𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝔂𝓳𝓲𝓷𝔁𝓮𝓭

𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓼𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓲𝓯 𝓼𝓸 𝓭𝓾𝓶𝓫?

[lovinglyjinxed]

⋆˙˖✧𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝓮♡~!

18. ENFJ-A. in college right now -> paralegal studies. cishet she/her. HONKAI STAR RAIL centered blog! ଘ( ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)ഒ SUNDAYS PRINCESS♡~!

⋆˙˖✧𝓮𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂♡~!

⋆⁺₊𝓂𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ⋆⁺₊𝓇𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈 ⋆⁺₊𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓈 - closed ⋆⁺₊𝒦𝒪𝐹𝐼

[lovinglyjinxed]

SLEEPING HABITS W/ HSR MEN🤎

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Dan Heng, Sunday, Welt, Sampo, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Aventurine, Mydei, Phainon, Anaxagoras, Ashveill, Blade

[REQUESTED!♡] [DJINX!♡]

DAN HENG

sleeps lightly, never fully surrendering to rest. Years of exile, danger, and watchfulness left him accustomed to waking at the smallest sound. He prefers cool rooms, dim lighting, and the steady hum of the Express. When you struggle to sleep—whether from nightmares, anxiety, overthinking, or simple restlessness—he doesn't overwhelm with advice. Instead, he quietly stays beside you, reading while you settle down. One hand remains within reach if you want it. In either form he will always wrap his tail around your fingers lightly. He speaks in a low, even voice, recounting harmless observations from his travels until you thoughts slow. Only after you're asleep does he finally close his own eyes.

-

SUNDAY

sleeps far less than people realize. Years spent listening to the worries of others left him accustomed to late nights and restless thoughts of his own. He prefers quiet rooms, neatly arranged blankets, and the faint sound of music drifting in the background. When you struggle to sleep he never pushes for answers. Instead, he remains beside you, patient and attentive. One hand gently intertwines with yours if you seek comfort. He speaks in a soft, measured voice, sharing stories, memories, or simple observations until your mind begins to settle. Only once your breathing evens and sleep finally claims you does he allow himself to close his eyes as well.

-

WELT

doesn't sleep very deeply anymore. Not because he expects danger, but because after a lifetime of carrying responsibilities, part of him is always listening for the people he cares about. If you wake in the middle of the night, chances are he's awake too. Quietly reading in the dim light, glasses perched low on his nose as he turns another page. When you can't sleep, he never pushes. He'll simply set his book aside and make room for you against his shoulder. If you want to talk, he'll listen. If you don't, he won't press for answers. Silence has never made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he'll tell you stories about places you've never seen, old films from his home, or memories softened by time. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to pull your thoughts away from whatever is keeping them awake. And somehow, with the steady rhythm of his voice and the quiet certainty he carries, sleep never seems quite so far away.

-

SAMPO

claims he's excellent at sleeping. According to him, it's one of his many talents. In reality, he's usually the last one asleep and the first to notice when you're still awake. If you can't sleep, he'll start talking. Not about anything important. In fact, the more important the problem is, the less directly he'll address it. He'll tell ridiculous stories, make up outrageous business ventures, complain about people who definitely deserved to be scammed, and somehow have you smiling before you realize what he's doing. The whole time, he's watching you from the corner of his eye. Eventually his voice grows quieter, his jokes less frequent, until you're half asleep against him. Only then does he relax, an arm settling around you as if it ended up there by accident. When morning comes, he'll deny being sweet about any of it. But somehow, he's always there on the nights you need him most.

-

GEPARD

sleeps like someone who knows the city never truly rests. Even off duty, years of standing watch over Belobog make him a light sleeper, quick to wake at unusual sounds. He prefers quiet, cold rooms and often falls asleep later than he intends after finishing reports or checking that everything is in order. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately try to solve the problem. Instead, he stays beside you, patient and steady, letting you talk through whatever is weighing on your mind. If words don't come easily, that's fine too. He'll rest a hand over yours, gently tracing circles across your knuckles while speaking about simple things—flowers he's trying to grow, stories from patrol, songs Serval used to sing at home. His voice is calm and grounding, carrying the certainty that you're safe. If a nightmare wakes you, he'll be awake in seconds, pulling you close without hesitation. He won't leave until your breathing evens out and sleep finally finds you again.

-

JINGYUAN

sleeps surprisingly well when he finally allows himself to. Years of carrying the weight of the Luofu taught him that exhaustion clouds judgment, so he values rest even if duty constantly tries to steal it away. Still, he often lingers awake, lost in thought, watching the departing starskiffs or quietly playing through old memories. When you have trouble sleeping, he never rushes you toward rest. Instead, he invites you to sit beside him, speaking in that calm, unhurried voice that makes even worries feel less urgent. He'll tell stories from his travels, amusing tales about old friends, or observations that seem pointless until you realize they've distracted you from your spiraling thoughts. If nightmares wake you, he simply draws you closer, one hand resting against your back. No lectures, no questions, no pressure. Just a steady presence, patient as moonlight, remaining awake a little longer so you don't have to face the darkness alone.

-

AVENTURINE

Sleep doesn't come easily to Aventurine. He spends so much of his life calculating odds, reading people, and preparing for every possible outcome that his mind rarely settles the moment his head touches the pillow. Even when he looks relaxed, there's usually a part of him still awake, still watching. When you can't sleep, he notices long before you say anything. Rather than pressing you for answers, he'll quietly draw your attention elsewhere, spinning stories, making harmless wagers about tomorrow, or asking questions he already knows don't need serious answers. It's easier to carry a burden when you're laughing a little. If anxiety keeps you awake, he'll lace his fingers through yours and remind you that not every uncertainty needs to be solved tonight. Beneath the charm and confidence is someone who understands fear far better than he lets on.

-

MYDEI

sleeps the way a warrior stands guard—never completely. Even when exhaustion finally drags him under, years of battle, prophecy, and surviving what should have killed him make rest feel more like a temporary ceasefire than true peace. He prefers your warmth close by, often keeping an arm around you without even realizing it. It's instinctive, like protecting something precious. When you struggle to sleep, his first instinct is action. He wants to fight the problem, defeat it, challenge it outright. But over time, he learns that not every battle can be won with strength. Instead, he stays beside you, listening more than speaking. His presence is solid and grounding, like an ancient stone wall weathering a storm. If nightmares wake you, he's immediately alert, pulling you against his chest before you've fully opened your eyes. He doesn't offer polished words or clever reassurances. He simply reminds you that you're here, alive, and safe. Sometimes he'll tell stories of Kremnos, of festivals, warriors, and fields of flowers waiting beyond hardship. His voice carries the certainty of someone who has stared death in the face countless times and kept walking. Sleep may evade him, but if it means standing watch over you through the night, Mydei considers that a battle worth winning.

-

PHAINON

sleeps as though he is standing watch over a dying flame. Even in rest, there is a quiet tension in him, the habit of someone who has carried hope through too many dark nights to ever set it down completely. He prefers open windows, cool air, and the faint scent of earth after rain. When sleep refuses to come, he doesn't ask what's wrong right away. Instead, he settles beside you with patient ease, speaking of distant wheat fields, old stories, and dreams of worlds yet to be built. His voice is warm and steady, never forcing comfort, only offering it. If nightmares wake you, he'll stay until dawn if needed. To him, no burden is too small when it's carried by someone he cares about.

-

ANAXAGORAS

sleeps reluctantly, as though rest is an argument he has yet to lose. Even when exhaustion finally catches up to him, books remain piled around his bed, papers covered in half-finished notes scattered across every available surface. More than once, he's fallen asleep while researching a question that refused to leave his mind. He prefers silence, dim lighting, and uninterrupted hours where thought can wander wherever it pleases. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately ask what's wrong. Instead, he begins talking—about paradoxes, ancient philosophies, absurd academic disputes, or whatever idea currently occupies his attention. Somehow, while trying to follow his reasoning or argue back, the weight on your mind starts to loosen. If sleep still refuses to come, he'll read aloud from one of his books, occasionally stopping to criticize the author's conclusions or propose a better answer himself. Every so often his gaze flickers toward you, checking whether you're still awake, though he'd deny doing so if asked. Once you finally drift off, he quietly returns to his notes. Hours later, long after everyone else is asleep, the faint scratch of a pen can still be heard as he chases another impossible question into the night.

ASHVEIL

sleeps lightly, the way old hunters do. One ear always tuned to the world around him, one hand never too far from his weapon. Years spent chasing criminals, debts, and ghosts have left him with the habit of waking at the slightest disturbance. He claims it's just part of the job, though the truth runs deeper than that. When sleep won't come, he doesn't pry. He'll simply settle nearby, nursing a cup of coffee gone cold hours ago or lazily flipping through old case files. Sometimes he'll tell you stories—not the glamorous kind about heroes saving the galaxy, but small ones. Lost dogs that found their way home. Missing people reunited with family. Ordinary victories that remind people the world isn't entirely cruel. If your thoughts keep spiraling, he'll listen without interruption, offering the occasional joke so terrible it earns an eye roll. He doesn't try to solve every problem. A detective knows some things just need time. And if nightmares wake you in the dark, you'll find him exactly where he was before, still keeping watch. He might grumble about lost sleep or send you an invoice for emotional support afterward, but neither would be serious. As long as you're awake and hurting, he won't be going anywhere. Not yet.

-

BLADE

doesn't sleep often. When he does, it comes in brief stretches between old memories and older scars. Most nights he's awake long before you are, sitting somewhere nearby with his sword within reach and his thoughts somewhere far away. Silence never seems to bother him. When sleep refuses to come for you, he notices before you say anything. He isn't good at comfort in the usual sense. He won't offer soft reassurances or tell you everything will be fine. Instead, he'll quietly make room beside him, wordlessly inviting you to stay. Sometimes he sharpens his blade. Sometimes he tends to old equipment. Sometimes he simply sits there in the dark. If nightmares wake you, his hand settles against yours before you can pull away from them completely. He understands what it means to be haunted. On the rare nights you manage to fall asleep against his shoulder, he remains perfectly still, as if afraid movement might disturb the fragile peace you've found. Only when your breathing finally evens out does he allow himself a moment of rest. And even then, one eye never fully closes.

[lovinglyjinxed]

TAGLIST | @vasheeradecls @yowhosthis @wvore @kawte679 @asakarai  @pentofloem @mysticbolillo @thisstarisblue @grassanglass @jeffisfake @vallnal @chrxx6 @ithoughtthinks @jjuho-wwwondering @ilovehimekosm @evelynfushiguro @kittyliverpool @sweepincat @saikoosblog @rinyumii @commonerdoors2725 @dazlia @eternalconfluxexile @cycadsmenagerie @ellie6724 @shortnpanicking @aurorayork22 @bugzrcute @faunana @soberinla @starr1q @serebin @little-bing12 @dollyhrtzzs @howtowalk687 @jincngx @forcaze @bluedwyy @ryeoxuexii @itsleftcollectionfestw orld @purplelilac23 @pixel--gf @lentbe @ouist @robotrevnant @blossomvaneu @baguettedefontain @amberhearts-blog @anqelmeth @imcravingbubbletearn @xnoau @acyntite @giveyutasomelove @elizabethclouds @crimsonkarasutengu @they-themlock @saiiyama @jellyfishingmywaythrough @ecplise2864 @swansloves @hanussy2000 @souldeparted @notsoinvincible @skip-111 @iluv2dmenn @joexjtazuna @lowpoly-lizard @miffycait  @ecliphia@crownohomo @sundaynumber1lover @friesaif @mitsurisfavv @heartsick-ly @sleepyditto

[lovinglyjinxed]

TAGLIST 2 | @kuramassss @ladygreyish @astxr15 @crayonstik @jadenaristotle @kaira35353 @iceychurr @wlwjoshua @fitakar @galagarts @hanako-h5 @aireeds @mersoliss @waiabita @lyambdaa @ttqui @leafl3ss @uhidekman @mqmmon @sunnydayml @tinyhologramphantom @hu3sitos @domiiniques  @snugmutt @whateverthingsw @kimfrancinee @str1fesgirl @loryhn @acidsbeats @lmygoat @kwonthefire @urlocalsabito @cheriiiiii  @universallystudentkitten @solarizxm @drieddcactus @lucidsei @julielovesnavyblue  @starlitplumes @ellen-qq @lolbook @lolaof-thevalley @spirit12 @la-ila-la @faeriesblog @the-tired-potato-hani @anormalapheliosfan @alt-alune @phezzylex @plumpkie @keyzheart soulkissesst4r @wrios-milk @fureiart  @creative--crisis @zyrexaels-stars @lixhizy @mikusaystransrights @trashlanternfish360 @nobloodonlycoffee @misuzue @kittzu  @yaongxixi @simpingeverysecond @electro--storm @gr8jason @dontbother46 @m0bne @sunsettulip @violetesensou @cielsellsshells @p1xistixx @xixiliea @goldenstarlightabyss

[lovinglyjinxed]

SLEEPING HABITS W/ HSR MEN🤎

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Dan Heng, Sunday, Welt, Sampo, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Aventurine, Mydei, Phainon, Anaxagoras, Ashveill, Blade

[REQUESTED!♡] [DJINX!♡]

DAN HENG

sleeps lightly, never fully surrendering to rest. Years of exile, danger, and watchfulness left him accustomed to waking at the smallest sound. He prefers cool rooms, dim lighting, and the steady hum of the Express. When you struggle to sleep—whether from nightmares, anxiety, overthinking, or simple restlessness—he doesn't overwhelm with advice. Instead, he quietly stays beside you, reading while you settle down. One hand remains within reach if you want it. In either form he will always wrap his tail around your fingers lightly. He speaks in a low, even voice, recounting harmless observations from his travels until you thoughts slow. Only after you're asleep does he finally close his own eyes.

