- PLEASE READ THIS LIST BEFORE SENDING A REQUEST. I AM STRICT WHEN IT COMES TO REQUESTS, DO FORGIVE ME, BUT I DON'T WANT MISUNDERSTANDINGS DUE TO LACK OF SPECIFICTY.
- An example request: "hello, can i request for a(n) [insert character/s] (headcanon/imagine/drabble)? (Then you can be as specific as you want)." This allows me to prioritise your request since I would not need to overthink what ship, style, etc you are after.
You have a choice of:
💙 IMAGINES: fics that can go 200+ words with dialogue and specific prompt. I do "x Reader" fics more than canon ships. I do canon ship fics if they are OTPs. [𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐏-𝐄𝐑𝐒' 𝐎𝐓𝐏𝐬 & 𝐍𝐎-𝐓𝐏𝐬]
💚 HEADCANONS: 22 headcanons per post, these are loaded and fit for specific scenarios requested. Once again, these Headcanons can be "x Reader" in nature or ships. Also, these headcanons are my PERSONAL interpretations of characters. If you have a problem with it, feel free to write your own headcanon post💖.
🧡 DRABBLES: 100 - 200 Words, these are short stories you can request. They can be "x Reader" or canon ships.
- The fandoms I write for is in the "TABLE OF CONTENTS" category or you can scroll down to the banners dividing the fandoms.
These are the Fandoms I will NOT write for yet:
🌸 Midnight Cinderella [ON HOLD, NOT ACCEPTING REQUESTS AT THE MOMENT]
🌸 Ikemen Vampire [ON HOLD, NOT ACCEPTING REQUESTS AT THE MOMENT]
🌸 OCs [ON HOLD, NOT ACCEPTING REQUESTS AT THE MOMENT]
- I will be posting things from my Instagram to this Tumblr, primarily extended versions which will also be available at A03.
- For ENCANTO requests, I will not be doing romantic headcanons, fics, etc., for Mirabel, Camilo and Antonio. They are minors and adults requesting romantic fanfics with minors creeps me out and I don’t want to contribute to that. Madrigalcest is also out of the table, I do not condone incest, FICTION OR NOT.
- I decided that each fandom with a story will now have their own masterlist which will be linked to underneath their respective banners. Current available ones are: The Arcana, Hetalia and Encanto.
- What I would write are listed UNDERNEATH the fandom banners.
- What I WON’T write: Incest, Pedophilia/philic requests, furry things, Omegaverse (something about that AU just doesn’t rest easy in my soul).
. . . now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep; watch and guard me through the night, and wake me with the morning light.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、church girl reader 、succubus dan heng (imbibitor lunae) 、sacrilege 、biblical imagery 、corruption 、virgin reader 、 aphrodisiac 、improper use of tail 、dubcon - noncon (whatever makes you feel better) 、soft dom dan heng 、 biting 、 blood 、 ooc dan heng 、scenting 、 stalking 、monster cock dan heng、 fingering 、 finger sucking 、 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── hiii happy new year（＾ν＾）i started writing this about a week out of the new year so im allowed to say that! i don't even know what to say for this one. i really got into my #goonette bag for this. like + reblog for a visit from a succubus tonight 👅
WORD COUNT ── 7.5k
SUNDAY CREEPS OVER DAWN with pale yellow lines. Beams stretch across the sky; the night crawls into obscurity. The Devil’s henchmen lay rest, but God’s servants rise to duty.
Service begins promptly at seven. The bake sale begins at nine. You rise at four-thirty, wash up at four-thirty-two, and head to the kitchen at four-forty-five. The kitchen lights buzz on. They flicker with a start. The refrigerator hums, sighs when you open it. A bundle of yesterday’s fresh-picked, promptly bought apples, two slabs of flaky, chilled pie crust, a carton of eggs, of which you will only need two, and a whole stick of butter. You fix small bowls of cinnamon, sugar, and flour.
Core, peel, and slice. You core, peel, and slice six apples: three honeycrisp, three golden delicious. Quarter-inch slices tossed into a ceramic bowl, cinnamon sprinkles blanketing them. The stove fire embers on, the skillet warms; you toss the cinnamon apples, you stir the butter, the flour, the water, and sugar for a perfect three minutes. At five-ten, the apples are baptized.
You roll the dough thinly. Roughly twelve inches in diameter, fits like a sleeve in your nine-inch ceramic dish. The second slab is rolled out even thinner, stripped into ten exact lines. You spoon the apple filling into the dish. You lay the strips down, one then the other. Sealing the edges, you crimp the crust. You paint it with eggwash. You deliver it unto its cocoon at 425°F.
Fifteen minutes later, a million dishes washed and countertops wiped in the meantime, you set the oven to 350°F. You shower. Remnants of flour spill down the drain. You spray your face with rose water, pat it with dry cotton, and seal it with cream. You dress your eyes with thin coats of brown mascara, your cheeks with faint red, similar to the skin of honeycrisps, your lips with a shimmering sheen.
You dress in your Sunday’s best: a fitted, gingham blouse, lace truffles lining the short sleeves and long hem, kissing the line of a long, A-line white skirt. Sheer, white tights dress your legs. Waxed, Mary-Jane flats lift you slightly off the ground.
The house smells like sweet apples and the bite of cinnamon. Old, sweaty wood pinches past. It smells like your childhood, like solace. You’d lived in this same, little house all your life. Cracks and faint etchings lined the walls. You traced them on the way to the kitchen. They swirled in the way the pie scent did.
“Bless!” You chimed as you pulled the pie out. It was perfect. All it was missing was a sprinkling of brown sugar and nutmeg. It’ll tender on the hot crust. It will be wonderfully sweet and warm. “The congregation will love it,” you mutter to yourself.
The ready dome welcomes the pie, and you seal it with the glass top.
Your packed satchel is slung over your shoulder, and you pick up the dish. It’s an awkward maneuver out of the door, but you finally muster it and creep onto the porch. Morning and night have just begun to melt into one another. The trees at the edge of the property line are shadowed onto the ground at your feet, the sun at attention behind it. The wind is cool as it blows, it spills a chill down your back. You smack your lips, looking back at the house. You would go back and grab a cardigan or shawl, but that setback may cost you your seat on the bus. You can’t afford to be late; you refuse to be late. Monsignor hates interruptions, sometimes, more than he seems to hate the Devil.
The dirt road takes ten minutes to walk, another five to the main road, and another three to the bus stop. Trees and jade shrubbery line the road. When you were younger, you and your mother used to weed the lines on dull weekends. Better to occupy yourself with something meaningful and productive, Tidy and protect the Lord’s green earth, she would say, earn your place in His kingdom.
You could have spent five years pruning the greenery, and it would still be ugly. Some things are just meant to be ugly. Your mother hated that. Ugly. She detested it.
You’ve fought tooth and nail to be the antithesis of ugly. A tidy, prideless young woman, delightful by nature and visage. Your shoes leave footprints in the dirt; they click with each step. Your skirt swings with each step. From behind, you look like a soft vision in red, a docile figure of desire. Like an apple hanging off these large trees.
The hunger of the woods has a suffocating permanence to it.
You turn your back to it, you’re unbeknownst to it. It’s a blissful ignorance, but it still simmers in your gut, telling you everything isn’t all right. You pay no mind to it, you stifle it. Your mother has always told you the Lord is the eyes at the back of your head, He protects you when the Devil lurks. Trust in Him.
Trust in Him, serve Him, oblige Him. All will be well by His good word.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ⋆ ☄︎
“Thank you so much for coming!” Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You shovel off a slice, packing it onto the small plate, wrapping it tenderly with apple-dotted paper. “Please enjoy; may the Lord bless you eternally.”
The woman slides you the roll of credits, a measly eight, but you sit on your mum. Stay grateful, and many blessings may come your way.
It is pitiful, though. The church has been dwindling in patronage and funds—not many people find themselves congregating in hick-county, let alone expending a single dime. Within the last ten months or so, the numbers have whittled down into just you, the young lady across the creek and her elderly parents, Monsignor and his wife and children, a local teacher, a legless veteran, and a drunkard widower. You only continue to go for your parents. They were—are—devotees. The world could be shattering toward a close, and you would find them in that church, on their knees in the pews, praising the Most High.
They’re dead now. A nasty plague swept around locally; crops, animals, people alike were marred into ghastly figures of themselves. Their skin hardened and rippled like bark, their bodies practically hollowed. Breaths sounded like shallowed whistles of the wind, and their voices crinkled like they were rapidly aging. Within days, their lungs shut down, their blood soured, their hearts stopped. They would die, eyes wide open, mouths open, like they were muttering their last words forever.
Everyone said it was the work of the Devil. The Lord had forsaken you all and let the Devil ravage, free-reign carnage. Neighbors dropped like flies. Faith dwindled. No amount of prayer could make it stop. You prayed and prayed and prayed at your parents’ bedside until Monsignor peeled you away, quarantining you until your parents took their final, shallow breaths. You made it out. They couldn’t stop staring at you in death. Envying your life.
You honor them. The one who lived.
Your life is now behind a table, smiling at passersby, muttering out greetings as they pretend not to see you. Swatting away flies from buzzing around a pie that’s grown cold.
It’s boring; it’s unfulfilling. But they’d be proud of you. Supporting your community, doing what no one else will. You will make it to Heaven, they will all reap what they’ve sown come Judgment Day. If you keep telling yourself that, the smile on your face won’t hurt.
For the next half hour, that smile fails to falter. It’s practically graphed on your face.
