⊹ series summary : for as long as you've known how much of a prodigy your brother was, you've known that you'll never be able to compare. you strive to find a way to gain a name for yourself, free from his legacy, but even with all of your envy, turmoil, and built-up resentment, blood ties are not so easily severed.
platonic dr. ratio & twin!reader.
𝒾. chapter warnings : insecurity, inferiority. implied bad parenting. see main post of this series for the series' tags. ( 4k words )
𝒾𝒾. contents : a snapshot of the past, and how the ratio siblings came to be.
At age nine, you learned about the debate of nature versus nurture. On the very same day, you solved it.
You were sat in the back of a stuffy, half-filled classroom, your hands busy scrunching up tiny pieces of paper into balls to flick at your friend in front of you. She had at least five stuck in her hair by that point, but was yet to notice your antics, so you kept tossing. One bounced off the back of her head and skittered to the floor, making one of your other classmates shoot you a dirty look.
At her left, was your brother. Your fingers itched to throw some at him as well, but you held yourself back—if only because his own self-awareness was far more competent than your friend, and he wouldn’t hesitate to call you out on it.
“…So in response to this flawed model, they suggested their own theory.” Your teacher’s voice carried on, a steady drone to accompany an already slow day. You tore off another piece of paper, and tried to tune her out. “Opposing the idea that a person’s nature is innate and written into their genetics, this researcher brought forward the claim that it is how they are brought up that shapes them the most. They believed strongly that one’s environment is the leading factor in influencing how they develop into adulthood.”
You pinched the scrap piece into a tiny ball, no bigger than a breadcrumb, and aimed it.
“This was the start of the debate, and it’s been heavily contested since then. Many nuanced stances have been established, but the initial question remained the same; that being whether a person’s nature—their genetics—or their environment and upbringing—how they are nurtured—has more of an effect on their development.”
In front of you, Veritas scrawled something down in his notebook, his attention fully taken by her the lesson. Your fingers twitched.
“One particularly notable development in this debate was introducing twins to the equation. At first, studies were conducted on identical twins, with non-identical twins being brought into the fray later on. It presented a unique opportunity to study those with identical environments and 50 to 100% of shared DNA, data that would be used to predict how certain factors may affect individuals.”
He was always writing something or other, whether they were in class or not. It mesmerised you once, back when you were young and still learning how to write your own name, how quickly he turned scribbles into legible words. Once the quality of his handwriting turned from hasty and scribbled to neatly printed letters, the quantity increased as well. From idle doodles on the edges of whatever paper he could find—first his name, than yours, just to prove he could spell every letter correctly—to pages upon pages in that leather-bound notebook of his.
Once, you would have been enthralled by the sight, yet something about it only stirred up irritation. Your own sheet of paper, almost fully torn up to make your paper balls, was blank.
“Thus, that philosopher posed the question of it all. ‘Who are we to judge, when we know not the mind that a man is born with, or the hands that have cradled him? How can we judge, when we know not the fingerprints staining his soul?’ He took what would be considered a neutral stance, deciding that it was neither one nor the other, but both that make a person.”
Veritas’s head turned slightly, as if he had felt your glower, or heard the ring of your thoughts. The movement was just enough for you to see him roll his eyes, before he faced the front once more.
Perhaps it was your immaturity, the impulsiveness you hadn’t yet learned to wrangle that spurred what happened next, or perhaps it was just spite. But your pettiness won over, and you were tearing out another piece of paper before you could think about what you were doing, crumpling it into a perfect sphere.
At that moment, there were three things that happened. The first was your friend, rising from her seat to use the restroom. A few pieces of paper fell out of her hair onto the floorboards, right where her foot was about to step. The second, your hand, already positioned to throw the next projectile, wasn’t able to stop in time, launching it right at the base of Veritas’s skull. And the third, your teacher, seeing movement in the corner of her eye, looked up and over to the back of the classroom.
Your friend stumbled on the paper-covered ground, letting out a shriek in surprise, at the same time your teacher’s eyes widened, then narrowed in fury. Veritas flinched at the feeling of paper hitting his head, spinning around in his chair with a furious look on his face.
