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chouettecrivaine · 2 months

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Love's the Only Medicine [Honkai: Star Rail]

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Characters: Dr. Ratio

Notes: SO. First off, those of you waiting on Lyney fic, it is postponed for now because I'm stuck :( but for now I'm working on a Dr. Ratio fic and I'm having a little trouble so these are my headcanons for how a good/healthy relationship with him would actually work because I love to write fluff all the time <3

So, how does one go about romancing the Dr. Veritas Ratio?

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Have independence. Dr. Ratio is a busy man, and while he'd of course value your relationship (why else would he be in a relationship in the first place?), he wouldn't fare well with someone who is the clingy type. A relationship that would work best for him is one where you share in each other's missions, victories, and defeats as best as you can without melding your lives into one singular identity. With the exception of certain instances where you worked with him prior to the relationship starting/getting serious (though even then, he might drop the idea of separating your work paths a little bit to ensure there is no space for rational, scientific endeavors to be tangled with personal emotions), Dr. Ratio is perfectly content to with a relationship where some aspects of your lives don't always cross. Of course he wants to spend time with you! He just appreciates his own ability to act independently and keep work and personal matters separate. (Plus I feel like he'd find independence kinda attractive anyway :P)

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Keep him grounded. Dr. Ratio gets lost in his thoughts frequently. He understands that facts and calculations can only go so far in the real world (though they could go MUCH FURTHER in his opinion, hence his cosmic mission to eradicate foolishness) but he loves finding the rational, mathematical answer to things. It'll be up to you to navigate a little bit more expertly on this plane. If he's trying to piece together a solution to a planet's hunger crisis, well, maybe let him sort through his lofty thoughts then. But if he's simply ignoring the world and thinking for the sake of it, you'll be able to get away with poking him out of the stupor and getting him to actually communicate with the world around him.

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Be the people person, but don't apologize for him. Veritas has a tendency to rub people the wrong way. He's rude, abrasive, and arrogant. When others say such things without realizing you're nearby, you AGREE with them. But these are all things he knows, too. In most cases, how the reception of information makes somebody feel doesn't particularly concern him. But sometimes, especially now that he's actively placing himself in the social situation of being in a relationship, talking with people in a constructive way is necessary. He's fine with defaulting to you in these instances if it makes you feel useful. However, it is simply a matter of leaving a task to the one who knows better. If you start apologizing for his silence or a prior brash attitude, though, then he gets a little prickly. He stands by his behavior! Don't make him out to be someone you should have to apologize for or ashamed of.

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Have clear communication skills. Listen. Veritas is an eloquent speaker, and he says exactly what he means to. However...good communication is more than just saying words that mean exactly what you want them to. You have to present information in a way that others can receive, and that's where he falls flat. The onus will fall to you to exemplify that sort of skill. Now, you don't have to teach him step-by-step how to talk nicely, but being able to do so yourself and give him a gentle nudge when it really matters will go a long way in ensuring you're talking to each other and not at each other.

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Argue with him. Like, not actually. Argue with him academically. Veritas has stated that he feels incorrect on a matter if people agree with him. So don't agree with him! Don't spark debate just for the sake of it, but you shouldn't be afraid to voice your opinion when it goes against his. Dissent is the forebear of accuracy, after all. He won't be gentle with his arguments, but he never means to condescending when you're sharing your scholarly ideas. (Plus, this will help you get accustomed to when he is actually trying to argue you in a less casual context)

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅His love language? Quality time. Wanted all across the galaxy to solve this crisis or that, Dr. Ratio is a busy, busy man. So when you come in at the top of his list of priorities, that's how you know he's in deep. If you receive a certain love language particularly well, he can adapt! But his default is both to give and receive quality time. Even just time together that isn't attentive and specifically for each other can mean a lot to him. If you're both busy with work, he can be placated by attending to your duties but staying in the same room as each other. Don't worry about distracting him, either - as of late, he finds himself distracted when you aren't around, and at ease when you are.

∘∙⊱⋅��⋅Have a hunger for knowledge. It can be intimidating to hear him denounce all fools of the universe when he doesn't give many specific answers as to what a fool is. Veritas doesn't care about a lack of knowledge; what he cares about is a lack of awareness and a lack of trying. He'd be a fool himself if he pretended as though everyone had the same access to the same level of education, or that there weren't people who gravitated towards certain skills. After all, he's widely regarded as a genius, but you don't exactly see him releasing academic journals on any musical studies, do you? (Now, could he write one? Probably. But that's not the point.) As tough of a teacher as he is, what he's after is undying tenacity; that you never falter in the face of obstacles, and that you never place your scholarship on a shelf so high it winds up collecting dust, unused. If you don't know something, that's fine - go figure it out! Don't just say 'I don't know' and leave the matter at that. Learning through experience is an incredibly strong way of gathering knowledge. Just...don't expect him to be any nicer about your lack of prior knowledge just because you are close to him or you are trying to remedy that. At the end of the day, you did fall in love with a guy who's just kind of an ass sometimes :/

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Be honest. This is one that could go for anybody in any relationship, but it is a top priority for Dr. Ratio. He's based his entire life on searching and spreading absolute truth in every corner of the cosmos. Normally, this takes the form of objective, empirically provable fact. But he finds it frustrating if you won't be honest about your feelings or what you want, how is he to know what to do? You'll have him acting like a fool with your refusal to face your own truth! (This is, of course, a roundabout way of saying that he doesn't have it in him to be playing games. Be straightforward with him, please. It'll be much easier for the both of you that way.)