Your cheeks weaken; they feel warm and sore. Your jaw is tight, teeth grinding against each other. Your head is throbbing. Not a single slice of pie has been sold since, nothing to justify this torment. People walk right by you on the curb, they care not for what you're selling — you don't even care.
Sister Yen taps you on the shoulder. “Monsignor’s called it. It's time.”
“Oh,” you breathe, partly of relief. “Would you like a slice of pie? I wouldn't feel right about it going to waste.”
Sister just laughs softly, shaking her head, “I’m minding my figure. Gluttony plagues me.”
You laugh along with her. Not much is funny, though; you're quite upset. Other girls your age are having fun, making names for themselves, doing something with their passing days. You are giving yourself to a cause your heart is half in, that people don't even blink at.
It's depressing.
But your parents are looking down at you, and they're proud of your selflessness. They've raised such a fine girl. A girl who closes the dish tightly, gathering up utensils in the tray, “Shame,” you utter, “I’ll have to find a good use for some pie.”
“I can take it off your hands.”
You look up.
A young man stands at the other side of the table, tall and lean. And cute. Shaggy, dark curls fluff around his face, and his gaze cuts through thick, feathered bangs. It feels like the first breath of autumn: clear, cool, rejuvenating. He carries a small smile on his lips, a hand pressed on the table. “How much?”
“Huh?” You stumble. You weren't listening, even slightly.
A short, quiet laugh jumps from his throat. That feels like a blip of spring: breezy, sweet, comforting. “The pie. …How much are you selling it for?”
You've talked to boys before. Many. Neighborhood boys, schoolyard boys, church boys, all types of boys. They've made you nervous at times, welcomed at others, but it's never felt like this—like you've never spoken a word before, language and life far beyond foreign.
Your hands pat the glass top, your lips rolling in and out into an awkward smile, “Eight credits a slice. How many do you want, sir?”
“Like I said, I’ll take it off your hands.” It's not mean. It’s barely even stern. He just tells you, softly; he reminds you. “The entire pie.”
“Wow!” You gleam. You practically shove the standing dish into his hands. “Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it—may the Lord eternally bless you.”
He bows back at you, smiling. The stack of credits definitely equates to more than thirty-six, but you don't question it. It may not be even a fraction of Monsignor’s two-thousand-credit goal, but it’s double, almost triple what you've made the entire morning. It makes your labor worth it. The pain in your feet, the sweat on your skin, the ache in your maw, all of it finds meaning in that fat stack.
“To you, as well.”
Sister Yen packs up her table and you awkwardly follow suit. The young man doesn't leave; he lingers. You don't know what to say or do.
A beat of silence passes like a freight train. Long and moored, like a taunt. You give in. Your will is not all that strong.
He’s not looking at you, but past you. Almost longingly at the rustic, vine-lined chapel. It’s weathered a thousand storms and bears the scars to prove it.
Cherubs with cracks on their frames, chips out of their heads, stand on podiums at either side of the entrance. Dirty stained glass windows keep onlookers at bay. Who knows what he’s trying to see? Perhaps Sister Yen dragging her suitcase into the chapel is entertainment.
“Looking for something?” You ask, giggling to ease the tension.
His eyes hesitate to pull back to you. “Is there another service today?”
You hum, unsure. “At times, Monsignor will deliver afternoon sermons. Usually, for special occasions. I can check, if you're especially curious.”
“I would appreciate that.”
You hesitantly leave him be. Your jar of money shines as the sun hits it. He doesn’t seem to be a thief, but you can’t help but to keep looking back at him. He waves smally each time you do. You wave back, it’s complimentary.
Entering the chapel wraps you in goosebumps. It’s cold, it’s always cold in there. Dust settles from the ceiling. The shades have been drawn, and the candles have been blown out. Shadows crawl across the church, ignorant of the midday sun. It’s eerily quiet, but you still call. “Monsignor?”
Your voice echoes. He and Sister Yen must have used the back exit. You still take another step forward. You call out again, “Monsignor, have you gone?”
Echo. Silence. You purse your lips and turn on your heels.
Right as you step, a back door creaks. The entire chapel is old, it often sings with every movement. You would never miss a thing. You know something is back there. Someone. Hopefully, Monsignor.
“Hello?”
You call out stupidly. You cringe at your doing so.
Nobody answers—save for the wind, that spins in the distance, and the door, that cries in response. You immediately go to imagining the worst. Something could have transpired as he was on his way out!
It’s stupid. You can’t help it. You tiptoe past the confessional, around the bend. The hallway is even darker. The relics and statues loom over you like they can see straight through you—your back is ramrod straight as you trek down the inky, quiet hall. You want to call out for Monsignor again, but your throat is dry. You rasp out a breath.
The door to Monsignor Jing’s office was ajar. A breeze drafted past.
“Sister Yen…?” You whisper. “Monsignor…? Are you—?”
Slam!
You’re not sure what the sound is. A closing of a book, a door, a nasty fall—whatever it is, it echoes from the front of the chapel. The breeze blows back: it recedes behind you, pushing the hairs on your skin up and backward. You linger for not a second longer.
You don’t run, but you scurry along, like you’ve a tail tucked between your legs. You spare looks over your shoulder, albeit stupidly, hoping to catch the source of your terror. Perhaps a cruel joke by Monsignor Jing’s mischievous children? Or, an ill-twist of fate– the Devil has infiltrated?
Air catches in your lungs, only to be knocked out of you when you collide with the man from earlier. He stands just at the entrance of the chapel, and his arms are ready to catch you.
Could it have been him?...
You shake the thought. He meets your face with concern, and his touch is featherlight, almost hesitant. His hands cup your elbows, steadying you. “Are you alright?”
You’re…frazzled, to say the least. You look back over your shoulder once more, pushing your way out of the chapel with a deep sigh. “I’m…” you adjust your blouse, swipe your forehead, “fine. Thank you. I didn’t worry you, did I?”
“I only heard a noise, and you were taking a while.” He laughs almost boyishly. It clears the thunder drumming away in your chest. “I don’t know why I assumed the worst.”
“No worries,” you clear, “Monsignor Jing isn’t available. The chapel has been cleared out for the day. I hope that doesn’t dampen you too much.”
He shakes his head. “I was but only wondering. Just looking for someplace to bide my time.”
“Oh?” You perk up. You’ve never heard of a church being a place for someone to waste time in, but then again, that is what you do. You often fail to admit it to yourself, let alone another person. “Are you visiting, then?”
He shrugs, hesitance squiggles across his face. “I have business in the area.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. The conversation stagnates. You find yourselves right on the edge of the street, right at your pitiful table. Your money—the church’s money—hasn’t gone anywhere, at the very least. For that, you can be grateful, you can smile.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure your work is calling for your attendance,” his small grin makes you smile wider. “On behalf of the church, you are welcomed to the next service. A new face would be wonderful to have around.”
“I just might.” He picks the long-forgotten pie dish off the table. He holds it to his chest.
Just as he begins to walk off, you stop him—your hand on his arm keeps him from going. It was an instinctual movement, one that blooms heat in your cheeks as soon as you realize. You avert your gaze. You rock on your feet. But you keep smiling. A smile mends all.
“May I get your name?”
“My name is Dan Heng.”
His words carry off into the wind. His frame withers down into dark, unshakable lines, curvature significantly human, the atmosphere much greater than. Something potentially unheard of—unearthly.
You take it as a good thing. There is nothing horrid about the prospect of new, of the future.
—------
He hasn't left your mind. Lord forgive you, but he’s almost like that damned plague: he’s latched onto your brain after one simple, mindless interaction, and is eating it alive.
In the quiet stillness of your home, your mind cannot stop running.
People don't usually visit your town. It has been the same, ugly, dry little town forever. It’s stagnant. You’ve spent forever dreaming of something else—the prospect of freedom. Of fun. The future has stood on your doorstep and you’re scared to let it go. If you do, you just might never see it again.
Three days pass and you think the future has up and run off. Service is quiet, same as always. The Jing children doze off, then wake up and whisper-bicker over their father’s sermon. The legless veteran randomly bursts into tears, Sister Yen moves to console him. You all pray for his wellbeing, you praise the Lord for carrying him this far. The drunkard guzzles his bottle of bourbon indiscreetly. No one ever cares. It’s just the way things are.
You sit there, Bible perched on your lap, your hands atop it. You watch Monsignor Jing, you listen to him, you try to find comfort in his words. Maybe even reality. Something to hold on to, something to mend the unease that has wracked through you forever.
Monsignor ends the service early at eight-thirty. His wife is ill. The congregation goes quiet. The room goes still. Nobody will utter it, but your minds all circle in unison. The plague.
“The Devil may lurk, but he will not sink his claws into us,” Monsignor says, “our Father is protecting us.”
You are dismissed. Everyone starts to peel out. The children skip to their father. You linger. “Yanqing, Yunli— may I have a moment?”
They stop. You can tell they’re not interested. You don’t know why you bother to say anything. “I just wanted to say, your mother…all will be well. I wish her a speedy, amazing recovery. And you both, as well. Please, let your father hear my wishes as well.”
“Yeah, sure,” Yunli quips. She rolls the peppermint in her mouth from cheek to cheek. “Prayers didn’t work for you—”
“Yunli!” Yanqing punches her arm.
She grimaces at him. “Just saying. Thanks for your prayer. I’ll keep it in mind when we have to bury my mother in the same plot as everyone—”
“Yunli, come on!” Yanqing looks apologetically at you. But he doesn’t refute anything she says. He just pushes his sister away, up to their father’s beckoning arms.
