I might be blind but I can't find the post about the autum inspired drinks with prompts D:
Could you link it to this post or maybe add it as another masterlist?
Autumn inspired drink prompts can be found here! 🍂
I've been a little slower responding to them, but I will continue to take orders until the fall season ends~
You can also check the tag #autumn drink orders to see all the others (There aren't too many right now, but I might eventually make a masterlist if needed!) ☕️
Hello!! so this is kinda my first time rquesting this and im kinda embarrassed... though i really love your witing it makes me giggle HELP. I would like to request when phainon, mydei or anaxa (if all that would totally be awesome) react when you guys are in a heated argument while your doing the dishes, and you kinda like snap and throw a dish at the side of their head to the wall, but it turns them on? idk this sounds wierd asf </3
This ask was so cute & is my first request like this so I just had to pause everything to do it!
No need to feel embarrassed anon, I'm so happy my writing has such a positive effect on you~!
Small reminder: this is fiction, please do not actually throw things at people to vent anger!
Phainon is by far the most surprised, having no expected such fury to erupt from the love of his life--even during a heated argument. He'd simply stand there, sky blue eyes wide in bewilderment as he looks at you for a long beat. "Woah, nice arm," He breathes out, a flush painting his features, revealing how undeniably impressed he was at such a feat. "Do you...maybe wanna take this to the bedroom?"
Mydeimos would also be quite shocked by the action, but growing up around so much violence, he'd actually be more accustomed to sudden threats and would instead feel a bit of awe in his partner for acting with such swiftness and accuracy. "Good aim." He simply comments, picking up the broken plate and setting it onto the countertop for later disposal. And then he's got you caged in between his arms, looming figure hovering over you with a heavy gaze. "But it looks like you could use a bit more practice..."
Anaxagoras would blink is momentary surprise before closing his eyes with a smirk. "Heh, it seems you have no control over your own emotions." He steps over the broken pieces, porcelain crackling under his shoes as he makes his way over to square off in front of you. His magenta gaze levels on yours with a dark, amused gleam, "Guess I'll have to teach you a lesson in manners."
I think they used up all the details on DanTE's dragon tail
I'm surely not the only one who's been staring at the way it moves when he runs, walks and stops-
or who runs around in circles bc its just too much fun to see it curl up
I'm very glad he feels comfy now showing it off
Oh I def need to write a daydream abt that scenario (I'm not a public writer tho)… entirely focusing on DanTE's chest, doing pretty much everything with hands and lips, how he becomes completely red? thats too good not to write abt
You absolutely aren't the only one, I have been loving his tail details and even in extra content how they mention he accidentally bumps his horns on doorways now? Too cute!!
I am also so very happy he feels comfortable in this new form, I really believe he's finally taken that step into embracing his past and becoming who he truly wants to be for the future.
And anon you cannot tease by saying you're going to write a Dan Heng fic and not share it with me! Anything that talks about his cute pointed ears turning red is absolutely golden in my book, you must let me know if you ever write it!
DanTE's finally ingame and I... expected his tits to be bigger 😭
Likee they're NOTICEABLE in the promo / launcher pic, very grabbable. but he's flat ingame
just a minor nitpick, he's still beautiful and a prized possession on my account now
He's finally here~!! The long wait is over!
And as someone who's first Genshin fave was Itto, I know all too well about the pictures versus in-game discrepancies!
In some cases you can tell Mihoyo just didn't have the assets at the time to produce the character the exact same way, but having come this far it does seem a bit disappointing that they would skimp on that (arguably VERY important) detail!
Trust that despite whatever the in-game model may be, in reality Dan Heng's Permansor Terrae form does have a little squish to his pecs. Nothing crazy, but it's just enough of a noticeable softness to make you want to feel him more... 💕
There's an audible sigh. "Are you satisfied?" Dan Heng's golden irises gaze down at you, the faintest shade of pink dusting his pointed ears. He notices your reluctance and gives another deep sigh. "Very well, you may touch for as long as you like, but don't think you're getting away easily after this."
Hello! I read your Dan heng HC :) Can I request that for AE Sunday? How he’d fall and what he’s looking for in a partner? Thank you!
How Sunday Falls In Love and What He Desires (Sunday x Reader Headcanons)
A/N: Hello. :) Thank you for sending it in. I was kinda hoping someone would. Sunday is complicated, isn’t he? He’s one of those characters who feels like a paradox made human: brilliant and broken, idealistic and aching, poetic and so deeply flawed. I have complicated feelings about Sunday.
He is far from perfect, but his flaws and complexity make him so fascinating to me. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, especially during the Penacony arc. About what it would even mean for someone like him to fall in love. Someone who’s lived in absolutes for so long. Someone who’s learning, painfully and beautifully, to be human again.
These headcanons explore what happens after: when Sunday joins the Astral Express, when he has to learn that love isn’t management and care isn’t control. When he discovers that the paradise he’d been chasing wasn’t perfection. It was presence. Not a world without pain, but a person who chooses to stay anyway.
Sunday is a complex character and doesn’t fall easily, so those are long. You have been warned. :) It took me a while to get these headcanons right, I hope I did him justice.
I also have headcanons about Sunday and how the Astral Express crew helps him with his new life…just saying. But for now. Sunday love headcanons under the cut.
Word count: ~ 5400 words
How Sunday Falls in Love:
Through recognition, not chance.
Sunday doesn’t “meet” someone. He recognizes them. That instant awareness that this person doesn’t just exist beside him, but within the same rhythm. Love begins with awareness, not impulse.
He notices your voice first. The way you speak of things without cynicism, the compassion that doesn’t need to prove itself. He sees kindness as strength and it disarms him completely.
For someone who spent so long orchestrating paradise, genuine goodness that asks for nothing in return is revelatory. You’re not performing virtue. You’re just being kind. Naturally. Consistently. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And he can’t look away.
Through curiosity that becomes attachment.
At first, he frames it as study. Understanding human emotion through observation, learning what he missed while trapped in his ideology of perfection.
But his questions become personal, his fascination sincere.
“Why do you smile at strangers?”
“Why do you forgive people so easily?”
“How do you choose hope when the world offers so many reasons for despair?”
He means them as philosophy, but they sound like longing.
Somewhere between discussion and debate, somewhere between analyzing your worldview and living inside it, he realizes he’s been collecting your every word as though they were gospel. Your perspective becomes the lens through which he reexamines everything he thought he knew.
You’re not trying to teach him. But he’s learning anyway. Learning that maybe, impossibly, there’s wisdom in acceptance instead of control. In trust instead of management. In letting things be imperfect and loving them anyway.
Through humility.
Falling in love humbles him in ways the fall from grace never did.
Losing Penacony, being wrong about paradise, joining the Express. That was one thing. But this? Love? This is something deeper and more terrifying. Because paradise was an idea he could theorize about, debate, refine.
