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starcurtain · 9 months ago

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Hear me out. I know it's unlikely that Ratio would ever have been foolish enough to directly get taken in by a scam, but considering that we know:

One of the groups specifically tricked by Kakavasha before he joined the IPC was the Intelligentsia Guild

What he tricked them about was Tayzzyronth's Swarm remnants, the exact same thing we see Ratio investigating in his very first appearance in the game, and

The researchers were described as "extremely cautious"

I am surprised that "Ratio was at least somehow connected to the Intelligentsia Guild team fooled by Kakavasha before he was ever even a Stoneheart" isn't more popular with the Ratio and Aventurine fandom.

Like imagine being Dr. Ratio. You tell your colleagues, "This seems like a scam. Are you sure you should trust this 'local guide' you've made contact with? Tell me about him. A picture? Does this even look like an Egyhazan native to you? I won't save you fools from making idiotic decisions." (You end up having to clean up the aftermath of their idiotic decisions anyway. There is sand in places on your body you didn't even know existed before this. How mortifying for the Guild. For you, by association.)

Then, next thing you know, you get a mission briefing slid across your desk from your IPC connections. They want you to work with their new Stoneheart. You open the packet to see... that little bastard with the enthralling eyes who had your moronic colleagues scrambling in the dirt on a backwater planet for months. Apparently he's made a career out of fooling you your supposedly competent guildmates.

You run off to confront him. You never met him personally back then, but you deserve compensation for the idiocy you were subjected to nonetheless. He deserves to know how much of a pain in the ass he's been in your life already without ever having met your eyes--

He proceeds to shove a gun into your hands and tries to make you an accomplice to a suicide. Apparently, this is normal behavior for the man now called Aventurine. Somehow, it's supposed to prove to you that he is a sane and reliable individual.

Absolutely nothing in your life has been normal since Egyhazo.

You would like to have mundane problems, sometimes.

How do you keep ending up in this beautiful manic clever conman's orbit, and why, like binary stars, can you not escape the gravitational pull?

#honkai star rail #aventurine #dr. ratio #dr. ratio x aventurine #ratiorine #aventio #golden ratio #there's too many ship names I don't even know anymore #I just kind of love the idea #of Ratio having H I S T O R Y with Aventurine #before Penacony even goes down #and like #he's salty about it #but Aventurine has so many bigger issues in his life #the people involved on Egyhazo don't even really register #so he's like 'Another guy who dislikes me on principle'#'Fine I can handle this'#meanwhile Ratio is over here comparing their lives to quantum entanglement or something equally nerd-yearning #Ratio: Like mutualist symbiotes I continue to find myself inextricably mired in your schemes #Aventurine: Honestly I have no idea what you're talking about but feel free to keep going #also I'm aware that Ratio was mostly interested in Ruan Mei's ability to create a faux emanator #and not the Swarm itself or anything #but shush #let me have this

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mrsmangi · 1 month ago

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omg red carnation 😫

the morning after - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: red carnation - a moment of yearning - meaning: pale red carnations often symbolize admiration and feelings of longing for someone–often used to convey the message of ”my heart aches for you.” ♡ w.c.: 1.7k ♡ a/n: god, i love me some ANGST. 👹 listen to hozier's cover of "do i wanna know?" by the arctic monkeys as you read because that's all i listened to writing this piece. it is HEAVILY inspired by it. i love YEARNING, anon. thank you for this!! enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! ↪ prompts that have been requested

The mug that rests in Luigi’s hands feels unfamiliar and wrong to hold in his grasp. The ceramic is smooth and cool beneath his fingers, but the nicked rim catches slightly against his thumb. It’s a minuscule imperfection, but one that makes his chest tighten.

It’s just a mug, he thinks to himself, but the weight of it feels out of proportion. He sets it down carefully on the counter to avoid spilling the transparent golden liquid within. His thumb drifts over the rim in slow, absent circles, memorizing the curve of it and where its damage lays. It had been yours–a small, chipped thing you’d brought over to his place when you first started staying over. You always liked it.

Now, sitting at his kitchen table, Luigi feels like it may be the only tangible connection to you he has in the vast quietness of his apartment. He pushes it away, cautiously–like one wrong move might shatter the last piece of you he has left.

The morning sunlight creeps in through his blinds in sharp, golden slats, illuminating the sink, the stove, and the bare spot on the counter where your favorite jar of honey once sat. The honey you always claimed would make every tea he drank better. Now it’s gone–tossed into the trash in a fit of frustration last night, when he felt like he couldn’t bear the sight of it mocking him anymore. It’s absence doesn’t bring him the closure he thought it would. It feels more like theft, like he’s stolen something from himself that he can no longer get back.

The eggs on his plate are cold now. His toast has grown hard, the butter dried to a faint sheen. He can’t find it in himself to eat, but the ritual of cooking has felt like the only thing to keep him tied to reality. With a great sigh, he pushes himself up from the table, grabs his plate and tosses it in the trash. He moves to the sink.

His breath catches in throat when he stares into it, water dripping from the faucet. Rhythmic, almost hypnotic, but not enough to drown out the loud noise in his head.

He wonders if you’ve eaten yet. It’s nearly 11am. You always skipped breakfast unless he made it for you, claiming that coffee was enough to get you through the day–at least, until the time a late lunch or an early dinner rolls around.

Are you drinking coffee now sitting in a different kitchen? Are there ghosts that haunt you as you poke at a half-assed prepared frozen meal you’ve warmed up in the microwave? Or are you still in bed, with your face pressed into the pillow just like he was less than an hour ago? The image comes to him so vividly, he can hardly breathe.

The curve of your shoulder peeking out from beneath the blanket, hair wildly tangled and soft against your pillowcase.

