Hi! I saw your work on Hsr fics while hunting down for Dan Heng ones. They were very cute & sweet!
I saw that requests were open so l thought I might give it a shot.
Can I have a scenario where the reader is being affectionate toward a friend & giving them headpats as a sign of affection as a friend but it really bugs the character so they ended up being clingy as a result. Much to the reader’s flustered state. Which they express that they express that they love the reader & want to be the one to have their affection. Maybe be a little possessive if you’re comfortable writing that but mainly clingy with jealous sprinkled in there. 😋
I specifically want it with Dan Heng but I don’t mind other characters you like to place them in there. Maybe with aventurine, Caelus & Boothill? You can add more if you like depending how this prompt fit with any character in starrail.
Look forward to seeing it! If you get to it! Thank you!! ^^
“I’ll Take What’s Mine—And That’s You”
Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Fluff, Jealousy, Clinginess, Mild Possessiveness, Confession, Romantic Undertones, Light Teasing, Protective Behavior, Soft Moments, Slight Embarrassment, Emotional Vulnerability, Affectionate Gestures, Headpats.
The rhythmic click of the train’s movement was almost lulling you to sleep as you sat with March. She was rambling animatedly about her latest set of photos, her hands waving in excitement. You couldn’t help it — she looked so happy that your hand drifted to her head, giving her a few light pats as you smiled.
“Good job, March,” you teased fondly. “You really nailed those shots.”
She beamed under the attention, leaning in for more.
What you didn’t notice — or rather, didn’t expect — was the faint shadow that fell across the room. Dan Heng was leaning against the doorway, book in hand, though his eyes were nowhere near the pages. His gaze lingered on your hand resting on March’s head far longer than it should have.
When March scampered off to fetch another stack of photos, Dan Heng approached silently, stopping in front of you.
“…You’re generous with your affection today,” he said evenly, though there was a subtle tightness in his voice.
You blinked. “Uh… I guess? March was just—”
Without warning, he sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest frown pulling at his lips.
“If you’re going to give out headpats,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that your breath caught, “I’d prefer to be the one receiving them.”
Your face warmed instantly. “Dan Heng—?”
He didn’t wait for you to recover. One of his hands lightly caught yours, guiding it up to rest on his head. The movement was subtle but purposeful, his eyes closing as if committing the moment to memory.
“You… mean a lot to me,” he said quietly. “More than a friend should. I don’t want to share this with anyone else.”
The steady beat of your heart drowned out the train’s rhythm. You couldn’t tell if you were more flustered by his closeness or the blunt confession — maybe both.
When you hesitated, he opened his eyes, expression still calm but tinged with something vulnerable. “…Please. Just me.”
You laughed as you reached up to ruffle Himeko’s hair. “There. Now you’re even more perfect.”
Himeko chuckled, raising a brow at you. “Careful, Caelus might get jealous.”
“Jea—?” you started, but before you could finish, the man in question stepped into the lounge with a strangely serious look.
His usual calm presence felt… different. He crossed the space in a few strides, stopping right beside you, his silver hair catching the warm light. Without a word, he bent slightly so his head was within reach, his eyes meeting yours.
“…I didn’t get one,” he said softly.
“One what?” you asked, heat already creeping up your neck.
“A headpat.” The simplicity of the answer nearly knocked the breath out of you. “If you’re giving them out, I want mine first. Always.”
Before you could reply, his gloved hand found yours, gently but firmly tugging it toward him. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather as he pressed your palm to his head, closing his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You laughed nervously. “You’re really—”
“—Serious,” he finished, opening his eyes. The sincerity there was almost overwhelming. “I love you. I don’t want to just watch from the side while you give your affection to everyone else. Let me have it. All of it.”
The firmness in his tone was softened by the faint blush dusting his cheeks. You didn’t think Caelus could be clingy until now, but the way he stayed close — refusing to let go of your hand — told you he wasn’t about to back down.
It started innocently. You and Topaz were talking in the corner, and she’d made a joke so perfectly ridiculous that you reached out and patted her head with a grin. “You’re unbelievable.”
She laughed, clearly pleased, but the sharp click of shoes approaching cut through your amusement.
“Well, well,” Aventurine drawled, stepping into view with that ever-present smile. “Handouts today, are we?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Handouts?”
“Affection,” he said smoothly, his eyes glinting. “And here I thought I was your favorite investment.”
Before you could fire back, he was already at your side, an arm sliding around your shoulders like it belonged there. The faint scent of his cologne was dizzying, and the closeness made your pulse stutter.
“If you’re giving out headpats,” he continued, tilting his head so the light caught in his glasses, “I’d like my returns immediately. With interest.”
You laughed, flustered. “Aventurine, it’s not—”
“—It is,” he interrupted, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Because I love you, sweetheart. And I’m not in the mood to share. Not with her, not with anyone.”
His words were teasing on the surface, but the steel in his gaze made your breath hitch. He caught your wrist and guided your hand to his hair with almost theatrical flourish, leaning in just enough that his hat nearly brushed your forehead.
“There,” he murmured. “Now, we’re even… though I’ll be expecting regular deposits.”
