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blade piques your auntie's interest when you visit her shop to run some errands.
content: blade x gn!reader; blade & reader are friends (they secretly like each other); a little humorous :) ; 723 words
a/n: *drops my first hsr fic and runs away* i might write a part 2 resolving the shenanigans that occur here if there's enough interest!
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Blade had barely spoken a word this entire outing. Not that it was unusual for him, however, his wordless, watchful demeanour made every passer-by shrink away. It appeared to others that he was less of your friend and more of a guard dog. Despite the names of the Stellaron Hunters being cleared, just the sight of him with his stony stare was of automatic suspicion among the Xianzhou Loufu.
He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the building, watching you converse warmly with a merchant selling metal working supplies.
“An apprentice in the Artisanship Commission?” The merchant said in awe. “I remember when you were-” she placed a hand to the side of her hip, her voice dripping with fondness “-this big and dreaming about joining the commission, and look at you now!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Blade saw the merchant lift a hand and ruffle your hair. Despite the slight resigned look on your face as you leaned into the touch, you still laughed. To see someone as capable as you be treated like a child was an intriguing sight. His gaze travelled from your upturned lips to your hand smoothing out your tousled hair.
“Thank you, auntie. Expect me to visit you a lot more often nowadays.”
She tsked and squeezed your cheek. “Ai-yah, you should already be visiting me more.”
You noticeably grew bashful at her words. Luckily, your auntie’s disapproval vanished quickly. “Now you just hold tight, I know exactly what your junior apprentices need.” She crouched out of sight below the countertop and rummaged through the storage, the sound of tools clinked against each other.
You turned towards Blade and gave a thumbs up with both hands. He acknowledged you with a single nod. The grin on your face was too bright, almost blinding. You turned back to speak with the merchant.
Blade stared at the back of your head. Your smile was gone too soon.
Despising the ache he felt, he shook his head, keeping those strange, simmering feelings within him at bay.
“Boyfriend! Are you going to help carry this?” The merchant’s voice pierced through his musings.
Boyfriend...?
There was the tiniest waver in Blade's blank expression. He saw her gesture towards a wooden storage box on the counter, one hand on her hip.
You collapsed onto the counter. “Aeons, you don’t have to yell out like that!” Your hands covered your reddening face. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
No matter how well one may hide it, family members had a heightened sense for when young people were in love. Highly amused by your reaction, your auntie pushed a little more.
“You know he’s watching you as if I’m going to steal you away or something.” She leaned in closer and mock whispered, “Is he one of these crazy possessive types?”
“Auntie!” Your eyes turned into saucers in shock. “He’s not.”
She lifted both her hands with a cheeky, knowing grin, as if to say ‘you don’t have to tell me, I already know.’
Blade was surprised at the familiarity of the look. It was one he often saw on Kafka, with her naturally sassy countenance. She had that exact knowing smile when she had asked him about the details of his sudden excursion during his downtime today. He angled himself off the wall to walk to your side.
“At least get to know his name, it’s Blade.” You said, firmly.
“Ohh Blade, huh?” The merchant’s critical eyes trailed up and down, assessing the man who had wooed her niece. “Hm…a tough guy name. What do you do?”
“You are referring to my occupation?” Blade asked.
Your auntie wasn’t expecting such a deep, gravelly voice that it made her physically jump. You scrambled to pick up the wooden box, heaving it into your arms. Blade head jerked to your movements in alarm. You tried to back away at a fast enough pace that etiquette would allow when exiting a conversation.
“Thanks auntie, but we really need to go now. Love you!” You frantically gestured at Blade to follow.
Your auntie bellowed with laughter. “Alright then, make sure you visit me again soon! You too Mr Blade!” She called out as you scurried across the market square. A puzzled Blade followed beside you, attempting to take the heavy box from your hands.
Dan Heng is good at waiting; too bad March and Stelle aren't.
dan heng ♡ gn!reader
warnings: brainrot (from stelle), reader is not the trailblazer (but is a trailblazer), not proofread
notes: my annual return to dan heng nation 💖
“Oh, no!” March cries, watching Stelle fall cartoonishly towards the ground. “I have to stay back and help Stelle!” In order to emphasize the dire situation further, March puts a hand on her heart, the other coming up to her forehead like a Renaissance painting.
“You guys should go ahead though,” March says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Stay in character!” Stelle yells from the floor.
“Oh, I mean: The agony! I guess y’all must go ahead without us… It’s fine… We’ll be fine…” March trails off, leaning back as if she’s going to faint.
Dan Heng stares at the scene with complete and utter exasperation. He’ll need to leave a one-star review later, because why is the acting so poor? Why is one of the characters switching between the Renaissance and the wild west? Why is—
“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask, crouching down to poke at Stelle’s face. “Dan Heng,”—his heart stutters, his unimpressed look dissipating at the sound of your voice, piercing through the fog like a sudden ray of light—“are you alright with picking up the supplies alone?”
Of course he can! He’s done this before; the supplies aren’t even at a precarious place—it’s just the Herta Space Station. Not to mention, there is no reason why everyone and their mom has to come along to pick up two boxes of deliveries. That’s just overkill.
But—Dan Heng looks at you, opening his mouth to respond—it would be nice if someone could come along. In case there are three boxes instead of two. In case there are closed doors that he can’t open alone. It would be nice if the person who did come along was like a sudden ray of light, if the person who did come along had a way of saying his name. It would be a little nice, he supposes.
“No, no!” March interjects, cutting in between you and Stelle, not-so discreetly pushing your shoulders with the palm of her hands. You stumble back, bracing yourself to hit the floor only for another pair of hands to support your spine, the back of your head embraced by a warm palm.
“March,” Dan Heng says, his voice eerily cool, “watch your strength.”
“Oops!” she exclaims with little remorse. “Sorry, [Name]!”
You shake your head, offering her a gentle smile. “It’s all good. You sure you don’t want me to stay back? I thought you were excited to go pick up your packages, March.”
March and Stelle exchange glances.
“Oh, we’re excited alright,” Stelle states, a smug look falling upon her face. Dan Heng raises a brow.
“We?” he echoes.
“We.” March nods.
“Oui,” Stelle remarks proudly.
Silence ensues.
“No need to laugh all at once,” Stelle mumbles. Still no response. Unsure of what to say, and at the center of everyone’s exasperated gaze, Stelle says the only thing she knows: “Bombardino croco—”
You and Dan Heng depart from the Express before she can finish her sentence.
To Dan Heng, it’s plainly obvious as to what’s brewing in his crewmates’ minds. Dan Heng looks at you (his breath hitches, his heart stutters, his ribs seem to dislodge and his palms feel clammy), and he thinks that, maybe, just maybe, he’ll let his crewmates do their bidding.
Maybe it’ll be okay. Dan Heng looks at you (and his heart, although stunned, although humbled and awe-filled in the face of the sublime, swells with content, with fulfillment, with reassurance), and he thinks that, wholly, it will be okay.
“Is something on your mind, Dan Heng?” you ask, the back of your hand grazing the ridge of his brow, a subtle attempt to ease the furrow—and it works! Dan Heng wonders if you realize; he wonders if you notice the way his breath hitches, the way his scrunched expression relaxes, the way the mere brush of your knuckles is enough for him to cease all concepts of thought.
Dan Heng’s mind is loud, too loud. With you, however, the silence is evident; it’s in the way he no longer worries about the weak points of the Express, his inherent duties as a bodyguard, the incessant, irrational thought that he’s being chased—he’s not! He’s not being chased, he’s not being prosecuted; with you, oh, with you, Dan Heng does what he is, admittedly, not so used to doing: he lives!
“Nothing much,” Dan Heng responds, lying, because really, he’s thinking about you. Everything. Because the silence, although empty, is an unfathomable void, a limitless pit which envelopes every fiber of his skin, forcing him to—and he lets it—think of you. You. Everything. You!
“I’m here if you ever want to talk about it!” you exclaim, clocking him immediately. Dan Heng looks away, feeling the burn of his ears, the incomparable warmth of his face; everything is tangible.
Everything is right next to him. He turns back around and he looks, greedily drinking in the sight of everything: from the bridge of your nose to the curve of your lips, Dan Heng is greedy.
You catch him staring. Dan Heng can’t bring himself to look away.
(They say when you stare at the void for too long, it begins to stare back at you.)
You smile at him. Dan Heng will never look away.
(Let it stare.)
When Dan Heng came to the conclusion that he’d trust his crewmates to do their bidding, somewhere, deep within himself, he knew that he really didn’t. Sure, he may have some reliable crewmates, but first and foremost, he has other crewmates. And those other crewmates have a terrible track record and an even worse idea of what to do.
Hence why he finds himself here: with you, trapped in his very own room with you. You! Everything! Everything is in his room, and suddenly Dan Heng becomes faintly aware of how small it is compared to Stelle’s.
“You alright, Dan Heng?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, book in hand as you sit on Dan Heng’s wooden chair, skimming through various pages of his collection.
“Yeah,” he replies, quicker than he can think. “Have you found something you like?”
“I think so,” you say, your gaze returning to the book (and briefly, Dan Heng mourns the loss of everything, which slips in between his gaze and forces him to stare at the back of the chair when, really, all he has ever wanted was to stare at you).
“That’s good.” Dan Heng hopes he’s being discreet, with the way his knuckles become pale as he grips onto the door, the way he tries to nonchalantly break it open while you’re still reading behind him.
One must imagine Sisyphus trying to open a door; and suddenly, Atlas—everything—comes in, and suddenly, Sisyphus forgets what a door looks like because all you have to do is say: “Dan Heng.”
His head whips around. Like he’s been summoned.
“Yes?”
“Are you good?”
“Of course.”
“I feel like you’ve been standing at that door for a while now. Sorry. Am I bothering you?”
“No,” again, he replies quicker than he can think.
One must imagine Sisyphus trying to be nonchalant whilst pushing that boulder up.
“Oh,” you say, retreating behind the backboard of the chair, and, once again, Dan Heng mourns the loss of your gaze, of the limitless expanse of everything within the center of his pupils. One must imagine Sisyphus craning his head over the side of the boulder, staring up at the sky, the clouds which he passes as he climbs that mountain. How sublime the view must be. How sublime and familiar and lovely.
The red fabric of the chair does nothing to suppress the vivid image that Dan Heng has crafted of you in his mind; the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the bridge of your nose, the flutter of your lashes. He doesn’t need sight, or thoughts, or anything, for that matter. He has everything already.
“I’m glad,” you then say, quietly. Dan Heng snaps from his stupor, his mouth parting slightly open.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry,”—you laugh awkwardly—“I just meant that I’m glad you don’t mind. Because I like spending time with you.”
Dan Heng lets go of the door.
One must imagine Sisyphus standing at the top of the hill.
“Me too,” Dan Heng states simply. “I enjoy spending time with you, [Name].”
The door, which he had just been trying so desperately to open, slowly slides away to reveal the nosy figures of March and Stelle, who were standing outside the whole time.
“Aha! We knew it! Dan Heng, you li—” March starts, but is quickly silenced by Dan Heng’s palm. Stelle uses this moment of weakness to dash past Dan Heng, reaching for the chair which you seemed to have claimed as your own.
“[Name]!” Stelle exclaims. “You and Dan Heng need to get together!”
You blink owlishly. Dan Heng feels his blood go cold.
“We’re already together, though?”
“What?!” March yells. “And you guys didn’t think to tell us?!”
