#this is something ratio has said way more than once too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

if-loves · 5 months

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etude op. 10 no. 4 (torrent)

// Yandere Dr Ratio

Sum: When the rain falls, so too does your tears.

wc: 3278

warnings: implied depression, suicidal thoughts, implied suicide attempt, ooc ratio probably

a/n: sorry for the disappearance LMAO uni was holding me by the neck and not in the way i enjoy

also this was a whole load of yapping ngl maybe i projected too much xd

also pls let me know if i missed any tags!! i’d hate to mistag/forget any cw tags

likes & reblogs are appreciated! asks are more than welcome ❤️

As a student with the honor of studying directly under the one and only Veritas Ratio, you’re more than used to the bluntness of his words and his marking. After all, he’s the Dr Veritas Ratio, arguably one of the most intelligent people, beings even, in the cosmos, and you’re just a mere academic. Sure, you’ve had your theories and whatnot, but compared to someone like Dr Ratio you’re basically a child.

Everyone tells you that you’re incredibly fortunate to be able to have someone as prestiged as him as your tutor, that you would take advantage of the opportunity and use it to further your own studies and knowledge, but you’re not quite sure if furthering your studies is truly what you desire. Coming to university was already an expectation from your parents, who in their right mind would reject them when they’ve already saved all that money exclusively for your studies?

You don’t think yourself to be especially smart or gifted in anything. To yourself, you are just a regular person who will go on to graduate, find a job, and maybe settle down if you were given the chance. You don’t expect much for and from yourself.

However, Dr Ratio clearly seems to think otherwise; or else why would he choose you of all people to be under his tutelage?

It has been almost twelve cycles of the moon, and you have yet to figure out why. The agreed period of mentoring is coming to its end, and he expects a full length thesis and three separate reports from you concerning your studies and experience under him, and you cannot for the life of you think of anything that could ever satisfy him. In the whole period of his guidance, he has never once scored you above a low thirties. The more it happened, the more you thought it was more of a him issue than yours - but that’s what people who can’t take criticism say, so perhaps you’ll refrain from thinking that thought.

The sun had long set, leaving your side of the planet at the mercy of the night. In front of you, a too-bright screen from your laptop glares at you with a blank page, as if demanding you finally do something instead of staring out of the window wistfully as if you were some widow lamenting the loss of her husband.

It takes you everything not to just give up and curl up in the warmth of your bed.

With the nth sigh of the day, you woefully start typing, frustration in the pits of your mind. What in the world could you even write about, anyway? The spinning of the sun? No, you’re sure there’s thousands of papers written about that, similarly for the moon; you’re not one for mathematics either, so that was out of the question. Science isn’t really your forte either, so your options for a paper that would gain Dr Ratio’s approval is about zero. Maybe you should just drop out.

When the world is asleep, you remain awake, and so too does something else.

~~~

There are still a few days left before your thesis and reports are to be submitted, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve written utter nonsense.

What in the world are you talking about? Even you didn’t know. Something about some mythicised substance known as Xuixzedlm, that’s apparently supposed to be what the deep oceans of your world is made of, but none have been able to explore said oceans due to their size, toxicity and the creatures lurking beneath its surface. In fact, almost 99% of the oceans have remained unexplored.

You kind of regret choosing such a substance to be the main part of your thesis, considering how little information there is of it. Sure, the main point of a thesis is to propose a theory to be proved, but for something like this where the research is extremely minimal, you’ve ended up circling back to your previous points due to the lack of ideas and, of course, proven research. Not that he’d care about your excuses.

Your days leading up to the submission date are spent typing, deleting, and referencing your paper. You’re a little less stressed about the report because it didn’t exactly require the same thinking as a thesis did, so you managed to finish those in a week. You’d still need to proofread them a few more times to ensure grammar and whatnot was perfect, but ultimately, its priority was far lower on your list.

However, something odd has happened recently.

One evening when you had finally arrived back home after spending most of the day at one of the university’s libraries, you found a silver key with lilac purple highlights and a strange symbol in the middle. You’d asked your parents, but they hadn’t a clue either, leading to some concern that your room may have been broken into. There were a few off parts about that theory, some being that none of your belongings were missing, there was no evidence of lock tampering on your windows, and most of all, why said person would leave an expensive and important looking key on your table.

The sudden and suspicious appearance of the key led to you keeping it on your person at all times, for a reason you’re not exactly quite sure of other than because it felt right. There’s an inexplicable familiarity to it, as if it belongs to you, but you can never seem to recall where you’ve seen it before, if you ever have in the first place.

Another weird thing has been happening ever since you found the key - you’ve been feeling a strange desire to enter the toxic ocean.

The sounds of the waves splashing against the shore invites you in your dreams, and you always take a step forward, one step after another until the water almost touches your toes. The sun is setting upon you, the breeze gently blowing; the sight in front of you is the picture of ethereal. Just as you take one more step, just as you fall into the abyss, someone pulls you back and you are jolted awake.

Scholars say dreams are the subconscious taking its turn, toying with fantasies and fears indiscriminately. Sometimes they mix, giving birth to hopes that only end in hopelessness, happiness that only ends in despair. If this is true, does your subconscious desire death?

~~~

Veritas Ratio has always thought himself as logical. Most have thought the same of him as well, the rest thinking him some sharp-tongued snake that will not hesitate to bite them should he see fit.

When it comes to you however, he feels an unexplainable feeling in his chest and head, a desire that has only grown since the moment he chose you to be under his guidance for a year. His harshness may not reflect it, but it is merely his way of showing he cares - by being extra critical of your work so that you know how to improve. Veritas Ratio truly wants nothing but the best for a student like you.

Lately, this feeling has grown much in size and desire, leaving him finding trouble in resisting it. It lingers like a persistent headache, and acts up when you are around, leaving him in a constant battle for retention of sanity. His mental fortitude currently leaves him with the upper hand, but who knows for how long.

For someone who prides themself on being logical, he sure feels illogical as he stares at your student ID photo.

It’s one of your least flattering pictures he’s sure, but he finds himself staring at it all the same. The nuisance in his head keeps telling him frankly worrisome thoughts, but he feels no desire to act upon them… at least, the sane part of him doesn’t.

He knows there’s something special about you, and some selfish part of him doesn’t want this mentorship to end, to let you go. There’s no way of being able to guarantee ever seeing you again, so what if…

No. Irrationality has no place in his ideals, let alone in his life.

~~~

You’ve submitted your thesis and reports to him, and now you sit in front of him with your heart pounding in your chest. Is there anything scarier than the judgment of your teacher?

Your hands are laid on your lap, the key in your pocket. The coldness of it transcends the fabric of your pants, a constant reminder of the mystery it holds, and the thoughts it brings. Even now, you find your heart yearning for the sea.

You’re afraid to look at him. You’re afraid of what his expression could tell you, of the disapproval you’re expecting. You’re afraid of disappointing him once again, afraid of his rejection and the harsh words that will inevitably leave his lips. He will berate you once more, and you will be left to silently take it because truthfully, you know he’s right.

The silence continues, and you feel a sudden dizziness and the urge to throw up. You wish the sea would swallow you whole.

“I do not have enough time to finish reviewing everything today, so proper feedback will be given one week from now in person. As for the next few days, they shall continue as normal, as you are still under my tutelage. Do not forget, you still have readings to finish before tomorrow’s class.” He shuts his laptop and takes his alabaster head with him, once again leaving you to drown in the torrent of self-deprecation.

The sea embraces all, doesn’t it? It will lap up all those who dare to offer it their lives, no matter what achievements the person has made in their life, no matter if they are even a person at all. The sea… welcomes all.

(It’ll welcome you, right?)

~~~

After you left the university, you found yourself on the train to the beach. Night is upon the city, but the ocean doesn’t sleep.

People filter out of the trains one by one, until only you are left in the carriage. Announcement after announcement of stops and the sound of the train’s wheels scraping the tracks below it are the only disturbances in the otherwise peaceful silence. Despite the quietness, you cannot hear yourself. The key in your pocket feels like it is burning itself into your skin, but it is also the only thing keeping you awake, a reminder that you are still alive.

You wonder if the ocean too will eat the key, or if it will sink into its depths. Will you sink to the depths?

The train stops at its end, and your legs automatically move. You walk until you hear the sound of waves crashing onto the shore, until you are stopped by a barrier. In an act of madness (or is it desire?), you scale the wall until there is no more to scale, until you see the other side.

There is a certain beauty about the ocean that you can’t quite describe to anyone, that pictures cannot replicate. It brings you a sense of peace, like all will be right in the world. If you could just…

The jump down from the barrier is no easy task. It is a long way down, and the sand can only soften the drop so much; yet, you jump.

Something hurts, but you’re enamored by the sparkling surface of the water. It beckons you, inviting you to a new world beneath its surface, a place to be free of all worries and pains. A place to sleep peacefully, no nightmares or dreams to plague you. It offers you everything the world cannot.

You feel your bag drop off your shoulders, like a weight lifted. A hand takes the key out, holding it tightly as you walk towards the promise of a home. What mysteries will be answered by this new world?

You’d like to apologize to your parents for the disappointment that you are. You had neither the mental fortitude nor the drive to be a success, and you’d like to apologize to Dr Ratio for wasting a year’s worth of his time on an incompetent student like you. His time would have been better spent on honor students, not a mundane, average student like you. You are destined to be just another cog in the wheel, and once you rust, you will be thrown out just like everyone else has and will be.

You find yourself a step away from the water, just like in your dream. You think you see a door. The key in your hand burns hotter. The world pauses. You take a step.

The feeling of the liquid never comes, but being pulled does.

“Just what in the universe are you thinking?!” This voice… is familiar. This voice… Who is it? It can’t be Dr Ratio, no…

But those amber eyes, so familiar, it has to be…

But why? Why?

“I…” Words fail you, just like they always have. What could you possibly say to him? He must think you mad, unfit to graduate, unfit to live perhaps.

“Do you wish to be swallowed by the gaping abyss? For what? To prove the existence of Xuixzedlm? Do you think your life so worthless that you think sacrificing it for nothing is what will make it meaningful?!” He is… angry. You’ve never seen him like this. Dr Ratio doesn’t get angry. “So? Say something, anything, that could possibly help me understand why you’d attempt such an act of foolishness!”

“Why does it matter to you?!” You shout, wringing your arm free from his tight grip. He has pulled you far enough from the gentle ocean, far away from the door. You look back at it, and it remains floating above the water. The key is still in your hand.

“Are you so dull that you need to ask such a useless question?” He scoffs. He moves to grab your arm again, but you instinctively bring the hand holding the key to your chest, afraid that he would take it from you. His eyes, shades of intense amber, follow your hand and lock on to the key you hold. He frowns.

“Yes! Yes, I am! I am so utterly stupid that teaching me is a waste of time, that you should leave me alone! If… if I wasn’t here, then there’d be one less stupid person in the universe! Isn’t that what you want?” Are tears running down your face, or is the sky weeping on your behalf?

He stares at you, and his lips do not move. It goes on like this, until you are both drenched in the rain, clothes wet and only the tempting sound of the ocean, and the pitter-patter of raindrops blending into the dark waters. Moonlight briefly shines upon the both of you, and you see his face clear - there is no anger, only contemplation.

“If you have nothing more to say, then leave me alone.” You turn around and set your sights upon the floating door once more, the key still held to your heart. With a resolved mind, you once more walk towards the beckoning arms of the abyss, the promise of no tomorrow.

Dr Ratio doesn’t stop you until you are one foot in the water. There is a searing pain, but you are one step closer to the door, to a stagnancy that life could never offer you. You are one foot in the water when a familiar symbol appears on the door, like an eye staring at you. You are one foot out of the water when you realize what it is.

“You have lost your mind.” He says, pointedly. You struggle in his grip, but he doesn’t falter. If anything, his hold only tightens. The pain from the water is nothing compared to the pain of losing freedom.

“Let- me- GO!” You desperately push against his chest, legs swinging. Why couldn’t he just let you go? Why did he care so much? What value do you bring to him, other than more evidence that he is far more blessed than the rest of the universe ever could be?

“Struggling will do you no good. Stay still, and I would not have to restrain you like this.” He glares at you from the corner of his eye as he brings you further away from your salvation, and the final straw is when he wrestles the key out of your hand. You’re inconsolable as he takes you past the barrier, brings you to his vehicle, and takes you to the place you can only assume is his apartment.

You let him guide you to the bath and clean your injured foot with a gentleness that is unbecoming of him, and he runs you a bath all while you grieve. Both of you say nothing as he treats you like a child, and you let him bind you to the bedpost without any struggle. To struggle is to fight, to fight is to have a desire to spread your wings; you lost that the moment he took you away.

Dr Ratio, or rather Veritas as he insists you call him, has shown you such a different side of him that you don’t know what to make of it. He holds you at night like you’re lovers, kisses you like he means it. He dutifully takes care of you, and you do not respond in kind. Despite this, he treats you all the same, with no trace of the Dr Ratio you’ve known for the last year, and only of the Veritas that you’ve met ever since that night.

