#aven what are you doing to me... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xiao-come-home · 28 days ago

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How they sleep with you - HSR Edition!

✰ Characters: Anaxa, Phainon, Mydei, Sunday, Aventurine, Boothill, Jiaoqiu.

✰ Words: 1,3k.

✰ SFW ; a tiny bit sug/gestive in aven's part.

Warnings: none, gn!reader.

A/N: first time writing for anaxa, phainon, aven and sunday. pls spare me if theyre too ooc :( i tried pensive emoji

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Anaxa:

Religiously sticks to his half of the bed and expects you to do the same as well. Be aware that if you don't behave, he'll poke you intensely with a pointer until you return to your side. It's not that he is uncomfortable with physical contact per se, but he appreciates his personal space; he's not completely heartless though, as he finishes off his day with a kiss that leaves you both breathless. What you may not expect this for the first few times is that when the sun rises ever so slowly, the professor is the one desperately clinging to you, making his lengthy battle the night prior dissipate within mere hours.

"No such things happened," Anaxa answers swiftly, "however, this does not surprise me. This isn't the first time you've devised a ridiculous statement."

You would've believed his words if Anaxa wasn't currently nuzzling into your shoulder blades, searching for your warmth.

Phainon:

If Anaxa at least attempts to keep his distance, Phainon knows nothing of sorts. He's quite shamelessly glued to you as soon as you enter your bedroom, let alone the bed itself. Though, you're not exactly sleeping as soon as you crawl under the covers - Phainon tends to have a cuddle session before finally succumbing to sleep. He wants to talk to you about his day and hear about yours - only then he's satisfied enough. Bedtime might also act as a rare, vulnerable time for Phainon, where no filter exists; he says everything that keeps him restless.

"Will you be there when I wake up?" Phainon only hopes his voice is not as broken as it is inside his head.

"Silly, of course. I'll be by your side every time you wake up." Your tender tone is enough to fade some of the somber clouds above his head.

Phainon laughs, but it comes out as bittersweet; he brings you closer and wraps his arm tightly around your side, hiding his face in your neck. He'll do everything to make it happen - even if it means fighting the fate itself.

Mydei:

The Kremnoan prince insists he doesn't require sleep, but falls victim to your puppy eyes. He makes sure you have the best quality of sheets, pajamas, and pillows; your comfort comes first to him, no matter how many times you insist that he brings you the said comfort the most, and the rest is insignificant. Mydei holds you close to his chest, playing softly with your hair to help you fall asleep - only then he's able to rest, knowing your soul is peacefully in repose. If plagued by nightmares, featherlight kisses on your eyelids wreak the foes away.

"Sleep well, my love," Mydei cradles your cheek for a moment, before adjusting himself; his lips are resting against your forehead, as he himself, begins to doze off.

You, on the other hand, watch Mydei sleep in the morning. A wide smile spreads on your face as you observe his chest fall and rise, a moment of interrupted serenity on his handsome face.

"Looking at me again?" The male questions, his deep voice dripping with honey, watching you with one eye open; perhaps not yet ready for the bright light.

"No...?"

Mydei pinches your nose lightheartedly.

"You're a bad liar."

Sunday:

Poor thing trying to break the habit. Being used to having everything in perfect state, Sunday needs a reminder that it's okay for bedsheets to have a few wrinkles here and there. He'll apologize nervously, but you can't stop him from fluffing up your pillows and readjusting the covers. He tries to stay on his half but desperately wants to stay close to you, so don't hesitate to pull him close - he'll freak out for a bit, and then slowly, but steadily give in to your touch. There's one thing you too, cannot resist - watching his innocent image crumble away in your very hands.

"Quit smushing my face against your—" Sunday's words die in his throat as you push his face further into your chest, the redness of his cheeks so bright, it could rival Himeko's scarlet hair.

"This is— this is inappropriate! How humiliating..."

You only laugh at your boyfriend's despair. Sometimes it's nice to be a villain.

"What, you're not gonna fight me? Are you chickening out?" You poke his side. He groans and bends in half for a second.

"Atrocious joke."

Be prepared for his wing accidentally hitting your face tomorrow when you kiss...