“Hey!” he shouted, as the teacher called your name. “Cut it out!”
And you. You laughed. You couldn’t help yourself, the giggles spilled out too fast for you to stifle, and the way his face turned scarlet at your unabashed amusement only made it worse. His hands curled into fists over his notebook. You could tell his short temper—always bubbling under both of your surfaces, but seldom seen from him—had started to rise.
“It’s not funny.” Veritas hissed, reaching down to swipe the paper ball. “Why can’t you be serious!”
At the last syllable, he hurled the ball back, smacking you right in the forehead. The force behind it stunned you into a brief silence, your laughter cutting off with a scandalised gasp. You stared back in surprise and delight, one of your hands instinctively falling to your notebook, as though to tear off another page in retaliation.
“Veritas!” Your teacher shouted. The sound made both of you jump, having briefly forgotten where you were in the scuffle. “Honestly, I’d expect this sort of behaviour from them, but I expected better from you.”
He shrunk down in his chair. “Their fault. Not mine.”
She sighed. “I don’t care whose fault it was. Both of you please stay after class.”
You groaned under your breath, kicking your shoe against the leg of his chair. “Now look at what you did.” You hissed. He simply turned his nose up at you, and resumed his attention to the lesson, not allowing you another moment of his class time. You made a face at the back of his head, earning another stern look from the teacher.
“Please do not distract Ve—other students.” She said, his name hastily replaced. You don’t miss the slip-up, and you’re certain he doesn’t miss it as well. It remains unspoken, but you can always read the implication between her words; one had clearly found more value within this school, and it certainly wasn’t yourself. “You are in summer classes for a reason. Please try to learn.”
Summer classes, you thought with disdain. He certainly didn’t need the catch-up, but elected to join you regardless—not out of slipping grades, but simply for a love of learning. He could use a bit of distraction, a bit of disruption to knock him back a few steps, until you were both on the same footing again.
It wasn’t as though you needed it either, in fairness. You were doing fine. Passable. None of your assignments were returned with a failing grade scribbled at the top, even if the marks were—in your family’s, and the rest of the school’s eyes—subpar. For a child your age, tutors agreed that you showed great promise, and enough sharpness to pick up whatever learning you put your focus towards.
But you never bothered trying to focus, because the place of overachiever was already occupied by the time the parents in your life remembered they had not one, but two children, and tried to push you into academia too. You might have been young, but you were old enough to know a losing battle when you saw it. Vying for their praise and approval was a fruitless endeavour, when every achievement had a footnote attached, a near-constant and maddening addition of, “Oh, but their brother—”
Lucky for Veritas, he had you to keep him down-to-earth. He might be ahead, but you always kept a tight enough grip on his sleeve to pull him back to your side when he strayed too far.
“She concludes her research with this closing statement: ‘It is clear now more than ever, that a person’s nature is innate and unchanging. When two flowers are planted in the same bed, yet one rises twice as tall as the other, who else could be blamed but the seed? One’s environment is only a tool to shape what is already there.’”
The end of class came far too slowly, the final fifteen minutes dragging on even longer with your teacher watching hawkishly out of the corner of her eye. Eventually, the clock hanging above the chalkboard struck the hour, and a dozen students—excluding yourself, and your twin—filed out. Once they were gone, the teacher strode over to your desks, dropping a chalkboard eraser on each.
“Please clean the board and tidy the rest of the room.” She said bluntly. “When it is spotless, you may leave.”
You scowled at the offending object, but Veritas only begrudgingly stood, shuffling to the front to begin cleaning. Your eyes burned into the back of his head, only taking pause to give your teacher a cursory glance as she left the room.
“She’s gone, you know.” You called over. “We can go.”
He remained completely silent, working on cleaning the board as you gathered together your belongings, sweeping them into your bag. Every so often, he’d let out a hmph, almost the same cadence of the noise you’d make when you were particularly frustrated about something.