You never see the key again.

~~~

One day, he has packed up everything. You briefly wonder if this meant that he’d be leaving you behind, but to your disappointment, he brings you along. He has cuffed you to himself, a reminder of the rights you have lost when you let him have his way with you.

“Veritas,” his name tastes like poison. “Where are we going?”

“The IPC has assigned me to Penacony, the land of dreams.” He responds without hesitation, turning to face you. “Naturally, you’ll be coming with me.”

You want to say no. You want him to leave you here, to give you back your key, to bring you back to the sea. The scar on your foot is a reminder of what could’ve been, what he has taken from you, and you haven’t - or rather, will never - forgive him. He will never deserve your forgiveness.

“Have… have you told my family?” You whisper, your throat as dry as the sand on the beach. Your hands fidget, and you find yourself unable to look at him; but truthfully, you don’t need to. He has ensured that every part of him has been engraved into the depths of your brain, and carved into your heart.

“…There is no point dwelling on the past. I am your family now. Clinging to such bygones will only serve to erode your mind, and limit your ability to live life.” He is firm, sounding more like the Dr Ratio you knew. He holds the hand that he has chained to his own and brings it to lips, the band of silver gleaming in the sunlight. It is a reminder. A firm, cruel, reminder of who he really is.

Veritas Ratio is nothing more than an illogical, selfish, arrogant, cruel and lovesick beast who allowed his heart (if you could even call it that) to take the reins.

Veritas Ratio is nothing more than a liar.

#honkai star rail #yandere #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #hsr #dr ratio #veritas ratio #ratio x reader #yandere dr ratio #yandere veritas ratio #yandere x reader #cw depression #cw sui ideation #cw sui thoughts #cw sui attempt

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pedrito-friskito · 1 year

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disobedient - miguel o’hara x fem!reader (spidersona)

do you get off on disobeying me?

a/n: I regret fuck all folks. part 1 of 2 (no clue when part 2 will happen but it will). special shouts to @psychedelic-ink, @inklore, and @splendiferous-bitch for feeding my miguel obsession and being the best ❤️‍🔥

word count: 6.5k

warnings: oh mama. sex pollen, unprotected p-in-v, rough sex, desperate miguel, multiple orgasms, in a shocking twist a whole lotta exposition cuz I gotta make the fucking make sense, y’know?

✨@friskito-library for new works✨

You’re not supposed to do this.

You’re not supposed to be here, period, but the notion hasn’t stopped you thus far. It’s just gonna make him more pissed off than he normally is, but pissing Miguel O’Hara off has quickly climbed to the top of your list of talents, and you’re content to continue doing as you please.

Especially if it means he’ll keep glowering at you with those eyes of his.

It threw you off initially — him, in general. Unfairly large, all rippling muscle and too-tiny waist, the hip-to-shoulder ratio of a Dorito chip and retractable claws you’ve seen more than once now. Not to mention an ass that looks like it was sculpted by a god. But it was the eyes that caught your attention, when you caught him glowering at you from a shadowy corner, like a predator hunting its prey.

“You gonna keep gawking,” you’d asked, “or come say hello like a normal person?”

Neither of you fit that category — normal people, boring — and he’d ignored your quip, actually growling at you as he stalked out of the shadows and brushed past you, bumping your shoulder in the process, and your brow had lifted at the way his suit seemed to ripple with the impact, forming and reforming against his skin. You saw it all, thanks to your spider-tacular vision, and your next thought after I want to sink my teeth into that ass, was I need to get my hands on that fabric.

Six months later, and no dice. You’ve been bouncing between Earth 928 and whatever dimension suits your fancy since Miguel first brought you here. How you convinced him to hand over one of his fancy bracelets, you’ll never truly know, but you have a distinct feeling the nature of your first meeting was what prompted him to give you access to the multi-verse — along with a slew of rules you more often than not turned your nose up at.

It also probably has something to do with the fact that you didn’t leave Nueva York for the first month. You holed up in the room he provided, ate the food he left by the door, and slept your days away, ignoring the too-bright world outside the windows, content to waste away to nothing. You couldn’t go home, what did it matter anyway?

Enter Miguel O’Hara and his incredibly bite-able ass.

When he first found you on the rooftop, cornered you near the fire escape, you’d gone snarky, despite the rumble in your bones, the betrayal that had cut you to the core, the looming fact that shit had just hit the fan and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

And then Mister Grumpy steps through a fucking portal and tells you he can save you. He can’t fix what happened, but he can take you somewhere they won’t find you again, a haven of sorts. For a moment, you reeled — how could you know for sure that you could trust him? You almost asked him as much, but then the blanket of realization swept over you: there was nothing left for you on Earth 374. The spider on his chest was clue enough that you were on the right track. Sure, his was bright red on dark blue, whereas your own was navy against slate grey, but the similarities were close enough, namely the giant fucking spider.

The door to the rooftop had jiggled and Miguel swept a hand out, shooting webbing at the handle, keeping it shut. “Clock’s ticking, princesa,” he told you, the nickname said almost tauntingly. “Offer’s about to expire.”

You knew there had to be other spider-people out there in the universe, you just hadn’t imagined them to be so…large.

Or demanding, you’d learn later. Or asshole-ish. Sigh.

“Get me the fuck outta here,” you answered, and that was that. You were standing in his lab in Nueva York a moment later, and the jolt of multi-dimensional travel had you puking your guts all over the glossy floor. Faintly, you’d heard Miguel’s grunt of disdain.

“Lyla, get someone to clean this up,” he said, and his hand curled around your arm a moment later, hauling you to your feet like a rag doll. “You’ll get used to it,” he told you. “The jumping. I did the same thing after my first time.”

You were too out of it to know if he was actually being nice, or if the subtle lift to the corner of his mouth was just amusement at your expense.

“Yeah, well, warn a girl next time, would you?”

But you did get used to it. Once you managed to get your ass out of bed and back into your suit, you were soon away from the Spider Society more than you were there. For the first couple weeks, Miguel hadn’t said a word, apparently content to let you go where you pleased, barely questioning you when you deigned to return. Then, it was like a switch was flipped, and he was up your ass — and not in a fun, sexy way. He wanted reports on each of your jumps, timelines and activity breakdowns. He wanted lists of targets, reasons behind them, background checks. All things you knew he could easily get himself, but you also didn’t have the guts to tell him that since he’d saved you from Earth 374, you hadn’t actually…helped…anyone.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Your first solo jump you’d managed to find a few bank robberies and a mugging happening within a few blocks of each other. Clearly, you’d picked a gem of a universe, and while you’d managed to web up the bandits in the vault, something in you had frozen when you tried to track down the mugger. The scene unfolded on the street below and you just…shut down.

The rest of your trips were spent just exploring. You swung your way through cities, camped out on rooftops, just watching the normal people go about their lives down below. You noted the differences between that universe and your own, tried to remember where all the puzzle pieces fit, even though you were looking at a different picture.

And it’s that curiosity, that quiet desperation to know more, that has you padding out of your room in the Spider Society tower, overriding the elevator that’ll take you up to Miguel’s lab. His currently empty lab. The man himself has been away on a scouting mission for nearly forty-eight hours, and you’re not expecting him back for another twenty-four, which gives you more than enough time to satisfy that annoying voice in the back of your head that wants to know how they’re doing.

It’s late. The world outside the tower is dark, the sky an inky black, streaked with light shades, dotted with stars. You’d be a fool not to find Earth 928 and Nueva York beautiful in their own strange, overly modern ways, but even six months in, it’s hard to think of it as home.

But you know why. It’s because it’s not.

You’d lasted a few days before you started glitching, and being cooped up in your room, you assumed you’d be able to hide it from Miguel. Part of you feared that if he knew something was wrong with you, he’d send you back to 374, and then what would happen to you?

You went to sleep worrying it over in your mind, and woke up to a complicated-looking watch sitting on the nightstand beside your bed. A hastily scrawled note stuck to it.

Put it on. It’ll help.

As soon as you did, the device beeped to life, a holographic screen jumping up, telling you the date and time and a myriad of other pieces of information. And then—

“Hiya, toots! I’m Lyla.”

You were confused as hell by the AI at first, but you quickly realized how useful she was, even more knowledgeable than Miguel, not that she’d ever admit it. And, in all honesty, you were a fan of the gab sessions. When Miguel wasn’t working her overtime, she’d beep her way through your watch for a good chat, perch herself on your pillow in the days you were still a shut-in, and when you started to make your way through the multi-verse, she was quick to point out the must-sees wherever you were.

She ran out quickly when she realized you were visiting the same place, just a different universe.

The doors to Miguel’s lab whoosh open at your approach, bare feet padding along the glass floor, and as you pause, getting yourself a cup of coffee from the forever-full carafe he keeps far away from the supercomputer, your watch pings to life, and the AI herself glitters into existence.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

You ignore her at first, fixing your coffee the way you like it, flicking the stir stick into the trash before bringing the cup to your lips. It’s not until you start toward the computer and the large platform that houses it, that you answer her.

“Nothin’.”

She groans. “That’s a load of shit and we both know it.”

“He’s not here,” you say, shrugging a shoulder as you step onto the platform. The screens hum to life as you drag one hand across the infrared keyboard and when you glance over your shoulder, Lyla’s staring at you over the top of her heart-shaped glasses. “What he won’t know won’t hurt him.”

“And you really think doing exactly what he told you not to do is the best idea?”

You sigh, sipping your coffee as you sink into the chair, rolling yourself close to the computers. Miguel rarely uses the chair, apparently content to just stand and stare all broodingly at the screens. You only watched him — caught him — do this once, but when you caught on to what was happening, you filed the information away. He’d given you hell for snooping around, though you teased that he was just pissed you’d managed to sneak up on him, and according to Lyla, nobody does that.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you pause. He did tell you, rather specifically, not to do what you’re about to do. He didn’t tell you why, wouldn’t give an inch when you pressed him, but he was firm.

No good will come of it.

Earth 473. Not an identical twin to your home universe, but a very close sibling. The differences were so small, so scarce, that you truly thought you’d stumbled back to 374 accidentally, and you’d nearly jumped back to Nueva York, heart in your throat. But then something caught your eye, and you froze.

Across the way, teetering at the edge of the rooftop, was Spider-Man.

His suit was the opposite of yours, the spider grey and the suit navy. You could feel him staring right back at you, even at the distance, and as you stared back, he lifted his hand. For a moment you thought he might wave, your own fingers twitching to return the gesture, but then it continued up, gripping the back of his mask and yanking it from his bed.

You saw his mouth form the words, heard them like a whisper in the air.

“You’re alive.”

Your frozen heart dropped into your toes.

It was Peter. Your Peter, the one you’d left behind on Earth 374, your best friend, the one who…who…

You didn’t have it in you to finish the thought. It was all the evidence you needed to know that this universe was not yours. You were the only Spider-Person on 374, and your Peter wasn’t…he couldn’t…

You’d stumbled backward, blindly grabbing for your watch, suddenly desperate to be back in the SS tower. But then you paused, your fingers twitching on the dials and digits.

And you almost went exactly where you weren’t supposed to. Like a reflex. Shaking yourself, you punched in 928, everything in you twisting and turning as you stepped through the portal.

Miguel was waiting. He’d been watching you, paying close attention to that particular jump, and had used the link through your watch to see what you saw. The opposite-but-mirror image on the rooftop.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice low, that deep timbre that still managed to catch you off guard. “The multi-verse doesn’t work that way.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” you spat back, shrugging off his hand when he tried to grab your arm. “You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

His face had gone feral. Those carmine eyes flaring, staring down his nose at you while you just stared right back, defiant. You went to step past him, and he caught you again, this time his longer fingers wrapping around your forearm, the tell-tale prick of his talons biting through your suit.

“I know a fuck load more than you seem to think,” he snarled, dragging you close to he was in your face. “In case you forgot, I’ve been at this a hell of a lot longer than you have, and what you saw out there, what it means to you, I know exactly where your mind went. And I am telling you: the multi-verse does not work like that.”

“What am I thinking?” you spat back, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that shot through your arm as you got even closer, leaning up on your toes. “If you’re so fucking knowledgeable, tell me.”

He released you, then. The pain in your arm dissipated as quickly as it had come, and his eyes went…soft. Thoughtful.

Sympathetic.

“You’re thinking,” he started, inhaling deeply, rubbing two fingers between his brows as he spoke, “that you could go back there, to 473, and make a life for yourself. The same family, the same friends, the same life. They lost their version of you, so why not fill her shoes? Find some semi-logical explanation, hide your powers, live your life. Am I close?”

You almost stumbled backward, the truth of his words sending you reeling. You bumped into his desk instead, knocking a cup of coffee over, and neither of you said a word as the dark liquid spread across the desktop, dripping off the edge and onto the floor.

Miguel took a half-step toward you, then turned slightly, looking over the curve of his shoulder at you. Something in you longed to press your forehead against his frame, search for some kind of support, but you stayed stuck still.

“I know,” he continued, turning his head, staring straight ahead, “because I did exactly the same thing. And I lost everything.”

His words echo through your mind now, the deep tone you’ve gotten very familiar with, and you shake your head, clearing away the cobwebs he’s left in your head. “This is different,” you say aloud, partially to Lyla, partially to yourself. “I’m not going there, I’m just…checking in.”

The AI rolls her eyes at you and snaps her gum. “I said it once and I’ll say it again: load of shit.”

Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in the codes to find what you’re looking for. You haven’t been back to 473 since that jump; Miguel had forbade it after your spat, and even went so far as to block your watch from taking you there. You thought he was being unreasonable, and he reiterated that he was actually trying to keep you safe.

No good will come of it.

You hit the final key, and the images start to fade in. You can just barely make out the shape of her — of you — when the screens go black. Your breath catches in your throat as a large hand comes down on your shoulder, gripping tightly, though you don’t feel the pricks of his talons.

“Do you get off on disobeying me?”

The words are almost a purr, the opposite of the tone you’re expecting, and from the corner of your eye, you see Lyla blip from existence. It makes goosebumps rise on your skin, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end as he leans in, hot breath on your ear.

“If I make you cum, will that make you more obedient? Hm?”

“What the fu—” you start, trying to whirl around, but his grip on you is solid, warm palm following the curve of your shoulder until his fingers are wrapping themselves around your throat. It’s a welcome weight, sparks of electricity shooting down your limbs, your thighs rubbing together to relieve the instant pressure. “Mmm.”

His thumb presses down on your racing pulse, and you’re suddenly aware of how warm he is. He’s…too warm. But you have to admit, the way he’s holding you…it’s nice. Really nice.

“Miguel,” you start, trying to turn again, but he fits his face into the bare side of your neck, lips grazing the thin skin. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