-

SUNDAY

sleeps far less than people realize. Years spent listening to the worries of others left him accustomed to late nights and restless thoughts of his own. He prefers quiet rooms, neatly arranged blankets, and the faint sound of music drifting in the background. When you struggle to sleep he never pushes for answers. Instead, he remains beside you, patient and attentive. One hand gently intertwines with yours if you seek comfort. He speaks in a soft, measured voice, sharing stories, memories, or simple observations until your mind begins to settle. Only once your breathing evens and sleep finally claims you does he allow himself to close his eyes as well.

-

WELT

doesn't sleep very deeply anymore. Not because he expects danger, but because after a lifetime of carrying responsibilities, part of him is always listening for the people he cares about. If you wake in the middle of the night, chances are he's awake too. Quietly reading in the dim light, glasses perched low on his nose as he turns another page. When you can't sleep, he never pushes. He'll simply set his book aside and make room for you against his shoulder. If you want to talk, he'll listen. If you don't, he won't press for answers. Silence has never made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he'll tell you stories about places you've never seen, old films from his home, or memories softened by time. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to pull your thoughts away from whatever is keeping them awake. And somehow, with the steady rhythm of his voice and the quiet certainty he carries, sleep never seems quite so far away.

-

SAMPO

claims he's excellent at sleeping. According to him, it's one of his many talents. In reality, he's usually the last one asleep and the first to notice when you're still awake. If you can't sleep, he'll start talking. Not about anything important. In fact, the more important the problem is, the less directly he'll address it. He'll tell ridiculous stories, make up outrageous business ventures, complain about people who definitely deserved to be scammed, and somehow have you smiling before you realize what he's doing. The whole time, he's watching you from the corner of his eye. Eventually his voice grows quieter, his jokes less frequent, until you're half asleep against him. Only then does he relax, an arm settling around you as if it ended up there by accident. When morning comes, he'll deny being sweet about any of it. But somehow, he's always there on the nights you need him most.

-

GEPARD

sleeps like someone who knows the city never truly rests. Even off duty, years of standing watch over Belobog make him a light sleeper, quick to wake at unusual sounds. He prefers quiet, cold rooms and often falls asleep later than he intends after finishing reports or checking that everything is in order. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately try to solve the problem. Instead, he stays beside you, patient and steady, letting you talk through whatever is weighing on your mind. If words don't come easily, that's fine too. He'll rest a hand over yours, gently tracing circles across your knuckles while speaking about simple things—flowers he's trying to grow, stories from patrol, songs Serval used to sing at home. His voice is calm and grounding, carrying the certainty that you're safe. If a nightmare wakes you, he'll be awake in seconds, pulling you close without hesitation. He won't leave until your breathing evens out and sleep finally finds you again.

-

JINGYUAN

sleeps surprisingly well when he finally allows himself to. Years of carrying the weight of the Luofu taught him that exhaustion clouds judgment, so he values rest even if duty constantly tries to steal it away. Still, he often lingers awake, lost in thought, watching the departing starskiffs or quietly playing through old memories. When you have trouble sleeping, he never rushes you toward rest. Instead, he invites you to sit beside him, speaking in that calm, unhurried voice that makes even worries feel less urgent. He'll tell stories from his travels, amusing tales about old friends, or observations that seem pointless until you realize they've distracted you from your spiraling thoughts. If nightmares wake you, he simply draws you closer, one hand resting against your back. No lectures, no questions, no pressure. Just a steady presence, patient as moonlight, remaining awake a little longer so you don't have to face the darkness alone.

-

AVENTURINE

Sleep doesn't come easily to Aventurine. He spends so much of his life calculating odds, reading people, and preparing for every possible outcome that his mind rarely settles the moment his head touches the pillow. Even when he looks relaxed, there's usually a part of him still awake, still watching. When you can't sleep, he notices long before you say anything. Rather than pressing you for answers, he'll quietly draw your attention elsewhere, spinning stories, making harmless wagers about tomorrow, or asking questions he already knows don't need serious answers. It's easier to carry a burden when you're laughing a little. If anxiety keeps you awake, he'll lace his fingers through yours and remind you that not every uncertainty needs to be solved tonight. Beneath the charm and confidence is someone who understands fear far better than he lets on.

-

MYDEI

sleeps the way a warrior stands guard—never completely. Even when exhaustion finally drags him under, years of battle, prophecy, and surviving what should have killed him make rest feel more like a temporary ceasefire than true peace. He prefers your warmth close by, often keeping an arm around you without even realizing it. It's instinctive, like protecting something precious. When you struggle to sleep, his first instinct is action. He wants to fight the problem, defeat it, challenge it outright. But over time, he learns that not every battle can be won with strength. Instead, he stays beside you, listening more than speaking. His presence is solid and grounding, like an ancient stone wall weathering a storm. If nightmares wake you, he's immediately alert, pulling you against his chest before you've fully opened your eyes. He doesn't offer polished words or clever reassurances. He simply reminds you that you're here, alive, and safe. Sometimes he'll tell stories of Kremnos, of festivals, warriors, and fields of flowers waiting beyond hardship. His voice carries the certainty of someone who has stared death in the face countless times and kept walking. Sleep may evade him, but if it means standing watch over you through the night, Mydei considers that a battle worth winning.

-

PHAINON

sleeps as though he is standing watch over a dying flame. Even in rest, there is a quiet tension in him, the habit of someone who has carried hope through too many dark nights to ever set it down completely. He prefers open windows, cool air, and the faint scent of earth after rain. When sleep refuses to come, he doesn't ask what's wrong right away. Instead, he settles beside you with patient ease, speaking of distant wheat fields, old stories, and dreams of worlds yet to be built. His voice is warm and steady, never forcing comfort, only offering it. If nightmares wake you, he'll stay until dawn if needed. To him, no burden is too small when it's carried by someone he cares about.

-

ANAXAGORAS

sleeps reluctantly, as though rest is an argument he has yet to lose. Even when exhaustion finally catches up to him, books remain piled around his bed, papers covered in half-finished notes scattered across every available surface. More than once, he's fallen asleep while researching a question that refused to leave his mind. He prefers silence, dim lighting, and uninterrupted hours where thought can wander wherever it pleases. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately ask what's wrong. Instead, he begins talking—about paradoxes, ancient philosophies, absurd academic disputes, or whatever idea currently occupies his attention. Somehow, while trying to follow his reasoning or argue back, the weight on your mind starts to loosen. If sleep still refuses to come, he'll read aloud from one of his books, occasionally stopping to criticize the author's conclusions or propose a better answer himself. Every so often his gaze flickers toward you, checking whether you're still awake, though he'd deny doing so if asked. Once you finally drift off, he quietly returns to his notes. Hours later, long after everyone else is asleep, the faint scratch of a pen can still be heard as he chases another impossible question into the night.

ASHVEIL

sleeps lightly, the way old hunters do. One ear always tuned to the world around him, one hand never too far from his weapon. Years spent chasing criminals, debts, and ghosts have left him with the habit of waking at the slightest disturbance. He claims it's just part of the job, though the truth runs deeper than that. When sleep won't come, he doesn't pry. He'll simply settle nearby, nursing a cup of coffee gone cold hours ago or lazily flipping through old case files. Sometimes he'll tell you stories—not the glamorous kind about heroes saving the galaxy, but small ones. Lost dogs that found their way home. Missing people reunited with family. Ordinary victories that remind people the world isn't entirely cruel. If your thoughts keep spiraling, he'll listen without interruption, offering the occasional joke so terrible it earns an eye roll. He doesn't try to solve every problem. A detective knows some things just need time. And if nightmares wake you in the dark, you'll find him exactly where he was before, still keeping watch. He might grumble about lost sleep or send you an invoice for emotional support afterward, but neither would be serious. As long as you're awake and hurting, he won't be going anywhere. Not yet.

-

BLADE

doesn't sleep often. When he does, it comes in brief stretches between old memories and older scars. Most nights he's awake long before you are, sitting somewhere nearby with his sword within reach and his thoughts somewhere far away. Silence never seems to bother him. When sleep refuses to come for you, he notices before you say anything. He isn't good at comfort in the usual sense. He won't offer soft reassurances or tell you everything will be fine. Instead, he'll quietly make room beside him, wordlessly inviting you to stay. Sometimes he sharpens his blade. Sometimes he tends to old equipment. Sometimes he simply sits there in the dark. If nightmares wake you, his hand settles against yours before you can pull away from them completely. He understands what it means to be haunted. On the rare nights you manage to fall asleep against his shoulder, he remains perfectly still, as if afraid movement might disturb the fragile peace you've found. Only when your breathing finally evens out does he allow himself a moment of rest. And even then, one eye never fully closes.

[lovinglyjinxed]

TAGLIST | @vasheeradecls @yowhosthis @wvore @kawte679 @asakarai  @pentofloem @mysticbolillo @thisstarisblue @grassanglass @jeffisfake @vallnal @chrxx6 @ithoughtthinks @jjuho-wwwondering @ilovehimekosm @evelynfushiguro @kittyliverpool @sweepincat @saikoosblog @rinyumii @commonerdoors2725 @dazlia @eternalconfluxexile @cycadsmenagerie @ellie6724 @shortnpanicking @aurorayork22 @bugzrcute @faunana @soberinla @starr1q @serebin @little-bing12 @dollyhrtzzs @howtowalk687 @jincngx @forcaze @bluedwyy @ryeoxuexii @itsleftcollectionfestw orld @purplelilac23 @pixel--gf @lentbe @ouist @robotrevnant @blossomvaneu @baguettedefontain @amberhearts-blog @anqelmeth @imcravingbubbletearn @xnoau @acyntite @giveyutasomelove @elizabethclouds @crimsonkarasutengu @they-themlock @saiiyama @jellyfishingmywaythrough @ecplise2864 @swansloves @hanussy2000 @souldeparted @notsoinvincible @skip-111 @iluv2dmenn @joexjtazuna @lowpoly-lizard @miffycait  @ecliphia@crownohomo @sundaynumber1lover @friesaif @mitsurisfavv @heartsick-ly @sleepyditto

[lovinglyjinxed]

SLEEPING HABITS W/ HSR MEN🤎

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Dan Heng, Sunday, Welt, Sampo, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Aventurine, Mydei, Phainon, Anaxagoras, Ashveill, Blade

[REQUESTED!♡] [DJINX!♡]

DAN HENG

sleeps lightly, never fully surrendering to rest. Years of exile, danger, and watchfulness left him accustomed to waking at the smallest sound. He prefers cool rooms, dim lighting, and the steady hum of the Express. When you struggle to sleep—whether from nightmares, anxiety, overthinking, or simple restlessness—he doesn't overwhelm with advice. Instead, he quietly stays beside you, reading while you settle down. One hand remains within reach if you want it. In either form he will always wrap his tail around your fingers lightly. He speaks in a low, even voice, recounting harmless observations from his travels until you thoughts slow. Only after you're asleep does he finally close his own eyes.

-

SUNDAY

sleeps far less than people realize. Years spent listening to the worries of others left him accustomed to late nights and restless thoughts of his own. He prefers quiet rooms, neatly arranged blankets, and the faint sound of music drifting in the background. When you struggle to sleep he never pushes for answers. Instead, he remains beside you, patient and attentive. One hand gently intertwines with yours if you seek comfort. He speaks in a soft, measured voice, sharing stories, memories, or simple observations until your mind begins to settle. Only once your breathing evens and sleep finally claims you does he allow himself to close his eyes as well.

-

WELT

doesn't sleep very deeply anymore. Not because he expects danger, but because after a lifetime of carrying responsibilities, part of him is always listening for the people he cares about. If you wake in the middle of the night, chances are he's awake too. Quietly reading in the dim light, glasses perched low on his nose as he turns another page. When you can't sleep, he never pushes. He'll simply set his book aside and make room for you against his shoulder. If you want to talk, he'll listen. If you don't, he won't press for answers. Silence has never made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he'll tell you stories about places you've never seen, old films from his home, or memories softened by time. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to pull your thoughts away from whatever is keeping them awake. And somehow, with the steady rhythm of his voice and the quiet certainty he carries, sleep never seems quite so far away.

-

SAMPO

claims he's excellent at sleeping. According to him, it's one of his many talents. In reality, he's usually the last one asleep and the first to notice when you're still awake. If you can't sleep, he'll start talking. Not about anything important. In fact, the more important the problem is, the less directly he'll address it. He'll tell ridiculous stories, make up outrageous business ventures, complain about people who definitely deserved to be scammed, and somehow have you smiling before you realize what he's doing. The whole time, he's watching you from the corner of his eye. Eventually his voice grows quieter, his jokes less frequent, until you're half asleep against him. Only then does he relax, an arm settling around you as if it ended up there by accident. When morning comes, he'll deny being sweet about any of it. But somehow, he's always there on the nights you need him most.

-

GEPARD

sleeps like someone who knows the city never truly rests. Even off duty, years of standing watch over Belobog make him a light sleeper, quick to wake at unusual sounds. He prefers quiet, cold rooms and often falls asleep later than he intends after finishing reports or checking that everything is in order. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately try to solve the problem. Instead, he stays beside you, patient and steady, letting you talk through whatever is weighing on your mind. If words don't come easily, that's fine too. He'll rest a hand over yours, gently tracing circles across your knuckles while speaking about simple things—flowers he's trying to grow, stories from patrol, songs Serval used to sing at home. His voice is calm and grounding, carrying the certainty that you're safe. If a nightmare wakes you, he'll be awake in seconds, pulling you close without hesitation. He won't leave until your breathing evens out and sleep finally finds you again.