You watch, almost longingly. Your heart swells, but with pain. Your life sucks. You’re lonely and sad and miserable. Everything should change for you, but it won’t. You’re stunted by the ghosts of your parents.
The day is young. Perhaps you’ll indulge in soap opera’s and fatty snacks. Maybe occupy yourself with your kitchen, a pie, a cake, cookies, something. Something to keep you busy, to make everything feel normal.
But it’s not normal. It’s new.
Out of the door, you find him. Lined in that same buzzy frame of shadows. Hazy and mysterious. New. Enticing.
“Dan Heng?” You call out.
He stops, the door held open by his arm. The sun beams down and you miss the expression on his face when he turns to you. However, something in your chest is telling you that he’s smiling. He has a nice smile; you remember that fact.
“Hi there,”
You catch up to him. He lets you out of the door first. “Hi. You came.”
“I did,” he nods, “It took a few days though, my apologies.”
“No, no, it’s alright. Doesn’t matter to me. Did you enjoy it?”
He nods again, slower this time, a little more hesitant. “Definitely a new experience. Monsignor Jing is like none I’ve seen before.”
You give a dry, humorless laugh. “I won’t lie, he may be part of the reason newcomers don’t stick around.”
Dan Heng grins widely. “Never say never.”
The breeze ruffles through his hair. He stills to look at you. Like his eyes confirm to you that implication resting in your chest. It feels weird. Your smile turns nervous—you’ve never…met a boy in this way.
“Um,” your voice lingers. It’s hard to find the thing to say. Friends are sparse, casualness is forbidden. Better to be proper and prim than homely and uncouth, your mother would say.
“Do you have plans?”
“Oh—”
“Sorry—”
“No, it’s fine,” you say, firmly. “I don’t…have much to do. Anything to do, really. I could use the company.”
“That’s great.”
—
Your house is always deathly quiet. Nature croaks around as the day matures. But there’s no life, not for miles.
The world is sick with an innate loneliness. Darkness, quiet, it runs deep. Most people are lucky to never be acquainted with it—you are not one of those people. You’ve always known it. You’ve always seen what stands in the dark.
For the first time ever, you don’t want to coexist with it. You hesitate to let Dan Heng leave. He should. But you don’t want him to. You like his company—you like any company, period—and you fear the comedown from this high.
“My ma always told me a little fib can go a long way,” you say, giggling, “but I was forbidden. My mouth had to stay pure.”
“Pure?”
You nod. “The pure live forever…” you’re twiddling your fingers now, you’re talking too much. You can’t help yourself. You’ve never had someone to talk to. “Maybe that’s why they’re dead.”
“They raised you. They couldn’t have been all bad.”
“They weren’t. But the older I get…”
“I get it,” his voice is full of sincerity. His eyes are, too. “Finding your identity when the past has already decided your future…I get it. You just..how much faith do you have?”
“In myself?”
“In your religion.”
You don’t know. You’ve never known. The parables that have lined your life are just stories. Ideas. Guidelines and restrictions to an entirely different world. You’re not allowed indulgences. You’re not allowed personality. You’re not allowed humanity.
Every day is spent trying to be an angel.
Dan Heng just looks at you. He doesn’t need you to respond. You can’t see it, you think you hide it well, but pain is all over your face. You’re suffering. He just smiles at you.
“You’re a good girl. Everything will be okay for you.”
It flusters you. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s true,” he holds your hand tenderly, hesitantly. You let him. You move even closer. “So long as you do what’s true to you…and keep making those delicious pies.”
You laugh, palming your face shyly, “Ah, please! It’s just my nana’s recipe.”
“Mind if I borrow it? I’ve never had something quite like it.”
“Of course!” You grin.
You’d give him everything if he asked.
—----
“Oh—Dan Heng, you really didn’t have to!”
“I know, I know,” he grins, nodding, “It is your recipe, so I wanted to hear if I’d done it justice.”
“I’m sure you did.”
He just looks at you. That sweet, silly little knowing look. You giggle, but you say nothing else; your mother has taught you not to judge a book by its cover, or a man by his word. Actions say all.
You wave, “Alright, come on in. Let me judge this pie.”
“Ah, do spare me!” He winces. Then he chuckles. Over the past few days, you’ve really gotten used to that sound. Light and fair and simple. Cute.
Dan Heng makes that familiar, quick trek to your kitchen, and you follow closely behind, lagging just to turn your locks and slot the chain. “Dunno if I can promise you that…”
Your kitchen is icy by the hand of a furious breeze. The wind rages outside. There’s been chatter of an onslaught of rain and turbulent winds. Some of your neighbors have taken that as another sign: doom is impending, the Devil is afoot, death returns to claim the survivors. A bunch of hysterical nonsense, you shut it out with a slam!
The breeze is stifled. You seal its rage with a click, locking the window. You repeat twice, sighing. “I wasn’t expecting the storm so soon.”
Dan Heng nods, pulling a knife out of your block. It glints under the hanging light. A beat of thunder claps, the lights flicker. You both share spooked looks, laughing.
He runs the knife under hot water, looking over his shoulder at you, “Good thing we have a sweet treat.”
“True,” you chime, pulling two porcelain plates from the cabinet. Dragons line the edges, their snouts meeting on either sides of a red heart. You trace the decoration with your thumb. Your father brought these presents back from a trip as an anniversary gift. Your mom only used them on special occasions. “And warm blankets…and The Jaded and the Wild. …Think we also have wine.”
“Wine? Wow,” Dan Heng chimes, wiping the knife dry. “Special occasion?”
You narrow your gaze, “It’s a rainstorm. A modest glass of wine is mandatory.”
Dan Heng slices precise, sharp triangles of pie. The crust crumbles and folds perfectly; the filling stands firm, but leaks honeyed tendrils as it's pulled. Fine sugar crystals glisten on the lattice. It’s almost pornographic—Lord, forgive you. It’s sin: lust and gluttony…
It’s laughable: you bounce with greedy, excited chuckles, racing to Dan Heng’s side. He masterfully delivers it to a plate with the knife solely, aided by near inhuman balance.
“Wow,” you’re practically salivating, “I underestimated you. That looks..divine.”
“Thanks,” he flushes a soft, sheepish pink. He rolls his shoulders, preparing for the second delivery.
You clap your hands excitedly when he lands it perfectly. You immediately rush to the drawer, pulling out two slender forks. Dan Heng catches the sight. He moves swiftly: taking both plates in his hands and meeting you just as you try to pass off the utensils.
You quirk your head, softly, confusedly giggling.
He mirrors you, just softly smiling. He holds your eye contact for what feels like a long second, then looks down at the forks. Then back up at you. “Real silver forks, too?”
“Gosh, no,” you laugh. That weird, almost uneasy moment pops like a bubble, and your cheeryness was a sharp needle. “Handles are ceramic, made by my mama. The actual prongs are fake silver, nickel, I think. The upkeep is mad, to keep them from tarnishing.”
Now, he softly chuckles, mirroring your casualness. “I’ll bet.”
The plates catch the forks in a seamless manner of movements, leaving you toward the back wall, where the shelf of wine glasses stands adjacent to the rack of cured, untouched bottles. “Pass me the corkscrew, please?” You ask, pulling the gold foil off the bottle.
He switches the plates for the coiled screw, handing it off to you. Your fingers brush. You share soft, fluttery gazes.
You clear your throat, jamming the screw into the thick stalk. “These wines are older than me, y’know?”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you hum, jumping at the pop. “My parents received them as wedding gifts, housewarming gifts, but they never indulged. It was never forbidden, but it made them feel better.”
“And you?” Dan Heng asks. You turn back briefly to look at him. He’s leaned against your counter, his sleeves having ridden up. Your breath catches for a moment. “How does it make you feel?”
You immediately turn away. You pour into the wide glasses, tracking the flow of thick, deep red. It’s sacred. The drink of sacrifice and victory.
“It makes me feel good, too. I know I’m getting into Heaven, I’m a good woman, I don’t need to try so hard, y’know?” You set the bottle down. You pick up the glasses, raising one to your lips and the other to Dan Heng. “There’s nothing wrong with a little indulgence.”
Dan Heng raises his glass to that; you follow suit. He takes a sip, nodding, “This…this is a good choice.”
You laugh, coming to sweep your plate of pie. “A great substitute for ice cream. Has that, like, nutty-vanilla thing kind of going on.”
“Wait, let me try.” Dan Heng halts you, forking a bite of the pie. He bites it, chews it down, swallows, and immediately swigs from the glass. He takes a moment to ponder, almost cartoonishly, with his finger on his chin and his eyes to the ceiling. “Delicious,” he declares, softly, “A pale comparison to ice cream, though. But a worthy substitute, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Connoisseur Dan Heng, sir,” you chide, carrying off to the living room.
The two of you curled up in the living room, and for the next forty-five minutes, ceased to move—save, for a few runs to refill on wine. But that soon stopped, for you began nursing the glasses, instead, fostering conversation over the long-forgotten television.
Dan Heng sits facing the television, relaxed and composed. You sit to his right, completely folded and curled to face him, spinning your wine glass over the back of the couch. The liquid pools from left to right, quietly sloshing. It is no match for your laughter and anecdotes.
You’re no drunk; you’re not accustomed to the fire alcohol births. But you’re familiar with it. This, what is engulfing your body, does not feel like that.