You were so alike in some ways, yet in more ways than not, you saw a stranger. It didn’t matter much back then—to you, at least, your parents always had something snide to say when the both of your names were spoken in the same breath, but you didn’t yet register his excellence as something other, only something… greater. He was you, but just... better. If anything, it was him who fought to keep you at the same level, insisting you could learn anything if you tried.
You could almost find it amusing, as frustrating as it was. You were born from the same flesh and blood, your lives interwoven ever since your birth, and yet you still couldn’t match his pace, as hard as you tried.
“Hey, Veritas.” You yelled across the room, cupping your hands around your mouth to amplify the noise. He ignored the call, standing on the tips of his toes to reach the topmost edge of the chalkboard. “I figured it out.”
The proclamation made him pause, just as you knew he would. “…Figured what out?”
“The debate, the one she was talking about.” You gestured to the half-erased board, where the title was still barely visible. “‘Nature vs Nurture’. I know what the answer is.”
“You… know the answer?” He turned fully to face you, eraser still in hand. You bristled slightly at his words, but there was no malice behind them—only genuine curiousity. “The debate that has existed for centuries now. You know the answer to it?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” You snapped. “Yeah. It’s nature. That’s what makes a person.”
“Nature…” He repeated, bringing a hand to his face in a thoughtful gesture. “Go on.”
“Well, just think about it.” You began, slowly moving back to the front of the classroom, closer to him. “We’re twins—non-identical, but we were raised together. We’ve spent almost every moment of our lives together, and yet—” Once you were close enough, you darted forward to pull him into a headlock, making him let out a yelp. “I would never be as big of a nerd as you!”
“Let go!” He hissed, as you mess up his perfectly brushed hair. He squirmed in your grasp, but for all the intellect you lacked, you’d fortunately been gifted the advantage of being just slightly taller and stronger by then. All he could do was flail, smacking the eraser against your arm, and sending puffs of chalk dust into your face. “Let go of me! Hey!”
Unfortunately for you, the dust was promptly breathed into your lungs, and you quickly let him go with a hacking cough. He straightened his back, watching you splutter with his fist against his hip. “Hmph. Serves you right. You’re so… irritating.”
“Hah…” You coughed a bit more, and he had the decency to look concerned, but your next words stifle any worry. “Yeah, but I’m your sibling. You can’t get rid of me, you know?”
Veritas grumbled. “Lucky me.”
...
It’s approximated that fraternal twins, otherwise known as dizygotic twins, share about 50% of their DNA. And you were no scientist, but you’d bet every last credit you owned that you could pick apart each strand of DNA that separated you from Veritas.
An idle thought slipped into the back of your mind, that when you were split apart in the womb, he must have taken all of the glory with him. All of the genius, the talent, the skill that you were owed, it fell through your fingers and landed in his grasp instead. And he took every last bit without sparing a single piece, leaving a noticeable gap in yourself; noticeable by you, who’s had to live with the hollow for as long as you’ve known how to spell the words best and second-best, and noticeable by everyone who had the displeasure of knowing you both.
The emptiness was never filled. Your hunger was never sated.
You could chase the sting of first place as much as you want, but you’ve never known the taste of gold. You were dealt bronze or silver if you were lucky, or—more often than not—left wholly empty-handed.
As children, the line in the sand was not yet drawn, only visible if you squinted close that the space that separated you. You could pretend it wasn’t there, a trivial product of your parent’s meaningless expectations, but the years only allowed it to grow even more tangible. And soon enough, the two of you began to be pulled apart.
It started slow, subtly. You could never pinpoint the moment—only that it happened sometime close to when they realised your intelligence, or lack thereof, wasn’t something worth investing in—and soon enough, he was being pulled from your shared lessons, and placed in classes years above your own, and formerly his, level.
Veritas is a prodigy, they told you. Be happy for him. He’s thriving.
You were happy for him. You were always happy for him, even if hearing about his latest endeavours made bile rise in the back of your throat. Where he was blessed with intellect, you were given a steadfast and unwavering affinity for knowing when to bite your tongue and let him take the spotlight. There were no unfounded expectations in your mind, after all; you were never promised a place within it, nor had you earned it. Why should you aim for his shadow, anyway?
