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official daine visual archive
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we're not kids anymore.
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@noturnalist
ayy ◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧
this blog is for my archive, besides of my ao3
wanna know about me? then #🐟 tuna yaps shall be your friend!
ah, so you wanna know about my works? then #🐟 tuna writes and #🐟 tuna draws are the friends you all be searching about <(￣︶￣)>
ps: as i said before, i mainly use @tisaneedatea, but that acc is for my rb needs (*´∇`)ﾉ also, depending on my mood i’ll write fic even draw for the said fic 😼
divider by @cafekitsune
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Summary: You love your job as a Cupid
Until the arrow you shoot starts becoming the problem
.
.
.
In which you're a Cupid™ and the said subject; arrow is Phainon of Aedes Elysiae
And for some reason—this time—something is watching back
Tags: cupid! reader, college student! phainon, modern au, crack treated seriously, fluffy but psychological horror, + identity issues
CW: unreliable narrator 8) also corporate j*b wow
WC: ~9,5k | crossposted on my ao3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆝 ⋆. Fishbowl of Contents
Chapter one: That Cupid, Sensing a Soulmate
Chapter two: That Cupid, Feeling Freedom
Chapter three: That Cupid, Chasing the Opportunity
Chapter four: That Cupid, with MigraineTM
Chapter five: That Cupid, Lovely Banter
Chapter six: That Cupid, Beach Episode
Bonus one: That Cupid, Special Merch
Bonus two: Breaking!! The CupidTM and the Said Subject FINALLY Get Their Promised BEACH EPISODE???
a.n wowee my very berry normal series, indeed 🫣 | animated divider by @cafekitsune
make a heart!
Thus, the systems cutefully willingly make a heart as Agent 666 wish.
fanart for @lowerstart 's twst quick transmigration, go read it if you love qt AND twst! 🗣️
BREAKING!! The Cupid™ and the Said Subject FINALLY Get Their Promised BEACH EPISODE???
are you being fr rn???
Beforetaste: okay sooo this is the beach episode, huh?
waitttt my pet’s even here!! (pats him, excitedly)
??? bro why is this phainon’s dude even here too??? (not? affectionate)
.
.
.
In which you’re on your holiday then you see Phainon
Or is it?
CW: unreliable narrator (not sorry)
WC: ~1,2k | FoC | another chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, b1 | crossposted on my ao3
He remembers the door.
Not as an object.
But as a threshold.
As something that has already opened too many times to still qualify as an entrance.
The moment he turns the knob, there is always a fraction of hesitation in the air—like reality is checking whether it should proceed.
And then it does.
Every time.
Inside, his apartment is always the same.
The comfy couch he would take his friends in.
The table where his assignments seemed to live 24/7.
The faint sound of something that might be laughter if he focuses too hard on it.
And her.
Cyrene.
Sitting like she has never not been there.
Phainon exhales softly.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, even though he is not sure what “late” means anymore.
She looks up.
Smiles.
“Not late,” she replies in that familiar way.
He no longer knows what familiar means.
Always the same answer.
Correct in a way that feels rehearsed by existence itself.
Behind him, the air shifts.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that someone like him notices.
“… Pixie?” he calls with the same deadpan, looking up to the peculiar winged object.
A pause.
Then—
“WHAT.”
Ah.
There Pixie is.
The anomaly that keeps breaking the rhythm.
He turns slightly.
That Cupid is hovering near the ceiling again.
Arms crossed.
Wings tense like trying very hard not to fall out of reality.
Pixie always pretends that they’re not floating too high.
They always are.
“Do you… want to come down?” That question always comes with Pixie’s trembling, he too notices that.
“I AM down,” they snap immediately.
He doesn’t comment.
Pixie is not.
But he doesn’t say it.
Because every time he corrects them, they looks at him like he’s rewriting something fragile.
And somehow, that feels threatening enough.
Cyrene stands.
Walks.
Stops.
Always the same distance from the table.
The same angle of light catching her hair.
Phainon watches her move like he is trying to remember whether she moved first or whether the room did.
“Do you still keep it here?” she asks.
He tilts his head.
“Keep what?”
“That book.”
Something tightens in his chest.
“… what book?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Just smiles.
And for a second—
he forgets how to breathe properly.
Behind—or above—him, Pixie mutters something under their breath.
Something about “this is not normal,” “this is not normal,” repeated like a broken record player.
He almost turns to ask them what they mean—
but then Cyrene looks at him again.
And the thought dissolves.
There is a moment—
small.
Almost nothing.
Where Cyrene’s expression shifts.
Not into something different.
Into something clearer.
Like a script that stopped pretending it was improvised.
“… Phainon,” she says softly.
And he feels it again.
That sensation.
Like hearing his name from before he existed.
“Yes?” he answers automatically.
But the answer arrives late.
Half a beat delayed.
Like something inside him had to confirm it still applies.
Pixie floats lower.
Just slightly.
Wings twitching.
He notices that too.
He notices everything about them.
That’s the problem.
Pixie is the only thing that reacts like the world is not finished yet.
Cyrene reacts like it already is.
He is somewhere in between.
“I think…” Cyrene begins.
And stops.
Like she is checking something that exists outside the room.
Then continues:
“… it’s overlapping again.”
Phainon frowns.
“Overlapping?”
Pixie freezes mid-air, pupils wide within their own thought.
For the first time since they arrived, they don’t interrupt immediately.
That alone is wrong.
The room feels heavier.
Not as in gravity works.
It’s… more than that, he doesn’t know how to describe it.
But it feels like meaning is accumulating faster than speech can carry it.
Pixie opens an unfamiliar book.
Even the Cupid was confused.
Its pages are blank.
Then not blank.
Then blank again.
Like it is unsure which version of itself is allowed.
He watches their eyes scan it.
And for the first time—
their confidence falter.
“… I didn’t activate anything,” still with the same ego.
But they don’t sound certain, far than that.
Cyrene tilts her head slightly.
“You do,” she says.
Pixie flinches.
“I don’t observe anything,” Pixie snaps, shaking quietly that even Phainon can see their wobbly legs.
Even so, the room disagrees.
Subtly.
Quietly.
Like reality correcting pronunciation.
Phainon looks between them.
“… what are you talking about?” he asks the two of them.
No one answers properly.
Not because they refuse.
Because the question doesn’t land fully anywhere.
The book flickers again.
And something appears.
SITUATION: OBSERVATION
SUBJECT: NEIKOS496 // PHAINON
STATUS: STABLE (like before)
SUBJECT: UNKNOWN FEMALE ENTITY // CYRENE
STATUS: RECOGNIZED (as usual)
SUBJECT: 08-83
STATUS: …
Phainon squints.
“… Pixie?”
They don’t answer.
That is new too.
Something behind his thoughts shifts.
Memories that aren’t fully his.
A sensation of having stood in this exact position before saying the same words with
slightly different timing.
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
.
.
.
“… I remember,” he still has the same expression like before.
And the room fractures.
Not breaking.
Recognizing.
Pixie’s wings stiffen.
“No,” they whisper.
Yet it doesn’t feel like they’re responding to him.
More likely responding to something else saying it first.
Cyrene closes her eyes.
Then opens them again.
And now—
she looks tired.
Not human tired.
Variable tired.
“You’re the only constant,” she blinks,
“That’s why it hurts.” Her smile looks too soft for his liking.
Phainon doesn’t understand what that means.
But something in him reacts anyway.
Like a part of him does.
Pixie opens their mouth.
Stops.
The sound doesn’t come out correctly.
Delayed.
Like the world is buffering their intention.
Phainon takes a step forward.
And something inside him aligns.
Not changes.
Aligns, like a puzzle piece finally found its way.
“… Pixie,” he says again.
And this time—
the word echoes.
Not outward.
Inward.
Backward.
Forward, everywhere.
Like it was already said.
Pixie freezes.
And for half a second—
just half—
he sees it.
Not their reaction.
Pixie’s recognition.
Like they almost respond before the question arrives.
Cyrene exhales softly.
“… don’t drift,” she says.
And that sentence—
does something wrong to the air.
Pixie trembles.
The book flips itself open again.
SCENE STATUS: FINAL NODE REACHED
ANCHOR INTERFACE: ACTIVE
EXECUTION STATUS: PENDING (21% done)
Phainon steps closer.
And now he is sure.
Not of everything.
But of something.
That this is not the first time.
That this will not be the last (this scene may be deleted later).
That Pixie is looking at him like they’re afraid of the answer they already know.
“… Pixie,” he says again.
And the world almost responds before they do.
Almost.
And somewhere beneath everything—
beneath Cyrene’s smile,
beneath Pixie’s hesitation,
beneath his own certainty that should not exist—
something remembers too loudly.
And for a moment—
he understands the feeling of being rewritten mid sentence.
(He does not know that this is not the first loop where he understood).
Quiet.
In a way that even air reluctant to exist.
In a way that the thread itself—
oh.
“I am truly delighted to have you here, dear readers.”
She smiles, humming a very familiar sweet tone.
“Thank you… for continuing this story, the loop continues as I want.”
Still with the same smile.
Then—
LOOP 33550337 OCCURING
”I’m… really tired.”
Aftertaste: tysm for continuing this story, now im stuck in here forever 😡
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IN A RECENT STATEMENT
a dr ratio x gn! reader
Summary: Marriage, according to Dr. Ratio, is a contractual arrangement requiring careful evaluation. Marriage, according to you, is living with an annoyingly attractive genius who keeps proving you wrong.
Neither of you is having a good time. (This is a lie)
Tags: tooth-rooting fluff, soulmate au, established relationship, dr veritas ratio OoHh, armed archaeologist! reader, slow burn WHOA—
CW: the possibility to make you giggling then kicking your feet is high, your honor 🙏🏻 also, reader has a j*b
WC: ~5,2k | crossposted on my ao3
Legends once said that every being on the universe are an incarnation of a star, whereas any body, including those Intellitron or even Imaginae, will have a minimal tiny speck of stardust concentrated on their own body.
It starts from a lonely, mesmerizing cloud wandering all their way to find its own cause of precipitate, trying to find their own purpose(s) of why the supernova remnants chose them.
First, they were skeptical, but when all the matters solidified, such as stardusts themselves, a scorching star will born from there, like a ballerina spins, the closer she pulls herself in, the faster she will turn, slowly making a star forgets that they were once a dust before.
Another thing is, when a star almost met its end, it will gradually became a white dwarf, they can choose on becoming another supernova for other future stars, or collapse so that they can be a neutron star or the black hole itself—which never left you speechless, on how they will absorb anything into their own body, greedily drowned themselves in ecstasy.
"Idiocy is not on my requirements for my soulmate list."
The violet haired professor staring intently at your whole body, while you quietly see the stars, humming a forgotten lullaby.
"… I'm very aware of that, Mr. Ratio.”
You absurdly stopped your hum, now looking directly on his head, "but that doesn't mean that the very Veritas Ratio himself agreed to those child-like agreement called matchmaking, right?" You sarcastically cheerfully asked to the only man, head still as attractive as ever.
You realized that his brows knitting for a mere second, after that he scoffs, "I agreed because the algorithm's methodology interested me. So, no less."
Your smile rose slyly, wondering on how this bastard prodigy accepted this unthinkable meeting without his annoy— ahem, white head on.
"Ah, another important question, do you have any stargazing place on your house?"
LovOrbit, a matchmaking app made by the Interastral Peace Corporation for any being who are thirsty for an euphoric feeling called love, already exist from three Amber Eras ago, successfully made billions of people find their other half by a simple click.
All you need is your full government name and from what world you came from, you will eventually get paired by someone that has the same gravitational frequency as yours, a soul—or mechanical body—whose orbit aligns perfectly with your own.
Once the system detects any kind of mutual resonance, LovOrbit, or the AI called Orbi, will synchronizes both of your timelines, creating a private bubble where only the two of you exist until you decide to meet.
The IPC themselves claimed LovOrbit has 99% success rate. Which only raised one question: how, in any Aeon's name, had it paired you with Dr. Veritas Ratio himself? While in reality, you're actually a nobody, like a nobody in any language if we compare it to Dr. Ratio himself—well, not really.
You're normal, you were born and raised in Lushaka, a Luvian that loves to see the sea of stars because they look different than the blue seas and the boring stateships you always see in your childhood memories. Any astronomical-related books left by the Old Era is your source of craving for diving in the stellar ocean, and fortunately the now you is a wanderer among them.
You left Lushaka on your 21st birthday, saying goodbye to your home world was hard, but it does worth as you now a proud Armed Archaeologist member with your newest discovery; Meteoric Bullet with your team, what's more surprising is that they were already exist from even all humanity doesn't.
So of course, you’re proud of yourself. Even the little you would beaming in a biiig grin. But those always comes with a price, in your honest opinion, the stars had always been easier to understand than people.
Unfortunately, Veritas Ratio counted as both.
"Something on your mind? or someone already lost its consciousness due to their brain crashed mid-process?" Ah yes, a peculiar Nous please see me >.< professor with his dear stupid alabaster head, how dare he disturbs your romantic date with the stars above?
"At least they will explode gracefully. You imbe— ah I mean, dear beloved husband, that imploding his partner by talking pure nonsense."
It's already been three days since your marriage...? with this one and only Dr. Ratio, better if you ask yourself why in the first place you agreed, but hey at least his gazebo is a nice spot for stargazing.
The first day you're in, aka the night after a feverish dream called your marriage, it only filled with you unpacking your belonging, ahem, maybe you unpacking is not the right word, but you giving some reasonable/? commands to your AI assistant to arrange your belonging.
Well, a little bit cruel for your own built AI, but at least your lazy ass tired after party body wouldn't be sick after all of that, yes? After all, a little bit of laying down wouldn't hurt a fly, they say.
The second day, your newly husband already gone, cheating with his work life meanwhile you on the other hand still on the nirvana, waiting to dear nearest star's light to wake you up with rather annoying customizable alarm(s) from your AI, duh.
Fortunately your work life isn't as strict as him, bless those Armed Archaeologists.