-

JINGYUAN

sleeps surprisingly well when he finally allows himself to. Years of carrying the weight of the Luofu taught him that exhaustion clouds judgment, so he values rest even if duty constantly tries to steal it away. Still, he often lingers awake, lost in thought, watching the departing starskiffs or quietly playing through old memories. When you have trouble sleeping, he never rushes you toward rest. Instead, he invites you to sit beside him, speaking in that calm, unhurried voice that makes even worries feel less urgent. He'll tell stories from his travels, amusing tales about old friends, or observations that seem pointless until you realize they've distracted you from your spiraling thoughts. If nightmares wake you, he simply draws you closer, one hand resting against your back. No lectures, no questions, no pressure. Just a steady presence, patient as moonlight, remaining awake a little longer so you don't have to face the darkness alone.

-

AVENTURINE

Sleep doesn't come easily to Aventurine. He spends so much of his life calculating odds, reading people, and preparing for every possible outcome that his mind rarely settles the moment his head touches the pillow. Even when he looks relaxed, there's usually a part of him still awake, still watching. When you can't sleep, he notices long before you say anything. Rather than pressing you for answers, he'll quietly draw your attention elsewhere, spinning stories, making harmless wagers about tomorrow, or asking questions he already knows don't need serious answers. It's easier to carry a burden when you're laughing a little. If anxiety keeps you awake, he'll lace his fingers through yours and remind you that not every uncertainty needs to be solved tonight. Beneath the charm and confidence is someone who understands fear far better than he lets on.

-

MYDEI

sleeps the way a warrior stands guard—never completely. Even when exhaustion finally drags him under, years of battle, prophecy, and surviving what should have killed him make rest feel more like a temporary ceasefire than true peace. He prefers your warmth close by, often keeping an arm around you without even realizing it. It's instinctive, like protecting something precious. When you struggle to sleep, his first instinct is action. He wants to fight the problem, defeat it, challenge it outright. But over time, he learns that not every battle can be won with strength. Instead, he stays beside you, listening more than speaking. His presence is solid and grounding, like an ancient stone wall weathering a storm. If nightmares wake you, he's immediately alert, pulling you against his chest before you've fully opened your eyes. He doesn't offer polished words or clever reassurances. He simply reminds you that you're here, alive, and safe. Sometimes he'll tell stories of Kremnos, of festivals, warriors, and fields of flowers waiting beyond hardship. His voice carries the certainty of someone who has stared death in the face countless times and kept walking. Sleep may evade him, but if it means standing watch over you through the night, Mydei considers that a battle worth winning.

-

PHAINON

sleeps as though he is standing watch over a dying flame. Even in rest, there is a quiet tension in him, the habit of someone who has carried hope through too many dark nights to ever set it down completely. He prefers open windows, cool air, and the faint scent of earth after rain. When sleep refuses to come, he doesn't ask what's wrong right away. Instead, he settles beside you with patient ease, speaking of distant wheat fields, old stories, and dreams of worlds yet to be built. His voice is warm and steady, never forcing comfort, only offering it. If nightmares wake you, he'll stay until dawn if needed. To him, no burden is too small when it's carried by someone he cares about.

-

ANAXAGORAS

sleeps reluctantly, as though rest is an argument he has yet to lose. Even when exhaustion finally catches up to him, books remain piled around his bed, papers covered in half-finished notes scattered across every available surface. More than once, he's fallen asleep while researching a question that refused to leave his mind. He prefers silence, dim lighting, and uninterrupted hours where thought can wander wherever it pleases. When you can't sleep, he doesn't immediately ask what's wrong. Instead, he begins talking—about paradoxes, ancient philosophies, absurd academic disputes, or whatever idea currently occupies his attention. Somehow, while trying to follow his reasoning or argue back, the weight on your mind starts to loosen. If sleep still refuses to come, he'll read aloud from one of his books, occasionally stopping to criticize the author's conclusions or propose a better answer himself. Every so often his gaze flickers toward you, checking whether you're still awake, though he'd deny doing so if asked. Once you finally drift off, he quietly returns to his notes. Hours later, long after everyone else is asleep, the faint scratch of a pen can still be heard as he chases another impossible question into the night.

ASHVEIL

sleeps lightly, the way old hunters do. One ear always tuned to the world around him, one hand never too far from his weapon. Years spent chasing criminals, debts, and ghosts have left him with the habit of waking at the slightest disturbance. He claims it's just part of the job, though the truth runs deeper than that. When sleep won't come, he doesn't pry. He'll simply settle nearby, nursing a cup of coffee gone cold hours ago or lazily flipping through old case files. Sometimes he'll tell you stories—not the glamorous kind about heroes saving the galaxy, but small ones. Lost dogs that found their way home. Missing people reunited with family. Ordinary victories that remind people the world isn't entirely cruel. If your thoughts keep spiraling, he'll listen without interruption, offering the occasional joke so terrible it earns an eye roll. He doesn't try to solve every problem. A detective knows some things just need time. And if nightmares wake you in the dark, you'll find him exactly where he was before, still keeping watch. He might grumble about lost sleep or send you an invoice for emotional support afterward, but neither would be serious. As long as you're awake and hurting, he won't be going anywhere. Not yet.

-

BLADE

doesn't sleep often. When he does, it comes in brief stretches between old memories and older scars. Most nights he's awake long before you are, sitting somewhere nearby with his sword within reach and his thoughts somewhere far away. Silence never seems to bother him. When sleep refuses to come for you, he notices before you say anything. He isn't good at comfort in the usual sense. He won't offer soft reassurances or tell you everything will be fine. Instead, he'll quietly make room beside him, wordlessly inviting you to stay. Sometimes he sharpens his blade. Sometimes he tends to old equipment. Sometimes he simply sits there in the dark. If nightmares wake you, his hand settles against yours before you can pull away from them completely. He understands what it means to be haunted. On the rare nights you manage to fall asleep against his shoulder, he remains perfectly still, as if afraid movement might disturb the fragile peace you've found. Only when your breathing finally evens out does he allow himself a moment of rest. And even then, one eye never fully closes.

[lovinglyjinxed]

STELLARON HUNTERS x OVERWATCH: Who Would They Main?

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Kafka, Blade, Silverwolf, Firefly

KAFKAඞ

I imagine she would play Widowmaker, she has the patience and skill to be a sniper aside from the asthetic similarities lol. Besides Widowmaker though, I imagine on some level she can relate to Domina too and likes the big strong dumb damage tanks like Ramattra and Zayra. But I also think she plays the least video games out of them all. She only hops on when Silverwolf and Firefly beg her to surprisingly carry. She plays on keyboard and is open to playing both ranked and unranked. With you? She would try her hardest to cap point or push the payload and but I don't think she would win.

SILVERWOLFඞ

Who are we kidding, she is Grandmaster rank. All through pure skill. She definitely plays Sombra Nd Dva and I can see her maining Ana and hating Mercy mains. She would say Ana requires skill and spam reports edaters and pocketing players. Every MVP and POTG is her. Her main duo is Firefly and she has Kafka buy her every cosmetic, that is if she hasn't already hacked the game to give her everything she wanted in lootboxes already. She plays on keyboard. With you? The game is over and won before it even starts. When the loading screen is done, the opposite team leaves out of fear when they see her name. It's okay, she has alts for a reason!

FIREFLYඞ

Forced to play by Silverwolf but eventually learned to love the game, she only plays unranked as ranked makes her too mad and she, like many of us can't handle a 3 day losing streak...ANYWAYS. I imagine she mains Mei, but she loves alot of the cast, such as: Ramattra, Bastion, Doomfist, Echo, Hazard, Juno, Orisa, Soilder, Winston, and Wrecking Ball. Firefly is a total jack of all trades. I think she plays Mei the most but her favorite character is Soujorn. I think they all can kind of relate to her in a way. She also has all cosmetics for her girls and asks Kafka to buy her skins to which Kafka happily supplies her with coins. She plays on controller. With you? Well, she learned from the best, so the game was hard fought and won. Playing video games with the love of her live and winning? She couldn't ask for more.

BLADEඞ

He plays to make Silverwolf happy. He also doesn't spend alot of time on the game but his mains are Ramattra, Reaper, Doomfist and Emre. He envies Genji and Hanzo mains because he can't quite grasp their characters and everytime he tries to learn he always gets diffed and by now has gave up. His favorite he doesn't play is Roadhog, they are both men of few words. His least favorite characters are definitely Mercy and Anran. Being able to revive? Not his speed. With you? He got spawn camped by the enemy Genji and he rage quit. You made sure to win the game though. He is currently banned for 6 days.

[lovinglyjinxed]

inspired by gaming w @slutla...

TAGLIST | @vasheeradecls @yowhosthis @wvore @kawte679 @asakarai  @pentofloem @mysticbolillo @thisstarisblue @grassanglass @jeffisfake @vallnal @chrxx6 @ithoughtthinks @jjuho-wwwondering @ilovehimekosm @evelynfushiguro @kittyliverpool @sweepincat @saikoosblog @rinyumii @commonerdoors2725 @dazlia @eternalconfluxexile @cycadsmenagerie @ellie6724 @shortnpanicking @aurorayork22 @bugzrcute @faunana @soberinla @starr1q @serebin @little-bing12 @dollyhrtzzs @howtowalk687 @jincngx @forcaze @bluedwyy @ryeoxuexii @itsleftcollectionfestw orld @purplelilac23 @pixel--gf @lentbe @ouist @robotrevnant @blossomvaneu @baguettedefontain @amberhearts-blog @anqelmeth @imcravingbubbletearn @xnoau @acyntite @giveyutasomelove @elizabethclouds @crimsonkarasutengu @they-themlock @saiiyama @jellyfishingmywaythrough @ecplise2864 @swansloves @hanussy2000 @souldeparted @notsoinvincible @skip-111 @iluv2dmenn @joexjtazuna @lowpoly-lizard @miffycait  @ecliphia@crownohomo @sundaynumber1lover @friesaif @mitsurisfavv @heartsick-ly @sleepyditto @kuramassss @ladygreyish @astxr15 @crayonstik @jadenaristotle @kaira35353 @iceychurr @wlwjoshua @fitakar @galagarts @hanako-h5 @aireeds @mersoliss @waiabita @lyambdaa @ttqui @leafl3ss @uhidekman @mqmmon @sunnydayml @tinyhologramphantom @hu3sitos @domiiniques  @snugmutt @whateverthingsw @kimfrancinee @str1fesgirl @loryhn @acidsbeats @lmygoat @kwonthefire @urlocalsabito @cheriiiiii  @universallystudentkitten @solarizxm @drieddcactus @lucidsei @julielovesnavyblue  @starlitplumes @ellen-qq @lolbook @lolaof-thevalley @spirit12 @la-ila-la @faeriesblog @the-tired-potato-hani @anormalapheliosfan @alt-alune @phezzylex @plumpkie @keyzheart soulkissesst4r @wrios-milk @fureiart  @creative--crisis @zyrexaels-stars @lixhizy @mikusaystransrights @trashlanternfish360 @nobloodonlycoffee @misuzue @kittzu  @yaongxixi @simpingeverysecond @electro--storm @gr8jason @dontbother46 @m0bne @sunsettulip @violetesensou @cielsellsshells @p1xistixx @xixiliea @goldenstarlightabyss

[lovinglyjinxed]

TAGLIST 2 | @namelesswolfcatcake  @tamatato @crystalkat6747 @unkownmaker @toastedlem0ns @sashimees @syrie-slays @anbylover3000 @tsuyustan @cosmo-cam @starryangxl  @lulubelle-mochi @toyaism @k1-2-ur-h3art @sirkalen @unseensolaceprodigy @unseensolaceprodigy @lucynobody @kochoangel @tiredwakasa @enannyan

[lovinglyjinxed]

STELLARON HUNTERS x OVERWATCH: Who Would They Main?

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Kafka, Blade, Silverwolf, Firefly

KAFKAඞ

I imagine she would play Widowmaker, she has the patience and skill to be a sniper aside from the asthetic similarities lol. Besides Widowmaker though, I imagine on some level she can relate to Domina too and likes the big strong dumb damage tanks like Ramattra and Zayra. But I also think she plays the least video games out of them all. She only hops on when Silverwolf and Firefly beg her to surprisingly carry. She plays on keyboard and is open to playing both ranked and unranked. With you? She would try her hardest to cap point or push the payload and but I don't think she would win.

SILVERWOLFඞ

Who are we kidding, she is Grandmaster rank. All through pure skill. She definitely plays Sombra Nd Dva and I can see her maining Ana and hating Mercy mains. She would say Ana requires skill and spam reports edaters and pocketing players. Every MVP and POTG is her. Her main duo is Firefly and she has Kafka buy her every cosmetic, that is if she hasn't already hacked the game to give her everything she wanted in lootboxes already. She plays on keyboard. With you? The game is over and won before it even starts. When the loading screen is done, the opposite team leaves out of fear when they see her name. It's okay, she has alts for a reason!

FIREFLYඞ

Forced to play by Silverwolf but eventually learned to love the game, she only plays unranked as ranked makes her too mad and she, like many of us can't handle a 3 day losing streak...ANYWAYS. I imagine she mains Mei, but she loves alot of the cast, such as: Ramattra, Bastion, Doomfist, Echo, Hazard, Juno, Orisa, Soilder, Winston, and Wrecking Ball. Firefly is a total jack of all trades. I think she plays Mei the most but her favorite character is Soujorn. I think they all can kind of relate to her in a way. She also has all cosmetics for her girls and asks Kafka to buy her skins to which Kafka happily supplies her with coins. She plays on controller. With you? Well, she learned from the best, so the game was hard fought and won. Playing video games with the love of her live and winning? She couldn't ask for more.

BLADEඞ

He plays to make Silverwolf happy. He also doesn't spend alot of time on the game but his mains are Ramattra, Reaper, Doomfist and Emre. He envies Genji and Hanzo mains because he can't quite grasp their characters and everytime he tries to learn he always gets diffed and by now has gave up. His favorite he doesn't play is Roadhog, they are both men of few words. His least favorite characters are definitely Mercy and Anran. Being able to revive? Not his speed. With you? He got spawn camped by the enemy Genji and he rage quit. You made sure to win the game though. He is currently banned for 6 days.