At age thirteen-and-a-half, you learned how to forge your mother’s signature, and signed a document resigning you from all of your lessons. It was a stunt that you’d known would surely earn you a hefty punishment if you were found out, but truthfully you didn’t see the risk of it at all. She was far too busy organising Veritas's absurdly early entry to university—as suggested by his mentor.
With all of your newfound spare time, there wasn’t much else you could do, other than waste the days away in your room, reading, and drawing, and playing with the toys you should have outgrown years ago. Your sketchbook became your sole companion in your brother’s absence; where he was off learning, you busied yourself with filling page-after-page with doodles, and sketches, and paintings, and more, with any and all supplies you could get your hands on.
You weren’t a virtuoso, not back then, but it was still thrilling to see your ideas brought to life on paper, something you never could achieve through simple academia. It was your sanctuary, a space you had cultivated just for yourself, where no creeping feelings of inadequacy could break through.
(And a small, bitter part of you was thrilled that the arts were something your brother had shown no interest in prior. He had everything, but you had this all to yourself.)
“What’s that?” Veritas loomed over your shoulder as you drew, squinting at the hazy blobs of colour. The sound of his voice made you flinch back, having not noticed his entry. “Is that you?”
“It’s a horse.” You swatted him away.
“I couldn’t tell.” He ducked back away from the strike, folding his arms over his chest. “Is that all you’ve been doing while I was gone? Classes, and drawing?”
“No. Well.” You paused, glancing over to make sure the door was closed. Your parents might have been downstairs, but you still weren’t about to take the risk of them overhearing. “Yes. Not classes, I dropped out—” His eyes widened minutely, but you kept talking. “—But I’ve been doing a lot of drawing.”
“You dropped out?!”
His tone was bewildered, almost bordering on scandalised, and you leapt up to slap a hand over his mouth. “Not so loud! Mother and Father don’t know yet—” The gears were turning behind his eyes, realisation clicking into place, and quickly the confusion morphed into displeasure. “—but yes.”
He pried your hand a way, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why would you do that?”
Typical, you’d thought. The idea of a life without learning was something he’d always turned his nose up, even as you complained tirelessly about schooling throughout your childhood. As though in his mind, he couldn’t fathom the thought that one wouldn’t want to advance their studies beyond the bare minimum.
Such is the mind of a genius, you figured—genius, because that’s what they were calling him nowadays; a label he seemed to take with both pride, and a healthy dose of disgust. At the very least, he seemed to begrudgingly accept it from your parents and his mentor, but you’d never get away with using it without a withering glare sent your way. Though, that likely had more to do with the mocking, sing-song voice you adopted when using it, accompanied by even more outlandish nicknames; ‘wonder boy’, and ‘little intellitron’ to name a few.
You blinked. Veritas was still waiting for an explanation, his brows furrowing further with every moment of silence. You chewed the inside of you cheek, considering your words. It was hard to explain the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of returning to classes, and beyond that, it was humiliating to admit that he was a not insignificant part of the reason. You could have put it bluntly, and told him that so long as you shared the name of Ratio, you’d never have a place in academia.
But the only answer you offered him was a listless shrug.
“What reason did I have to stay?”
...
Eventually your parents did notice your lack of schooling, though it isn’t until well after your fourteenth birthday. The lecture you received was dulled only slightly by Veritas’s intervention, out of all things. He argued that you were focusing on other, more fitting pursuits: namely, art. They were shocked at first, as if over the previous year, they hadn’t even noticed the growing number of paint-stained clothes in your closet, but somehow, somehow your brother’s words had managed to crack through their stony exteriors.
Thus, the decision was made: your lessons were to resume—and that was non-negotiable—covering the content you’d missed in your impromptu break, and would continue until you’d concluded your mandatory education. But the most notable, and frankly shocking development was the exchange of your previous advanced science electives for art lessons. You were left staring at your parents, your jaw slackened and mouth agape with surprise that they’d allow you the freedom you’d been craving so desperately, and after a beat of silence, you felt a hand squeeze yours. You turned to Veritas, your vision blurred with a faint sheen of tears, and—
He smiled.