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Don't be afraid to get a little poetic on him. Veritas is a scientific man. He understands artistic endeavors, of course, but that isn't how his brain is wired. He operates in verifiable conclusions and building hypotheses, not the more abstract patterns of intuition or leading by the heart. He can analyze and understand such things, but if you want him to be able to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the world, you will probably have to lead by example. You won't change his way of thinking, but maybe if you see a rare bird one day, he'll appreciate the opportunity to see something so rare and beautiful instead of analyzing how far it has deviated from its normal breeding grounds.

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Flirting is a game, but love isn't. Don't be so dull with him! Dr. Ratio would love an opportunity to subtly ash his wits about yours in a little flirtatious back-and-forth. Both in the early stages and a more established relationship, Dr. Ratio loves a good challenge and could spend all night just trying to out-flirt the other. Regardless of whether or not you're one to get flustered, he loves your reactions anyway. Sheepishness, frustration, no emotion whatsoever - whatever you feel,, he finds how you try to school your expressions into complete apathy amusing. He is hard to fluster himself, but if he continues the same line of teasing in the morning the next day, you can assume he's been thinking about you all night. However! Dr. Ratio often expects people, especially those precious few who he respects, to operate on his level. If he's truly buckling down for the long game, he'll make sure to make his feelings clear. Flirtation is always on the table, but "playing hard to get" or trying to "keep him guessing" as you near a truly established relationship is a turn off. Flirt for fun, not to manipulate his interest in you. Believe him, he would've left by now if he wanted to.

∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Look beyond his scientific approach to matters of the heart. In loving anybody, you'll have to learn how to read between certain lines. Even if you are a pure-blooded emotionally charged person, Veritas can only meet you halfway on the road to compromise. Take the time to study how he speaks and what he means- concise as he is, speaking so straightforwardly all the time often has an opposite affect on his words when he's trying to be romantic. Learn the ways he looks after you and tries to make your life easier without asking; notice how he spends a large portion of his available time with you, even if it means dragging you along to discussing things with people who he feels are completely beneath his IQ; realize that his tone may always be steadfast and dominating, but he never speaks out to shut you down or demean you the way he does to others. If you can translate all the little ways he uses to show you how much he values you, then you may just find yourself in a relationship far more enriching than you'd expect.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr dr ratio #dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #☆ star rail #☆ dr ratio #🐚 capricorn ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+{hcs}#🌠 pisces ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+{all writing}#a note that didn't make the cut: HUMBLE HIM #i was going through some of his lines in the stars of ingenuity quest and #boy what is your PROBLEM #antagonizing the trailblazer just because you're a suspicious little freak #decided their vibes were bad based on nothing but ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE #i'm so serious. what is your deal. i'll kiss it out of you boy don't think i wont

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intuitive-revelations · 4 months

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FLUXES [Celestis: Engineered Participants / Technologies] Example: "DOCTOR, The"

[Image description, courtesy of @quailfence: a series of pictures of text, alternated with screencaps and gifs from Doctor Who.

1: Text: Fluxes: [Celestis: Engineered Participants/Technology] Individuals transposed backwards in time but not too far in space, using a very high chaotic limiter setting and tied to their home period by a thread of biodata

2: The Eleventh Doctor stands in the future corpse of his TARDIS, looking and a pulsing stream of light that has replaced the console. He says, "That is the scar tissue of my journey through the universe. My path through time and space."

3: Text: He raised a finger. 'Look. There.

Now she could just make out the thread in the moonlight. It was just a faint reflection, maybe a foot or two long, about a metre off the ground. A taut strand of spiderweb hanging in the air, not attached to anything.

'What is it?' Fitz asked.

'It's only partially rotated into three dimensions,' he said. He pushed his finger right through the glimmering line, without affecting it. 'That's why it looks one- or two-dimensional. The rest is still perpendicular to what we can see - woven into higher space, or the time vortex…'

'Yes,' said Fitz, 'but what is it?' 'It's what your friend mistook for a ley line.' The Doctor was scuttling around the silver thread, peering at it from every angle, getting more and more agitated. 'It's part of the fabric of space-time itself. What DNA is to your genetic code, this stuff is to biodata. And it's all just exposed here now. Personality, history, memory, perception, all vulnerable…'

'I'm going to have to ask you again, aren't I?' said Fitz.

The Doctor said, 'It's me.'

4: The Fourteenth and Fifteenth doctors in the TARDIS. 14: "But you're fine?" 15: "I'm fine, because you fixed yourself. We're Time Lords, we're doing rehab out of order."