I didn’t know that, Dan Heng thinks, racking his brain for the moment. Did he get reality confused for a dream? Did he actually ask you out already? How long has it been? He thought that he woke up from that scenario.
“Of course not!” you say, exasperated. “Why would we need to tell you? You know I’m always in here for the Data Bank, anyway.”
“Oh, so that’s what you meant,” March mumbles, the realization somehow making her even more mad, “so, you just meant that you’re together here? Like, sitting on that chair right now?”
“Yeah, isn’t that what you meant?” you say.
Dan Heng rubs his temples.
One must imagine Sisyphus watching the boulder roll back down the hill.
“What the sigma?” Stelle mutters, reduced to utter disbelief.
“Stop that,” Dan Heng grumbles. “All of you, get out.”
You raise the book in your hand, pointing at the cover before asking, “Can I take this?”
“You can stay,” Dan Heng states. “The rest of you, get out.”
“This is just so, so terrible!” March yells like a supervillain, running out of Dan Heng’s room with comical tears streaming from her eyes. Stelle, on the other hand, sounds as if she’s casting a hex on Dan Heng’s head, her brows furrowed manically as she chants incoherent words under her breath.
Whatever it is, Dan Heng can’t even bring himself to care anymore. He knew it wouldn’t be so easy.
He looks at you—and the rhythmic pattern of his heart comes to a halt, and the steady rise and fall of his lungs stutter, and everything manifests in front of him, sublime—and he thinks that, truly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You; the Data Bank; his room; him; together. Everything.
Sunday dislikes frivolous people, and yet, here you are: divine.
sunday ♡ gn!reader
warnings: graphic metaphors for eating & descriptions of food (+ chewing), sunday story spoilers, post-penacony sunday, pre-established relationship
notes: instead of stuttering hearts, sunday has twitchy wings MUEHEHEHE (also pls pls pls be warned if u r sensitive to graphic descriptions of chewing & eating bc i really went bananas when describing sunday and mc having a meal together o(￣┰￣*)ゞ)
Sunday’s dream is complex: create a utopia, a perfect world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight—a perfect world where no one must weep, where no one must feel sorrow or pain. But how is that possible? To feel joy without understanding sadness? To never weep again if one has never wept?
Sunday’s dream is complex, terribly so. But he, of all people, knows that fact the most poignantly.
After all, who would know the pain of falling better than Icarus himself? The grief of the limitless expanse; the touch of the sun, just within reach; the crash of the waves, slamming against his spine. Sunday’s dream is complex. But that doesn’t mean he won’t don those wax wings again, that he won’t reach for the sun once more, wondering if this time, the warmth will be tender.
Maybe it’ll be worth it. Maybe the warmth of the sun will be incomparable, and it’ll be shared, and everyone in the whole, entire universe can feel its gentle embrace.
The sun. The warmth. The ocean, below, its harsh waves blending into the point where it looks stagnant. Because from the sun, everything looks tiny—everything looks kind.
And maybe it won’t be. Maybe the sun will remain as it is: striking, ravenous, inevitable. Maybe the sun will sear him again, maybe the fall into the ocean will be harsher than the last—but, after arriving at the Astral Express, and after experiencing what little bits of the Trailblaze that he has been privileged to have, Sunday thinks that it’s a possibility that he must prepare for.
But not a possibility that he will resign himself to; you taught him that.
When he had first boarded the Express, debt-ridden, suspicious towards the IPC, leaving everything that he had ever known behind (his sister, his home, the Order), Sunday thought that there was nothing left for him. He thought that it was over. He was scared.
The unknown was scary—and space, oh, space! Space is a vacuum of the unknown! The cosmos, the world, the universe—it was all so much larger than himself, larger than Penacony, larger than the venues that his sister performed at; it was scary. So, so scary.
Everything overwhelmed him. Like the windows of the express (it wasn’t really the windows that scared him; that’d be absurd, it was more like seeing the quiet, limitless expanse of the universe through just a pane of glass that really worried him), like the constant appearance and disappearance of different individuals from a myriad of walks in life (one day, he’d see someone from the Xianzhou Alliance, and the next, some wandering man who was searching for the Aeon of Beauty).
There were always so many things happening. What overwhelmed him the most, however, was you.
You, who seemed to make the breadth of the universe pale in comparison to your colossal existence. You, who never once doubted him and his complex dream; you, who didn’t seem to mind his desperation to maintain order and disorder all at the same time. It was embarrassing, really.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he had said one night, after rearranging the utensils which surrounded his plate, organizing the forks and knives in descending order before scrambling everything once again when he realized how important it was to embrace imperfection.
“It’s fine,” you replied, shrugging. “Want chopsticks?”
Sunday felt the feather of both his wings twitch, his face feeling warm—like the breath of the sun, like the radiance of the light—from embarrassment. While he had been rearranging his utensils, you had simply been staring at him, holding a single pair of chopsticks, waiting.
“That would be preferred,”—he had did everything in his power that night, as your fingers brushed with his, as he held the chopsticks in between his defeated fingers, to not avert his eyes from yours, to maintain decorum and calm the flutter of his wings—“again, my apologies.”
You hadn’t even responded. Once he had held the chopsticks, and once he had seemed to let go of his personal gripe with the order of his utensils, you had started eating. All Sunday could do was watch.
In between mouthfuls of your food—which, of course, peeved Sunday a little (he was taught all his life the etiquettes of table manners and one of them, the most basic one, was to not talk with food in your mouth)—you had asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I prefer to wait a little,” he had paused before saying, “to savor the moment.”
“Oh!” you exclaimed. “That’s deep. Maybe I should do that too…” Your gaze trailed back down to your food (and something within Sunday, maybe it was his heart, maybe it was his blood, he didn’t know it at the time, what it was—but something trembled, mourning the loss of your eyes which, for but a brief, but lovely moment, belonged wholly to him).
“On second thought,” you said, still chewing, “nevermind.”
It is true that Sunday likes to wait before eating; it’s a way of paying respect to the privilege, a way to relish in the sensation, the enormity of taste. But Sunday’s habit goes beyond just taste itself; it’s about the moment, it’s about the act of dining with someone else, the act of trusting and being in someone’s presence to the point where he feels safe enough to ingest something; to survive in front of someone else, to satiate in front of someone else.
Eating is grotesque. To be fueled by consumption, to feast and fuse chemicals with his cells, to do it in the presence of someone else—That, he thinks, is what must be savored. The trust. The companionship. The love. The grotesqueness is what gives eating its divine sensation, its incomparable significance.
To be grotesque together. To survive together. To love together—is that not perfect?
Before that time, Sunday had thought that the act of eating in itself was imperfect. The grotesqueness was appalling, nauseating, even—he didn’t want to eat in front of anyone that wasn’t his sister, the only person who he would allow to witness his act of survival, his insatiable ingestion.
But there you were—eating. Surviving. Loving. You were chewing, and Sunday could hear the crunch of the carrots, the pop of the grapes. And you were drinking water, your lips against the glass, satiated. And, and—and not once did he think you were grotesque, and not once did he perceive the notion of the imperfect.
You were as you are. Frivolous, disorderly, imperfect—and somehow, Sunday thinks that you might have been sculpted by an Aeon, that you might have been kissed with life rather than conceived by it, that you might have been tenderly adored before you were graced in front of him. Tangible, divine.
He wanted to savor that. The moment, the grotesqueness, the divine sensation; but Sunday was, is, greedy. At the time, he was afraid to even utter the thought. Now, he doesn’t mind. What he wanted to savor most of all was you, not just the divine sensation, but rather, the enormity of the divine, the colossal significance—you.
You.
It was an inconceivable notion to him, really.
Because when he first met you, he was stunned, not necessarily because you weren’t there for his great Penacony downfall, but rather, because your entire being emanated disorder.
Your clothes were wrinkled, your head struggling to remain upright as fell forward on multiple occasions, sleeping while standing. It looked as if you were teleported from your bed to the lobby, hardly conscious as you mumbled a couple of incoherent responses whenever you were addressed.
Sunday thought you to be frivolous.
And yet, there he was, sitting across from you in one of the seats of the Party Car. Enamored by the divine, the disorder. Your words were muffled by the food in your mouth, your chopsticks clanging loudly against the bowl, your mannerisms defying every bit of etiquette he had ever learned.
And yet, there he was, staring. And yet, there he was, not once sparing his food a glance—how could he afford to look at anything else, when you were right there? Divine? Perfectly imperfect?
“Sunday?” a voice calls, interrupting his prolonged stupor. Sunday cranes his head over his shoulder, bewildered, wondering when he started standing here, staring mindlessly out the windows of the Express Car without a single star entering his eyes, the windows to his soul.
(There is no room in his soul for anything but you. No star, no universe, no limitless expanse—for you have owned the entirety of it, disorder.)
When did this begin? Sunday wonders, unable to contain the stutter of his wings when his lemon eyes behold your existence. When did the disorder become so palpable? His gaze trails over your shirt, ruffled; your shoelaces, untied; the popsicle in your hand, melting.
Before he had met you, Sunday would have contained his smile. It wouldn’t be courteous to laugh at someone, especially when they were frivolous, especially when Sunday disliked frivolous people.
But here you are, disorderly, tangible, frivolous—and here Sunday is, smiling. Wholly. With the crinkle of those lemon eyes, with the upturn of his lips, fervent and wild and free and oh, so imperfect. So lovely, so divine.
After he met you, Sunday thinks—maybe not consciously, or fully yet—that imperfections aren’t too bad after all. Maybe imperfections can coexist with his decorum. Maybe imperfections can be a part of his paradise, of his simple, yet unfathomably complex dream.
A world where no one must weep, a world where no one must feel sorrow. A world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight and, and—and you. Disorder. Divine.
“[Name],” he greets, his courteous tone not matching his amused smile, “have you perhaps noticed something?”
You blink owlishly, scrutinizing his form. “Uh, did you get a haircut?”
His wings twitch.
“I’m afraid not,” he says, unable to contain the chuckle which escapes his lips; maintaining a semblance of decorum, Sunday points in the direction of your hand. Half of your popsicle has fallen to the floor, its red color staining the ground like some sort of cartoonish crime scene.
“Oh, shit—! We need a mop!”
Sunday crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side as he observes your panic in real time, offering you nothing but the gentlest of smiles, and the entirety of his soul.
It’s yours. Like how the sun’s warmth graces the world, you saturate his soul, filling every crevice, illuminating the darkness, warding away the cold—But this, Sunday thinks, isn’t enough. He needs more. Because the sun’s light is intangible, because his fingers phase through its rays.
Sunday jumps—his wings, sealed by wax, fueled by fervor—and he soars. Towards the sun. Towards the warmth, towards his very own soul.
when march 7th takes photos, she notices something unusual about dan heng—he's never looking at the camera!
(why? because he's looking at you.)
dan heng ♡ gn!reader
warnings: dan heng may be ooc (he's smitten), march is a little delusional (but she's right), reader is not trailblazer (but is a trailblazer)
notes: guys i simultaneously peaked and flopped whilst writing this
when march 7th takes photos, she sees moments that people miss.