The next day which was today, he suprisingly has a day off, that was really suspicious of him while he was a literal professor himself, which from your knowing will always have those students lurking to him 24/7.
You squinted at the tea mug in your hand. “Ah, I better be worried,” you muttered, “if the great Professor Ratio voluntarily takes a break. Either the university burned down, or he’s planning something equally catastrophic.”
A low voice answered. “Catastrophic? hardly. Though I do appreciate your concern for my productivity.”
You didn’t even look at his well being. “Concern implies emotional investment. I’m merely curious how a man who worships logic decided to take a sabbatical from it.”
“Marriage is a contractual arrangement,” he said flatly, “logically, it requires time to evaluate the other party.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Heh, evaluate? What am I, a research subject for your stupid experiment?”
“If the shoe fits.” he answers with— oh, he has his white head on.
You sipped your tea, “you know, for someone with eight PhDs, you’re remarkably bad at human interaction.”
He gave the voice that will scream that mischievous smirk, "and yet, you married me.”
“Temporary insanity. It happens to geniuses too.” you then look away from your tea mug to the captivating stars, giving a honeyed tone to the man that standing beside you.
“That would explain several of your recent decisions." you scoffs at his statement, starting to feel a liitle bit regretful.
Surprisingly unsurprising, living in a same house as Veritas Ratio is not that kind of bad, he's pretty much like a typical quiet roommate you'll have in a university dorm, heck he even cooks better than you so you frequently caught enjoying his food more often than before.
Ah, did you mention how he always takes his bath time forever?
You never notice that because of your routine, wakes up later in the morning, head always rummaging around for a fresh cup of coffee after that.
Thus at some point, you stopped asking whether the kettle had already been boiled or not. Because from somewhere on your memory, it always was.
And there was always food too.
Not explicitly prepared for you, of course. Your husband would never phrase it that way, yet the portions had a strange tendency of being… divisible by two.
You learned not to comment on it.
He would only respond with something infuriatingly clinical like, “You are welcome to interpret coincidence however you wish.”
You didn’t, sometimes will narrow your eyes because some foods are not your liking but never explicitly say that. Let alone cooking another piece of food.
But you still ate it, no?
Once in a rare Sunday, you will wake up minutes earlier than usual, your head having the best bed hair ever that time, with a cup of coffee on your hand, you rub your eye with a hand stretching upward—you don’t like how sweet it was, though—.
Then, you stopped at the bathroom’s door—the one on the kitchen, specifically—, the grey colored thing still closed behind.
You quickly muttered, “How does one even take a bath that long?”
He doesn’t answer. Either not hearing, or choosing not to. There’s no in between.
You blink slowly, then roll your eyes, coffee already halfway finished before you decide it’s too early to argue with a closed door.
So you don’t, before some illogical arguments start fulfilling your air-filled morning head.
Instead, you walk to the couch, to the one that has comfy synthetic leather that glows over within your reflection.
To the one that has somehow become yours, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
You sit down, sinking into the familiar softness, coffee warm between your hands.
The light on the surface reminds you of when you were a child, so curious about the world, yet body too little to decide whether something was wrong about it.
…
“Only an idiot would sabotage the remainder of their day by rushing through its first hour."
Until a calm voice suddenly stopped your daydream, cold enough to act as a reminder to yourself, yet you find yourself chuckling at his abrupt voice, the surface of your coffee trembling ever so slightly in your hands.
Small ripples danced across the surface of your coffee as you lowered the cup. “Ah, there he is, a very smug bastard on a peaceful morning.”
His presence wasn’t even in the same room as you, he’s still enjoying his dear time on a date with maybe his concrete book, analyzing oh so slightly his study inside a literal bathtub.
"… research suggests that a well-maintained bathing routine improves both physical and mental health."
You took another sip of coffee.
"Research also suggests that people should sleep eight hours a day."
He scoffed. "Correct."
Before you add, "You don't do that either,” in a such teasing tone.
A quiet laugh escaped you, sending small ripples across the surface of your nearly finished coffee.
Silence.
A slow grin threatening enough spread across your face.
Another sip.
"So we're selectively trusting research now."
For once in a blue moon, the professor had nothing to say. That was definitely going into your archives.
"A disappointing attempt at rhetoric."
Click.
"If you're done celebrating mediocrity, your breakfast is getting cold." The bathroom door finally opened. Veritas Ratio stepped out a moment later, violet hair still damp from his shower and a towel draped loosely over his shoulder.
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your coffee cup.
"Good morning to you too."
Breakfast followed shortly after. The house settled into a familiar rhythm, you sat across the table, while Ratio—with his book—occasionally turning a page as you worked through your breakfast.
Until—
"reminder."
You groaned, “No."
"Reminder."
"No."
"You have an Armed Archaeologist briefing in two hours."
"... oh."
You stared blankly into your plate. It was two hours away. Two hours before responsibility came knocking at your door on a lazy Sunday morning.
How tragic.
"Master’s reaction suggests the briefing is mandatory."
"Don't say things I don't wanna hear."
In front of you, Ratio calmly took another sip of tea. “Reality remains reality regardless of your preferences."
You frowned, “And people wonder why nobody likes philosophers."
Beside you, your AI patiently waited for your attention.
"Would you like me to postpone the reminder?"
Hope sparked within you.
"Can you?"
“No.”
"Then why the hell did you ask?" your frown deepened, even the breakfast suddenly turned into not delicious anymore. You have lost your appetite.
“I must say that even an artificial being can be more logical than a human, can’t it?”
“Why are you suddenly in the same boat as my AI?” you pouted, huffing from irritation. The man in front of you looked annoyingly pleased with himself, that infuriating smirk already back on his feeble face.
He opened his mouth, “I merely returned the favor.” His honeyed tone somehow made him even more punchable.
In a blink, your briefing ended.
Nah, better to phrase it as:
With twenty four questions, one headache, and seventeen unnecessary meetings afterward, you were beginning to understand why people occasionally fantasized about launching themselves into space.
Fortunately, the day wasn't over yet.
Unfortunately, neither was your grocery list.
How your peaceful Sunday somehow ended with a grocery list remained a mystery. But if anyone was to blame, it was the man with the suspiciously judgmental red eyes.
Shortly after your briefing ended, your torture day seems to be unending.
Ever since the briefing began, your AI had been enthusiastically summarizing every single thing your colleagues said. Unfortunately, it never learned the value of brevity.
Also the way Hosea Lazaro—one of your colleagues—wholeheartedly also yapped about his great invention called Galaxy Guide or whatever that was right to your ears,
…
And his confessed sin that he once blew a hole inside Herta Space Station, how did he even ran away from his absurd galactic shenanigans? Hell even still employed after all of that.
Meh, in everything, you find yourself in front of an inter-astral supermarket, funded by the IPC themselves, with a peculiar alasbaster-head man beside you.
“Fascinating. You abruptly stopped walking.”
You slowly blink, your head automatically moved to the direction that has a mundane scholar, innocently deadpanned, you say:
“I was looking at something.”
“Very nice indeed, that was my second hypothesis.”
Far away from you two, in front of an atrium stood a suspiciously enthusiastic cluster of university students. Even one of them has a stack of books floating around her, with a… poster?
Oh shoot.
Beside you, he trails your vision then immediately scoffed at a bold writing that says:
PROFESSOR RATIO APPRECIATION CLUB
You blink again, not wanting to believe what your eyes had read.
But reality remains reality, that poster was real, and so the lurking students.
You always knew that your husband has a fan club. After all, you’re not that kind of chronically offline.
But seeing them in real life, especially with said husband standing right next to you. Makes you want to dig a hole then live in there forever.
Thus, much like worker bees finding a patch of flowers, the news traveled alarmingly fast.
“IS THAT PROF RATIO???”
“WHERE??”
“OH MY NOUS IT IS?!”
“Who’s that person beside him?”
“His assistant?”
“I thought he worked alone!”
“Should we like, say hello?”
“NO, DON'T RUN.”
Your eye twitching, you quietly mutter,
“they’re multiplying.”
Horrified at the thought how parasocial they can be, you can’t help but sneak a glance on him.
…
Then again, perhaps you had no right to judge.
Judging by how unbothered he looked, this was merely another day in his life.
His violet hair was still hidden beneath that ridiculous white head, though fortunately he wasn't crossing his arms. Experience had taught you that would've been a much worse sign.
To him, the enthusiastic crowd seemed no more noteworthy than the stars you spent hours staring at.
“WAIT IS PROF RATIO STARING AT US??”
No,
he’s not.
You deadpanned inside.
In fact, judging by the direction of his gaze/?, he was staring at a discounted packet of tea leaves.
“Are they this kind of enthusiast when you meet them or what.”
“From your reaction, you've yet to grasp how remarkably persistent they can be.”
Well, you couldn’t handle all of that.
You thanked your job once more.
Not until one of the brave soul from that crowd suddenly approaching you two, with such hesitation, he trembled slightly.
“Pr, Prof Ratio, is that your assistant?”
Oh how you love this Sunday.
Patience breeds success, they say. The singular college student patiently waits for his dear professor—or even you—to answer his simple question.
“Mr. Hastings, ever wondered why assumptions are considered one of the greatest obstacles to one’s rational thought?”
The student visibly froze.
“I— what?”
“You observed an unfamiliar individual standing beside me and immediately concluded they were an assistant of mine. Tell me, what evidence led you to such a conclusion?”
“W, well…”
“Nothing substantial, I presume.”
The poor student opened and closed his mouth twice.
Beside him, you quietly took a step away. “Professor, please don't start.”
“I am merely correcting a misconception.”
“Nuh uh, you're publicly executing him.” You want to roll your eyes, but you restrain yourself from doing so.
He replied with a voice that teased a smirk, “An unfortunate but educational side effect.”
The surrounding students had gone eerily silent.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Ratio adjusted his gloves. “For future reference, they are my spouse.”
The silence somehow became even louder.
“Oh.”
One of them let out a small squeak.
Unfortunately, the sound wasn't nearly enough to restart whatever mental processes had just crashed.
Then silence again. A complete, uninterrupted silence.
The sort that only appeared when an entire collective consciousness ceased functioning at once.
"???"
"How.”
"... oh."
“OH???”
“WHAT!??”
Judging by the collective expression before you, half the club had just ascended to another plane of existence.
… poor you and fuck his stupid grocery date.
You know you would have the loudest—
““OH MY NOUS—””
There goes your silly days without any worry about stalkers and media.
You could practically feel every pair of eyes in the supermarket fixed on you.
Meanwhile, the big meanie responsible for this humiliating situation was busy inspecting groceries as if he hadn't just detonated your social life.
“If you're formulating a complaint,” he said without looking up, “I recommend expressing it before it consumes the remainder of your cognitive resources."
You open your lips, then close it again. A huff then coming from your mouth, “why in the first place—“
“I ask you to do the groceries with me?” Checkmate, Prof Ratio.
You fixed him with a stare, waiting for his logical explanation for it while you two can just order it online, arms now crossing.
“… refrain from asking rhetorical questions if you already know the answer.”
“The current discrepancy between your accomplishments and public recognition remains statistically irrational."
Is he flirting with you?
“And no, I’m not doing everything you have on your brain now.” He deadpanned.
The sheer audacity of this man…
“Are you done yet inspecting your grocery or you have other things on your mind?” Non enthusiastic you ask another question, still with Ratio himself has his eyes on some discounted vegetables.
You didn’t wait for an answer, so of course, as you not wanting to have more association with the man, you walk away to the fruit stall, the one beside the vegetable section.
An apple then piqued your interest, with how delighted its red shining beneath the lights, making it impossible to resist picking it up.
“That variety of apple contains approximately 0.3 grams less vitamin C than the one beside it,” he chimed in, “I assume the latter would be a more rational choice if our objective is obtaining nutritional value.”
You stared at the apple in your hand.
Then at him.
Then back at the apple.
“It's an apple.”
“Yes.”
“You just lectured me over an apple.”
“Correction. I prevented you from making an inferior decision.”
You slowly lowered the fruit, eyes narrowing, “Did you follow me here just to tell me that?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you that your selection criteria are questionable.”
The urge to launch the apple directly at his alabaster head was becoming increasingly tempting.
After what felt like an eternity of unsolicited nutritional advice, their grocery date was finally drawing to a close.
Standing before an automatic checkout station, you volunteered to scan the groceries while Veritas Ratio reviewed the shopping list. As insufferable as he was, at least his organizational habits remained alarmingly consistent.
A cyan holographic grocery list floated beside him as he patiently checked off each item you scanned, "… may I ask why you suddenly decided to buy all-purpose flour?"
For half a second, he froze.
It was brief. So brief that anyone else might have missed it.
Unfortunately for him, you weren't anyone else.
"Is that another rhetorical question?"
“No? I don’t even remember we went to other section beside of groceries and beverages.” You denied immediately.
"Yes, we went there for a minute and twenty-four seconds." A pause, "I merely remembered that you once mentioned a Lushakan pastry."
You stared at him.
??? When.
"Two months ago."
That did not answer the silent question.
"When."
"The symposium on Epsilon-7."
You continued staring. Ratio sighed.
"You were complaining about the catering."
"… you claimed the pastries were inferior to a fried sweet bread commonly sold near the docks of Lushaka."
"You then spent approximately seven minutes describing that."
"..."
"And somehow," he added dryly, "I am the one being interrogated about it."
You sure he didn’t just flirting with you???
You were beginning to suspect that either Veritas Ratio had a deeply concerning memory, or he was flirting.
Unfortunately, both possibilities were equally plausible.
“Now, can we continue the delayed checkout activity, no?”
In front of the inter-astral supermarket door, your hand has a small eco-bag containing your dear apples, which him on the other side obviously has a bigger eco-bag on his hand.
You two walked together. Well, not exactly together.
It’s more like in the same general direction. Unfortunately too, that distinction seemed irrelevant to everyone else.
Inside your mind, you were still trying to determine whether Veritas Ratio possessed an alarmingly selective memory or an equally alarming tendency to flirt.