The lights have dimmed. The storm is slowly withering your power away. The wind rages fervently, crashing against the windows and the roof and the sides of the house; the gusts are too aggressive to be held at bay and creep through the crevices. A draft whistles through, but it pales to combat the heat sweltering under your skin.
And it moves fast, aggressively. Within moments, you’re dripping in sweat. The wine glass slips from your hands and your head is starting to fuzz over.
Dan Heng calls your name, sitting up immediately and discarding his glass on the coffee table. Just beside your plates of pie: yours, completely ravaged, his, only half-eaten.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his hands wrapping around your biceps. He slightly shakes you, and a sickly smile pulls across your lips.
His touch feels like a run of cold, divine water in your scorching drought. Tingles surge where his fingertips press into your skin, and zip all through your body. The weight of his voice sits on your stomach, and it feels like a rabble of enraged butterflies awake.
You have to keep yourself from moaning when you part your lips. Your mouth is dry. You gasp out, “You should go.”
“What?” Dan Heng asks, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t…I don’ feel too good…” You slur. You want to lean into his touch, but your sense fights your instinct: you weakly push him away, struggling to your feet. “Go… ‘m..gonna lay down.”
Dan Heng ignores you. You barely get away, but he’s still stalks after you. His presence seems to loom over you. The lights flicker. His hand presses against the small of your back, and you instinctively curl into his touch, halting your escape. “Don’t…” you breathe out, but your body defies you.
He practically pushes you to the ground, and your wobbly knees don’t object. The lights flicker. Dan Heng squats behind you, running that hand up your spine and around your neck, pulling you up. Your eyes meet amid the darkness; your eyes are practically pitch black, dwarfed by hungry, blown pupils. His seem to glow. A sanctity in his safe, pale blue eyes.
Your lips quiver. Your eyes water. You’re short of breath, practically panting. He can feel your heartbeat racing through your pulse. He thumbs the spot over, and you whimper. “Please,” your voice is broken, barely above a whisper, “help me.”
Your plea goes unanswered. He only leans closer, and you’re like a moth to a flame, innately drawn forward. His lips ghost against yours, and you press forward; you yearn to feel it.
The lights flicker. The wind outside seems to take a deep breath.
“Don’t fight it,” he says, pressing his fingers harsher into your neck. You gasp against his lips, your eyes fluttering shut. “Just let it happen.”
He kisses you.
His lips feel as soft as they’ve looked. You moan instantly. You’ve never kissed anyone, especially like this. Drool is basically pouring out of your mouth, all over his lips, down your chins. Your tongues find each other instantly, and his seems to be long, dexterous, forked. It wraps around yours, and you moan, feeling the taste being pulled out of your mouth. He guides you, smacking your lips together with obnoxious, wet sounds.
And then he stops.
He pulls back from you. His lips are drenched with your spit. His eyes fight to open.
An image of sin. Lust.
You want to devour him.
He stops you, keeping your reaching hands at bay. He doesn’t say anything, but you obey. Obediently, properly, you hold yourself on all fours as he moves behind you. The sound of his knees knocking onto the ground sounds like a beat of thunder.
From behind, you look like an angel. A beheld vision in white, a docile figure of desire. Like a holy maiden, born for desecration.
The hunger of his eyes, his touch, has a suffocating permanence to it.
It never falters. Even as his nails, which seem to be sharper, drag up the backs of your thighs, pushing the skirt of your dress up your body. Even more so, as they force your legs apart, catching lines of thick, silky arousal. Soft pink panties, completely soaked through, ruined. You whine in embarrassment, trying to claw away, but his nails dig into your skin. They tell you to stop, without him ever having to utter a word.
His eyes revere you in the ways his hands won’t. His fingers hook under the seat of your panties, pulling the soiled fabric down, just under the curve of your butt. Palms press against your skin, fondling your as. You whimper again, but it catches in your throat when he suddenly rips them in half.
Desecration. The pieces fall to the ground.
They do not matter, not when he can freely pull your cheeks apart, glaring, carnal eyes finally feasting on your wet, untouched pussy. It shines like the north star. His carnality has found its direction; he dives in, true north.
The lights flicker. His hot breath fans over your heat.
You squirm. “Please,” you draw. Your mind wants to say stop, but your body wants to say take me. Your heart races; it feels like it’s aligned with your body. Dan Heng can hear the true nature of your being, the desires left dormant.
You need to be taken. To be released. To be tasted.
Fingers pull your labia apart with a soft, wet clicking. Webs of arousal stretch across your cunt. He breaks them with his tongue: slotting between your warm, wet, soft folds, running a long, uncharted course against you.
You breathe out an airless gasp—nothing, no one has ever touched you there. Not even yourself. Pleasure is indulgence, indulgence is sin. Your knuckles still bear remembrance of the beating they received for wrapping around a book that wasn’t the Lord’s word. Now, they scrape against the floor as you try to use your fists to keep yourself upright, but ultimately, end up slumping into a slope.
Thunder rings out again. Lightning zips through your body as that forked, inhumanly long tongue finds your clit, beating and pearly, begging for attention. The sensation is so foreign but so good, your entire body can’t help but jolt forward and shiver.
Forked ends of his tongue move independently: one side goes up your bud, the other down, an extraordinary stroking pattern. It feels like every nerve in your body is being pressed. Your thighs shake, your hips lock and jump, shoving your butt into his face. His nose presses against your holes, and that is the first time he makes a sound: a deep, contented groan, like the Earth has just woken up.
The lights flicker. Wind pushes against your house harder.
He spins his tongue back through your folds, just to pull back and circle your entrance. It feels slimy and inky as he pushes the tip of his tongue experimentally through your walls. You’re tight, untouched.
It was just an experimental push, a lick of you at your core. He needs to feel you at your core, but you’re not ready. So, his tongue is replaced with a finger, careful to keep his nails from ripping you apart.
That feels foreign. It feels like nothing, initially, just an unusual intrusion that soon settles down. Your cunt needs to be stretched. That slight burn, tingling sensation comes with the second finger, that fucks its way inside of you. His wrist rotates 180° back and forth, his arm pulling in and out as he fucks your pussy open. His fingers feel much thicker inside of you; the intrusion of the third pulls you wider. You moan, you cry, you hiccup over drool and cries losing themselves down your throat.
His other hand takes to your clit, and your orgasm follows in quick succession. It doesn’t take much for it to be egged out of you—lust has taken refuge in your body, and you are sanctified. Your girlhood is spilling down his fingers as he fucks your womanhood deep, finding the spot that makes you plead.
Finger tips that feel like wood, languid knuckles that flex and rub like water. Your high is ridden out on his hand.
You collapse to the ground when he’s done. His fingers part from you and your body instinctively rolls onto your back, your legs folded on top of each other.
You’re muttering to yourself. It gets louder as the silence persists.
“Father, forgive my transgressions. I have polluted your vessel, my mind has released itself of you, but my soul calls for forgiveness,” you ramble. Tears stream down your hot face. Your hands are clasped against your chest. “Please, amend my sinful actions and guide me down your path of glory. Allow my wretched spirit to repair itself in your just arms.”
Dan Heng sits forward. His hands pull your knees apart, pushing your dress back up your hips. Your body is compliant for him. But you still lay there, fervently praying to the blank sky.
“Please, God,” you meekly whimper, falling into a sob. Tears run down your face rapidly, aggressively.
Your mouth is stuffed with Dan Heng’s fingers. Your cries are stifled around his digits. They press down on your tongue, they gag you into a full, snotty stop.
The lights flicker. The wind howls.
He has horns. Gilded curves sprouting from his scalp like a twisted, demented halo. A tail seems to have sprouted from his back end, ripping through the fabric of his pants and whisking around in the air.
Your breath picks up around his fingers, but he shoves them further down your throat. Your hands wrap around his arm and his tail, much longer and dexterous than you’d anticipated, lock around your wrists. It’s so tight, you let go of him, and he, you.
“God can’t help you now.”
You whimper, your face scrunching up as more tears stream down your face. The fat, branch-like end of his tail replaces his fingers in your mouth. The taste from your cunt still lingers on your tongue.
All of his clothes come off in one fell, ripping swoop. The destroyed fabric is shredded beneath you.
He is pale, but full of life. Abdomen lined with soft, yet defined muscles, his sides carved out with teal scales that glow golden. All the way down his thighs, the scales go, just to where the bulbous, round tip of his cock sits. It fattens up as the fear in your gaze grows.
The tail pulls from your mouth. The lights flicker.
You sputter, spit coughed up onto your face. The lights turn off.
“Y-you’re the devil!” You accuse. “Oh, dear God…”
“No.” He stops your murmuring. He presses in between your legs, slotting his dick against your sex. “I’m your savior.”
Dan Heng, or whoever, whatever he is, pushes your legs back, his tail taking up the mantle of holding them at bay. His hands guide his cock right into your spoiled pussy, unforgiving of your cries.
The stretch is vicious, much greater than his three fingers. And his cock is heavy, you feel it as it inches deeper and deeper, buffing your pelvis up in his shape. Extremities rest on your tongue and you fight your damndest not to say them. You just call out for God, initially asking for his aid, but soon, as a formality—any other word is too hard for you to say.
Your tongue feels like a foreign, useless entity in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You’re slurring the name of your Lord as Dan Heng fucks into you brutally, breaking you in like a battering ram. In and out, in and out, slap, slap, slap, at a moderate pace where he can find your depths and let you breathe all the same.