But you? You’re real. Complicated. Impossible to perfect. And he doesn’t want to perfect you. He wants to know you.
That realization breaks something fundamental in him. The man who tried to orchestrate eternal happiness now finds himself utterly unprepared for one person’s genuine, messy, imperfect affection.
You challenge him. You tell him no. You remind him that consent and choice are what make love sacred. Not safety, not certainty, not the elimination of risk. Love exists because of choice, not despite it.
He’s drawn to that. To someone who isn’t afraid to look him in the eye and say, “You don’t need to save me. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you.”
He needs that kind of grounding truth more than he’ll ever admit.
Through vulnerability disguised as devotion.
When Sunday loves, he loves intensely. Too much, even. He gives endlessly, often to his own detriment, because that’s how he’s learned to exist. By offering, by providing, by making himself useful enough to justify his presence.
It takes time for him to understand that love isn’t only about giving. That it’s also about being received. About trusting someone else to care for him the way he desperately wants to care for them.
The first time you insist on taking care of him—bringing him tea when he’s exhausted, pulling him away from overthinking, holding him when he’s spiraling—he won’t know what to do with it. His instinct is to deflect, to insist he’s fine, to redirect attention back to you.
But when you persist, gentle and firm, when you say let me do this for you, something in him cracks open.
And he’ll realize: this is what he was missing in his philosophy of paradise. Not the elimination of suffering, but the presence of someone who’ll sit with you in it. Not control, but connection. Not management, but mutual care.
Through the mundane.
He’ll resist it at first. The quiet domesticity, the simplicity of shared mornings and unspoken routines. Paradise was supposed to be grand, orchestrated, flawless. Not this: you burning toast while half-asleep, him reorganizing the pantry by category (and then by color, and then by frequency of use until you gently tell him to stop).
But when he catches himself smiling because you handed him tea without asking how he takes it (you remembered), or because you hummed while sorting books (off-key, unconscious, human), or something inside him breaks in the gentlest way.
The first time you fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, drool and all, he’ll sit frozen. Terrified to move, terrified to ruin it. This moment, imperfect and unplanned, feels more sacred than any paradise he designed.
He’ll trace the line of your jaw with his eyes, memorize the weight of your head against him, catalog the sound of your breathing. And he’ll think: This. This is what it was supposed to feel like.
Not perfect. Just peaceful.
Not a prison of eternal happiness, but the choice to build small joys, day by day, with someone who sees him and stays anyway.
Through the terrifying realization that he’s falling without a plan.
Sunday always has a plan. Contingencies, calculations, carefully orchestrated outcomes.
But love? Love doesn’t follow sheet music. It improvises. And that terrifies him.
The moment he realizes he’s in love—truly, irreversibly in love—it won’t be romantic. It’ll be panic. Because this wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to need someone like this. He wasn’t supposed to give someone this much power to hurt him.
And yet.
And yet when you smile at him across the Express common area, when you defend him to others who still see him as the villain, when you choose him again and again without him having to orchestrate that choice?
He’ll realize some things are worth the risk of not having control over the outcome.
Some things are worth falling for.
What Draws Sunday In
Emotionally:
- Steadiness. Someone who stays calm when his mind spirals. Who listens without judgment, who steadies without silencing. He spends so much time in his own head, tangled in philosophies and what-ifs and the crushing weight of his mistakes. You’re the calm in that storm. Not because you have all the answers, but because you don’t need them. You’re just there. Present. Real.
- Sincerity. He’s surrounded by people who perform devotion, who say what they think he wants to hear, who treat him either as a villain to be feared or a project to be fixed. Honesty is the rarest gift. When you tell him truth—even uncomfortable truth, even “I think you’re wrong about this”—it feels like oxygen after years of suffocating in platitudes.
- Compassion that isn’t naive. He admires strength through kindness. People who do good because they choose to, not because it’s easy. You understand that the world is complicated, that people are flawed, that suffering exists. And you choose kindness anyway. Not as denial of darkness, but as defiance of it. That philosophy—that active, deliberate choice to care—is something he desperately needs to learn.
- Curiosity with boundaries. Someone who can meet him intellectually without turning his thoughts into a battlefield. You’ll debate philosophy with him, challenge his assumptions, offer perspectives he hasn’t considered. But you know when to stop. When to say “let’s table this for now” because the conversation is becoming circular or painful. He needs someone who can engage his mind without feeding his tendency to spiral.
- The mundane and human. Someone who laughs at themselves, spills tea, forgets things, and reminds him that perfection isn’t the point. Every time you’re clumsy or forgetful or imperfect, it’s evidence against his old worldview. You’re not suffering because you’re flawed. You’re living because you’re human. And slowly, he’s learning the difference.
- Someone unafraid of his intensity. Sunday feels deeply and expresses it fully, though not always in words. His love is overwhelming, all-consuming, sometimes too much. He needs someone who doesn’t flinch when the light burns too bright. Who can say “I see how much you care, and I’m not afraid of it” while also setting boundaries when that intensity tips into unhealthy territory.
- Someone who chooses freely. This is crucial. After Penacony, after learning the hard way that forced happiness isn’t real happiness, he’s hyper-aware of choice. He needs someone who chooses him—explicitly, repeatedly, freely. Not because they’re trapped or obligated or manipulated. But because they want to. Every time you choose to stay, every time you choose him, it rewrites a little bit of his broken philosophy.
Intellectually:
- People who challenge his assumptions without dismissing his intelligence. Sunday is brilliant. Strategic, philosophical, well-read. He needs someone who respects that intelligence while questioning the conclusions he’s drawn from it. “I understand why you thought that, but have you considered…” is far more effective than “you’re wrong.” You take his ideas seriously enough to dissect them, and that’s more valuable than agreement.
- Independent thinkers. He’s spent too long trying to make decisions for others “for their own good.” He needs someone with strong opinions, firm values, clear boundaries. Someone who says “I appreciate your input, but I’m choosing this path” and means it. Your autonomy is attractive to him in ways he’s still unpacking. Because it’s proof that love and independence can coexist.
- Someone who finds meaning in questions, not just answers. Sunday’s philosophy failed partly because he thought he had all the answers. He’s drawn to people who can sit with uncertainty, who can ask “what if?” without needing immediate resolution. Who understand that wisdom is often found in the questions we ask, not the conclusions we reach.
- Synthesizers, not zealots. He needs someone who can hold multiple truths at once. “Your intentions were good AND you caused harm.” “You were trying to help AND you were wrong.” “You’re capable of redemption AND you need to do the work.” That kind of nuanced thinking, the ability to reject false binaries, is exactly what he needs to hear.