Before you could arrive at a conclusion, something landed lightly atop your head.
...
You stopped walking.
A gloved hand. A very familiar gloved hand.
Slowly, you turned.
Ratio had already withdrawn it.
"Your expression was becoming increasingly absurd."
"..."
"There’s a leaf on top of your head earlier.”
"You just touched my head."
"I am aware."
That was not an explanation.
In fact, it somehow raised even more questions.
“WHAT???”
“HE PATTED THEIR HEAD??”
“WRITE THAT DOWN! NO, DOCUMENT IT!!”
“I ALREADY AM!!!”
Somewhere far away from you two, spotted the infamous fan club of your husband— is that a fucking telescope??
“Ratio.”
“Yes?”
“Go away.”
.
.
.
Fortunately, your own replica of Space Anchor functions really well.
All thanks to those kind Trailblazers or otherwise taking a public spaceship after today's events would've forced you into permanent self-exile.
Before the very eyes of you, stood a familiar house you spent looking at it for months.
“Is something really the matter?”
And the annoying owner of the house was standing directly behind you.
“I’m considering whether moving into a hole would be a better long-term investment.”
“The ventilation would be suboptimal.”
“I’m not asking you.”
Examining his gazebo then to the man, you wondered why a place as pretty like that has an owner whose name start with V and ends with eritas Ratio.
…
Hmph, whatever.
Looking away, your eyes thoughtlessly drifted toward his hands.
Familiar gloves,
familiar posture,
familiar voice...
Somewhere between grocery lists, burnt coffee, endless student complaints, and breakfasts that always appeared on time...
those things had stopped belonging to Veritas Ratio.
They had simply become part of your day.
When had that happened?
When had Veritas Ratio become familiar?
That whip splash hit you like a brick.
Cruel enough to be thrown without a kiss.
Two weeks after that incidentTM.
Especially the day after his fan club spotted the two of you, the IPC's radio, Interastral Peace Broadcast gleefully announced your marriage,
… even though the ceremony had happened months ago.
You blame him for your peaceful day loss, yet he didn’t even bat an eye for your pathetic complaint.
But, the house was quieter lately.
Not empty. It just quieter.
Your husband continue to cheat on his work life, leaving you and your assistant AI back in home for approximately three days.
Veritas Ratio had been away for two days now, attending some symposium on a planet whose name immediately escaped your memory.
A shame. You were sure it was probably important.
To him. Not to you.
Obviously.
The tea tasted different tonight. So you stared at the cup.
Then at the cabinet.
Then at the cup again.
Ah,
wrong tea leaves.
At some point during the past month, your favorite blend had mysteriously become the default option inside the kitchen.
Suspicious.
You blamed Ratio.
A sigh escaped you.
The stars remained beautiful, even the gazebo remained alluring.
The weather also had been surprisingly cooperative.
Everything was exactly where it should be.
So why did the house feel larger?
"..."
How annoying.
For someone whose greatest talents consisted of criticizing your life choices and relocating kitchen utensils, Veritas Ratio occupied an unreasonable amount of space.
You hated that realization.
“Master’s seem displeased. Is that perhaps because of Dr. Ratio?”
You blinked. Then immediately frowned.
“No.”
“Understood.”
The AI paused.
Then added, “Master has stared at the front door six times today.”
...
“That's unrelated.”
“Master also checked Dr. Ratio’s itinerary twice.”
“That's called curiosity.”
“Master additionally spent seventeen minutes complaining about the tea.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“The tea was objectively worse.”
“Understood.”
Your AI paused again.
A dangerous sign.
“Would Master like me to calculate the statistical probability that these events are connected?”
“No.”
“Noted.”
Silence settled once more between the two of you.
Above, the stars continued their endless dance.
Below, the tea remained mediocre.
You sighed. Again.
“Master sighed.”
“I know.”
“Master has sighed seven times in the last hour.”
“Thank you for your valuable contribution.”
“You are welcome.”
...
Sometimes you wondered why you built this thing.
Then again, Veritas Ratio once called it your most successful long-term project.
You hated the fact that he was probably correct.
Fortunately, the universe eventually remembered mercy.
Three days was apparently the maximum amount of time Veritas Ratio could remain away from home before the cosmos itself grew tired of him.
The front door slid open shortly after noon.
You only knew that because your AI announced it.
Not because you'd been listening for footsteps. Obviously.
"Dr. Ratio has returned." You looked up from your datapad.
"..."
"..."
"Why are you looking at me?"
The AI tilted its head. “No reason."
A lie. A terrible one.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway.
It was steady. Measured. Annoyingly recognizable.
A travel bag landed near the entrance. Then another.
You didn't bother greeting him, a perfectly reasonable decision. After all, he was merely returning from a symposium. Not a galactic war.
“Good afternoon." There goes the honeyed voice, which you immediately frowned.
Ah. There he was. The problem itself.
"Oh, you're alive."
"What a fascinating greeting."
"I try my best."
Ratio removed his gloves.
Carefully and methodically.
Like he was performing surgery instead of unpacking.
Then his eyes landed on the tea mug beside you.
"..."
"..."
"What?"
"Wrong blend."
You froze.
"..."
The bastard. The absolute bastard.
"It was the only one available." You lied like you’re breathing.
Ratio looked toward the cabinet, then back at you.
"The one you usually drink is on the second shelf."
...
How did he know that so quickly?
More importantly. Why did you suddenly feel caught?
"Congratulations." You deadpanned, “your observational skills remain functional."
"An expected outcome."
You wanted to throw the mug at him. Instead, you took another sip.
Still terrible.
Unfortunately.
A liittle less terrible now.
For a brief second, something shifted at the corner of his mouth.
Then it was gone.
A month has passed after that grocery incident.
Like your Credit, it was already running low for your new project with your team.
But at least it was worth because cooperating with the Genius Society themselves already a big dream for you and your team.
Specially it's the famous Intellitron with number code 76; Screwllum himself.
Also, did you mention the downside living together with him?
The answer is that you will eventually disturbed with mechanical voices from time to time.
Because of what? of course it’s because of his students.
With their endless energy, they’re waiting for the Professor’s approval for their theses, which fortunate enough from his scolds only will drive them away.
"Heh, seeing them like this remind me from those pitiful college era, luckily my professor is not a heartless being that has 3% of completion rate."
Enjoying swirls at late night balcony stargazing is always a nice thing to do, "The best thing about them is at least they're not foolish enough to embarrass me in the public."
"Oh, what a rare sight, a man that happily married with his dumb white head not wearing them tonight?"
From the side of your eye, you can see the menacing red pupils that unfortunately will stuck with you forever.
"Hmph, only one astute enough to see a Mundanite without his pride," smug smile plastered on his damn attractive face, “yet you call it really affectionate.”
“You can just admit that you devote an unreasonable amount of attention to me."
"Hm, there goes a narcissistic bastard that can't stop mumbling about his own face," you say it quietly, still admiring the stars.
“I always take pride in my education first, if I must say.”
Eyes both twinkling from the skies above, you blinked before answering the dear rhetoric question, “but still, better if you keep that white thing on, though."
"If not?"
He crosses his hands, waiting patiently for your response.
“If not—" taking a small walk, you're now standing in front of him, forcing two different pair of pupils staring at one another.
He immediately shuts his eyes, as if he knows your next move, but unfortunately high expectations always make things fall apart, and he's one of them.
.
.
.
"Pfft, you really thought I'm going to kiss your damn mouth?"
He blinks, startled by how close you still are.
You sigh, looking away. “... not tonight, you idiot.” he can see that your eyes are rolling, making an obnoxious excuse.
It’s half a lie.
You’re still fighting a smile.
Eyes continue to drinking ine tight of the stars, giving an uncertain cliffhanger ending to two beating hearts.
Then, before either of you can say anything else, you step close enough for your shoulder to brush his—
!!!
"Pfft— ha ha ha! look at your face, dear husband,"
For once, he failed to produce an immediate response.
Because from a mere kiss on his cheek.
Truly a remarkable achievement.
The faint redness at the tips of his ears remained long after he'd recovered.
"..."
"That was… unexpected."
"Your standards for entertainment continue to concern me."
But ah, how fortunate, the earlier event was real, and now you're giving him the biggest smirk ever.
“… good night, dear Veritas Ratio.”
You stepped away before he could reply.
For once, the professor seemed unusually reluctant to fill the silence.
And for the first time, you found yourself hoping he would stay that way a little longer.
Tonight, the captivating stars still shone beautifully.
Somehow too, they weren’t the only thing worth looking at anymore.
THAT CUPID, SPECIAL MERCH
Then, who will be burdened by it?
fanarts i made for my phainon x reader fic! totally a normal series, right ^^
another versions under the cut!
hope you all enjoy my silly series!! (insert very evil giggles here) 😼
THAT CUPID, BEACH EPISODE
wow u did that again…
Beforetaste: so you know too
CW: minor? spoiler for amphoreus’ tb quest
WC: ~1,3k | FoC | another chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, b1, and b2 | crossposted on my ao3
Not yet.
Because something in the room had stopped behaving like it was only happening once.
Phainon stood there, still halfway between the door and the living room.
Like he had paused mid-step in a sentence that refused to finish itself.
“… Pixie?” he asked again.
This time, your name didn’t feel like sound.
It felt like a trigger waiting for confirmation.
You swallowed.
Your wings didn’t move.
That was wrong.
They always moved.
You always moved.
“… I said not yet,” you finally replied.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Like the room had to strain slightly to receive it.
Phainon hesitated.
Just for a fraction.
Then he smiled.
Small.
Familiar.
“… okay,” he said, like that answer made sense in a way you didn’t understand.
Cyrene, already sitting on the couch, shifted slightly.
Not like she was getting comfortable.
Like she was aligning herself with something unseen.
You frowned.
She had been sitting there the entire time.
Right.
She must have been.
“… okay,” you muttered again, softer this time. “I’m officially calling it again. This is weird.”
No one reacted.
Not because they ignored you.
But because your words didn’t fully register in this layer of the room.
Like meaning had to pass through something before it became sound.
Phainon laughed lightly at something Cyrene said.
You didn’t hear it.
That was new.
You always heard everything.
That was your job.
That was—
“… huh.”
You blinked.
The book in your hand was still open.
Still wrong.
Still waiting.
SITUATION: OBSERVATION
SUBJECT: NEIKOS496 // PHAINON
STATUS: STABLE (not glitching)
SUBJECT: UNKNOWN FEMALE ENTITY // CYRENE
STATUS: RECOGNIZED (as usual)
SUBJECT: 08-83
STATUS: …
The ink hesitated.
Like it was reconsidering whether you were allowed to see it this clearly.
”… what does that mean?”
Then it added:
ANOMALY INTERFACE: ACTIVE
Your breath stopped.
“… I didn’t activate anything.”
No response.
Of course.
It wasn’t talking to you.
It was talking around you.
Like you were not the observer.
Just the calibration point.
A soft folding sound echoed somewhere behind your thoughts.
You turned your head slightly.
Cyrene was still on the couch.
Same smile.
Same posture.
Same everything.
And yet—
something about her felt too consistent.
Like consistency itself had been rehearsed.
“You’re the observer,” she said gently, without fully turning toward you.
“… messenger?”
“No,” Cyrene said.
You didn’t remember asking.
“Just a glitch,” she added softly.
“Your system needed something to call it.” The smile didn’t change.
Phainon paused.
“… what?”
You didn’t move.
That word didn’t feel like it belonged in this moment anymore.
“I don’t observe anything,” you said automatically.
Wrong answer.
The room corrected it.
Subtly.
Like reality edited your sentence before it finished existing.
Cyrene tilted her head slightly.
“No,” she said. “You do.”
A pause.
Then softer.
“Sometimes, it feels too much.”
Your fingers tightened around the book.
“… don’t,” you said.
Not sure who you were warning.
The book flickered.
EXECUTION STATUS: PENDING
A second line formed beneath it.
08-83 // RESPONSE DELAY LIMIT: EXCEEDED
“… response delay?” you repeated quietly.
Phainon frowned.
Like the phrase almost meant something.
Like it brushed against something inside him that wasn’t fully awake.
“Pixie,” he said.
You flinched.
“… don’t call me that right now.”
“Why?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because there was no reason that stayed stable long enough to be spoken.
That was worse.
Cyrene shifted slightly on the couch.
And the room lagged.
Just a fraction.
Not enough for most things.
Enough for you.
Phainon’s shadow moved half a second late.
You saw it.
You always saw it.
“Stop doing that,” you whispered.
Cyrene blinked.
Once.
And for the first time—
her smile didn’t immediately return.
“… doing what?” she asked.
Your wings lowered slightly.
“You’re breaking it.”
”I don’t think I understand that.”
Silence.
A pause.
“It was already broken.”
Phainon tilted his head.
“… what are you two talking about?”
You let out a short laugh.
It didn’t feel like yours.
“You don’t feel it?” you asked him.
He blinked.
“… feel what?”
The book turned a page by itself.
SCENE RECORD:
LOCATION: NEIKOS496’S RESIDENCE
You blinked.
EVENT: LOOP INSTANCE RECOGNITION
STATUS: RECONSTRUCTION IN ADVANCE (17% in progress)
“… loop?” you whispered.
”I… don’t like that.”
Your voice felt thinner now.
Less anchored to anything real.
Cyrene finally looked at Phainon properly.
“… Phainon,” she said softly.
And something in the room answered before he did.
A flicker.
A heat.
Not fire.
Memory of fire.
Your book snapped shut.
(this event may have been corrected later).
EXECUTION STATUS: PENDING
FLAME REAVER: AWAKENING THRESHOLD DETECTED
You froze.
“… no,” you whispered.
Phainon blinked.
Once.
Then—
his smile wavered.
Just slightly.
Like something inside him forgot how to stay stable.
“… Pixie?” he said again.
”…”
But this time—
it didn’t sound like a question.
It sounded like recognition trying to surface through something heavier.
Your wings stiffened.
Cyrene stood up from the couch.
Finally.
