this blog is just going to be me going absolutely insane over him, word vomits, rambles, brainrots and thoughts, occasional bits of (terrible) art and occasional pieces of writing that i do.
i don't mind if you share my f/o with me HOWEVER i do not want to see content around him specifically (i.e. if you have a tag that i can block). i will only be posting about dr ratio. feel free to block/unfollow/etc. if you share
self-ship blogs pls be my mutual <3 i am supporting you and your f/o through and through (pls note that all interactions will come from @birdloverr)
carrd (more about me)
BYF & DNI
✰ i am not a minor. feel free to block/unfollow/ignore if you're uncomfortable.
✰ dni: basic dni category (pro-shippers, homophobes, racists, transphobes, etc), if you support crytpo or ai art
✰ all of my interactions will be coming from @birdloverr (main blog)
Something has possessed your body, wearing your face around the guild, your actual soul nowhere to be found.
Dr. Veritas Ratio will bring you back. He has no patience for these things, you see.
dan heng ver.
dr. ratio ♡ gn!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, lore inaccuracies (i pulled this out of my ass), body possession, body swapping, identity vagueness, not proofread, reader is a professor, graphic depictions of choking
notes: i wrote this maniacally in one sitting. posting this straight from the source. no beta no proofread not even a second to stop and reconsider anything at all. FUCK IT WE BALL!!!
Fools remain stagnant.
They accept things as they are, with no regard for betterment—but maybe that's too harsh of an idea. Fools, simply, do not realize they are fools. They do not realize that there are things to be bettered, that there are crevices to be pried apart.
Fools accept things as they are because there is nothing else for them to accept.
"Dr. [Name], a moment, please!" a scholar exclaims, racing towards your figure. Papers in hand, they huff and puff upon catching up to you, readjusting their scholarly glasses before clearing their throat, thumbing nervously through the clips and the sticky notes, rereading their work as if it were their first day in the universe.
"What is it?" you reply, arms crossed while you look down at the scholar with a sneer. "I don't have all day, you know. I've got some, uh... I've got things to do."
"Are you returning to your gambling habits, Dr. [Name]?" the scholar has the audacity to ask. You furrow your brows, a harsh scoff escaping your lips while you cock your head to the side, smiling without mirth.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry! Forget I said anything!"
"Tell me what it is you need," you snap.
"So, regarding my thesis, I've been meaning to introduce the intricacies of the syntax, that of which—"
"The what and the where and the huh?" you interrupt, rubbing at your temples with an unmoved look. "Can you speak in words I understand?"
"Dr. [Name], you're the one who—"
"Silence," you say, waving your hand dismissively, turning around without any regard. "I'm leaving. You've taken far too much of my time."
Whispers spread amongst the fools, detailing how starkly you've changed, how Dr. Ratio's personality may be contagious, how smart people inevitably become assholes in the pursuit of knowledge. Ignoring the concerned looks of passerby, you saunter down the hall with quick steps, stopped only by the figure blocking your way.
Your expression sours instantly, lips parting to snap a harsh, "Move."
No response. You spare the perpetrator a glance—it's a man, well, it looks to be a man. He's wearing some sort of mask that doesn't fit the rest of his body, the disproportionality quite jarring.
Still, your jaw clenches, and you feel the pulsating tug of rage thumb at your stomach. You don't have time for this. You need to get back to your quarters and gather all of your research and—
"Are you done?" the owner of the ugly mask asks.
"Excuse me?"
"I asked if you were done."
"Yeah," you then respond, "I'm clocking out for the day. Move out of my way, ugly man."
Dr. Veritas Ratio commends the possessor for bearing a similar mind to your own—it is precisely those who are in denial who refer to him as "ugly."
Still, there are some things that cannot be imitated so simply, lest deep introspection is involved. Before possessing your body, Veritas wonders if the possessor considered, for even an iota of a second, delving into your field of study; he wonders if the possessor considered your relationships with your peers; he wonders if the possessor did so much as reflect on the enormity of overtaking a vessel such as yours.
How very foolish. If anything, Veritas wonders how you allowed yourself to be possessed by such a stupid thing. But, again, you aren't too far-removed yourself; it is your acceptance of your own stupidity which makes you wise.
The real you, at least. Veritas stares at the imbecile wearing your body, and he thinks that, if you were to be possessed by something, perhaps a slime would do you more favors.
"You progressed quite quickly," Veritas states, not bothering to look over as you shove past his figure, muttering wildly under your breath. "Have you stopped to consider whether or not this'll do you more harm than good?"
No response.
How very foolish, Veritas thinks. Because you would've had many things to say. He can think of a couple for you, such as, "Why do you talk like that?" Or, "Can you shut the fuck up?" You'd prefer the latter—you've always slanderered his ears with crude language in that regard.