Physically:
- Expressive faces. You don’t hide what you’re feeling, and it’s mesmerizing to him. When you’re angry, it shows. When you’re delighted, it shows. When you’re looking at him with affection you haven’t voiced yet, it shows. He spent so long reading people to manipulate outcomes; with you, there’s no translation needed. You’re an open book, and he can’t stop reading.
- Genuine smiles that reach the eyes. He can spot a performance from a mile away. He’s lived inside one for years. When your smile is real, unguarded, reaching your eyes and crinkling the corners, it stops him cold. That’s not calculated. That’s joy, offered freely. He wants to earn that smile. Wants to be the reason for it. Wants to collect them like rare treasures.
- Hands that create. Whether you’re cooking, writing, building, drawing, playing an instrument—he’s drawn to hands that make things. His own hands orchestrated a prison disguised as paradise. Yours create without controlling, shape without constraining. He watches your hands work and wonders what it would feel like to create something together. Something real. Something imperfect and beautiful.
- The way you inhabit space. How you move through the Express. Comfortable, casual, belonging. You’re not performing. You’re not trying to take up less space or more space. You just exist. And after years of carefully curating his every movement, every expression, every word, that naturalness is magnetic.
- Eyes that really see him. Not Sunday the villain. Not Sunday the leader. Not even Sunday the redeemed. Just Sunday. The man learning to be human, stumbling through domesticity, trying to figure out who he is outside of his failed ideology. When you look at him and your eyes say I see you, the real you, and you’re enough? That’s more powerful than any philosophy he’s ever studied.
- Presence that invites closeness. There’s something about the way you exist in proximity that makes him want to be near you. Not crowding, not demanding, just welcoming. Like there’s always space beside you that feels like it might be for him. And slowly, carefully, he’ll test that. Standing a little closer, sitting next to you, existing in your orbit until proximity becomes intimacy.
- The small, human details he memorizes. The exact shade of your eyes in different lighting. How your hair looks when you’ve just woken up. The way you lick your lips when you’re lost in thought. The slope of your neck when you’re reading. The sound of your real laugh. Not the polite one, the one that escapes when something genuinely delights you. He collects these details obsessively, proof that you’re real and here and somehow, inexplicably, choosing to stay.
What Sunday Is Afraid Of
That his love will become control.
This is the nightmare that wakes him at 3am, heart racing, tangled in sheets that suddenly feel like restraints.
That he’ll slip back into old patterns. Arranging your life for “your own good,” making decisions to “protect” you, removing your choices in the name of caring for you. Building a beautiful cage and calling it love.
He’s terrified that his intensity, his need to care, will cross the line into suffocation. That his “I just want you to be happy” will become “I know better than you what happiness is.” That he’ll orchestrate your life the way he tried to orchestrate Penacony, with the same terrible results.
Every time he catches himself wanting to solve a problem you didn’t ask him to solve, wanting to smooth obstacles you chose to face, wanting to orchestrate outcomes for your happiness—he has to stop. Breathe. Remember:
Love is not control. Care is not management. Trust is not insurance against loss.
But the fear lingers. What if he can’t help it? What if control is so deeply embedded in how he loves that he’ll ruin this like he ruined everything else?
That he’s fundamentally broken in ways that can’t be fixed.
He tried to trap an entire planet in a dream. He thought he was saving them. He was convinced his way was the only way, that his vision of paradise was objectively correct, that he loved them enough to make their choices for them.
He was wrong. Catastrophically, irreversibly wrong.
That kind of wrong doesn’t just wash away. It’s not a mistake you apologize for and move past. It’s evidence of something broken in his fundamental approach to love, to care, to existence.
So when you love him, part of him is waiting for you to realize what he is: someone who got lost in his own righteousness, who hurt people while thinking he was helping, who confused power with compassion. Someone whose love, historically, has been dangerous.
The question that haunts him: If I could be that wrong about paradise, how do I trust myself to be right about this? About us? About anything?
That his intensity will drive you away.
Sunday doesn’t do anything halfway. When he loves, it’s consuming. Every thought colored by you, every action oriented around you, every plan including you.
It’s not obsession (he’s learning the difference, slowly, painfully). It’s not possession. But it’s a lot.
He feels everything deeply: joy, grief, love, fear. His emotions aren’t background noise. They’re symphonies, overwhelming and inescapable. And he knows, intellectually, that not everyone experiences feelings at that volume.
He’s watching for the moment when you’ll flinch away from the weight of it all. When his devotion becomes burden instead of blessing. When you’ll look at him and think this is too much, he is too much, I can’t carry this intensity.
Because if that happens—if you leave because he’s too much—he’s not sure he’ll recover. It’ll just confirm what he suspects: that there’s something excessive and unlovable in the core of him, something that ruins everything it touches.
That freedom without him means freedom from him.
The Astral Express taught him that people need choice, need autonomy, need the ability to leave. He understands that now. Accepts it, even. He’d never trap you the way he tried to trap Penacony.
But understanding doesn’t make it less terrifying.
Every time you choose to stay, he’s braced for the day you’ll choose to leave. Because if love is choice, then loss is too. And he’s not sure he’ll survive losing someone again. Especially someone he chose to let all the way in.
The irony isn’t lost on him: he spent years trying to create a world where loss was impossible, where everyone was safe and happy and protected forever. Now he’s learning to live in a world where loss is always possible, where safety is an illusion, where love requires risking devastation.
And he has to choose it anyway. Has to wake up every day and choose to love you knowing you could leave. That’s the price of real love, real connection, real humanity.
Some days, he’s not sure he’s strong enough to pay it.
That he’ll never be enough without perfection.
For so long, his value was tied to his vision, his plan, his ability to create something flawless. He was more. The architect of paradise. The one who would save everyone.
Now that vision is shattered. The paradise was a prison. The salvation was damnation. Everything he built his identity on was wrong.
What’s left?
Just Sunday. Flawed, learning, stumbling through domesticity and feelings he doesn’t have a doctrine for. A man who burns toast and reorganizes shelves compulsively and spirals into philosophy at 2am and still doesn’t quite understand how to accept care without feeling like he’s failing.
And he’s terrified that Sunday—just Sunday, without grand purpose or perfect paradise—isn’t worth staying for. That you’ll realize he’s ordinary, broken, incapable of being the person you deserve. That without the performance of perfection, there’s nothing valuable underneath.
That he’s putting his trauma on you.
His need for order. His spiraling thoughts. His inability to rest. His tendency toward self-sacrifice. His philosophical tangents. His control issues. His intensity.
He knows these are his problems. Penacony carved them into him, or maybe they were always there, amplified by grief and ideology until they consumed him.
And he’s terrified that loving him means carrying his damage. That you’ll become his therapist, his manager, his handler instead of his partner. That his healing will become your burden. That he’ll drain you dry trying to get himself right.
He doesn’t want to be a project. He doesn’t want to be someone who needs fixing. He wants to be someone who’s worth loving, not someone who needs to be tolerated out of compassion.