5: Text: The subject is turned loose in his or her own history, and the limiter setting allows tiny actions taken by the future version to have considerable effects on the past version. The biodata link then transfers these changes to the future version, which alters it, and thus alters the changes made to the past version. Therefore, the individual's history is kept constantly in flux.

6: The Fugitive Doctor says, "Let me take it from the top: Hello, I'm the Doctor."

7: Text: Let me finish. Think back to that time when you went to see your previous selves.

8: Ten, Eleven, and War talk to each other. Ten: "You're not actually suggesting that we change our own personal history?" Eleven: "We change history all the time. I'm suggesting far worse."

9: Text: 'Maybe there's no one home on Gallifrey,' said the boy softly. There was just the one of him.

The Doctor looked at him, cupping the small white cube in his hands. The boy said, Maybe they all left. Or maybe the whole planet's being destroyed, and undestroyed, and destroyed, and you just caught them at the wrong moment.

10: The TARDIS by the ruins of Gallifrey

11: Text: 'It's impossible,' said the Doctor. 'It's impossible for my people. Our past is unreachable. What's written can't be unwritten.'

'Who said your history can't change?'

Another boy answered, 'Someone from his history.'

And another: 'Maybe it's the second-biggest lie in Time Lord history.'

12: Dhawan!Master tells Thirteen, "You are the Timeless Child."

13: Thitreen stares at a ruined house. Swarm whispers in her ear and tells her, "All the memories you've lost, all the people you've been. It's all in there, contained within that house."

14: Text: And it was like the Doctor's home. As if his ship understood the loss of the House and had compensated to fill the emptiness. Shadowy corridors, alcoves and stairways, a secret at every turn. Like being in the Doctor's head. Like his life, for that matter, the details of which were strewn like flotsam across the floor.

15: Text: 'Sweet,' said the little boy. 'That's my favourite of your origin stories, too.'

The Doctor opened his eyes. He had been laughing, he realised, he felt that lightness in himself. The boys had all moved away, behind him, leaving him facing the empty dark of the warehouse.

'What do you mean?' he asked. His voice sounded very small.

'Is this the version where they banned all mention of his name, and yours, for consorting with aliens? Or the one where he got every record of himself deleted from the files?'

'Feel free to believe either of them,' snapped the Doctor, 'or both of them, or neither of them. If you're curious about my past, I want there to be as many wrong answers as possible.'

16: The Eighth Doctor tells someone, "I'm half human. On my mother's side."

17: Text: 'Well he's a hybrid, you know that. A Gallifreyan not born of Gallifreyan, the one who unites the two races and brings good old human niceness into their alien society. Aliens need that, y'know.'

'A human hybrid? She saw the contempt in his curling lip. 'Pseudoscientific nonsense. There's no evidence,' he repeated.

'He's allowed to be different. He's got a prophecy and everything.'

18: Lady Me says, "By your own reasoning, why couldn't the Hybrid be half Time Lord, half human?"

19: Text: Someone giggled. 'Let's play pin the tale on the donkey.'

'Maybe you didn't use to have a father.'

'Maybe you're living in the middle of a time war. Maybe there's an Enemy out there -'

The Doctor shouted, 'I'm not listening!'

'- who's rewriting you when you're not looking!'

'Maybe you weren't always half human.'

'But now you've become always half human.' 'Maybe you weren't always a Time Lord.'

But now you've always been a Time Lord.'

'Maybe you originally came from some planet in the forty-ninth century. Fleeing from the Enemy who'd overrun your home -'

'I said I'm not listening! Laa laa laa laa laa -'

'- and you've just been written and rewritten and overwritten, ever since.'

'Pin the tale!'

'How d'you know it's not true?'

'How could you know it's not true?'

The voices crowded in. 'How would you know, huh?'

'How would you know?'

'How would 'How would you 'How 'How would you know? you know? you know? know?'

'Why would I care?' shouted the Doctor.

The boy fell silent.

20: Lady Me asks, "Am I right? Is it true?" Twelve replies, "Does it matter?"

21: Text: However, the one group from the Homeworld which has excelled at flux-engineering is the Celestis.

22: Two asks the Time Lords, "Now then… what about me?"

23: Tecteun tells Thirteen, "Which is ehy we engineered the Fluyx: Shut the universe down and you within it."

24: Text: Even Mictlan itself can be considered a kind of enormous flux, an endlessly-shifting realm so cortosive to the rest of history that its heartland has to be kept on the outer skin of the universe

24: The Fourteenth Doctor tells Donna, "I invoked a supersition, at the edge of the universe, where the walls are thin and everything is possible."

25: The space station from Wild Blue Yonder

26: Text: There are suggestions of a stable middle-ground between the two fates, in which the physical matter of the flux is lost but the meaning of the subject/ victim is retained, a series of memetic connections with no flesh to support it. Yet this entity exists only on a purely theoretical level, relying on the perceptions of others to survive at all.

27: The Twelfth Doctor walks up to the TARDIS console. He says, "Can't wait to hear what I say." Glancing at the viewer, he adds, "I'm noting without an audience."