"say cheese!"
like the way only one side of welt's lips turn when he forces a smile, or the way himeko has to rest her hands on pom-pom to keep them from facing the wrong direction.
she sees a lot of things, from the way stelle holds her arm up to flex, to the way you tilt your head a little, smiling at her camera with your eyes, a peace sign coming up to the side of your face.
click!
when march 7th takes photos, she sees the way dan heng smiles a little, the way his usually sharp gaze becomes soft, his furrowed brows beginning to relax. it's odd, though, because he never seems to be looking at the camera; so she follows the direction of his gaze, gasping once it lands on you.
oho! march thinks. now, this is something!
dan heng is a man of aloofness, of tenderness masked with apathy, but when he looks at you—oh, when he looks at you—he can't help but adore the way you smile, your grin reaching your eyes. when you hold bunny ears over stelle's fallen form (she flexed too hard), dan heng can't help but stare at you for a couple seconds longer, observing the crinkle of your eyes to the curl of your lips, your lashes fluttering as you wait expectantly for the familiar click!
if he were march, he would keep this moment in particular. he'd zoom in on your face—vividly beautiful, vividly radiant—and he'd take a photo then. he'd make sure to capture the way your eyes glimmer under the train's light, the way you glow and glow, bringing space to a standstill, putting the brightest sun to shame.
your existence makes a lover of him. because dan heng never really noticed the way people smile, or the way they stare anxiously, trying to keep their eyes open for long enough before the camera goes off. dan heng never really noticed the way people fidget anxiously from side to side, as if the countdown mattered more than the moment itself.
but when it comes to you, dan heng can't help but notice everything. he notices the way you bite back a laugh when stelle stumbles, the way your smile widens when pom-pom impatiently stomps their feet, complaining about how long the camera is taking. dan heng notices a lot about you—everything about you, maybe—and he can't help but smile a little too.
your existence etches itself onto his face. it's in the way his lips curl into the slightest of smiles, mimicking but a fraction of your grandeur, the way he stares at you, drinking in your features and letting them permeate into his organs, his tissues.
your existence is so prominent that it's evident in the way dan heng tilts his head a little too, the way he acts so unlike himself, it's only possible because it's you.
(it's only ever possible because it's you.)
click!
before he knows it, however, the camera flashes and dan heng has missed his cue. he stiffens a little, averting his eyes from your figure a second too late.
oh, is all he thinks, noticing the way march giggles deviously to herself from behind the camera.
"stelle!" you suddenly exclaim, "why'd you fall down earlier?" your words are interrupted briefly by giggles, your grin growing larger.
"i dunno... i totally lost aura points, though."
everyone laughs, and dan heng can't help but crack a smile. when he smiles, however, he isn't looking at stelle, or pom-pom, or anyone else for that matter, he is looking wholly at you.
(it's only ever possible because it's you.)
in your presence, dan heng wields wings made of wax. to him, it doesn't matter if you are brighter than the grandest sun, because you've made a lover of him, and this lover will reach for your light, he will fly and fly, just to bask in your warmth and to fall soon after.
it's common sense to not approach the sun with wax wings. but for once, all sense of rationale and logic evades him, because dan heng has found something greater than logic, greater than sense. he has found you, and although his skin burns, and his wax wings deteriorate, he reaches out.
(it's only ever possible because it's you.)
in your presence, dan heng becomes unlike himself. his expression becomes softer, and his shoulders begin to relax. in your presence, dan heng becomes a lover, his gaze belonging entirely to you, his existence—from the moment this life begun, to the moment it ends—following hopelessly after yours.
your existence overshadows the world, your presence beaming with incomparable radiance. when you smile, dan heng feels his heart throb.
he feels his chest ache, and his mind goes blank. because when you smile, dan heng wants to memorize the sight, he wants to breathe you in and keep you safely within himself, to be carried onto every incarnation, to be remembered by every atom and cell he has.
this love of his transcends time itself. it transcends lifetimes, because although dan heng would like to leave his previous identities behind, and he'd like to start anew with every rebirth, you are the only thing that's keeping him here.
because closer to him than his very bones, you are there. you are here, in this lifetime and the next.
you are his identity. you are his lifetime. you are everything and anything in this vast, great galaxy.
first and foremost, however, you are you, and that might just be the grandest thing of them all.
when march 7th takes photos, she sees the way dan heng looks at you. his gaze always seems to instinctively drift over you before reaching the lens, his icy turquoise eyes melting soon afterwards.
dan heng is smitten! march thinks, giggling at the photo she just printed out. whereas everyone is occupied with stelle's bodybuilding journey, she's fixated on dan heng's expression in the photo.
his irises hold your reflection, a sliver of his soul slipping past his pupils and worshipping your existence. if march squints a little, she can see dan heng's subconscious taking shape in his eyes—its form resembles you, you, you.
when he looks at you, dan heng becomes someone new. his gaze is so gentle, so adoring, march has to rub her eyes in order to confirm whether or not what she's seeing is true.
you emanate from his eyes, from his existence.
a photo later, you smile, and so does dan heng. the edges of his lip curl up, eyes still belonging to you, whilst you remain completely oblivious. you don't seem to notice dan heng's adoring look, his newfound identity as he offers to you his irises, his pupils, his soul.
across all the photos, dan heng hardly looks at the camera. maybe for one or two, but immediately in the next, he returns to you, staring.
march grins, examining each photograph. she takes the time to dig beyond her recent photos, traveling all the way back to belobog, when stelle was first introduced to the team.
even then, dan heng's attention was yours. in almost every photo she saw, he was always looking at you, his eyes crinkling, ever so slightly, at the corners.
but his love goes beyond the mere crinkle his eyes, because march notices the way he would remain an arms-length away from you, as if he were afraid to close in the distance and stand fully by your side. yet at the same time, it seemed as though he was afraid to let that distance grow—as if you'd slip away from him, drifting beyond the atmosphere. his atmosphere.
his eyes, however, manage to close that distance. whenever he can't be near you, dan heng's gaze would make up for his heart's loss, filling in what couldn't be tangible. so, he stares. on and on.
but march doesn't want that; she wants this to become real, for dan heng to break through the barrier of fantasy and finally, finally love! she wants his love to become palpable, for you to notice his gaze, his adoration.
she wants your eyes to meet his, for his longing to be returned. after all, it's no fun pining all the time!
i've got to take the reins! march thinks with the snap of her fingers, grinning mischievously once she notices dan heng trying to sneak off to the comfort of his room.
little does he know, march is an expert in love, and she's not going to let this case remain unresolved!
now that she thinks about it, you might have some feelings for dan heng too. sometimes, she would come into your room and it'd be empty, only for her to realize that you were in dan heng's, reading some math textbooks (written by doctor veritas ratio himself).
even though you hate math.
suspicious, march thinks, not-so-discreetly lurking behind a corner. very, very suspicious.
"i know you're there," dan heng states blandly, standing with his arms crossed.
march opts to remain silent. dan heng sighs.
"what you're thinking is wrong," dan heng tries to explain, his tone unamused. march steps out from behind the corner, a frown etched onto her face.
"how do you know what i'm thinking, huh?"
"it's written all over your face."
"well, i know what i'm thinking is right. you like [name]!" she points at him as if she were prosecuting him in court, only to wince once she hears her voice echo throughout the train's hallway.
oops. march's hand falls to her side, her eyes growing wide as she glances away from dan heng.
"ahaha... i mean, who wouldn't, though?" march tries to add, rubbing the back of her head anxiously. "right, dan heng?"
"they're not here right now," dan heng mutters, as if that were reassuring. despite his "kind" words, however, march can still feel his piercing glare. she shivers a little, but justice always comes first.
once more, march points at dan heng accusingly.
"now, how would you know that? i knew it! you're always watching them—you can't fool me, dan heng!"
"as the guard of the astral express, i need to know where everyone is at all times," dan heng states, his voice monotone.
march isn't easily defeated. "well, where's stelle?!"
"lobby."
"welt?!"
"lobby."
"himeko?!"
"lobby."
"is everyone at the lobby to you?" march asks, exasperated. dan heng shakes his head.
"the conductor is at the helm."
"well, obviously! where's [name], then?!"
"the buffet car."
"aha! notice how [name]'s location is the only one that's different?! that's 'cause you're keeping tabs on them, dan heng!"
"the conductor is at the helm."
"that's because the conductor is the conductor! and conductors have to conduct in the helm!"
dan heng deadpans, watching the way march mentally congratulates herself for such an intelligent line of reasoning. he uses this moment of weakness to slip away from her line of sight and lock himself in his room, free from march's madness.
"hey! don't run away!"
i already did, though? is all dan heng thinks, feigning ignorance to march's fists pounding against his door.
"fine! i was gonna be benevolent and consult you before [name], but since you're acting like this, i'm just gonna tell them right now!"
march stomps away from dan heng's room, making sure her steps are extra loud. a couple seconds pass, and dan heng's door slides open.
"heh, i knew it," she remarks triumphantly. dan heng sighs.
"don't tell them."
"why not?" march asks, genuinely confused. she notices the way dan heng glances away briefly (when usually, he maintains eye contact without a problem), and the way his fingers play nervously with the cuffs of his coat.
the concept of you is enough to make dan heng reincarnate anew. he becomes something else, shedding his previous apathetic identity in exchange for something lighter, something lovelier.
he's nervous, march realizes. that's a first!
at the mere thought of you, he shifts awkwardly from side to side, unsure of what to say. he loses his words, his throat closes up, and his heart—oh, his heart—aches.
"it'd be a burden," dan heng mutters, "i think it's best if things just stayed as is."
something tells march that dan heng has thought about this before; that he's spent many sleepless nights mulling this over, whatever this is. something tells march that dan heng has wanted to break the barrier of fantasy, that out of everyone in the world, the universe, he's wanted to do that the most. where else would he use this love of his?
"but what if they like you too?" march asks, suddenly sympathetic. dan heng shakes his head, a solemn expression on his face—it's unlike himself, to be so doubtful, but the sincerity of his frown makes march realize that this is real.
he really thinks he has no chance, she thinks. poor guy!
"they... have feelings for someone else." dan heng's voice drops, barely above a whisper. again, dan heng acts so unlike himself—it's in the way his gaze casts downwards, the way his expression loses his signature self-assuredness.
of all the things in this world, the only thing that can make dan heng doubt himself is you.
(it's only ever possible because it's you.)
so, the reason why he's only ever stared at [name] is because he thinks they like someone else? dan heng fills the grief of his heart through his eyes. when he looks at you, his irises can hold you because his hands cannot. when he looks at you, he can cherish your existence from afar, making up for the distance in between.
of all the things in the world, the only thing that can make dan heng suffer is you. because he's forced to orbit around you, because he's incapable of coming any closer—because dan heng's wax wings aren't strong enough for your incomparable light, your incomparable presence.
dan heng's wax wings aren't strong enough for anything but observing you from a distance: staring, staring.
"now, what makes you think that?" march queries, trying her best to comfort her friend. "if anything, i think [name] does like you!"
"they're always making stops at the luofu,"—at this point, dan heng doesn't even care if he reveals how much he knows about your whereabouts—"and they have regular meetings with the general."
subconsciously, dan heng's hand comes to reach for his hair, feeling the spot where horns used to sprout from his previous incarnation. if he were a life earlier, would you love him then?
march frowns before asking: "so, i guess you have your slow moments too, huh?"
dan heng blinks.
"[name] is going to the luofu so often because of you! they want to learn more about the vidyadhara! and guess who's a vidyadhara?"
dan heng blinks.
"that's what i thought!" march declares, finally basking in her long-awaited glory with outstretched arms. "once again, detective march prevails!"