But you said nothing at all.
Veritas continues forward, not once looking back. He has no time to gaze upon fools.
He must find your original soul—truth be told, he's not quite sure if you can find your way back alone.
When you were first possessed, Veritas thought that the difference was laughably obvious.
It's in your speech patterns (you, ever the devotee to linguistics, prefer silence over filling your sentences with "uh's" and "um's"), your body language (students found you more comfortable to approach precisely because of your open posture, the way you would sit beside them instead of across during instruction, the way you kept your hands by your side whilst he only ever crossed them), the duration of which you'd sink into your studies (Veritas could appreciate how you preferred physical books over digital ones, how you thumbed delicately at the pages, careful not to cause it wear).
How could a fool think themself wise, when living in a body such as yours? Your possessor does not bother treating language with care, unless it comes to expletives, which for some reason, they are quite conservative about.
Not to mention the disgrace of your posture, contorting your limbs so unfamiliarly, it feels as though this body was never yours to begin with—it's in the ugly sneer of your lips, the narrowed turn of your eyes, the disgusted furrow of your brows.
Everything your possessor does ought to warrant deep reflection on their behalf. How could you wear the face of a dog while claiming it to be a cat?
Veritas considers the treatment of knowledge to be the most sacrilege offense of them all, for your possessor has no wherewithal for the pages of books, no consideration for its priceless value, and, most terribly, no proper understanding of the time needed to comprehend its meaning.
But it seems as though there are more simpletons in the guild than he gave credit for. Instead of pointing out your blatant shift in stature, scholars began spreading rumors, roping him into the explanation as for why their favorite professor became different (or, in their words, "evil") overnight. Even more audaciously, the scholars under your direct teaching have made no attempt to learn why you've changed in such a way.
It seems as though you have to monitor your circle more closely, [Name], Veritas thinks, eyeing your department while they scamble recklessly, unable to submit theses without your proper guidance. You've held their hands too much. Don't you know that students will grow dependent on having answers spoonfed to them?
Though, intervention is necessary in certain circumstances. While your department falls into the gutter, Veritas takes matters into his own hands.
(Frankly, he has been taking matters into his own hands from the moment you were possessed. How could he trust the knowledge of those who are still budding in regards to your whereabouts?)
While your possessor is stupid, they seem to be quite good at covering up their tracks. But no fool can evade the magnitude of their own shortcomings, and, truly, the answer is as simple as a breath. Veritas, ever the efficient man, prefers not wasting time when it can be spared for other efforts.
Chalk in hand, he heads towards your office, ignoring the startled looks of the linguistic scholars, unfamiliar with his presence.
Though, they clearly are unfamiliar with yours, he thinks.
He slams the door open to your office, noticing your figure hunched over on the ground, clawing at your theses, tearing at the pages of books you adored. Veritas has no time to waste—he has many things to do, after all—but, even more so when it involves you.
"Have you reflected?" he asks. The chalk, now powdered, falls to the ground of your beloved office. You would throw him out if it were you.
But you're not you.
"Why are you here?" you spit, your eyes wide, expression crazed as you tear through your own studies, ripping through books, tossing knowledge's infinite worth haphazardly. The language you oh-so adored, Veritas wonders, what will you think when you return?
(Because you will return. Most certainly.)
If it were you, you wouldn't even fathom the thought of ruining your collection. In between the layers of dictionaries and analyses on language are your favorite light novels which, as you've told him many a time before, are full of culture and joy that truly cannot be recreated.
(You've recommended quite a few to him, which Veritas declined without much room for argument. He has no interest in light novels, especially with their nonsensical plots and titles that are far too long for no reason other than to explain the premise and grab the attention of those who have been fried by algorithms—still, you continue on, reading your slop.)
(If it were you, what would you say when you learn of the fact that Veritas has given your beloved light novels a shot? What will you do when you realize that he has the volumes you're looking for, stuffed away in the crevices of his office, reserved for when you're slumped over in the library, reading into the night, half-considering a novel to pick you up, but unable to find it on your own?
(He will give them to you then, and you will look at him with utter disbelief and betrayal at the idea that he's had them all along. And he will scoff, and you will punch him, and you will swear at him, but then, you'll tuck away with your little book, too engrossed in its contents to realize that the eyes of an astonishingly beautiful man—who has only ever sought to understand the depths of knowledge—now beholds you, desperate to understand what it is that goes on in your mind, to pick you apart and determine whether or not there is space for himself to slot into.)
But you're not you.
And, with that, Veritas acts.
He throws another piece of chalk past your face, its impact creating a small crater in the side of your desk as you turn towards him, mouth hanging agape, maddened gaze shifting to reveal the depths of hatred.