28: Text: You know what Sam represents. If a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, does it make a sound? Stop me if I'm getting too abstract here, but if a Time Lord saves the world and nobody witnesses him doing it, does history care? She's your witness. The thing you need to make you whole.

29: The First Doctor looks at the viewer and says, "Incidentally, a Happy Christmas to all of you at home!" End description.]

[Plain text: Fluxes [Celestis: Engineered Participants / Technologies] Example: "Doctor, The". End plain text.]

@dw-described

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sprout-fics · 5 months

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Homecoming

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OFC 'Fix')

Snowblind Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 3.8k Tags: Whump, Angst, Fluff, Post-torture, Post-rescue, Established relationship, Living together, Domesticity, Non sexual intimacy Warnings: References of torture, starvation, captivity A/N: Part of 'For Once In Our Lives' on AO3

It’s five in the morning when Simon pulls the car up to his flat.

Your flat too, but still his, technically. Your name, like his, isn’t on the lease. If anything it’s Price’s, his official signature on the document so as to avoid collecting a paper trail for his lieutenant. Despite that, it’s been your space together for most of the year now. Your presence is written in the curtains that hang neatly in the front window, the pitcher of kitchen utensils on the counter behind the coffee maker. You’ve staked you claim on a section of the bathroom counter upstairs, taken advantage of the corners of the shower to deposit half empty bottles of shower supplies you hardly ever get use with the amount of time you’re deployed. The couch in the living room was your idea, a replacement for the terrible worn thing that had tormented your spine in the evenings you’d spent sleeping on it, before you were allowed in his bedroom.

You left traces of yourself, whispers, small hushed murmurs that cling to his skin in the weeks you were gone. In your absence Simon had sought you there, had waited and prayed for the smallest blip of life on a radio that had long gone silent.

Eighteen days. Two weeks and roughly one hundred hours from the time you went dark to the time you’d been rescued.

Your captors had starved you, tortured you, beaten you bloody and left you to fester before returning for more. You’d gone through interrogation training with Price’s supervision, and you had been prepared from the moment you’d stepped off the plane for no man’s land for the capture that might, and did, ensue.

Nothing had prepared you for the return home.

Simon exits the driver’s side door fluidly just as you stir from your drowsy state, blinking wearily up at the flat beyond the garden gate. The windows are dark and shuttered, closed off, and it feels aching somehow, lonely. The dim, hazy light of dawn tucks dusky shadows around the corners of the townhouse, softly blue and patient, waiting for your return.

You open the door to your side, withholding a wince at the motion of your torn shoulder. Yet Simon is already there, hands reaching for you before you can protest. Normally you would, too stubborn to allow anyone else, especially him, to do things for you. Now, when Simon lifts you into his arms you say not a word. The walk to his car from the infirmary had been exhausting enough, atrophied muscles screaming with each step, too weak from the weeks you’d spent in hospital care. So you lift your good arm around his neck, brace yourself there and tuck the crown of your head under his jaw in a silent gesture of comfort to you both.

Simon is quiet as he walks up the steps, chest rising with slow, measured breaths as he balances the weight of you in his arms. You’re not sure how he manages to get the front door open, and if you weren’t...as you are now you probably would have made a wry comment about his dexterous hands. Instead it’s silent between you both, with the weight of the things that have happened weighing too heavy on your fraught souls.

You’re deposited on the couch that no longer smells like you while Simon fetches your bag from the car. In the time it takes him you manage to look around the apartment, witness the devastation your absence has caused.

Half eaten MRE foils litter the dusty coffee table. Beneath them are maps of Serbia, and you trace the marked coordinates of your last known location, notes scribbled in slanting writing that indicates sleeplessness. An empty tumbler sits to the far edge, a thin circle of amber at the bottom betraying his taste for bourbon. The room is unkempt, like he’d bumped into things and never bothered to pick them up. In the far corner: A knife wedged into the wall. The spare one you’d left behind.

The front door closes, and in the echo heavy bootsteps draw your attention to the large, looming figure that enters your line of view.

“How’s the pain?” Simon asks, and when you look up to his eyes you can’t tell the shadows there apart from his war paint.

You catalog the various aches and pains left even after your medical discharge. A broken shoulder that’s still mending. Stitches on the meat of your upper thigh, a dark slice across your collarbone above your two broken ribs, a fractured fibula that may leave you with a permanent limp unless you adhere to the PT instructions sternly given to you.

Yet the look in Simon’s eyes is different as it plucks a tender, grieving chord inside your chest. Tired, blank, hiding the rot you know is there, the rot he refuses to show you.

“It’s fine.” You almost say on instinct, but catch yourself before you can. It’s a lie, one he won’t appreciate, not here. Not now.

“How much more am I allowed to have?” You ask, and before you can finish the words Simon is fishing through your bag for the discharge papers, scanning them with his back turned before reaching back inside for a small orange canister. He vanishes in the direction of the kitchen and reappears just as swiftly with a tall glass of water that you finish along with the medication.

There’s a pause then, and once more your eyes look up to peer at him under his mask. There’s a sunkenness to his gaze that whispers of the dark grip of insomnia, a gaunt sort of coloring that you’re able to see despite the ink around his eyes.