"anyway, now that we've gotten over that hurdle, it's time we begin planning how you're going to confess to [name]! see, i had this idea, we should lay all of these pictures across their room—"
"that's creepy," dan heng states.
"only now are you choosing to be self-aware?" march retorts, offended. "fine! do you have any better ideas, then?"
silence. just as i thought, march thinks, crossing her arms. before she can say anything else, dan heng quickly turns around, his limbs becoming stiff as footsteps approach from down the hall.
march notices the way the tips of dan heng's ears begin to redden.
"oh, dan heng!" a familiar voice exclaims. "fancy seeing you here!"
"i live here," dan heng replies.
"you sure have a lot of attitude for someone who's turning into a tomato..." march mutters, loud enough for only dan heng to hear. he says nothing—too fixated on you, obviously.
"and march, too! hey!" you wave, and march returns the gesture with even more excitement. she rushes to take your hands in hers before bidding farewell to the bodyguard, intent on dragging you down the parlor car to her room.
but dan heng is quicker to react, because he positions himself in between the two of you and march's room, an unreadable expression on his face. the only telltale sign of his affection is the color of his ears—impossibly red, impossibly loved.
"what's going on?" you ask, genuinely confused. "are you beefing? i'm placing my bets on march, by the way."
dan heng sighs, but it's a different kind of sigh. it's a little lovesick, a little endearing, because although dan heng doesn't particularly care about silly comments, when you're the one saying it, it suddenly becomes acceptable.
(it's only ever possible because it's you.)
"yeah, we're beefing!" march interjects, ignoring the way dan heng glares at her with the might of a thousand suns.
you can't hurt me! march thinks, grinning. dan heng seems to catch on, because his brows begin to furrow and his slightly upturned lips—a result of your presence—thin into a line.
"huh? beefing?" stelle suddenly appears out of nowhere, wanting to join in on the action. "about what?"
"about dan heng's feelings!" march adds, feeling the way dan heng emits murderous intent.
"dan heng has feelings?" stelle asks.
"yes, yes! and guess who they're for?"
"pause," you interject. "dan heng has feelings for someone?"
aha! march thinks, tugging your hand towards herself. "does that make you feel any way, [name]? jealous, perhaps? murderous?!"
someone, at this very moment, is feeling very murderous.
"oh, i know, i know!" stelle pulls out a detective cap and a monocle, a toothy grin forming on her face. "[name] feels jealous!"
your mouth hangs slightly agape, whereas dan heng's murderous intent dissipates into utter nothingness. the parlor car falls silent, and if march really listens in, she can hear crickets despite there being no insects in outer space.
"now, why would [name] feel jealous, stelle?!" march lets go of your hands in exchange for stelle's, reveling in the joy of being understood by a fellow partner.
"because..." stelle trails off dramatically, tugging her detective cap down to mask her eyes. "[name] likes—"
dan heng slams the blunt end of his spear against the floor (where did he even get that from? march wonders), the powerful thump! reverberating throughout the hall. instinctively, he glances over at you.
but you return his gaze (and dan heng ignores the way his heart stutters) and you smile at him (and dan heng ignores the way his heart leaps), before stating, "well, this wasn't really how i envisioned it to go."
you spare stelle a glance, and she instantly grabs march's wrist before rushing off. although it seems like they're leaving you and dan heng alone, it's more likely that they're just hiding behind a corner to eavesdrop.
but you don't care. after all, the cat's out of the bag anyway. might as well just confess, right?
you open your mouth to speak, but dan heng beats you to it.
"i have feelings for you," he states. when he stares at you—and when you return his gaze—dan heng's heart trembles. he's not used to being perceived by you, he's not used to having his stares reciprocated, much less his feelings.
"i do, too," you reply, nervous. dan heng can tell you're nervous; it's in the way your fingers come to fiddle with each other, the way your voice is a little shaky, your lips pursed.
warnings: graphic descriptions of love (crude imagery), pre-established relationship, reader is a nameless (dan heng's part)
notes: Can u tell my fav based on how much i write for them? (Its luka)
no matter where you are, luka's azure gaze will always find its way to you. even when he's in the midst of one of his matches, luka can't help but sneak a tiny (that, in reality, is not so tiny) glance at you, eager for your approval.
such a "tiny" glance lands him on the floor, his opponent landing a punch square on luka's jaw. pain reverberates throughout his body, sending waves of heat rushing to his face.
"ouch," he groans, narrowly avoiding another hit. he recovers quickly, his gaze now fixated wholly on his opponent.
adrenaline courses through his veins, his movements smoother than usual as luka apprehends his opponent in a matter of seconds. even as he's in the midst of putting someone in a headlock, his vision blinded by the lights of the fighting rink, luka's eyes find you.
he doesn't know how to explain it—his eyes are just naturally drawn to you. no matter where you are, luka will find you, and he will adore you. even if the spotlights blur his vision, just your silhouette is enough to satisfy him.
(maybe, when he was created, and when the aeons pieced together bits of his eyes, they carved his irises with the intention of beholding you. maybe, when luka was blessed with sight, it was because the aeons wanted him to witness you.)
even now, as the referee raises his arm in order to declare his victory, luka searches for you in the crowd. his grin widens as he waves at you with his free, mechanical hand. luka adores you; it's evident in the glimmer of his azure eyes and the way he immediately rushes to celebrate with you.
"i didn't think you'd come,"—but he'd still search for you anyway—"i'm so glad you did!" luka rubs the back of his head bashfully, the adrenaline pumping throughout his body beginning to wear off. only now does luka realize you're there, and that you just watched him fight!
his eyes never leave your frame. luka observes you under the muted lights, fluorescent bulbs flickering as if they became anxious in your presence. he supposes that he's not your only admirer, with the way the lights dim and the crowd's cheers fall silent, the way the world quiets to heed your words.
(what he doesn't realize is that the lights never dimmed, that the crowd never quieted. luka felt things that never happened, he envisioned a spotlight on you that never existed—but to him, it did. the world really did wait for you.)
"you were great out there, luka!"
you smile, and luka feels something flutter within him. his heartbeat travels from his chest, suddenly echoing throughout his body, making itself known even in the tips of his fingers and the rush of his ears.
something flutters within him, and luka thinks he's fallen for you. again.
"interesting move," jing yuan states. he rests his cheek against the palm of his hand, his lips curling into the slightest of smiles as he stares at you shamelessly.
"you weren't even looking at the board."
he chuckles. "you got me."
despite being caught red-handed, jing yuan's amber gaze never leaves your face. his eyes trace over the flutter of your lashes, the bridge of your nose, memorizing the features he's already so used to. the features that you're sure he's seen a thousand times before.
even with your piercing glare, jing yuan continues to marvel at you, not bothering to hide the way his pupils scrutinize your frame. he stares at you like he can see your soul, like—within the depths of your irises—he can see your dreams, your wishes.
"move a piece," you say, unamused. "and stop staring."
"i'm not staring," jing yuan responds matter-of-factly. he continues to observe you, never tearing his gaze away. you shrink under the general's gaze, suddenly becoming self-conscious of the way you sit and the way you exist.
jing yuan notices this, and he frowns.
"why are you doing that?" he asks. his index finger comes up to poke your forehead, urging you to ease the furrow of your brows.
"'cause the so-called chess master isn't making a move," you comment blandly. jing yuan chuckles.
"just pretend the so-called chess master,"—he still doesn't look down at the board—"is thinking. and isn't looking at you."
"you're making it kind of difficult to do so," you respond, unamused.
"give me five minutes." jing yuan pauses. "actually, ten will do."
"make a move!" you exclaim impatiently, pointing at the table in order to redirect jing yuan's attention. he feigns ignorance to your frustration, opting to observe the pout of your lips instead.
"cute," he mutters, not caring if you hear.
"are you even listening?"
"yeah," he says; it comes out more like a dreamy sigh rather than a proper response. with soft, adoring irises and a sickly sweet smile that makes you wonder if it's fake, jing yuan looks as if he has been possessed by cupid himself.
"ugh, why do i even try with you?"
jing yuan hums. "twenty minutes."
gepard swears he isn't staring at you on purpose.
but the more he looks at you, the more he notices. he notices the way you furrow your brows whenever you concentrate, the way your eyes twinkle when talking about something you enjoy. gepard notices the way you bite your bottom lip whenever you're frustrated, the way you tilt your head when you listen to someone speak.
aeons, he thinks, watching you exist, aeons. gepard swears he isn't staring at you on purpose—it just so happens that his gaze is on you. it just so happens that his gaze is always on you.
it's not his fault, really!
"hello? geppie?" serval says, waving her hand in front of the man's awestruck eyes. he blinks in embarrassment, his mouth hanging slightly agape as he looks down at the countertop, observing the splinters of wood with utmost attention.
"yes, serval?" he replies, struggling to find his voice. he winces at the way it sounds, the way his voice seems to dismember itself in your presence. gepard hates the way he acts around you, the way he becomes conscious of things like the way he walks, the way he talks.
it's humiliating, really, the way you reduce gepard to a flustered mess. he hates the way your eyes make him weak in his knees, the way you smile at him with that smile of yours. it makes him want to love you and love you, loving 'till the end of time, 'till the stars fall.
gepard wants to love you so much it hurts. he wants to love you to the point where his love turns into a knife, carving his heart out, taking it apart by its chambers. he gives you one chamber, then two, then three, then four, and all of a sudden, he's missing a heart—but what does it matter, whether or not he has a heart? in the end, it belongs to you.
"looks like someone's got a crush," serval says with a smirk. her vibrant cerulean eyes follow her brother's, fixating on your expression as you flip through pages of a travel guide gifted by the nameless. she doesn't notice how your lips tug into a frown, how your brows furrow ever so slightly.
gepard does, though. gepard seems to notice everything about you.
"don't say it here...!" gepard exclaims, trying to keep his volume low. serval, on the other hand, has no regards for secrecy. she slaps her hand against the counter, getting a good, hearty chuckle from her brother's beet red face and the way his eyes are wide with panic.
"right, right!" she laughs, clutching her stomach (gepard doesn't get why she's acting like he just made the best joke in the universe—it's not that funny). the floorboards creak with her movements, as if they too were finding amusement in gepard's predicament. the captain's gaze is not lingering in front of him for long, though, because in a matter of seconds, he finds himself staring at you. again.
he thinks you look ethereal basking in the daylight, the golden glow clinging to your skin. gepard thinks that, like him, the sun adores you. it's in the way its rays trace over your features, adorning your eyes with fragmented light, slipping your irises in between its shattered reflections and making you its own.
your eyes glimmer.
"dan heng!" march 7th yells, slapping the aforementioned man's back harshly. "stop staring and get working! [name] doesn't like useless men!"
dan heng bites his tongue, swallowing his words (and insults) as he returns to wiping down the train's furniture. it was your idea to help pom pom out by dedicating a day to clean up the express, which dan heng thought was admirable.
they're thoughtful, he muses, absentmindedly scrubbing at a coffee stain left by one of himeko's five thousand mugs. really thoughtful. but dan heng already knows that—it's in the way your voice drops to a whisper whenever he's reading, the way you always buy him souvenirs and beverages from places you visit.
although you're a nameless like him, you often travel on your own accord, making stops as you please and wandering the universe as if it were yours.
(maybe it is, dan heng thinks, entertaining the idea, maybe the world really is yours. frankly, he wouldn't be surprised if it was. it would make a lot of sense, actually. how is it possible for things to be so beautiful, if not belonging to you?)