"Ratio..." you seethe, fists clenching, nails digging into the skin of your palm and drawing blood. Veritas grabs your arm, shaking the action from your limbs, forcing you onto the ground with a harsh slam! as he pins you there, wrists bound by his hands, his expression blocked by his mask.
For an idiot to utter his name—Veritas ought to run himself a bath after this.
And it's Veritas to you.
"Could you even hurt me?!" you then say, laughing. The sound, although adorned by the chords of your voice, sounds grating, devoid of humor and mirth, two things which you always bore so carelessly. To wear your face, to use your voice, to sully your expressions—Veritas is fed up.
"You couldn't if you tried!" you exclaim, eyes growing wide once the realization dawns upon you, the first ounce of thought appearing in your possessor's mind. "Look at you, Ratio! How utterly pathetic! To think you can't even bring yourself to hurt this body! Aren't you—"
He slams a piece of chalk into your mouth, shutting you up. He should've done that earlier. But the chokes which rip from your throat, eyes beginning to glaze over, teary, as you gasp for air, are things that Veritas also has to rid himself of during his bath later. How unpleasant.
"Your quick progression leaves room for much error," he states, using this as a moment to teach a fool a lesson. "And, I suppose you haven't reflected at all, considering that even an iota of thought would've been enough for you to realize that this will only do you more harm than good."
The worst part about idiocy, is that it cannot be explained to an idiot.
Seeing your possessor suffocate on their own shortcomings stirs nothing in Veritas; the sound of your choking, however, does warrant a bath and a book to clear his mind later. He never wants to see your face worn like this again.
"Is that clear, [Name]?" he then asks, your struggle coming to a grating halt, your glossy eyes fading into darkness as your eyes flutter shut, your lungs no longer stretching for air, your pulse lost as he presses his fingers against your wrist.
A beat of silence. He reaches into your still mouth, pulling the chalk from your throat, his expression unmoving under his mouth despite feeling your saliva against his skin. Silence.
His brows only furrow when you gasp for air, eyes shooting open, hands returning to their struggle against his as you look around, terribly disoriented and so, very terribly, you.
"Veritas?" you say, breathless. "Why do you look like that?"
He's wearing a mask.
"Before asking questions, do you ever stop to consider whether it's worth asking?"
His hands part from yours, allowing you to reach for his face, peeling the metal from his skin, revealing the poignant wrinkle of his nosebridge, the downward curl of his lips, the narrow of his eyes as he bears into your soul, scrutinizing its form, searching for any imperfections left by the fool.
There is nothing.
Only perfection, it seems.
"It took you so long!" you remark, sitting up. "I thought you'd do something sooner! You know how terrible it was to watch myself be mean to my department? Ugh, now I'm like you! That's so fucking terrible!"
Veritas scoffs. "All of this could've been avoided if you hadn't touched something you shouldn't have. Take this as a lesson."
"It also could've been avoided if you had killed my possessor earlier! You knew from the beginning, didn't you?!"
"Blaming others for your shortcomings... How very like you."
You say that as if it's something easy to do; truthfully, Veritas had to explore all of his options before acting. He's not one to commit without certainty.
If he had killed you upon possession, how could he guarantee that you wouldn't be swept up in the process? There's a fine line between life and death, and he's not one to take chances, especially when mathematics alone is enough to determine an outcome.
(More simply, though, is the fact that he did not want to bear witness to your death in any capacity, possessor or not.)
"Now I have to do damage control. And my novels! No, no, no! Not my novels!"
(What will you do when you realize that he has the volumes you're looking for, stuffed away in the crevices of his office, reserved for when you're slumped over in the library, reading into the night, half-considering a novel to pick you up, but unable to find it on your own?)
"Instead of your novels, why don't you consider grieving your textbooks?"
"Those can be replaced! But my novels... I annotated them, I loved them, I annotated them, I..."
(What will you do when you realize that, Dr. Veritas Ratio himself, is sickeningly in love with you? To the point where he could not bring your possessor harm, as they wore your body? To the point where he reads subpar light novels, simply because you've made them your entire personality?
(What will you do?
(He wonders, and truly, the outcome seems to be predetermined. Already, he's thought of a response for you: "Really? You? Don't make me laugh. You look stupid like that."
(And you'd be, most regrettably, right about that.)
"You're not even listening to me," you mutter, pointing at him disrespectfully. "You scum of Washtopia! Veritas, I'm going to whoop your ass!"
He doesn't bother responding. Still, to tell him off for not listening is quite ironic, considering the fact that he's listened to you repeat the same words over and over again. You've mentioned annotating your light novels twice. Do you not annotate your actual books of importance? Also, what's this about being the scum of Washtopia?
"Are you even listening to me, young man?!"
You two are the same age.