But what if he’s not there yet? What if he never gets there?
That this is another beautiful dream that ends in catastrophe.
Penacony was beautiful too. His vision was perfect. No suffering, no pain, eternal happiness. Everyone safe. Everyone content. Paradise.
And it was wrong. It hurt people. It was a prison disguised as salvation.
So when this—you, the Express, this new life—feels beautiful, feels right, feels like maybe he’s found something real… part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the moment when “beautiful” reveals itself as “delusional” again.
What if he’s wrong about this too? What if his judgment is so fundamentally flawed that even now, even after everything, he’s building another beautiful mistake?
What if loving you is just another version of Penacony? Well-intentioned, intensely felt, and ultimately destructive?
That he doesn’t deserve this.
Simple. Brutal. True. He doesn’t deserve softness. He doesn’t deserve patience. He doesn’t deserve someone looking at him with affection instead of fear or disgust. He doesn’t deserve mornings where someone makes him tea, evenings where someone wants his company, nights where someone trusts him enough to sleep beside him.
He tried to steal everyone’s freedom. He hurt his sister. He became exactly the kind of person he claimed to protect people from.
And now you’re here, offering him love like it’s simple, like he’s earned it, like his past doesn’t disqualify him from present happiness.
It doesn’t make sense. And part of him keeps waiting for the universe to correct this mistake. For you to wake up and realize what you’re doing, who you’re loving, what he’s done.
For reality to catch up with him.
What Sunday Needs
He needs patience, not perfection.
Sunday has spent his entire life trying to make the world flawless, and love will tempt him to do the same with himself—to be the perfect partner, the perfect man, never mess up, never be too much or too little.
What he needs instead is someone who stays when the mask cracks. Who says, you don’t need to be divine to be loved. Who lets him fail gently and learn that love doesn’t vanish when things go wrong.
He needs proof that imperfection isn’t dealbreaking. That you can be frustrated with him and still love him. That he can have a bad day, make a mistake, be too intense or too distant, and you’ll still be there tomorrow.
Not because you’re endlessly tolerant. But because you understand he’s learning, and you’re willing to learn alongside him.
He needs grounding through presence.
His mind never stops. Philosophies, hypotheticals, self-doubt, endless thoughts orbiting like stars with no center of gravity.
What steadies him is someone who brings him back to the tangible: the warmth of a hand in his, the scent of tea steaming between you, the sound of laughter in a quiet room. Physical reminders that the world isn’t made of ideals It’s made of moments.
When he’s spiraling, he doesn’t need philosophy. He needs your hand on his shoulder. Your voice saying his name. The weight of reality gently pulling him back down.
You’re not dismissing his thoughts. You’re reminding him he has a body, a present, a person beside him who exists outside his internal debates.
He needs honesty with compassion.
Sunday respects truth—he built an entire philosophy on what he believed was objective reality. But harsh words wound him deeply, cutting through to the fear that he’s fundamentally wrong about everything.
The right partner doesn’t flatter or indulge him, but they speak with kindness—calling him out when he drifts too far into his need for control, but doing it gently. “I know you’re trying to help, but I need to handle this myself” instead of “stop trying to control everything.”
He needs someone who tells him “no” with tenderness, not scorn. Someone who can say “that’s your trauma talking, not reality” without making him feel stupid for struggling. Someone who loves him enough to keep him honest, but kind enough to remember he’s already drowning in self-criticism.
He needs someone who teaches him to receive.
Giving is easy for Sunday. He thrives on offering comfort, stability, solutions. Receiving, though, makes him ache with vulnerability.
He’ll deflect praise. Downplay exhaustion. Insist he’s fine when he isn’t. Push through pain because he’s not supposed to need help. He’s supposed to be the one helping.
The person who loves him will need to insist, gently but firmly: Let me take care of you now. Let me make you tea. Let me listen while you spiral. Let me hold you. Let me stay.
When he finally allows it—and it’ll take time, repeated offers, proof that you want to care for him—he’ll tremble with relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally remembering how to exhale.
Teaching him to receive is teaching him he has value beyond what he provides. That he’s worth caring for just because he is, not because of what he does.
He needs laughter.
Sunday takes himself—and the world—far too seriously. His redemption arc depends on joy. On small, unguarded moments: dancing badly in the hallway, tripping over his own feet, laughing until tears replace the centuries of guilt.
Someone who can tease him without cruelty, who can make him laugh at himself. That’s someone who saves him. Not from his past, but from the prison of never being allowed to be ridiculous, messy, human.
He needs permission to be silly. To make mistakes that don’t have world-ending consequences. To play, for the first time in maybe forever.
When he laughs—really laughs, unguarded and surprised—it’s evidence of healing. Proof that joy can exist without it being orchestrated, that happiness can be spontaneous instead of controlled, that he’s allowed to just feel good without analyzing it to death.
He needs to be seen as a man, not a savior.
More than anything, Sunday needs to be loved for who he is beneath the philosophy and the perfectionism and the weight of Penacony.
Not as the leader who tried to create paradise. Not as a project to fix or a villain to redeem.
Just as Sunday. Flawed, yearning, learning what it means to live again.
The right person won’t worship him (he’s had enough of that). Won’t fear him (he’s tired of that too). Won’t try to save him (he has to do that himself).
They’ll just hold his hand and say: You’re enough. Stay here, with me. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to save anyone. You’re allowed to just be.
And slowly, painfully, beautifully…he’ll start to believe them.
How Sunday Loves (When He Finally Allows Himself To)
He loves through control turned devotion.
For most of his life, control was his language of love. If everything was perfect, no one would suffer. When he falls in love, that same precision doesn’t disappear. It transforms.
He still notices everything: your smallest habits, the subtle shifts in your tone, the way you frown when you’re thinking. But instead of trying to orchestrate outcomes, he just… sees you. Pays attention. Remembers.
Love becomes his new philosophy. Not about building paradise, but preserving presence. Honoring who you are instead of shaping who you should be.
When you mention offhand that you like a particular tea, he’ll remember three months later. When you’re stressed, he’ll notice before you say anything. Not to fix it without asking, but to quietly ask “what do you need right now?”
The control hasn’t gone away. It’s just been redirected from managing your choices to honoring them.
He loves through acts of quiet perfection.
He’ll straighten your notes on the desk. Repair a broken clasp before you notice. Align your books by height because he thinks it looks peaceful. Mark your page when you fall asleep reading. Adjust the temperature in your room to exactly what you prefer.
His touch on your world is almost invisible, but it’s everywhere. Every gesture says: You are the one thing in this imperfect universe I want to keep steady.
He’s not controlling your space. He’s curating small moments of ease, little gifts of “you don’t have to think about this because I already did.”
Sometimes you’ll catch him at it—reorganizing your shelf or folding your jacket—and he’ll freeze like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. Thank you.”