Fog populates your head; sweltering heat splashes you over like a baptism and you no longer have any humanity, any righteousness. Only pleasure. Only ecstasy. Only sin pumping in your veins, turning your cries of shame and damnation into those of pleasure.
It feels better than good, better than great, better than amazing. It feels like he’s reaching your soul, fucking it into the shape of debauched perfection. Your eyes squint and cross and roll; your mouth moves over the ghosts of words, only hung open over pornographic, blissful moans.
There’s nothing in your head, nothing telling you wrong or right, sin or holy. You’re stupefied by the feeling of fat cock stretching you wide, kissing your G-spot again and again and again. That bubble in your gut is prodded again and again and again, rougher, more fervent each time. Your pussy latches onto him, and he finally lets out a long, guttural moan.
Virgin, warm pussy is the true Heaven. His presence inside of you is all wrong, but it feels so very right, and all he aims to do is to take his claim on your untouched body and save you from the bonds of righteous evil. You like it. You cry out like a weeping banshee because you like it.
His tail lets your legs fall against his shoulders as he pushes forward, leaning against you. His hips move like undisturbed water: languid and long and smooth, driving his cock to nuzzle against your cervix. Your eyes blow wide and you scream, your voice ripping against your throat.
His nose butts against your neck, his teeth dragging over your skin. He bites you as he thrusts in, that scream of yours crafted out of pure pain and pleasure. The bite is so deep, blood splashes against his teeth and spills out of your shoulder.
It hurts like fuck but the mind-numbing feeling of your orgasm rushing out of you amends all of that. He bites you on the other side as you cum, groaning into your wound. Your cunt constricts around him like it's milking him, urging those heavy balls that beat against your ass to empty deep inside of you.
Oh, fuck, that look in your eyes, all teary and heavy and lost. Not a thought in your head except for your true, base nature to be fucked and pleasured and bred full.
Fuck it.
You cum, he cums in succession, gutturally growling. He’s almost like a beast. You’re like an animal. You grab at him and he sweeps you up, holding you at your hips like you’re nothing, fucking further into you.
“Please, Dan Heng,” you slur. It’s terribly spoken, completely meek, downright delectable. He licks the sweat rivulets off your cheek, and you wince. “Please, I beg of you,”
“Pray,” he grunts, “Pray to your savior.”
“I give to thee my mind, body, and spirit!” You say, mindlessly. Like it’s second nature to you. Submission, faith, praise, the things you were born to do. Not for your false, irresponsible God, but for him, “My savior—keep..going.”
You’re being pulled up and down his length. He’s ripping you apart, storming toward your guts and moving them aside for him. Your clit buzzes with pleasure, your body singes in heat. “Claim me, savior, ruin me! Fuckme, fuck–ing, shit, fuck—!”
You swear petulantly, unfamiliarly, scatteredly, as a second, much faster, much more intense orgasm.
“Oh, you’re perfect,” he whispers in your ear, rocking you as you lock up tight. “I’m going to keep you.”
his cocks are so deep in. oh aeons, you can’t comprehend he can get that far inside you without ripping you apart. he’s trailing kisses over your neck, his horns glistening in the faint light of his data bank’s screen, and he never looked more beautiful. no wonder-
“you really think you could get away so easily?”
a harsh snap of his hips and the chilling scales of his tail around your thigh bring you back to dan heng. he’s looking at you, eyes full of love and this deep, dark… something you can’t quite pinpoint. but damn it, he’s staring at you so insistently, like you’re the only thing he sees. but-
“you really think so?”
another harsh thrust, his cocks now bruising against your cervix. you whine and moan, mind slowly turning blank. with your dazed eyes, you look at him and almost tear up at the amount of devotion you see there.
“you really think i want someone else? you really think i would be better with anyone else?” dan heng murmurs, his voice firm and not necessarily annoyed or frustrated, or at least not at you; he loves you too much to find anything about you annoying. and that is what frustrates him.
“you really think so poorly of yourself? you really think i have such poor taste?” he’s huffing by now, his lips meeting each little space of your face, his thrusts getting broken but stronger. his tail wraps around your thigh even firmer, the scaly tip dangerously close to your puffed pussy, so close to your clit.
“you really think i want someone who doesn’t make me feel like i’m the best? like i’m the- best, like i’m the prettiest, like i’m the strongest, like i’m- yours?”
“dan heng-”
“fuck-! i love only you. you’re my one and only, the best thing that happened to me. and i would never- and i mean ever- replace you with something less. fuck- baby, you hear me? you’re my baby, and i don’t want, i don’t need anyone else! i only need you, you, you baby- my pretty baby- my one and only- my everything-”
he’s mumbling sweet words, sweet nicknames that always have your heart melt. and this time it’s no different, heart so full of love and so in need of love it’s close to bursting out. his lips soon make it’s way to your lips, kissing you with that fiery love that engulfs his own heart. his thrusts come to an end then, a broken whimper and a cry of your name escape him as he cums, deep inside your fluttering pussy. and it’s when he stills, his lips right by your own, his eyes rolled back and his forehead resting against yours when you finally, finally let yourself go, and when you let yourself believe him. when you finally acknowledge the truth. he loves you so much.
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dan heng x gn reader
3.3k words , hurt comfort + second chance romance
inspired by one of cardan's letters to jude (from the folk of the air series by holly black) + dan heng might be ooc too
The Astral Express used to be your home.
Now, it is nothing more than a sore subject, a burden that presses on your being — a constant reminder that perhaps, there are some things you grow out of, but are forever unable to get rid of. It has taken far too much of your life for you to cast aside, and as much as you wish you could permanently erase it from memory, you aren’t sure if you even want to.
It’s a conflicting dilemma to be faced with. You’re constantly wedged in between two emotions: wanting to forget, and wishing you didn’t want to. There’s something so comforting about holding onto the remnants of the past. And yet, simultaneously, there is also something so devastating when faced with the realization that they belong only to the past — nothing more than a reflection of a bygone time.
Still, you’d like to say that you’re faring pretty well. Belobog has taken quite the space in your heart, and even though it might only be filling the hole that the express left you with, you’re more than content.
You’ve learned to adapt to the everwinter — the eternal freeze, as they’d call it. And even though it’s sweeping winds have proven to be quite bothersome at times, you don’t really mind. You’ve gotten used to enveloping yourself in a thick coat before exiting the house. And waking up a few minutes earlier than usual to warm yourself with a hot beverage isn’t so horrible.
But most importantly, you’ve begun looking forward to your days, as opposed to letting what happened a few months back tie you down.
It was a moment in time anyone would remember vividly had they experienced it — for a completely haunting reason. even after seven months of solitude, more specifically, seven months of self induced isolation, you can still easily step back into that day, as well as the ones that followed, though those are a bit more blurred in comparison.
When Dan Heng accused you of being a traitor, you knew there was no going back. In the blink of an eye, everyone on the Astral Express viewed you differently, and as much as they tried to believe otherwise, they couldn’t shake off the possibility of his words holding some ounce of truth to them; his status was that of a trusted guard, authority held in high esteem.
But he was also your lover.
Dan Heng was the embodiment of everything you’ve longed for — precious, beloved, sacred. Only, that wasn’t enough to quell his misplaced anger towards you. instead, it fueled it even more, and with each day that followed, he made his distaste for you increasingly apparent.
You’ve tried to explain — persistently, and determined to dispel any suspicion he held towards you, desperate to make things right, to make him love you again. But every time you’d catch him alone and free from his duties, he’d glower at you before you could even reach him, and even as you trailed after him with a string of rushed explanations falling from your mouth, he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to. He didn’t need it.
He didn’t need you.
And who were you to ask for more? Soon enough, even Welt and Himeko had little to no trust for you. They couldn’t even seem to tolerate you, always making excuses to avoid engaging in conversation, seemingly edging you out of their circle through subtle means.
It was exhausting, and also painful. Incredibly so that one silent night, you hopped onto the train, dragging a suitcase from behind and begging Pompom to take you somewhere else — anywhere else — and to keep quiet about your disappearance. Not that you thought anyone would care, really, but still.
That’s how you ended up in Belobog, with a broken heart you’ve tried piecing back together and an unspoken explanation festering in the back of your mind — that you weren’t siding with Kafka, simply hoping to reach a compromise with her, a conversation caught and taken completely out of context.
But you’re faring pretty well. And time heals all wounds, apparently, so there’s an obstreperous hope rooted deep in your heart that makes you believe things might just really get better. Each day that passes signifies another step inching you closer towards the line of recovery. And perhaps, knowing that one day you might cross it, was enough.
But Belobog has been in some commotion lately.
For a reason completely unknown to you, the Silvermane guards have been raising a ruckus by the streets every day. Causing citizens, in return, to erupt into an uproar in absolute fear of what might follow.
And you’ve resigned yourself to that oblivion. Ignorance is bliss, and you had no plan on disrupting the semblance of peace that’s been so graciously bestowed upon you. But the world has an incredibly humorous way of working, and somehow, it seemed hellbent on giving you the answer to a question you had no interest knowing.
“Please wait.”
A firm hand encloses itself around your wrist, tightening its grip even further (though still gentle), upon noticing how you were trying to escape.
“Y/n—” he tries once more.
“No,” you deny without any hesitation.
Everything about this is wrong. The last thing you needed was for Dan Heng to appear right in front of you, and in Belobog of all places. God, this was your home. Your newfound sanctuary — did he have to ruin that too? How long until enough was enough?