“Mission went south,” he mumbles against you, his tongue darting past his lips and dragging along your skin. It makes your eyes roll back, but…

Where is this coming from?

He should be furious with you. He caught you red-handed, no questions about it. You weren’t expecting him to find you in the first place, but now that he has, you’re expecting a screaming match, toddler-level foot-stomping and possibly being thrown over his ridiculously large shoulder and being tossed into your room like a rag doll. Locked up like Rapunzel until you start listening to his brand of reasoning. You’re expecting a blowout.

You’re not expecting this.

He huffs in your ear as his lips graze the sensitive skin beneath it, his words spoken into the shell, tongue catching on your earring. “You smell delicious, cariño.”

The pet name makes you shiver. “Mig,” you say again, your hand covering his as his other arm wraps around your middle, pulling you back against his chest. “What are you doing?”

His heart is racing, so hard that you can feel the heavy thump of it against your spine. It’s too fast, even for him, you know that much. His fingers curl against your stomach, talons poking out and shredding your shirt to strips. You gasp as the fabric falls away.

“Miguel.” You make your voice as stern as possible. It’s not that you don’t want him to touch you like this, it just seems so sudden, so out of character, and you—

He wrenches himself away from you, the heady warmth of him suddenly gone, and you whirl, hand flying up to grip your neck as the sound of him crashing into the wall reaches your ears. His fingers are leaving indents in the metal, talons scratching deep, and you gulp as you realize you’re lucky he didn’t just accidentally slit your throat.

Whatever’s happening, he’s not himself.

“Mig,” you call, wiping your bloody hand on your sweats, crossing the distance he’s put between you. “Would you just talk t—”

“NO!” he roars, throwing a hand out in front of himself. You can see his large frame shake as he sinks down against the wall, long tears in the metal forming in his wake. “Keep your distance.”

Your brow lifts. “Says the man who was literally crawling up my ass three seconds ago.” You ignore him, taking another step, ignoring the way his words ring through your head. Do you get off on disobeying me?

Yeah…maybe you do. Just a little bit.

You crouch down low, getting on his level. “Mig, tell me what happened.”

“Don’t call me that,” he spits, staring you down for a moment before forcing his head to the side, an action that looks like it takes a lot of effort. “Just…go to your room, leave me be.”

“You telling me not to call you that just makes me wanna call you that more.” You shift onto your knees, inching a little closer. “I can’t leave you be, not when you just put a bunch of holes in the wall,” you lift your hand to your throat, where the scratches he left are already almost gone, “and almost in me. Tell me what happened.”

He tilts his head back against the wall, still turned away from you, one crimson eye looking your way. “Mierda, you’re stubborn.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you didn’t know that already. Talk.”

“Earth 1365-7,” he starts, eyes fluttering shut. His eyelashes are unfair, you think to yourself, the way they fan out across his even more unfair cheekbones. “I ended up in their version of OSCORP, some testing centre. Different serums and gases and…they were trying to weaponize a kind of paralytic that’s found in certain spider venom.”

His tongue pokes out after he says the word venom, tracing the tips of his fangs, and you swallow hard.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

You shake your head, silencing the thought.

“And you stopped them?” you prompt, when he doesn’t go further, instead inhaling deeply and scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I did,” he tells you, but there’s no trace of triumph in his voice or on his face. “But I stumbled into one of the other labs, and as soon as I did…” He trails off, body shifting against the floor, and it’s impossible to miss the ripple in his skin-tight suit, the way he props one knee up, blocking your view of his crotch. “It was some sort of plant that they’d been researching. The pollen, it raises a person’s heart rate, skyrockets it, and muddles their senses. If left untreated, it can kill them.”

You stare at him hard. “What’s the treatment, Miguel?”

“The side effects,” he continues, ignoring your question. “Heightened blood pressure, extremely sensitive skin, lowered inhibitions, and…”

“Mig, would you just tell me?”

“Arousal,” he finishes, and you freeze. “Intense arousal. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that, I just…The only way to treat it is to…”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but the implication is clear, along with the intense reminder of how he was pressed against you.

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, shrugging a shoulder, trying like hell to look non-committal, like your skin isn’t still tingling in all the places he touched you. “Lowered inhibitions, like you said.”

He doesn’t say anything so much as hum in response, his head lolling to the side again. His eyes are fire when they open again, landing on you and pinning you in place. It makes your breath hitch again, palms lowering to rest on your thighs.

“You need to get out of here, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, fingers tapping against his bent knee. “I need to deal with this.”

You’ve inched a bit closer to him, you realize, your traitorous body giving you away.

“How are you gonna deal with it?” you ask, barely above a whisper. Every inch of you is tingling now, not just the places he touched, and the way he tilts his head back again and groans is not helping matters. “Maybe I should…help.”

His eyes flash to you, pools of red, pupils blown big as dinner plates. “You want to…help.”

“You said this could kill you,” you continue, leaning forward until your palms hit the floor. “Someone should…keep an eye on you, y’know. Make sure you…y’know, don’t.”

“How articulate of you.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rumbly, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders shake even after the laughter has stopped. His breathing is shaky too, you can hear it from where you’re crouched. Worry threads through the lust that’s seemingly replaced your blood, and you slide even closer to him, until there’s maybe two feet between you.

“I don’t want you to die.” The words hang heavy in the air and the truth of them twists your guts. Stubborn ass he may be, but he’s done nothing but protect you since he found you back on Earth 374. You…care. You care a lot.

“Lyla can keep an eye on me,” he spits, but you just get closer.

“So she can wipe her hard drive and clean her eyes with soap afterward?” you joke. “I can’t leave you like this, Mig. Can AIs even use soap?”

“Don’t call me that,” he says again.

“Let me help you,” you say, the words coming easier, firmer. “You know that I can.”

You close the distance completely, your knees bumping the side of his thigh and your hand covering his on the floor. The fabric of his suit recedes, revealing his hands, and your fingers brush over his knuckles. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you tell him, leaning back on your heels, lifting your other hand to pull his bent knee straight. “You need help, and I’m offering it.”

He groans again.

“I’ve owed you, this whole time,” you continue, resting your hand on his shin as his leg rests on the floor. It takes everything in you not to let your eyes wander up to the space between his hips, but you manage. “You saved my life; let me save yours.”

The spider made you strong, made you fast, but Miguel…He’s so large, so imposing, and the moment his hands land on your body, you know he’s been holding back from you.

He maneuvers you into his lap, your knees resting against his hips. In an instant you can feel him, the hard prod of his cock against your cunt, separated only by the thin fabric of your pants and the rippling material of his suit. Miguel groans as he fits his face into your neck, talons pressing into your hips as the suit melts away, every inch of his golden skin suddenly on display. It’s overwhelming and your blood heats, unable to bite back the moan that slips free when he pulls your hips against his, the pressure between you exactly what you need it to be.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he grits out, his hips lifting off the floor as he chases your body, as you chase each other. “This is just…”

“I’m helping,” you breathe out, your hands curling around his shoulders as you settle into his lap. Well, not so much as settle as twitch, the fabric of your shirt riding up as his hands move up your sides, curling around your ribs. “This is only about keeping you alive.”

“Alive,” he repeats, and you bite your lip, feeling his fingers curl into your shirt. “You have no fucking idea how…”

“God, shut up,” you groan, gripping his face in your hands, claiming his mouth for your own. The sound of tearing fabric reaches your ears as your lips meet his and he growls at you, shredding your shirt and tossing the fabric away, leaving you bare from the waist up. His hands drop to your ass then, tugging at your pants and you bite his bottom lip. “You could just ask nicely, you know.”

He just grunts in response, effectively splitting the elastic band and pulling the rest of your clothes away. You’re completely naked now, perched in his lap, and your skin heats in every spot you’re pressed to him. Which is basically everywhere. “I’ll get you new ones,” he grits, and you roll your eyes, biting at his lip again.

There’s little ceremony to it. Miguel drags you along him a few times, the feel of him prodding between your legs lighting a fire in you. You can feel how big he is, but you busy yourself with his mouth, your knees pressing against his hips. One of his hands skims down your back, curving around your hip and sliding two fingers through your folds. It makes you keen, a moan ripping from your throat when he presses those fingers into you.

“Wet,” he grunts against your mouth, his breath stuttering as you clench around his digits. You rock your hips into his hand, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging until his head tips back.

“Take what you need,” you say, and for once, he listens to you.

The feeling of his fingers pulling out leaves you aching, but you’re not left waiting for long. He presses against the small of your back, tilting your hips, and then he’s inside you, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. The sheer fullness that sweeps through you is almost too overwhelming, and your breath whooshes out of you as your chest slams into his. You can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid thump beneath his sternum nearly vibrating against your own.

This doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, circling your hips as he plants his feet, bends his knees. He holds you up slightly, giving just enough space between you for him to thrust up into you, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. This is just…helping. I’m just being helpful.

You’re just…quickly reaching the most intense orgasm you’ve had in a hot second.

He keeps hammering into that same spot, the lab filling with the sound of his skin on yours, your panting breaths, and Miguel’s grunts. It’s fucking euphoric, your head falling back between your shoulders. “Mig, I—”

“Not yet,” he growls, and suddenly you’re being lifted, the heavy weight of him still pressed inside you. Your grip on each other is firm, and Miguel moves quickly, sweeping you out of the lab and through the door that leads to his room. You barely get a breath in before your back hits his mattress and he’s towering over you, his big hands curled around your thighs, kneeling so he can prop your ass up. The angle lets him drive deeper and you throw your arms over your head, curling your fingers in his bedsheets, trying to find some leverage.

One of his hands moves over you, palm grazing your stomach before moving down. He thumbs at your clit, dragging another moan out of you, his brow going hard. You have a better look at his face now, his expression pinched, eyes trained on where he’s pounding into you. His skin is damp with sweat, a sheen on his forehead, his mouth hanging open. You swear you can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

“Want you to cum, princesa,” he nearly begs, and the hitch in his voice makes goosebumps rise all over your body. “So. Fucking. Tight.” He punctuates each word with a deep thrust and everything in you goes impossibly tighter.

“This is about you,” you pant out, clawing at his sheets. “I don’t need—”

But you do. You really fucking do, but something about admitting that to him right here and now feels…wrong. It twists your gut in a not-so-fun way.

“I don’t care, I need you to cum,” he growls, releasing his grip on your thigh to grab at your chin, forcing your eyes on his. “Now.”

Suddenly, your body is not your own. It responds instantly to his command, a string threading your muscles drawing tight as a bow before snapping entirely. Your back arches against the mattress, so hard it just brings you closer to him and Miguel drops his head, dragging his nose up the middle of your chest. It courses through your entire body, your hips lifting entirely off the bed to chase him, to keep him buried within you.

He groans as you cum, the sound the only thing you’re aware of besides the pleasure setting your body on fire. There’s a ringing in your ears, your muscles going lax as you start to come down, but he doesn’t stop. One of your hands floats to his hair, tangling the sweat-damp strands around your knuckles and you can feel his growl shake your ribs.

“More,” he grits, raking his hands down your sides, gripping your hips again. You inhale sharply as his head turns, skirting across your chest to take your nipple between his lips. The pace is relentless, your body growing tight again with his movements. He’s playing you like a fucking fiddle, and you’re the first to admit you’re loving every second of it.

You manage to open your eyes, the pleasure receding just enough for you to regain some of your faculties.

He’s staring right back.

It makes you flinch, jolting in his grasp as his lips draw back, revealing one pointed fang. You shiver as he drags the tip of it around your nipple.

“Again.”

And again, your body obeys. This time it sneaks up on you more than barrels through you, making you throw your head back against the mattress. “Fuck, Miguel.” Your nails dig against his scalp, tugging at his hair, revelling in the noise it pulls out of him. You want to record it, put it on repeat, set it as your fucking ringtone. How the fuck is he doing this? This was supposed to be about him.

Not that you’re not enjoying yourself. Quite the opposite.

He’s still staring at you, peering up at you from where he’s bent against your chest. There’s something in those ridiculous eyes, something you have no name for, and you force your eyes away, moving them down his body, to where you can see him still driving into your cunt, the length of him slick with you. The sight alone makes you clench, and when you do, he curses under his breath.

“Where…?” he grits, the hoarseness in his voice drawing your eyes back up to his face.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your heart twists in your chest at the sight, reaching up to swipe your hand across his sweaty forehead. “Does it hurt?”

“I need…” He trails off, leaning into your touch, turning his head and nipping at your wrist, at your pulse. “Where can I…?”

“Wherever you want,” you pant, gasping as he drives as deep as inhumanly possible, moving you further up the bed. “Whatever you need to—”

You’re cut off by the roar that echoes through the room. He buries his face in your neck as it happens, most of his weight dropping onto you, hips pinning yours to the bed, chest pressed to yours. He pulls out at the last second, cock sliding through the hinge of your thigh, cum spurting hot against your stomach. He doesn’t seem to care about the mess he’s making of you both, his entire body covering yours as he shudders his way through it.

It feels like it lasts forever. His limbs go taut and then loose, his breath quickening and then slowing against the shell of your ear. You don’t know what else to do except hold him through it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, one hand finding his hair once more. It’s like his release is chasing the pollen from his system, his superhuman body returning to his brand of normal. He babbles through some of it, grunts and moans and something that sounds almost like your name murmured in your ear.

You just hold him.

Eventually, he seems to come back to himself. You’re loathe to admit you’re revelling in the feel of him against you, the way his hands are tangled in your hair against his pillows. The weight of him is…it’s nice. It’s really fucking nice.

It’s too nice.

You wait a few minutes, wait for him to find his bearings, to peel himself away from you, but it never comes. He’s a solid weight on top of you, and while you’ve been listening to his erratic breathing, waiting for it to even out, you realize that it’s gone…slow. He’s asleep.

“Mig,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, tugging softly at his hair. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. He’s dead to the world, his slow breaths turning to quiet snores in your ear. Carefully, inch by inch, you slide your way out from under him. You freeze when he rolls onto his side, his breath hitching for a moment, but it evens out again and you slip off the edge of his bed.

Your clothes are toast, the shreds of fabric scattered on the floor of the lab, so you slip into his closet, finding a t-shirt that’s way too big for you. You definitely don’t inhale the scent that clings to it as you slip it over your head.

Your steps are quiet as you pad back into his bedroom, leaned up on your toes as you peer at him. Still asleep, hasn’t so much as moved from the spot you left him. You draw closer, your fingers curled around the hem of his t-shirt.