Not like a person arriving.
Like a system revealing its full state.
The space around her adjusted too quickly.
Too clean.
Like reality had been waiting for that exact configuration.
“… it’s overlapping again,” she said quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
“… overlapping?” you repeated.
The book trembled violently now.
Not in your hands.
In the space between meaning and recognition.
SCENE ARCHIVE: ACTIVE LOOP MEMORY DETECTED
INSTANCE COUNT: 33,550,336
You held your breath.
ANCHOR FAILURE: NOT FOUND
ANCHOR RESPAWN: SUCCESSFUL (no glitch detected)
Your breath hitched.
“… respawn?” you whispered.
”Can I… just say that I’m tired?” you’re trembling.
Phainon took a step forward.
Not different, but the opposite of that.
And this time—
he looked certain.
Like he had already stood here before.
Like he was returning.
“… I remember,” he said.
Silence cracked.
Not broke.
Cracked.
And through it—
you felt something shift inside you.
Not memory.
Recognition of memory.
Your fingers went cold.
“… no,” you said.
But your voice came out delayed.
Half a second late.
Like it had to pass through something else before becoming real.
Cyrene closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them again, her expression had changed.
Not softer.
Clearer.
“You’re the only constant,” she said.
…
“That’s why it hurts.” She smiled.
Phainon looked directly at you now.
Really looked.
And behind his eyes—
something stopped pretending it wasn’t there.
“… Pixie,” he said.
And this time—
your name echoed.
Not forward.
Backward.
”Please don’t.”
Like it had been said before you arrived.
Like it had always been.
The book in your hands opened on its own.
SCENE STATUS: FINAL NODE REACHED
ANCHOR INTERFACE: ACTIVE
EXECUTION STATUS: PENDING (12% done)
A final line formed.
Not written.
Not spoken.
But remembered.
“I wanna hug my pet now.”
08-83 // ANCHOR CONFIRMATION REQUIRED
Phainon stepped closer.
Cyrene didn’t stop him.
Because this part—
had already happened too many times to interfere with.
“… Pixie,” he said again.
And something in his voice—
caught.
Not broken.
Not corrupted.
Just… familiar in a way that didn’t belong to now.
You flinched.
Not because of danger.
Because for half a second—
you almost answered him without thinking.
“… I—”
You stopped.
That pause didn’t feel like hesitation.
It felt like interruption.
Like something inside you had been cut off mid-response.
Your wings tightened instinctively.
And for a moment, the silence felt rehearsed.
Why did that feel like…
like you were supposed to finish that sentence before?
Cyrene’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Softly, almost tired.
“… don’t drift,” she said.
And that line—
did something wrong to your chest.
Silence.
And now—
it felt like a decision waiting for you to make it again.
”… I’m tired.”
Quiet.
And for the first time—
you understood something you were never supposed to reach in one iteration.
Not the loop,
nor the system.
But yourself, dear ★★★.
— who had already made this choice before
(But you didn’t remember choosing.)
Aftertaste: tell me,
how does it feel
… to be remembered?
THAT CUPID, LOVELY BANTER
can we js dont straight lying…
Beforetaste: (this is under construction).
CW: a small spoiler for phai’s name
WC: ~800 | FoC | another chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, b1, and b2 | crossposted on my ao3
I’m taking a full year off after this.
Yet, you did not take your eyes off her.
Not at first.
Not when Phainon started talking again—something about tea, or snacks, or whatever normal people did when they had guests over.
Not when she nodded.
Not when she moved further into the apartment like she’d done it a hundred times before.
You hovered near the ceiling instead, arms crossed tighter than before.
Wings fluttering anxiously.
Okay.
Okay. Fine.
Maybe you were just overthinking.
It happens.
It’s been three months with this man. Of course your brain’s a little fried.
Phainon took a step forward.
For a split second—
it felt like someone— no, something else moved with him.
Not behind him like a shadow does.
Overlapping.
You frowned.
Then it was just him again.
“Pixie?”
You flinched.
“What.”
Phainon blinked at your tone. “Do you… want to come down?”
“I am down,” you barked immediately.
You were not.
You were hovering like a suspicious chandelier.
He squinted at you.
“… right.”
He deadpanned you instead.
Then he turned to her again, softer.
“Sit anywhere you like.”
Like she didn’t already know.
Your eye twitched.
She walked past the couch.
Past the table.
Stopped.
Not randomly like a human.
It’s not even hesitant.
Exactly where someone would stop if they already knew the space.
You stared.
… okay.
No.
No, that’s— fine.
That’s still fine.
Fucking fine.
Childhood friend.
Right.
“Do you still keep it there?” she asked, head tilting.
Phainon paused.
“Hm? keep what?”
A small tilt of her head.
“That book.”
Silence.
You blinked.
Phainon blinked.
“… what book?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Just looked at him.
Still smiling.
The same.
Exactly the same.
You’ve seen this before.
Haven’t you?
No.
You haven’t.
O, child of dream.
Your wings twitched again.
Behind your ribs, something pulled tight—
like a thread being tugged,
from somewhere you couldn’t remember.
Wrong.
Wrong—
wrong?
Or is it?
“… okay,” you muttered under your breath.
Yeah.
No.
You’re not imagining this.
There was—
something about this.
Something familiar.
A guidebook.
“… yeah.”
You frowned.
A second book appeared in your hand.
Different from the Cupid’s Arrow manual.
Heavier.
Unfamiliar.
Wrongly familiar.
You flipped it open.
Nothing.
Just blank structure.
“… huh?”
Then it waited.
That was the worst part.
Like it knew you were going to look.
Like it had already accounted for you looking.
“… stop that,” you muttered.
No response.
Of course.
You turned the page.
Then again.
Same blank page.
Same layout.
Same—
“… okay, that’s not funny anymore.”
Silence.
Too clean for your liking.
Too intentional, and that made it worse.
A page shifted.
Just slightly.
Like it was avoiding your attention.
“… that’s new.”
You turned again.
This time, it turned with you.
Too smoothly.
Like it expected your movement.
Ink flickered.
Not disappearing like a common Daydream’s book.
Not changing like a certain thread of fate.
The ink just… hesitating.
Your wings stiffened.
“… don’t do that.”
You weren’t sure who you were talking to.
Then—
text formed.
Not written.
Not printed.
Remembered.
SITUATION: OBSERVATION
SUBJECT: NEIKOS496 // PHAINON
STATUS: STABLE (not glitching)
SUBJECT: UNKNOWN FEMALE ENTITY // CYRENE
STATUS: RECOGNIZED (as always)
SUBJECT: 08-83
STATUS: …
The line stopped.
Then the ink moved again.
Not like liquid—or even not something from this world.
Like thought trying to decide whether it should exist.
SLOW RESPONSE DETECTED
“… excuse me?”
You frowned.
“You don’t get to decide.”
…
No.
That wasn’t right.
That wasn’t your voice.
It didn’t… feels like you.
“… hey.”
Phainon blinked. “… feel what?”
A pause.
Too long for good.
Too clean— like someone had wiped the moment too carefully.
Like a missing line in a script, a very important one.
The girl was still smiling.
Same curve.
The very same angle.
Wait—
the book turned a page by itself.
Faster this time.
Almost impatient.
And then—
you saw it.
A page already filled.
Not written now.
But before.
WAY before.
SITUATION: SCENE RECORD
LOCATION: NEIKOS496’S RESIDENCE
EVENT: RETURN OF UNKNOWN SUBJECT INSTANCE (recorded)
OUTCOME: STABILITY MAINTAINED
NOTE: 08-83 RESPONSE DELAY DETECTED (chances for bugs: 83%)
“… response delay?”
You didn’t realize you said it out loud.
“… I didn’t delay anything.”
Your voice was sharper now, but you feel like you already said it.
The book flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
don’t ask.
d0n’t—
it corrected itself before you finished reading.
…
It wasn’t text anymore.
It was pressure.
Your wings froze.
“… okay.”
No humor left now.
Just watching.
The book snapped shut.
Not gently, like when your mentor does.
It’s not violently, like the way you supposed to do.
It just… decided.
And on its cover—
one line appeared.
08-83 // EXECUTION STATUS: PENDING
Silence, without any noise physically.
Phainon finally spoke again.
“… Pixie?”
You didn’t answer.
Not yet.
(You said it before you decided whether it was meant to be said).
Aftertaste: something is wrong, but i didnt know from when
Do you?
THAT CUPID, WITH MIGRAINE™
why i feel like… smth is watching?
Beforetaste: d0nt ask.
CW: certain gacha game mentioned lowk n there’s cyrene too oOoOh
WC: ~1,1k | FoC | another chapters: 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, b1, and b2 | crossposted on my ao3
You fuckass samoyed.
Well, as you said before, you chose not to elaborate with whatever he got in form of other guest. Better to—
“Oh whoa dude, you have a fucking life-sized cardboard of—“ you zipped closer—still inside his apartment, still on the same ridiculous assignment—faster than your brain ever think, hovering right in front of squinting at the glossy print.
"No way.
No actual way.
NO FUCKING WAY???”
The character smiled back at you. Sparkly eyes. Unreal proportions that even Eros HIMSELF wouldn’t dare to imagine. Questionable outfit design you’ve seen enough for weeks—alongside this man, of course.
“… is that from that one gacha game?" you pointed, offended. You knew this said gacha game, in fact you’re basically a veteran that sometimes helps the newbies out.
From the doorway, Phainon glanced back, hand already on the doorknob. "Which one?" FUCK WHICH ONE?? IT’S LITERALLY THE ONLY ONE??
"Don't 'which one' me, I know you don’t have more than one," you shot back immediately. "Answer the question." you demanded.
He hummed. "Depends. Which one are you referring to?" THIS MOON-DEER LADY OF COURSE??
You turned slowly, “You're disgusting." Your eyes narrowed just enough to match the accusation.
… and yet, you didn’t look away.
"That doesn't narrow it down." he chuckled.
"THIS ONE!" you slapped the cardboard lightly. It wobbled—
just a little.
… why does this feel more important than it should?
You gasped. "Careful, careful... this thing would probably become real in the Daydream World and its fragments would haunt me if I broke it."
"I've never dreamt of her, by the way." His voice carried a teasing lilt—how did you even know that? maybe from getting sick of stalking watching this man for three months straight.
... besides, that was highkey scary.
“That was not a comforting answer."
He chuckled under his breath, fingers resting on the knob but not turning it yet. "You're one to talk. You literally have wings. Oh, and a halo.”
"Yeah, and they're fucking expensive, thank you very much,” you paused for a hot take.
“Y’know maintenance isn't cheap. Did you think this shine is natural?" you fluffed them defensively. "Half my salary goes into this, humph.”
"Half?"
"Highkey."
“… you get paid?"
You froze mid-air, eye twitching again.
"… that’s not the main point."
Then you squinted at him.
"Wait. Don't tell me you're the type to gacha for characters based on meta."
He tilted his head. "Is that wrong?"
"YES?" you flew closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. "You're supposed to roll for love. For devotion— devotion. For the emotional attachment—do you even hear yourself, the deep part inside your heart?"
"I do. I just don't agree." DON’T AGREE ABOUT WHAT???
"You're actually insane," you deadpanned.
"And yet you're the one yelling at cardboard." I'M YELLING AT YOU, DUMBASS!!
"The last time I was here literally one day ago, yet l've never seen her. And she definitely has some freaky lore, especially when it's you."
"So do I.”
You paused.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY ‘SO DO I’???
“… yeah, I get it, but yours just hella fishy."
Another beat.
Something about that felt—
off.
You frowned slightly, but before you could think too hard about it—
Ting tong.
"Oh, right." Phainon blinked, as if remembering something he almost forgot. His grip tightened on the doorknob—you noticed from afar thanks to your sharp vision.
You hovered there, arms crossed. "Took you long enough."
"I always take my time," he said lightly, eyes still bright as ever.
For a second—just a second—it sounded like he'd said that before.
You clicked your tongue. "Yeah, yeah. Open the damn door already, your poor guest is probably dying out there."
“… right.”
He turned the knob. The door creaked open.
For a second-nothing.
Then—
someone was there.
"Oh." Phainon perked up instantly. "You're here."
Another pause.
"Hi, am I late?"
"No," he said, a little too quickly. "You're right on time."
... right on time??
You frowned mid-air.
Your wings twitched— like recognizing something that hadn’t been there before.
Pair of purple eyes blinked.
She stepped inside without hesitation.
Not like a guest.
Like she already knew where to go.
Okay. Weird. A little weird. But not impossible, right?
I mean— they’re childhood friends.
With a hushed tone, "Pixie, this is-"
"I know," you cut in.
Both of them paused.
“… l mean—I know everyone you've interacted with for the past three months—hell, all your memories, too. Job requirement dude," you added quickly, crossing your arms again.
A beat.
Her gaze passed over you.
No-
through you.
Your wings stilled.
Okay. Normal. That's normal.
Fucking normal.
"Hey," you pointed at her anyway. "Can you—"
Don't ask.
The temperature dropped.
You froze.
Weird.
Normally, I’d yap more than enough.
“… nah," you forced a laugh. "Forget it."
"What?" Phainon glanced back.
"Nothing."
Too fast.
He stared for a second—then shrugged.
"It's been a while," he said, softer now.
"It has."
Her voice was light.
Too light.
"And you're still the same," he added.
She smiled.
"And you're not?"
Phainon blinked. "Huh?"
YOU HEARD THAT TOO, RIGHT???
“Okay," you muttered. "That was weird."
"She's joking," he quietly muttered.
She didn't react— didn't deny it.
Behind you—
click.
You turned.
The door was closed.
I DIDN'T SEE ANY SINGLE SOUL MOVE???
Or did you?
You looked back.
She was already further inside.
Closer than before.
Something flickered near Phainon’s shadow—
like it didn’t fully agree with him.
You frowned.
Then it was normal again.
... nope.
That was nothing.
Right?
…
Nah.
Something's off.
You crossed your arms tighter. "So. Childhood friend, right? What a dramatic entrance."
