The Kiss Economy!

The Kiss Economy!

Synopsis: What's a more charming way to trade things than using kisses as currency? Genre: Fluff Character: Veritas Ratio x Gn!reader Warnings: Smooches, established relationship, both you and Ratio are teachers! Maybe a little ooc [masterlist] [about me]

Ratio sighed, running a hand through his hair as he paced the halls of the space station. Sometimes, he simply couldn't stand the reckless fools who were his students. It hadn't even been half a day, yet there was already so much to do— or more precisely, so much to clean up.

His classes ranged from young, aspiring teens to adults, who, in his mind, should be capable enough to handle equipment properly and behave responsibly in his absence.

But no.

The moment he stepped into the laboratory, his eyes fell upon a scene of chaos. Panicked students darted about, glass shards littered the floor, and expensive apparatus lay broken in the sink. Imbeciles, he thought with a mix of frustration and disappointment. Why did they always have to prove him wrong about their competence?

Now, he found himself troubled with seeking out you— another teacher who happened to be his dear beloved. He wasn't one to shy away from ranting about the incompetence of his students in private, often grumbling about how he wished his students were more like yours. After all, you never seemed to complain much about your own classes.

His perspective shifted, however, when he knocked on the door of your class and swung it open, only to be greeted by an expression of dread on your face—an expression he found somewhat amusing.

"Hm? You look distressed. Care to explain?" he pointed out, observing as you hunched over the lab sink, your expression deadpan as you glanced back at him.

"Veritas," you whined, facepalming yourself with a groan. "One of my students accidentally disposed of the platinum black powder while clearing out the empty containers." You could feel his stare, his raised eyebrow silently questioning how your students could mess up this badly.

"I think Herta is going to kill me when I report this to her," you added with a fake sob, walking over to him and tugging on his shirt for comfort. He let out a huff, shaking his head and ruffling your hair in a gesture of reassurance. "Just report it to Asta, she'll help you deal with it."

"Do you know how much that powder costs?!"

"Of course I do. But do you think this will make a dent in any of their accounts?"

"...Ah."

You let out a pout, smoothing your hair before directing a confused gaze at him. "Anyways, why did you come to look for me?" you questioned, genuinely curious. It was a rare occurrence for him to seek you out during work hours; he usually adhered strictly to his schedule and dismissed any potential distractions. A mischievous grin spread across your face as you continued, crossing your arms playfully. "Orrrr…did you miss me? Hmmm?"

He scoffed, flicking your forehead lightly as you yelped in surprise. "Don't be foolish," he retorted, but there was a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. "I came to ask if I could borrow some equipment from your lab."

"Equipment? Why? Don't you have everything you need already?" you asked, rubbing your forehead in mild exasperation as you watched him rummage through the cabinets in your classroom. "Those idiots managed to break almost half of everything in the lab, including several crucial apparatuses," Ratio grunted, rubbing his temple in frustration. You couldn't help but silently pray for his students, who would soon face his wrath upon his return to the lab.

Shrugging, you gave him a nod of confirmation to rummage through your cabinets for whatever he needed. "Yeah, go ahead. My class won't really be needing anything today anyways."

As he finished grabbing the necessary items, he paused when he felt another tug at his shirt. Turning around, he looked at you with a puzzled expression, noting the mischievous glint in your eyes— he knew that look all too well. "What is it?" he inquired cautiously.

You grinned cheekily at him, chuckling softly. "Just because I'm allowing you to borrow my stuff, doesn't mean I'm giving it to you for free."

He frowned, genuinely puzzled as to what you could possibly want in return. If you were anyone else, he might have already told you off and demanded you keep your hands to yourself. But you were his dear significant other, so he decided to play along. "Do tell me what it is that you want."

You hummed thoughtfully, continuing to fiddle with the purple fabric draped over his shoulder. "Hmm… I don't know. Why don't you take a guess?" you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "It's something you forgot this morning," you added cryptically.

He stared at you with an unreadable expression, his mind working to decipher your words. "Something I forgot?" he muttered to himself, setting the basket of apparatus onto the table before narrowing his eyes at you. "I'd appreciate it if you'd get straight to the point, my dear," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone.

With a sigh, you raised a finger and tapped it against your pouty lips, gazing at him with a mock frown.

Ratio paused, his mind working through the puzzle until the realization finally dawned on him. Ah, so that's what you were huffing about.

How childish.

"You want a kiss? Is that it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, half-amused and half-exasperated.