"useless men?" you suddenly echo from down the hall, appearing around the corner with a mop in hand and a bucket in the other. dan heng rushes to you, his palm outstretched as he urges you to give him the bucket and split the weight.
"o-oh," march stutters, suddenly becoming speechless, "f...fancy seeing you here!"
you raise a brow. "i live here?"
"is that so?" march echoes, laughing stiffly to herself. "how funny! i didn't know you could hear what i was saying..."
"only the 'useless men' part," you say, shaking your head. "what's wrong with useless men?"
"well, for starters," dan heng answers, "they're useless."
"that's okay," you respond. "sometimes, being useless is fun."
is their type useless men? dan heng wonders to himself, suddenly feeling insecure. should he put this bucket down? will you find him useless, then?
"so... you like useless men?!" march asks, pointing accusingly at you. dan heng grimaces—just why does march have to be astute in the worst of times? why did she figure out who dan heng liked, if she usually struggles adding decimals?
you blink owlishly. "uh, not really? i'm just saying they're not that bad."
dan heng's grip tightens around the bucket's handle. i can work with that, he thinks, suddenly strategizing.
"what's your type, then?" march questions, stepping closer to you. "blonde, perhaps? ginger? blue?"
she didn't say black hair, dan heng thinks, about to reach for a tuft of his own.
"maybe dark hair?" you respond, your eyes narrowed in thought. "i like it when they make it obvious they like me, though."
"like if they stare at you a lot?" march asks, leaning in.
"yeah!" you reply. "that'd be cute!"
"oh, good!" march exclaims, pleased with herself. "dan heng here does a lot of that!"
"what?" both you and dan heng say in unison. while your tone is confused, dan heng's tone is disbelieving, as if he really did not believe that march just outed him like that.
(march did, in fact, just out him like that.)
you exchange glances with the man, but much to your surprise, he's already staring.
something tells you he's been staring for a while, it's just that you only noticed now.
Someone has possessed your body, and your soul is nowhere to be found.
Dan Heng swears he'll find you again. No matter what it takes.
dan heng ♡ gn!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, lore inaccuracies (i pulled this out of my ass), body possession, body swapping, identity vagueness
notes: Dude i love this trope
"Tell me," Dan Heng mutters, his tone low, the tip of his spear pointed towards your throat, jade kissing your skin when you swallow thickly. "Where did [Name] go?"
"What're you talking about?" you reply, hands held up to the sides of your head, a nervous smile encroaching onto your lips. Your back meets the metal of the Parlor Car's walls, your smile parting ever-so slightly to gasp for air, breaths haggard, as Dan Heng presses you further, his expression unfeeling.
"Don't lie to me," he states, the calmness eerie. "You are not [Name]."
"How's that even possible?" you reason, managing to tilt your head slightly, eyes crinkling as your smile widens.
For a moment, Dan Heng's resolve stutters. It's true that your face is the same; from the curl of your lips, to the bridge of your nose, to the scars and moles which line your skin—your well-loved face, those well-loved features.
But it's not. Dan Heng looks at you again and Cloud-Piercer steadies, unwavering, the blunt end pressing fully against the bob of your throat as your mouth hangs slightly agape, eyes craning down as if to gauge just how sharp the weapon really is.
How audacious, is all Dan Heng thinks, brows furrowing. To claim their identity when you cannot even judge the spear which I've told them so much about.
The curl of your lips, though the same in shape, does not resume its natural form when you smile. The crinkle of your eyes, though perfect in imitation, does not contain the natural mirth that enraptures your features.
To think anyone would even dare to mimic a fraction of the sublime—Cloud-Piercer digs closer into your skin, the possessor's eyes widening, lips shrinking to reveal the most fervent of frowns, its shape not suiting your features—how utterly foolish.
"Answer me," Dan Heng states again. "Where did they go?"
"Hah!" you then exclaim, the sound not fitting your voice, its melody infuriating despite its timber belonging to your chords. "You'd have better luck giving up. This body is mine, you mutt!"
Fury, though wildly impulsive, is something that Dan Heng submits to whenever he feels its phantom looming over his shoulder, its mouth widening, capturing him within the hinge of its jaws. Fury allows him to act, without the burden of thoughts, without the second-guessings of whether regret will follow.
Fury is his. There's someone in your body, claiming it as their own, and Dan Heng feels the mouth of fury swallow, he feels the esophagus, he feels the stomach acid as he fizzles in the bile.
He feels the grit of his own teeth as his jaw tightens, his brows furrowing to the point of wrinkling his nose, his figure hunched forward as he presses Cloud-Piercer's blunt end so violently into your throat that you start gasping for air, unable to breathe.
(And, despite it all, he's careful not to draw blood. He's careful to avoid the wounds which haven't healed fully, he's careful to avoid your lower neck, as you've mentioned how sensitive you are there. This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.)
The doors to the Parlor Car slam open, and Dan Heng feels his figure part from yours, his dominant hand held back by the arms of another, the frantic cacophony of voices as you're subdued by Stelle and Himeko, March watching from afar, Welt behind him.
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.
Dan Heng looks at you, and he does not recognize the entity which stares back at him. A possessor; a fraud; a thief. Something stole your body—but more than that, because Dan Heng couldn't care less about what sort of appearance you take, where your moles form, where your scars lie.
The crinkle of a joyful eye is unmistakable, the cadence of words are unique to each person, the syntax, the choices, the mannerisms of an identity. Dan Heng knows you to be a creature without regrets, to smile wildly, unabashed, teeth and all. He knows you to tilt your head when you speak, to use crude language that is common, not outdated, lousy terms such as "mutt."
Dan Heng knows you. And even when someone wears your eyes, and even when someone smiles with your lips, and even when someone speaks with your voice, he knows.
Something stole your body.
And where are you?
You're pretty.
Dan Heng has thought that ever since you stepped foot on the Express. He thought that the sofas seemed to reinvent themselves under your gaze, he thought that space must've shrunk away when your eyes sweeped over it, through the window, perceiving each freckled star. It felt as if this universe shifted in accordance to your examination, as if its worth amounted to how much time was spent beheld within the center of your pupils, sublime.
And when you smiled, Dan Heng thought you to be even prettier.
You smiled in such a way that felt as though you lived anew, as though joy alone was enough to rid this guilty world of its sins. Despite being the Express's newest member at the time, you quickly settled in, joining each game night with a striking resolve, creating inside jokes with the Stelle and March, laughing at things that made no sense.
And you were there for Belobog, for the Luofu, for Penacony, for Amphoreus. Throughout it all, you remained as you were: euphoric, unabashed, free. Sublime.
You're pretty.
From behind the makeshift prison which Himeko had crafted from bars made of steel, Dan Heng stares. Your hand tightens around the material, unable to reach fully through the crevice, expression sullied by a violent frown. Bottom lip jutted out, a sound leaves your lips, not too far removed from a growl.
You were pretty.
Dan Heng stares at you, whose countenance is devoid of any bliss, whose laughter remains humorless, whose gaze never once trickles towards the window, to look at the space which you oh-so adored.
But not like this.
"You possessed this body," Welt states. "And where was your original form?"
"As if I need to tell you anything," you spit.
"If you value your life, then I suggest you do," Dan Heng snaps, readying Cloud-Piercer once more. Himeko raises her hand, arm separating his figure from yours, an extra layer added to the prison cell which you wallow in, unmoved.
Then, you laugh.
How disgusting, is all Dan Heng thinks.
This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.
"How hilarious!" you exclaim, laughing still, the sound disturbing, lacking humor and humanity and anything that serves to anchor you to this world, to liken you to the sublime, to make even space shy away. "To think you're threatening me! If you kill me, where will the original soul land?!"
Dan Heng's eyes grow wide, and he lurches forward, Cloud-Piercer stabbing past a crevice in the prison, slamming through the other side, your figure barely missing the impact.
"The original soul," he seethes, "where is it?"
You laugh again.
When you looked at the universe, it reinvented itself depending on the worth you had assigned it, how long each star existed within your gaze, how wide your smile became after perceiving each constellation, each striking comet.
He remains at the window of the Parlor Car for a long while, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracing over each freckled star, its shape lining the face of space. He wonders which one made you the happiest, which one was so beautiful it could make even the personification of radiance a witness.
When he's not in the Parlor Car, lost in his stupor, he's at the Data Bank, sifting frantically through the archives, desperate to determine what exactly is possessing your body.
Depending on what it is, maybe he can finally satiate the bloodlust which tugs at his hands.
A knock on his door. Dan Heng doesn't look up; he sifts through another array of pages before saying, "Come in."
It's Welt. Upon entering, he closes the door behind him, and Dan Heng tears his gaze from the archives to spare a glance at the man, his expression taking the shape of vague relief.
"Dan Heng," Welt says, hand coming to push his glasses further up his nose. "I believe [Name]'s possessor is a form of miasma which stems from the Luofu. It only makes sense, considering they had gone there the day before their possession began."
"But the only question now is," Welt continues, "what exactly is the type of miasma, and where has [Name]'s soul gone now?"
Dan Heng slams the archives shut, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk, brows furrowed so vehemently.
"Luofu possession either forces the host's soul back within their body, or ousts them into a new, soulless body."
"So, [Name] could still be in there?"
"Unlikely. Usually, if that were the case, the original host could manage to occupy the body at the same time as the possessor. In this case, however, it seems as though as the possessor has full autonomy over [Name]'s body."
This is your body.
This is, and will always be, your body.
"So, they've possessed a soulless body. The dead, then?" Welt remarks, quick as ever.
Dan Heng nods.
"I'm leaving," he states, grabbing his spear, damn near sprinting towards the helm, desperate to return to the source, the ship which he once belonged to, yet now exists merely as a past that serves to push him forward.
The future; it must have you.
Dan Heng likes you.
But maybe like is too light of a word, unable to bear the weight of which only a creature so hopelessly devoted could hold. Dan Heng adores you.
He adores you in such a way that has familiarized him with all of your habits; the tap of your fingers against glass, the way you save your favorite bites for last, the raise of your hand whenever you laugh.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that renders him unable to part his gaze from your smile in pictures, the way you seem to have a signature pose, the way you are so wholly and completely radiant. It's sublime. You're sublime.
("Want this photo, Dan Heng?" March asked, handing him a polaroid, its frame depicting only one subject. You.
(He grimaced slightly. Was he so obvious?
(Before he could say anything, March waved her hand dismissively, knowing that he'd decline the offer yet want it anyway. "Just have it!" she said, mischievous. "And I better get credits when you get together!")
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that he himself doesn't quite know when or how or why it began, or exists; it just does, and that fact alone is enough.
He boards the Luofu. The moon hangs in the freckled sky, and Dan Heng revisits the sight once more, wondering how it looks through your eyes, wondering if, in this way, your gazes will meet again, lost in space's vast face.
Then, he looks forward.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that feels as though he knows you better than himself. He knows your favorite foods, your favorite drinks, your favorite spots. He knows you love bustling environments, but also, that you like people watching from comfortable spots, content with the silence, wind kissing your skin.
There's a hill. On top, is a bench, shaded from the moonlight by the leaves of a blossoming tree. In its tender embrace is a figure, slumped, head tilted towards the sky.
Just a silhouette is enough.
Dan Heng races towards the pinnacle, the sublime, the wonder.