“I didn’t need your help.” You’d later grumbled, scrubbing the tiled floors of the guest bathroom. Veritas sat on the edge of the bathtub with a book in hand—watching, but not bothering to help in the slightest. You made your choice, he’d told you. You can take the punishment for it.
“No.” He turned a page. “That’s the thing about having a brother. Even if you don’t ‘need’ it, I’ll always help you regardless.”
There was no time to waste clinging to sentiments, and you never did give the proper thank you he was owed, but a part of you could never quite move past the gesture, even if he’d never mentioned it again.
In your new art classes, you were taught not only technique, but the history behind every brushstroke. It was thrilling, the feeling of knowing so much about a subject, particularly one that seemed to be your specialty and yours only. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Veritas felt like all the time. A part of you soured at the thought.
Months passed. You submitted a still-life painting of a vase of sunflowers to your local gallery’s ‘Junior Artist Spotlight Exhibition’, in the same week that Veritas received his first degree. Your application was gently rejected, but the letter itself was lost among the dozens of congratulatory messages addressed to your brother. When it was finally discovered, you pretended not to remember applying at all.
And life itself moved on, even as your rejection letters from galleries and participation certificates piled up. You buried them in a drawer, beneath your folded clothes, and left them to gather dust. In fairness, it wasn’t as though your house was lacking in displayed awards by then; they covered the walls of the study you shared with your brother, it was just never your name etched on the plaque.
You grew up, and Veritas did as well, and the roots that felt so closely intertwined in your youth began to strain. Perhaps it was only natural; when two seeds are planted too close together, their sprouts and roots will tangle until they are pried apart. You’d grown content for too long; simultaneously stewing in half-formed resentment and bitterness, yet terrified to lose him. And when he started to pull away, onto bigger and grander gardens, it was your roots that got torn.
So you did the only thing you could. You tore yourself apart, before he had the chance to do it himself.
Three missed calls. Five texts. An empty room, and a note to your parents telling them not to expect you home for dinner.
You always were good at keeping to yourself. Even at your most childish, attention-seeking antics, you were still beset with the knowledge that in every situation that involved you both, you were second priority. Second best, second place. The number two followed like a noose around your neck.
And for the longest time, you’d let it; you’d curled your fingers around the edge of the rope, but you never tried to pull it free. A loose tug here and there, and then you’d give up, and wait for it to choke you again. Because that was how it was always going to be, so long as your brother existed to outshine you. Success is only measured in comparison, and you’d been cursed with a losing battle from birth. You were starved, starved for the attention that you could never hope to achieve, starved for a purpose to justify your existence, if not through skill.
But everyone had to move on eventually, no matter how difficult it may seem. Time keeps moving. Leaves fall. Paint dries. And slowly, the dredges of childhood were washed away, the last tether tied around you and your brother’s wrists being severed alongside it.
EMPIRICISM /ɛmˈpɪrɪsɪz(ə)m/ noun
the theory that all knowledge is based on experience derived from the senses.
𝒾. chapter notes. i dislike ratio. BUT ANYWAY, this is just setting up the story (backstory, mostly) the meat of it is gonna come in chapter one, so stay tuned??
𝒾 taglist. @objectionloser, @aellemiri, @axolotsofluv, @lysarion, @tragedy-of-commons, @millurie. (send an ask or reply to be added!
HIII !! I LOOOOOVVEEE YOUR WORK! I was wondering if you can do a request dorm leaders with a reader who impulsively cut her bangs and they turned out sooooo bad so she refuses to leave the house. (Crack fic preferably). I shouldn't have touched those damn scissors 😞
ᴏᴏᴘꜱɪᴇ!
↑ featuring housewardens + Jamil.
msg: i hope you don't mind the smau format, i only realised you might have requested a different one after i finished them 😭
Now they're not going to necessarily complain that you agreed to be their partner, but considering how much you praise and kiss them for basic boyfriend things... just how bad are the men from your homeworld?