When you finally nodded with a triumphant smirk, Ratio felt his shoulders relax, shaking his head in quiet amusement. The corner of his lips twitched as if fighting the urge to curl into a smirk at your foolishness. "You're so childish, my love," he murmured, his voice soft but teasing.

He leaned in closer, his arms slipping around your waist, pulling you gently toward him. His other hand came up, fingers brushing your chin as he tipped your face upward.

You couldn’t help but smile giddily, heart fluttering in anticipation. And then, with a warmth that melted every teasing remark, his lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It was gentle, affectionate— everything you had wanted.

He pulled away, a soft blush dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears, though he tried to maintain his composure. His thumb brushed teasingly against your bottom lip, causing you to meet his gaze with playful mischief in your eyes.

"That's it?"

He blinked, confusion flickering in his expression. "What do you mean 'that's it'?" he scoffed, gently pinching your cheeks in mild exasperation. "I gave you what you wanted— what else is there?"

You pouted dramatically, crossing your arms. "You took so many of my apparatus and other equipment. You think one kiss is gonna be enough? Scam!"

Ratio’s eyes widened for a moment before he let out a low chuckle, realizing you weren’t going to let him off the hook so easily. "A scam, you say?" He leaned in close again, a smirk tugging at his lips as his fingers traced your waist. "Alright, what will it take to settle this 'debt' of mine?"

You pretended to ponder, your eyes tracing over the familiar contours of his face. "Hmm… your total will beee…"

"Ten kisses," you declared proudly, flashing a playful grin. "And that’s with a discount!"

He rolled his eyes, letting out a barely audible groan. "You minx," he grumbled, though the way his fingers squeezed your waist and the softness in his eyes betrayed his affection. "Fine then, I won’t bargain any further."

With a defeated sigh, he leaned in and began peppering kisses across your face; nine quick ones, each accompanied by a light laugh from you. He saved the last one for your lips, pressing against you gently but with a familiar warmth that fit like the final piece of a puzzle.

Just when you thought it was over, he decided to push it a little further, keeping his lips locked with yours for longer this time. The kiss lingered, deep and slow, until you playfully smacked his shoulders with a soft whine. He finally pulled away, chuckling at the flushed look on your face, only to sneak in one last kiss— an eleventh.

You blinked in surprise, staring at him in mock disbelief as he casually turned back to pick up the basket of equipment. "Wha— that was eleven kisses!" you protested, though you weren’t exactly complaining.

He shrugged casually, walking out the door with a final glance over his shoulder. "Keep the change, sweetheart."

Before you could protest with a panicked look, he was already gone.

---

Ratio returned to his class a few minutes later than he'd intended, the usual sharpness in his stride slightly softened. As he entered, he noticed his students staring at him. Some with wide-eyed confusion, others with flushed cheeks, and more than a few giggling quietly amongst themselves.

Frowning, he set the borrowed equipment down on the table, neatly arranging it as he always did. "If there's something you'd like to ask, do speak. It is rude to stare," he said curtly, glancing up at them with his usual sternness.

There was an awkward pause before one of the braver students spoke up, trying to stifle a grin.

"Uh, Sir Ratio…there's lipstick on your lips."

His hand froze mid-motion, eyes widening slightly in realization. The clatter of glass breaking followed as two of the newly borrowed apparatus slid from his grasp and shattered on the floor.

The room fell silent.

He shuffled awkwardly, bending down to collect the shards of broken glass, his face a deep shade of red. Raising a hand to cover his mouth, he muttered curses under his breath, embarrassed by the situation. Clearing his throat, he tried to regain some semblance of composure. "Ahem— I apologize. Please continue with your reports while I clean this up."

Now he was 10 kisses in debt.

Dragons 🤲🪷

Not alone

Contents: Diluc Ragnvindr x GN reader, comfort angst

Words: 473

The evening was stiff with the winter cold and the gloomy clouds sailing overhead. Diluc had found you in the corner of your bedroom, huddled not on the bed beside it, pressed against the wall,your arms around your knees. He didn’t need to ask to know that the weather and the recent activities brought more out of you than you cared to admit, memories opened old wounds and you were now bleeding before him. 

His gloves slip from his hands one by one as he approaches you, crouching down beside you and finding your cold hand in his warm one. His scarred fingers curl around it, bringing it up closer so his lips could press against the knuckles. His lips linger, pressed against the skin as you hide your face away in your knees, finding the world smaller and more manageable that way. It was all too much, too much, you wonder how you pushed it this far, how you found the strength to walk back home after each tiring shift, where does it all come from? It puzzled you even more why Diluc cared enough to try and comfort you, knowing how stubborn you can be. Yet, deep inside you knew it was because he was selfless in the heart of his heart. He wanted to help, not just you but everyone - his nights were spent toiling away so the people of Mondstadt remained safe. 