Luigi wonders if you’re thinking about him like he’s thinking about you. If you’ve already poured yourself a cup of coffee this morning and let your mind wander to the weight of the mug in your hand. Are you recalling how he always scolded you for your caffeine addiction? What about the way he chided you for using both creamer and sugar, not one or the other? Maybe you’re aching for his presence just as much as he’s aching for yours, closing your eyes and trying to push it away. Maybe you’re relieved now without him–free of the weight of everything you two built and tried so hard to hold together, before it inevitably fell apart.

Luigi turns on the sink and lets the cold water run through his fingers. He stares down at the porcelain plate in his hand like it may hold the answers to all the questions he has. But it doesn’t. Nothing does, and he’s not sure anything ever will. Not knowing is worse than anything else.

Even so, Luigi continues to hope. Hope for the idea that maybe, just maybe, you’re sitting there now at your table, holding your mug, staring out at nothing, and wondering the same things about him. Hoping that no matter how far you’ve strayed from him, you still feel the weight of him lingering in the space between breaths.

The thought of you always circles back to him, no matter how hard he tries to shove it to the back of his mind. Does his name cross your mind the way yours has refused to leave his? He glances over his shoulder back to the table.

His phone sits on it, heavy with dread and danger. He’s spent the entire morning thinking about picking it up, dialing your number, just to hear your voice one more time. Maybe if Luigi hears you laugh or even just say his name, the ache will dull itself, but he knows better.

The urge to call you after a few drinks last night was unbearable. He sat there on the couch in his living room with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over your contact, trying to justify it. Maybe you were thinking about him too, after you decided to leave. Maybe you were lying awake, staring at the ceiling like he had, missing him too.

Temptation scorched him, yearning burned through him. It grew hotter and more insistent with every passing second away from you.

He had shoved his phone into his nightstand drawer and stared at it like it might leap back into his hand on its own. What a betrayal–not to you, but to himself. It felt like admitting he’d never really stopped being yours, even after everything, even after you walked out of his life.

Now, the clarity is no kinder. The thought haunts him.

If he called, would you pick up? Would you let it ring–let the silence between you stretch wider and deeper, until it becomes something unbridgeable? Fear twists in his gut, but it’s nothing compared to the longing. He tries to imagine what he’d even tell you. Something casual, maybe?

“I miss you.” Too raw.

“I’m sorry.” Too desperate.

“I love you.” Too…much.

He turns toward the table where the phone lies face down. It hasn’t buzzed. Luigi knows for a fact that it hasn’t, but his heart lurches with false hope anyway. He shuffles toward it and picks it up. It feels like tearing open a wound just to see if it will still bleed. There’s no texts from you. No missed calls. He stares at the empty screen before setting it back down with trembling hands.

He becomes hyper aware of the oppressive silence looming over his apartment, but he’s too afraid to break it. He can’t even stand to hear the sound of his own voice now. His gaze drifts to the small, framed photo in the center of the table–the one of you at the beach.

Your face is lit up with laughter because he had tried and failed to keep the wind from blowing your hair into your mouth. It had stuck to your lipgloss slightly, but he still thought you looked gorgeous. He had taken the photo on a whim, snapping it just as you turned toward him, mid-laugh, eyes sparkling. It’s his favorite picture of you by far, even now, when just looking at it feels like a knife is being driven straight through his stomach.

He picks it up, fingers brushing over the glass. Luigi can hear your laughter now, the feeling of sand beneath his feet, and the warmth of your hands in his as you pull him to the water. Now, the picture just feels like a cruel joke. A snapshot of a moment that no longer exists, a version of you he doesn’t recognize anymore. He sets it back down, face down this time.

He wonders if you’ve called your friends by now. Are they comforting you, reassuring you that you’ve made the right choice, that you’ll feel better soon? Are they already making jokes about your next “better” guy, encouraging you to move on?

The thought twists something inside of him, sharp and painful, but he knows how this goes. Luigi has been through his fair share of breakups, though none of them have ever left him feeling quite like this. Friends will tell you to keep busy, to distract yourself, to swipe right on someone new or focus on hobbies or dive into your work. Anything to keep from drowning in your sorrow. Hell, they could be doing that now.

Maybe they’re telling you you’ll find someone more stable, more exciting, less flawed. And maybe, worst of all, you’re listening to them, nodding along and pretending you’re not in pain. Are you laughing at their jokes, even if you don’t find them funny at all? His jaw tightens.

He can see it now: someone sitting across from you at breakfast, breaking their back just to try to make you laugh. Someone else taking your photo at the beach, someone else bringing you coffee and getting your order wrong because they could never know you like he does.

The idea of someone else feels impossible to Luigi. Laughable, even. He’s too caught in the moment, too tangled in the remnants of you, to even think about moving on. He doesn’t want to. The thought of someone else sitting in your chair at his kitchen table, filling the space you used to fill, feels wrong. As if the idea of trying to replace you is enough to make him completely irreparable.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe you’re as stuck as he is, too busy being his to fall for someone new. Are you thinking of picking up your phone after having a few? He always does.

Luigi takes a seat at his table and rests his head against the cool surface of the wood. The sun is higher now, past the blockage of his blinds, casting longer shadows across the floor. He closes his eyes, letting your memory wash over him, even though the thought of you hurts impossibly so. He can still see you, hear you, feel the ghost of your touch against his skin. It’s torture, but he doesn’t want it to go away just yet.

Luigi’s ache, as unbearable as it is, is all he has left of you, pulling him back in a desperate way he can’t comprehend. He can’t unlearn crawling–inevitably, slowly, and helplessly–back to the only place his heart knows to go: you.

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