“Is there anything in the cabinets?” You ask, and your voice seems so loud in the silence between you. “To eat?”

Once more he’s off, striding in the direction of the kitchen without a word. You hear the click of the stove, the cabinets being rifled through, and then quiet as Simon sets about making something.

After several minutes you get up to follow him, mouth parting in a silent, wheezing cry as the pain of putting pressure down on your booted calf. Yet you bite down on any wounded noises, clutching the wall and crossing the foyer to come stand on the threshold of the kitchen.

He didn’t even turn the lights on.

You do, and it makes him cast a small glance over his shoulder, the sturdy frame of him obscuring whatever he’s making on the stove.

“You shouldn’t be standing.” He tells you, voice low in his chest with a familiar rumble. “Sit.”

“You left me alone.” You try to joke, but it has no effect. He doesn’t even seem to register it, acting automatically in cooking whatever it is he’s poking at with a wooden spoon.

So you see yourself to the tiny kitchen table beneath the front window with the curtains still closed. As you wait, you study his back, the way Simon is postured. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, a coiled uncertainty that’s weighed down only by fatigue. The soft, dark, familiar cloth of his hoodie stretches across the planes of his shoulders, having shrunk from one too many times in the wash. The sleeves are rolled up halfway, exposing the dark swirling ink of his forearm on his left side. You trace the images there, of bombs and broken bones and viscera that you thought yourself would be a part of weeks ago in the dark shed they’d kept you in.

It’s similar, in a way. The slant of light that cuts through the curtains reminds you of the pale illumination that peeked between the gaps of wood of your cold cell with the dirt floor and the cold, cold earth beneath your exposed form. In the silence between you both, it feels like a different sort of prison, both of you captive to your own thoughts of the things that happened, and that which didn’t.

Simon turns at last with something red and simmering in a bowl- tomato soup, by the smell. It instantly makes your mouth water, pallet tired of the bland hospital food served to you for weeks now, interrupted only by the snacks Gaz and Soap had smuggled past your nurse. It takes restraint to allow it to cool, and as it does Simon slides into the chair across from you, his side of the table noticeable empty.

“You’re not going to eat?” You ask quietly.

“No.” Comes the almost instant reply.

You feel your expression fall as he watches you before he adds on: “Later.”

It’s as good as you’re going to get for now, and you’re much too tired to press him on it. So you set about slowly sipping your soup, letting the warmth curl in your empty belly. There’s an anxious sort of grumble there, body still too taxed to have anything more complicated than this you think. He knows, you’re sure, has been in the same chair you’re in trying to take care of himself in the aftermath of it all.

Alone.

The warmth sours in your stomach.

Simon watches the expression pass over your face silently, observing. Watching, as he always does, taking in every minute detail and storing it for some unknown study in his thoughts you’re rarely privy to.

You finish the soup despite the lingering bitterness at the back of your senses, swallowing down the touch of nausea from your painkillers and looking to the man across from you.

Silent. Still. Unmoving, like the dead.

You reach out across the table, set your hand atop his gloved one, and Simon startles.

There’s a glazed look in his eyes that doesn’t fully dissipate as he looks at you, and in return you offer him a shaky sort of smile.

“Simon.” You whisper, and it draws him back just a little more, eyes unblinking but still something a little less than empty. Not fully here with you, caught in the tormentous spiral of what if’s that settle heavy over you both.

“Where are you?” You ask, voice a breathy murmur.

It seems to shake something loose from him, your hushed inquiry, drawing him back to himself and out of the coffin of his mind. He’s silent for a few moments, just staring back at you, and you watch as his eyes clear, as he’s able to see you again.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” He tells you, and overturns his hand to gently clasp at your hand atop his. “Fix.”

You smile, finally, feeling some of the weight ease from your shoulders, and you squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

“Still with me?” You ask quietly in the dim morning light of your apartment, and Simon blinks slow before offering a little nod.

“Always.”

Always. With you.

Simon leaves the dishes in the sink as he helps you up the stairs one step at a time, gingerly making your way to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He sits you atop the toilet seat as he runs the bath, and when you grumble about lifting your sore arm he merely grunts in reply, acknowledging of your griping in a gruff, familiar way that eases the bitterness lingering on your tongue.

He helps divest you of your clothes, and you try not to feel self conscious of the new scars that litter your skin. He traces them with nimble fingers and glancing touches, hovering over each one meaningfully and with great purpose. It’s as if he’s re-memorizing the shape of you, the touch of your skin with freshly healed lacerations and trials of stitches that embark a pathway under his hands.

“Fix.” He says again, softly, and it sounds reverent somehow, worshiping a cracked altar damaged by those who sought your demise. He remains at the foot of it, face upturned into the light that streams through the slats of the broken shed that held you captive and allowing the glow of revelation to stream onto his open eyes.