[lovinglyjinxed]

inspired by gaming w @slutla...

TAGLIST | @vasheeradecls @yowhosthis @wvore @kawte679 @asakarai  @pentofloem @mysticbolillo @thisstarisblue @grassanglass @jeffisfake @vallnal @chrxx6 @ithoughtthinks @jjuho-wwwondering @ilovehimekosm @evelynfushiguro @kittyliverpool @sweepincat @saikoosblog @rinyumii @commonerdoors2725 @dazlia @eternalconfluxexile @cycadsmenagerie @ellie6724 @shortnpanicking @aurorayork22 @bugzrcute @faunana @soberinla @starr1q @serebin @little-bing12 @dollyhrtzzs @howtowalk687 @jincngx @forcaze @bluedwyy @ryeoxuexii @itsleftcollectionfestw orld @purplelilac23 @pixel--gf @lentbe @ouist @robotrevnant @blossomvaneu @baguettedefontain @amberhearts-blog @anqelmeth @imcravingbubbletearn @xnoau @acyntite @giveyutasomelove @elizabethclouds @crimsonkarasutengu @they-themlock @saiiyama @jellyfishingmywaythrough @ecplise2864 @swansloves @hanussy2000 @souldeparted @notsoinvincible @skip-111 @iluv2dmenn @joexjtazuna @lowpoly-lizard @miffycait  @ecliphia@crownohomo @sundaynumber1lover @friesaif @mitsurisfavv @heartsick-ly @sleepyditto @kuramassss @ladygreyish @astxr15 @crayonstik @jadenaristotle @kaira35353 @iceychurr @wlwjoshua @fitakar @galagarts @hanako-h5 @aireeds @mersoliss @waiabita @lyambdaa @ttqui @leafl3ss @uhidekman @mqmmon @sunnydayml @tinyhologramphantom @hu3sitos @domiiniques  @snugmutt @whateverthingsw @kimfrancinee @str1fesgirl @loryhn @acidsbeats @lmygoat @kwonthefire @urlocalsabito @cheriiiiii  @universallystudentkitten @solarizxm @drieddcactus @lucidsei @julielovesnavyblue  @starlitplumes @ellen-qq @lolbook @lolaof-thevalley @spirit12 @la-ila-la @faeriesblog @the-tired-potato-hani @anormalapheliosfan @alt-alune @phezzylex @plumpkie @keyzheart soulkissesst4r @wrios-milk @fureiart  @creative--crisis @zyrexaels-stars @lixhizy @mikusaystransrights @trashlanternfish360 @nobloodonlycoffee @misuzue @kittzu  @yaongxixi @simpingeverysecond @electro--storm @gr8jason @dontbother46 @m0bne @sunsettulip @violetesensou @cielsellsshells @p1xistixx @xixiliea @goldenstarlightabyss

[lovinglyjinxed]

I love my dress up darling omg

[lovinglyjinxed]

STELLARON HUNTERS x OVERWATCH: Who Would They Main?

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Kafka, Blade, Silverwolf, Firefly

KAFKAඞ

I imagine she would play Widowmaker, she has the patience and skill to be a sniper aside from the asthetic similarities lol. Besides Widowmaker though, I imagine on some level she can relate to Domina too and likes the big strong dumb damage tanks like Ramattra and Zayra. But I also think she plays the least video games out of them all. She only hops on when Silverwolf and Firefly beg her to surprisingly carry. She plays on keyboard and is open to playing both ranked and unranked. With you? She would try her hardest to cap point or push the payload and but I don't think she would win.

SILVERWOLFඞ

Who are we kidding, she is Grandmaster rank. All through pure skill. She definitely plays Sombra Nd Dva and I can see her maining Ana and hating Mercy mains. She would say Ana requires skill and spam reports edaters and pocketing players. Every MVP and POTG is her. Her main duo is Firefly and she has Kafka buy her every cosmetic, that is if she hasn't already hacked the game to give her everything she wanted in lootboxes already. She plays on keyboard. With you? The game is over and won before it even starts. When the loading screen is done, the opposite team leaves out of fear when they see her name. It's okay, she has alts for a reason!

FIREFLYඞ

Forced to play by Silverwolf but eventually learned to love the game, she only plays unranked as ranked makes her too mad and she, like many of us can't handle a 3 day losing streak...ANYWAYS. I imagine she mains Mei, but she loves alot of the cast, such as: Ramattra, Bastion, Doomfist, Echo, Hazard, Juno, Orisa, Soilder, Winston, and Wrecking Ball. Firefly is a total jack of all trades. I think she plays Mei the most but her favorite character is Soujorn. I think they all can kind of relate to her in a way. She also has all cosmetics for her girls and asks Kafka to buy her skins to which Kafka happily supplies her with coins. She plays on controller. With you? Well, she learned from the best, so the game was hard fought and won. Playing video games with the love of her live and winning? She couldn't ask for more.

BLADEඞ

He plays to make Silverwolf happy. He also doesn't spend alot of time on the game but his mains are Ramattra, Reaper, Doomfist and Emre. He envies Genji and Hanzo mains because he can't quite grasp their characters and everytime he tries to learn he always gets diffed and by now has gave up. His favorite he doesn't play is Roadhog, they are both men of few words. His least favorite characters are definitely Mercy and Anran. Being able to revive? Not his speed. With you? He got spawn camped by the enemy Genji and he rage quit. You made sure to win the game though. He is currently banned for 6 days.

[melodiesirae]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 『 AHA 』

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 『 ENA 』

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 『 LAN 』

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 『 NANOOK 』

【 F2U 】 ⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏ CREDITS ARE MANDATORY 𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ㅤㅤㅤ 𓇼 . 〰⋆｡˚ ──┈≽ reblog & like 2 use 𓈒𓏸.°•

Aeon dividers, Idk.

The Lan ones are slightly based on @uzmacchiato's chalky rainbow dividers but they were a gift(?) for @kirokumiku anyway hahaha — during the Lan theme. The others just randomly spawned from my head lmao

I'm particularly protective of my dividers (especially these) so far cuz a bunch of the elements are handdrawn (namely the Lan ones). Also I'd love to see what ppl use these in hehehe. I doubt but who knows.

I already started making the Xipe & Mythus dividers but finding the resources I want is so hard so damn, hope y'all enjoy these ones for now. Hopefully there will be a follow up but Idk. We'll see.

@graveszn (did you have Aha as an f/o or am I crazy. I remember someone does but I don't remember who)

[lovinglyjinxed]

wait lowk these r tuff asf

[lovinglyjinxed]

read "I like you" with the express members (i really like how you write caelus and stelle!) and loved it!

ik req are closed but i was wondering if you'd also consider doing Himeko and Welt? (ofc, reader is also an older adult in this context. Fellow teacher? TA? General school staff?)

no pressure ofc! this ask was mostly me spitballing and gushing. ty for your work (esp for the girls, its hard to find x reader for them, so i rlly appreciate it)!

omggg AAAA Thank youuu, originally I wanted to add sparkle n sparxie and welt n himkeo But I wasn't sure how to incorporate them as staff or of that would be weird??? or something but yesss this has been floating around in my head for a while

[lovinglyjinxed]

Prompt Idea: How do the HSR characters help get you to sleep? Obvi take it or don't, no pressure ok ilu byeeeee (Dan Heng pls let me rest)

working on this right now♡

[lovinglyjinxed]

I should specify Jane Doe from Zenless Zone Zero LMAO

im so sorryyyy im only comfortable writing for HSR rn 🫣

[lovinglyjinxed]

yay break over ill be back tmr <3

[lovinglyjinxed]

Anaxagoras and you after hours...

Professor Anaxa who seizes your chin with a firm, unyielding grip, yanking your face toward his as his tongue plunged into your mouth for a sloppy, aggressive kiss, swirling and battling yours while sharp nips tugged at your lower lip, strands of saliva dripping messily onto your chin and neck.

Prof!Anaxa who loves shoving his long, tattooed fingers past your lips and deep into your throat, forcing you to choke and retch around them as he growled orders to suck harder, your mouth flooding with drool that coated every inch of his digits until they glistened.

His favorite part...? Pulling his soaked fingers free with a wet pop, dragging the warm saliva in slow, deliberate streaks down your jawline and throat, smearing the slick evidence of your submission across your skin like a possessive brand. Gods, if only you could see how hard his dick gets at it. Well, you'll be feeling it soon!

Prof!Anaxa who whirls you around abruptly, slamming your upper body down onto the polished surface of his desk, then roughly flipped up your skirt to bare your ass completely, the cool air hitting your exposed flesh as he positioned you for his control.

Prof!Anaxa cracks his palm against your bare ass cheeks in rapid, stinging slaps, each one landing with a sharp crack that made your skin bloom red and hot, the pain radiating through you as he alternated sides without mercy. It hurt so good...!

Prof!Anaxa latches his mouth onto the sensitive curve of your neck, sucking with brutal force to draw blood to the surface, creating deep purple hickeys that throbbed under your uniform's collar, invisible marks of his claim for the coming days.

Prof!Anaxa grinds his rigid, throbbing cock against your slick folds from behind, the thick head nudging your entrance teasingly, sliding up and down without penetrating, building your desperation with every deliberate rub.

Prof!Anaxa eases his massive cock into your tight pussy inch by inch, stretching you wide until he was buried to the hilt, then went completely still, trapping you in the exquisite torment of cockwarming as he demanded you stay silent and composed around his pulsing length. He can't help it, he just adores seeing lil' ol' you squirming all because of him.

Prof!Anaxa untied his hair, looping the material expertly around your wrists and cinching them tight behind your back, leaving you utterly restrained and at his mercy, your arms pinned as he admired your vulnerability.

With your hands secured, Prof!Anaxa rams cock back into your dripping core in powerful, erratic thrusts, the sloppy sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room as he drove deeper, chasing his rhythm without restraint.

Prof!Anaxa hawked a thick glob of spit into his palm, slicking his fingers before pressing one against your tight asshole, circling and then pushing inside to finger-fuck the puckered ring slowly, adding a second digit to stretch and tease the untouched entrance. He spat again onto his hand, the warm saliva dripping as he smeared it over your swollen clit in firm circles, the wet friction making your hips buck involuntarily while he watched your reactions with analytical intensity.

Prof!Anaxa jammed his saliva-drenched fingers back between your lips, thrusting them deep to make you gag anew on the tangy mix of his spit and your own arousal, your tongue forced to lap at the invasive taste as tears pricked your eyes.

Prof!Anaxa brought his hand down even harder on your tied ass, the forceful spanks jolting your body forward onto his cock still sheathed inside you, the combined sensations leaving you arched and trembling in helpless overload.

Prof!Anaxa drops to his knees briefly, his lips fastening onto the soft insides of your thighs, sucking voraciously to etch fresh hickeys into the tender skin, bites that would linger as secret reminders beneath your clothes.

Prof!Anaxa grips your hips bruisingly and hammered his cock into your pussy with savage, unrelenting strokes, the desk groaning and shifting beneath the raw force of his pounding, your body rocking with every brutal invasion.

Prof!Anaxa leans close to your ear, his voice a low command laced with arrogance, ordering you to beg for more as he taunted you with pet names, your whispered pleas fueling his dominance.

At the peak, Prof!Anaxa yanks his cock free from your clenching walls, stroking himself furiously before erupting in hot, sticky ropes of cum that splattered across your arched back, the messy release dripping down your skin to seal his ownership.

I love this green man. hc: no way he begs ever.

inspired by ( x / @adoresundae )

[lovinglyjinxed]

TAGLIST - @deer--ling @angellific @lentbe @purplelilac23 @bbunnytopia @ouist @robotravanger @blossomvaneu @baguettedefontain @malicenova10 @anqelmeth @xnoau @elizabethclouds @saiiyama @gigglefart4 @swansloves @hanussy2000  @souldeparted @notsoinvincible @skip-111 @iluv2dmenn @joexjtazuna @miffycait @ecliphia @crownohomo @strawberrymrsh @sundaynumber1lover @friesaif @cifera1dle @sleepyditto @kuramassss @ladygreyish @astxr15 @meowingmikept2 @iceychurr @galagarts @hanako-h5 @aireeds @mersoliss @lyambdaa @leafl3ss @hu3sitos @domiiniques  @nox-the-death-cat @whateverthingsw @kimfrancinee @str1fesgirl @loryhn @acidsbeats @kwonthefire @urlocalsabito @neppyyweppyy  @solarizxm @drieddcactus @julielovesnavyblue  @starlitplumes @ellen-qq @lolaof-thevalley @spirit12 @faeriesblog @la-ila-la @the-tired-potato-hani @alt-alune @plumpkie @soulkissesst4r @wrios-milk @fureiart  @creative--crisis @sm0k3x-ad0min @lixhizy @mikusaystransrights @trashlanternfish360 @nobloodonlycoffee @misuzue @kittzu @yaongxixi @simpingeverysecond @electro--storm @gr8jason @dontbother46 @m0bne @sunsettulip @violetesensou @kaelquinsday @p1xistixx @goldenstarlightabyss @xixiliea @alphawolf457 @thycheshire @unkownmaker @toastedlem0ns @sashimees @syrie-slays @anbylover3000 @slutla @tsuyustan @cosmo-cam @starryangxl  @toyaism @sirkalen @unseensolaceprodigy @lucynobody

[slutla]

You flick an ant off your thigh before it can wander somewhere where the sunlight can’t reach. Open grassy parks are a sensory gamble you usually don’t take. Too hot, too much life in motion, too many tiny legs assuming your skin is a public highway. Today, however, is manageable. The heat doesn't heavy-hand you; honey-gold and toasty on your skin. It’s the sort of day your fiancé refuses to waste indoors.