Lines from Sabrina Carpenter's "Tears"
multi x gn!reader
[tw/cw} - the song is kinda raunchy lmao, so this will be considered mildy suggestive! also i'm like 90% sure I didn't miss anyone this time lol
[note] - god sabrina carpenter is so fucking hot yall
"Baby, just do the dishes, I'll give you what you (What you), what you want!"
It's only basic decency to offer to clean the kitchen after making a mess. He's not sure why you seem so surprised and happy each time he does them. There wasn't even that many, he's being polite! He's pretty sure it's bare minimum.
"Did you seriously—mmph—get hot and—smooch—bothered from me doing the—mmm—the dishes?"
You pulled away from his lips, which were getting red and swollen from your sudden kisses, and pouted.
"You don't wanna make out?"
Surely you didn't think he was idiot enough to deny making out with you.
"Oh Sevens yes, but can we move from the sink, the water is gonna splash on me at this rate—"
"Okay!"
He's more than happy to let you drag him to the couch so you can climb on top of him and continue your lovely little assault. But after this, he really does need to ask if he should be concerned about your standards...
He's become pretty handy as he's gotten older, and he knows that you need all the help you can get, and it's basic boyfriend etiquette to help your partner with doing things.
Like building you a new bookshelf when the one you had suddenly collapsed into a pile of rotted wood because of age (and mostly termites).
Maybe guys back in your home just weren't super handy? Cause you're watching him put the new bookshelf together, lifting it up and against the wall, like you want to eat him.
Not that he'd complain.
"Wow, I can't believe you did that all by yourself, and you lifted it too?"
"It's not a problem, anything for my—"
"Hot. We should make out. On my bed. Right now."
"Huh? Ooopmh—"
He didn't even have a chance to respond as you yanked him by the collar and shoved him on the bed, crawling after him with a hungry, longing expression.
"Let's make out, right now. Can we? Please, please, pleeeeease?"
If this is how you're gonna act when he just puts a piece of furniture together, he's gonna need to break your bed and replace that next.
Deuce Spade, Jack Howl, Floyd Leech
"I get wet at the thought of you (Uh-huh)/Being a responsible guy"
He was diligent. In his studies, in his club, in his dorm. Even if something didn't go right, or if he somehow made a mistake, he's always taken responsibility. Of course he would, why wouldn't he?
Though, he is quite flattered at how you throw yourself at him every time he's taken charge at the dorm.
"Mmm, are you gonna me busy much longer?" You were looking at him with half-lidded, entrancing eyes. "You know I love when you take charge~"
"Ahem," He can just feel his cheeks getting hot. "I have to take care of a couple more things, I won't be too long."
"Mmph, okay. I'll go wait in your room" You pulled him down to whisper in his ear, "And maybe wear your favorite outfit~"
A smooch to his cheek and a suggestive wink, he had to withhold the shiver that went down his spine. Gods, if this is how you react just from watching him run the dorm, he's more than happy to get used to it.
Riddle Rosehearts, Trey Clover, Jamil Viper, Vil Schoenheit
"A little respect for women can get you very, very far"
He honestly isn't sure if he should feel offended that you seem dazzled when he's treating a lady right, or concerned for the type of men you've encountered back home.
An older woman was struggling with going down the stairs (evidently the mall escalator was broken and the elevator was on the other side of the building), so he did the decent thing and offered her his arm and helped her down the stairs.
She smiled, thanked him for his help, and told you, "You have such a sweet young man here, a keeper for sure!"
"I know, he's handsome and a gentleman! I love him so much!"
You suddenly pulled him close and stared fluttering kisses on his face, the old woman laughing at his bewildered (but pleased face) as she walked off, while you went on how you've never met a man like him.
"You were so nice to that lady, god I'm so lucky to have such a gorgeous gentleman for my boyfriend! Mine—mwah—mine—mwah—mine—mmmwah!"