"It wasn't that dramatic," Phainon laughed, still with the earlier hushed tone.
"She literally just spawned—"
"Pixie.”
You stopped.
"... fine," you muttered.
Shit.
The room felt—
quieter.
Not silent.
Just... off, again.
You stole a glance at her.
Still smiling.
Unchanged.
Like it had always been there.
Your gaze lingered.
... why does that feel familiar?
You looked away first.
Silence settled again.
You forced your wings to relax.
Normal,
everything was normal, 08-83.
Behind you, Phainon said something—light, easy.
Exchanging chats with the pink haired lady.
Chirping happily.
You just didn’t catch it.
You weren’t listening.
Your eyes flickered back to her.
She was still smiling.
… no.
Not still.
The same.
Exactly the same.
Not a twitch.
Not a shift.
Not even—
don’t ask.
Your breath hitched.
“… okay,” you muttered under your breath.
No one replied.
You didn’t realize you were the only one who heard yourself.
… fuck this job.
I’m taking a full year off after this.
Aftertaste: that was… normal.
… right?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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THAT CUPID, CHASING THE OPPORTUNITY
like i gaf in the first place
Beforetaste: yknow something is bad happening when— dont ask, dont question
CW: tehehe this is the promised psychological horror ;b
WC: ~1,3k | FoC | another chapters: 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, b1, b2 | crossposted on my ao3
“Yes please, Pixie!”
Wait.
Are my eyes kidding me or is that literally THE Children of the Messenger THEMSELF??? Aren’t they like busy busy now?? How the fuck are they even here, flying and sprinkling petals near this Phainon dude bro??
“Uhm, Pixie?” Blink, blink, blink— how??
He’s still stuck on THAT??
You are deep in your very important thoughts not until a sudden ‘peep peep’—
“WHOA DUDE WHAT THE HELL YOU CAN’T JUST DO—“
Boundaries?? Personal space?? Divine law?? ANYTHING??
“Oh, sorry. Once again I’m so sorry about my unprofessional behavior Mr. Phainon. I swear to Eros HIMSELF that I, as a senior Cupid here in the Cupid’s Arrow HQ— wait, why did I recite the HQ’s Work Ethic in the first place…?”
Focus. Focus. This is not the time to spiral.
Think fast, child of dream.
“Ah— WAIT HOLD UP!! How can YOU even touch me??? Mortals can’t touch any higher being except when they’re near the gate of the death itself! Which is weird because not even a single peck of Grim is here watching you!!”
This is breaking at least five rules. Minimum.
You’re pointing your index finger once again (looks like it’s going to be your usual habit with this man) to the being with this pair of bright ass blue eyes, then touching your cheek, the place that a literal mortal touched before.
You don’t remember the earlier convo, do you?
… and it still feels weird.
As another book pops into your hand, you quickly open the pages, reading them very swiftly. “I’m not sick, heck even my energy is as the same as before, then why can this mortal touch me?!”
Make it make sense.
Fuck me and this thick ass book…
“In the book section ‘How to Deal with Your Subject’ there’s no such thing.
Section ‘What Kind of Things You Should Avoid’ too.
Section ‘How to Restrain Yourself Before Overjoyed Happens’ too.
‘How to Search the Suitable Other Half of the Subject’ too.
And even fucking section ‘Help Yourself Before Shoot an Arrow’ too!!
What kind of messy thing are you, bro?!” You shoot him a glare, hard.
You’re literally undocumented dude!!
Pang!
You snapped the book shut.
But seriously tho… who the hell made the manual with these random ass pages smashed together?
…
Nah, fuck me.
I’m filling another complaint later.
Now your attention’s on the taller boy, the very magical girl-ish book that you held before slowly turning into glitters, even those cute angels that are now bringing empty mini baskets still flying near him—specially around his head—like when a cartoon hurt themselves until birds flying encircling their petty head.
“I asked you fucking once again, who—or what—you are, dear Mr. Phainon?”
Now he’s stuck with his stupidly handsome smile, “Me?” With his finger pointing at him, nonchalantly, very indeed.
CAN YOU PLEASE STOP RECREATING THAT MEME???
The smile lingered too long.
The air felt—
wrong.
How lively.
And yet,
how fragile.
… heh.
… what?
In a world where the idyllic stories humans once called “dreams” come alive, many ‘creatures’ from this world have agreed to keep this fractured world a secret. For if humans were ever to walk freely beyond the barrier, this world itself would begin to vanish.
In a world that is known as the Daydream World—a broken realm where imaginations from the past to the present linger freely, sustained by fragments of dreams themselves.
In a world, even the simplest dream can be twisted upside down… then descend into a never-ending chaos that—
O, child of man—shall you dream really sweet tonight?
You were born into this world with the role as the Cupid, designated 08-83. You have no past, no memories, not even name that you can call yourself, as if the “you” that exists now was never meant to be real.
Yet still, you remain as the same.
You grew as the clever little duckling— no, a Cupidling.
Pray, tell me, little one—did you truly believe the “you” of now was simply born this way?
Pfft, no. A life is still a life, even within dreams.
You had your childhood.
You passed through the academy.
You even went through a rebellious phase—one that gave your mentor more than a few headaches.
And yet you successfully found a duty that gave your existence a fragment of meaning.
In time, you found your place within the Cupid Arrows Headquarters, where countless Cupids carry out their duties without question. And you, you gave it your all.
O, child of dream—shall you live your life be Overjoyed for once?
You don’t know why, yet you’re so hesitant to ask, even to yourself. As if something deep within you is afraid of whatever answer might slip from your own lips.
You were born like this.
Don’t ask.
Don’t question.
Don’t ask,
don’t question.
Don’t ask, don’t-
… question.
Don’t ask.
Don’t-
ask.
Why?
Don’t ask, don’t question. Don’t ask, don’t question.
Pon’t ask, don’t question. Don’t ask, don’t qhuestion. Don’t ask, don’t question.
Don’t ask, don’t question. Don’t ask, don’t questinon—
Don’t qsk.
Don’t ask, pon’t question. Don’t ask, pon’t question.
Don’t ask, pon’t ques—
… tion.
Don’t psk, don’t question. Don’t ask, don’t questhion. Don’t ask, don’t question.
Don’t ask, don’t question. Dhn’t ask, don’t question.
Don’t ask.
Dpon’t aihsk, dno’t question.
… ask?
O, child of ***, how dearly you are loved,
that you never ask.
So dearly…
that you were never meant to ask.
.
.
.
“Pixie?”
… you were not meant to hear that,
—and yet you did.
“… I asked you—”
Don’t ask.
Right. Focus. Back to reality. Unfortunately.
The air hesitated.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And decided not to think about it.
“Then, this is my apartment!” The boy in front of you beamed another painfully big ass puppy smile. Fortunately, the cute angels from before had already disappeared into… maybe their home(s), meh you don’t care anymore.
“I suppose my earlier statement didn’t make you realize that I already know all your whole life, including your childhood, Mr. Samoyed.” You deadpan him, with a camera you used before for AHEM stalking for whatever ‘good reasons’ on your hand.
Yeah, recover. Act normal. Professional. You got this.
“Oh, this camera? No, nothing at all! Obviously.” You, still wearing that salaryman smile, pat the camera lightly, as if it were that damn pricey—you can still vaguely remember how you were literally eating acrylics for days.
(You are NOT explaining that.)
Fuck my too-many-fandoms chungus life…
“Ah, no, what I’m focusing on is your angelic features, Pixie! Were you really born like this?” He tried to touch your wings, as your wings shrank with you—until you were small enough to fit in his palm—. Touching them gently, he’s tracing the snow-white feathers you are proud of.
I spent highkey my half salary for my wings plus hair routine, of course they’re high tier, duh.
Examining the pleased expression of the man, you tried to break the silence, “My halo and wings, you mean? Then yes, you wanna see my baby photos? Butttt, of course with a little agreement that you need to tell me who is Cy—“
Ting tong!
There it is fucking again.
The sudden ring on the apartment’s bell distracts both of you, the earlier question that stuck between a thin ice called revelation continues to deepen.
Don’t question.
Yeah. Don’t.
“Maybe it’s my friend. I’ll open the door,” he smiles, his bright eyes shining as he looks at you.
“And as for Pixie, you can sit on my couch.” He gestures his finger to his comfy-looking couch, the same one that has given you some migraines because of the failed nth matchmaking attempts on this man.
“…”
You don’t even know how many mental breakdowns your couch has witnessed, do you?
You pause. It creaks—sounds too tired.
Same, bro.
You look at his imaginary tail for a second too long.
You decide not to elaborate.
Your couch should be in therapy.
You fuckass samoyed.
Aftertaste: i hv a very good feeling that this case will ends w me getting paid
nothing will go wrong 😼
THAT CUPID, FEELING FREEDOM
alas, i missed my pet sm
Beforetaste: tch, enjoy the work pressure coming from the hq themselves ← their complaint is said to be invalid
CW: unreliable narrator ig… + phai being so affectionately dumb tgt w reader
WC: ~1,5k | FoC | another chapters: 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, b1, b2 | crossposted on my ao3
“HOW THE FUCK???”
A man big enough to cover your entire body loomed over you, then beamed with a stupidly stupid smile of his, with an index finger pointing at him, you could see that man was LITERALLY recreating a meme you’d often see when doomscrolling (shh, the work pressure as a Cupid is that big, especially with this one singular man.)
“Ah, you mean how I was feeling today? I felt great— I mean, I feel great! Especially when I finally get acknowledged by Pixie!” NOT THAT ONE DUMMY!!
Oh my God he’s not even processing the situation properly, is he.
“You, you! I mean how did you even see me in the first place?! This is the first time in my entire Cupid career!! Hell, even in the entire Cupid’s works, I bet!”
This is BAD bad. Like, career-ending bad. Like, HQ-is-going-to-eat-you-alive bad.
Now with another index finger pointing at him, your halo shines bright under the sun, you secretly thanked Fortuna HERSELF that this convo happened in somewhere not really crowded—like the university’s parking lot—or this man will catch another unnecessary attention like the one happened with that one grey haired stranger, duh.
“So you mean Pixie is a Cupid? I thought that you are a tooth fairy…”
FUCK YOU MEAN THAT I’M SUDDENLY A TOOTH FAIRY??
“Better if you ask yourself if you still can see a literal tooth fairy in your grand age, dude! What kind of common sense you ate when you’re a child?!”
Actually no, wait, don’t answer that. You don’t want to know.
“Why Pixie is mad at me… I thought that all fairies are all kind hearted…”
Suddenly, the atmosphere was so much gloooomy,
even birds stopped chirping for moments and,
shoot, why it’s so eerily quiet…
… okay that was a bit too far.
“A- I, ahem. Sorry for that Mr. Phainon, but according to Cupid’s Arrow Guidebook, this simple incident itself violates the rules that Cupid would never be allowed to be seen by mortals, including you! And the other rule is that Cupid and the subject can’t ever talk directly like this! But it never happened before so that’s why we never gave a fuck about this,”
Which is definitely not the excuse, but still…
you then point your finger again on him, still with the same angry face.
”… but then, boom, you happened!!” Dramatically pulling your hair, your wings now flapping with such intensity, something you would never in a million years have imagined, and you’re more and more in such stress, along with reddened face knowing damn well the HQ—
yeah no you’re getting fired.
“Wait, is that the reason those bastards were so kind with me when I accepted this offer…” your eye’s glimmering with high need to crush
Nuh uh, dear child of dream. Don’t.
“FUCK!!”
”I hate it here, urgh-!”
Now now, the angry face of yours slowly turned into eyes so big, glassy almost crying due to the irresponsibility of HQ itself. Your wings droop mid air while flying at their currently best state, and at the same time the white haired man couldn’t help but pat your head.
—and why is he comforting YOU??
“Hey, hey Pixie. I don’t know what kind of responsibility you were holding but—“
“Shut up!! you’re the reason I’m stuck in here for three months and I can’t even take a break! Urrgh, hik-“ but then, a brilliant conclusion came to your very smart brain, “… wait, if the HQ already knew about your special condition, then I can complain to them, right?!”
Pulling the collar of the samoyed incarnation’s shirt, your eyes now sparkling with money hope that gone earlier; a nice and warm vacation on a beach with your pet.
Yes. YES. Compensation. Finally something that makes sense.
“Oh, ahem. Sorry, it is not so professional of me.” Letting go of the collar that had been held firmly, you coughed a bit, “first of all, I know I’m the number one in everything including this, but my name is not Pixie, us Cupids don’t have a name except code names, mine is 08-83.”
”Ah also, my colleagues often called me by Zero but I think that doesn’t count as my nickname at work.”
With a hand on top of your chest, you proudly introduce yourself to the man you’ve been stalking watching for three months straight, “Also, did I mention that I’m the number one in everything?” you smirk, smug enough to make even other Cupids embarrassed.
Because you are. Obviously.
“There’s a fun fact that I’ve been the employee of the month for a decade long!” With a sudden beam of light that surrounds you and a mini sized of yourself playing trumpet, a smug grin that you love to call it victorious smirk plastered on your face, leaving the poor man confused with this heavenly act.
As HE should.
“Fufu, of course you’re confused as fuck because it’s the Eros’ Blessing you’ve been seeing right now. Us Cupids got this special moment when you are acknowledged by more than a God in the HQ,”
“and of course, as THE employee…” you pause, letting the silence sink in.
“… I have seventeen Gods acknowledging me.”
Now y’all better give me the promised clap, heh.
“Ah, I got what you mean. So Gods are real?”
FUCK YEAH?? WHAT A DUMB SHIT YOU SPLUTTERED WHEN YOU ALREADY BELIEVED THAT TOOTH FAIRIES ARE REAL??
“I, ahem, yes THEY are real. Even every Gods in this world, every fables—every folklores are real— tooth fairies too are real.”
“The difference is that we live in two separate worlds like a two-sided coin, even my job as a Cupid can’t make me freely transport between worlds. The only one exception is when I have something important like shooting my Cupid’s arrow.” You briefly explained the basic knowledge that an elementary school child (in your world) taught, with a flying picture book suddenly popped in your hand, you then show him one of the pages in it.