Later, once you two have mended yourself to each other once more, you’ll ask him if you’re still beautiful. He’ll say yes without question, fervent with a desire so raw it peels marrow away from his bones, strips the sinew bare from his flesh just so he has one more thing to offer you. You’ll get the same answer every time you ask him, and each time the silent question of “Do you still love me despite everything?” will echo soundlessly in your chest.

To which he too, answers: Yes.

He settles into the too-small bathtub behind you, and you shudder at the skin to skin contact that feels so foreign after being so far away from him for so long. The broad drum of his chest braces against your back as he takes his time bathing your tired, weary limbs. You settle into him easily with a sigh, allow him to scrub you free of the sterile touch of the hospital wing, the smell of antiseptic vanishing beyond a haze of fragrant bubbles from your too many bottles of soap. Beneath it is the smell of him, the thick and heavy weight of his musk that you crane towards with a small groan, bumping your nose under his jaw to drag in a breath of him.

“Alright?” He asks, pausing, and you nod into his collarbone, dopey and sated. It releases a little bit more tension from his shoulders, and you feel it in the way his chest depresses, burying yourself there in all the space he’ll allow you.

Which is, to say, all of him.

“I dreamt of you.” You say suddenly, and he pauses as he bends over you, one strong hand grasping the underside of your thigh to haul it upwards to wash. You almost don’t realize you spoke, eyes closed and body loose in the warm, sudsy water.

“I dreamt we went back to the states.” You go on, voice a soft murmur, slurred with fatigue now that you unwind softly into his arms. “We bought a big plot of land in the mountains where nobody could find us, with an old cabin and a fireplace.”

Simon pauses a moment longer before giving an answering hum, resuming his task and minding your stitches with gentle precision.

“Would have to chop a lot of wood.” He offers mildly.

“We took turns.” You reply, head lolling against his chest. You slip just an inch down, and one strong arm loops around your middle to keep you from descending further. “We got chickens too, and a cranky old barncat. I planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden.”

Simon is quiet as you ramble, allowing your thoughts to trickle free like the gentle loosening of a stream after a winter’s frost. He envelops you, warms you through, and in the beautiful blossom of your mind you allow the inside of your heart to be laid bare to him.

“Price and the boys came to visit. I made chicken soup.”

“With our chickens?”

You make a wounded little noise at that, and you feel him almost mistake it for a sound of pain.

“We watched the fireflies in the summertime.” You go on. “Stayed up to watch the sunrise just because. I can still see the colors beyond the trees.”

Pale pink and blue. The same colors that bleed through your curtains, the same colors that had slanted over your face in your would be tomb, allowing you the barest glimpse of freedom.

You swallow then, throat suddenly thick with tears. Like the trickle of a stream, your words pour gently out of you until they flood your eyes all at once, chest seizing with a pained breath as you shudder.

“Every day.” You croak, and he’s stopped now, bent over you as you tremble against him, hot tears seeping into the bath water. “Every day I dreamt of you. The whole time I was there. From the moment I fell asleep until the moment I woke up.”

Simon is silent, tucking you to him, stroking a heavy hand over the chilling flesh of your upper arms, allowing you to dig deep into him like he’s the only thing that will hold you.

“I knew you’d come for me. I never once thought you wouldn’t. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking of you because I knew you’d come find me. I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

He whispers your name then, your real name, and you hear in his voice the way he trembles through it, as if he’s somehow not allowed. Simon whispers your name like a hymn he’s unfamiliar with, a grace given to him by your endless adoration. You feel it crack in your chest with a cry, swallow down the pain just so the despair, the hurt, the relief surges through you in wet, broken gasps. There’s no longer any words. Instead there’s the shudder of you both as you fold into each other, as he holds you like he can never bear to part from you in his arms again.

There’s so many things you want to say, so many things you wish you could tell him. You want to say you were so scared he’d find your body, that you wouldn’t survive the trip back to base, that he wouldn’t recognize the person that came back to him. You want to tell him that you were scared he’d be so terrified of how deeply you’d consumed his soul that he’d leave you, that losing you that way was better than losing the whole of you to something he couldn’t stop.

You want to tell him you felt the same, that you almost wish he had left you so that someday, should you lose each other, it would somehow hurt less.

Instead now, you cry into his arms and silently beg for him to hold you just a little longer.

You’re not sure how or when you get to the bed, wrapped up in a towel and bare as you lay on your side quietly crying. He doesn’t disappear from you, merely takes you against him and tucks himself impossibly further around you, as if shielding you from your own fears and phantoms.

“Fix.” He whispers, a hand roaming your back as your breathing eventually evens out.

You cling to him, wet skin and all, drinking in his scent, leeching off his warmth and imbuing it in your wounded form. He shifts, tilts you up so you look into his face, free of his mask, wet blonde lashes clinging to his cheeks with every flutter of his eyes. The full range of grief plays out clearly on his face, a despair and a longing so deep that you feel dirt pour over the coffin where both of you are entwined.

“I’ll come for you.” He tells you, voice dark, an ominous, dangerous rumble of a distant storm threatening to consume the horizon. “Every time. There’s nothing in the whole fucking world that can keep me from finding you, Fix.”