And he’ll relax slightly, learning that service can be love instead of control, as long as it’s offered without expectation.
He loves through sound.
When he speaks your name, it’s deliberate, measured, almost melodic. Like he’s tasting the syllables, turning them into music.
He hums when he works. Low and thoughtful, fragments of melodies that sound like peace feels. Sometimes he’ll play for you: soft, unspoken emotion translated into harmony. You can tell how he’s feeling by the tempo, the pauses, the way his fingers linger on a final note.
To him, music isn’t performance. It’s confession. When words are too complicated or too vulnerable, sound becomes his language.
He’ll compose pieces inspired by you, though he’ll never say that’s what they are. But you’ll recognize yourself in the melody: the gentle rise and fall like your laughter, the complex harmonies like the way your mind works, the resolution that feels like coming home.
Music is how he processes emotion. How he tells you things he can’t say out loud. How he loves you when loving feels too big for language.
He loves through worship that’s almost overwhelming.
Sunday doesn’t love halfway. When he finally gives in, he adores.
Every touch is intentional, every kiss slow, deliberate, reverent. He traces your skin like scripture, memorizes your body like doctrine, approaches intimacy like prayer.
It’s not about possession. It’s about presence. About being so completely focused on you that the rest of the universe falls away. About treating you like you’re the only thing that matters because, in that moment, you are.
He’ll memorize what makes you sigh, what makes you laugh, what makes you melt. He’ll learn your body the way he learned philosophy. Thoroughly, obsessively, with desperate attention to detail.
Physical intimacy is where his intensity becomes undeniable. Where the careful control drops and you see how much he feels, how consuming his love actually is.
He’ll whisper against your skin in a language that’s half philosophy, half devotion. Tell you you’re beautiful like he’s stating empirical facts. Touch you like you’re the only perfect thing he’s ever encountered.
To him, you are proof that beauty can exist without being orchestrated. That something can be flawed and still be divine. That paradise was never a place. It was a person who chose to stay.
He loves through grounding.
As much as he gives, he also needs. Though it takes him time to admit it.
He’ll seek your presence when he’s spiraling. Rest his forehead against yours and just breathe until the thoughts quiet. Hold your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
You become his anchor. Not because you’re fixing him, but because you’re real. Solid. Present. Proof that the world exists outside his head.
When you remind him he doesn’t have to orchestrate every heartbeat, when you tell him he’s allowed to simply be, he’ll melt into it. Exhale like he’s been holding his breath for years.
In those moments, you’ll feel the shift. The philosopher becoming human again, the leader becoming just a man who’s tired and grateful you’re still here.
He loves through learning.
You teach him to laugh again. To accept chaos without fear. To find joy in imperfection.
He’ll stumble through domestic moments. Making tea (too precise about temperature), helping with chores (organizing everything), trying to understand why you hum to yourself while doing nothing at all (doesn’t everything require purpose?).
And slowly, through patient repetition and gentle correction, he learns.
He learns that not everything needs to be perfect to be good. That mistakes aren’t catastrophes. That you can burn dinner and laugh about it instead of spiraling into self-criticism. That love isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being present.
When he finally gets it—when he makes you deliberately imperfect tea just to prove he can tolerate it, when he laughs at his own compulsive organization, when he hums tunelessly just because he’s happy—you’ll know he’s healing.
He’ll look at you with quiet wonder, realizing that this—imperfection, simplicity, warmth—is the paradise he’d been chasing all along.
He loves through time.
Sunday doesn’t rush. His affection unfolds like a symphony: deliberate, layered, patient.
He’s not going anywhere. Once he commits, it’s for life. You become his constant in a world that’s always shifting. The one imperfection he never wants to correct, the one variable he never wants to control, the one choice he’ll make over and over again every single day.
You’re his proof that freedom and love aren’t contradictory. That you can choose someone without trapping them. That devotion doesn’t require control.
And every day you choose him back, every day you stay, every day you remind him he’s enough. You’re rewriting his entire philosophy.
Not through argument. Through presence.
Not through perfection. Through love.
____
A/N: Writing this made think about many things. About how difficult it would be for Sunday to truly let go of his past, but how he would try anyway. I think because Sunday embodies the kind of redemption arc that needs a lot of work: it’s not the grand victory, but the quiet transformation. The shift from wanting to save the world to simply wanting to share it. And well…since his arc isn’t finished yet.
I wanted to explore how Sunday’s philosophy could evolve into something tender. This man has spent his whole life giving love in abstract, idealized ways. He deserves a love that’s real. Someone who sees the flaws, the contradictions, the weariness and stays. I hope it worked out. :)
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. :)
♡peekaboo | Argenti takes care of you on your period!
♡warnings n such | SWF—1K+ words—no warnings
♡notes | uhhh bring back appreciation for him...? before pienon, this was our OG yearner!!!!!
♡DJINX~
♡ART CREDS~
The hum of Argenti’s ship was softer tonight — a low, melodic vibration that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the stars. The engines, ever precise and elegant in their tone, whispered like a harp beneath layers of polished silver and gilded trim. Somewhere, the faint scent of roses lingered in the air.
You were curled beneath a blanket in the passenger quarters, the fabric thick and velvety against your skin. The ache in your stomach pulsed in quiet waves, not unbearable, but heavy enough to make each breath slow, deliberate. Fatigue tugged at your body; the weight of the day, the distant hum of travel, and the dull pain all braided together into a quiet haze.
Argenti had noticed long before you said anything. He always did. His perception was more than sharp — it was his knight’s instinct married to his very being. He could read the faint change in your step, the slight dimming of your voice, the way your smile came slower and didn’t quite reach your eyes.
And when he did, he said nothing — only set aside his book of oaths, rose from his chair, and disappeared toward the ship’s kitchen with silent resolve.
Now, the door slid open with a soft chime. The warm, golden light from the corridor framed him like a portrait.
“Beloved,” he said, his voice a sonorous calm that filled the small room. “May I enter?”
You looked up from where you’d been huddled under the blanket, hair a little messy, expression tired. Still, you smiled faintly and nodded.
He stepped inside, carrying a silver tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. Upon it rested a delicate porcelain teacup, a small heat pack wrapped in embroidered cloth, and several pieces of dark chocolate arranged neatly like gems on silk.
You blinked. “Argenti, you didn’t have to—”
“I fear I cannot battle your pain on your behalf,” he interrupted softly, setting the tray on the nearby table. “But I can, at the very least, keep you company in its wake.”
There was warmth in his tone — a faint, amused note behind the formality. His lips curved with a smile both gallant and sincere, one that never failed to make your chest ache with something tender.
You laughed under your breath despite the discomfort. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“And yet,” he replied, kneeling beside the couch so his gaze met yours, “there is no duty I would rather fulfill than easing your pain.”