Himeko: lmfaoo robin you wont believe they actually did this *sends a video*

Aventurine:

Gambling who sleeps on the floor. You don't play that game anymore. The blonde finds great pleasure in aggravating you before sleep hits in, gambling with his own life to get a reaction out of you. He cackles mischievously if you try to suffocate him with a pillow for tickling you for at least 15 minutes prior, but even so, it's not enough for him to let you go to the dreamland, yet. By the time you're done, your bed needs to be made again and your shared panting could possibly give bystanders a very different idea...

"Aven, enough, I think my diaphragm might actually explode," a remnant of giggles still exits your mouth, unfortunately, Aventurine does not share your sentiment and snakes his arm against your belly, while kissing your neck a bit too enthusiastically.

"Stopping, now? Where's the fun in that?" His fingers play with the waistband of your pajamas, "Why not raise the stakes a bit more?" Your skin turns into goosebumps as you feel a grin painting itself on Aventurine's face against your neck.

Boothill:

Well, he doesn't sleep really, he has to get recharged with electricity to get the energy back... So there might be a problem. Hopefully, your bed is also able to support some heavy weight, since laying down with a man whose body is almost a full machine, can be quite challenging. Either way, Boothill is actually pretty excited to accompany you, even if he'll spend most of the time watching you sleep instead; he'll hum you a song to help you fall asleep, card through your hair with his hand - it's... Reminding him of the peace he used to have on his home planet. You being the only survivor besides Boothill made him much more protective than before, but seeing you sleep so blissfully curled up to him... You still trust him. That's all it matters, after so many sleepless nights you've had.

"Shh, sleep," Boothill urges you gently, pulling up the bedding to cover you further.

"I wish you could sleep with me."

Boothill chuckles, caressing your cheek with his robotic finger, "I might not sleep with ya anymore, but I'm still here. And will be, until yer sick of me."

Jiaoqiu:

This man. He wraps his whole body around you like a snake and doesn't let go until morning. If it's possible for him to entangle his tail somewhere - expect that too. If you try to escape his grasp, he'll accuse you of not loving him anymore and might bite you (in a teasing way, of course). The sly foxian tends to sneak his hands under your clothes to rest them over your bare skin; sometimes, if need be, instead of teasing you furthermore, he gives you a soothing massage before drifting off. In fact, he'd prefer to sleep bare - skin to skin, but respects it if you're not interested; not that a mere layer will stop him from being a menace.

"Jiaoqiu," you sigh, looking over your shoulder, "your tail is reaching places that the sun cannot."

"Oh, really?" His voice dripping with fake surprise, but he only adjusts his head against the pillow behind you, "A checkup is necessary in order to ensure your health is in good condition."

Despite his silvery voice and elegant words, don't be fooled - mischief is laced through the tiny gaps.

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shouyuus · 11 days ago

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─── 星穹铁道 POSITIONS

ft dan heng, jing yuan, aventurine, sunday, phainon, mydei; smut/fluff (mostly smut), missionary, doggy, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, prone bone, mating press, incoherent bullletpointed ramblings, lapslock, no "y/n", this is deeply unsrs

summary: switchin' up positions for you (jk, they all have their favs)

a/n: i have no excuse. none.

─── 丹恒 DAN HENG

missionary boi

not bc he's boring or anything like that, but mainly bc he's never been the best with words, so he likes it when he can look at you, likes it when he can see you, and you can see him too

he wishes he had the words (sometimes, he wonders what the point of living so many different lives might be if he can't even summon the words to describe them) to tell you how much he loves this, how much he loves --

"is this... is this okay?" "yeah -- it's m-more than okay -- dan heng please --"

he'd have to hold back, even though the feel of your body beneath his feels something like resolution -- and it's always been strange, living in a body that he knows had not always belonged to him, but like this, buried inside you, somehow, he feels at home.

because he can kiss you, graze his lips along yours, pant against your mouth, bury his face in the star-kissed skin of your shoulder when he feels the tide coming, and he lets it come --

"s-sorry... that was..." but you shake your head, laughing, carding a hand through his slightly sweaty bangs, "don't... it was good." dan heng pushes up, his eyes flickering across the planes of your face; something coils in his gut -- desire, or perhaps something more insidious -- the swirling grip of a dragon's greed -- twisting inside him till he he groans, his cock twitching inside you once more.

you hiss, and yes, he thinks, there's no other way he'd have this, have you, than splayed out beneath him, moaning his name, nose to nose, face to face.