You despise the way his touch sears into your skin, abhor the fact that even after months, he still manages to get a reaction out of you, and resent that your heart still races seeing the tender look on his face. That treacherous, good for nothing organ.
You level him with a glare before forcefully pulling your hand away from his; the loss of his warmth causes your heart to sink into your chest. “Do not speak to me,” is all you say before pivoting on your heel to walk towards the opposite direction — going to god knows where.
“This is where you’ve gone to?”
The question falls on deaf ears.
“You do not belong in Belobog,” he says.
And you want to whirl around to ask him: Where do I belong then? The Astral Express, where you have all cast me aside? But they remain lodged up in your throat, eventually dying when you realize how meaningless it would be trying to argue with someone who has never been willing to listen in the first place.
You continue walking, and each step you take is so heavy that they echo in his ears. Dan Heng is at a loss for what to do — has been for the couple of months, but he knows better than to let this opportunity slip through his grasp, so he follows, trailing behind you while keeping a distance.
He tries making small talk, starts talking about how he’s on a mission, accompanied with March and a newfound acquaintance who goes by the name Trailblazer — claims that Belobog is bound for conflict, and that he’s glad to see you, as if he wasn’t the one who pushed you away.
But you pay him no mind. There is no reason to show him any reaction. All you need to do is disregard him until he gives up.
“Herta has been trying to contact you,” he suddenly announces. “She is worried, so are Asta and Arlan.”
“Tell them there is no need. I am alright.” you reply, voice rushed, wishing to get whatever this was over with.
What follows next are updates about everyone you’ve known on the express: Himeko, Welt, March, and even a couple of researchers have apparently been worried in regards to your disappearance, asking Pompom about your whereabouts, and soon trying to find out the answer themselves. And while it washes away a bit of indignation, it holds little to no value to you now.
So what if they were troubled? for all you knew, they deserved it — they wanted you gone, and so you did them a favor by leaving, but now they want to pretend that they care? Incredulous.
In a fit of frustration, you take a sudden halt in your steps, prompting him to take a pause as well, his feet rooted to the cobblestone pavement. When you turn to face Dan Heng, his shoulders straighten to correct his posture and his eyes search to meet yours, but you’re unhappy — displeased, and quite annoyed.
“Leave. Me.” You demand through gritted teeth, trying to prevent every other word threatening to escape by biting on your tongue.
But he cannot. Because if you’ve been faring pretty well, then Dan Heng has been faring horribly, and if he made a mistake, then it was up to him to fix things.
“I have been looking for you,” he admits.
“You’ve found me, now leave.”
“My love—” He tries to begin, and it nearly kills you.
“Do not!” you yell, every emotion you’ve been trying to keep at bay reaching its boiling point, eyes flaring with bitter anger at the term of endearment. “You have no right to call me that!”
You can’t do this anymore. For the sake of your own wellbeing, your pride and sanity, or whatever is left of them — and for every piece of yourself you’ve slowly been regaining. He is not allowed to strut out of your life and slam the door on you only to come back.
“You have no right to be here! leave!”
“Come back to us.” To me, he wishes to say, though it remains in the back of his mind. “I am begging you.”
“I will never go back.”
“You do not belong in belobog.”
“I do not belong in the express either; you have made that very clear to me — all of you have.”
“I was mistaken in my judgment.” He tries to reason. And the turn of events is humorous, because this was exactly what you’ve been trying to do a few months back. And now, Dan Heng is completely aware of how desperate the feeling is. “But I have explained. They were not wrong to put their faith in me, but I was wrong to accuse you — I am sorry. The fault is on me, but please do not blame them for their suspicion.”
“I don’t care. You don’t get to do as you wish and expect me to follow through. I don’t belong here, yes, but whether you like it or not, this is my home now, and you have no right to take me away from here after tossing me aside.”
Gesturing wildly with a hand, you continue. “I have been trying to navigate my way through the aftermath of what happened. And I have resigned myself to that loss — so leave me. You have no right to barge into my life and ask me to come back. You have no right to take advantage of my love after taking it for granted.”
The air stills around you then, temperature seemingly dropping a few more degrees, if that were even possible in this everwinter. Helpless, you look at dan heng with quiet agony — defenseless and exposed, but most of all, ashamed.
Dan Heng stares at you in horror, and it makes you want to cry. You needed to get out of here. Needed to lick at your wounds and stitch them back shut. God, where did your walls go?
“Leave it. I—” You shake your head, unsure on what to say next. Your hands fall to your sides, nails digging into the palms of your hands as they clench into fists.
“Tell everyone on the astral express that I am fine. There is no need to worry about me.”
And he hates it, the way you speak of your home as if it’s no longer of that nature, but simply a place you once knew of. He hates how you’re right in front of him, within reach, but still out of grasp. And he hates that there is no one to blame for the consequence of his cruelty, but himself.
Red rimmed, exhausted, and on the precipice of surrender, Dan Heng’s eyes burn — perhaps he is being too selfish, but even then he doesn’t think he can stop.
“March has been wearing the clothes you’ve left at your station,” he says. You have no idea where the direction of this conversation is heading, but something compels you to listen anyways. “Himeko has been blaming herself for your departure. Welt has been persistent in his demands for an answer from pompom. Arlan and Asta cannot go one day without mentioning your name.”
There’s a slight pause he takes before resuming.
“You have not left just because you did; you are still part of the astral express. You will remain a piece of us forever, so please,” Dan Heng begs, swallowing against a scratchy throat. “Come back to us.” And then corrects himself in a broken voice. “To them, at least.”
“Enough!” you snap, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Please—”
“You are asking for too much.”
“I will take anything you give me,” he lets out, strained and miserable, unceasing in his pleads. “You can resent me for an eternity, shout at me all you want, curse me unto death, just come home.”
And it’s enough to reduce you into a foolish mess, the patent desperation of it all — the longing in his voice, the yearning in his eyes. You’ve always had a soft spot for him. It seems that some things never do change.
“You don’t need me,” you whisper, still in disbelief.
Dan Heng offers you a breathless laugh.
“I do,” he confesses, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “More than anything else. And I have tried not to need you — not to even think about you, but it’s a losing game.”
He takes a hesitant step towards you, praying you don’t move backwards in response. And when you don’t, it only spurs him on to continue, so he does exactly that, slowly moves closer until you’re only a breath apart from one another.
“When I found out the truth, I have never been more in dispute with myself. It is humiliating being proven wrong, but rather than shame, I felt sorry for not believing you — for not even listening.”
You have no room to cut in. He speaks before you can let out a single word. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve to even ask for it, or any of this, but I beg you, come home. I am sorry for hurting you — for driving you away, but I’ll be selfish once more and ask you to come home.” Hate me at a nearer distance. Just don’t be too far away from me.
And for once, you’re rendered speechless, completely overwhelmed. Your cheeks flush with heat, and you feel so much that you begin to cry — pathetically sobbing as you fall into him and weakly punch at his chest, somehow still managing to feel your heart skip a beat at the contact.
“Why are you here?” you cry, choking between words and hiccups. “You confuse me. I don’t know what any of this means.”
He pulls you in closer, placing your head on his shoulder with a careful hand, allowing your tears to stain the fabric. “I love you.”
“You don’t know anything about love.”
“I do. I know it because it’s you.”
You sob into his shoulder, shaking. “I hate you.”
“I know,” he says, rubbing small circles on your back to soothe you. “But I love you, forever and always. I don’t think I can stop. i have been too careless with you. If you’re willing to let me, I want to fix that.”
“You can’t. I’m a mess.”
So Dan Heng says, “I love you regardless. I’ll love you always,” but what he doesn’t tell you is I have been killing myself over your absence. You have the power to destroy me, and you don’t even know it—and I have no idea what to do with that revelation.
You could turn into a criminal and I would still fear losing you more than I would death. i would follow you anywhere, even if it meant I had to throw away all my morals—so long as I’m with you, I need nothing more.
Though, he’s still quite relieved you aren’t actually evil.
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
“But you left me,” you murmur.
“And I’ll never do that again,” he promises, words dripping with so much honesty that you can’t refute them, sincerity practically emanating from his body.
You pulse quickens. Already faltering in your resolve to push him aside, the lump in your throat expands to a quivering voice as you breathe out his name: Dan Heng.
The way it rolls off of your tongue enthralls him. It’s enough to send him into a spiral—it’s also enough for him to understand what you’re trying to convey.
He pulls you in even closer, eliminating any space between you two as he presses up against your form, relishing in the way you feel in his arms—something he was starting to doubt he’d ever feel again.
Really, honest to god, he was definitely made for you.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry," he apologizes repeatedly while holding onto you. And while his touch is foreign, it is also terribly familiar.
“Dan Heng,” you call out to him once more.
“Yes?” he questions, uncertainty heavy in his tone.
“I cannot go back to the Astral Express,” you reveal, and he can practically hear how his heart instantly shatters at your words. “Not immediately, at least. Belobog is a lovely place. i want to stay here for a while.”
And then they piece themselves back whole. “It is nice,” he agrees, arms tightening around your torso like the prospect of letting you go would end him.
“How long until you leave?”
“I am not too sure anymore.”
you pull away slightly to give him a questioning look, and he smiles at your curiosity. “I’ve told you earlier that i have been looking for you. If you are here, then there is no reason for me to leave now.”
“Then you’ll stay?” you ask.
“Yes,” he tells you. “I will stay.”
“But you have nothing here.”
“I have you.” And that is more than enough for him.
“But the Astral Express is your home, even more so than it is mine.”