You nod wordlessly at him, face scrunching with unshed tears, breath shuddering in the hollow of your chest where he resides.

He takes a breath of his own then, eyes wide before he speaks.

“When they took you to the chopper, I went back.” He confesses. “Price tried to stop me, but I couldn’t leave after what they did to you.”

You shudder to think of the sight that must have been- with Ghost as a wild, feral animal seeking blood, unable to be tamed by the man he trusted the most, seeking out vengeance just to cool the bloodlust raging beneath his skin. Disregarding your injured state at the hands of the other medics, instead taking one look at your crumpled form and feeling a fury so violent it clouded his unwavering judgment in the field.

“I killed all of them.” Simon tells you, and there’s no regret in his voice, no horror at his own actions. A cold, calculating killer fueled by the most terrifying of motivations. “I felt their bones break beneath my hands, how hot and wet their blood was. I carved out their brains and left them for the vultures but it wasn’t enough. I’d kill them a hundred times over if I had the chance.”

You know he would. It should scare you, the lengths this man has gone through to keep you here in his arms. It should terrify you, should make you reconsider all viable possibility of being with him. Yet you fail to even feign shock at the devotion he has for you, laying skulls at your feet just so you can tell him how much you trust him, how much he deserves you- as if you somehow deserve him too.

“When I saw you on that hospital bed...” He goes on, voice softer now, a tone reserved just for you. “The only thing I could think was that I...I could never lose you again.”

“Never.” You tell him, clutching at the arm encircling you to him with ardent fixation. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m going to wait for you each time because I know you’ll come. Even if it means going through it all again, I’ll stay alive just to come back to you.”

You kiss him then, slow and tender, and he shivers bodily into you before surging forward, lips catching yours, body pressing into you as he kisses you like he’d forgotten the taste. Simon kisses you like its the last thing he’ll ever do, like he want to carry the touch of you from one afterlife into the next, like he’s trying to ingrain the sensation of you against his scarred flesh in case you’re ever taken from him again.

“Simon...” You sigh, and he swallows the sound like he’s trying to drink in every breath, as if it’s just one more taste of you.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep you away from me.” He swears coarsely into your mouth. “I can’t- can’t do this without you. You make it all so fucking bearable, Fix. Nobody else can have you.”

You don’t want anyone else. You want him.

“I love you, Simon.” You manage between kisses, the naked, damp planes of your bodies stuck together as he tangles himself inside of you further, so that you’ll never be able ti dislodge him even if you wanted to. “I love you.”

“You’re mine, Fix.” He tells you in return, and you know what it means even though he won’t say it. “I won’t let them take you.”

You know he won’t. In this lifetime, in the next, you’ll stand by his side. You’ll bathe in the darkness of him so ichor drips from your lips, so that your name is seared across his tongue as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak. You’ll echo a prayer unto his violence and he will kneel at the altar of you once more and ask for a redemption you can’t offer. Instead, you’ll tumble down into the grave together, caught in each other’s arms just like this, the world be damned.

You’ll wait. He’ll come for you. Then you’ll go home and watch the sun rise.

Tag List: (Reblog this post to be added to future fics from this series! If you'd like to be removed please DM me!)

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfieriiii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @rentaldarling @mockerycrow @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @tinykaka @dumb-djarin @homicidal-slvt @soapskneebrace @selinn777 @nachtcirce @jujubashow @mutuallimbenclosure @kkinky @trash-boi-4-life @scatter-mind001 @alittlefansthings @allaboutirem0 @keiva1000 @makariaspresence @achelois-is-here @nightingale-ghost-writer @altered-delta @thetimidsarcasticcat @nestaarcheronss @bitchykittenconnoisseur @ghxstyops @whotfislynn @gazs-blue-hat @obi-wansorrow @liltofu99 @thatswhyilovetheghost @devilsfoodcake22 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @hlo-kty @children-of-epiales @definitelyanonymous @queenquazar @alicesfracturedmirror

#simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley #ignore how unbetad this is #and also not entirely satisfied with the way I wrote Simon but hey #I'm getting back into the groove of things so I'm cutting myself some slack #Also credit to that one anon from a while back with the 'you make it all so bearable' line #I haven't forgotten and ily

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you-makestedehappy · 7 months

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Line deliveries that play on repeat in my brain.

Season 1, episode 1 - Pilot

🐈‍⬛❤️‍🩹🍆💦🏴‍☠️ [ep 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10]

#doing only 6 per episode and as you can imagine it's a HARD choice #very important line deliveries that didn't make the cut which breaks my heart :#“Mutiny is a-brewin'.”#“Hey could you pass the black thread pretty please?”#“Oh Baby Bonnet you do tickle me!”#amongst many others #just having some fun on a definitely non pirated editing software that i haven't really used in ten years #ofmd #our flag means death #my gifs

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front-facing-pokemon · 22 days

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#some more snouts under the cut #obstagoon #yes. YES. THIS!!!! fucking amazing evolution to add into the zigzagoon line #i only wish that it came to hoennian zigzagoon too because now i like galarian zigzagoon wayyyyy more than hoennian #sorry‚ rider willie. but you've been Profoundly outclassed

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teeldaa · 2 months

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some of zevlor cut lines?!

source

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #zevlor #bg3 zevlor #voice lines #there's a lot more cut voice lines...#his va is really talented #rip actual good plot twist #idk maybe some of these are still in the game and i miss them

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mosaickiwi · 6 months

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Soft - Light

Your attempt to cook on a date night goes from bad to worse when the lights go out. Redacted always has you covered, though. 900ish words, GN reader as per usual c:

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

"I definitely did something wrong," you muttered and wrinkled your nose at your creation.

