigh to keep her from pulling away from the exact thing she has been silently begging for all night. Her vision blurs into iridescent swirls at the edges when she looks down, the vision of his face pressed firmly between her thighs too heady to look at for long. Silent sobs stick to her throat. He’s giving her so much. She flutters around nothing, internally grasping for a counter pressure to keep her from floating away.

As though he realizes this immediately, he releases her hip to trace his fingers up her inner thigh. She doesn’t know when her hips angled themselves up as far as they have, only that it isn’t nearly close enough to the harsh pressure of his mouth. One finger slips into her soothingly, followed by the deep stretch of a second right away. She moans, jagged and thankful.

He kisses the ache away, fingers spreading a warm, ecstatic tingle throughout her hips and midsection that blinks in and out of existence like the fireflies outside. She slips three fingers into her mouth, sucking them and pressing them back as far as she can stand— partly to help keep quiet, partly because her throat feels unbearably empty all of the sudden. Henry works all the while, drawing pleasure from her with such skill and speed it renders her dumb. She doesn’t remember what it feels like not to tremble.

Though he’s good at it, he doesn’t deeply care if she finishes yet, his movements sloppy around the edges— he cares only that she has little trouble taking him as soon as she can, as comfortably as possible. He works her open because it is the polite thing to do. Claire knows this and doesn’t mind. She’s starved enough that this half-hearted touch feels like a feast. His fingers tip just so, brushing against the one spot he has intentionally avoided— the one that floods her senses with melted, buttery warmth— and the rubber band snaps.

Tears spill from her eyes while her body contorts against him, spiderlike in the way she tries to simultaneously pull him closer and shove him off. The sobs unstick themselves and sneak out as quietly as she can manage to keep them, broken up by rasping, frantic gasps. He leads her through her orgasm so tirelessly she might think he doesn’t notice, until a desperate groan vibrates up, through to her sternum.

Claire doesn’t bother trying to catch her breath when the pleasure fizzles out. A familiar emptiness settles into her heart, which simply won’t do, so she pulls him up for a kiss the moment her arms are willing to do her bidding once more. He’s still dressed, clothes only rumpled the slightest bit. If not for the dampness she’s spreading across his trousers while he presses against her, he’d almost look respectable enough to leave. She sucks herself from his lips, then his chin and cheek.

His breath stutters and catches as she does. She runs a hand down his chest until his eyes shut, hips pressing into her hand despite his clear efforts not to move. He’s so hard she’s sure it must hurt. She finds this fact incredibly pleasing. Her lips settle just below his ear, pressing a kiss as rough and persuasive as one of his own into his skin, and rolls her hips up against him. Another moan spills from his lips, this one louder and more wrecked than the last.

His head drops to her shoulder and he swallows hard, as if composing himself. She attempts to roll her hips up once more, to not give him the moment of peace he wants, but he lifts and kisses her mouth once, as if to say ‘enough,’ before he flops over to lie beside her. One of his hands presses against the thigh of the leg she always notes to be less agile. He closes his eyes and breathes, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

She’s unsure if this is purely pain management due to the time spent on his knees, or if it is simply because he is closer to finishing than he’d like. She prefers to think it’s the latter, anyway. They lie together in silence, shoulder to shoulder as their legs hang over the side of the bed— Henry’s feet pressing flat on the floor because he’s tall enough— just long enough for the slick mess between her thighs to turn cold.

She presses up onto her knees, sitting just beside his shoulder. His eyes flutter open as she moves and he blindly blinks up at her, watching however much he can see. She smoothes his hair out, fixing the ruin she seized upon it. It’s too tender for what they are to each other. She breezes past that fact and leans down to kiss him again. This kiss is sloppier and somehow even more demanding. He’s starved too, she realizes, hungry in a way she’ll never be able to fully sate.

“Want me to ride you?” She pulls back just enough to murmur against his lips.

He tips his chin up to press their lips together again, hard and eager and fast.

“Yes.” His voice shakes, breathy and cracking.

It takes everything in her not to collapse at the sound. They both make quick work of his belt, as well as pushing his layers of clothing away enough for Claire to comfortably straddle him. His shirt rides up enough to reveal the skin of his firm stomach. She rests a palm against it under the pretense of steadying herself. Her fingers have grown cold, causing Henry to hiss when she wraps her hand around him. She drags him against herself until enough wetness has accumulated, and only then does she guide him inside.

Her head tips back. It stings in a way she has grown to enjoy, to associate with the feeling of fullness this grants her. The feeling of becoming one. She could swear she feels him all the way up into her throat when they’re connected this way, regardless of the fact that this isn’t even close to plausible. They fit together like puzzle pieces snapping. Television snow returns to her bones as you gasp in tandem. It takes them each a breath to get their bearings.

His palms rest against her pelvis, supporting her hip bones once she begins to move. She feels more vulnerable in this position than any other. She’s fully on display this way, no flaw hidden. Vulnerable to him. Yet, judging by the size of his pupils when she glances down, he finds what he can manage to make out nothing short of mesmerizing.