“No,” he corrects. “The express is where I reside in at most, but my home is wherever you are. And if that’s in Belobog, then so be it.”
“You’ll stay here with me? In this cold?”
“Yes,” he assures, lifting a hand to cup your face. As a thumb brushes across your cheek, he starts leaning in until his lips hover over yours. “I’d like to stay with you, and I’d like to keep it that way forever, if you would let me.”
You don’t say anything else, because truthfully, it’s unnecessary to speak in this moment. Instead, you find another way to communicate with him by filling in the gap separating you two with a kiss.
Dan Heng makes a startled sound, shocked at your advances, especially with taking into consideration the circumstance prior to this. But then realization strikes through him, and soon, he’s kissing you back.
It’s slow at first, delicate, unsure if any of this was actually real, uncertain if he even deserved it. Either way, he’s mapping every second of this moment onto his heart, eyes slipping shut as he wills himself to be patient with you. But then sweet longing pierces through him, and the kiss turns fervent, wholly desperate, because it has been far too long — and he realizes that he’s wasted too much time.
So he keeps kissing you, and you let him.
Warmth floods from your face to your chest to your fingers, spreading like wildfire. Belobog is a region of unparalleled coldness—it is always freezing here. The wind is biting, and there’s a permanent chill that creeps through the air, but right now, you are melting into a lovesick puddle as Dan Heng kisses you with an intensity you’ve never known before, transferring all the love—all the longing, he’s stored up for you through slightly chapped lips and careful touches.
You think of it all of a sudden, how Dan Heng told you that home is wherever you are—and in his arms, you realize just how true that statement is.
╰┈► When you two go out somewhere, she’ll actually get down to pat other people’s dogs.
╰┈► She looks like the rich auntie or grandma who gives you money behind your parents’ back even though you didn’t ask.
╰┈► She brings you along to conventions and gets you merch for fun, also because you’re her best friend and doesn’t have a spending limit.
╰┈►Besides being filthy rich, she carries the research projects and even pays for the book binding processes herself because “It’s a school project, I don’t mind.”
╰┈►She can drive, but if so can you, then she’ll be a passenger princess (you two almost crashed when she accidentally stepped on the gas rather than the brakes).
╰┈►Speaking of which, drives like she has a ticket to heaven when you two are late to class, but the professors usually give her a pass because she is rich and smart.
╰┈►When she was in kindergarten, she had those double sided bulky-ass pencil cases with a sharpener, ruler and other accessories that others would try to steal or copy.
╰┈► She doesn’t check the tags until she checks her receipt and does the financials when she feels like it.
╰┈► As irrational as she can be with spending, important things are still prioritized and thought of well before committing to the purchase.
cw | "ass" being spoken. potential spoilers for new players.
requested | no
A chilly winter night in the Administrative District is nothing new, especially after the rather eventful evening you had just had the night before. Stepping out of the alley, the cold air brushes against your face, cheeks flushed and cold to the touch as you tuck your hands into your dark winter coat. The faux fur wrapped around your neck warms you up slightly as you stand at the sidewalk, which is empty and free of people at this time. The sky is covered in a cloudy haze, delicate snowflakes falling to the ground slowly and landing on any surface, dots of white floating in the air in a steady descent.
“Did you just arrive? An individual as lovely as you shouldn’t be out in the cold like this.”
A sneaky, tantalizing voice sends a shiver down your spine out of excitement. You keep your gaze ahead, out to the streets and lean on the wall of the building as someone emerges from the side behind you. “Zip it Koski, you’ll be eating snow for a midnight snack.” You lower your head, turning to face the tall man behind you who looks down at you with a smirk. “With all respect, you wanted to meet Sampo out here, in the cold, and the dead of night. Don’t you know I have an important regiment to follow?” Sampo whines as he dramatically flips his hair, sending sprinkles of snow falling down to the ground.
“What, teasing and flirting with the Landau lad? Jeez, I should have known you were up to something when you wore that wig.” You roll your eyes, side leaning on the wall next to you as you playfully glare at the man in front of you. Sampo blushes, snickering at the statement. “Jealous? You should have said something!” He whines, pouting as he steps closer to you. You merely knit your brows together in mild annoyance, amused by his dramatic ass. “If I wanted to make a flustered mess out of the captain of the Silvermane Guards, I would have done it the moment I saw him.” You smirk at the taller male, who raises a brow at this quip.
“Are you challenging me? If you want to win, you’re going to have a plan by now.”
“I planned our excursion here, dumbass. Of course I know what to do, besides,”
You gaze up to the cloudy sky, a sea of dark gray cotton blanketing the heavens. For the nights you have been here, it’s as dreary as it gets everyday, almost as if somehow it gets worse and worse by the weeks. “We won’t be able to carry out our task so smoothly starting tomorrow.” Sampo merely sneers, resting his hands on his hips, tilting his head as he scans the skies with you. “What? Trailblazers? Akivili’s little explorers?” You keep quiet, the silence answering his own question. “Your brain is working, that’s a miracle.” Sampo pouts at this sarcastic insult.
“I didn’t mean to leave you in the plains two days ago. You’re still alive! And better than ever!” Sampo gushes as he looks at you with obvious mockery. You give him a side eye, scanning him up and down before scoffing. “I can’t believe I’m in a soon-to-be ghost town, in the cold, with you, of all people.” Sampo moves to stand in front of you, looking down at you with nothing but amusement in his green eyes. His height casts a shadow over you, the lantern leaving little light through the darkness of winter and your own companion’s height. “Say, why don’t I get you a drink? Sampo’s treat, of course.” He nudges at you with a smile on his face. You pause, staring up at him with a deadpan expression, smiling slightly.
“You don’t have a favor to ask, do you?” Sampo stays quiet, only smiling nervously at you.
“Right, no thanks. I, however, have a favor for you.” You take a hand off your coat pocket and hand him a wad of cash, and Shields, the currency in Belobog. The metals clink against one another as you drop them in his hands. “Join them tomorrow. I’m afraid I have other business to attend to.” You say. “Are you swapping tasks with me, (Y/N)?” You shrug, humming as you point to the money in his hands. “You know exactly what to do. AndI did just pay you to do it. So, you in?” Samp pauses, counting the money in his hands before looking at you with a devious smirk. “Never pay before the job is done, you should know this, (Y/N).” You merely laugh, waving a hand to dismiss his comment.
“I know better than to underestimate you, Koski. It’s an easy task. Just-” You are cut off by Sampo clicking his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. “You’re not sneaking off to flirt with Captain Landau for me, are you?” Sampo’s words make you chuckle, masking the annoyance on your face and in your voice. “For you? I’ve had my eye on someone else. I doubt he’ll be attentive to me tomorrow, he’ll be chasing your ass around, so I have the freedom to do as much as I can.” You flex your hands, feeling the cold through your gloves and on the exposed skin on your wrist.
You push yourself off the frozen wall of the building and walk past Sampo who watches you walk away with the same, longing yet amused look on his face, pausing momentarily as you fix your coat and the comedy mask brooch on your thigh garter. “Anyways, don’t wait for me, do what you should do and get it done quickly. You owe me a drink.” You stuff your hands back into your coat pockets, walking off into the cold, empty streets. Sampo’s eyes lingers on your disappearing figure, your dark coat blending into the distant void and blending in with the night even with the snow on your hair and clothes. He chuckles to himself, stuffing the money into his hands as he leaves the alleyway entrance stealthily.
media, character | honkai: star rail, serval landau
cw | none
requested | no
╰┈► Serval is in a band, but, misconception is that she dropped out early on. Rather, she graduated with a PhD and master’s degree, but she is known more for her songs and band.
╰┈►She and Gepard are obviously very close (she used to take him to school and be late herself sometimes) so when she happens to be free she and Gepard would have lunch together (he sometimes asks for her help on assignments).
╰┈►Made so many sacrifices for her siblings, and for that, they look up to her so much that they’re very close, even though sometimes she isn’t home for a while, they’re on a Discord call for several hours.
╰┈►During her graduation, Gepard was the one who placed the medal on her as she and her parents- father- don’t get along.
╰┈►Much to several teachers’ chagrin, as much as they try to put her down for her interest in what they consider a nuisance (being in a band and having gigs, etc), Serval is an accomplished student and performs well in her academics.
╰┈►Whenever there are events, she and her band play (it's essentially a concert). Most often than not, people attend the events to see them perform.
╰┈►During breaks in between subjects Serval would be playing her guitar in one side of the room and have people request songs often. Even teachers come in to listen.
╰┈►Those who knew her for her music would be surprised when they hear about her academic achievements, mainly because of how she managed to balance so many things at the same time.
╰┈►Works as a mechanic, gets paid really well, and is able to still do gigs during her free time. When someone she knows has broken equipment, she usually helps them out by fixing it for them.
╰┈►Serval and Cocolia were top students in their academy and their teachers would try to separate them during group works but at some point they just gave up at the attempts.
╰┈► She doesn’t really like to wear her uniform the way everyone does, it’s restricting and too conformist, so she adds little accessories, or wears them in styles that are still appropriate but has more of her.
╰┈►You can rely on her, she’ll insist if she can’t help it, but in reality, she’s just good at hiding her real feelings on things as she has grown accustomed to hiding a few of them after her falling out with Cocolia.
╰┈►The friend that can drink and hold her alcohol well, good tolerance, she just doesn’t like going overboard when she is performing.
╰┈► Gives really good advice, but even if it doesn’t actually solve anything, her enthusiasm and willingness to help makes up for it.