Okay, now he's really concerned. He's pretty sure you've forgotten how he was when you two first met, but also refuses to ruin the moment. He can steal a couple more kisses right now, bask in your praises, and later address your comments.
"Remembering how to use your phone gets me oh so, oh so, oh so hot!"
You seem to like when he sends you random memes and shorts he's seen that remind him of you. You also seem to like that he sends you a good morning text and good night text every night. You also seem to like when he sends you memes and shorts that remind him of you. You especially love it that he likes to video call you until you guys fall asleep.
"It's nice that you never really leave me on read, except when you're in class, but like still. And I love that we have video night calls everyday! It makes me so happy!"
Besides the fact that he could just turn off read receipts in his phone (though he's not gonna do or tell you that), the fact that your standards include him not leaving you on read or returning your calls is wild.
"Babe, if that's all it takes for you to think I'm a good boyfriend, I think the bar is in hell."
"Aw, but I mean it! It's nice...plus it works out for our extra late night calls~" The way you cooed into the phone made him go hot and mushy. "It makes me all warm knowing that I could call you at night, and you'd pick it up, ready to go for me~"
If you noticed that he was suddenly shy and flustered, you didn't point it out. Now you're just being silly, why would he ignore your calls when you're his very, extremely, fantastically hot ass partner? Seems like something only a dumbass guy would do.
Ace Trappola, Cater Diamond, Idia Shroud
"Offering to do anything, I'm like, 'Oh my God!"
He can't understand why you'd be surprised. He's not going do something for just anyone, but you're his and he his yours. So you're obviously an exception. Honestly, he's not sure why you're looking at him like he just offered to carve your name into the moon, not that he minds it.
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
"Of course, why wouldn't I? You're my partner, doing something as simple as offering you assistance is the bare minimum."
He only offered to help you carry all those boxes because they seemed heavy and obviously he didn't want you to get hurt. You seem so charmed, surprised too. It would've been a bit insulting if he didn't remember that you're not from this world. He is obviously better than the human men from your home.
"Mkay! But...can I give you a proper thank you later?"
He blinked, taking the boxes that covered your view, leaving you with just one.
"A proper thank you?"
"Yeah, like, back at your dorm? Just the two of us...alone..." You smiled coyly and batted your eyes. Temptation never seemed more alluring. "I'd really like to give you a proper thank you."
A hot rush of heat sank through his body, from the pit of his stomach to the apples of his cheeks. Oh, he'd be a fool to not accept your give of thanks. And he is far from a fool.
"You really have to go where you have large flower fields," [Sandra Lai] says. "You wait for a long time. If you are lucky, a wolf will come." Lai's colleague, Adrien Lesaffre, was lucky. Over several days, he spotted and photographed half a dozen wolves feeding on the nectar. (NPR)
It usually only lasts a few minutes before your cat is leaping or walking away, even when Kageyama’s eyes are still on him. He had expressed to you that he always had an inkling cats did not like him very much, to which you insisted that isn’t true, that your cat just isn’t used to him yet.
Your cat is, however, used to and fond of your boyfriend’s volleyball cat toy he had purchased in hopes of winning some brownie points.
“He’s kind of like you if you were a cat,” you teased one time as you guys watched him play with it, also referring to your cat’s similar blue eyes and dark fur.
That just made Kageyama observe your cat more. Needless to say, the staring contests continue — occurrences of which you ignored, until now.
Today, it’s taking longer than usual and you sense that neither of your boys refuse to break eye contact, stormy gazes staying strong. And as amused as you are, you selfishly want some attention yourself.
“Tobio, let it go—“
You barely finish your sentence before you are both taken by surprise as your cat leaps off the coffee table, right into Kageyama’s lap, and proceeds to curl into a comfortable resting position.
You almost coo at the image, especially when Kageyama looks up at you with guileless awe, hand petting your purring void, and quietly exclaims, “He likes me.”
You smile, humming in agreement as you watch your home grow livelier. “Told ya so.”
annaxmalina
origamiaround
prguitarman
kaledo-art
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