He doesn’t move an inch as you reach for his wrist, easily slipping the watch off his wrist and replacing it with your own. The too-big band of his adjusts to your size as you close the latch around your wrist, turn on your heel, and scurry from the room, through the lab, shooting a web up at the ceiling and launching yourself up to the next floor, the level your room is on.

You don’t make a sound as you pack your bag, reluctantly shrugging out of Miguel’s t-shirt to put your suit on, stuffing it into your bag with handfuls of clothes, whatever random shit your muddled mind has decided you need to take with you.

It felt too nice.

You know what would happen, you’ve decided, if you stay. You’d drift off, there in his bed, enveloped by his broad frame, half-drunk off the scent of him. You’d get the best sleep of your life, and when you woke the next morning, he’d be there, staring down his nose at you, the desperate man that had pulled pleasure from your body like it was his damn day job replaced with the grumpy fuck that plucked your last nerve like a guitar string.

The problem was that you knew exactly what he’d say to you:

This doesn’t mean anything.

The problem is that you’ve grown to care too much for him, grumpy, desperate, and all things in between.

Lyla makes an appearance as you sling your bag over your shoulder, keying in the universe you want to jump to, Miguel’s watch not locked out the same way yours is. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

You lift a brow as she cocks her digital hip at you. “You want me to answer that? So you can tell me I’m full of shit?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Can AIs make promises?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Technically speaking.”

“Don’t tell him where I am,” you ask, pleading. “Please?”

“He’ll find out anyway,” she tells you, shaking her head, heart-shaped glasses slipping down her nose. Her eyes are big as she stares at you over the rims. “He’s smarter than you give him credit for. I know he’s a grumpy asshole ninety-nine percent of the time, but he—”

“Lyla, please.”

She sighs, sliding the glasses back up. “He won’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you.”

The portal crackles to life, that familiar tug in your stomach as you step toward it. Lyla fades from view as you take another step, and you ignore the echo of Miguel’s voice calling your name, and step through completely.

#my fics #disobedient #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel spiderverse #miguel x you #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara fic #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 #atsv miguel #miguel

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overdressedcarp · 2 months

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One thing I think about sometimes is that there's a dialogue chain in one of Ratio's text messages where he sends us the blueprints for what he explicitly describes as "an anti-planetary weapon design that [he] once devised," which apparently comes with the potential to turn into a full-on gundam???? He says that the necessary materials haven't been developed yet, but that the Guild is working on it and should have results within the next five Amber Eras.

For those who've read his third character story, the phrasing of "anti-planetary weapon" should register as both familiar and odd, especially considering how blasé he is in describing it to the Trailblazer.

My read on the character story is that the creation of the anti-planetary weapon was (whether consciously or not) a compromise to his principles in pursuit of Nous's gaze, and that the IPC's interest in said weapon was his reality check that he didn't want to become the sort of person who pursued knowledge without regard for human life. Even if you don't take that reading, Ratio is more than smart enough to recognize that the IPC can and has used threats like the Antimatter Legion and the Swarm as excuses to develop and unleash weapons with galaxy-scale collateral damage. (See: the Imaginary pulse weapon in this side quest on Penacony.)

When we ask for a weapon for the Express, Ratio tells us that high-caliber armaments are a necessity for traversing the cosmos, which isn't exactly wrong in light of how we deal with Sunday in Penacony, but turning the train into a battering ram is a far cry from turning it into something that could destroy a planet. The fact that the projected timeline is on a scale of Amber Eras suggests to me that he's being at least somewhat facetious about the idea of a collaboration, especially since the whole reason we're having the conversation is that he wanted us to lob thought experiments at him to distract him from work stress. But he does send us a blueprint file, and the terminology of an "anti-planetary weapon" (specifically one he designed in the past, rather than at our request) feels way too specific to be a coincidence.

I have a pet theory that the gundam design is a form of malicious compliance toward the IPC, and the reason the Guild can't even figure out the materials is because he deliberately handed them a nightmare monstrosity of a blueprint and then refused to elaborate.

(The bill of materials casually demands components that break the laws of physics. There are whole pages of math so complicated no one can parse enough of it to conclusively prove that it's bullshit and not just the revolutionary innovations of a man five Amber Eras ahead of his time. The research team sends a terrified intern to ask if the orbital laser cannon really needs to turn into a humanoid assault mech. He shakes his head and tells them that if they truly understood his work then they wouldn't ask such pointless questions.)

#dr ratio #honkai star rail #character analysis #character headcanons #meta #'expect fruitful outcomes within the next five amber eras' he says as he gleefully clogs the ipc's munitions budget #i may not subscribe to worm theory but this man is absolutely a troll that would make aha weep tears of joy #the funding keeps getting approved because everyone is too proud to admit they don't know what the hell they're looking at #and too blinded by hero worship to suggest that maybe the great dr ratio created a stupid-ass weapon design

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woshi-liu · 2 months

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Ratiorine fake-dating WIP—

“Well, on the bright side for you, we might not even need to go so far. But you're aware of where I draw the line, and I know to give you a heads up. So why don't we get our first kiss out of the way now, hm? Tear off the proverbial band aid, as it were.” It's meant as a partial joke — partial in the way that he can leave his foundational walls standing tall in the case of rejection. A feat that does not come. Ratio straightens beside him, searching his face, the path of his gaze non-linear. “Very well.” “I'll make it quick,” Aventurine promises, mostly to himself. Out of all of the sorry sad-sacks he'd fumbled with previously, none have been half as unreadable as Ratio. He supposes the doctor always had been one of his riskiest gambles. Bringing his hand to cup the back of Ratio’s neck, he's surprised to be met with no resistance. On the contrary, in fact. He's met halfway. Aventurine is, self-proclaimed, a fantastic kisser. He's nothing if not enthusiastic, with an oral fixation to boot. But even here, it starts off a little clumsy; a little bit askew. On the second go, he tilts his head, exhales slowly, parting his lips, and — oh, he thinks, there we go. Ratio's mouth is warm, soft, and surprisingly pliant — and then it's surprisingly open. A willing participant. He's thorough, too, his hand moving to settle upon Aventurine's knee, lashes fluttering like dainty feathers against his cheek. He tastes a little like the lingering last dregs of tea from earlier, his tongue tentative and fleeting. Aventurine goes to make chase, just to see it linger a few moments too long – to scratch a strange carnal itch for connection under the guise of meagre practice. But as much as it contradicts his baser impulse for mindless risks, he pushes his luck no further than this. But ‘quick’, be damned, because when they do eventually part, it's with a gasp for breath, a few moments spent bumping noses. A little lightheaded, Aventurine finds Ratio staring back at him, lips parted and kissed pink. It's problematic, Aventurine quickly realises – this unbecoming want for more. He never wants more; never lingers for long enough to savour the taste of it. Men are often selfish, insatiable beasts that only want to take from a Sigonian thrall – to bask in the allure of his eyes and to make him squirm. Although, he supposes he's not exactly in the business of kissing… direct acquaintances? … Friends? Eh, it'll be tomorrow's problem. “See?” He says, half laughing, half with the wind knocked out of him. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” That seems to be the moment Ratio comes back to his senses. With one final squeeze of Aventurine's knee, a gesture that says something, something silent and yet so stark, he re-establishes their distance. “I never said I'd deem it to be bad,” he murmurs, gaze averted, absentmindedly wetting his lips. “Once again, I knew well enough what this mission would entail, idiot. Or do you think me dense enough to allow that vital detail to escape me?” Ah, so back to normal it is then. Good. That puts that particular concern at ease. “Ha ha. Well, there's more where that came from.” It's supposed to be in jest – mindless flirting – and yet it's spoken with the sincerity of an optimist. Sue him, it was nice, even if just for the moment. “So, how about it, hm? Shall we get this show on the road?” Smoothing down the adornments of his outer robe as if shaking off a whit of dust, Ratio stands. “Get dressed first, and then we'll take our leave.”

#ratiorine #dr ratio x aventurine #ratiorine au #current wip #wip #fic wip #honkai star rail #raturine #aventio #fake dating

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twistedwonderlandshenanigans · 4 months

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TWST Cast Food Order Series - Coffee Shop

Idk it seems like fun and I want to do their subway orders eventually so if you have a req drop it. Also, gonna update my tags Eventually, but this will be the first post that refers to Jack T., Che'nya, Najma, Neige, Falena, Rollo as 'twst side characters'

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Heartslaybul

Riddle Typically, Riddle has a lot of rigidity regarding food and drink, and what he will or won't allow himself to have. However, as he starts to work through it all he eventually gets to the point where he feels comfortable ordering a small London Fog (Earl Grey Latte basically, with vanilla syrup) and a cake pop if he's feeling indulgent, though usually he just asks Trey for them. Even farther into the future, he'll indulge in getting himself a small white hot chocolate with 2 pumps of strawberry syrup because then it's basically drinking chocolate-covered strawberries....it just takes him a while to get there. (He always spells his name out when the barista asks, he learned after getting Ridelle on his cup)

Trey Whenever he makes candied violets, he also has violet syrup. He tends to carry a small vial on him when he goes out because if he's going to pay for tea, he's going to make sure it turns out perfectly. He typically gets a medium iced lemon herbal tea and he adds his syrup to it for just the right touch of sweetness. (Always gives a name like. Batman or some shit, especially when his siblings are around)

Cater Coffee connoisseur. You might think he's a basic bitch, but to me a basic bitch still means he's getting some sort of sweetener in his drinks and he is Not. Cater cannot STAND drinking a lot of drinks that go viral because they're so damn sweet. That all being said. Yeah, he's getting a large iced latte with skim milk. He won't have normal milk because of the fat content, but the other milk alternatives tend to have a sweetness to them naturally. He could get an iced black coffee or cappuccino, but he likes the ratio of a latte better. Iced black coffee is reserved for exam week LMAO it keeps him awake in more ways than one. Those spicy drinks that circulated at Starbucks? He definitely tried one. Didn't finish it. (Has had his name spelled as Carter. So. Many. Times.)

Deuce He likely won't have gone to a coffeeshop until he's at NRC so he's a little overwhelmed by the menu and what to order. I think he would go for a small frozen hot chocolate because it's familiar enough that he thinks it sounds good, but it's still something new and he doesn't know how to make it himself yet. Once he starts going more regularly though, I think he would really like REALLY sweet frappes. Like large cookie frappuccinos whether it be chocolate crumble or sugar cookie it does not matter lskjdfhlksdjf (has had his name spelled as Doose)

Ace Having a regular latte does not satisfy his sweet tooth, though he'll have one here and there. Ace likes trying lots of different drinks, but the one he always comes back to is a large iced white mocha, no whipped cream. (In relation to my MC, the no whipped cream thing was a change he made because he knows she likes eating the ice and he drinks slower than she does, so by the time she finishes the ice in her drink, he gets to pretend like he didn't time finishing his drink just in time to let her have the ice 'like a fucking weirdo, but okay' but the whipped cream always leaves a weird fatty residue on the ice that she hate). Ace is also a sucker for peppermint hot chocolate when it's in season. (Straight up had his name written as 'ass' on the cup which is the ONLY reason he doesn't tease Deuce about his spelling)

Savannaclaw (just assume pup/cubcups are implied LMAO)

Leona Ugh this pretentious bitch /lh. Flat white is too boring, lattes are the basic bitch drink, this has too much 'coffee flavour', this needs more milk YEAH I'M SURE IT DOES KITTY. Anyways, when he's alone, he gets himself a small cup of just steamed milk, with like a half pump of (sweet) vanilla syrup. When he's around other people he gets a Cafe Cubano, which is an espresso shot prepared with brown sugar. It's a small enough portion that's sweet enough he can get over not having milk in it, but he's not Jazzed about it LMAO he just doesn't want to get the milk in front of other people my poor baby man. He sometimes gets a Cortado, but he can never remember what to call it. (Refuses to give a name, just goes by the name of the order, or he's just called by his title)

Ruggie My man works so hard. He and coffee are best friends. He and Silver bond over coffee sometimes. It's beautiful slkdjfhlksdjfsdf In the mornings, he tends to make himself a large double-double coffee, which for non-Canadians means 2 milk, 2 sugar in drip coffee. In the afternoon, around 2pm, he makes himself a small iced dulce de leche latte. When he goes to coffeeshops, he goes because he wants something he can't make/imitate at home as easily....which would be a vanilla coconut cashew smoothie. (Vanilla ice cream, coconut milk, cashew butter and protein powder). He would have a fresh fruit smoothie, but he can't enjoy fresh fruit without feeling like he should share it with his siblings because it's a hot commodity, it's a luxury for them. Frozen fruit is cheaper and easy to make into smoothies, so he makes them a lot at home. Of course, if he's at a coffeeshop, he's going to get a donut too. (Has never paid attention to the spelling of his name, doesn't care)

Jack He cannot handle caffeine my poor baby, he would be so jittery and anxious. He is a fresh fruit smoothie guy, and also he cannot stand matcha (Vil made him try it at one point). He likes blueberry-acai banana smoothie with greens, yogurt, and protein powder. Otherwise, Jack will just get a small chamomile tea with honey as sweetener. (His name is always right and his tail wags when the barista throws on a happy face next to his name.)

Octavinelle

Azul Azul tends to drink Milky Oolong tea, because of the health benefits. Does he like the flavour. Debateable, I don't know I haven't had this drink I can't tell you if I think he does or not. Probably. I read somewhere it kinda tastes nutty or like Danish cookies. When he goes to an actual shop though, he tends to get an Americano. (Assule, Asul, Azhoole, he tends to spell his name out for people now too)

Jade Not a coffee or sweets guy. We know that he's fascinated by the varie-tea (badum tss and I immediately get hit in the head with a chancla) that tea has to offer. I think Jade has had caffeine once and like. You know how humans. kind of have exposure to caffeine as kids even in small amounts, like in chocolate, or in stuff like certain sodas. Mers don't get that. They don't get that exposure at all. Jade on caffeine was a terrifying experience for any and everyone involved and he is not allowed to have more, nor will he allow himself to have any because dear great seven he swears he saw God and he doesn't even know who that is. That being said, Jade likes Jasmine herbal tea, while he prefers it piping hot and just a touch sweet, he isn't opposed to having it iced. His favourite blend is good either way, as it has rose hips, hibiscus and orange peel. He also enjoys Chaga mushroom tea. (His name is generally spelled correctly)

Floyd Like I said. Mers don't get that exposure to caffeine that other species in TWST do get. However Floyd, to me, has ADHD. And what does my ADHD do to me sometimes when I drink caffeine? I pass the fuck out, orrrr I'm finally able to focus because caffeine is a stimulant and makes everything better!! (This is why I would down an extra large iced vanilla latte right before exams LMAO) Floyd doesn't care so much about the flavour than he does it's effects, so he generally just asks what drink has the most caffeine and gets that, usually a large nitro cold brew, and he tells the barista to surprise him with a flavour just NOT salted caramel flavour. (He gives a random name every time)

Scarabia

