Can I request for Dan Heng, Aventurine and Sunday and Jing Yuan when they accidentally made their child cry and sulk at them for days and readers has to step in to stop them from sulking at their father? (Imagine Sunday's child crying and sulking when Sunday teaches them piano and accidentally give his child Asian parent look💔)
The Silence After Tears
Synopsis: A quiet storm brews in the hearts of fathers when a fleeting moment of sternness leads to unexpected tears. With hours or even days of sulking stretching on, it's up to you—their steady anchor—to guide both parent and child back to understanding, forgiveness, and the warmth of home.
Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Dad Fluff, Emotional Reconciliation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Angst, Parenting Moments, Domestic Life, Soft Dad Moments, Light Humor.
Warnings: Minor emotional distress (child crying/sulking), Mentions of parental guilt, Brief moments of tension.
Dan Heng had always approached parenting like he did everything else—with quiet reverence and studied caution. But even the calmest waters can ripple under pressure.
It started when your child—eager to help with a maintenance check—dropped Dan Heng’s datapad, the one he meticulously customized over years. His voice was sharper than he intended.
"Please be careful," he had said, cold and clipped.
Their lower lip trembled. The tears came quickly.
They'd barely spoken to him in three days.
Dan Heng had tried. He’d left their favorite illustrated codex by their bedside, even prepared their snack just the way they liked. But every time he entered the room, they’d burrow deeper into their blanket fort.
You found him that evening, standing just outside their door like a sentinel.
“They’re still mad at me,” he murmured.
“They’re not mad, Dan,” you said, brushing your fingers against his. “They’re just hurt.”
“I never wanted to frighten them.”
You guided him in. Sat beside the fort.
“They miss you. They told me.”
Dan Heng lowered himself beside you, fingers curling in silent hesitation.
You lifted the flap of the blanket. “Hey. There’s someone here who wants to say something.”
From beneath the covers, two tear-glossed eyes peeked out. Dan Heng bent forward.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t angry with you. I was—afraid. That you’d been hurt. I didn’t... express it well.”
The child crawled into his lap in seconds.
Dan Heng held them like porcelain—fragile but precious. “I’ll do better.”
You smiled softly, heart warmed by the quiet reunion.
Aventurine had always believed in high-stakes parenting—just enough charm and challenge to keep things interesting.
But this time, he’d pushed too far.
“You call that a card throw?” he’d teased during a game of Star Suit. “Come on, sweetheart. Even the dealer bots are laughing.”
He hadn’t expected the tears. Or the storm-off. Or the little handwritten note left on his desk that read: ‘I don’t want to play with you anymore.’
You found him sprawled on the couch, a deck of cards untouched on his chest, staring up at the ceiling.
“Wow,” he muttered. “I actually lost the game I care about most.”
“Aven,” you sat beside him, nudging his foot. “They’re sulking because they want to play with you. Not because they don’t.”
He peeked at you through his glasses. “What if I go in there and make it worse? I don’t exactly have a stellar record with... feelings.”
“Then let your actions talk.”
An hour later, your child opened their door to find a glittering tower of snack chips and an apology note stacked like playing cards:
‘I fold. Come back to the table?’
Behind it stood Aventurine, offering their lucky chip.
They tackled him in a hug.
“You’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked softly.
“I’m mad you didn’t teach me how to win.”
He laughed, scooping them up. “Now that’s my kid.”
The piano room was quiet—too quiet.
Sunday sat on the bench alone, fingers suspended above the keys, golden halo faintly dim.
He hadn’t meant to do it. He’d only raised a brow. Perhaps tightened his jaw. But the moment his child missed the seventh chord progression—for the third time—his gaze had gone still. Cold. That look.
The “Asian parent disappointment face,” you later joked gently. Sunday hadn’t laughed.
“They won’t even hum with me anymore,” he said now, melancholic.
“They said you looked at them like they weren’t good enough,” you told him, running a hand through his hair. “They don’t understand your silence yet, love.”
He looked toward the practice room. “I should have praised their hands. Their ear. I only focused on the mistake.”
“Then focus on them now.”
He returned to the piano later that night. The child peeked from the hallway, arms crossed.
Sunday patted the bench beside him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently, wings fluttering. “You are not your mistakes. You are music in motion.”
The child hesitated... then sat beside him.
He began with a slow, simple tune. One they used to hum together. As the notes bloomed, the child rested their head against his shoulder.
“I missed you, papa.”
His smile was faint, but real. “I never left.”
You found Jing Yuan standing still as stone in the courtyard, arms folded, gaze low.
“He’s sulking,” you whispered to your child. “Just like you.”
The incident had been minor, at least in your eyes. Jing Yuan had accidentally canceled your child’s playdate with Yanqing because of a surprise inspection. His reason had been logical—safety, timing, military protocols.
But logic doesn’t soothe a child’s disappointment.
Especially not when their lion-hearted father forgets to say he’s sorry.
“I told them it was necessary,” Jing Yuan said to you later. “But their eyes... they looked like I’d betrayed them.”
“You didn’t, honey. But they needed your heart more than your mind.”
He finally knocked on the door.
“I made a grave error,” he said, kneeling before his child like a general before a monarch. “I forgot that honor means nothing if it wounds those we love.”
The child frowned. “You said I needed to learn ‘sacrifice.’”
“And I was wrong. At least, in how I said it.” Jing Yuan opened his arms. “May I have the chance to try again?”
“Fine,” the child grumbled, smiling.
Jing Yuan grinned. “Then let the next battle be—extra dessert after dinner.”
After re-blogging that American Education System post I just thought of past things that happened to me when I was in elementary school that piss me off even more now that I think about them. I just need to type them out.
- In fifth grade we started doing long division with fractions. I sucked, and still suck, at math so I didn't get it. My older sister showed me a completely different way on how to do it that made sense so she wrote down the steps on a piece of paper that I could keep in my desk if I ever got stuck. The next day our teacher went over it again with us, no one understood it. Even the "smart kid". We were told to work on problems in a group, I showed my friends my sister's method and they finally understood. We were the first ones done. When we demonstrated to the class how we got it, the teacher totally flipped out and started yelling at us for not using the "correct method". We got a zero for participation that day.......also I failed the quiz the next day because my work was not "the mathematical process we learned together in class".
- I had a really high reading/comprehension level. Thankfully, most of my teachers nurtured this. Until fourth grade. We had a 'specialist' teacher come in and work with us on writing essays and reading analysis, Miss. G. Our main teacher, Mr. R, had us read a book together every marking period. We would take turns reading aloud in class and then discuss the chapter when we were finished. I loved reading aloud. You were allowed to read only twice per chapter so everyone in the class got a chance, but if a student was really shy about it or losing their voice they could give their turn to someone else. When my friends were sick they'd always give it to me since they knew how much I liked it. Miss G sat in on one of these sessions. She told Mr. R not to let me read aloud at all anymore. Apparently, I made the other kids who didn't read as well feel bad and self-conscious. I still hate her for that.
- If you were advanced in a certain subject our school would make you work with the kids who were below average for group work. One kid, whom had trouble with reading, I was friends with so I didn't mind as much if I got to help him. I was never paired with him though, only other girls who needed help. I found out by eaves-dropping on our teachers that it was like this because they didn't want to embarrass the boys by having girls help them.