He lifted the heat pack, testing its temperature against his wrist. When satisfied, he pressed it gently to your abdomen. The warmth seeped through the blanket and into your skin, dissolving some of the ache. His bare hands — gauntlets set aside — moved carefully, reverent almost. His fingers brushed your wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and when you looked up, his gaze was already on you.
He inclined his head, the faintest ghost of relief crossing his features. For a moment, silence filled the small chamber — not the absence of sound, but the soft fullness of shared peace. The ship’s quiet hum and the aroma of rose petals seemed to harmonize with your breathing.
Argenti stayed by your side. Not as a guard, not as a knight, but simply as himself — a man who had chosen to love with unyielding gentleness.
His fingers idly found their way to your hair. He combed through it slowly, the motion careful and rhythmic. The faint brush of his touch sent tiny ripples of calm through you.
“You are always so gentle,” you murmured.
He smiled — that faint, radiant smile that carried both pride and devotion. “It is not gentleness, my love. It is reverence.”
You opened your eyes slightly, meeting his. “Reverence?”
“Yes.” He tilted his head, golden hair glinting under the cabin light. “The stars, beauty, honor — all these things I have sworn to serve. But what is beauty without kindness? What is light if it does not warm?”
You blinked, his words sinking in. Argenti spoke like this sometimes — not out of showmanship, but because he believed it. Because his honest, kind heart was the most loving language he knew.
You let out a small, sleepy laugh. “You’re going to make me cry, you know that?”
“Then my words have succeeded.” His hand came to rest over yours, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin. “Tears born of tenderness are the purest reflection of the soul.”
You didn’t answer — only squeezed his hand lightly, your heart tightening at the quiet sincerity in his eyes.
Time drifted. The ship continued its gentle journey through starlit silence. The heat pack stayed warm, the tea cooled to a perfect temperature, and you found your body relaxing by degrees.
“Would you drink something?” he asked softly. “I added rose honey — the same as the gardens of The Xianzhou Luofu.”
You blinked, surprised. “You brought honey from the luofu?”
“I would have brought the entire garden if I could,” he said lightly, offering the cup. “But the petals would wilt under these skies. So I preserved what I could — their sweetness, their scent. A small piece of beauty to accompany us among the stars.”
You accepted the tea, the steam curling between your fingers. The first sip was gentle and fragrant, floral without being cloying. “It’s lovely,” you murmured.
“As are you.”
You snorted softly into the cup. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Would you have me refrain?” he asked, feigning solemnity — though his eyes sparkled.
You shook your head. “No. Don’t ever stop.”
He chuckled quietly, the sound deep and melodic. “Then I am absolved.”
You leaned back into the cushions, warmth settling over you like a blanket. Argenti shifted slightly closer — not enough to crowd, but enough that when your shoulder brushed his arm, he did not move away.
Minutes passed in easy silence. Occasionally, he’d adjust the heat pack, or brush a stray hair from your cheek. His presence filled the small space like light fills glass — soft, passionate, patient.
Eventually, drowsiness began to pull at your eyelids. You set the teacup aside, curling deeper beneath the blanket.
“Argenti,” you murmured sleepily, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re too good for this world…”
He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Then allow me to be good for you.”
The words settled in your chest like a vow.
He shifted then, adjusting the blanket so it covered you fully. His hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment before gliding upward, brushing a thumb against your temple. His touch was reverent, as though afraid to disturb the peace he’d created.
You felt the soft press of his lips against your forehead — a kiss, light as starlight, filled with devotion.
“Rest,” he whispered. “I shall pilot the ship.”
You murmured something faint, bashful thanks slipping through the haze of sleep. Despite the comfort of his touch, it still amazed you how easily his kindness made your heart flutter — how effortlessly he turned small acts into grace.
He stayed seated beside you even as your breathing slowed. His hand remained over yours, fingers gently curled, his thumb tracing those same, steady circles. The hum of the engines deepened into a low, rhythmic lullaby. The starlight shifted through the viewport, scattering across his silver armor and your blanket in patterns like falling petals.
When your breaths evened out and your eyes fully closed, Argenti simply watched for a time.
There was awe in his expression — the quiet, sacred kind that one reserves for beauty not meant to be disturbed. You stirred faintly once, murmuring his name in sleep, and he smiled, a sigh escaping him.
“Ah, my beloved,” he whispered, brushing another kiss against your hair. “If only you knew what radiance you cast upon this noble heart.”
He adjusted himself, settling on the edge of the couch beside you. One hand remained in yours; the other rested upon the hilt of his blade where it leaned against the wall, ever the knight even in stillness.
The ship drifted through a sea of constellations, the engines pulsing in time with your breaths. Occasionally, he would glance toward the window — to the stars that seemed to bow in their brilliance — and then back to you, as though comparing which shone brighter.
At some unseen hour, when your sleeping form shifted closer, your hand found his again in the dark. He tightened his hold just enough to reassure.
“For every trial you endure,” he murmured, voice soft enough that only the stars could hear, “may I be the comfort that follows.”
Outside, the galaxy continued to unfold — a thousand suns blooming and fading in silence. Inside, beneath the amber glow of the ship’s lanterns, a knight kept his word.
Argenti did not move until the ship itself dimmed its lights in gentle obedience, recognizing its captain’s stillness. Only then did he allow himself to lean closer, pressing one last kiss to your knuckles — a vow sealed not by ceremony, but by love quiet enough to fill the heavens.
And in that tranquil cabin, surrounded by roses, tea, and the silence of space, Argenti — knight of beauty — kept his watch.
You slept soundly through it all, cocooned in warmth and starlight, unaware that every heartbeat you spent in peace was, to him, a triumph greater than any crusade.
For in the vast, eternal dark between stars, he had found his purpose — and it was you.
I know it ain’t the right time of year (October/spooky month) but I was watching Sofia the first (in an nostalgia kick of my inner child) the ones where it’s their version of Christmas & just imagined enjoying the winter & Christmas with Dan heng. Him trying to keep you warm, cuddles you & give kisses—hello???
Matcha latte and extra whipped cream with anaxa, please??
What would a date with Anaxagoras be without dromases?
Summary: The enigmatic professor asks you to meet with him for a date, little did you know you'd have big company joining you.
Word count: 640+
The morning air was nice and crisp as you set off for the day, your fingertips feeling the tinge of cold that was slowly creeping into season now that it's become fall. You make your way towards the familiar shade of the Grove, where Anaxagoras would be expecting you at the appointed time.
You were quite surprised when he suddenly suggested you meet him here. “Is this a date?” You had asked, to which he snorted. “If that is what you wish to think it is, then so be it.”
You smiled to yourself. He can be so obstinate yet so obvious at times, but that’s why you loved him, and why he, in turn, loved you.