Kalim ADHD 2.0 but addiction is just a general worry for his family, so Jamil makes sure he only makes herbal teas, and smoothies. That being said, left unattended Kalim would order whatever tea a barista recommends. Otherwise, he gets a mango lassi. He also often enjoys any flavour of lemonade, carbonated or otherwise.

Jamil Aw man. This guy. Needs so much caffeine, and as much as he enjoys tea, Kalim only serves herbal tea, but Jamil doesn't mind too much how sweet he makes it. When he's in the mood for it, Jamil will make his own chai blend. However, when he wants caffeine, he'll consume it in a way that would make Rollo think he's a demon. He will order a nitro cold brew, and a 2 bags of green tea on the side. He will then microwave the cold brew to make it hot and steep the green tea in it. Using Starbucks as a baseline, a large nitro cold brew has 345 mg of caffeine. One bag of green tea has anywhere between 30-50 mg of caffeine. A 'safe' amount of caffeine to consume in a day is considered 400 mg.

Pomefiore

Vil We already know that Vil's favourite food is homemade smoothies- So when he goes out of his way to go to a coffeeshop, he's not going to pay for a smoothie, unless it's right after a run with Jack. Vil's order fluctuates with the weather and time of day. If he's getting something in the early morning (5:30am-7am) and it's cool outside, he's getting a flat white with soy milk. If it's warm out, he'll get an iced Macchiato with soy milk and cinnamon. If it's mid-late morning (8am-11am) and it's cool out he gets a medium americano, though if he's feeling indulgent he gets a honey vanilla tea latte with skim milk. If it's warm out, he gets a medium vanilla oat milk cold brew or a strawberry acai lemonade if he's again, feeling indulgent. He won't consider drinking anything until about 2pm, which, if he needs something caffeinated he goes for an iced matcha latte with oat milk regardless of the weather. In the evening, (4pm-6pm) he avoids caffeine and will either drink a small decaf iced lavender latte with oat milk or decaf green tea. Once in a while, Vil will try ordering something new. If he ends up liking it, that time of day is associated with that drink, so that would be the time of day he orders it again. the Vil in my head is telling me just how hard he has to mask when a coffeeshop doesn't have the thing he wants to order and how some of these orders. he doesnt even like. but he knows that they won't be out of the ingredients because it's Just the coffee and a milk alternative. So They Can't say they Can't Make it so he doesn't have to worry about needing to mask.his day is ruined if it's a day he wants to be indulgent and they dont have the ingredients but he has to try and hide like he is crying on the inside and he feels stupid about it because its just a drink I cant tell if it's OCD or Autism but there's a little something funky going on/lh

Rook He is well aware of the effects caffeine has on him. They aren't bad per ce, but he doesn't particularly appreciate the gastrointestinal consequences. He also doesn't really find the appeal in super sweet drinks. Most of the time, Rook just wants iced lemon water, though on nights he struggles to wind down enough to go to bed, he'll brew himself or order rooibos tea with a splash of milk. The smell is the most comforting thing about it, he remembers his sister used to make it for him.

Epel He says he's not a snob, yes he is, if you don't have apple cider, you suck, if you do have apple cider but it's a 'bad brand' you still suck, just a little less. That being said, a lot of coffee shops don't have apple flavoured drinks, and he likes making apple cider at home anyways. When Epel is out and about, he likes to order a large iced decaf maple latte. He always whispers the decaf part like it's a bad thing he can't actually have caffeine or else he turns into the squirrel from Hoodwinked. (Get's called Apple a lot, also Elle once or twice)

Ignihyde

Idia Do you seriously think this guy goes to a coffeeshop? No, it's 3am, he's on UberEats/CarriageBites, he's put in an order for a bunch of energy drinks and some of those iced coffee bottles, he throws an energy drink and probably a salted caramel cold brew in one of those SUS slushy cups, makes it slushy and downs it in less than two minutes. Get on his level. Noob. I say this as someone who drinks a near liter of an iced vanilla 'americano' in less than two minutes.

Ortho Is worried about his brother. He also loves the smell of cinnamon coffee cake.

Diasomnia

Malleus He's so lost in a coffee shop. He will spend a moment to read over the menu, realizes he needs to research the different kinds of coffee drinks before he feels comfortable ordering one, only for him to decide on having a coffee frappe. The caffeine has no effect on him so he drinks it purely for the taste.

Lilia Who do you think taught Idia to be a fucking caffeine gremlin. This motherfucker isn't even affected by the caffeine he just likes the taste of his abominable combinations and accidentally got Idia hooked. The only step Lilia doesn't do is the slush, he prefers his energy drink-coffee combo to be room temperature. Freak \lh

Silver He has Lilia as his father. Jamil and Ruggie as his peers. And Cater Diamond as a fellow coffee fanatic. This boy tries so hard to use caffeine to keep him awake, his coffee order scares the barista. (This was based an actual order I got from some guys FRIENDS because this poor dude was studying for engineering finals week, we were told not to worry about the price because they were willing to pay, and we had to give them like. Four warnings about the caffeine content. It ended up being 12 shots of espresso over ice in a 24 oz cup) He wants the biggest cup they can give him. He wants it filled with just straight espresso shots. Let me just iterate - one ounce of liquid espresso typically has about 63mg of caffeine. 12 espresso shots, using 63 mg caffeine as a baseline is 756 mg of caffeine. I don't know where that college student is now but god bless. I hope his friends took away the coffee at some point.

Sebek He doesn't like black coffee, I do think he likes particular types of coffee. Like the coffee that doesn't taste like coffee. However, his go-to order is still just a piping hot cup of hot chocolate. Also pleeeease give him the steamed milk art/latte art, he loves it more than he'll admit.

Others

Jack T. Jack has a running joke on Ace where he only drinks black coffee in front of him, each time claiming some sort of delicious or exotic flavour just for Ace to fall for it every time when he offers it and it's just black coffee...but every once in a while, it's magically cloaked Vietnamese iced coffee, but Jack won't tell Ace the name just to piss him off because Ace really likes it but he can't place what's different about it from normal coffee with sugar and milk.

Che'nya As chaotic as our favourite purple cat is, I think Che'nya is partial to a rich, thick French vanilla. I think he likes the smell more than he likes drinking it, but yeah, it's just a yummmmmmmmy drink. He gives his full name out and just. :3 at the barista.

Falena He has a latte macchiato, much like Leona, he likes his coffee to be milk heavy lmao

Najma She doesn't usually drink anything for caffeine, when she does though, it's usually her brother's chai LMAO, but she'll make it an iced chai latte. Unfortunately, I HC her as iron deficient so this isn't always. The Best Choice. When she wants a coffee flavour, she gets it in the form of ice cream or in a mocha.

Neige Doesn't drink caffeine because it's an addictive substance. Yes Vil has mocked him in his bedroom at some hour in the morning hate listening to an interview with him in it. Fucking. Golden Child. (lh) When Neige goes to a coffeeshop he usually just goes to pick up a pastry and tip the barista. He sometimes has chamomile tea before bed but with enough sugar to rot your teeth.

Rollo Every once in a while he treats himself to a decaf con panna and madeleines on the side.

----------------------------------------------------- Rapid Fire OC Orders Vizzie - Iced white mocha, no whipped cream, or iced vanilla americano/latte

Aspen - matcha latte with lavender foam and honey

Oisin - Bicerin with cinnamon on top

Cory - Romano (weirdo) /lh ----------------------------------------------------- Taglist: *DM or send an ask if you'd like to be added @fluffle-writes

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bishopsbeloved · 8 months

Text

something holy

lucy gray baird x female reader

Lucy Gray Baird has had you under her spell the entire time you’ve known her. She’s a creature not of this world, something gorgeous, something holy.

3k words, fluff, mild angst

Lucy Gray Baird is the sweetest girl you know.

You’ve known her for a while, now, but you’ve known of her for even longer. You’ve only ever lived in District Twelve, a Seam girl born and bred, but you remember more vividly than anything that colourful day the Covey were rounded up and forced to settle in your home. Even then, you felt a draw to them. Sure, everyone was intrigued by them, even more so once they stepped into the spotlight and made a name for themselves. You knew you weren’t special, you were one of many in a crowd of admirers, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to know them. You wanted to know the dark-haired girl your age, who you’d occasionally glimpse through a crowd or across a plaza. This hunger, barely sated by scraps of fleeting encounters across the span of years, would only grow with age.

Twelve is the district furthest from the Capitol, and it’s the most neglected, to be blunt — it still has the lowest Peacekeeper to population ratio in the entirety of Panem. A blessing in disguise, you consider it, but it often renders the Seam a relatively lawless place. When the Covey arrived, the best part of a decade ago, it was even worse. The Covey kids were never forced to attend Capitol-mandated schooling in the way that the rest of the Seam kids were because they weren’t really Twelve. They didn’t really didn’t bother anyone, for the most part, and so long as that remained the case there were more important rules to be enforced elsewhere.

For the first few years of their inhabiting a crumbling little red-brick cottage at the edge of the Seam, overlooking the woods, the Covey were like daylight ghosts around town. They wove flowers into each other’s braids every morning, wore long billowy clothes even in the coldest winter snow and communicated more through melody, or strange noises, than they did words. (For a good few years of your childhood, you’d stumble down to their ends of town once a week to offer clumsy good-wish bundles of flowers and herbs, and even ribbons when you could get your hands on them. You’d be met with wide smiles or hummed tunes or, towards the end of this practice, even a beamed thank you, sweetness from Lucy Gray herself, but nothing more, and so eventually you stopped.)

At night, though, they were ghosts no longer; they’d come alive, lighting up the whole Hob with foot-stomping tavern thrashers. As you grew older, more capable, and still more captivated by them, you found yourself more and more often in attendance. That’s how you ended up meeting her; a fight broke out in the pit one night. You were close to the stage as could be, how you were whenever you got the chance, and in a whirlwind of movement and noise you found yourself caught up in the conflict. A pitcher of ale ended up being emptied onto you and you yelped as the lukewarm amber seeped into your dress, whilst its former owner cursed the loss of his drink and angrily swung the empty pitcher at the head of the whoever knocked him into you. The music halted as chaos ensued, and you scrambled to escape.

“Alright, y’all, that’s enough,” said a forceful voice from the stage, a voice you’d recognise anywhere. “You want to fight, you can go outside t’do it, I hear there’s a hell of an audience in uniform out there too.”

Billy Taupe, by this point the size of a man with the broad shoulders to show for it, set down his accordion and leapt down from the stage, forcefully breaking up the conflict, with the lean Tam Amber quick to follow. You were practically swept up onto the stage, and in an effort to de-escalate Lucy Gray reached out her hands to lift you up and into safety. She was stronger than she looked, and you marvelled at the moment, surely gaping like a fool.

“Learn to behave, folks,” she playfully chastised the crowd as Billy Taupe and Tam Amber wrestled two men out the door. You stood stiff as a board beside her, still dripping head to toe. “I’m’na give you ten, and when I get back y’all better have sorted yourselves, alright?” She jabbed a finger playfully at no one in particular before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and guiding you backstage, Maude Ivory and Barb Azure hot on your heels.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” she asked you the moment you were out the crowd’s earshot, “we been watching that whole thing —”

“— they nasty out there tonight,” chimed in Maude Ivory.

“— sure we got an old dress o’ Lucy Gray’s milling around somewhere, get you outta that thing,” Barb Azure offered kindly.

“— come here, into the light, poor thing, are you hurt? Let me see it,” Lucy Gray fretted. Seeing your features properly for the first time under the flickering of the oil fixture on the wall, she paused. “I know you.”

“I been here before,” you offered, finally summoning the courage to speak.

“No,” Lucy Gray mused, “you… you done used to bring us flowers, didn’t you?”

You froze, flushing. “Guess I did. Didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Aw hey now, I’d never forget a pretty thing like you,” she scolded you. Your cheeks burned with colour the same shade as her lips. “Why’d you ever stop? We used t’love your visits.”

“She ain’t kidding,” added Barb Azure, eyes twinkling, “Lu would doll up real early on Sundays and wait around for you.”

“Oh, shut it, you big grass,” Lucy Gray muttered, dark eyes never leaving your face. Your breath caught in your throat. “Look, we ain’t sending you back out there. How’s about we’ll find you somethin’ to change into and you’ll sit pretty with us, alright, sweet thing? What’s your name, baby?”

After that night, she kept finding reasons to be near you. Despite the draw you felt to the Covey you were scared stiff of bothering them. You’d rather die than cause them any trouble. But you and Lucy Gray, and then the whole Covey, fell into a close friendship so quickly you couldn’t help but wonder if that feeling was mutual. For a while they would tentatively invite you to picnics at the lake or bonfires in their back garden, but once they found out you could play the pan flute you were as good as one of them.

Lucy Gray began to consume your every waking thought. Lucy Gray, Lucy Gray, Lucy Gray. It’s been the same old for a good few years now. You spend every moment you can with her, whether that’s taming snakes or catching butterflies or whispering to each other late at night. She’s hardened like brandy and fiery inside, and you preen hopelessly under the light she casts on you. Lucy Gray Baird is what makes the world go round.

Yeah, she’s the sweetest girl you know. And, unbeknownst to you, she’s sweeter than ever on you.

The Covey are a superstitious people. There’s nothing they’ll heed more attentively than the whisper of fate. Lucy Gray doesn’t remember much from her childhood pre-Twelve, but she remembers when her momma would try to teach her how to see future in the way that the earth breathed. She knows to pay heed to the shape that the tea leaves at the bottom of her mug take, and where the first drop of rain falls. Everything, everything, including her heart, pushes her to you. She’s sure of it. It’s something bigger than her that connects the two of you, something cosmic, something holy. She’ll count bluebells on her walk to you — she loves me, she loves me not — and take note of the birds in the sky. She spells out love confessions to you in the chords of her guitar. She whispers poems into your morning tea before she brings it to you, careful hands cradling a mug full of love.

She knows it’s the string of fate that’s drawn her in to you. Why, why else would her family end up in Twelve?

Barb Azure teases her endlessly for the affections she harbours, and Lucy Gray will swat away her cousin with flaming cheeks and hiss half-baked threats but she’ll never deny it. There’s no denying it. There’s no denying the love she has for you, more certain than anything. She knows she loves you like she knows that the sun smiles in the sky. She’ll do anything to be around you.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Barb Azure asks her casually one warm summer’s evening. The two are side by side in the little stone kitchen of the Covey cottage, occasionally brushing elbows as they chop vegetables in unison. It’s a comforting touch, domestic, homely. Golden-pink sun streams in through the mottled windows, and Lucy Gray basks in it like a snake. The back door is pinned open so that the children, and the strange shaggy dog Clerk Carmine’s brought home, and Maude Ivory’s goat can all trot in and out as they please. In the distance, she can see you all playing, wrestling, giggling freely, hear CC’s shrieking melodious laughter. Lucy Gray’s so at peace in this moment that she forgets she’s been asked a question.

Barb Azure’s bare foot nudges her shin gently. “Lu. What’ll you do? ‘Bout her?”

She shrugs. “Same thing I’ve always done. Keep on loving her, and take what I can get.” She seems perfectly at peace with it, and Barb Azure sighs.

“You’ll get a whole lot more if you tell her how you feel,” she chastises.

“Why, and ruin a perfectly good thing?” Lucy Gray retorts, elusive, half-mirthful, a twinkle in her eye but a weight to her words. “No, I don’t think I will, Barb Azure.”