"Hmm, maybe they just look like that?" Ren unhelpfully commented from behind you, hovering just as close as always. You didn't have to see his face to know he was grinning.

"You know what they look like." Smoke began rising from the pan, accompanied by a rather burnt smell as you desperately tried to wriggle the spatula under the lumpy, oversized pancake. All you managed to do was tear its dark brown edges to a mess and reveal the insides—somehow still raw with bits of unmixed batter. You sighed and switched off the burner, turning around to dump the hot pan in the sink and blast it under the faucet. Rather half-heartedly, you scrubbed at the surface. “Breakfast for dinner shouldn't be this hard.”

They watched you with amusement as the water immediately sizzled and steamed from the pan. Curiously, he picked up the box of pancake mix at the stove, turning it in his hands. "You know I'd love t'help, Angel, but…" he trailed off and you could easily fill in the blank.

"You'd do a lot worse, yeah." You quickly gave up on saving the cookware and moved to your boyfriend's side, peering at the box in his hand. Your eyes narrowed on a few words in the first step of instructions. Prepare a nonstick skillet or griddle. One glance back at the shiny metal mistake soaking in the sink told you right away: it was doomed from the start. "You know what? I don’t care. Let’s just order—"

A sudden crack of thunder drowned out your voice and you jumped. The evening sky was perfectly clear when Ren arrived, but the weather in Corland Bay loved to change on a dime. You could hear rain pelt harshly against the windows in the living room as another thunderous roar boomed, much louder than the first. Only a second passed before the lights flickered and died to shroud the apartment in darkness.

“Are you kidding me!?” came Violet’s muffled scream of frustration through the walls. She must’ve been in the middle of a very important gaming session.

You clung to the dark-haired hacker's arm as your eyes took their time adjusting in the dark. He didn't seem all that phased though, casually wrapping an arm around you while he pulled out his phone. The kitchen was tinted in a faint glow from the screen. You expected him to turn on the flashlight like any normal human would, but he began scrolling through a delivery app.

"Ren," you started, utterly confused by his actions. "Who do you think is going to deliver in a storm when their power is out?"

"The whole bay isn't out. Look," he said and carefully guided you into the living room with a nod towards the windows.

He took a seat while you drew back the curtain to peek. Sure enough, most of Corland was lit up like usual. In fact, it only seemed like your apartment building and a few adjacent ones were completely dark. Another point in the long list against your landlord for being cheap.

The lights from outside weren't much, but you could see a lot better once the curtain was open completely. You walked back over to the couch and Ren immediately held his arms open for you, still searching his phone.

His hair tickled against your cheek as he pulled you into his lap and rested his chin on your shoulder. "Y'liked the place we ordered from last weekend, right? Wanna try 'em again?”

"Yeah," you answered and settled against them. He turned his cheek to place a quick kiss on your neck before reading the options aloud. His voice was a soft whisper, blended with the now gentle patter of rain against glass. Their hand rubbed careful circles on your back to soothe you. It was more than enough to put you at ease in his embrace, the disaster in the sink long forgotten.

Quiet minutes passed as he spoke and you responded silently in turn. The barely there nods or shakes of your head you made were all you could muster as exhaustion caught up. He finished up the order and soon you were pressing yourself further against the warmth of their body.

He made no comment when you maneuvered in his lap, merely tilting his chin up to welcome the kiss you needed. The phone slipped from his hand not a moment later. You felt the shape of his smile against your lips and giggled softly at his reaction. It was sweet to know how much he always wanted you. Cool fingers came to rest at your thigh as you kissed him once more, then pulled back.

"Tired?" he asked and looked up at you with a smile, leaning into your hand that traced along the shell of his ear. The faint light filtering through the window caught on his piercings when you pushed his bangs back.

"Mhmm," you said with a lazy nod. "Still gonna kiss you 'til the food's here, though."

"Lucky me." He tugged you forward, gentle as could be, and softly kissed the corner of your mouth as he mumbled, "Yippee."

The surprised laugh you let out was only muffled by the fevered press of their lips.

#14 days with you #14dwy redacted #14dwy ren #14dwy #momo writing #apologies for i am incapable of not making them be gross and silly #but SOFT! what LIGHT through yonder window breaks?#it is the east and [REDACTED] is the sun that shines upon my one braincell #also violet is me hitting enrage on FFXIV savage weeklies before my wifi yeets itself out of existence #also does a cut AFTER a few lines of the fic work or do some ppl prefer being entirely surprised??

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