A distinguishable flash of green hair catches your attention and you successfully locate your awaiting partner with a wave hello. He doesn’t wave back, merely watches as you come closer with a rather self-satisfied grin on his face, making you hesitate just a bit.
“You’re just in time, turn around.” You don’t really have the time to question him before you’re nearly face-to-leg with a large dromas. Just where did it come from so suddenly??
Anaxagoras belts out a laugh. “Isn’t it marvelous? I was able to reserve them just for the day. Truly, what a magnificent creature.” You blink back at him.
“You…reserved a dromas for our date?”
“Why not? When I found out I could do such, I didn’t hesitate to schedule a date for it. Are you not pleasantly surprised?”
You reach a hand out to pet the rough scales of the gentle beast, who gives a low grumble in approval. “I’m definitely surprised, yes.”
You take a moment to admire the docile dromas before turning back to Anaxagoras. “So what do you plan to do? Are you wanting to feed it redsoil?”
He snarks, “We’ll ride it, of course. I’ve planned a scenic route around the Grove, where we can relax on its back and enjoy the views all the while.”
Now you really were surprised. “Wow, that’s actually quite romantic of you.” That makes his satisfied smirk grow ever-wider. “Such trivial things like romance pose no sort of challenge to me.” That was his way of showing how proud he really was for coming up with such an idea, and you certainly had to give credit where credit is due.
As you were getting ready to head out, you expected Anaxa to get on first, but instead he simply holds out his hand, eyes closed and waiting.
Your eyebrows lift to your forehead as you gingerly place your hand in his, and with lithe fingers he ever so slightly tightens his hold on yours to help you onto the dromas.
“Thank you,” you voice, a bit shied by the rare show of courtesy from him, to which he only clears his throat.
“It’s the very least I could do.”
He sits down next to you on the dromas’ back and then jostles the reigns to get you moving.
You enjoy the beautiful sights of the grove in all its autumnal glory–the usually sage green leaves now dyed vibrants hues of gold, red, and orange. Anaxagoras hums contentedly, and your lips curl into a smile.
As the giant beast slows to its final stop beneath the great tree, you take the perfect opportunity to lean over and press a soft kiss to the cheek of the unexpecting professor.
He whips around at you in bewilderment, the faintest dusting of pink coloring his usually pale features. “W-What was that for?” He asks incredulously. You bubble a laugh, a song that dances past his ears.
“To thank you for the wonderful date!” He’s silent for a long pause before he turns away, mumbling.
“You’re welcome…”
You hope that he plans many more dates like this in the future (and secretly, he hopes to, too).
oohh I've been itching to ask you to write smth fluffy with Dan Heng
soo I'm ordering a Chai Tea Latté, Mulled Apple Cider, Pumpkin Spice Latté with Extra Whipped Cream 😼
I wasn't anticipating multiple drinks so I tried to blend them together, I hope it turned out to your liking!
Summary: You enjoy the autumn scenery of Amphoreus with Dan Heng before a cold breeze leaves you shivering and in need of warmth.
Word Count: 1.1k
The air is brisk and cool as you take in a deep breath, drinking in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of autumn. Though you were on Amphoreus, the unmistakable red and gold hues of fall greet your senses, and a prevailing feeling of ‘home’ warms your heart.
It is especially meaningful as you glance behind you to get a view of Dan Heng, who was walking a little ways behind in that subtly protective manner that he does so often.
A bright red leaf drifts down, carried by the wind to land perfectly on his head, to which he picks it up with deft fingers and observes it for a moment. You bubble out a laugh, the sound echoing off the trees of the meadow and his teal-blue eyes flick up to meet yours.
“Looks like you’re quite enjoying yourself.” You smile, eyes ever so slightly creasing in the way he loves so dearly.
“I am, and it’s all because you’re here with me.”
That catches him off-guard a moment as he watches your features carefully, but then he grows a faint smile of his own.
“I see. In that case, I’m glad to accompany you anywhere you’d like to go.”
Just then the breeze picks up, bringing with it a chill that has you shivering beneath your outdoor clothes.
Dan Heng takes a few strides towards you, reaching around your huddled body with an expectant sigh. “I knew we should have better prepared for the colder weather,” He voices calm and low, a tone he carries all too frequently.
You feel a soft weight wind around your shoulders, and with mild surprise you open your eyes to see Dan Heng had wrapped his wool scarf loosely around you. “There. We should get you back to the Express so you don’t catch a cold. We can come back to enjoy the leaves once you’re properly warmed up.”
And then you sneeze.
Dan Heng blinks, eyebrows raised beneath his dark bangs. “Don’t tell me you…”
Another sneeze escapes you before you have the chance to fight it. Looks like you won’t be getting to enjoy the season more anytime soon.
You give a long sigh as you sit tucked neatly in your bed, eyes gazing wistfully out the train car window at the distant arcs that make up Amphoreus.
“What’s with the long sigh? We can go back once you’re fully recovered. Amphoreus isn’t going anywhere.”
You turn to him with pitiful eyes, lips downturned in a way that makes his heart soften. “But the autumn leaves only last for so long…!”
He closes his eyes with a sigh of his own, reaching for your hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze. “I know, but right now your health is of greatest importance. We cannot have you getting even more sick just for the sake of seeing a few leaves.”
You give a sad nod, knowing that he’s right, but still being remiss at missing out on what would’ve been an enjoyable autumn season.
“Would it make you feel any better if I told you about different kinds of seasonal planets in the data bank?” You perk up with a smile, and he feels his shoulders relax with relief.
You spend the next few hours looking through different pictures of various planets experiencing a similar phenomenon to an autumn season, each one having its own unique spin on what makes up its special and distinguishable ‘fall.’ Dan Heng tells you about the local customs, the seasonal cuisines, and the adapting wildlife of each planet, making you feel almost as if you were there getting to experience it all in person. But then you remember your current predicament, and you lean back against the pillows with a disheartened expression.
“What’s wrong, [Y/N]? Are you not feeling well?” You shake your head slowly before looking up at him.
“It’s just that aside from the autumn leaves, there was something else I looked forward to doing this season.” Dan Heng closes the portable terminal screen and sets it in his lap. “And what was that, exactly?”
Your eyes flicker away, a subtle heat rising in your cheeks. “Well, because of the colder weather, it’s normal to get closer and share warmth, right? I was looking forward to being able to share my warmth with you…”
Dan Heng’s eyes widen slightly, and his chest tightens at your confession. He takes a long pause before finally speaking.
“So…you want to cuddle, right?”
Your heart flips in your chest as you turn to him, surprised that he worded it so simply, yet deep down hopeful that him not immediately turning it down meant there was a chance he would allow it.
“Is that…alright?” Your voice was faint, lightly venturing into his thoughts on the matter at hand.
Dan Heng closes his eyes with another sigh, this one sounding of relinquishment. “Normally I would decline seeing as you are still sick, but… I suppose this one time I can satisfy your request.”