“Aw, hold your tongue now,” Barb Azure grumbles, “cause it’ll be this old dog who’s wipin’ your tears when the belle finds someone else.” She nudges Lucy Gray good-naturedly before moving over to the stove, but Lucy Gray stays frozen, blood running cold. She hasn’t even thought of that, but it’s true, you could find someone else. Who, she wonders? What kind of person would you go for? You’ve been one of the Covey for years, you eat here and sleep here and make music with them and the rest of it, and you don’t really talk to anyone else. Would you go for one of the boys? Tam Amber, or Billy Taupe? The thought of anyone else all up on you like that makes her shiver. She can live with never being able to have you, she’s done it this far, but she’s not sure she’d handle it if someone else could.

The thought weighs heavy on her mind, and she’s quiet for the rest of the night.

It’s only a handful of days after that you’re out gathering berries with some of the others. Lucy Gray comes with for a while, but she’s not really there, she’s not herself, and after finding a few wild apricots she feebly murmurs about going home to pit them. You watch with concern but she’s gone before you can say otherwise, walking off with her head lowered, and you decide to respect her wish to be alone.

You try to ignore the loss of her at your side as you laugh and joke with the others. You never feel content when you’re not with her, though — she’s the only one who can soothe your temples and still your thoughts.

“You okay, Y/N? You been starin’ at that bush for the better part o’ four minutes,” grins Tam Amber.

“Nay, she’s just mopin’. Gets all moony when she’s away from her Lu,” CC butts in, before tossing a blackberry into the air and catching it in his mouth.

“My Lu?” you ask, caught off guard.

“Well, yeah. So much pinin’ you could build your own forest.”

“I ain’t— I don’t pine for no one,” you tell him shakily.

He just shrugs. “Coulda fooled me. You been lookin at Lucy Gray like she hung the stars in the sky since day one.”

You frown, mulling his words over. Is that true? You love Lucy Gray, more than anything, but it’s never really occurred to you that your love for her could be like that. Sure, she’s the prettiest girl you’ve ever met, you’d do anything for her. She’s so kind, so gentle and sweet, but she’s so quick and so fiery. She has a fierce wit to her that’ll send you rolling and reeling in equal measures. She’s always, always on your mind. Sure, your mind goes straight to her when you hear a love song, but— oh no.

“I think you broke her,” Billy Taupe observes.

“I’m, uhm,” you feel your palms grow clammy as you’re overwhelmed with the need for a moment to yourself, “I’ll head back home, and— and start sorting through this,” you look down at your half-filled basket and begin to hurry away. No one stops you, but you feel eyes on you long after you’ve rounded the corner.

You’re a mess. Your hands are shaking, your eyes blurry, your mind spinning as you grapple with this newfound information. You’re in love with Lucy Gray. It’s so obvious that the kids have clocked it before you. God, you’re so stupid. Of course friends don’t love each other like this. You don’t feel this way about Barb Azure or Tam Amber. This could ruin everything, if you ever let it escape you. No, you determine resolutely, you are not going to ruin the only family you’ve ever had. Having Lucy Gray in your life at all is something so impossibly holy that you refuse point blank to risk ever losing it. You will not lose the Covey. You’ll take this to the grave.

Your feet have carried you home before you know it, and you stumble into the kitchen, panting. There are tears streaming down your face, you realise, and you shakily wipe them away only for more to appear.

“Y/N?” says a soft voice at the door, one you love more than anything, and you look up to see the girl you’re agonising about. Annoyingly, you want nothing more than to crawl into her arms. “Hey, baby, you okay?”

“M’fine,” you murmur, hastily brushing away more tears, but she’s stepping towards you with outstretched arms, and then you’re in them and you’re safe.

“Shhh, sh sh sh,” she soothes you, guiding you into the room you share with her, running her fingers through your hair. “What is it, sweet girl, what’s bothering you?”

“It really is stupid,” you tell her thickly. “CC said something, I guess it freaked me out, ‘n got to me a bit.”

Lucy Gray lets out a surprised little laugh and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “And why’re you givin’ a shit about what he’s got to say, huh? Clerk Carmine’s a twelve year old boy. Can’t get more insensitive than that.”

You nod tearfully, gratefully accepting the comfort of her pressing her forehead to yours and toying with your fingers.

“What’s he said to get you all wound up, baby?” she asks you. You hesitate, reddening, and look away.

“Really was stupid,” you mumble.

“You can tell me,” she promises, eyes dark and soft. You bite your lip.

“Just… that I treat you different to the others, I guess,” you admit, words flowing like butter. She could get anything out of you. Lucy Gray stiffens a little in surprise. “Or like, I love you different.”

“Yeah? How’d you mean?” Her words are soft, gentle, and you feel no less soothed than before. Cautiously, you continue.

“He… said I’m pinin’ for you,” you confess, mere minutes after swearing to yourself those words would never reach her ears.

“And are you?”

You stop up short at the bluntness of her question. Her gaze is unreadable, and you inwardly curse her poker face. “I— uhm, what?”

“Are you pinin’ for me?” Lucy Gray repeats.

“I…” You lamely gape like a fish. “I mean, I guess, I don’t know.”

“If I kissed you, d’you think that’d be something you could enjoy?” she asks you. Her tone’s shifted into something different now, and you can’t quite identify it but it has liquid heat pooling in your stomach. Your breath is caught in your throat, you’re scared to make a sound and break this moment, and so you nod wordlessly.

Her hands meet at the nape of your neck and toy with the hairs there as she slowly brings her lips to yours.

Lucy Gray Baird is soft when she kisses you, gentle. She kind of cradles you, her touch delicate, the way she is with her snakes or that fawn she nursed once — as though you might startle at any moment. You don’t know whether to close your eyes and savor the moment or keep them open and commit her to memory forever. You’re utterly beside yourself.

The kiss doesn’t last too long, she keeps it short and sweet, pecking your lips one final time before resting her forehead against yours contentedly.

“You okay, baby?” she asks after a moment, feeling you shaking against her. She leans back to get a better read on you and her brow furrows at your distress. “Sweet girl, I— did I overstep? Oh god, I’m so sorry, I —”

“No,” you manage to choke out. “No, it’s good, I just— this is a lot— I think I’ve loved you forever.”

Lucy Gray melts at that, pulling you in close and letting you rest your head against her chest, soothing her fingers through your hair. “Shhh, sh, it’s okay. Let it out, baby. You know, I always felt like there’s a reason the Covey was brought to Twelve,” she tells you. “I’m so sure it’s always fate, you know? And my momma was too. I always wondered what it was, I’d feel whispers of things at the edges of towns, I spent so long lookin’ for signs I’d never find. And then you brought one to me, you brought me flowers and ribbons and handfuls of love… and then I wasn’t looking for signs anymore. I was seein’ em everywhere I went, and you was bringin’ em to me every Sunday. And it was the holiest thing I ever felt.”

“You’re everything,” you manage, breathless. “I’m not— I’m no bard like you, Lu— you’re everything.”

“I love you,” she tells you, the intensity of her dark gaze setting you alight, “I love you sure as there’s stars in the sky.”

You lie in Lucy Gray’s arms long into the night, and she holds you, whispering to you how much she loves you. When morning comes, you know the stars will still be there, even if they can’t be found. And you know that when she rolls out of bed later than usual on Sunday, her day of rest, and you bring her flowers and ribbons held together with love, she’ll beam brighter than anything and you’ll have a sky full of stars in your arms.

#lucy gray baird x reader #lucy gray baird #lucy gray baird x fem reader #lucy gray baird x female reader #lucy gray baird x you #lucy gray #lucy gray x reader #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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crimsonhydrangeavn · 26 days

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Hey there! I'm here to simp for Garret, as usual, but I have another reason to gush today—I absolutely adore your drawing style! Whether it's the colors, the character designs, or the scenes, I just love it all. One of my favorite things, though, has to be the characters' facial expressions—they are all just beautiful!

Marcelo's surprised face? Perfect. Rita's blushing cheeks? Adorable. Camilla's entire design? Has a special place in my heart. And don't even get me started on Teagan's smile—it's so cute, it's almost unfair. But, of course, my ultimate favorite is Garret. I can't handle it when he furrows his eyebrows, whether he's pissed off or has that smug look like he's just hit the jackpot. It's all just so perfect!

Anyway, I do have a question for you—do you have any tips for creating character designs? I feel like the way your characters look perfectly matches the vibe they give off, and I'm starting to work on my own visual novel, but I'm having a hard time nailing down the character designs and I felt I could find good advice from you.

Additionally, I apologize in advance for all the fangirling and for my poor English. I hope nothing I said came across as rude or inconvenient, truly 🙏.

Thanks so much, and I hope you have a fantastic day! ❤🌻

Thank you so much for your incredibly sweet ask! Please, please, please NEVER apologize for gushing about characters for fangirling over them! It always brings a massive smile to my face and I really appreciate hearing how much you enjoy them! <3 I'm incredibly flattered that you reached out to me for advice on character creation and I'll do my best to share my process with you! Granted there are a million different ways to do things so these are just a few things that I've found that helps me in the creation process.

I'll give you a little background about me and my character/story creation journey so you can get a better understanding of my background in writing/character development.

You see I've been a huge fan of text roleplay for the majority of my life. I actually started roleplaying on gaiaonline when I was 12 and I've been doing it ever since. ( Almost 20 years at this point! damn am I old lol) As a result I've had a lot of practice creating and interacting with different kinds of characters in different settings. I've also been playing DnD on and off since high school. That being said, I've had time to refine my craft and create characters that I personally really enjoy and align with to some degree. ( And hopefully you do too!)

That being said, I'll list a few tips and tricks I've picked up over the years below!

Anatomy is key! Yes, my characters are stylized, however I spent a long time studying anatomy and getting a solid sense of proportions, ratios, and musculature. Am I perfect? Absolutely not, but I'm at the point that I can usually notice if there's a glaring error/ something looks really off.

Make sure to put all of the characters in a line up once they're designed! Are their heads the same size? What about their hands and feet? Some slight variations are natural, but if one character's head is noticeably larger than the others, then I'd take the time to adjust. The same could be said for colors. Is one character SUPER saturated while the others are more muted? Unless they're supposed to stand out, consider reworking the colors to make them feel a bit more cohesive.

A basic understanding of color theory is always a bonus in my book! I'd also consider making a general color palette for your game. That way it'll help you make sure everything looks and feels as though it's in the same world.

When I first create a character, I try to think of a general concept of what I want them to be. What's their general vibe? What do they look like? What's their personality like? Ect. Once I have a general vibe down, I try and do a bit of visual research on tiktok, pinterest, tumblr, google, ect. For example, I might have a general idea of what a typical frat bro or sorority girl looks like, but until I actually do the research and look into the kinds of things they wear, how they speak, and their general lifestyle, and real life examples of these kinds of people they'll feel like a flat caricatures of what they actually are.

Then, once I have the general vibe nailed down I start doodling them and playing around with different hairstyles, outfits, body types, ect. I actually have a few different different versions of all of the characters for Crimson Hydrangea! I rarely end up going with my first sketch/ concept when it comes to most of my characters. I also like exploring with different skin tones, colors, and textures/designs.

It takes a lot of thought and trail and error, but once I finally create a character that I'm visually happy with, I really start delving into their personality, backstories, and general psyche. What are their likes, dislikes, positive traits, and flaws? What are their motivations, fears, and traumas? How self aware are they? Then I start asking myself slightly more introspective questions to help me relate to the characters a bit more. What about this character resonates with me? How can I make this character feel more real? What are some traits that we share? For example, Garret inherited my unhealthy perfectionism, Marcelo inherited my love of food and desire to make sure those around me are happy and comfortable, Camilla inherited my sarcastic sense of humor, Rita inherited my unyielding sense of responsibility and unhealthy work-a-holic tendencies, and Teagan inherited my deep rooted insecurities. Granted most of these characters take it to a completely new level than I do in my real life, but at least on a basic level I can relate to them and understand their motivations. That being said, I don't think all of your characters need to inherit a specific trait of yours, it's just something I recently realized I tend to do on a subconscious level to help me write them with a bit more depth.

Let your characters develop a life of their own within your story. It's okay if they end up changing from your initial concept. People in real life are complex and don't always fit into a specific mold no matter how hard they try. They grow and change over time, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worst. Do what feels right for the story you're trying to tell. For example, Garret was originally supposed to be more calculated and methodical. Marcelo was originally supposed to be a lot more laid back and go with the flow. However when I actually started writing them in specific scenarios I realized that they're far more complex than a simplified list of traits. Flaws and weaknesses make them feel so much more real than a "perfect" gary/mary stu.

When it comes to facial expressions, I usually have a small mirror on my desk to observe and reference specific expressions I'm trying to convey. In addition to using the mirror as a reference point, I also tend to make whatever face I'm drawing as I'm drawing it. It's a little silly, but I find it really helpful feeling my facial muscles recreate the same expression. It helps me figure out what the brows, eyes, and mouth are doing at the same time. It's gotten to the point of doing it subconsciously whenever I work/animate/draw. (Fortunately I usually work from home so no one has to see my weird expressions lol)

I think the final and most important tip you should take to heart is to create characters you genuinely enjoy. It'll also help you stay motivated to keep writing them and developing the story, especially early on in the creation process.

Hopefully you found my rambling helpful! It ended up being a bit more of a brain dump than I originally intended haha. That being said, I'd love to see what kind of characters and game you end up creating in the future! <3

#yanderes #yandere #original character #yandere visual novel #crimson hydrangea #yandere vn #ask #crimson hydrangea vn #visual novel #male yandere

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missredherring · 9 months

Text

An Act Of Kindness - Part Two

Eddie (BTVS) x Fat!F!Vampire!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.9k

Summary: That feeling of wrongness is so strong. He isn’t supposed to be here. Something is going on. Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Contents: Descriptions of throwing up. Character death. Canon/vampire typical violence and gore. Sweet baby angel vampire Eddie. Reader uses the nickname "Bella."

A/N: Here we are for part two! Thank you everyone for your interest in this story so far. I'm nervous since this chapter is more set up than anything really juicy. I hope you enjoy it. I certainly had fun adding more characters. 🩷

Not beta read. All mistakes are my own.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tagging those that I remember being interested: @prolix-yuy @oonajaeadira @maggiemayhemnj @alltheglitterandtheroar @boliv-jenta

Part One

Eddie’s at a bar.

It’s not one of the numerous ones near the college campus that the students like to go to and try their luck with fake IDs. The bartenders there are too eagle-eyed and his face is never going to look older in person, no matter how well-made his own fake ID is. Instead he’s at a dive bar at the edge of town, close to a cluster of motels that have mostly out-of-towners as clientele; people who come and go and just want a drink in a dark bar for the night. It’s a quiet atmosphere that thankfully doesn’t test his hunger and at least he’s not the only one nursing a beer at the bar top tonight.

One of the first things Max had done for him after his change was get him a new ID, saying something about not wanting a wet blanket weighing him down. Max handed over the shiny new ID and aged him up with an air of carelessness that stung later when Eddie had time to think on it. He can buy alcohol and even rent a car now, but neither feels like something he’s earned with the privilege of living that long.