─── 景元 JING YUAN

mating press

bc he loves seeing you folded in half, tears pearling along your bottom lashline, your cheeks red, your lips bruised from how hard you've been biting it, fucking down into you till you're writhing in pleasure

he like the feeling of your ankles in his palms, the way he can see when he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your whole body jolt, likes it when you can't get his full name out, or even better, when the only thing you can manage is a choked out "g-general --!"

bc he loves teasing you, grinning when you hiccup at the way his cock pummels your cervix, or the way he pushes down on your tummy just to keep his own tip press against his palm, "hm? what was that, little dove? it's too much? oh... i think you can take it, right? you've always been so good at taking it for me."

likes the access he has like this, to turn his head and kiss at your calf, or to simply lower his mouth and sink his teeth into the plump of your thigh, revel in the reddened ring it leaves along your skin as you keen beneath him

"fuck, you always get so wet when i fuck you like this -- is it that good? hm?" he chuckles at the way you try to nod, cocks his head, groans at the squelch of his cock sinking into you over and over and over again

"yeah... that's good. that's a good girl for me."

─── 砂金 AVENTURINE

cowgirl

the roi is high with this one; all he's gotta do is lay back and enjoy the view -- ofc, he doesn't let you do all the work -- he'll watch you work yourself up, tease at your nipples, tug on them with his fingers, his eyes half-lidded, an easy smirk painted over his lips, before rolling his hips up into yours just to see you jolt, feel the way you tip forward, how your pussy flutters around his length, hard enough to make his stomach clench

he likes the way you whine when your thighs get sore, likes it when you pout down at him with those watery eyes of yours, beg him to make you cum (because only he can)

"aven-enturine -- 'm so close --" "oh yeah? cum then -- i'm right here, aren't i?" he asks, rubbing his thumb in placating little circles on your thighs, his other hand still pillowed behind his head

he'd make you beg, if only because you sound so damn pretty doing it, but he's not an unfair man -- that'd be bad for business -- so he relents eventually, rocks you down with his palms on your hips, groaning as he feels you tighten with every languid thrust of his cock

shifts his legs up to ruck you up further, better support for your back this way, easier for him to dig his heels into the mattress and fuck up into you till you're bouncing on his cock just the way he likes

"that's right -- ride me -- i know you can do it -- make it all messy for me."

─── 星期日 SUNDAY

prone bone

bc this is a day of rest -- no, but he enjoys the control (sometimes, he wonders what that says about him, still), enjoys how he can feel every inch of your skin pressed against every inch of his, how his breath warms the nape of your neck and he can smell the sweet, milky scent of your shampoo

"shh... just let me -- nngh -- make you feel -- good --"

obsessed with kissing your neck, lacing his fingers between yours, brushing your hair from your back as he fucks you slow; likes the way you tighten around you, the way it feels so much more intimate this way, even though he can't see your face, he can see each tremor as it works through your body, see every goosebump that rises along your skin

(and he really does like the control, like having you beneath him like this, the way you're so soft, how he can shift you this way and that, tug you closer, press you deeper into the sheets, how his cock looks nestled between your ass-cheeks, the friction of it as the bottoms out inside you)

"sunday... ah --" "does it feel good? tell me... tell me what you like --" "w-want more --"

and he'd give it to you, fuck you as hard and as deep as you'd like, till his name on your lips starts to sound like a prayer, till you wrapped around him starts to feel like redemption

"come for me -- show me what you look like --" he breathes, pressing his forehead to the nape of your neck, thrusting down into you hard enough to make the bed rock, "please -- please," he has never been one to beg, but for you -- "please."