”See this border here? it’s the one that separates one world from another. If this border doesn’t exist, then two colliding worlds will mean two chaotic worlds mashed into one.”
Which, frankly, sounds like a management problem, not yours, a dutiful Cupid.
The man in front of you nodded, hell ahem, land of sinners, it’s such a shame that this man born and live here in the Commonplace World, if he’s in the same world as you, you’d 100% sure that he’s already giving you an aegyo cute enough to spend all of your money for him.
… fortunately that doesn’t happen and your money all are safe, and fortunately too he’s not a great dancer so your money are all safe once again.
“Is there any chance that a human—like me—will get lost in your world?”
“For that, yes it happens more frequently than you imagined… oh, look at this news, this is the typical way for you Commonplace folks to discover my world.” You then showed him another page inside that book, with the headline “Is Commonplace Society Already Found Our World?” with a human, normal looking one, who looked very confused when he was being interviewed with a fairy reporter.
Yeah, that guy is NOT having a good time.
“The way for you to enter my world… is by dreaming.” You paused to see the man’s reaction, but weirdly enough he’s… calm with it? too calm, even.
… why’s bro looks so calm.
“But it can become chaotic if it isn’t treated quickly—by severing the connection between worlds. That’s why most dreams seconds you wake up will gradually vanish.” With a loud ‘pang!’, you close your portable history book as the book slowly dissolves itself mid-air.
That concluded today’s lesson.
“Okay, enough for my world’s history. Now, you better tell me who’s your crush because I’m sick looking at this world!!”
“Whoa, whoa wait, why’s the sudden crush question? I thought you’re—“
“NO!! I’m a Cupid and of course I’m here just to do my job AKA to shoot my arrow both with you and your crush, and then we’re all done!” Crossing your arms with a pout on your face, you see Phainon’s eyes widened with slight blushes both on his ears.
Got you.
So he does have a crush on someone, tch.
“And no, I’m not being heartless. I have a pet back home and he’s definitely missed me after these months I’ve been stuck with you.”
And I missed him too much (insert broken heart emoji).
“I— I dunno who’s my crush…” THE FUCK YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW??
With your eye twitching, you then kindly make a statement that everyone in the HQ afraid of:
“Ah, if so, shall we begin the search on who is the person that steals your heart, then?” That follows with your halo shining blindly, with your fluffy wings showing themselves again with a euphoric look.
Back to work.
The imaginary puppy ears on top of his snowy hair then perked up, with a smile you’ve seen enough for the last three months beamed, you swear you can see a pair of cute angels sprinkling flower petals around him.
Nah, he’s doomed.
“Yes please, Pixie!”
Aftertaste: this shi gonna be so easy 🤓
(spoiler: it does not).
THAT CUPID, SENSING A SOULMATE
whoa its another one, huh?
Beforetaste: well heyya! im a cupid thats overworked by the cupid’s arrow hq, istg they never agreed to give me proper working conditions 😞
but! as i said before i hv a job, n its featuring this annoying subject 😡
CW: pure fluff…? for now :p n alot of swearing+slangs, also go my propaganda—cas is an avid fanfic writer!! slight phaiblazer? n phaidei too
WC: ~1,8k | FoC | another chapters: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, b1, and b2 | crossposted on my ao3
Life as a Cupid is not always about giving some partnerless humans (and… other beings too, unfortunately) rainbow and love, but sometimes it's more like a pain in the ass, designed specifically to piss-you-off one.
For example, this handsome-looking guy.
No, no what I mean is he literally has the brightest smile you’ve ever seen and—
oh, don't forget about his natural charming rizz that makes every. single. fucking. gender fall on their knees BUTTTTT you're telling me that he has NO ONE that he can at least call as his lover???
Okay, that time he laughs—bright, easy, the kind that makes three people at the café turn their heads at the same time.
Someone nearly drops their drink. Another forgets what they were saying mid-sentence.
And you’re telling me this guy is single?
Okay, let's say that trial™ pairing him with random but attractive stranger is not an effective way, giving that he clearly needs time to open up, I mean, look at his not so secretive samoyed incarnation personality.
Which means that stranger must be interacting with him at least a week or so. I guess.
What an annoying bastard.
Sooo, here comes the hard work, you accidentally tinker the way fate fluctuates around them by making things up, like when you tweak one tiny thread of fate—
suddenly, they’re assigned to the same group project.
He groans. The grey-haired stranger sighs.
Perfect. Interaction forced. Just how you like it.
Making them bump into each other more frequent than before, you orchestrate “accidental” encounters in hallways, cafés, libraries.
You tweak interests here and there—oh look, now that grey-haired stranger suddenly loves antique collections too. What a coincidence.
You even give them just enough shared classes so they can bicker—lightly—during debates, because tension builds connection, right?
Right?
…
Yeah. No.
It doesn’t work.
Not even close.
Because that stranger—after all your careful planning, your sleepless nights, your borderline unethical manipulation of destiny itself—turns out to be…
one of his fans®.
Wow.
Amazing.
Incredible.
Everyone please, hold your applause.
The first attempt ends in flames.
Not the cool, dramatic kind. No—this is the embarrassing, “I want to disappear into the void” kind of failure.
You lean back mid-air, staring at your own invisible hands like they personally betrayed you.
“Yeah,” you mutter to absolutely no one, “maybe Fortuna HERSELF just hates me.”
Because really—what are the odds?
Out of all possible outcomes, all carefully arranged scenarios, all the probability threads you painstakingly aligned—
you get that.
A fan.
Not a lover. Not a potential partner. A fan.
Unbelievable.
You don’t dwell on it. You refuse to dwell on it.
Because if you do, you might actually start questioning your entire century-long career as a Cupid, and that’s a crisis you simply do not have the paid leave for.
So.
You move on.
Yeah, it's the first attempt for this human, maybe luck aka Fortuna HERSELF is not on your matchmaker's side for this time, yeah. Yeah.
Okay, next victim. We have this scary-looking man that happens to be one of his best friends.
A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Strawberry blonde hair catching the light just enough to make it look softer than it probably is.
At first glance?
Terrifying.
Fucking terrifying.
Golden eyes sharp enough to slice through glass, a resting expression that screams approach me and perish, and those red tattoos—scattered across his body like warnings no sane person should ignore.
Yeah.
Perfect.
Except—
he’s laughing.
Not loudly. Not openly. But there’s a softness there, tucked carefully between the corners of his lips as he stands beside him—your target—and their other best friend.
Ah,
so that’s the dynamic.
You narrow your eyes, immediately intrigued.
Because the moment he’s around them, that intimidating aura cracks—just a little—and what spills out instead is something dangerously close to…
… a tsundere.
You physically recoil.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Fortunately—for completely professional, totally ethical reasons—you pull out your portable camera.
(Which is absolutely not for stalking. Obviously.)
You adjust the lens, zooming in just enough to observe without being noticed.
He’s not alone.
Of course he’s not.
Because right there—standing just a little too comfortably close—is him.
The strawberry blonde menace.
And—
oh.
There’s another one.
You squint.
Tilt your head.
Zoom in your completely professional, absolutely not-for-stalking portable camera just a little more.
Ah.
A girl. A pretty purple lady.
She sits slightly apart from them—not distant, just… quiet.
Shoulders relaxed, posture neat, fingers loosely wrapped around her drink as if she’s perfectly content just being there.
Observing.
At first glance, she doesn’t seem important.
Not in the obvious way.
No loud laughter. No exaggerated reactions. No attention-grabbing presence.
But then—
your eyes narrow.
Because she’s watching them.
Not casually.
Not absentmindedly.
But carefully.
Her gaze flickers between your target and the blonde—lingering just a fraction longer than necessary every time they interact.
A small pause when they stand too close.
A subtle shift when one of them looks away first.
“… oh.”
You lean closer.
“Oh, you’re that type.”
Because that expression—
that quiet, almost analytical focus—
you’ve seen it before.
The kind of person who notices everything.
And says nothing.
Interesting.
You follow her movements for a bit longer.
The way she occasionally taps her fingers against her phone.
Unlocks it.
Types something.
Stops.
Looks up again.
… wait.
You freeze mid-air.
“No way.”
You drift even closer, peeking over her shoulder—
and there it is.
A document.
Lines of text.
Familiar names.
Very. Familiar. Context.
“… are you fucking kidding me.”
Because right there, in neat paragraphs—
she’s writing them.
Not notes.
Not reminders.
A story.
You watch, absolutely flabbergasted, as she pauses mid-sentence— eyes flicking up just in time to catch the blonde lightly nudging your target.
A reaction.
A blush.
A scoff.
Her fingers move again.
Typing faster now.
“Oh my God.”
You clutch your head.
“She’s shipping them.”
Not just shipping.
Documenting.
Curating.
Expanding.
“… she’s literally doing my job.”
Except—
no.
Not quite.
Because unlike you—
she doesn’t interfere.
She doesn’t manipulate.
She doesn’t force outcomes.
She just…
watches.
And writes.
And somehow—
somehow—
it feels more effective than everything you’ve done so far.
You slowly turn your head back toward the two idiots.
Then back to her.
“… so you KNOW too,” you whisper, almost accusing.
She doesn’t react, of course.
Still typing.
Still quiet.
Still—
dangerously observant.
Then, almost absentmindedly—
she smiles.
Small.
Subtle.
But knowing.
You shiver.
“Okay,” you mutter, wings twitching.
“Why do I feel like I’m the least competent person in this entire trio dynamic?”
AHEM, back to topic.
He loves to cook and bake, loves to play with the kids around his apartment complex (in fact he's popular among them too), and he's surprisingly very, VERY rich!!
Born as the heir for the Castrum Kremnos Pte Ltd, he's definitely a better option for you to handle as a matchmaker (and as a Cupid), especially when the said target already knows what heart they wanted to be filled, but um, yeah. Yay.
And also—unfortunately—you are NOT the only one noticing whatever the hell is going on here.
Because that girl? yeah. That quiet one. She keeps typing.
Like, a lot.
Way too much for someone who’s “just hanging out”, and every single time those two idiots get a little too close she suddenly looks up like she just unlocked a new achievement or something.
… suspicious.
"JUST CONFESS TO HIM??? WHAT'S STOPPING YOU JUST TO SAY IT'S A DATE???"
You’ve grown too tired— you even started reading his mind for ‘scientific’ purposes while searching for potential ways™ to have this so called Phainon to have a lover, specifically when the HQ asked you so nicely in like three months ago, like what's so special about him? Beside of his ugly ass fashion sense and his happy-go-lucky secrectly not being—
"Cyrene's finally back?"
Hell, you mean the land of the sinners, you've never seen him so thoroughly overjoyed like this he could have his imaginary tail wagging, and from what you could tell that SHE (Cyrene is such a feminine name to you, and no. No one is going to change that) is someone that is so important to him.
From what you can tell after accidentally reading some of his memories™, the sweet pink lady is indeed is one of his pillars for coping about their surprisingly surprising horrible childhood, but weirdly enough you can only see them once with the only keyword is ★★★,
???
Bro what??? Why is it also censored???
This has in fact never happened before, like the one before him—that being a weird cat lover lady—and in the entire century worth of your job as a Cupid and the only thing that can make you away from this bullshit is a bunch of stars??
But wait, let us see his imaginary tail, it’s wagging so that means this Cyrene that’s finally back to their country for educational purposes you don’t know what details are…
yes, YES! A childhood friend is what most of the humans here kicking their feet while on bed doomscrolling whatever scenarios they’ve been occurring in their petty heads! Hm, yes a little sprinkle of romantic feeling there too, hm. Yes.
"AH I GOT IT, HE HAS A LITTLE CRUSH ON HER, RIGHT??” you can sense the metaphorical, cartoonish light bulb coming from above your head, alongside with the smell of the sea you missed so much it makes you sick, a holiday plan has been neatly arranged in your oh so smart brain and that holiday will eat up all the days you can use as vacation allowance in a year.
The fluffy wings behind your back reacted the same way as your euphoric expression, as they’re flapping with such fast rhythm—in forever, you’re finally getting that big ass paycheck from those bastards in the HQ.
Also, you wouldn’t been this fucking happy breaking free this chain named working for searching some soulmates shit—, oh plus it’s been awhile since you’ve seen your darling pet and now you missed him too much.
“Now, now Dear Mr. Phainon, I can proudly say that I’ll be retiring from looking for your ass since I can sense that freedom miles away,” flying near the said white haired puppy boy, your transparent body quietly examines the handsome face that will likely haunt you for the next month, but after that? you will be free!!
“Ah, poor those victims of yours, I lowkey feel bad for them for not obtaining this attractive man.” holding your chin, a thoughtful thought comes to your mind, with dramatical background music playing in the back, you sigh as you count this month’s expenses from this man only.
“Well, I’d be grateful if Pixie said that I’m attractive.”
“Well, yeah of course you ARE dummy—“
What.
What?
WHAT??!!
“HOW THE FUCK??”
Aftertaste: i hv filled a complaint 😒 surely enough theyll answer that, right?
(no promises tho).
Summary: You love your job as a Cupid
Until the arrow you shoot starts becoming the problem
.
.
.