Raiding the beer fridge in the garage, sneaking sips from parent's stashes, and hoping no one noticed how loud they were in the basement; they’d been tipsy and carefree. Surrounded by mismatched, beat up furniture, they'd talked about all the parties they’d throw once they came of age; it was one of the ultimate rituals of growing up. But there'd been none of that with Max. No acknowledgement of this milestone in a young adult's life. Just another thing Max took from Eddie because of his own selfishness.

And now something is wrong. More wrong than all the other little things Max has done so far. Eddie has a running list of those that just keeps getting longer, but there’s nothing so obvious that he can point to for this wrongness that’s been picking at his nerves since he woke up today.

He’d told Max about it, but his maker brushed him off. He’d been obsessively focused on this new job he’d gotten, saying something about sweet revenge. He hadn’t even taken his eyes away from his tie as he tugged the fabric this way and that to get the perfect folds and creases.

“Relax,” Max said, smoothing the fabric down his front and picking a piece of microscopic lint from his suit jacket. “It’s probably just indigestion from the take out from last night.”

Take out delivery guy, Eddie corrected in his mind as Max grabbed his bag and keys and made for the front door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Max quipped and threw a wink over his shoulder. With a slam of the door, Max was gone.

The unnamable wrongness kept him moving until he got to the bar.

He takes a mouthful of beer, swishes it around, and carefully dribbles it back into the bottle under the guise of taking another sip. He readjusts his grip on the bottle higher up on the neck and hopes it’ll be enough to hide the pursing of his mouth. He feels a little nauseous from the residual amount he swallows and pointedly doesn’t think about the rising percentage of backwash to beer ratio. He picks at the damp label and thinks about chugging the whole thing just to see what would happen.

As if reacting to his idle thoughts, his stomach lurches and he claps a hand over his mouth. He’d been drunk a few times before he was turned and it had been a gradual effect, not something that slammed into him after not even an entire mouthful of beer. His vision gets hazy with blackspots in his periphery. Eddie feels the tell-tale saliva pool in his mouth and he quickly makes his way to the bathroom. A few disgruntled shouts follow him when he bumps into people, so focused on his goal, but they die away once the other patrons get a look at his young face turning green.

He’s glad of his vampire abilities as he strides into the bathroom, slides to his knees, and hunches over a toilet in under a second. He gives into the feeling, stops fighting the contraction of his muscles, and he heaves and heaves, only to spit saliva into the bowl. Everything is doubled, and even worse, they're in separate colors: a red and blue toilet next to each other in what he knows is a small stall. Is this a vampire thing? It'd never been this bad the few times he'd passed out as a human. He clenches his eyes at the sensation and his mind drifts to the last time he’d thrown up and was comforted by a kind voice behind him. As much as he’d like your presence again, he doesn’t think the universe would be kind enough to let you stumble on him in the men’s bathroom of a dive bar.

His stomach stills and he sits to the side, panting into his arm as he wipes his mouth and waits for the walls to stop warping. That feeling of wrongness is so strong. He isn’t supposed to be here. Something is going on. Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He can't take it anymore. He’ll find Max and demand an answer. Eddie swallows thickly and goes back out to the bar to get his jacket and leave. When he pulls out his wallet to give the bartender a tip your calling card falls from the bill fold onto the bartop. The thick cardstock makes a sound like a bell to his ears over the murmur of the patrons and the jukebox music. Iridescent ink flashes in neon lights and here is a much more appealing option.

He’d thought of showing up at your house a couple of times before now, but he could never find a valid reason. What was he supposed to say, that he just wanted to see you again? How would that make him look? Now with this extreme bodily reaction to the wrongness gnawing at him, he had a good enough reason. He hoped you wouldn’t wave his concerns away like Max had.

Eddie doesn’t know what he expected your home to look like. He realizes, as he double checks that the street number by the front door matches the address printed on your card, that he’d built up something from a gothic novel based on the impression of your personality from one meeting. There isn’t any dramatic architecture or even a gargoyle on the corner guarding the household. It looks like a normal townhouse in a row of them in a normal neighborhood closer to the center of the city.

Pinching the card between two fingers, he approaches the door and knocks. He sees a doorbell a second later and feels queasy again. Should he have rung that instead? Would anyone be close enough to hear his knock? Vampires have good hearing, but maybe you’re in a room with good sound proofing and if he has to try again, should he use the doorbell? He’s about to reach out and ring the doorbell when the door opens.

It’s not you.

A male vampire with hazel eyes and neatly cropped dark hair opens the door. Eddie can tell the suit he’s wearing was made by a skilled tailor; he’s gotten used to seeing them considering they make up the majority of Max’s wardrobe, but this man’s style is understated compared to his maker’s.

“Can I help you?” The man asks, and Eddie hesitantly holds out your card. He doesn’t want to let it go, but it might be his only way of entry.

“I met her- uh, Ms. Bella? A little while ago, and she said if I needed help, I could call on her,” He’s losing steam, his confidence deflating the more this seems to not be as cut and dry as finding you and getting your help, so he finishes his thought quickly. “I need help.”

The man takes your card and looks from it to Eddie, taking in his appearance. It makes him nervous when he tucks your card into a pocket instead of giving it back. It’s become a thing of comfort, providing the possibility of meeting you again, but before he can do something stupid like asking for it back, the man turns into the entryway and motions Eddie to follow him.

“Come in. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

The man waits for Eddie to step past him before closing the front door and ushering him into a front room. There’s a large bay window covered with gauzy gray curtains to obscure the view from the street. A fireplace takes up one wall, and bookcases line the others, filled with knickknacks and books. The color palette of the room could only be described as "neutral" with creams and grays accenting the dark brown wood of the mantle and bookcases. A couch and chairs are centered in the room, making it seem like a place to meet and talk but not lounge and stay. It’s a little sparse, but normal. Just like everything else. He takes stiff steps around the room.

He can hear footsteps overhead, and then more coming towards the room, and a thrill goes through him. Is it you on your way to him? Are you excited? Did you want to see him again? Or is his sudden appearance interrupting your plans and you’d toss him out as soon as it was polite to do so? Eddie forces himself to check out the titles on the closest bookshelf. He’s found three of what his mother calls “bodice rippers” and two Edwardian philosophy books when the footsteps stop behind him in the entryway. He picks at the skin around his thumbnail and only turns around when he hears your voice.

“Eddie. How lovely to see you, darling.” You say with a smile.

Darling. It’s a pet name that could mean nothing, just a habit you’ve picked up along the way through the decades, but it soothes him. He’s finally found something that quiets that worry, and it’s you. He smiles back and comes over to you, taking your offered hand.

You're the most colorful thing in the room.

You’re wearing a silky teal robe cinched at the waist. It gaps a little at the neckline, showing a hint of lace and his stomach drops. He has interrupted you getting ready for the night. Or did you already return and have plans at home? Is there someone else waiting for you upstairs?

He’s so twisted up that he can’t even focus when you lean up to kiss his cheek and lead him, his hand still in yours, to the couch. You sit him down and take a seat beside him. His thigh and knee presses against yours and he swallows.

“Now what’s the matter?” You ask, and lift a hand to swipe his hair from his forehead to get a look at his whole face. Your eyebrows pinch together. “John said that you came seeking help, and I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you don’t look well.”

Your hand on his forehead and the relief that it brings makes him feel childish. Eddie straightens his spine and shoulders. He can do this.

“Something’s wrong. I’ve had this feeling all night, it got worse when Max left for work, but then I was at this bar and I almost passed out; it was so bad. I didn’t know what to do, but then I remembered what you said, and-and came here.” He finishes lamely.

He doesn’t want to see what your reaction is, afraid it’d be something like pity or annoyance, so he focuses on the sleeve of your dressing gown and how finely stitched the embroidery was. He’d never given details on clothing like that any attention before, but now he can see the tiny twists of thread and how deliberately they were stitched into the fabric.

“I see,” You say slowly. “Have you tried calling him?”

“I-I- No.” He says and fights the embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. “I wasn’t in my right mind, I guess. I just came here.”

“I’m glad you did.” You say, touching him again on the arm. He looks into your eyes and sees nothing but concern. “I said I would help you and I meant it. Let’s start with calling him. Do you have his number?”

You stand and go to a telephone on a side table next to the window that he hadn’t noticed. He pats his pockets and fishes a wrinkled business card out. Max was always stuffing the stupid things in the weirdest places. “You never know when you’ll have the chance to advertise my business prowess, kid.”

He reads off the numbers, first for Max’s office and then his cell phone. There’s no answer from either numbers and Eddie’s about to suggest sending a fax- the last number listed on the card- when you sigh and roll a shoulder in one of the most elegant shrugs he’s seen someone do.

“We’ll go pay him a visit then, if he’s too busy to answer his phone. I’ll just go get dressed.” You say and leave the room.

He's following behind you and just catches himself on the doorjamb when his muscles get the message from his brain to stop. The urge to reach out to bring you back is so strong his fingertips tingle with it. He wants to pull you to him. To undo the belt at your waist and see if the clothes you have on under it hug your body in the same way your robe does. It must; everything must want to hug your body the way he wants to.

When you disappear around a corner he’s lost again. He hesitates in the doorway. Should he go back into the room to wait for you, or stay in the entryway? If he stayed in the entryway you wouldn’t need to go into an unnecessary room, but what if you expect him to go back into the room? He sighs and fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves. He lets his indecision decide for him and stands awkwardly in the doorway.

You come back down in simple clothes: jeans and a black sweater with a purse tucked under your arm. He’s so distracted by the sight of your beat up sneakers that he doesn’t notice John joining them until he asks for an address. Eddie finally looks away from you to give it and you’re off, packing into one of the small cars parked on the street out front.

The grouping of beige buildings looks like any other business park in the country. Nothing seems out of place until they come to Max’s office building and see the trail of bloody footprints walking away.

“Well, that doesn’t mean much, considering who is involved. He might have had an eventful night.” John says, crouching down to run a finger through a footprint. “It’s just starting to dry.”

It’s worse the further they go inside. More and more blood and viscera everywhere. Not just on the floor, but on every surface. Sliding down the walls, dripping from the ceiling, splattered over the shattered remains of cubicles and computers.

He looks in the office with Max’s name plate but there’s nothing inside. For a scene of such destruction it’s eerily quiet.

“Oh, Max.” You sigh, taking a few steps into another office.

“What happened?” Eddie asks from the doorway.

He doesn’t recognize the name on the door but the room looks like a bomb went off inside. A blood bomb. It’s completely obscuring the windows, making the red color stand out against the rest of the drab office interior.

He carefully enters the office and looks around. On the back of a chair is a suit jacket that seems to have missed the majority of the mess with the chair blocking it. Eddie still has to check the tag to see his maker’s preferred designer’s name. Inside the breast pocket is Max’s cell phone with a number of missed calls and unread texts.

You bend down and pick up a wooden name plate. He doubts they’ll ever be able to get the blood out of all the grooves.

“Max has been killed. I’m sorry, Eddie.” You say, turning towards him.

Killed? What did that mean for a vampire? He looks around the blood-soaked office again. There was too much even for a sloppy feeding. Does that mean that a vampire born from violence has no other end but more violence?

“I found a survivor.” John says, dragging a grumbling vampire behind him. You and Eddie join them in the larger office space.

“Man, watch it. This sweater vest is new.” The vampire says. There’s several blood stains already darkening the vest.

“Tell us what happened.” John orders.

“What, not going to introduce yourself or anything? I am the boss here now, you know.”

John shakes him, once.

“Fine, fine.” He huffs and spills his proverbial guts. Telling them of Max’s plan to take over the company and get revenge on his college nemesis.

Eddie can feel you and John glancing at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he keeps his eyes firmly on a chunk of what must've been a vampire that's now slowly sliding down a wall.

No wonder Max hadn't needed to feed as much when he'd come back to the apartment: he'd been feeding on his coworkers before turning them. Eddie had no idea Max was going to such lengths to back Evan into a corner.

As the story continues, Eddie switches to watching you and John, his eyes bouncing back and forth between them. John’s face gets grimmer and grimmer while you seem to inflate as the tale comes to an end. When the vampire, Andrew as he introduced himself, finally stops you let out a gusty sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

“That idiot.” You hiss. Annoyance is rolling off you in waves and in a movement so quick, Eddie wouldn’t have been able to catch it if he wasn’t a vampire, you take Andrew’s head in your hands and rip it from his shoulders. There’s a trickle of blood from the wound, but nothing like the explosion that happened in the office behind them.

Andrew’s head is still protesting, but you punt it away with a solid kick. The body falls limply to the floor with a wet ‘plap’ from the already soaked carpet.

“That reckless idiot.” You repeat, surveying the office floor again.

Eddie doesn’t know what to say or do. Maybe he’s in shock. That always happens to people in the movies after traumatic events. Can a vampire go into shock?

“Call Liam. Accept whatever his fees are. We need his skills for this big of a mess. Do a sweep of the rest of the building and take care of any other messes Max made. Eddie will be his only surviving progeny.” You say, turning back around and focusing on John. He nods, already on his cell phone.

Things move quickly after that. You rummage through Max’s office until you find his keys and tell John you’re taking Eddie home to gather his things.

“If it’s alright with you, you’ll stay with us until we can figure out the next step for you, Eddie. Is that okay?”

“Yea, that’s fine. Thanks.” He says.

“I’m glad. It isn’t good for you to be alone right now. We just need to find Max’s phone before we can leave.”

“I have it.” Eddie says, finally feeling the weight of the device he hasn’t put down in the confusion of everything.

“Wonderful. We can go then. I’ll see you at home, John.” You call out and sweep Eddie from the office and into the garage.

“Can I drive? I-I need to do something.” Eddie asks. There’s so much going on that he doesn’t know what to do, but driving to Max’s apartment? He can do that.

You hand over the keys and he doesn’t know if it's good or bad that you don’t say anything and just slip into the passenger seat. At least he’s able to focus on the familiar task of driving.

There are few things that Eddie feels the need to pack up and take with him. Besides the clothes he actually likes, he takes his well-worn copies of Maughan’s Of Human Bondage and Shelly’s Frankenstein that he’d spent hours reading and annotating as part of what would be his last college course. It all fits into his battered backpack and he pretends he doesn’t see your disapproving frown when he tells you he’s ready to leave.

This time he doesn’t protest when you go to the driver’s side and just concentrates on shoving his backpack on the floor between his feet. The night is dark around them, but he can still see the bright red painting the office windows on the back of his eyelids when he closes them.

“What do you want to do now, Eddie?” You ask him. He looks at you, taking in the roundness of your face and how the streetlights and shadows play over your nose, cheeks, and chin as you drive through the city. “It’s up to you.”