Still, he doesn't say anythng. Why bother participating in an argument with no real purpose? Veritas lets you have your fill, considering the fact that you've been sitting back as your possessor wreaked havoc in your body.
He looks at you, maskless and all.
You look back at him, scowling, sure, but the expression is a stark contrast to the sneer of your possessor, the audacious tilt of their head.
I like to think that, if you're the type of person to sleep anywhere at anytime, Ratio would always bring you back to bed. You fell asleep on the couch? You woke up on your bed with the air conditioner on and a blanket over you.
You fell asleep on the dinner table while waiting for him? You'll wake up with his arms around you, holding you in place. His face buried on your nape, and his warm breath steady against your skin. (*´ω`*)
Extra: When he wakes up he gave you an earful about how sleeping on the table will ruin your posture and earn yourself some back pain.
Dr. Ratio x Eczema! Reader | No smut this time || mdni [m4a, short]
All it took was one little peep.
You said one thing about how horribly itchy the rashes were getting and that you couldnt stop yourself from itching them. Especially not while you were asleep.
Ratio decided to take the issue into his own hands. He poured over hours of research on the condition, asked about your triggers, started doing tests.
First, he made the change from cotton sheets and pillowcases to silk almost immediately. He learned that it's better for your skin (and his own).
Second, he started having you take baths with him before bed. He was mindful to not stare at your bare body across from him in the bath, instead reading books and making small, unimportant conversation to pass time. It was uncomfortable at the beginning, but you eased into it eventually.
Finally, he started finding a way to keep you from itching. He changed your sleepwear to cotton, and- after many, many days- made a pair of gloves for you. Lined on the inside with cotton, and a thin layer of silk on the outside, Ratio had tailored gloves in your like to make an attempt of helping you.
For a man of little words, Veritas Ratio certainly had his own way of showing his love for you.
I saw that your requests are open and if I humbly may… doesn’t matter how short it is but just something about tracing Ratio’s features while he’s resting. Seeing him so relaxed might surely be quite different than seeing him when he has to deal with the idiocy of the world
A/N: thank you for the request, anon! aghhh i love this idea so much i was just mentally chewing on it for several hours after you sent this ask. soft ratio is my weakness, so i really hope this suits your vision! 0.4k words.
You are beginning to think the sunlight is kinder to Ratio than most other forms of illumination. Though he looks lovely to you in all lighting (naturally), there is something undeniably special about how the dawn in particular treats him. How strange it is to think that—at a distance—a thing so oppressive can be equally gentle in its approach as it outlines your unconscious husband’s features. There is such care in how the light envelopes each line and curve that it frequently tempts you to take your own hands to his face, if only to mindlessly (indulgently) caress it. The pads of your thumbs navigate every slope with more familiarity than the last, experience accumulated slowly from every morning spent just like this; catching every bit of sun dripping from the curve of his jaw for as long as his subconscious permits. How strange it is to think that the face of a man so tense in life can become this kind in sleep. Not that he is completely lacking in softness in consciousness; you have seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you are too distracted to notice. Your adoration is fully returned.
A more ambitious piece of you succeeds in dragging a hand down, down down to Ratio’s collarbone—briefly filling the faint gap between bones before bringing that same limb back up, up up to smooth out the furrow of his brow as his face tenses yet again, awakened by the persistent feeling of his skin on yours. He quite likes to carry the weight of the world on his mind, you think. Most think him harsh—which he certainly can be when it comes to words, for that is how the wear of it all chooses to show on him. You know that firsthand. But the kindness, the warmth, the understanding of the man you know always far outweighs it.
Which becomes especially apparent on days such as today, when the first words to leave your husband’s mouth are not words at all but a sigh of exhaustion and an arm wrapped round your waist. His expression relaxes more at the confirmation that it’s truly you beside him, eyes fluttering back shut as his hold around you tightens. A muttered good morning is all that precedes a light (careful, even) squeeze of your side. At no point does the man protest your hands making much, much too much contact with his face than what is considered reasonable.
Ratio is beginning to think the sun’s warmth is not worthy of being compared to yours.
Rejecting Ratio on the basis of not being smart enough — specifically "you deserve someone who can hold intelligent conversations with you" — would result in a deep frown on his face and a hand hovering centimetres from your cheek. His eyes search yours and it's clear that he's unhappy with your words. He'd accept a normal rejection but this foolish excuse? He cannot allow it. Ratio will ask if you doubt his conviction and unless you make an argument he cannot dispute, he won't let this go.
Okay but if you asked Ratio if he would still love you if you were a worm, do you think you'd find books on worm upkeep in his collection the following days? Because I kinda do.
You might test Ratio's patience but your ridiculous questions highlight his lack of knowledge on a subject, even within his field of study. It irritates him but he also appreciates it. Ask him more weird hypotheticals and he will be able to answer you next time.
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