A cracked whimper fell from your mouth and you shrunk in on yourself further, your hand jumping from his grasp. Like a leaf against the snow you do your best to hold yourself to your roots, no matter how unpromising or cold they now have become. The storm tears at you, but you don’t give into it, even if giving into it means staying whole.

For a moment he panics, watching how you shied back into the corner of your self made prison. But his will- his need to offer you any semblance of comfort doesn’t waver and he reaches forward. His hands slowly find purchase on your shoulders, sliding around until he has you leaning forward and accepting the embrace. You sob into his chest, his layered outfit cushioning your head, the scent of winter still faintly clinging onto him. 

He is warm to the touch. Arms envelop you tighter, holding you closer, Diluc is no longer crouching before you, but he is sitting down propped up against the bed with you in his hold.

“I’m here.. I’m here..” He can be heard whispering, his nose finding the top of your head, nuzzling into your ever so gently. Fingers run through your hair, smoothing it down before he rubs at your nape, repeating the motions as you show your wounded soul to him through sniffled and hiccuped words. He listens, he understands.

You’re not alone. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

I am.

I am unwell.

But this fed the worm brains...

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅

synopsis: how he experiences the five stages of grief

including: veritas, jing yuan, sunday

side comments: live laugh love angst… anyways, these are all my own renditions of how i think they’ll experience grief. just keep in mind these ‘stages’ are not the same for everyone and can move in order etr. I was going to do blade and boothill but i think I'll do a separate post for that.

extra: gn except for jing yuan, mentions of marriage in jing yuan's, angst, a bit of substance use if you blink, established relationship, can you tell it's my first time writing sunday? favourites: jing yuan word count: 2000+

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Dr. Ratio is a man who took pride in being factual. His entire life was in the efforts of purging the world of ignorance; replacing it with truth. Yet, the hospital's fluorescent lights seemed to push his shoulders down- false. The flurry of movement merged and buzzed until Veritas could feel his ear drum shatter, false. Veritas's throat burned in silence- false. When your pale figure came into view: dressed in that hospital gown you despised, the heartbeat monitor's line flat- Veritas only thought was false.

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Veritas knew anger was the next stage. He was a doctor after all. The doctor who should have brushed his hands over your pale forehead. The doctor who should have heard your final words escape the lips he once traced. The doctor who should have raced to the defibrillator. The doctor who should have counselled and administered your medicine hand by hand, line by line. The doctor who shouldn't have trusted you're tender words and dotting smile. The doctor who should have held you're hand in public when you still could walk. The doctor who should have loved his spouse more.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

Margaret was no longer Dr. Ratio's assistant. Nevertheless, she found herself knocking at his office door, a loaf of homemade bread in tow and a small card bearing her sincerest empathy. Margaret recalled how Dr. Ratio's stoic expression twitched and busted into a radiant smile when you teased him. Similarly, Margaret recalled the coolness of your hands and the frequent coughs muffled in the dark corners of his office where you thought no soul could hear you.

"Dr. Ratio?" calls Margaret; knocking on the office door. "I baked some bread for you, is it possible for you to open the door?"

Margaret waits, however, there is no response. She sighs, gingerly placing the basket on the floor. "( Name ) would not want this of you, Dr. Ratio. Please-" she pauses, searching for the 'right' words, "Please take care of yourself."

Several hours pass, Margaret long gone. Dr. Ratio gradually opens the door, the bread gone cold. He sets the basket on a stack of books as the letter flutters to the ground unnoticed. Veritas resumes his ceaseless work.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

The world seems strangely slow yet incredibly fast. Tangible yet fickle. Veritas blinks; staring at the paper he has been writing for several months, the silence of his office serene. Veritas blinks again, however, his handwriting is a foreign entity in his mind like: a map of unnamed stars. The kind he fails to understand. What was he writing about? Veritas glances into the disorder of his office: papers strewn across the floor littered with empty mugs. What did drink again?

Veritas' eyes return back to his paper. However, the lines seem to blur and the black ink stains his hands. Something wet plummets onto the paper: droplets of salty rain.

For the first time in a year, Veritas wept and shuddered: his broad shoulders quivering.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

For the first time in years, the night is quiet. Nothing stirs him within the boundless expanse of his dreams. Your side of the bed- the one in which the indent of your body still impresses, fossilized until the end of eternity- remains empty. Yet, when the Doctor’s eyes flutter open- pieces of moonlight streaming into the bedroom- a tender smile, under the fragments of yet another year, gaze at your pillow. The place where your head- the one which bore your mind, the mind he praised and eventually sought after in deep ardency- would have been.