In which you're a Cupid™ and the said subject; arrow is Phainon of Aedes Elysiae
And for some reason—this time—something is watching back
Tags: cupid! reader, college student! phainon, modern au, crack treated seriously, fluffy but psychological horror, + identity issues
CW: unreliable narrator 8) also corporate j*b wow
WC: ~9,5k | crossposted on my ao3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆝 ⋆. Fishbowl of Contents
Chapter one: That Cupid, Sensing a Soulmate
Chapter two: That Cupid, Feeling Freedom
Chapter three: That Cupid, Chasing the Opportunity
Chapter four: That Cupid, with MigraineTM
Chapter five: That Cupid, Lovely Banter
Chapter six: That Cupid, Beach Episode
Bonus one: That Cupid, Special Merch
Bonus two: Breaking!! The CupidTM and the Said Subject FINALLY Get Their Promised BEACH EPISODE???
a.n wowee my very berry normal series, indeed 🫣 | animated divider by @cafekitsune
Orbi's match result: 99.8% compatibility ^^
a fan art that i made for my dr ratio x reader fluff!
dividers by @cafekitsune
💬 2 🔁 1 ❤️ 20 · IN A RECENT STATEMENT · a dr ratio x gn! reader Synopsis: Marriage, according to Dr. Ratio, is a contractual arrangement
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
IN A RECENT STATEMENT
a dr ratio x gn! reader
Summary: Marriage, according to Dr. Ratio, is a contractual arrangement requiring careful evaluation. Marriage, according to you, is living with an annoyingly attractive genius who keeps proving you wrong.
Neither of you is having a good time. (This is a lie)
Tags: tooth-rooting fluff, soulmate au, established relationship, dr veritas ratio OoHh, armed archaeologist! reader, slow burn WHOA—
CW: the possibility to make you giggling then kicking your feet is high, your honor 🙏🏻 also, reader has a j*b
WC: ~5,2k | crossposted on my ao3
Legends once said that every being on the universe are an incarnation of a star, whereas any body, including those Intellitron or even Imaginae, will have a minimal tiny speck of stardust concentrated on their own body.
It starts from a lonely, mesmerizing cloud wandering all their way to find its own cause of precipitate, trying to find their own purpose(s) of why the supernova remnants chose them.
First, they were skeptical, but when all the matters solidified, such as stardusts themselves, a scorching star will born from there, like a ballerina spins, the closer she pulls herself in, the faster she will turn, slowly making a star forgets that they were once a dust before.
Another thing is, when a star almost met its end, it will gradually became a white dwarf, they can choose on becoming another supernova for other future stars, or collapse so that they can be a neutron star or the black hole itself—which never left you speechless, on how they will absorb anything into their own body, greedily drowned themselves in ecstasy.
"Idiocy is not on my requirements for my soulmate list."
The violet haired professor staring intently at your whole body, while you quietly see the stars, humming a forgotten lullaby.
"… I'm very aware of that, Mr. Ratio.”
You absurdly stopped your hum, now looking directly on his head, "but that doesn't mean that the very Veritas Ratio himself agreed to those child-like agreement called matchmaking, right?" You sarcastically cheerfully asked to the only man, head still as attractive as ever.
You realized that his brows knitting for a mere second, after that he scoffs, "I agreed because the algorithm's methodology interested me. So, no less."
Your smile rose slyly, wondering on how this bastard prodigy accepted this unthinkable meeting without his annoy— ahem, white head on.
"Ah, another important question, do you have any stargazing place on your house?"
LovOrbit, a matchmaking app made by the Interastral Peace Corporation for any being who are thirsty for an euphoric feeling called love, already exist from three Amber Eras ago, successfully made billions of people find their other half by a simple click.
All you need is your full government name and from what world you came from, you will eventually get paired by someone that has the same gravitational frequency as yours, a soul—or mechanical body—whose orbit aligns perfectly with your own.
Once the system detects any kind of mutual resonance, LovOrbit, or the AI called Orbi, will synchronizes both of your timelines, creating a private bubble where only the two of you exist until you decide to meet.
The IPC themselves claimed LovOrbit has 99% success rate. Which only raised one question: how, in any Aeon's name, had it paired you with Dr. Veritas Ratio himself? While in reality, you're actually a nobody, like a nobody in any language if we compare it to Dr. Ratio himself—well, not really.
You're normal, you were born and raised in Lushaka, a Luvian that loves to see the sea of stars because they look different than the blue seas and the boring stateships you always see in your childhood memories. Any astronomical-related books left by the Old Era is your source of craving for diving in the stellar ocean, and fortunately the now you is a wanderer among them.
You left Lushaka on your 21st birthday, saying goodbye to your home world was hard, but it does worth as you now a proud Armed Archaeologist member with your newest discovery; Meteoric Bullet with your team, what's more surprising is that they were already exist from even all humanity doesn't.
So of course, you’re proud of yourself. Even the little you would beaming in a biiig grin. But those always comes with a price, in your honest opinion, the stars had always been easier to understand than people.
Unfortunately, Veritas Ratio counted as both.
"Something on your mind? or someone already lost its consciousness due to their brain crashed mid-process?" Ah yes, a peculiar Nous please see me >.< professor with his dear stupid alabaster head, how dare he disturbs your romantic date with the stars above?
"At least they will explode gracefully. You imbe— ah I mean, dear beloved husband, that imploding his partner by talking pure nonsense."
It's already been three days since your marriage...? with this one and only Dr. Ratio, better if you ask yourself why in the first place you agreed, but hey at least his gazebo is a nice spot for stargazing.
The first day you're in, aka the night after a feverish dream called your marriage, it only filled with you unpacking your belonging, ahem, maybe you unpacking is not the right word, but you giving some reasonable/? commands to your AI assistant to arrange your belonging.
Well, a little bit cruel for your own built AI, but at least your lazy ass tired after party body wouldn't be sick after all of that, yes? After all, a little bit of laying down wouldn't hurt a fly, they say.
The second day, your newly husband already gone, cheating with his work life meanwhile you on the other hand still on the nirvana, waiting to dear nearest star's light to wake you up with rather annoying customizable alarm(s) from your AI, duh.
Fortunately your work life isn't as strict as him, bless those Armed Archaeologists.
The next day which was today, he suprisingly has a day off, that was really suspicious of him while he was a literal professor himself, which from your knowing will always have those students lurking to him 24/7.
You squinted at the tea mug in your hand. “Ah, I better be worried,” you muttered, “if the great Professor Ratio voluntarily takes a break. Either the university burned down, or he’s planning something equally catastrophic.”
A low voice answered. “Catastrophic? hardly. Though I do appreciate your concern for my productivity.”
You didn’t even look at his well being. “Concern implies emotional investment. I’m merely curious how a man who worships logic decided to take a sabbatical from it.”
“Marriage is a contractual arrangement,” he said flatly, “logically, it requires time to evaluate the other party.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Heh, evaluate? What am I, a research subject for your stupid experiment?”
“If the shoe fits.” he answers with— oh, he has his white head on.
You sipped your tea, “you know, for someone with eight PhDs, you’re remarkably bad at human interaction.”
He gave the voice that will scream that mischievous smirk, "and yet, you married me.”
“Temporary insanity. It happens to geniuses too.” you then look away from your tea mug to the captivating stars, giving a honeyed tone to the man that standing beside you.
“That would explain several of your recent decisions." you scoffs at his statement, starting to feel a liitle bit regretful.
Surprisingly unsurprising, living in a same house as Veritas Ratio is not that kind of bad, he's pretty much like a typical quiet roommate you'll have in a university dorm, heck he even cooks better than you so you frequently caught enjoying his food more often than before.
Ah, did you mention how he always takes his bath time forever?
You never notice that because of your routine, wakes up later in the morning, head always rummaging around for a fresh cup of coffee after that.
Thus at some point, you stopped asking whether the kettle had already been boiled or not. Because from somewhere on your memory, it always was.
And there was always food too.
Not explicitly prepared for you, of course. Your husband would never phrase it that way, yet the portions had a strange tendency of being… divisible by two.
You learned not to comment on it.
He would only respond with something infuriatingly clinical like, “You are welcome to interpret coincidence however you wish.”
You didn’t, sometimes will narrow your eyes because some foods are not your liking but never explicitly say that. Let alone cooking another piece of food.
But you still ate it, no?
Once in a rare Sunday, you will wake up minutes earlier than usual, your head having the best bed hair ever that time, with a cup of coffee on your hand, you rub your eye with a hand stretching upward—you don’t like how sweet it was, though—.
Then, you stopped at the bathroom’s door—the one on the kitchen, specifically—, the grey colored thing still closed behind.
You quickly muttered, “How does one even take a bath that long?”
He doesn’t answer. Either not hearing, or choosing not to. There’s no in between.
You blink slowly, then roll your eyes, coffee already halfway finished before you decide it’s too early to argue with a closed door.
So you don’t, before some illogical arguments start fulfilling your air-filled morning head.
Instead, you walk to the couch, to the one that has comfy synthetic leather that glows over within your reflection.
To the one that has somehow become yours, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
You sit down, sinking into the familiar softness, coffee warm between your hands.
The light on the surface reminds you of when you were a child, so curious about the world, yet body too little to decide whether something was wrong about it.
…
“Only an idiot would sabotage the remainder of their day by rushing through its first hour."
Until a calm voice suddenly stopped your daydream, cold enough to act as a reminder to yourself, yet you find yourself chuckling at his abrupt voice, the surface of your coffee trembling ever so slightly in your hands.
Small ripples danced across the surface of your coffee as you lowered the cup. “Ah, there he is, a very smug bastard on a peaceful morning.”
His presence wasn’t even in the same room as you, he’s still enjoying his dear time on a date with maybe his concrete book, analyzing oh so slightly his study inside a literal bathtub.
"… research suggests that a well-maintained bathing routine improves both physical and mental health."
You took another sip of coffee.
"Research also suggests that people should sleep eight hours a day."
He scoffed. "Correct."
Before you add, "You don't do that either,” in a such teasing tone.
A quiet laugh escaped you, sending small ripples across the surface of your nearly finished coffee.
Silence.
A slow grin threatening enough spread across your face.
Another sip.
"So we're selectively trusting research now."
For once in a blue moon, the professor had nothing to say. That was definitely going into your archives.
"A disappointing attempt at rhetoric."
Click.
"If you're done celebrating mediocrity, your breakfast is getting cold." The bathroom door finally opened. Veritas Ratio stepped out a moment later, violet hair still damp from his shower and a towel draped loosely over his shoulder.
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your coffee cup.
"Good morning to you too."
Breakfast followed shortly after. The house settled into a familiar rhythm, you sat across the table, while Ratio—with his book—occasionally turning a page as you worked through your breakfast.
Until—
"reminder."
You groaned, “No."
"Reminder."
"No."
"You have an Armed Archaeologist briefing in two hours."
"... oh."
You stared blankly into your plate. It was two hours away. Two hours before responsibility came knocking at your door on a lazy Sunday morning.
How tragic.
"Master’s reaction suggests the briefing is mandatory."
"Don't say things I don't wanna hear."
In front of you, Ratio calmly took another sip of tea. “Reality remains reality regardless of your preferences."
You frowned, “And people wonder why nobody likes philosophers."
Beside you, your AI patiently waited for your attention.
"Would you like me to postpone the reminder?"
Hope sparked within you.
"Can you?"
“No.”
"Then why the hell did you ask?" your frown deepened, even the breakfast suddenly turned into not delicious anymore. You have lost your appetite.
“I must say that even an artificial being can be more logical than a human, can’t it?”
“Why are you suddenly in the same boat as my AI?” you pouted, huffing from irritation. The man in front of you looked annoyingly pleased with himself, that infuriating smirk already back on his feeble face.
He opened his mouth, “I merely returned the favor.” His honeyed tone somehow made him even more punchable.
In a blink, your briefing ended.
Nah, better to phrase it as:
With twenty four questions, one headache, and seventeen unnecessary meetings afterward, you were beginning to understand why people occasionally fantasized about launching themselves into space.
Fortunately, the day wasn't over yet.
Unfortunately, neither was your grocery list.
How your peaceful Sunday somehow ended with a grocery list remained a mystery. But if anyone was to blame, it was the man with the suspiciously judgmental red eyes.
Shortly after your briefing ended, your torture day seems to be unending.
Ever since the briefing began, your AI had been enthusiastically summarizing every single thing your colleagues said. Unfortunately, it never learned the value of brevity.
Also the way Hosea Lazaro—one of your colleagues—wholeheartedly also yapped about his great invention called Galaxy Guide or whatever that was right to your ears,
…
And his confessed sin that he once blew a hole inside Herta Space Station, how did he even ran away from his absurd galactic shenanigans? Hell even still employed after all of that.
Meh, in everything, you find yourself in front of an inter-astral supermarket, funded by the IPC themselves, with a peculiar alasbaster-head man beside you.
“Fascinating. You abruptly stopped walking.”
You slowly blink, your head automatically moved to the direction that has a mundane scholar, innocently deadpanned, you say:
“I was looking at something.”
“Very nice indeed, that was my second hypothesis.”
Far away from you two, in front of an atrium stood a suspiciously enthusiastic cluster of university students. Even one of them has a stack of books floating around her, with a… poster?
Oh shoot.
Beside you, he trails your vision then immediately scoffed at a bold writing that says:
PROFESSOR RATIO APPRECIATION CLUB
You blink again, not wanting to believe what your eyes had read.
But reality remains reality, that poster was real, and so the lurking students.
You always knew that your husband has a fan club. After all, you’re not that kind of chronically offline.
But seeing them in real life, especially with said husband standing right next to you. Makes you want to dig a hole then live in there forever.
Thus, much like worker bees finding a patch of flowers, the news traveled alarmingly fast.
“IS THAT PROF RATIO???”
“WHERE??”
“OH MY NOUS IT IS?!”
“Who’s that person beside him?”
“His assistant?”
“I thought he worked alone!”
“Should we like, say hello?”
“NO, DON'T RUN.”
Your eye twitching, you quietly mutter,
“they’re multiplying.”
Horrified at the thought how parasocial they can be, you can’t help but sneak a glance on him.
…
Then again, perhaps you had no right to judge.
Judging by how unbothered he looked, this was merely another day in his life.
His violet hair was still hidden beneath that ridiculous white head, though fortunately he wasn't crossing his arms. Experience had taught you that would've been a much worse sign.
To him, the enthusiastic crowd seemed no more noteworthy than the stars you spent hours staring at.
“WAIT IS PROF RATIO STARING AT US??”
No,
he’s not.
You deadpanned inside.
In fact, judging by the direction of his gaze/?, he was staring at a discounted packet of tea leaves.
“Are they this kind of enthusiast when you meet them or what.”