The last major decision he had a say in was what classes he wanted to take in the upcoming semester. The one he never got to attend since Max bumped into his life and turned him, changing everything.

“I don’t know,” He says honestly. “I like being a vampire, but maybe not the kind Max wanted to be.”

You nod. “That’s as good a place to start as any. You won’t be alone in this, darling.”

He’s heard a lot of good intentioned promises over his short lifetime, but he wants to believe in this one. He wants to believe in you.

The rest of the night is a blur. You usher him back into your townhouse and press a glass of warmed blood into his hands as you take his backpack from him. You lead him upstairs and into a guest room.

With a brush of your hand on his cheek and a reminder to rinse out the glass when he's done or else any blood left behind would congeal, you leave him to his rest.

Eddie is so grateful for your comforting presence in the house and his full belly, that when his head hits the pillow it's blissfully empty of thoughts.

Days pass and Eddie still has no idea what to do.

You make sure his needs are taken care of. He’s never kept hungry for long, and he’s allowed free reign of the house, but he doesn’t know what to do. At least with Max there had been some kind of schedule –Max's– for him to follow. There’s an obvious ebb and flow of activity that follows some sort of pattern, but he doesn’t know where he can fit into it. Instead he finds nooks and crannies to keep himself out of the way and buries his nose in the familiar plots of his books. At least those won’t change suddenly.

He found a comfortable window seat at the back of the house tonight and while he has a book in his hands, he isn’t reading it. He’s staring at the words on the pages, at the small spots missing in the letters where the ink had lifted. He’s rubbing his thumb over the bottom of the page where he’s holding it open, taking in the rough texture of the paper used in the mass market paperback edition. He can’t seem to focus on the story tonight, so he listens to the house around him instead.

People, both vampire and human, come and go at all hours. There’s constant movement between the three floors, in the areas he explored and the ones he hasn’t had the courage to enter yet. He’s found several offices and guest rooms, a library sprawling between two rooms, and what looks like a small ballroom that takes up most of the back of the first floor.

Eddie’s listening to the rhythm of a back and forth conversation in what he thinks are your private rooms, on the right side of the third floor, when John finds him.

“Do you have any plans tonight, Eddie?” He asks. Eddie’s learned that John prefers to skip the usual small talk and he’s taken a liking to the direct way of talking. He admires the way John gets to the point and doesn’t dance around what he really wants to say.

“I don’t. What’s up?” He says, closing his book and setting it into a small recessed shelf next to the window.

“Come with me.” John says and then starts off in the direction of the front door.

During the car ride into the city John hands Eddie a small notebook and indicates he opens it to a page with a bent corner.

“We could’ve done this at the house, but I thought you’d like to get out and stretch your legs.” John says, giving Eddie a look before turning back to the road.

Eddie doesn’t exactly duck his head, but he does look down at the notebook. It reads like a list of errands. Mostly normal stuff, if you didn’t know it was for a household of vampires: Pick up drycleaning (they know how to get even the stubborn dried blood stains out), contact grocer about the recent rise in food costs (blood and food), and checking in with the seamstress about an outfit that’s behind schedule.

"Do you really need my help with this?” Eddie asks.

"I can do this myself, certainly, but you need to learn. You also need established vampire company to regain your balance after Max's final death." He says, watching the traffic as they pull onto a street and smoothly parks the car.

"Regain my balance?"

"Yes. The bond between a fledgling and maker is a strong and important one. Usually when that bond breaks both vampires are old enough to withstand it and there are minimal effects. But you're young, and it could be detrimental if left unattended." John says and gets out of the car.

"Is that why I want to be with her all the time?" It’s the first thought that comes to mind with this new information, and it’s a small hope that John didn’t hear him say it out loud. There's still traces of sunlight in the dimming sky and the cool air is refreshing as it surrounds him. Eddie is a little surprised he missed the feeling.

"It could be part of it. But Bella is alluring all on her own, isn't she?" John says and Eddie is thankful he didn’t laugh at him or mock him like Max would’ve.

"What am I, a baby duck? Imprinting on the first vampire after I wake up?" Eddie mumbles as he follows John down the sidewalk. There aren't many people out right now: it's late in the day for shoppers and too early for the night crowd. John laughs and it’s a nice sound.

"You certainly fit the bill," John says. He holds open a door and ruffles Eddie's hair as he goes by, tugging on the cowlick at the base of his neck that swirls the hair there into a little point reminiscent of a duck's tail. "Little Duck."

Pet names are an easy affection handed out by the majority of the household, Eddie's discovered. He's not used to it, to others wanting to bestow them on him, but he has gotten used to vetoing the more absurd or reaching ones. The names are given freely and often, but he has noticed that you don't call anyone else darling but him.

"Nope. Not that one." He says. He eyes John a little as they walk through the back end of a restaurant and approach what looks like an office door. He doesn’t know if he could trust this camaraderie between vampires. He’d never felt anything like friendship with Max.

John shrugs, still smiling. "Fair enough."

A person comes out of the office and stops short when they see them. They look at their watch and sigh.

“I’m so sorry, John. We’re running behind on schedule. Daniels’ is unloading the last of our shipment, but I’ll send him over when he’s finished. You know how he likes to inspect every last bag. Please, wait in my office.” They say before rushing off.

Eddie can hear the noise of a restaurant beyond the walls: the quiet conversation of diners and the rapid back and forth of the kitchen staff. The silence in the office is companionable and he finds John's steady presence comforting; it quiets his nerves. Maybe there's something to the theory of keeping vampire company as a support system when you’re newly made.

"Have you been with Bella long?" He asks.

"Are you still thinking of time in a human way? How long has it been since you were turned?"

"Uh…" Eddie has to think back and was a little stunned at the answer. "Almost a year."

John nods. "I've been in Bella's household for a few decades now. We were lovers for a time, but we work better together as friends."

"And you're fine working for her like this?"

"There’s never a dull day with her."

The conversation ends when the door is opened and closed by another man coming in with a clipboard in hand. He’s focusing on the papers on the clipboard and looks casual in a denim jacket over a button up with the top button left undone. The dark dark on his head is as neatly styled as his mustache.

The opening of the door lets a waft of hot hair smelling of cooking food in. Eddie remembers it smelling good, but now it was just a strong, unpleasant smell. He inhales again, and gets a good whiff of the man’s cologne.

“How do you stand the smell?”

John doesn't look at him, but says in a easy way: “You don't have to breathe.”

Oh, right. Eddie’s glad John doesn't make a big deal out of his lack of vampire common sense. Max would've had a field day. He never missed an opportunity to point out when Eddie asked him dumb questions.

“Right.” Eddie says, and stops breathing. It's better, even though the smell lingers.

“Good to see you, John. You didn’t have to come track me down, you know; I’ve got your shipment for this month in the truck.” The man says.

“There’s nothing wrong with meeting face to face for business is there? Everyone is in such a hurry these days.”

“You know I don’t mind a little face time with a handsome fella like yourself,” The man finally looks up from his clipboard to wink at John. His eyebrows hike up when he sees Eddie standing next to him. “Now who’s this young buck?”

“This is Eddie. He’s a new member of the household,” John motions between them as he makes the introductions. “This is Jack Daniels, a senior partner at Statesman Distillery.”

Jack nods and raises his hand to his forehead in a gesture that Eddie’d seen in western movies.

A senior partner? He doesn’t look like one with his casual style. “The liquor company?”

“One and the same. We cater to all kinds of clientele, even the after hours variety. Money is money and whether the people that give it over are undead or alive, it still makes the world go ‘round.”

“Unfortunately,” John makes a noise of agreement. “Which brings us to business: We’ve noticed an increase in the cost of the last few shipments and we would appreciate an explanation.”

Jack is nodding and tapping the edge of the clipboard against his palm. “I hear ya, John, but it’s just that: business, plain and simple. Costs have gone up across the board to maintain the quality of the product we provide.” His mustache pulls down in an exaggerated frown. “Sourcing has always been an issue, but it’s gotten worse with the rise in recreational drug use.”

Eddie shifts his weight on his feet and tries to pay attention to the conversation. John said he’d needed to learn, so there was something here he felt he needed to know. The problem was that Eddie had gotten so used to tuning Max’s business babble out over the past year. Would he have paid attention, if he’d known Max wouldn’t be around for much longer? He doubts it.

Another business card is thrust under his nose and Eddie jerks back before he gets a papercut.

“Nice to meet you,” Jack gives him a wink when he takes it. “Be sure to give Bella my regards.”

John is already holding the door open for them when Eddie looks to him. This time he remembers to stop breathing as he goes back through the restaurant. When they’re back outside he takes a deep lungful to clear out his senses and he notices the perfectly normal looking delivery truck tucked into the alley next to the building, the Statesman logo shining in gold on a black background. There’s nothing to hint at the blood stored next to the liquor in the back, all of it on the way to thirsty customers.

“Eddie.” John calls him from the car.

“The… seamstress is next, right?” Eddie says in an attempt to show he was paying attention.

John nods and the drive across town is quiet except for the disgruntled noises he makes at the other drivers. They make a stop at the dry cleaners where Eddie jumps out to collect the armful of clothes and linens for the house. He hangs them from the handle behind the driver’s seat and they’re off again.

The dry cleaning bags rustle from the backseat, there’s low music playing from the radio, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie feels normal. He’s just like everyone else in the multitude of cars around them: running errands and thinking about what to do with the rest of their day. There’s no ulterior vampire motive at play. Nothing that would single him out as ‘other’ if anyone took a closer look at him. Max reveled in the bloody violence of the vampire lifestyle, but it seems like you and your household choose something different. A life despite being a vampire? No, not despite it, maybe living with it would be the better description.

Eddie doesn’t know if he can pin it down yet, but he knows it makes him feel optimistic for the first time since he woke up as a vampire.

A jaunty ringtone brings his focus back into the car and Eddie admires the smooth way John takes out his cell phone from a pocket while keeping a steady hand on the wheel. Except his hand isn’t on the wheel and Eddie’s a little embarrassed that he didn’t notice that the car was stopped and parked if not turned off yet. How long had he been wool gathering?

At least he notices when John’s conversation pauses and he leans over to Eddie.

“I’ll need to take this. Would you mind going in alone? All you have to do is say you’re picking up an order and tell them for who. There shouldn’t be any problems.

Eddie nods and when John’s attention goes back to the call he gets out of the car and stretches. He can do this. The sidewalk is packed with people and Eddie takes the chance to practice his movements. It’s more difficult than he’d thought, blending in amongst humans, when he can zip through the world with ease. The rhythm of breathing and paying attention to his foot placement helps. Inhale, heel, exhale, toe. Again and again until he’s in front of the seamstress’ storefront with a hand on the doorknob.

The entire room is packed with bolts of fabric. Rows and rows of them, broken up by mannequins on display and a few tables topped with some ready to wear options. The air is stale from being blocked at every turn by more fabric. Before, he might’ve called it cozy and a good fit for a seamstress shop, but now he feels almost trapped in the small space. The only empty counter top is situated near the back with a computer on the corner and a brass bell in the middle. A quick glance around assures him no one else is in the front so he rings the bell and waits.

The fabric also muffles the noises from the surrounding shops and any upstairs areas, but it only takes a few minutes for him to hear shuffling from the back doorway. The door opens and in sweeps a woman carrying a fancy garment bag over her shoulder. She’s been called ‘seamstress’ but this woman didn’t match the mental image Eddie's been building from the title and the shop. He imagined a woman in clothing from an earlier time period maybe, or at least something with an insane amount of embroidery and craftsmanship to show off her skills.

She’s short, wearing plain clothes of a loose top and pants. Her shaved head makes her glasses look even bigger on her face. A pincushion is strapped around the wrist of the arm that’s holding the bag against her body, the pinheads catching on the light with the minute movement of her chest as she breathes. They blink at each other owlishly.

“I’m here to pick up an order, for Ms. Bella.” He says. She frowns and slings the bag over the counter.

“I told her man John it’d be done by the time we closed, and yet here you are not even an hour after sundown.” She says in an annoyed tone. Then she rolls her eyes and turns to the backroom. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m a wizard with a needle.”

Another garment bag is thrown onto the counter and she unzips it to show a dress of silky fabric. Here’s the dense, pattern heavy work he was expecting to see on the seamstress herself. Dotted on the collar in what he thinks is a floral pattern, the tiny beads are so small and so dense that he’s surprised her human eyesight was capable of the detail. He touches a flower and jerks his hand back when a stinging spark leaps from a bead to his finger.

She smirks at him and gives him the receipt. “Careful. The spells woven with that beadwork don’t like close inspection once they’re set. I’ve billed the usual account, so this order is officially complete.” She makes a little hooray motion with her hands and zips the garment bag closed with a sense of finality.

He says goodbye and drapes the heavy bag over his shoulder as he leaves, wondering what you need a dress with spells on it for.

John is still on the phone so Eddie stays quiet on the return to the townhouse, his contemplative mood returning as he's lulled by the passing streetlights.

You're waiting for them when they come in, sprawling out on the stairs in a pair of sweats. It's the most dressed down he's seen you so far, he thinks as you look up from your phone and hop down to greet them.

“How was your night out, fellas?” You ask.

“Productive,” John says, and bends down to kiss your cheek. He takes he dry cleaning with him as he leaves. “I've got to handle some last minute arrangements for the meetings next week. Ciao, Bella.”

You look after him fondly before turning to Eddie and making grabby hands for the garment bag.

He holds it up for you to open and when you sigh in appreciation the sound goes right to his gut. Your hands smooth over the fabric and it pushes the bag back into Eddie's chest. It's so faint, but he can feel the ghost of your touch and he's never wished to be a piece of clothing more in his life with the way you're looking at the dress right now.

“Oh, it's perfect. I knew it would be. She has a real magic touch, you know.” You say.

With quick movements the bag is zipped up again and hung on the railing behind you. You bend down to straighten the bottom of the bag so it doesn't wrinkle up. He looks at your fingers instead of the way the pants stretch over your ass and doesn't feel guilty at all when you smile at him.

“I’ll be attending a charity gala at the Austen Art Museum this weekend. If you don't have any plans, would you like to join me, Eddie?”

“It's a date.” He says before he knows what he's saying.

He doesn't blush like before, with blood rushing up his neck, into his cheeks, and spreading to the tips of his ears. The emotions are still there though: the shock of his own daring, wanting to run from the room and never make eye contact again.

But when you beam at him with twinkling eyes, with your entire face crinkling up in delight, he can feel his face warm up just the slightest and it feels like when he used to turn his face towards the sun on a clear winter day.

#eddie btvs #eddie btvs x reader #eddie btvs x female reader #fat reader #plus size reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #max phillips #liam nikita #jack daniels #agent whiskey

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