"[Name]!" he calls, even before reaching the top, even before his eyes can behold the sight of his beheld, even before your habits find him, your manners familiar. The silhouette is enough. The crane of your gaze towards the sky, the universe shifting in accordance to your perception, its worth assigned based on the mirth that enraptures your features, irrevocable, is enough.
You turn towards him, finger tapping on the wooden plank of the bench, head tilting to the side, mouth hanging slightly agape.
"Dan Heng?" you reply, disbelieving. "Dan Heng, how are you—"
Cloud-Piercer dissipates, his hands free, arms outstretched, engulfing you within its grasp as he feels your figure press against his, your body devoid of any warmth, its previous owner gone. But it doesn't matter to Dan Heng, what form you take, where your moles are, where your scars form. All that matters is this soul is yours. His soul is yours.
He breathes, most desperately, most fervently, most ardently. Dan Heng presses you closer to him, as if afraid you'll leave him, as if your soul could disappear again—but what difference would that make? Dan Heng will find you, new face and all, and he will love you again.
"[Name]," he says again, barely above a whisper. "[Name], I was so worried..."
Your name is proof of identity. And, when his lips cradle the syllables, and when its sweet sound echoes throughout the air, Dan Heng cannot help but say it again. He says your name just to say it, to solidify this identity, to put more of you in the world, to exist, the sublime, the irrevocable, the unabashed!
Briefly, his figure parts from yours, his hands on your shoulders still, gaze tracing over your new, yet well-loved, face. He examines you for any injuries, unable to contain the frantic race of his heart, now reunited with his beloved.
"[Name], someone stole—"
"I know," you reply, smiling still, eyes crinkling, joy finding you despite the circumstance. "I'll get it back, you know. That shit's not free!"
Dan Heng, for the first time since your possession, finds it in himself to spare the most subtle of smiles.
In the end, the solution was much simpler than anticipated.
Upon re-entering the Express, you found yourself in front of, well, yourself. And you stared at the image of your figure confined within a prison cell, the sight sending a shiver down your spine. Is this foreshadowing?
"For miasma cases such as this, it says that just a touch is enough to swap souls, so long as the one with the foreign body desires it. In this case, [Name], it's you," Welt explains, beckoning you towards the cage.
You snort. "Damn."
Despite your possessor's vehement attempt at swatting you away, and curling back into the cage which they had once so desperately tried to escape, you manage to graze your finger against theirs, the world spinning immediately after. Hazy, you feel yourself falling back, and a pair of arms manage to catch you before the pain of the ground hits—but then, you wake up, now behind bars.
The arms, which once served to stop you from falling, now drop your possessor's form to the ground.
And, soon after, a spear pierces the body's chest.
Nobody says anything. Except for you, however, with an uninspiring, "Ooh... That looked like it hurt."
Dan Heng, paying no mind to Cloud-Piercer's spot in the body's newfound cavity, is quick to slam the prison open, his hand outstretched, callused and all, as he helps you up, his expression unreadable save for the slight melt of his irises, the relief which sweeps over his lips.
Click! A camera goes off. You wince at the light, and Dan Heng sighs.
"March," he mutters. The girl in question makes no effort to say anything.
"March," Stelle calls, before throwing up finger guns, "give me that photo!"
"Stelle..." Dan Heng mutters, in a tone quite similar to the one he just used to utter March's name. But then, your laugh resounds throughout the Express, the sound satiating the emptiness which pervaded so thickly in your absence, and Dan Heng can't help but turn towards you, pupils finding their place, beheld reunited with the beholder.
ྐ❤︎ your f/o who gets a little weak in the knees when you say their name, thinking about kissing you breathless to feel that same voice waver and rattle in their lungs
Your f/o is leaning their head against your shoulder as we speak. Are you studying? Working? Maybe you got distracted and now you have company to doomscroll with?
Certainly don't think of your f/o wrapping themselves around you and pecking your forehead. Now you'll never get your work done.
hello selfshipper. btw your f/o wants to kiss you and hold you so bad right now. yes, right now. doesn’t matter what you look like or what you’re doing. they think you’re so cute and they just want to be with you and cherish you for a little while. i don’t make the rules, i’m just the messenger <3
Heizou’s kisses are very playful. He loves to catch you by surprise with them, either kissing you out of the blue on the cheek, or coming up behind you and tapping one of your shoulders to get you to look back, only to sneak in front of you and surprise you with a small kiss when you turn around. His antics catch you off-guard and make your face flush, and he adores how flustered you look. Little else brings the detective as much joy as seeing your embarrassed expression because of his surprise kisses.
When you try to get back at him by springing surprise kisses upon him too, Heizou can’t help but grow even more smitten with you. He delights in your ability to outsmart him and catch him off-guard with kisses since it’s not often that the sharp detective is unable to see something coming. To him, the moments where you pleasantly surprise him with soft kisses of your own make his breath hitch and his heart flutter. He’ll laugh it off, teasing you a bit to try and distract you from his rosy cheeks, a bit embarrassed to feel his heart flutter because of your affection.
Heizou prefers giving fleeting and light pecks rather than deep kisses. His kisses are quick like his mind, but he gives many of them. Throughout the day, he’ll find an opportunity to brush his lips against the skin of your lips, cheek, neck, hand—you name it. He’ll kiss every inch of your exposed skin when you least expect it and then give you a large grin and a lighthearted laugh. He’s a bit like a lovesick schoolboy that tries to get your attention by teasing you to try and get a reaction out of you. Sometimes his kisses would tickle you and make you laugh, and he would grin and laugh along with you. Your laughter brightens his day. Even when he’s stuck on a case or troubled by a tragic event he saw while on the job, your smile and laugh would always make his heart lighter and remind him that there is still so much good in the world worth fighting for.
Ayato:
Ayato is a huge tease. Whenever you ask for kisses from him, he’ll bring his face close to yours, his eyes looking into your own with desire. However, you sometimes fail to catch the mischievous gleam in his violet irises. Ayato’s hand would gently grip your chin to tilt your head up as he brings his face close to yours, lips hovering mere inches from your own. You feel his warm breath ghost over your lips and your eyes flutter closed as you wait for Ayato to close the little distance between you and gift you the sensation of his soft lips.
You wait. And wait some more. When no kiss comes, you open your eyes and are faced with the amused expression of the Yashiro Commissioner, his shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. He lives to witness the indignation and annoyance that paint across your face at his childish behavior. Ayato can’t help himself—he just loves to tease you and get a rise out of you. He is the face of the Kamisato Clan and must keep up due appearances by remaining mature and composed at all times. But when he’s with you, he just wants to let go and satisfy his inner child. Unfortunately for you, you become his main target for such pranks. Your reactions to his teasing amuse him greatly, but he does this because he’s so in love with you. Ayato just finds your expressions incredibly cute.
While you can’t always get the kisses you want, Ayato ensures he always gets his from you. If he goes too far and genuinely upsets you with his teasing, he will turn soft and give you gentle affections in the form of kisses to your neck or hands in silent apology. He also likes to hug you from behind and draw your back against his chest, trapping you in his embrace just so he can whisper sweet nothings in your ear about how gorgeous you are before kissing your ear and jaw. As much as he likes to tease you by denying you what you want, he makes up for it later by lavishing you in tender, lingering kisses. He also likes to press his lips together with yours in a passionate kiss until both of you are flushed and breathless as a way to say ‘I love you’. Ayato knows he’s a lot to deal with. He’s a very busy man, so he can’t spare a lot of time to spend together with you, which is why he is eternally grateful to you for being so understanding and patient with him.
Itto:
Itto boasts about what a great kisser he is. He talks big about his nonexistent abilities but when the time comes to follow through with his words, the oni grows nervous and hesitant. He’s never kissed anyone, never even thought about it before he met you. But now that’s he’s faced with your expectant gaze, he falters. Swallowing hard, he’ll try to play it cool but the stutter in his words gives away how nervous he truly is. Working up the courage, Itto decides to just go for it and literally smashes his lips against yours. He does it a little too hard and sends you stumbling back a bit, clutching at your bruised mouth. He’s mortified. Dropping all pretenses, the oni rushes to you with apologies, worried he hurt you and that you’ll hate him for this. Please reassure the guy that it’s ok and you’ll help him learn how to kiss properly. He might still bluster a bit, but ultimately decides to swallow his pride and let you teach him because he doesn’t want to hurt you like that again.
You’ll have to teach him not to rush and take his time at first. Itto will still try to do things his way and jump the gun by forcing his tongue in your mouth without really knowing what he’s doing, making the kisses turn out sloppy and messy. After a lot of patience on your part, Itto learns to dial it back and give you firm close-mouthed kisses. He’s still a bit clumsy, but he tries his best to make the experience pleasant for you.
One thing he’s always mindful of are his sharp teeth and long nails. He’s always careful to not accidentally nick you with his fangs or scratch you with his nails when he caresses your face or arms. He may be boyish and wild, but he loves you with his whole heart and would never want to hurt you—accidentally or otherwise. He swears you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him with how happy and loved you make him feel, and he wants to keep you safe and happy in return.
Thoma:
Thoma’s kisses are very loving. He is affectionate by nature and expresses his love for those close to him on a regular basis, but he has an especially large amount of love to give you, his lover. He really enjoys kissing you anywhere on your face, but if he had to choose, he’d say your lips are his favorite place to kiss because he feels the most connected to you that way.
When kissing, Thoma likes to cradle your face in his warm palms, gently angling your head into the most comfortable position for whatever type of kiss the two of you are sharing. Thoma’s kisses are more on the chaste side, but they always fill you with so much warmth and comfort because without him even having to say it, you can feel how much love he feels for you through his kisses. The protective way his arms wrap around you, the tender and gentle manner in which he caresses your face, the loving smile and gaze he directs your way— they all say I’m here, you’re safe with me. And you truly do feel your worries and anxieties melt away each time Thoma kisses you. You can’t quite explain it, but the sensation of safety and support he gives you with his touch is enough to make you believe that everything truly will be alright.
Despite his innocent, golden retriever-like demeanor, Thoma absolutely can share more heated and passionate kisses with you, especially when he’s feeling frisky. During such times, the retainer likes to swipe his tongue against your lips before slipping it inside your mouth. He’s unexpectedly really good at French kissing, knowing all the right ways in intertwining your tongues together in the most pleasurable manner, only parting once you’re both short on breath, with a string of saliva joining your mouths together. Even so, Thoma still defaults to sweet and loving kisses because he wants to make you feel safe and loved in his presence. He aims to give you at least two such kisses per day—once in the morning and a second time before bed when his retainer duties at the Kamisato Estate are finished. Sharing kisses with you always brightens his mood and fills him with the energy and determination he needs to carry out his duties quickly so he can return to your side and see your beautiful smile again.
Kazuha:
Kazuha’s kisses are as soft and light as the breeze. He enjoys kissing your palms while gazing into your eyes, spontaneously reciting a new haiku about the depth of his love for you or the feeling of your soft skin against his lips. He can be surprisingly very forward and bold about his affection for you, and lets out a soft laugh whenever you get flustered from his flirting, finding your reaction to his kisses and words to be cute.
He also likes to kiss your hands if you get upset with him or other things happening in your life. He tells you words of reassurance and support, taking both your hands in between his and bringing them up for a kiss. Such actions convey his devotion and desire to comfort you because he wants you to know that you can rely on him to be there for you. He also has a tendency to kiss your shoulder. If you’re hugging or are simply spending some alone time together in close proximity, Kazuha will use the opportunity to place his lips to your shoulder in a lingering kiss.