There’s an insouciant energy about him, one he wears well. He’s handled everything, laying out the spread with precision. The sandwiches are sliced into perfect, sharp-edged triangles, flanked by his "gourmet" pride and joy: a pre-packaged charcuterie board that still has supermarket plastic clinging to the edges. It’s low-effort masquerading as high-class but you praise him anyway. It’s oddly endearing when his chest puffs out a little further.

The park is loud, admittedly so. Children’s laughter cutting through everything, the wet thunk of a kickball, parents talking over each other in separate clusters. Through it, Satoru’s breath brushes the shell of your ear, warm and faintly sweet.

He lifts a long, porcelain-pale finger, pointing toward a small blot of yellow in the grass. A spiky black-haired toddler in a sunsuit, losing a very one-sided fight with a stubborn dandelion. Cheeks puffed. Thin Brows knitted tight. He tugs at it with mounting frustration, like perhaps, the ground might eventually give out first.

“Look at that one,” Satoru murmurs, gaze fixed ahead. “So small. Almost pathetic, really. Struggling with a flower of all things.” He lets out a breathy huff of laughter and leans into you, hooking his chin over your shoulder.

“Stupidly cute, though,” he admits. For all his ego, his soft-edged fascination with kids is the one thing that tends to catch you by surprise.

“He’s not even a fully formed person yet, ‘toru,” you say, squinting at the kid. “He might as well be a baby, and all babies are cute. It’s a biological trap, y’know?”

He hums a thoughtful sound but he doesn’t look away from the agitated kid. A small, contemplative smirk pulls at one corner of his mouth. “If they looked like us, they’d be the cutest, wouldn't they?” He pauses, the silence stretching before he continues, “Our baby would be cute, too. Right?”

It’s a heavy question wrapped in a light tone. You feel your heart do a weird, stuttering hop. You look back at the grass, smiling to yourself, a secret bit of warmth blooming in your gut.

“I guess so…” you say softly. Then, the smile fades from your face, flattening completely. “But that baby would never exist.”

The shift is immediate, the air tightens around him and you feel his limbs go rigid.

“Huh?” Satoru’s voice loses its ease in an instant. He leans over, trying to catch your gaze, frosted brows furrowed in panicked confusion. “Never? What do you mean, never?” There’s nothing playful left in him. He looks like you just told him the sky is falling.

Turning around, you reach up to cup his face, thumb brushing over the edge of his glossy lips. You give him a slow, reassured smile. “Because,” you breathe, leaning in till your foreheads touch, “I don’t think I have it in me to love any other living creature other than you.”

Satoru freezes, heart thudding rapidly, he’s afraid it’s going to jump out of his chest. He lets out a sound of pure relief, and pulls you into his chest until you can barely breathe. “You’re so mean,” he mumbles into your hair, his grip bruisingly tight. “Scared me baby, don’t say stuff like that. My heart can’t take it.”

+ loosely based on the side story in the manhwa: “Is it a fortune or is it woe?”

[lovinglyjinxed]

"🅸 🅻🅸🅺🅴 🆈🅾🆄!"

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Stelle, Caelus, March 7th, Dan Heng, Sunday

SYNOPSIS | You confess your love to your true love! I was inspired by Planarcadia, I wanted to write this with all the new characters but I don't think we have gotten to know them so well so... ya..

[DJINX♡!]

𑣲CAELUS Baseball Team Captain!Caelus x Tsundere!Reader

The rooftop is quieter than the field. Wind tugs at your hair, distant cheers fading like they belong to someone else entirely. You weren’t part of the team. Never were. Most people probably didn’t even notice you. You liked it that way—kept to yourself, invisible among the noise. But Caelus?

Despite the game ending not too long ago...he’s somehow already there. Lounging on the railing, one leg hooked over the edge, bat balanced lazily on his shoulder. That smirk—half teasing, half knowing—lands straight in your chest.

A beat.

“Finally decided to show up!” he says. “I came because you insisted.” you mutter, eyes on the ground. Suddenly, at the realization it is just you two, heat creeps up your neck. This was ridiculous. Why did he always make everything feel so… intense?

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, grin sharp. “Cute how you act like it’s some huge sacrifice. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?”

“I-I have not!” you snap, cheeks burning. “I just… wanted to see if… if you were… done being… a show-off or whatever!”

“Uh-huh,” he says, voice full of mock innocence. “…Sure. Totally believable. You’re just here for my batting technique, right?”

“I—shut up!” You cross your arms, turning slightly away. “…Not that it matters anyway!”

Caelus laughs, stepping closer until you can feel the faint brush of his sleeve. “Relax. I know you like me. I can see it, even if I have to dig it out of you myself!”

“…I do NOT!” you hiss, glaring but failing to hide the small heat in your chest. “Oh, really?” He tilts his head, grin teasing. “Because your face says otherwise."

Your stomach flips. “I-I’m no-! I just… you’re—ugh! You’re impossible!”

He chuckles, shaking his head, softening slightly. “Good. Because I like you too. Not the cheering, not the team… just you. The quiet, grumpy, impossible you.”

“…W-what?” you stammer, heat rising faster.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging casually, eyes bright. “…You stick out, even when you try not to. Way more interesting than anyone yelling my name down there.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it. He’s right. Of course he’s right.

A cheer rises faintly from the field. Caelus raises an eyebrow. “…Persistent. But we’ll let them wait.”

He steps closer, until the world below fades, leaving only the two of you. His fingers brush yours lightly, teasing, deliberate.

“…Stay a bit,” he murmurs, voice low but playful. “I like the quiet… only if it’s with you. And don’t even try to deny it—I know you like me too.”

“…I-I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, smirk tugging at his lips. “…And you know it.”

Your cheeks burn, but this time… you don’t pull away. The wind, the cheers, the world below—it all melts away. Here, with him, you’re exactly where he wants you, exactly where you almost can’t help but want to be.

𑣲STELLE Baseball Team Captain!Stelle x Rival Team Captain!Reader

The stadium is still roaring when you slip into the empty dugout.

Your team lost.

The scoreboard blazes overhead like it has something personal against you. Gloves are scattered across the bench, dirt ground into the floor, the sharp smell of grass and sweat still hanging in the air. Out on the field, her team is celebrating. You’re yanking off your batting gloves a little harder than necessary when someone steps into the dugout.

Stelle.

Battered cap tucked under one arm. Strands of silver-gray hair cling damply to her forehead, the rest tousled from nine innings under the lights. There’s dirt smudged along one cheek, and her amber eyes look just as calm as they did in the first inning. Expression unreadable as ever.

“You chased the third pitch in the seventh inning.” she says.

You stare at her. “Did you come here to gloat?”

“Yes...” and then she hesitates. For a flicker of a moment, it caught you off guard, it was so unlike the girl you've fought against. “…And something else...” She continues.

You scoff, turning away. “Go celebrate with your team, captain.”

“I will.” Her voice stays flat. “Later...”

You look back despite yourself.

She walks closer, cleats clicking softly against the concrete. No crowd. No teammates. Just her. The stadium lights catch in the pale strands of her hair, making her look sharper somehow—like she walked straight out of the glare and into your space.

“You adjusted after the fifth inning,” she says. “Your bunt in the sixth was smart.”

“You won. Why are you analyzing my game?”

“Because I always do. Call it a...bad habit...?”

That lands harder than the loss. How much more annoying...ly... cute...? can she get. The game just ended and yet here she is analyzing your gameplay. Truely an odd creature. She stops in front of you, close enough that the noise outside dulls into static.

“When there’s a chance to make a choice,” she says, “make one you won’t regret.”

You frown. “What does that have to do with anything?” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m choosing now.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re stubborn,” she continues. “Too competitive. You glare like it does damage. Your team’s signals are predictable.”

“That sounds less like a confession and more like your a fan..."

“Whatever..." She says sort of sheepishly. For the first time tonight, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“I like you.”

The words hit cleaner than any fastball. You can only stare. Stelle folds her arms. “You’re the only rival worth beating.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “That is a terrible way to flirt.”

“It worked.”

She reaches out, brushing dirt from your sleeve with brisk, practical fingers. Up close, you can see the flush of exertion still lingering under the stadium lights, the loose strand of gray hair falling near her eyes.

“So,” you manage, “what now?”

“We stay on opposite teams.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“No.” She tilts her head. “It sounds fun.”

Outside, her teammates start shouting her name again. She glances toward the field, visibly unimpressed, then back at you. “They can wait another minute.”

You step closer. “Good. Because I like you too.” She goes still for half a second.

“…Good...” she repeats. Then she takes your cap off your head, settles it over her silver hair, and walks back toward the celebration like she won that too.

𑣲MARCH 7TH Yearbook Club March 7th x Student Council!Reader

The student council room is quiet except for the scratching of your pen. Budget sheets. Event reports. Meeting schedules. Anything that could be sorted, stamped, filed, or signed had become your shield these past two weeks.

If your hands were full, you didn’t have to think. If your schedule was packed, you didn’t have to wonder why March 7th had been laughing so brightly with that new yearbook assistant in the courtyard. If you stayed here long enough, maybe the ache in your chest would eventually become background noise.

The door swings open. You don’t look up.

“We’re closed.” you say flatly.

“Good thing I’m not here for official business.” Your grip tightens around the pen. March 7th strides in without permission, camera hanging at her side, yearbook badge still clipped crookedly to her blazer. She’s slightly out of breath, like she’d been searching half the school.

You keep your eyes on the paperwork. “…Do you need something?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “An explanation.”

“I’m busy.”

“No, you’re hiding.” That makes your head snap up. She points at the mountain of paperwork on your desk. “You finished next month’s agenda yesterday. You reorganized your filing cabinet alphabetically and by color.”

You pause. “…How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“That’s invasive.”

“You’re avoiding me,” she fires back. “That’s worse.”

The room falls silent. You look away first. “There’s nothing to talk about.” March stares at you for a long second, then marches around the desk and plants both hands on it, leaning into your space. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Your heart betrays you instantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me...” Her voice is softer now. No teasing. No bright performance. Just honest frustration.

“You stopped coming by the clubroom. You leave when you see me in the hall. You answer my messages with one word.” She frowns. “And your fake polite smile is terrible, by the way!”

You exhale shakily. “You seemed busy.”

“With what?”

“With them.”

Her expression blanks.

“Your new assistant,” you mutter. “You were always together. Laughing. Taking pictures. I figured…” You swallow. “I figured you liked them.”

For one beat, she simply stares. Then she groans dramatically and drops her forehead onto your stack of paperwork. “You are impossible.”

“…Excuse me?”

She lifts her head, cheeks faintly pink. “They’re helping with layouts because they know graphic design.” She gestures wildly. “The photos were for the feature spread. The laughing was because they tripped over a tripod.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Oh?” March repeats. “That’s all you have to say after vanishing for two weeks and making me chase you through administrative offices?”

“I didn’t make you—!”

“You did.” She straightens, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a small envelope. You recognize your name written across the front in neat handwriting.

“What’s that?”

“The notes I was going to give you.” She opens it and spills folded slips of paper across your desk.

"Don’t skip lunch again."

"You looked nice today."

"Come visit after meetings."

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"I saved you a seat."

Your throat tightens. March’s fingers press against the last folded note, keeping it closed. “I couldn’t give you this one,” she says quietly. “Because you kept running away.” She places it in your hand.

You unfold it.

"I like you. More than I know how to write neatly."

The room goes completely still. You stare at the page, then at her. “March…” She’s blushing now, trying and failing to look composed.

“You really thought I liked someone else,” she murmurs. “When you’re the person I keep looking for in every crowd.”

Something in your chest cracks wide open. You stand so quickly your chair scrapes the floor. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I was jealous. And stupid.”

“A little stupid...” she agrees. Then she smiles—that warm, bright smile you’d been avoiding because it hurt too much to miss. “But mostly jealous.”

You laugh helplessly. She steps closer, smoothing the front of your uniform like she has every right to. “So, Student Council President,” she says lightly, eyes shining, “are you going to keep hiding in paperwork…” Her fingers lace with yours. “…or are you finally going to take me on a date?”

𑣲DAN HENG Most Popular Boy!Dan Heng x Transfer Student!Reader

The classroom was louder than it should have been for first period. Desks scraped, gossip fluttered from row to row, and every few seconds someone glanced toward the windows like they were checking the weather. You stood in the doorway with your schedule in hand, already regretting transferring mid-semester. The teacher waved you in with tired mercy.

“Class, we have a new student today. Please introduce yourself.” You did your best. Name, previous school, one awkward little wave. A few students smiled politely. A few others barely looked at you, too busy glancing toward that same corner by the windows.

There was only one empty seat left. It was by the back window, washed in soft morning light. It looked less like a desk and more like a carefully staged painting. Perfect! You walked toward it, grateful to be done with introductions.

Conversations died one by one until the silence became so complete you could hear your own footsteps. Weird school, you thought. You set your bag down and turned—only to nearly run into someone standing beside the desk.

Tall. Dark-haired. Sharp-eyed. Handsome in that unfair, sculpted sort of way that made magazines rich. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. Dark hair, composed posture, sharp features softened only by the sunlight catching along the edges of him. He wore the same uniform as everyone else, but somehow it looked neater on him, as though the rules themselves preferred him.

Most striking of all was how calm he seemed while the entire class looked seconds away from collective collapse. You adjusted your grip on your bag. “Oh. Sorry. Is this seat taken?”

For a moment, he only looked at you. The silence stretched so long you began to wonder if you had accidentally violated some obscure school custom. Then he answered, voice low and even. “No.”

You smiled in relief. “Great.”

You slid into the chair, set your bag down, and pulled out your notebook. Somewhere behind you, something clattered to the floor. You turned instinctively, but no one said anything.

You learned his name before lunch. Not from him, but from three girls whispering in the restroom with the intensity of people discussing national security.

“She sat in Dan Heng’s seat.”

“I thought no one was allowed there.”

“He let her stay!”