Veritas stretches his hand out and sighs, allowing the receding tide of moonlight to consume him.

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Each century blossoms and unfolds like a leaf; curling in on itself, one after another. Jing Yuan- the longest serving general, an immutable stream amongst jagged cliffs and tedious droughts- has navigated each trial and satisfaction with a placid smile and deep-set composure. Steadfast as the strike of thunder. Thus, as your body came to him- wrapped up in silk and satin, dressed for a place he could not reach- he did not waver, did not crumble, did not teeter on the tenacious line of undoing or succumb to an onslaught of hot, burning tears. No, he stood firm, feet planted into the ground, a series of complex roots. A system built from the movement of each dynasty; sailing into infinity.

None of those perdurable systems tumbled down at your cold, pale feet in either great armies of dust or strings of sorrowful defeat. In truth, the arbiter general was struck by another breed of anguish. A demand within himself that drowned in waters of tranquillity.

Why would his eyes not let him weep?

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Rumours are feisty beings, strangely tenacious until extinguished, lighting a spark under every tongue.

"Did you hear? The General's spouse-"

"If the Arbiter General can not ensure the safety of his own spouse, then perhaps it is time he retires-"

"Oh such sad news! I suppose even those with such strength are not privy to tragedy."

"I heard the order was under his command-"

Jing Yuan claws at the various papers strewn across his desk, his fingers twitching, chest heaving, the cord of his spine rattling-

He then breathes and settles into his chair, the whispers still reverberating in his head. The murmurs of others, though, most of his own.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

The infamous name- the Dozing General- could no longer be applied to Jing Yuan it seemed. Even Fu Xuan- in all of her astute and assiduous nature- observed how he toiled senselessly at the Seat of Divine Foresight; attempting to foresee fate and cut its wings before it could fly.

Nevertheless, the cadence of his voice reverberated the same. The winsome smile and regal prudence still lingered when addressing each official.

Yet, underneath- noted Fu Xuan- was a layer of unspoken words and evenings spent with wine and paperwork. While the twinkle, nestled within the golden brilliance of his eyes, dimmed ever so slightly. And perhaps, if seen under the silent beam of moonlight and incense, that same twinkle, vanished.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

A general has no time to weep.

"Are you the General Jing Yuan?"

Jing Yuan gazes down near his feet. There, a child- perhaps no older than seven- stands. Her eyes were large marbles of vast azure: wide, open, hungrily consuming the world around her.

A finite smile reaches his lips. "Yes, I am-" he crouches down to her height- "and you?"

The child giggles, a loud grin stretching across her face. "Do you know where Ms. (Name) is?"

Jing Yuan stops and his throat grows tight. His smile remains. "No, why do you ask?"

"She is going to teach me more about flowers!" bursts the child, stretching her arms out, revealing a small bouquet of chrysanthemums.

"Ms. (Name) said chrysanthemums mean happiness!" she chirps, "These ones are for you. Ms. (Name) often says giving flowers makes people feel good."

'She mixed them up,' muses Jing Yuan, his eyes depressing slightly, 'They are related to sadness.'

"Well... why thank you."

Jing Yuan observes the child run off, a gentle wind brushing against his hair. The bouquet of chrysanthemums clenched firmly in his fist

It is then, does Jing Yuan weeps.

The General is not seen at the Seat of Divine Foresight the following day.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

All existence reaches finality.

And yet, as Jing Yuan stood amongst rocking flowers and a grave of fireflies- their light illuminating the vast expanse of the valley- he heaves a languid, heavy sigh. Thus, muttering a string of inaudible sentences, whisking them away on a foreign planet only known by your flesh and tender bruised heart. Only known by the curve of your smile: as delicate as a moonbeam. And the air of your laughter: rich and gritty. Filled with sanguine songs and velvet kisses pressing and unfurling like the wings of a sparrow.

You took a flight to a distant star while Jing Yuan marked your coming and going. Wrote it on his calendar and etched it onto the tablet of his heart. For he was the dust behind your trailblaze, the chain of your necklace, the wind to your flight, the pause between your sentences. A visitor to your unfettered brilliance: a museum he spent hours enthralled with.

He'll meet you anew, as all existence reaches finality.

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Sunday does not experience denial.