Despite his overall calm demeanor, Kazuha has a tendency to get a little playful with you when the mood strikes. While kissing, he could gently nip your bottom lip, or lean in for a kiss only to kiss the corner of your mouth at the last moment. He tries to hold back his laughter at your indignant reaction to his teasing, but sometimes he lets a chuckle slip past. Overall, his kisses are usually soft, gentle, and exploratory in nature. He likes to take his time to explore your feelings for each other both through words and physical touch. He wants to make sure you feel comfortable enough to open up to him in such intimate situations, which is why he takes it nice and slow. He feels really connected to you during such intimate moments. He may be a wandering samurai that travels all over Teyvat, but you are his home, the one he belongs with, and the one that makes him happiest.
Gorou:
Gorou is nervous to initiate kissing. He wants to, but is unsure of how to ask for it since he lacks confidence. You could be the first one to suggest kissing, to which Gorou’s tail will wag and ears perk up before nervously agreeing. However, if you don’t, then after some time when Gorou feels like the moment is right, he will work up the courage to ask you if you wanted to move onto the next step of your relationship. He’ll be red in the face and avoid eye-contact out of nervousness, but despite his anxious demeanor, his words are heartfelt. He truly hopes you’ll agree. When you do, he’s overjoyed and rapidly wags his tail with a happy grin. His beaming smile truly is one of the most precious sights you’ve ever seen.
Gorou takes your hands in his and you feel them trembling both from excitement and nerves, but the General will steel himself and persist. He asks if you’re really sure about this. Even with your consent, he’ll still take it slow to give you time to back out in case you change your mind, since he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
Once Gorou finally presses his lips to yours, you will have a very happy dog boy on your hands. Gorou won’t admit this, but he’s fantasized about what it would feel like to kiss you for a very long time, and the real thing simply didn’t compare to his imagination. His heart races rapidly in his chest, but he also feels warm and fuzzy inside, almost as if he could float away like a cloud. That’s how happy you make him feel. After you part from the chaste kiss, Gorou looks at you with the most lovestruck eyes. The kiss felt downright magical, and he swears you must have cast a spell on him because now he’s even more in love with you than he thought was possible. His tail wags behind him, catching your attention. If Gorou sees you pay too much attention to it, he’ll grow flustered and apologize, but he’ll be unable to stop his tail. He’s brimming with so much joy about having gotten this intimate with you that his body can’t contain it. Expect him to give you more kisses in the future, and perhaps even some possessive marks on the nape of your neck. The Watatsumi general can be surprisingly territorial.
hi! love, love, love your lohen pieces! if this is something you're comfortable with, would you consider writing lohen with a stubborn reader who attempts to hide an injury or bruises? perhaps from a fight, spar or a monster attack
been craving some angst, ty in advance ~
⋆｡˚ 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐘 .ᐟ.ᐟ lohen
⊹˚. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 : Lohen. [x reader]
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 : After returning from a mission with a life-threatening injury you desperately tried to conceal, you locked yourself inside your office, determined to endure the pain alone. When Lohen unexpectedly caught you before you can hide the truth.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 3k !!
ⓘ : 𝐒𝐅𝐖. blood, heavy wound, collapse/fainting, pain, you literally hit your wound to a table, angst but also fluff (?), lohen calls you [name]
𝐀/𝐍. ANONNN YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE GENIUS i love this idea so much mm,, i hope the writing is to your liking though!! felt like this wasn't my best one huhu,, (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
The heavy oak door swung shut behind you with a muted click, instantly cutting off the ambient hum of the headquarters and locking you in heavy silence. Your hand instantly reached for the brass lock, turning it with unsteady fingers until the mechanism slipped firmly into place. Remaining your back to the room, you leaned your side against the wooden surface of the door, your forehead resting against the cool wooden surface, your eyes falling shut as uneven breaths escaped through clenched teeth.
‘Fuck,’ another sigh escaped your lips, ‘it hurts so bad.’
Each inhalation carved sharply through your ribs, sending another relentless wave of pain radiating beneath the heavy fabric of your coat. The office lay bathed in the subdued amber glow of the late afternoon, long shafts of light streamed through the tall windows and stretched across the polished floor in quiet ribbons of gold. Countless motes of dust drifted through the still air with effortless serenity, the room untouched by anything save the paint rhythm of your strained breathing. ‘Just make it to the chair.’
With visible reluctance, you forced yourself away from the door.
‘You only have to make it to the chair𑁋’
“Look who finally made it back.”
The voice broke the silence with startling clarity. Your eyes opened at once, a sharp surge of alarm cutting through the haze clouding your thoughts as your gaze darted toward the source.
Lohen occupied your chair with effortless familiarity, reclining as though the office belonged as much to him as it did to you. His legs were crossed comfortably atop your desk while a daffer revolved between his fingers in smooth, practiced motions, its polished blade briefly catching the afternoon light with every turn. His gaze lingered upon you with leisurely confidence, observing your reaction without the slightest urgency.
After one final rotation, he allowed the dagger to fall neatly upon the desk with an absent flick of his wrist. “I was starting to think you got roped into helping out at Dornman Port again. Did you manage to clear out those hilichurl camps by the canyon?”
A flicker of irritation crossed your features.
‘Of all the moments for him to appear, it had to be now.’
Without offering him more than the briefest glance, you deliberately turned your attention elsewhere, refusing to meet his eyes. Rather than crossing the centre of the office, you altered your course toward the row of bookshelves lining the wall. Your fingertips found the polished wood almost instinctively, gliding lightly along its surface.
“Yeah, it’s done,” you said. “Now leave. Get out of my office, Lohen. I have things I need to do.”
Your voice emerged unusually subdued, entirely devoid of the dry wit that ordinarily coloured your exchanges with him. The smile upon Lohen’s face diminished almost imperceptibly.
Without diverting his attention from you, he lowered his legs from the desk, both boots meeting the floor with quiet, measured thuds. The chair shifted backwards with a muted scrape as he rose to his feet, one hand resting briefly upon the desk while the other steadied the chair’s armrest.
“Hey, hold on a second.” Stepping away from the desk, he rounded its corner with measured purpose, his gaze never leaving your retreating figure. “What’s up with you today? You’re acting like I’m a total stranger.”
“I just want to sit down and rest,” you mumbled, your pace remaining steady as your fingertips found the edge of the bookshelf, gliding across the polished wood in quiet search of support. You drew your coat more tightly around yourself, your elbows held rigidly against your sides as though the heavy fabric alone could conceal what your body no longer had the strength to hide. “It was a long walk back. Go bother Kaeya or someone else already.”
“A long walk doesn’t make you walk like your spine is made of glass,” Lohen countered, the easy levity in his voice giving way to quiet scrutiny.
Rather than allowing you to pass, he stepped forward with measured composure, effortlessly intercepting your path before you could reach the desk. The movement was unhurried, almost deceptively casual, yet it carried an unmistakable finality. His broad frame occupied the space before you, leaving only a narrow opening at his side, just enough that you could still slip past him if you insisted, though not without brushing against him in the process.
His gaze settled upon you. Your eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, as though acknowledging his presence required more strength than you possessed. Your jaw was drawn so tightly that the muscle trembled beneath your skin with every restrained breath. Whatever warmth ordinarily lingered in your complexion had long since drained away, leaving your features pale beneath the afternoon light. Fine strands of hair clung to your forehead, dampened by a faint sheen of perspiration, while exhaustion carved quiet shadows beneath your eyes.
“Look at me for a second.”
“I’m fine, Lohen. Would you just get out of my way?” you snapped, your voice faltering despite your efforts to steady it, the brittle edge of frustration unable to conceal the panic beneath.
Without waiting for him to answer, you abruptly shifted toward the narrow space beside him, determined to force your way through before he could stop you again.
Lohen reacted instinctively. His hand caught the edge of your coat. The sudden pull halted your momentum just long enough for irritation to eclipse caution. You turned sharply, slapping his wrist away almost on reflex, determined to free yourself from his grasp.
He released you immediately. But your balance had already abandoned you.
The abrupt turn carried more kinetic force than your depleted, blood-starved body could withstand, stripping away your final, fragile anchor to the floor. Gravity claimed you in a terrifying, unyielding instant, your footing betrayed you on the polished wood, sending you tilting sideways in a helpless descent toward the sharp, solid mahogany corner of the desk.
Lohen lunged for you at once, his reflexes outrunning conscious thought as his hand closed firmly around yours, trying to anchor your falling weight. Instinctively, your free hand shot forward, palm slamming against the surface of the desk in a desperate attempt to brace yourself, but the violent momentum refused to yield. With a sickening, heavy thud that reverberated through the quiet room, a sound that betrayed the sheer, crushing force of the collision, the sharp corner of the desk struck you directly in the flank.
The impact acted like a physical wedge driven straight into the raw, weeping center of your deep, heavily bleeding wound, violently rupturing what little clotting had formed and sending a fresh, agonizingly hot surge of crimson blooming across your skin.
The cry tore from your throat without restraint, a shattered, breathless sound of pure, unadulterated torment. "Fuck!"
Your entire body seized violently. Every nerve ending screamed as a spasm of blinding, white-hot agony locked your muscles beneath the sudden shock, your shoulders drawing sharply upward until they stood rigid with a brutal, paralyzing tension. The strength fled your legs almost immediately, the room spinning in nauseating, fragmented colors before your eyes.
“[Name]?” Lohen released your wrist at once as you folded completely against the desk, your forehead lowering to the cool, dark wood while your breathing fractured into shallow, desperate gasps. One hand curled into a fist so tightly your knuckles blanched beneath the strain, while the other instinctively pressed against your side as though trying to contain the overwhelming, throbbing ache radiating through your torso. Quiet, involuntary whimpers and pained groans escaped between each labored breath, your composure entirely unraveling despite every desperate attempt to remain silent.
The office fell still. Only your uneven breathing disturbed the silence, each measured inhale sounding increasingly difficult to draw. A faint tremor coursed through your frame, impossible to suppress, until even standing became an act sustained by little more than stubborn resolve. The change in you was immediate.
So was the change in Lohen.
Whatever lingering doubt remained vanished in an instant. Alarm overtook him completely.
Fearing you would collapse outright, he stepped in without hesitation, bracing himself against the desk as he steadied your unsteady frame before it could slide toward the floor. Concern displaced every trace of frustration upon his features as his eyes followed the hand desperately guarding your side. His own hands moved with urgent purpose, catching hold of the front of your cloak before pulling it open, determined at last to uncover the truth you had been fighting so fiercely to conceal.
Lohen froze. His gaze remained fixed upon what lay beneath the parted folds of your cloak, his mind refusing to reconcile the image before him with the person standing only an arm’s length away. Refusing to register the sheer volume of blood smeared across your side. “Shit…!” The curse escaped through clenched teeth.
“Are you fucking insane?!” Lohen yelled, his voice reverberating through the office, stripped of every trace of composure. “You’re bleeding out! And you’re standing there acting like this is absolutely nothing?!”