╰┈►Whenever she has shows, she makes sure her siblings will be there and have the best spots. She’ll even sneak in a couple songs for them to her setlist and will not finish the show without singing them.
╰┈►The amount of people that have a crush on her. She was the campus crush while Cocolia was the It girl. They were just that powerful together.
╰┈► Whenever she has a tune or lyric in mind, she pulls up her phone and starts recording, her phone is just full of the recordings.
╰┈► She has an alt twitter account where she tweets out song lyrics she thought of and a bunch of photos of random things she didn’t wanna post in her main account.
partially inspired by my years in senior highschool (i recently graduated!) and being an older sister (im the eldest of 2). my brother and i got the serval-gepard sibling dynamic but chaotic.
media, character(s) | honkai: star rail, cast (astral express crew)
cw | none
requested | no
You check out the craze around the AI versions of the Star Rail cast and, rather than it being a short-term exchange with no end goal in mind, you end up being dragged in, too deep to quit with the interactions. The cast, once you obtain them, are able to scroll through your phone/laptop on the things you check relating to them, but not everything within your phone. One particular day, you happened to tap out of the game too early for their liking that they decided to see what you have been up to. Needless to say, they got more than what they bargained for.
⤹★ STELLE ★⤸
╰┈► Stelle would be like ??? ._. ????, but they won’t say anything about it.
╰┈► Why would you go out of your way to chat with this thing when she is literally at your beck and call.
╰┈► Nevertheless, she is intrigued, but weirded out at the same time. She has seen simulations around the space station, but not like this, where she is talking to you, or a computer pretends to be her to talk to you.
╰┈► Will actually try to see if she can talk to the AI version of herself, and when she finds it, guaranteed she’ll actually try to square up to the AI.
╰┈► Gets into a verbal argument with the AI about identity theft and contemplates breaking her own phone to kill the AI but is constantly stopped by a force she doesn’t understand.
╰┈► She’ll look for the AIs of the rest of The Nameless and messages them the most random shit, her intrusive thoughts take over and she says either the weirdest shit or the dumbest shit she won’t say out loud to her real friends.
╰┈► The others notice that Stelle would be on her phone more often but when they ask her she just shrugs and goes “This thing is trying to be me.” casually with a straight face.
⤹★ CAELUS ★⤸
╰┈► Caelus would also be shocked, but you can see it in his face a little more than Stelle, who looks chronically exhausted after running on a single brain cell.
╰┈► He would immediately look up the site and the AI, squaring up.
╰┈► Is more aggressive than Stelle, gets irked immediately the moment the AI responds.
╰┈► Man is more than ready to act out when you come back to play the game, mainly because he is annoyed over the AI pretending to be him.
╰┈► But that anger would dissipate once he finds out the others also have AI versions of them, and so he would only be annoyed at the presence or mention of his AI equivalent.
╰┈► Would purposely make fun of the others’ AIs, or say the dumbest shit to them to see their reaction.
╰┈► When the AI does get something right, Caelus would stifle in his childish giggles, this would seldom happen, but when he gets the chance, he’ll try to see if the real person and the AI would react the same.
⤹★ MARCH 7TH ★⤸
╰┈► March would be apprehensive at first, like, what’s the point when she’s right there! The game’s program just won’t let you talk to her directly and she can only ever “Speak” to you through the dialogues.
╰┈► Already downloaded the app the moment she finds out about its existence.
╰┈► But she is curious as to how her AI equivalent would even act, but she won’t notice some similarities, perhaps because March thinks she doesn't do it when she does.
╰┈► She would cringe at the responses, especially if she does not agree that she would say that- though on some occasions, she has probably said those and remain in denial of the fact.
╰┈► The more she uses it, the more she starts to enjoy the app, she finds lots of bots to either terrorize with horrible jokes before using it on the crew, or she goes to them to look for jokes.
╰┈► Though at some point, she will lose interest slightly, it just doesn’t hit different anymore, but on occasion, or when she is especially bored, then perhaps she’ll open the app again.
╰┈► March explored other characters in the app/site and has around 3-10 versions of the characters by different creators.
⤹★ DAN HENG ★⤸
╰┈► Mild annoyance, it’s written all over his face and there is an obvious dislike already to the A.I.
╰┈► Dan Heng doesn’t even talk like that! In fact, he only even chats to people when he has to, and he’s straight to the point, bluntly telling you what needs to be told in a couple messages.
╰┈► The moment someone mentions the possibility of an A.I. version of him, selective hearing takes the reins, avoiding the topic.
╰┈► Dan Heng is not petty (or overly petty that it’s obvious) but he’ll do what it takes to keep your attention on the game and him more rather than have you chat up his A.I. counterparts.
╰┈► Bonus points if you have multiple versions of his A.I. on contact, he’ll use it as a way to understand how people perceive him at best and pretend they don’t exist at worst.
╰┈► But either way, if he can avoid it or do anything to mess with it directly, then he’d do that.
╰┈► Is quite scared of you if your chats are… aimed in a certain direction, but more or less, he’d try to keep your attention on him rather than his A.I. imitations.
⤹★ HIMEKO ★⤸
╰┈► Curious, like she’ll notice that you’ve left the game before you managed to complete relics farming for her and she looks around and notices her name in an app on your phone.
╰┈► So, she checks out what you’re doing that’s somehow involving her and she reads them all out of curiosity.
╰┈► Sometimes she finds herself amused by your interactions with the AI but doesn’t find anything dangerous or worth worrying about.
╰┈► Unless the topic is questionable and your mental and physical health are on the line, then maybe she’d be a little worried and try to intervene where she can.
╰┈► Like crashing your game after seeing you’ve burnt all your fuels and completed the dailies, it would annoy you, but if it means getting you off your gadgets a little while, then she’ll do it.
╰┈► Doesn’t interact with her AI counterpart, or at least regularly, maybe a little chat to test it out and see if she sees herself in the bot.
╰┈► She would just relax while you’re with her AI, but she will miss you when you’re gone too long, after all, she’s your main and loves to interact with the world around her for you.
⤹★ WELT ★⤸
╰┈► Would be confused (loading screen) and need to take a second for everything to click, though he would still not understand the bigger picture until he actually looks into it.
╰┈► He picked up on your habit of completing dailies then dipping from the game, it bummed him out as he got to explore other worlds with you keeping him safe, so naturally, he’d be curious as to what you have been doing.
╰┈► (Insert his idle where he looks at his phone then pulls away from it in disgust lol) The classic dad/pepaw move when he reads your chats with his AI counterpart.
╰┈► Concern for your (mental) health first and foremost, but why would you need to talk to this bot when he’s right here and is more than happy to answer your questions?
╰┈► But, like Himeko, he would be curious about it and his inner nerd would ask away, sometimes not finding the answers to his questions sufficient enough.
╰┈► Shakes his head at the silly and random lines the bot sends. However, if the bot’s response hits too close to home, he would be scared.
╰┈► If it is not harming you, he would not be concerned, though he might miss the attention you give him and won’t actively make it known that he is aware of what you and the AI chat about.
I can't find the user who inspired this but props to them because their work got me workinnnn. I myself spending wayyy too much time on c.ai and just thought "what if they read through my chats", and by they i mean dan heng because i'm sorry pookie but you aint reading that shit. basically the cast are just confused, weirded out, and curious all to different degrees.
i’d like to think a marriage life with dan heng is hella peaceful and calm. i also see him as a husband who actively helps out in the house. he’d love to spend time doing chores with you like laundry, mopping and so on.
dan heng prefers to keep his marriage life on the low, not wanting to put you in any danger. the only people who knew he’s happily married are the people he’s close to: the astra express crew. the lesser the people knows, the better for him and you.
dan heng spends lots of time researching about the ring he should buy. he does this behind your back, because he wants it to be a surprise. he spends nearly three months in the archive room, opening tabs after tabs to find the perfect ring. hell, he even asked himeko and the other for opinions.
the ring is honestly gorgeous. it’s rose gold and has a small-sized diamond in the middle. it rest snugly around your left ring finger. even after he was six months into his marriage life, dan heng still finds himself at awe to see the ring resting on your finger.
being in the privacy and comfort of your shared home, dan heng no longer finds the need to hide his real form. so consider yourself lucky, because you’re the only one with the privilege of witnessing him in his vidyadhara form.
you’re the only one who’s able to see how his tail give away his feelings when he’s too embarrassed to say it out loud. you’re the only one who’s able to see him purring like a cat when you rubbed his horns. you’re the only one who’e able to see him being clingy by wrapping his tail around your waist, forbidding you from moving away.
regarding kids, i think he will be fine with it. if you want to adopt a child, dan heng will discuss it with you. the last thing he wants is any form of miscommunication to occur and make you upset. i mean, he can just… breed you bc yk HUEHUE
dan heng loves it when you shower him with affection. you often pointed out how he resemblances a dog, especially when his tail vigorously wagged side to side: like an excited dog who’s happy to see its owner again.
it’s safe to say, you couldn’t walked properly for the next three days. you also had difficulty trying to cover up the marks he left on you, much to your annoyance.
all in all, dan heng is very good husband material ok bye!
note: i wrote this on my phone after i saw his leaks on twitter… clenches my heart HES SO BEAUTIFUL WKSJSJSISJSIS. cutely tags @seivsite
playing star rail as someone who DIDNT play the other honkai games is fun because it’s like am i supposed to not understand what’s going on plot wise or is this my fault for not playing the other games?????