He spares no time for denial, for moments in which the world spins on its axis, when there is a loss for words, or a deep enlarging numbness yet to be felt. Not a minute is untouched, not a stride wasted. Sunday will peel Penacony apart like the skin of an orange- the kind you delighted yourself in until he silenced the voices and brought justice down at your frigid feet. A mission, a goal, a veil, an excuse to not falter nor sway.

Maybe then- when the curtains close- will he succumb to the gelid embrace of denial.

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Sunday does not experience anger.

Anger- notes Sunday- is a vile entity: flashes of red and spurs of desire and whim. It is neither planned, calculated, or bound by probity and accord nor coiled around the neck: firm and unyielding.

Anger gives birth to chaos, destruction; painting the sky with the distinct strikes of mortal failure.

And yet, the white satin of Sunday’s gloves itch and kindle; rubbing against his skin, akin to burning flesh. He stands alone in the solitude of his office, the door fastened shut, he quivers, shakes, the chair tumbles to the floor, it cracks, shatters, breaks.

It is not Sunday- not the polished reputable image- for this Sunday could crush the Penacony he born from his bare hands, snap its spine in half, and observe it crash and burn: a raging lighthouse to the darkened universe. He’ll paint himself the image of destruction: a portrait bearing his features.

However, Sunday- the visage of a man known by the throng- will never bind himself to such acts.

Perhaps in a dream- within his innermost subconscious- he will.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

Sunday does not bargain.

Sunday is faithful. Streamlined with virtue and prose, his head held a touch higher than the rest; allowing him to dwell beyond the scope of a singular moment. For he peers into the valley of an endless dream.

Yet, does the Order taunt him? Does the Harmony know of his sweet dream? Perhaps it is punishment, a game, a test, a question.

Was that dream- born from a chance encounter, raised by long languid nights, cherished between the crevices of his chest- never destined to be his? Could not a sliver of joy- he pleaded- be made for him?

A selfish pursuit, he noted, even to the Aeons.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

Sunday does not experience depression.

However, Robin deduces otherwise.

The Sunday she knows will not linger around a room- your office to be exact- and trace the bumps and texture of the wall until it becomes embedded into the flesh.

The Sunday she knows will not gaze blankly at portraits, chairs, paperwork, people, the bottom of his glass cup where a hue of auburn glimmers before him. His feathers sulking in the bar's limelight.

The Sunday she knows will not be the image she knew last: not when you swept across Penacony's chess board, shoved pieces aside and allowed the lingering fragrance of freedom to overtake every knight and king. Not when you drew the corners of her brother's lips up into a kaleidoscopic smile; she viewed Sunday in colours she thought he could never be equipped to express. You were enigmatic, riddled with an unbound spirit, the kind which took you farther than any halo or set of wings. Therefore, bewildering Sunday in ribbons of muted laughter and fluttering wings.

It is no wonder she observed her brother- basking in soulglad- whispering your name, muttered in the solemn cadence of prayer.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

Sunday hopes, that he'll reach acceptance.

Nestled within the ladder of his chest, he still longs for the curves of your body and the shadow of your figure to emerge behind that doorway. For your voice to reverberate across the halls; a string of melodies and bygone memory. That, perhaps, you'll wrap the supple length of your arms across his chest and tilt your head in the manner it had been replayed in his head. While whispering those same terms: your warmth translates from every syllable and sentence.

When the dream has receded, he'll emerge anew. Strike his foot down onto the blanket of the universe, a city of stars and wait patiently, working meticulously, to capture your glowing visage in the golden hue of his iris.

masterlist.

I was going through the songs for my RatioxJien Spotify playlist and ofc I had to add a few GoT osts and I am sobbing over this currently

The titles I mean btw, they're talking to each other your honor (I did this intentionally)

Anyhow, here's the playlist LINK for anyone curious to see what other shenanigans of songs I put here.

Also can we speak about Ramin Djawadi. Dude is amazing at his work, I can't get enough of his music istg. Masterpiece after masterpiece.

Also here's a LINK to Jien's playlist that I find myself listening to more and more.

Jientio Doodle dump

I found a sick reference for the first one and I knew it was destined to be a Jientio doodle, so it was. Messily colored but idc I like it, my goofy guys, my stupids TM, my comfort ship lowkey- The second doodle up there is from the meme I recently posted. I love how he turned out so I'm posting it here too.

How Ratio handles Jien vs How Jien handles Ratio

It is the cutenes agression in her you can't blame her. She's usually gentle but listen, he's too good looking. She gotta get her hands on him.

And last one for now:

Idk what this is but it is what it is. I saw that one still of Tom Hiddlestone in some play, I genuinely don't know what it was I just grabbed the reference pic and ran. And now it is Jientio.