You nearly felt the urge to leap into his arms, but thought better of it as to not cause him any extra concern over you.
With steady movements he slides into bed next to you, adjusting the covers to make sure you’re amply covered before settling down facing you. You gently place a hand against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate like there was a small sun inside of him.
“Is it…really okay?” Your eyes waver up at him with a hopeful shyness that has his own heart skipping a beat. He subconsciously hopes you didn’t feel it.
“I wouldn’t be here with you like this if it weren’t.” His voice is level, yet soft and thoughtful, and it makes you feel reassured like he wasn’t going to disappear in a puff of smoke if you got any closer to him.
Your lips curve into a soft smile as you close your eyes and bask in the warmth that is his chest against your cheeks, your arms coming up to wrap around the broad planes of his back. Dan Heng lets out a breath as you embrace him, and soon he brings his arms to hold you tightly against him.
After a moment, he nuzzles his nose into the softness of your hair, the warmth of his body enveloping you like a cocoon of his gentle affection, and with a smile you find yourself happily drifting off to sleep.
“Rest well, [Y/N].” He places a chaste kiss upon the crown of your head before slowly closing his own eyes, allowing himself to fully enjoy the unwavering warmth that is you.
Today’s highlight I need to share with fellow Phainon enjoyers. Literally a moment I’ll never forget: I was showing my little daughter photos from our last vacation. Beaches, sunsets, silly selfies. But I’d forgotten I had some Phainon screenshots mixed in there. Please note that she doesn’t know the game at all since I mostly play it in the late evening (or do the dailies in the early morning).
She paused on one. Stared. Kept staring.
Later, completely unprompted, she said,
“I like the man with the sunny day eyes.”
Me: “Hm?”
“The sky with the sun flying in it.”
And I just—
Out of everything I’ve written about Phainon. All the fics, all the analysis, all the long-ass headcanons about him representing hope and dawn and new beginnings and beauty—
My little girl saw a screenshot for ten seconds and called his eyes sunny day eyes.
The sky with the sun flying in it.
She got it immediately. The warmth. The light. The hope that radiates from him.
Children see things so purely. No overthinking, no analysis. Just: “I like the man with the sunny day eyes.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right.
Those eyes DO look like sunny days. Like sky with sun flying through it. Like everything bright and good and worth protecting.
I just went with the first 5 letters, I hope that's alright anon!
A = Aftercare
So sweet and so attentive both during and after sex. He's honestly a little too worried about you the first several times, it really takes a while for him to really trust that you're alright and his efforts in taking care of you are enough. He's also especially affectionate during this time, giving your forehead kisses and holding you close in his arms while you fall asleep together. And of course it just wouldn't be right unless he told you once more, "I love you."
B = Body part
He'd be WAY too embarrassed to admit it out loud, but notably your chest is what gets his attention the most. He tries so hard not to steal glances when you're together, but ultimately he just crumbles when you're bare before him and he can't help but bury his face in the warm softness of it. No matter what size you are, he's cupping your chest in his palms with reverence and suckling on your nipples with almost earnest desperation. If you point it out to him, he would explode with his face turning bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. "Th-That's...! W-Wait, you noticed??" Bless him.
C = Cum
Thick and milky it runs a bit slower and comes out in nice, long ropes. He cums enough to fill you up and then some, but don't think that's the end--he can go for several more rounds, should you allow it. Has a nice, clean taste befitting of such a nice, clean boy, and the look on his face when you drink it down is truly worth every last drop~
D = Dirty Secret
He tries to keep a stoic and unwavering visage as the captain of the Silvermane Guards, but inside he's burning with the desire to touch you again, see you again laying so beautifully beneath him that he's practically going insane underneath the surface. On more than one occasion, he's had to find a dark corner or utility closet to hide away in and furiously pump his throbbing erection to the thought of you. Your face, your smile, those lips... Oh how it brings him to blissful ruin. He needs to constantly satiate these urges when you're not around, and some are starting to wonder if he's feeling alright.
E = Experience
Absolutely a chaste virgin when you meet him, he has been oath-sworn and duty-bound to protect Belobog so needless to say he's completely new to it all. He knows generally how it works, but is worrying and asking questions like "How about this?" "Is this okay?" "Does this feel good?" Luckily he's a fast learner, but he's always going to keep checking with you just to be safe. Expect him to cum almost immediately the first several encounters! It's honestly adorable how shy and embarrassed he gets about it, but you're quick to assure him it's alright and that you're happy he's feeling good from it. He's sure to make up for it through his eagerness to please and his shower of affections every moment you're together 🤍
may i request H K S W N for our beloved general of the luofu?
Fun fact: Like many others, it was the dozing general that got me into playing Star Rail!
Some Jing Yuan love coming right up!
H = Hair
Just as white and fluffy as the hair on his head and so wonderfully soft running through your fingertips. He has a fine happy trail that leads down to that beautiful mess of hair, and honestly you feel tempted to nuzzle your face into it with how inviting it looks (it's wonderful, like snuggling into a cloud). Also smells of warm sunshine, which cures any and all worries you may currently have.
K = Kink
Being a long life species, he knows how to take his time thoroughly enjoying things, so it comes as no surprise when he happens to do the same in bed, prolonging your orgasm for what feels like an eternity until you're begging and pleading for him to let you cum. It's not necessarily that he wants to deny you pleasure, he just wants to spend longer savoring it--savoring you--before it's all said and done. I think he'd also enjoy blindfolding you and seeing how you shudder and sigh under his fingertips, admiring you even more when you can't see how much he's looking. I can see him enjoying light bondage (nothing too crazy, just tying your wrists with his hair ribbons does the trick), and even thoroughly appreciating squirting/omorashi at times.
N = NO
Not really into doing anything that hurts you like choking or spanking, though he could be talked into it with enough insistence. He likes to tease a little, but full on degradation isn't really his suit. Doesn't really enjoy feeling pain either--after all, a long life is full enough of pain as it is so why not take the time to fill it doing things that bring pleasure instead? Also would say no to scat. He's fine cleaning up some messes, but that's not one of them.
S = Stamina
With how much he takes his time with you, you'd think his stamina is insanely high, but in reality he's only got like one or two rounds in him before he's ready to just snuggle and snooze. That's one of the reasons why he takes such care into making each round last as long as possible, thoroughly enjoying pleasuring you and feeling his own pleasure by the end of it.
W = Wild Card
Has a habit of inviting you to the Divine Seat of Foresight on particularly quiet days, which always turns into him observing and teasing you until you both have to excuse yourselves for a bit to...attend to pressing matters. Though you're always left limp and trembling in a daze, he always manages to return to his seat with renewed energy and a contented smile. The energy doesn't last long, however, as he's caught napping again on the job later in the day. Maybe that's the real reason why he ends up dozing all the time...?