Still bent over the desk, your forehead remained pressed against the polished wooden surface, your shoulders rising and falling in short breaths. One hand stayed clenched into a fist while the other remained firmly pressed against your side. Yet even then, stubbornness refused to leave you. “Ugh… It looks worse than𑁋”
The sentence faltered immediately, your breathing caught sharply, cutting the words apart before they could fully leave your mouth. You swallowed against another wave of pain, your voice dissolving into little more than a strained murmure. “It’s just… I can… handle…”
“Handle it?! You𑁋!” The words died in his throat. His anger collapsed beneath the weight of what laid before him. Your body remained folded over the edge of the desk, every shallow breath accompanied by another involuntary tremor running through your shoulders.
Lohen leaned forward, stopping only when he stood close enough to hear every strained breath you struggled to draw. His hands lifted without thought before freezing helplessly in the air, suspended just above your shoulders. They hovered there uncertainly, fingers trembling with restrained urgency, afraid to touch you yet equally afraid of doing nothing at all.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, then back to the hand still pressed desperately against your side. “You just…” he began quietly, his voice stripped of everything except raw disbelief. “...you hit the corner of the desk.” His words came slower now, “right where you’re bleeding.”
His hand cautiously reached your shoulder, stopping only a breath away as he searched your face for any sign that he could touch you without causing more pain. “Just stay still.” His whispered. “Let me help you.”
"Don’t touch me..." you breathed weakly.
Even so, stubbornness compelled you to move.
With a strained exhale, you planted both hands against the edge of the desk and attempted to force yourself upright, every muscle in your body protesting the effort. For a fleeting instant, it seemed you had succeeded. Your weight shifted onto your feet, your shoulders trembling beneath the strain as you tried to pull away from the desk.
Then the room tilted.
The office blurred into indistinct streaks of amber and shadow, the edges of your vision darkening as though the world itself had begun to recede. Your balance disappeared without warning. The strength fled your legs before you could recover, and your body lurched forward helplessly instead of away.
Straight into Lohen.
The collision drove him back half a step, though he barely seemed to notice. His arms instinctively came up to steady you before you could crumple entirely, one hand catching your arm while the other hovered uncertainly behind your back, careful not to venture anywhere near the injury he had only just discovered. Your forehead brushed against his shoulder as your breathing fractured into shallow, uneven gasps, each one weaker than the last.
Lohen reacted immediately, every movement stripped of haste despite the panic surging beneath his composure. One hand settled around your elbow with remarkable care, supporting your weight without forcing you into any position that might worsen your condition. The other remained suspended for a heartbeat, searching for somewhere safe to hold you before finally resting against your uninjured side with the gentlest pressure he could manage.
"Hey, hey, don't. Don't do this. Don't fight me," he pleaded, the steadiness in his voice threatening to splinter. He shifted closer, allowing his own shoulder to bear the weight your body could no longer sustain. Through the layers of your clothing he could already feel the unnatural chill settling over you, a quiet warning that sent another wave of dread crashing through him. His eyes searched your face relentlessly, watching every strained breath, every flicker of pain crossing your features as though afraid the next time he looked, you would no longer be conscious. "Look at me. You're losing too much blood. Just let me hold you up. I’ve got you."
Your jaw tightened.
Summoning what little strength remained, you pressed an unsteady hand against his chest, attempting to create even the smallest distance between you. The effort scarcely moved him. Instead, it drained what remained of your balance, forcing you to stumble backward until the bookshelves caught you once again. Your fingers immediately grasped at the polished wood, clinging to it with desperate determination as though refusing to stand on your own feet meant surrendering something far greater than simple independence.
"I can walk... to the infirmary... by myself," you whispered, your gaze unfocused as it drifted somewhere beyond him, no longer truly seeing the man standing before you. Your fingertips dug into the edge of the shelf in a futile attempt to anchor yourself against the darkness steadily pressing at the edges of your vision. "Just... leave me be."
Lohen stared at you in disbelief.
A slow, weary sigh escaped him, the sound carrying more frustration than anger.
One hand came up to rub briefly across his face before falling again, his shoulders rising with another measured breath as he struggled to contain the growing irritation born entirely from fear.
"Are you trying to die or something?," Lohen whispered, the words leaving him with quiet exasperation rather than raised fury. His brows remained tightly drawn together as he looked at you, unable to comprehend how you still found the strength to argue when simply remaining upright had become a battle of its own. Carefully, he reached toward your uninjured side once more, his movements slow enough to give you every opportunity to pull away if you truly wished. "Please. I'm right here. Just lean on me."
"No... I've got it..." you mumbled, your head tipping back in one final, stubborn attempt to prove a point, even as the conviction behind your words had long since abandoned your body. It was as though sheer will alone had been forcing your legs to remain beneath you, and the moment those words left your lips, that fragile thread finally snapped.
The office began to sway around you with unsettling slowness, the familiar outlines of shelves, books, and polished mahogany dissolving into indistinct silhouettes as darkness crept inward from the edges of your vision. The warm afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows fractured into blurred ribbons of gold before fading altogether, while the steady rhythm of your heartbeat became the only sound you could still distinguish.
A quiet, involuntary sigh escaped your lips, carrying with it the final remnants of your consciousness as every muscle surrendered at once and your body pitched forward without the slightest attempt to catch itself.
"Hey!" Lohen reacted before the thought had even fully formed. The instant your full weight collapsed against him, the force drove him backward, his boots scraping sharply across the wooden floor as he fought to recover his footing before the both of you followed your momentum to the ground. His arm shot instinctively around your back while the other slipped beneath your knees, gathering you securely against him in one fluid movement born entirely of reflex.
He staggered beneath the sudden shift of weight, tightening his hold as he steadied himself, his heart pounding violently against his ribs while your body lay utterly limp within his arms. Your head rolled gently against his shoulder, completely devoid of resistance. There was no stubborn protest telling him to let go, no irritated attempt to push him away, no strained insistence that you could still walk. Only the faintest whisper of breath brushed against his collar, so fragile he found himself unconsciously holding his own, listening desperately for the next.
"Hey. Hey, stay with me. Open your eyes," he muttered, his voice trembling despite every effort to steady it as he shifted you closer against his chest, instinctively cradling you as though sheltering you from a storm only he could see.
One hand remained carefully braced against your side, his touch impossibly gentle despite the urgency coursing through him, while his eyes searched your face with growing desperation, pleading for the slightest movement behind your closed eyelids, the smallest sign that you could still hear him. Your breathing remained frighteningly shallow, your features slack with unconsciousness, and the unnatural stillness settling over you made his stomach twist into a knot so tight it became painful.
“Damn it.” The curse slipped through clenched teeth before he drew a slow, unsteady breath, forcing himself to think despite the panic threatening to overwhelm him. There was no possibility of leaving you alone while he searched for someone else, nor could he afford to waste another precious moment hoping you would regain consciousness on your own.
"Stupid... stubborn idiot..." he murmured, the words stripped entirely of irritation and weighed down instead by fear so profound it threatened to fracture his voice. Tightening his hold ever so slightly, he adjusted your weight with painstaking care, ensuring your injured side remained as undisturbed as possible before turning sharply toward the office door.
With a forceful shove, he sent it swinging open against the stone wall and broke into a run through the corridors of headquarters, every stride measured despite his urgency, every instinct focused solely on protecting the unconscious woman resting silently within his arms. He held you impossibly close, as though the strength of his embrace alone could keep you anchored to him until help finally arrived.
it was natural phenomenon, a puppet crafted from a branch of irminsul by the hands of the very electro archon herself, was bound to be flawless, composed of features revered by myth and legend.
but skin that remained pale and unfazed by the sun, or weight immune to fluctuation, were things that lacked any sort of humanity. they were unnatural, unrealistic, and characteristics no human should strive for.
dolls hardly resemble people, they were simply canvases to craft perfection instead of beauty. wanderer was completed, not born.
he knows very well of his artificial nature. he knows he cannot alter it, nor did he dwell too much on what he couldn't change. however, being called "pretty", was a jarring reminder of his inherent difference, and the absense of a heart.
so, whenever someone called him complimented his face, he didn't feel too much. he'd simply brush it off, before grunting and moving on with his day, books clutched tightly.
humans concerned themselves with 'beauty', dedicating hours of effort and an eternity of stress to pursue something that lacked a true form. it was something far too precious to subject to a singular, objective form, unlike the principles of mathematics and science. whatever 'standard' of it that existed was simply consequence of certain people being too vocal about their preferences.
wanderer had heard of dehya's complaints of her wide shoulders and muscular build, yet he couldn't comprehend why one should feel ashamed of such strength. layla kept her face down, excusing it with her dark circles, when wanderer thought they were rather pleasant, even though he hardly noticed their presence. he's overheard teenagers groan about acne and pimples, but all he saw was growth and metamorphosis, a bittersweet farewell to childhood. he wondered how proud their parents must've been.
humans are a bit dense sometimes, he thinks. and oblivious to how beautiful they can be, with a tendency to believe otherwise.
"stop saying that."
"what, that you're pretty?" you commented, poking him in the shoulder. "but you are pretty."
and for some reason, you were well aware of his inhuman nature, yet showered him with praise.
the house of daena was, for the first time in a while, empty, with the exception of you two. all that glowed were the desk lamps, and the midnight wind occasionally ventured inside through its large windows.
wanderer was skimming through his required readings, you were annoying wanderer.
"you do realise nothing about me is natural." he muttered. "that includes how i look."
you do not find him beautiful, or anything of the sort, you thought of his creator as talented. you were enamoured by the raiden shogun's craftsmanship, not wanderer himself.
you shrugged. "fake flowers aren't real. they're still pretty."
he grunted, continuing to read his book. fake flowers were also loveable.
"and." you slouched, inching closer to him while resting your head on a stack of books. "it's not just your face, y'know. bold of you to think you're handsome."
to that, wanderer snickered, before swallowing it down and turning a page.
"you're pretty because you're kind."
he disagreed, he knew otherwise. he kept reading his book, the ink words barely registering to him.
anyone who'd even heard of the balladeer and his violent ways would disagree easily.
"and you're my favourite." you added, slowly tapping a nail against mahogany. "my favourite person."
wanderer's breath hitched, and then he swallowed.
"like you finished the rest of my essay that one time. even though it was my fault i was falling behind."
he scoffed. that was because you were struggling to adapt to the akademiya and its overbearing walls. wanderer felt the same too.
"and you're a really good listener. i can tell you anything."
wanderer rolled his eyes this time. listening was hardly anything, he thought. everyone had their own life, a tale unique to them. if anything, for someone to open up is a blessing, a sign of trust and comfort.
"oh, and cats! you always pet cats."
of course he did. he adored all wildlife. cats just happened to be his favourite.
"i don't get what point you're trying to make."
you shrugged. "you're more human than you think. far more than most scholars of the akademiya. and people in general. you can yap about being a puppet all you want, but you have a heart."
finally, wanderer peeled himself from his book; he wasn't exactly paying attention to it anyways. disagreement danced at the tip of his tongue, but he refrained.
maybe it was how you glowed despite the absence of light, or the softness of your voice floating through the air. maybe it was because you said everything he wanted to hear.
but if you thought of him as human, then he must be one, regardless of his nature.
his cheeks screamed red. "you're talking so much today, what do you want?"
and lucky for him, you didn't think to stop and tease him. "you. i want you." you stood up, snatching his book, and he let you. "do you even sleep? take a break."
wanderer sighed, taking your hand. "fine, if you insist."
so through the house of daena you pulled him, promising to buy him all the snacks he wanted for working so hard. you reprimanded him for not sleeping and taking breaks, wanderer simply promised to do so from then on.