“From your reaction, you've yet to grasp how remarkably persistent they can be.”
Well, you couldn’t handle all of that.
You thanked your job once more.
Not until one of the brave soul from that crowd suddenly approaching you two, with such hesitation, he trembled slightly.
“Pr, Prof Ratio, is that your assistant?”
Oh how you love this Sunday.
Patience breeds success, they say. The singular college student patiently waits for his dear professor—or even you—to answer his simple question.
“Mr. Hastings, ever wondered why assumptions are considered one of the greatest obstacles to one’s rational thought?”
The student visibly froze.
“I— what?”
“You observed an unfamiliar individual standing beside me and immediately concluded they were an assistant of mine. Tell me, what evidence led you to such a conclusion?”
“W, well…”
“Nothing substantial, I presume.”
The poor student opened and closed his mouth twice.
Beside him, you quietly took a step away. “Professor, please don't start.”
“I am merely correcting a misconception.”
“Nuh uh, you're publicly executing him.” You want to roll your eyes, but you restrain yourself from doing so.
He replied with a voice that teased a smirk, “An unfortunate but educational side effect.”
The surrounding students had gone eerily silent.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Ratio adjusted his gloves. “For future reference, they are my spouse.”
The silence somehow became even louder.
“Oh.”
One of them let out a small squeak.
Unfortunately, the sound wasn't nearly enough to restart whatever mental processes had just crashed.
Then silence again. A complete, uninterrupted silence.
The sort that only appeared when an entire collective consciousness ceased functioning at once.
"???"
"How.”
"... oh."
“OH???”
“WHAT!??”
Judging by the collective expression before you, half the club had just ascended to another plane of existence.
… poor you and fuck his stupid grocery date.
You know you would have the loudest—
““OH MY NOUS—””
There goes your silly days without any worry about stalkers and media.
You could practically feel every pair of eyes in the supermarket fixed on you.
Meanwhile, the big meanie responsible for this humiliating situation was busy inspecting groceries as if he hadn't just detonated your social life.
“If you're formulating a complaint,” he said without looking up, “I recommend expressing it before it consumes the remainder of your cognitive resources."
You open your lips, then close it again. A huff then coming from your mouth, “why in the first place—“
“I ask you to do the groceries with me?” Checkmate, Prof Ratio.
You fixed him with a stare, waiting for his logical explanation for it while you two can just order it online, arms now crossing.
“… refrain from asking rhetorical questions if you already know the answer.”
“The current discrepancy between your accomplishments and public recognition remains statistically irrational."
Is he flirting with you?
“And no, I’m not doing everything you have on your brain now.” He deadpanned.
The sheer audacity of this man…
“Are you done yet inspecting your grocery or you have other things on your mind?” Non enthusiastic you ask another question, still with Ratio himself has his eyes on some discounted vegetables.
You didn’t wait for an answer, so of course, as you not wanting to have more association with the man, you walk away to the fruit stall, the one beside the vegetable section.
An apple then piqued your interest, with how delighted its red shining beneath the lights, making it impossible to resist picking it up.
“That variety of apple contains approximately 0.3 grams less vitamin C than the one beside it,” he chimed in, “I assume the latter would be a more rational choice if our objective is obtaining nutritional value.”
You stared at the apple in your hand.
Then at him.
Then back at the apple.
“It's an apple.”
“Yes.”
“You just lectured me over an apple.”
“Correction. I prevented you from making an inferior decision.”
You slowly lowered the fruit, eyes narrowing, “Did you follow me here just to tell me that?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you that your selection criteria are questionable.”
The urge to launch the apple directly at his alabaster head was becoming increasingly tempting.
After what felt like an eternity of unsolicited nutritional advice, their grocery date was finally drawing to a close.
Standing before an automatic checkout station, you volunteered to scan the groceries while Veritas Ratio reviewed the shopping list. As insufferable as he was, at least his organizational habits remained alarmingly consistent.
A cyan holographic grocery list floated beside him as he patiently checked off each item you scanned, "… may I ask why you suddenly decided to buy all-purpose flour?"
For half a second, he froze.
It was brief. So brief that anyone else might have missed it.
Unfortunately for him, you weren't anyone else.
"Is that another rhetorical question?"
“No? I don’t even remember we went to other section beside of groceries and beverages.” You denied immediately.
"Yes, we went there for a minute and twenty-four seconds." A pause, "I merely remembered that you once mentioned a Lushakan pastry."
You stared at him.
??? When.
"Two months ago."
That did not answer the silent question.
"When."
"The symposium on Epsilon-7."
You continued staring. Ratio sighed.
"You were complaining about the catering."
"… you claimed the pastries were inferior to a fried sweet bread commonly sold near the docks of Lushaka."
"You then spent approximately seven minutes describing that."
"..."
"And somehow," he added dryly, "I am the one being interrogated about it."
You sure he didn’t just flirting with you???
You were beginning to suspect that either Veritas Ratio had a deeply concerning memory, or he was flirting.
Unfortunately, both possibilities were equally plausible.
“Now, can we continue the delayed checkout activity, no?”
In front of the inter-astral supermarket door, your hand has a small eco-bag containing your dear apples, which him on the other side obviously has a bigger eco-bag on his hand.
You two walked together. Well, not exactly together.
It’s more like in the same general direction. Unfortunately too, that distinction seemed irrelevant to everyone else.
Inside your mind, you were still trying to determine whether Veritas Ratio possessed an alarmingly selective memory or an equally alarming tendency to flirt.
Before you could arrive at a conclusion, something landed lightly atop your head.
...
You stopped walking.
A gloved hand. A very familiar gloved hand.
Slowly, you turned.
Ratio had already withdrawn it.
"Your expression was becoming increasingly absurd."
"..."
"There’s a leaf on top of your head earlier.”
"You just touched my head."
"I am aware."
That was not an explanation.
In fact, it somehow raised even more questions.
“WHAT???”
“HE PATTED THEIR HEAD??”
“WRITE THAT DOWN! NO, DOCUMENT IT!!”
“I ALREADY AM!!!”
Somewhere far away from you two, spotted the infamous fan club of your husband— is that a fucking telescope??
“Ratio.”
“Yes?”
“Go away.”
.
.
.
Fortunately, your own replica of Space Anchor functions really well.
All thanks to those kind Trailblazers or otherwise taking a public spaceship after today's events would've forced you into permanent self-exile.
Before the very eyes of you, stood a familiar house you spent looking at it for months.
“Is something really the matter?”
And the annoying owner of the house was standing directly behind you.
“I’m considering whether moving into a hole would be a better long-term investment.”
“The ventilation would be suboptimal.”
“I’m not asking you.”
Examining his gazebo then to the man, you wondered why a place as pretty like that has an owner whose name start with V and ends with eritas Ratio.
…
Hmph, whatever.
Looking away, your eyes thoughtlessly drifted toward his hands.
Familiar gloves,
familiar posture,
familiar voice...
Somewhere between grocery lists, burnt coffee, endless student complaints, and breakfasts that always appeared on time...
those things had stopped belonging to Veritas Ratio.
They had simply become part of your day.
When had that happened?
When had Veritas Ratio become familiar?
That whip splash hit you like a brick.
Cruel enough to be thrown without a kiss.
Two weeks after that incidentTM.
Especially the day after his fan club spotted the two of you, the IPC's radio, Interastral Peace Broadcast gleefully announced your marriage,
… even though the ceremony had happened months ago.
You blame him for your peaceful day loss, yet he didn’t even bat an eye for your pathetic complaint.
But, the house was quieter lately.
Not empty. It just quieter.
Your husband continue to cheat on his work life, leaving you and your AI assistant back in home for approximately three days.
Veritas Ratio had been away for two days now, attending some symposium on a planet whose name immediately escaped your memory.
A shame. You were sure it was probably important.
To him. Not to you.
Obviously.
The tea tasted different tonight. So you stared at the cup.
Then at the cabinet.
Then at the cup again.
Ah,
wrong tea leaves.
At some point during the past month, your favorite blend had mysteriously become the default option inside the kitchen.
Suspicious.
You blamed Ratio.
A sigh escaped you.
The stars remained beautiful, even the gazebo remained alluring.
The weather also had been surprisingly cooperative.
Everything was exactly where it should be.
So why did the house feel larger?
"..."
How annoying.
For someone whose greatest talents consisted of criticizing your life choices and relocating kitchen utensils, Veritas Ratio occupied an unreasonable amount of space.
You hated that realization.
“Master’s seem displeased. Is that perhaps because of Dr. Ratio?”
You blinked. Then immediately frowned.
“No.”
“Understood.”
The AI paused.
Then added, “Master has stared at the front door six times today.”
...
“That's unrelated.”
“Master also checked Dr. Ratio’s itinerary twice.”
“That's called curiosity.”
“Master additionally spent seventeen minutes complaining about the tea.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“The tea was objectively worse.”
“Understood.”
Your AI paused again.
A dangerous sign.
“Would Master like me to calculate the statistical probability that these events are connected?”
“No.”
“Noted.”
Silence settled once more between the two of you.
Above, the stars continued their endless dance.
Below, the tea remained mediocre.
You sighed. Again.
“Master sighed.”
“I know.”
“Master has sighed seven times in the last hour.”
“Thank you for your valuable contribution.”
“You are welcome.”
...
Sometimes you wondered why you built this thing.
Then again, Veritas Ratio once called it your most successful long-term project.
You hated the fact that he was probably correct.
Fortunately, the universe eventually remembered mercy.
Three days was apparently the maximum amount of time Veritas Ratio could remain away from home before the cosmos itself grew tired of him.
The front door slid open shortly after noon.
You only knew that because your AI announced it.
Not because you'd been listening for footsteps. Obviously.
"Dr. Ratio has returned." You looked up from your datapad.
"..."
"..."
"Why are you looking at me?"
The AI tilted its head. “No reason."
A lie. A terrible one.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway.
It was steady. Measured. Annoyingly recognizable.
A travel bag landed near the entrance. Then another.
You didn't bother greeting him, a perfectly reasonable decision. After all, he was merely returning from a symposium. Not a galactic war.
“Good afternoon." There goes the honeyed voice, which you immediately frowned.
Ah. There he was. The problem itself.
"Oh, you're alive."
"What a fascinating greeting."
"I try my best."
Ratio removed his gloves.
Carefully and methodically.
Like he was performing surgery instead of unpacking.
Then his eyes landed on the tea mug beside you.
"..."
"..."
"What?"
"Wrong blend."
You froze.
"..."
The bastard. The absolute bastard.
"It was the only one available." You lied like you’re breathing.
Ratio looked toward the cabinet, then back at you.
"The one you usually drink is on the second shelf."
...
How did he know that so quickly?
More importantly. Why did you suddenly feel caught?
"Congratulations." You deadpanned, “your observational skills remain functional."
"An expected outcome."
You wanted to throw the mug at him. Instead, you took another sip.
Still terrible.
Unfortunately.
A liittle less terrible now.
For a brief second, something shifted at the corner of his mouth.
Then it was gone.
A month has passed after that grocery incident.
Like your Credit, it was already running low for your new project with your team.
But at least it was worth because cooperating with the Genius Society themselves already a big dream for you and your team.
Specially it's the famous Intellitron with number code 76; Screwllum himself.
Also, did you mention the downside living together with him?
The answer is that you will eventually disturbed with mechanical voices from time to time.
Because of what? of course it’s because of his students.
With their endless energy, they’re waiting for the Professor’s approval for their theses, which fortunate enough from his scolds only will drive them away.
"Heh, seeing them like this remind me from those pitiful college era, luckily my professor is not a heartless being that has 3% of completion rate."
Enjoying swirls at late night balcony stargazing is always a nice thing to do, "The best thing about them is at least they're not foolish enough to embarrass me in the public."
"Oh, what a rare sight, a man that happily married with his dumb white head not wearing them tonight?"
From the side of your eye, you can see the menacing red pupils that unfortunately will stuck with you forever.
"Hmph, only one astute enough to see a Mundanite without his pride," smug smile plastered on his damn attractive face, “yet you call it really affectionate.”
“You can just admit that you devote an unreasonable amount of attention to me."
"Hm, there goes a narcissistic bastard that can't stop mumbling about his own face," you say it quietly, still admiring the stars.
“I always take pride in my education first, if I must say.”
Eyes both twinkling from the skies above, you blinked before answering the dear rhetoric question, “but still, better if you keep that white thing on, though."
"If not?"
He crosses his hands, waiting patiently for your response.
“If not—" taking a small walk, you're now standing in front of him, forcing two different pair of pupils staring at one another.
He immediately shuts his eyes, as if he knows your next move, but unfortunately high expectations always make things fall apart, and he's one of them.
.
.
.
"Pfft, you really thought I'm going to kiss your damn mouth?"
He blinks, startled by how close you still are.
You sigh, looking away. “... not tonight, you idiot.” he can see that your eyes are rolling, making an obnoxious excuse.
It’s half a lie.
You’re still fighting a smile.
Eyes continue to drinking ine tight of the stars, giving an uncertain cliffhanger ending to two beating hearts.
Then, before either of you can say anything else, you step close enough for your shoulder to brush his—
!!!
"Pfft— ha ha ha! look at your face, dear husband,"
For once, he failed to produce an immediate response.
Because from a mere kiss on his cheek.
Truly a remarkable achievement.
The faint redness at the tips of his ears remained long after he'd recovered.
"..."
"That was… unexpected."
"Your standards for entertainment continue to concern me."
But ah, how fortunate, the earlier event was real, and now you're giving him the biggest smirk ever.
“… good night, dear Veritas Ratio.”
You stepped away before he could reply.
For once, the professor seemed unusually reluctant to fill the silence.
And for the first time, you found yourself hoping he would stay that way a little longer.
Tonight, the captivating stars still shone beautifully.
Somehow too, they weren’t the only thing worth looking at anymore.
Orbi's match result: 99.8% compatibility ^^
a fan art that i made for my dr ratio x reader fluff!
dividers by @cafekitsune