That last part was delivered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for miracles. You dried your hands and looked at your reflection in the mirror. “…Do we not have assigned seating?” They stared at you like you had arrived from another planet. No one answered.

Dan Heng, you discovered, occupied a strange place in the school ecosystem. He was top of the class, involved in more clubs than seemed humanly reasonable, and somehow admired by nearly everyone despite speaking less in a day than most people did before first period. Students watched him in the hallways. Teachers trusted him. Underclassmen moved aside when he passed.

He seemed completely uninterested in all of it.

During math, you forgot to turn in your worksheet until the teacher had already begun collecting them. You muttered under your breath and reached for it too late.

A page slid quietly onto your desk.

You blinked. It was your worksheet. Dan Heng had caught it before it disappeared into the stack.

“You skipped number six,” he said.

“I did?”

“You wrote the answer in the margin.”

You looked down. He was right.

“Oh.”

He tapped the side of the paper lightly with his pen.

“Your method was faster.”

You turned to stare at him, but he had already returned his attention to the board as if complimenting you were as insignificant as noting the weather.

You spent the rest of class pretending to focus. Lunch was worse than first period. The cafeteria was overflowing with noise, nowhere to sit, and the distinct threat of having to socialize before you were emotionally prepared. After one lap around the room, you gave up and took the stairs to the roof.

The door creaked open. Dan Heng was already there.

He sat on a bench beneath the overhang with a book open in one hand and a bottle of tea beside him. Wind moved lazily through his hair. The city stretched behind him in pale afternoon light.

He glanced up when you entered. You hesitated in the doorway.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting some mysterious rooftop ritual?”

“No.”

He closed the book, moved his bag from the bench beside him, and looked back out over the skyline.

The gesture was so small it might have meant nothing. Still, you crossed the roof and sat down. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt less like emptiness and more like shade on a hot day.

Eventually, curiosity won.

You leaned slightly to see the cover of his book. “History?”

“Yes.”

“You read that for fun?”

He turned a page.

“You say that like it’s concerning.”

“It is concerning!”

That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not a full smile, but the beginning of one. You found yourself absurdly pleased by it. After that, your paths began crossing with suspicious regularity.

When you arrived to class, the seat beside him was always empty no matter how late you were. When teachers assigned pair work, he somehow ended up next to you. When you mentioned not understanding a chapter in chemistry, a neatly written summary appeared on your desk the next morning without comment.

He never made a show of helping. He simply noticed what was needed and did it before you could ask. The rest of the school noticed something else entirely.

Rumors spread with athletic speed. Planarcadia had a way with words it seemed.

You were secretly dating! You had known each other before transferring! You were childhood friends reunited by Aha! You had blackmailed him! That last one was insulting.

You found him in the library after school, sorting returned books into careful stacks. “Apparently I’m blackmailing you now.”

He placed another book on the cart. “Are you?”

“Should I be?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it would be effective.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His hand paused over the next shelf. He glanced at you briefly, and something unreadable softened in his gaze.

It struck you then that Dan Heng listened more than he spoke. He collected details the way other people collected gossip. Your favorite drink. Which teachers you liked. The fact that you hated thunder. The way you tapped your pencil when thinking. He remembered everything.

One afternoon, the library was supposed to close early for inventory. You knew this because a sign had been taped to the front desk in aggressive red letters. Unfortunately, you had noticed it only after settling into a corner table with your notes, three textbooks, and the determination to survive tomorrow’s chemistry quiz.

You stared at the formulas on the page. The formulas stared back with equal hostility. A chair across from you slid out.

You looked up.

Dan Heng set his bag down and sat without a word, already pulling a pencil from his case. “I thought the library was closing,” you said.

“It is.”

He glanced at your notebook. “You still have six chapters of panic left.”

“That is not panic! That is focused academic distress.”

He held out his hand.

Your pencil hovered midair. “What?”

“Your notes.”

You handed them over before remembering you had dignity. He studied the page in silence, then turned it around and rewrote the first equation in neat, precise strokes.

“You’re memorizing the steps,” he said. “That’s why it feels impossible.”

“It is impossible.”

“It isn’t.” He tapped the paper lightly.

“You’re treating it like a list. It’s a pattern.”

Then, with the calm patience of someone explaining gravity to a confused planet, he walked you through the problem one line at a time. No sighing. No condescension. No dramatic declarations about how easy it was.

Just steady explanations, examples, and the occasional quiet correction whenever you tried to skip ahead and sabotage yourself. Somewhere along the way, the impossible thing became understandable! Thank Aeons!

You finished the next equation on your own and pushed the notebook toward him. He checked it...

“Correct.”

You sat back in your chair like you had conquered a mountain. “I’m a genius!”

“That would be premature.”

“You ruin all my victories.”

“Whatever.”

You laughed.

The sound slipped into the quiet library and settled there between the shelves. Dan Heng’s hand paused over the next problem. For a moment, he looked at you in that still, unreadable way of his. Then he lowered his gaze and turned the page.

“We still have five chapters left.”

The lights flickered once to signal closing time. You packed your books with exaggerated suffering. “This was supposed to be independent studying.”

“It was,” he said, standing. “You independently required assistance.”

“That was rude.”

“It was accurate.”

He lifted the heaviest textbook from your stack before you could protest and tucked it under one arm. You stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re carrying my book.”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m capable of carrying my own things.”

“I know.”

He started toward the door. And because apparently that was the end of the discussion, you hurried after him. The halls were nearly empty now, washed in amber evening light. Your footsteps echoed softly as you walked beside him.

At the staircase, he slowed just enough for you to match pace. “You’ll do well tomorrow,” he said.

You glanced at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you understand more than you think you do.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no casual politeness. Just certainty. The kind that settles into your chest and stays there. By the time you reached the front gate, he handed your textbook back.

Your fingers brushed when you took it. A tiny, accidental touch. It shouldn’t have meant anything but the way you wished for longer said otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, suddenly too aware of your own voice.

Dan Heng gave a small nod. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

The more time you spent with him, the more the version of Dan Heng the school worshipped began to feel incomplete.

They saw the perfect student. You saw the boy who forgot meals when he was reading. The one who rubbed at his eyes when tired. The one who stood slightly closer whenever crowds became too dense around you. The one who always walked on the side nearest traffic. The one whose voice turned unexpectedly gentle when saying your name.

Popularity had made him into something polished and distant. But in quiet places, he was simply real. And you liked him far more there.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

Lockers slammed. Students drifted through the hallway in loose clusters. Sunlight spilled through the high windows in warm gold bars across the floor.

You were kneeling to change your shoes when two girls nearby began whispering. Not quietly enough.

“I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“Why her?”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You kept your eyes on the laces in your hands. Then another voice entered the space between you all, calm and clear.

“Because I like her.”

The hallway fell still.

You looked up.

Dan Heng stood a few feet away, one hand on the strap of his bag, expression composed as ever. The girls stared at him for half a second before retreating in immediate embarrassment.

He stepped closer once they were gone.

“That was abrupt...” he said.

“You think?”

“I wanted to be clear.”

Your heart was beating so hard it felt unreasonable.

“You… like me?”

For the first time since you had known him, he seemed to choose his next words carefully. Then he said, softer than before, “Yes.” The world narrowed to the warmth in his eyes and the late sunlight around him. A laugh escaped you, shaky and bright. “Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “good thing I took your seat.”

This time his smile came without hesitation. Small, genuine, and entirely yours. “Yes,” Dan Heng said. “Good thing you did.”

𑣲SUNDAY Solo Pianist!Sunday x Popular!Reader

Rain turns the whole street silver. It gathers in the gutters, taps against awnings, blurs the city into streaks of neon and shadow. Headlights smear across wet pavement. Storefront signs glow like watercolor left in the sun. Everything feels quieter in the rain, softer somehow—like the world has lowered its voice.

You and Sunday walk side by side beneath one umbrella that is definitely too small for two people. It has been like this for months now. Not the umbrella. The walking together. It started months ago, in fragments that never looked like anything important at the time.

You were everywhere in school—student council meetings, hallway announcements, group photos, assemblies where your name got called and people actually listened. You were known. Not quietly, not vaguely. Known like sunlight is known: impossible to ignore, even when you try.

People liked you. Trusted you. Followed your lead without thinking too hard about it. You were the kind of person teachers praised in passing and classmates waved to across courtyards. The kind of person who could disappear into a crowd and still somehow be the part everyone noticed. And yet—! It began after school one day when the building had finally emptied itself out. You stayed late again—student council work piling up like an avalanche politely pretending to be paperwork. When you finally stepped into the hallway, the whole campus had gone soft around the edges, washed in evening quiet. There was no real reason to still be there.

At least, no reason you were willing to admit. A Piano. The sound moved through the empty corridor like light through water—clear, measured notes threading themselves neatly through the hush of rainfall. It wasn’t loud or performative. There was no audience to impress, no stage to command. That only made it impossible to ignore. You stopped walking before you realized you had.

You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. The upperclassman people spoke about in lowered voices, as though saying his name too loudly might disturb whatever strange balance he carried around himself. Some said he had won competitions and turned down offers from prestigious schools. Some said he practiced alone every day after class and never stayed for celebrations. Some said he was kind. Others said he was impossible to approach. Everyone agreed on one thing: he felt distant in the way stars felt distant—visible to everyone, reachable by no one. And annoyingly, offensively, unfairly hot. You had never spoken to him. Which made your recent habit of taking the long route past the music room deeply embarrassing. You were not here for him. You were only… passing by. The melody shifted into something softer, slower. A lingering phrase that seemed to hesitate at its own ending before resolving beautifully. Your chest tightened for no good reason. Then the music stopped. Panic hit instantly. You took one step backward just as the door slid open. And there he was.

Sunday stood in the frame like he had been placed there on purpose. Sleeves slightly rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had actually touched him. Pale hair fell in soft disarray over his forehead, catching the gray light from the windows behind him. His eyes landed on you immediately. Not surprised. Never surprised. “…You’re here again.”

You straightened so fast your bag almost betrayed you. “I was passing by.”

He glanced down the empty hallway, then back at you. “Through silence. Beside a locked room. Repeatedly.”

“I like this route.”

“You’ve taken it three days in a row.”

“I enjoy consistency.”

A pause. Then, faintly, like a note only half-played, he smiled.

“I see... me too.”

Your brain briefly stopped working. Because here was the problem: You were used to attention. You were used to people looking at you, talking to you, orbiting around you like you were some kind of center of gravity.

But Sunday didn’t orbit. It didn't bother you but something about that fact made you uncharacteristically shy. “You’re still annoying..." you muttered.

“And yet,” he said calmly, stepping out fully into the hallway and closing the music room behind him, “you continue returning.”

Heat climbed your neck. You hated that it was so noticeable.

“I don’t return.”

“You do.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t look like it.”

That earned a small exhale from him—almost laughter, but restrained, like everything else about him.

“Fair.” Thunder rolled somewhere far outside the building, low and distant. The windows at the end of the hall flickered with shifting gray light as rain thickened against the glass. Sunday walked to the wall beside the door and retrieved a black umbrella. Your eyes widened and then you realized what you forgot at home this morning. Your umbrella.

“I won’t.” he said, already opening it.

You stared at him. “I can go home on my own.” “Don’t say I told—” You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deny everything, but a low roll of thunder cut through the building. Both of you glanced toward the storm-dark sky outside. If anything, the rain had only grown heavier.

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Another pause. Then, quieter: “You will still get soaked.” That landed too softly to argue with immediately. He adjusted the umbrella slightly, testing its balance like it mattered. “I would prefer you don’t...” he added.

You should have refused. You should have told him to worry about himself and marched dramatically into the storm. Instead, several minutes later, you were walking beside him beneath one umbrella, trying very hard not to notice the warmth of his shoulder only inches from yours. After that, you kept running into him.

Sometimes outside the music room when he finished late practice. Sometimes by the vending machines after meetings ran too long. Sometimes in the library, where he’d wordlessly slide the book you were reaching for off the top shelf before you could embarrass yourself trying to climb for it. Eventually, those coincidences became routine.

You’d wait outside the auditorium while he locked up. He’d walk you toward the station. On rainy days, he carried an umbrella large enough for both of you—as if he’d anticipated weather and your lack of preparation equally. He was quiet, but never cold, reserved, but strangely attentive.

He remembered how you took your coffee. Not because you told him, but because he noticed when your eyes sparkled at sugar packets. He knew when student council deadlines were coming because your shoulders tensed two days beforehand. He could tell when you were tired by the way you held your bag. And somehow, without asking permission, he became the steadiest part of your week.

Tonight, the rain is heavier than usual. Water drums against the umbrella while the two of you slow near a crosswalk glowing red. Sunday adjusts the handle slightly so more of the umbrella covers you than him. His own shoulder is getting wet.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like hypothermia is a noble sacrifice.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “I thought it was subtle.”

“It wasn’t.”

The light changes. You cross.

Your heart has been loud all evening. Too loud. Loud enough to rival the rain. You had planned a proper confession. Something composed. Something elegant. But standing beside Sunday has always made rehearsed words feel unnecessary. You stop walking. He notices after two steps and turns immediately.

The streetlamp behind him catches in his pale hair, rainlight tracing gold along the edges. Even half-damp, even with droplets clinging to his lashes, he looks unfairly put together. “You’re staring...” he says. “I’m suffering!” you reply.

That earns a soft laugh. Then your courage, apparently tired of waiting, shoves itself forward. “Sunday...” you say, too quickly now to retreat, “I like you.” The words hang there, bright and irreversible. For once, he says nothing. You continue before dignity can survive.

“I know you’re hard to read. I know you’re busy. I know you probably have some graceful, devastating rejection prepared in five languages, but I needed to say it, because every day with you has become the part I look forward to most, and I’m—”

He steps closer. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just enough to stop the spiral. “You think I am hard to read?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“I have walked you home three nights a week for months.”

