bit of an odd request sorry but can you please write a scenario where reader feels very guilty receiving gifts/spending too much money on themselves? (but wont hesitate to get something nice for their so) with ratio, anaxa, and dan heng? thanks
The Cost of Kindness
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Gift-Giving/Receiving, Emotional Intimacy, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Moments, Established Relationship, Fluff With Depth, Mutual Respect, Supportive Partner Dynamics, Slight Angst (Mostly Resolved).
Warnings: Emotional Vulnerability/Guilt Themes (Reader struggles with self-worth and receiving affection through material gifts), Mild Angst.
You stared down at the gilded box in your hands, its silk ribbon shimmering in the light like an accusation. The shopkeeper had even triple-wrapped it, as if to seal your guilt inside. You hadn’t asked for this. You were supposed to be helping Ratio find a replacement core for one of his experimental scanners—not being dragged to a boutique and handed a box containing a timepiece that probably cost more than your monthly rent.
“This is... too much,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes.
Ratio, always precise, adjusted his gloves before replying. “It is not ‘too much.’ It’s precise compensation for your value.”
Your brows knit. “I’m not some equation to balance.
“No,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re the constant I didn’t know I needed. And I value constants.”
You looked away. You’d never flinched at buying him expensive journals or rare data drives—he needed those. But spending this much on yourself? It felt wrong, indulgent.
“I just don’t think I deserve it.”
Ratio tilted his head, a slow smile curling at his lips. “And yet, when I find pre-collapse astronomy archives and name a galaxy after you, you don’t bat an eye.”
“That’s different,” you mumbled.
“How?”
“Because you’re worth it.”
He chuckled—dry, but not unkind. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
A pause. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a second gift. Smaller. Rougher. A stone pendant, carved clumsily into the shape of a book.
“I made this,” he said, placing it in your hand. “Cheap. Sentimental. Crude craftsmanship.”
You looked up, stunned. “Ratio…”
He raised a brow. “Do you still feel guilty accepting this?”
“No,” you admitted.
“Then let that be your proof. Value isn’t about price. It’s about intent.” His voice softened. “You mean more to me than theory, thesis, or thesis rebuttal. Let me show that. Occasionally.”
You let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Alright... but next time, we’re budgeting.”
Ratio smirked. “Deal—though I make no promises.”
The sky over the city shimmered like broken glass, fragments of twilight casting hues of gold over Anaxagoras’s shoulders as he unfurled a scroll. “This,” he declared with theatrical flair, “is the last of the Damaskan thread-spellworks. A relic woven from symphonies.”
You stared at it. Woven relic or not, your heart panged. “Anaxa... that must have cost you half your lecture fund.”
“Only a third,” he corrected. “Besides, I reallocated some grant money. They never check the divine philosophy budget.”
“That’s not the point.” You folded your arms, teeth gritted. “You shouldn’t spend that much on me. I can’t— I don’t need—”
His look silenced you. Not angry. But... deeply curious.
“You have gifted me relics, tomes, and forbidden relic-shards,” he said slowly. “You once snuck past library curators to recover a broken fragment of my own treatise—in my defense I had burned it in a rather self-loathing episode.”
You looked away. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you. You give meaning to madness. You’re worth every risk.”
Anaxagoras chuckled, then dropped to one knee, the scroll still glowing in his hands. “And you are my lodestar. The one fixed truth in my shifting mind.”
He pressed the scroll gently into your hands. “This isn’t about worth. It’s about recognition. About saying, ‘You are seen. You matter.’”
You bit your lip, guilt still clawing inside—but softened by the sincerity in his storm-washed eyes.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Let me honor you. As you have honored the foolish, the damned, and the divine.”
“…Alright,” you whispered. “But I’m sewing your next robe myself.”
He smirked. “Only if it comes with a pocket for contraband manuscripts.”
The Astral Express hummed quietly in the background, a lullaby of stars and steam. You held the scarf in your hands—a pale blue weave, soft as starlight, lined with subtle cloud patterns. Dan Heng had handed it to you without fanfare. No tag. No price. Just… him, awkwardly scratching his neck, murmuring something about “weather adaptation.”
“Dan…” you began, voice catching. “You shouldn’t have.”
He frowned. “You needed something warmer. I noticed you shivering on Jarilo-VI.”
“I could’ve picked something up later. This is... too nice.”
“You bought me that calligraphy set last week,” he countered softly.
“That’s different! You actually use that.”
He looked at you quietly for a moment. “And you use warmth. You deserve comfort.”
The words struck a chord. You didn’t feel like you deserved it. Spending money on yourself made your chest feel tight—guilt like a coil. But Dan Heng didn’t say more. He simply took the scarf, stepped behind you, and gently wrapped it around your shoulders.
“You don’t need to earn kindness,” he said. “Not with me.”
You felt the quiet weight of his presence—solid, grounding. A storm-stilled moment. You reached back to rest your hand against his.
“I still feel guilty,” you admitted.
He didn’t respond immediately, just let the silence stretch.
“Then let’s share it,” he said finally. “I’ll give you warmth. You keep giving me light.”