─── 白厄 PHAINON

doggy

bc he likes the versatility and faithfulness, he knows the angles, knows just how you like to be fucked -- like this, his hands on your hips, pulling you back, the dull smack of skin on skin echoing around his bedchambers, the linens crumpled beneath your fingers

and occasionally, he likes to reach out, wrap your hair around his palm and tug -- gently, of course, only a small sting, but he's long since learned that a spot of pain might elicit the most mind-numbing pleasure -- after all, isn't that why men have always thirsted for war? for the pain of victory, the delirium of conquering

"f-fucki -- phainon --!" "mm -- that's good -- c-can you keep -- keep going?" he asks, soothing at your waist with his fingers

you nod, and he laughs, a not un-kind sound, nodding as he redoubles his efforts, pressing a palm to the back of your head, pushing down till your cheek is against his pillows; he groans at the tightness of your cunt, the way you push your ass back into him, eager, desperate for more, and he tries to stop himself from going too hard, too fast, but he's never claimed to be the strongest soldier

"ph-phainon --!" your voice breaks along the line of his voice, and he feels the coil burst inside him, fingers digging into your hips, hard enough to leave tiny crescent-moon divots in your skin; he hisses as he shudders, forcing himself to keep fucking into you till he feels you come undone around him as well, a fluttering flurry of heat clamping down around him

he drops his face into your back, breathes out and drops a kiss there, his vision flickering slightly as he steadies himself and tugs you into his arms, the pair of you collapsing onto the bed

"mm... that was good," he remarks, twisting to grin at you with bright, sea-foam eyes, "what do you say to another few rounds?"

─── 万敌 MYDEI

reverse cowgirl

bc he likes to yank on your hair like a pair of reins, likes the way you keen above him, the way you glance over your shoulder with your wide, reproachful eyes, likes smacking at your ass cheeks just to watch you bounce on top of him, harder, harder

"that's it -- that's right -- god that feels good --" and he'd know, wouldn't he? all that fire and ichor running through his veins, he should suffer the pleasure of you, such a priceless treasure, worthy of a king

he likes the noises you make, how you can never keep quiet, whining and whimpering, even as you work yourself up into a frenzy above him, likes the thought of you using him, getting yourself off on his cock, just like this, your eyes half-shut, your hands braced along his thighs

"c'mon, you can do better," he says, "th-that's a good girl," he gasps, grunting as you swirl your hips in a quick figure 8, the friction making his vision dance; he tugs on your hair, your head jerking back as you give a small gasp of pain; he groans as you clench down around him

there's slick running down your inner thighs, sticking to his hips as he lets go of your hair; you tip forward, your ass pushing back; he lets out an appreciative hiss as he reaches forward to grab two handfuls of your ass, helping you work along his cock -- up and down, forward and back

"mydei -- mydei --" you chant his name, half-reproachful, half-pleading; he lets out a puff of breath, giving your ass a quick smack, "almost there, i can feel you -- gonna fill you up, hm? that what you want? wanna be fucked full, don't you?"

your answering keen is all he needs before he makes good on his promise, and in the sweaty-drenched aftermath, he takes you into his arms, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and cradles you in his arms, "rest," he murmurs against you, "we've got a long night ahead of us yet."

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seelestia · 1 year ago

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✧ i'll show you (if you'll let me).

⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )

#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }

#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.

#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡

★ 〜 masterlist.

will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.

you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.

and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?

(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)

but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.

(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.

time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?

time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

ticklish.

the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.

there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.

“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.

there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.

“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.

“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”

his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.

you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!

every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.

“mwah, mwah, mwah—”

“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”

(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)

will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.

(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)

the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.

if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.

(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)

veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.

mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”

at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.

looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?

✧ a moment among the stars:

“...yet another headache.”

as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.

you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.

a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.

(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)

veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”

oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.

you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.

“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.

“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.

(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)

“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.

“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”

“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”

(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)

“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”

“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.

“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.

(your heart skips a beat.)

will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.

how mysterious.

but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?

your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.

pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.

(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)

the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.

fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.

(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)

if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.

as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?

(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”

sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.

“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”

you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.

he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”

or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.

(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)

“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”

“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.

most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.

“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”

you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?

(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)

will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?

after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?

but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.

(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)

dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”

(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)

sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.

(it remains persistently.)

when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.

when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.

(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.

but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”

you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”

he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.

“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.

“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.

“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.

dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.

“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.

(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)

“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”

“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.

“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.

(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡

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