You open your mouth. Close it. He takes the umbrella from your stiff hand and sets it above both of you again. “I learned the meeting schedule of a club I do not belong to,” he continues. “I began carrying bandages because you keep collecting blisters from formal shoes. I practiced songs you once said you liked, despite your terrible taste.”

“My taste is awesome!”

“It is survivable.” There is warmth in his voice now, threaded through that usual calm. Then he exhales, almost amused with himself.

“I was trying to be patient,” he says. “I thought if I stayed near you long enough, you would realize I wished to stay.” Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. “You mean…”

“I mean,” he says, gaze steady on yours, “I like you too.”

The city seems to hush.

Cars pass in sheets of reflected light. Somewhere far off, a train horn sounds through the rain. You laugh once—small, disbelieving. “That’s it? You let me panic for ten full seconds?”

“I wanted to hear the rest of your speech.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You step closer until there’s barely space between you. His expression shifts—something gentler, less polished, more real. His hand finds yours beneath the umbrella—quiet, certain, like it had always known the route. “Tomorrow,” he says, lacing your fingers together, “you stop pretending this was accidental.”

You squeeze his hand once, pretending it doesn’t matter. It absolutely does. “Fine,” you mutter.

A faint pause. Then, softer: “But you’re still getting soaked.”

Sunday glances at his shoulder. “…Worth it,” he says.

And for once, neither of you correct the silence that follows.

[lovinglyjinxed]

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[lovinglyjinxed]

"🅸 🅻🅸🅺🅴 🆈🅾🆄!"

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Stelle, Caelus, March 7th, Dan Heng, Sunday

SYNOPSIS | You confess your love to your true love! I was inspired by Planarcadia, I wanted to write this with all the new characters but I don't think we have gotten to know them so well so... ya..

[DJINX♡!]

𑣲CAELUS Baseball Team Captain!Caelus x Tsundere!Reader

The rooftop is quieter than the field. Wind tugs at your hair, distant cheers fading like they belong to someone else entirely. You weren’t part of the team. Never were. Most people probably didn’t even notice you. You liked it that way—kept to yourself, invisible among the noise. But Caelus?

Despite the game ending not too long ago...he’s somehow already there. Lounging on the railing, one leg hooked over the edge, bat balanced lazily on his shoulder. That smirk—half teasing, half knowing—lands straight in your chest.

A beat.

“Finally decided to show up!” he says. “I came because you insisted.” you mutter, eyes on the ground. Suddenly, at the realization it is just you two, heat creeps up your neck. This was ridiculous. Why did he always make everything feel so… intense?

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, grin sharp. “Cute how you act like it’s some huge sacrifice. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?”

“I-I have not!” you snap, cheeks burning. “I just… wanted to see if… if you were… done being… a show-off or whatever!”

“Uh-huh,” he says, voice full of mock innocence. “…Sure. Totally believable. You’re just here for my batting technique, right?”

“I—shut up!” You cross your arms, turning slightly away. “…Not that it matters anyway!”

Caelus laughs, stepping closer until you can feel the faint brush of his sleeve. “Relax. I know you like me. I can see it, even if I have to dig it out of you myself!”

“…I do NOT!” you hiss, glaring but failing to hide the small heat in your chest. “Oh, really?” He tilts his head, grin teasing. “Because your face says otherwise."

Your stomach flips. “I-I’m no-! I just… you’re—ugh! You’re impossible!”

He chuckles, shaking his head, softening slightly. “Good. Because I like you too. Not the cheering, not the team… just you. The quiet, grumpy, impossible you.”

“…W-what?” you stammer, heat rising faster.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging casually, eyes bright. “…You stick out, even when you try not to. Way more interesting than anyone yelling my name down there.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it. He’s right. Of course he’s right.

A cheer rises faintly from the field. Caelus raises an eyebrow. “…Persistent. But we’ll let them wait.”

He steps closer, until the world below fades, leaving only the two of you. His fingers brush yours lightly, teasing, deliberate.

“…Stay a bit,” he murmurs, voice low but playful. “I like the quiet… only if it’s with you. And don’t even try to deny it—I know you like me too.”

“…I-I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, smirk tugging at his lips. “…And you know it.”

Your cheeks burn, but this time… you don’t pull away. The wind, the cheers, the world below—it all melts away. Here, with him, you’re exactly where he wants you, exactly where you almost can’t help but want to be.

𑣲STELLE Baseball Team Captain!Stelle x Rival Team Captain!Reader

The stadium is still roaring when you slip into the empty dugout.

Your team lost.

The scoreboard blazes overhead like it has something personal against you. Gloves are scattered across the bench, dirt ground into the floor, the sharp smell of grass and sweat still hanging in the air. Out on the field, her team is celebrating. You’re yanking off your batting gloves a little harder than necessary when someone steps into the dugout.

Stelle.

Battered cap tucked under one arm. Strands of silver-gray hair cling damply to her forehead, the rest tousled from nine innings under the lights. There’s dirt smudged along one cheek, and her amber eyes look just as calm as they did in the first inning. Expression unreadable as ever.

“You chased the third pitch in the seventh inning.” she says.

You stare at her. “Did you come here to gloat?”

“Yes...” and then she hesitates. For a flicker of a moment, it caught you off guard, it was so unlike the girl you've fought against. “…And something else...” She continues.

You scoff, turning away. “Go celebrate with your team, captain.”

“I will.” Her voice stays flat. “Later...”

You look back despite yourself.

She walks closer, cleats clicking softly against the concrete. No crowd. No teammates. Just her. The stadium lights catch in the pale strands of her hair, making her look sharper somehow—like she walked straight out of the glare and into your space.

“You adjusted after the fifth inning,” she says. “Your bunt in the sixth was smart.”

“You won. Why are you analyzing my game?”

“Because I always do. Call it a...bad habit...?”

That lands harder than the loss. How much more annoying...ly... cute...? can she get. The game just ended and yet here she is analyzing your gameplay. Truely an odd creature. She stops in front of you, close enough that the noise outside dulls into static.

“When there’s a chance to make a choice,” she says, “make one you won’t regret.”

You frown. “What does that have to do with anything?” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m choosing now.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re stubborn,” she continues. “Too competitive. You glare like it does damage. Your team’s signals are predictable.”

“That sounds less like a confession and more like your a fan..."

“Whatever..." She says sort of sheepishly. For the first time tonight, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“I like you.”

The words hit cleaner than any fastball. You can only stare. Stelle folds her arms. “You’re the only rival worth beating.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “That is a terrible way to flirt.”

“It worked.”

She reaches out, brushing dirt from your sleeve with brisk, practical fingers. Up close, you can see the flush of exertion still lingering under the stadium lights, the loose strand of gray hair falling near her eyes.

“So,” you manage, “what now?”

“We stay on opposite teams.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“No.” She tilts her head. “It sounds fun.”

Outside, her teammates start shouting her name again. She glances toward the field, visibly unimpressed, then back at you. “They can wait another minute.”

You step closer. “Good. Because I like you too.” She goes still for half a second.

“…Good...” she repeats. Then she takes your cap off your head, settles it over her silver hair, and walks back toward the celebration like she won that too.

𑣲MARCH 7TH Yearbook Club March 7th x Student Council!Reader

The student council room is quiet except for the scratching of your pen. Budget sheets. Event reports. Meeting schedules. Anything that could be sorted, stamped, filed, or signed had become your shield these past two weeks.

If your hands were full, you didn’t have to think. If your schedule was packed, you didn’t have to wonder why March 7th had been laughing so brightly with that new yearbook assistant in the courtyard. If you stayed here long enough, maybe the ache in your chest would eventually become background noise.

The door swings open. You don’t look up.

“We’re closed.” you say flatly.

“Good thing I’m not here for official business.” Your grip tightens around the pen. March 7th strides in without permission, camera hanging at her side, yearbook badge still clipped crookedly to her blazer. She’s slightly out of breath, like she’d been searching half the school.

You keep your eyes on the paperwork. “…Do you need something?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “An explanation.”

“I’m busy.”

“No, you’re hiding.” That makes your head snap up. She points at the mountain of paperwork on your desk. “You finished next month’s agenda yesterday. You reorganized your filing cabinet alphabetically and by color.”

You pause. “…How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“That’s invasive.”

“You’re avoiding me,” she fires back. “That’s worse.”

The room falls silent. You look away first. “There’s nothing to talk about.” March stares at you for a long second, then marches around the desk and plants both hands on it, leaning into your space. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Your heart betrays you instantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me...” Her voice is softer now. No teasing. No bright performance. Just honest frustration.

“You stopped coming by the clubroom. You leave when you see me in the hall. You answer my messages with one word.” She frowns. “And your fake polite smile is terrible, by the way!”

You exhale shakily. “You seemed busy.”

“With what?”

“With them.”

Her expression blanks.

“Your new assistant,” you mutter. “You were always together. Laughing. Taking pictures. I figured…” You swallow. “I figured you liked them.”

For one beat, she simply stares. Then she groans dramatically and drops her forehead onto your stack of paperwork. “You are impossible.”

“…Excuse me?”

She lifts her head, cheeks faintly pink. “They’re helping with layouts because they know graphic design.” She gestures wildly. “The photos were for the feature spread. The laughing was because they tripped over a tripod.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Oh?” March repeats. “That’s all you have to say after vanishing for two weeks and making me chase you through administrative offices?”

“I didn’t make you—!”

“You did.” She straightens, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a small envelope. You recognize your name written across the front in neat handwriting.

“What’s that?”

“The notes I was going to give you.” She opens it and spills folded slips of paper across your desk.

"Don’t skip lunch again."

"You looked nice today."

"Come visit after meetings."

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"I saved you a seat."

Your throat tightens. March’s fingers press against the last folded note, keeping it closed. “I couldn’t give you this one,” she says quietly. “Because you kept running away.” She places it in your hand.

You unfold it.

"I like you. More than I know how to write neatly."

The room goes completely still. You stare at the page, then at her. “March…” She’s blushing now, trying and failing to look composed.

“You really thought I liked someone else,” she murmurs. “When you’re the person I keep looking for in every crowd.”

Something in your chest cracks wide open. You stand so quickly your chair scrapes the floor. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I was jealous. And stupid.”

“A little stupid...” she agrees. Then she smiles—that warm, bright smile you’d been avoiding because it hurt too much to miss. “But mostly jealous.”

You laugh helplessly. She steps closer, smoothing the front of your uniform like she has every right to. “So, Student Council President,” she says lightly, eyes shining, “are you going to keep hiding in paperwork…” Her fingers lace with yours. “…or are you finally going to take me on a date?”

𑣲DAN HENG Most Popular Boy!Dan Heng x Transfer Student!Reader

The classroom was louder than it should have been for first period. Desks scraped, gossip fluttered from row to row, and every few seconds someone glanced toward the windows like they were checking the weather. You stood in the doorway with your schedule in hand, already regretting transferring mid-semester. The teacher waved you in with tired mercy.

“Class, we have a new student today. Please introduce yourself.” You did your best. Name, previous school, one awkward little wave. A few students smiled politely. A few others barely looked at you, too busy glancing toward that same corner by the windows.

There was only one empty seat left. It was by the back window, washed in soft morning light. It looked less like a desk and more like a carefully staged painting. Perfect! You walked toward it, grateful to be done with introductions.

Conversations died one by one until the silence became so complete you could hear your own footsteps. Weird school, you thought. You set your bag down and turned—only to nearly run into someone standing beside the desk.

Tall. Dark-haired. Sharp-eyed. Handsome in that unfair, sculpted sort of way that made magazines rich. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. Dark hair, composed posture, sharp features softened only by the sunlight catching along the edges of him. He wore the same uniform as everyone else, but somehow it looked neater on him, as though the rules themselves preferred him.

Most striking of all was how calm he seemed while the entire class looked seconds away from collective collapse. You adjusted your grip on your bag. “Oh. Sorry. Is this seat taken?”

For a moment, he only looked at you. The silence stretched so long you began to wonder if you had accidentally violated some obscure school custom. Then he answered, voice low and even. “No.”

You smiled in relief. “Great.”

You slid into the chair, set your bag down, and pulled out your notebook. Somewhere behind you, something clattered to the floor. You turned instinctively, but no one said anything.

You learned his name before lunch. Not from him, but from three girls whispering in the restroom with the intensity of people discussing national security.

“She sat in Dan Heng’s seat.”

“I thought no one was allowed there.”

“He let her stay!”

That last part was delivered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for miracles. You dried your hands and looked at your reflection in the mirror. “…Do we not have assigned seating?” They stared at you like you had arrived from another planet. No one answered.

Dan Heng, you discovered, occupied a strange place in the school ecosystem. He was top of the class, involved in more clubs than seemed humanly reasonable, and somehow admired by nearly everyone despite speaking less in a day than most people did before first period. Students watched him in the hallways. Teachers trusted him. Underclassmen moved aside when he passed.

He seemed completely uninterested in all of it.

During math, you forgot to turn in your worksheet until the teacher had already begun collecting them. You muttered under your breath and reached for it too late.

A page slid quietly onto your desk.

You blinked. It was your worksheet. Dan Heng had caught it before it disappeared into the stack.

“You skipped number six,” he said.

“I did?”

“You wrote the answer in the margin.”

You looked down. He was right.

“Oh.”

He tapped the side of the paper lightly with his pen.

“Your method was faster.”

You turned to stare at him, but he had already returned his attention to the board as if complimenting you were as insignificant as noting the weather.

You spent the rest of class pretending to focus. Lunch was worse than first period. The cafeteria was overflowing with noise, nowhere to sit, and the distinct threat of having to socialize before you were emotionally prepared. After one lap around the room, you gave up and took the stairs to the roof.

The door creaked open. Dan Heng was already there.

He sat on a bench beneath the overhang with a book open in one hand and a bottle of tea beside him. Wind moved lazily through his hair. The city stretched behind him in pale afternoon light.