Time turns liquid as Claire begins to rely less on her own movements and more on him lifting and lowering her quickly. He looks beautiful like this, she thinks, face reddening and eyes rolling back in pleasure. His head moves enough, at one point, for the column of his neck to be on tantalizing display. She leans forward and grazes it with her fingers, unthinkingly. She wants to feel his heart beating, to trace over his windpipe as he breathes.

He lets go of her hips mid-lift, driving into her bruisingly, so he can seize her hand by the wrist. The blissed out look in his eyes has been clouded over with something more severe. Something stern and forceful.

“Don’t.” His voice is firm.

She doesn’t have time to stumble over an apology, however. He guides her hand down to her clit, presses her fingers against it in instruction, and returns his hands to her hips in one fluid motion. As if he hadn’t paused at all. The message is clear: if she wants to touch something, he’d like it to be herself. She’s more than happy to oblige. Her fingers move in small circles, quick and sure.

If head was ecstasy, this is a pleasure beyond mortal comprehension. Their bodies are engulfed in flame, white hot and so blinding that neither can tell where he begins and she ends. He builds a home for himself inside her ribs, cracks them open like she’s dead, or dying, like this is open chest CPR, like he’s her only chance of survival. They burn together, hot and mind numbing, and he is the extent of her world, in this moment; the god creating and destroying it with each leap.

He doesn’t fuck her like he loves or hates her, but like he’s trying, desperate and disparagingly, to locate some secret link between her and Camilla. As though if he works hard enough Claire will transform atop him; laurel tree into Daphne, sparrow into dove. But it’s good for what it is: a living vision of passion alla prima, energetic, bold, and loose. She melts into him like paint, wet-on-wet, all traces of caution gone.

Camilla will never belong to him like this, but Claire does. She’s confident in that. Each of her limbs is tense, grasping for something it can’t find, crumpling inward. It takes her by surprise, lost as she is to sensation, when the tension building in the base of her spine finally bursts. She feels and sees nothing for what feels like hours, yet is only minutes, instead swimming in a blank ocean which laps the invisible wounds from her soul. She is whole. A beautiful, complete thing, existence warm and blissful. Henry falters beneath her.

Claire is too gone to assist him in pulling out, so he doesn’t bother. She collapses onto his chest as she slams back into her body, just as he finishes, and the buttons of his shirt dig cruelly into her skin. She makes a mental note to thank her best friend for the birth control pills she snuck into her bag before she left Virginia. She’s certain she’ll have to take 3 to 5 extra in the morning— to be safe, she thinks, though she cannot recall who told her this might prevent pregnancy— but she doesn’t mind.

She lies there until she can breathe again. Her face is hot, hair wet and dark with sweat, and the headache she managed to forget comes knocking back to the forefront of her attention. It flutters between the back of her skull and the hollows behind her eyes once more, aching even into her jaw. She closes her eyes to brace against the pain. Henry runs a hand over her head, smoothing her rumpled, tangled hair. It could be construed as tender. She doesn’t make that mistake.

“You alright, sparrow?” The nickname sounds indecent when he uses it.

She nods, even though it makes her teeth throb, and rolls off him. She knows her head won’t hurt much if she keeps moving, so she pushes up from the bed and begins collecting her things. She hears the strike of a match as she slips her underwear back on, then the dress.

“Do you mind?” She turns so the open zipper faces him.

It’s self-indulgent. She doesn’t need his help. She zipped herself up this-morning. He waves the fingers of one hand, motioning her over. He seems to have rebuttoned his pants while her attention was otherwise occupied, which amuses her greatly since she knows he’s only going to change clothes once he’s alone again. She doesn’t mention it. He balances his cigarette between his lips, expression focused, touch gentle as he zips her dress back up. A finger brushes against her skin just before the zipper closes. Goosebumps erupt in the wake of it.

“Can I have one?” She gestures toward his cigarettes.

A small crease forms between his brows. She didn’t enjoy it earlier, she told him as much, so he finds this request to be odd. Claire doesn’t understand it either. Perhaps it’s just an excuse to spend more time in his company. She glances at the pack again, pointedly. He studies her a fraction of a second longer, then hands his quarter smoked Lucky out for her.

“You can finish this one.”

She takes it. He busies himself with lighting another.

“Thanks.” Claire follows the same motion as earlier, prepared for the bitter weight this time.

It still burns behind her eyes and pricks the back of her throat. But the stretch in her lungs is nicer this time, and the clarity elevates her post-orgasmic state. Smoking isn’t pleasant, exactly, but she’s beginning to understand the draw.

She’d like to climb into his bed and fall asleep. But she needs to wash her face and pee, and isn’t quite naive enough to believe there’s a world in which he’d let her sleep beside him.

“Good-night.” Her voice sounds smaller than she’d like.

“Good-night.” He's watching her.

It’s pointless, really, and she knows that. But she allows herself one more indulgence. Claire sways forward and places a soft kiss against his cheekbone. Before he can react, she turns tail for the evening, leaving him with the ghost of sweetness against his skin.

#henry winter fanfic #henry winter x reader #the secret history #henry winter smut #[ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞; x reader fic.]#[ 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠; sparrowverse.]#[ 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢'𝐦 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦; henry winter. ]

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