He glanced up when you entered. You hesitated in the doorway.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting some mysterious rooftop ritual?”

“No.”

He closed the book, moved his bag from the bench beside him, and looked back out over the skyline.

The gesture was so small it might have meant nothing. Still, you crossed the roof and sat down. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt less like emptiness and more like shade on a hot day.

Eventually, curiosity won.

You leaned slightly to see the cover of his book. “History?”

“Yes.”

“You read that for fun?”

He turned a page.

“You say that like it’s concerning.”

“It is concerning!”

That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not a full smile, but the beginning of one. You found yourself absurdly pleased by it. After that, your paths began crossing with suspicious regularity.

When you arrived to class, the seat beside him was always empty no matter how late you were. When teachers assigned pair work, he somehow ended up next to you. When you mentioned not understanding a chapter in chemistry, a neatly written summary appeared on your desk the next morning without comment.

He never made a show of helping. He simply noticed what was needed and did it before you could ask. The rest of the school noticed something else entirely.

Rumors spread with athletic speed. Planarcadia had a way with words it seemed.

You were secretly dating! You had known each other before transferring! You were childhood friends reunited by Aha! You had blackmailed him! That last one was insulting.

You found him in the library after school, sorting returned books into careful stacks. “Apparently I’m blackmailing you now.”

He placed another book on the cart. “Are you?”

“Should I be?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it would be effective.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His hand paused over the next shelf. He glanced at you briefly, and something unreadable softened in his gaze.

It struck you then that Dan Heng listened more than he spoke. He collected details the way other people collected gossip. Your favorite drink. Which teachers you liked. The fact that you hated thunder. The way you tapped your pencil when thinking. He remembered everything.

One afternoon, the library was supposed to close early for inventory. You knew this because a sign had been taped to the front desk in aggressive red letters. Unfortunately, you had noticed it only after settling into a corner table with your notes, three textbooks, and the determination to survive tomorrow’s chemistry quiz.

You stared at the formulas on the page. The formulas stared back with equal hostility. A chair across from you slid out.

You looked up.

Dan Heng set his bag down and sat without a word, already pulling a pencil from his case. “I thought the library was closing,” you said.

“It is.”

He glanced at your notebook. “You still have six chapters of panic left.”

“That is not panic! That is focused academic distress.”

He held out his hand.

Your pencil hovered midair. “What?”

“Your notes.”

You handed them over before remembering you had dignity. He studied the page in silence, then turned it around and rewrote the first equation in neat, precise strokes.

“You’re memorizing the steps,” he said. “That’s why it feels impossible.”

“It is impossible.”

“It isn’t.” He tapped the paper lightly.

“You’re treating it like a list. It’s a pattern.”

Then, with the calm patience of someone explaining gravity to a confused planet, he walked you through the problem one line at a time. No sighing. No condescension. No dramatic declarations about how easy it was.

Just steady explanations, examples, and the occasional quiet correction whenever you tried to skip ahead and sabotage yourself. Somewhere along the way, the impossible thing became understandable! Thank Aeons!

You finished the next equation on your own and pushed the notebook toward him. He checked it...

“Correct.”

You sat back in your chair like you had conquered a mountain. “I’m a genius!”

“That would be premature.”

“You ruin all my victories.”

“Whatever.”

You laughed.

The sound slipped into the quiet library and settled there between the shelves. Dan Heng’s hand paused over the next problem. For a moment, he looked at you in that still, unreadable way of his. Then he lowered his gaze and turned the page.

“We still have five chapters left.”

The lights flickered once to signal closing time. You packed your books with exaggerated suffering. “This was supposed to be independent studying.”

“It was,” he said, standing. “You independently required assistance.”

“That was rude.”

“It was accurate.”

He lifted the heaviest textbook from your stack before you could protest and tucked it under one arm. You stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re carrying my book.”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m capable of carrying my own things.”

“I know.”

He started toward the door. And because apparently that was the end of the discussion, you hurried after him. The halls were nearly empty now, washed in amber evening light. Your footsteps echoed softly as you walked beside him.

At the staircase, he slowed just enough for you to match pace. “You’ll do well tomorrow,” he said.

You glanced at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you understand more than you think you do.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no casual politeness. Just certainty. The kind that settles into your chest and stays there. By the time you reached the front gate, he handed your textbook back.

Your fingers brushed when you took it. A tiny, accidental touch. It shouldn’t have meant anything but the way you wished for longer said otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, suddenly too aware of your own voice.

Dan Heng gave a small nod. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

The more time you spent with him, the more the version of Dan Heng the school worshipped began to feel incomplete.

They saw the perfect student. You saw the boy who forgot meals when he was reading. The one who rubbed at his eyes when tired. The one who stood slightly closer whenever crowds became too dense around you. The one who always walked on the side nearest traffic. The one whose voice turned unexpectedly gentle when saying your name.

Popularity had made him into something polished and distant. But in quiet places, he was simply real. And you liked him far more there.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

Lockers slammed. Students drifted through the hallway in loose clusters. Sunlight spilled through the high windows in warm gold bars across the floor.

You were kneeling to change your shoes when two girls nearby began whispering. Not quietly enough.

“I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“Why her?”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You kept your eyes on the laces in your hands. Then another voice entered the space between you all, calm and clear.

“Because I like her.”

The hallway fell still.

You looked up.

Dan Heng stood a few feet away, one hand on the strap of his bag, expression composed as ever. The girls stared at him for half a second before retreating in immediate embarrassment.

He stepped closer once they were gone.

“That was abrupt...” he said.

“You think?”

“I wanted to be clear.”

Your heart was beating so hard it felt unreasonable.

“You… like me?”

For the first time since you had known him, he seemed to choose his next words carefully. Then he said, softer than before, “Yes.” The world narrowed to the warmth in his eyes and the late sunlight around him. A laugh escaped you, shaky and bright. “Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “good thing I took your seat.”

This time his smile came without hesitation. Small, genuine, and entirely yours. “Yes,” Dan Heng said. “Good thing you did.”

𑣲SUNDAY Solo Pianist!Sunday x Popular!Reader

Rain turns the whole street silver. It gathers in the gutters, taps against awnings, blurs the city into streaks of neon and shadow. Headlights smear across wet pavement. Storefront signs glow like watercolor left in the sun. Everything feels quieter in the rain, softer somehow—like the world has lowered its voice.

You and Sunday walk side by side beneath one umbrella that is definitely too small for two people. It has been like this for months now. Not the umbrella. The walking together. It started months ago, in fragments that never looked like anything important at the time.

You were everywhere in school—student council meetings, hallway announcements, group photos, assemblies where your name got called and people actually listened. You were known. Not quietly, not vaguely. Known like sunlight is known: impossible to ignore, even when you try.

People liked you. Trusted you. Followed your lead without thinking too hard about it. You were the kind of person teachers praised in passing and classmates waved to across courtyards. The kind of person who could disappear into a crowd and still somehow be the part everyone noticed. And yet—! It began after school one day when the building had finally emptied itself out. You stayed late again—student council work piling up like an avalanche politely pretending to be paperwork. When you finally stepped into the hallway, the whole campus had gone soft around the edges, washed in evening quiet. There was no real reason to still be there.

At least, no reason you were willing to admit. A Piano. The sound moved through the empty corridor like light through water—clear, measured notes threading themselves neatly through the hush of rainfall. It wasn’t loud or performative. There was no audience to impress, no stage to command. That only made it impossible to ignore. You stopped walking before you realized you had.

You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. The upperclassman people spoke about in lowered voices, as though saying his name too loudly might disturb whatever strange balance he carried around himself. Some said he had won competitions and turned down offers from prestigious schools. Some said he practiced alone every day after class and never stayed for celebrations. Some said he was kind. Others said he was impossible to approach. Everyone agreed on one thing: he felt distant in the way stars felt distant—visible to everyone, reachable by no one. And annoyingly, offensively, unfairly hot. You had never spoken to him. Which made your recent habit of taking the long route past the music room deeply embarrassing. You were not here for him. You were only… passing by. The melody shifted into something softer, slower. A lingering phrase that seemed to hesitate at its own ending before resolving beautifully. Your chest tightened for no good reason. Then the music stopped. Panic hit instantly. You took one step backward just as the door slid open. And there he was.

Sunday stood in the frame like he had been placed there on purpose. Sleeves slightly rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had actually touched him. Pale hair fell in soft disarray over his forehead, catching the gray light from the windows behind him. His eyes landed on you immediately. Not surprised. Never surprised. “…You’re here again.”

You straightened so fast your bag almost betrayed you. “I was passing by.”

He glanced down the empty hallway, then back at you. “Through silence. Beside a locked room. Repeatedly.”

“I like this route.”

“You’ve taken it three days in a row.”

“I enjoy consistency.”

A pause. Then, faintly, like a note only half-played, he smiled.

“I see... me too.”

Your brain briefly stopped working. Because here was the problem: You were used to attention. You were used to people looking at you, talking to you, orbiting around you like you were some kind of center of gravity.

But Sunday didn’t orbit. It didn't bother you but something about that fact made you uncharacteristically shy. “You’re still annoying..." you muttered.

“And yet,” he said calmly, stepping out fully into the hallway and closing the music room behind him, “you continue returning.”

Heat climbed your neck. You hated that it was so noticeable.

“I don’t return.”

“You do.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t look like it.”

That earned a small exhale from him—almost laughter, but restrained, like everything else about him.

“Fair.” Thunder rolled somewhere far outside the building, low and distant. The windows at the end of the hall flickered with shifting gray light as rain thickened against the glass. Sunday walked to the wall beside the door and retrieved a black umbrella. Your eyes widened and then you realized what you forgot at home this morning. Your umbrella.

“I won’t.” he said, already opening it.

You stared at him. “I can go home on my own.” “Don’t say I told—” You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deny everything, but a low roll of thunder cut through the building. Both of you glanced toward the storm-dark sky outside. If anything, the rain had only grown heavier.

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Another pause. Then, quieter: “You will still get soaked.” That landed too softly to argue with immediately. He adjusted the umbrella slightly, testing its balance like it mattered. “I would prefer you don’t...” he added.

You should have refused. You should have told him to worry about himself and marched dramatically into the storm. Instead, several minutes later, you were walking beside him beneath one umbrella, trying very hard not to notice the warmth of his shoulder only inches from yours. After that, you kept running into him.

Sometimes outside the music room when he finished late practice. Sometimes by the vending machines after meetings ran too long. Sometimes in the library, where he’d wordlessly slide the book you were reaching for off the top shelf before you could embarrass yourself trying to climb for it. Eventually, those coincidences became routine.

You’d wait outside the auditorium while he locked up. He’d walk you toward the station. On rainy days, he carried an umbrella large enough for both of you—as if he’d anticipated weather and your lack of preparation equally. He was quiet, but never cold, reserved, but strangely attentive.

He remembered how you took your coffee. Not because you told him, but because he noticed when your eyes sparkled at sugar packets. He knew when student council deadlines were coming because your shoulders tensed two days beforehand. He could tell when you were tired by the way you held your bag. And somehow, without asking permission, he became the steadiest part of your week.

Tonight, the rain is heavier than usual. Water drums against the umbrella while the two of you slow near a crosswalk glowing red. Sunday adjusts the handle slightly so more of the umbrella covers you than him. His own shoulder is getting wet.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like hypothermia is a noble sacrifice.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “I thought it was subtle.”

“It wasn’t.”

The light changes. You cross.

Your heart has been loud all evening. Too loud. Loud enough to rival the rain. You had planned a proper confession. Something composed. Something elegant. But standing beside Sunday has always made rehearsed words feel unnecessary. You stop walking. He notices after two steps and turns immediately.

The streetlamp behind him catches in his pale hair, rainlight tracing gold along the edges. Even half-damp, even with droplets clinging to his lashes, he looks unfairly put together. “You’re staring...” he says. “I’m suffering!” you reply.

That earns a soft laugh. Then your courage, apparently tired of waiting, shoves itself forward. “Sunday...” you say, too quickly now to retreat, “I like you.” The words hang there, bright and irreversible. For once, he says nothing. You continue before dignity can survive.

“I know you’re hard to read. I know you’re busy. I know you probably have some graceful, devastating rejection prepared in five languages, but I needed to say it, because every day with you has become the part I look forward to most, and I’m—”

He steps closer. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just enough to stop the spiral. “You think I am hard to read?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“I have walked you home three nights a week for months.”

You open your mouth. Close it. He takes the umbrella from your stiff hand and sets it above both of you again. “I learned the meeting schedule of a club I do not belong to,” he continues. “I began carrying bandages because you keep collecting blisters from formal shoes. I practiced songs you once said you liked, despite your terrible taste.”

“My taste is awesome!”

“It is survivable.” There is warmth in his voice now, threaded through that usual calm. Then he exhales, almost amused with himself.

“I was trying to be patient,” he says. “I thought if I stayed near you long enough, you would realize I wished to stay.” Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. “You mean…”

“I mean,” he says, gaze steady on yours, “I like you too.”

The city seems to hush.

Cars pass in sheets of reflected light. Somewhere far off, a train horn sounds through the rain. You laugh once—small, disbelieving. “That’s it? You let me panic for ten full seconds?”

“I wanted to hear the rest of your speech.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You step closer until there’s barely space between you. His expression shifts—something gentler, less polished, more real. His hand finds yours beneath the umbrella—quiet, certain, like it had always known the route. “Tomorrow,” he says, lacing your fingers together, “you stop pretending this was accidental.”

You squeeze his hand once, pretending it doesn’t matter. It absolutely does. “Fine,” you mutter.

A faint pause. Then, softer: “But you’re still getting soaked.”

Sunday glances at his shoulder. “…Worth it,” he says.

And for once, neither of you correct the silence that follows.

[lovinglyjinxed]

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