His smile widened when you tried to look away, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster.
hxh dude bros be like “you just don’t understand what having a close friendship means/is like” while actively ignoring and denying any and all of the romantic subtext and undertones in and throughout killua & gon’s entire relationship. 😭
Summary: The rain always makes Bucky ache so he retreats to his favorite place.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!OC (Marija)
Word Count: 1.1K Rating: T
Tags: fluff, comfort, short and sweet, slight pining, light reference to old wounds, soft Bucky, mixed race oc, disabled oc, romantic undertones
Masterlist
Bucky never really had much opinion on rain before the war. In the city it cooled things down a little, made the huff and puff of industry easier to breathe. But on the battlefield it made everything much more dangerous. It made it easier for enemies to get close, the sounds of their boots muffled by the constant hush of the drops falling through the air. Made the terrain more treacherous, the ground less stable and harder to move across.
Now he regarded it with resigned annoyance. In the city of today it served much the same purpose, to cool and clear the air. But now it also brought an ever present ache, one that had only gotten worse the longer he was alive. Old wounds flared up, even ones whose scars had long since faded would give him trouble. But worst of all was his left shoulder, where vibranium and flesh came together. That ache was impossible to ignore, a deep teeth grinding ache that wouldn't go away, no matter how much advil he took.
But Bucky never complained, never told anyone just how bad it could get, how much he wanted to dig his fingers into the joint and just rip the whole thing out. He didn’t tell Steve, didn't tell Nat or Tony even when they noticed his discomfort. He’d just brushed them off, downplaying his pain until they stopped asking.
…
It was April in upstate New York, and like the three days before it was raining. Bucky knew before he was fully awake because his shoulders and neck were stiff from being drawn taught, trying to relieve the ache in his socket. If it didn't make him feel useless he’d spend the whole day in bed trying to sleep away the constant weight in his bones. But it did so he forced himself up, his face drawn into a scowl that persisted even as he made the trip into the closest town.
The little bookstore was quiet, not that it ever got above a murmur between the stacks. But today was especially slow, and the constant drumming of the rain against the windows was the owner's only companion. She was curled up in an old threadbare armchair tucked between crafting and cooking when the tiny shop bell chimed and she looked up. Bucky stood there, his back pressed against the open door as he shook the water off of his umbrella before leaning it against the door frame and stepping inside. Marija smiled as she tucked a receipt between the pages of her book and stood. As her hand found her cane Bucky's eyes found hers and he gave her a small half smile. Even in the dim light of the bookstore her amber skin seemed to glow with health and Bucky couldn't help but admire her as she approached.
The even step thunk, step thunk, on the worn hardwood floors seemed to rouse the shop dog from where he was snoozing behind the counter. Because with a yawn, he trotted out to sniff at Bucky's rain soaked boots.
“Is your shoulder acting up again?”
Bucky hummed as he patted the wiry gray head of Gruñón who was quickly losing interest in him. “You could say that.” His gaze flicked back up as Marija stepped through an open doorway and into the tiny kitchenette behind the counter. As he straightened back up her red skirt drew his gaze down to see she wore a heating brace on her bad ankle. Bucky kept an eye on Gruñón as he carefully stepped behind the counter where the dog had retreated to. Gruñón watched him, his brown eyes bright, but he made no move to intercept Bucky so he continued until he could lean against the doorframe of the little kitchenette. The old frame creaked in protest at his added weight but Bucky didn't react, he’d leaned against it so many times he no longer worried that it’d give out.
“Looks like your ankle’s giving you problems too.”
Marija looked over her thin shoulder at him, her small glasses were slightly fogged as one heavy black eyebrow arched above the rim. She continued to stir the small pot in front of her, the milk steaming away. “When isn't it?” Bucky just shrugged and watched her work in the small space. Eventually the milk was simmering and Bucky leaned forwards to open the little cabinet above the stove to pluck two hot chocolate packs from an open box. Together they poured and mixed their coco with Bucky leaning around the doorframe since there wasn't enough space for two.
When they were finished Bucky picked up the two chipped mugs and walked back to where Marija had been seated earlier, careful not to trip over Gruñón who had a habit of laying right where Bucky was walking. Once he was in the little corner Bucky used his foot to drag over a creaky wooden chair which he sat in as Marija approached. Only once she was comfortable and her cane was hooked on the edge of the chair did Bucky hand her a mug.
This was their routine on days like this, they’d curl up as far away from the cold window as possible with a hot drink in hand and just sit. Usually they read, with Marija tending to customers as they wandered in but sometimes they talked. Their conversations were the highlight to Bucky’s days, her soft voice a soothing distraction from his aches. But today they read, each holding their own dog eared book as time ticked by and the rain continued to fall.
…
Bucky wasn't sure when he fell asleep but the feeling of his book being tugged out of his loose grasp woke him, but he didn't open his eyes. His head was resting in the crook of his right elbow which he’d laid on the arm of Marijas chair. He felt relaxed, more so than if he’d stayed in bed. It was a lot harder to pretend to be asleep when Marija wrapped a heating pad around his left shoulder with gentle hands but he managed, even though he wanted those hands to stay on him, to brush against his exposed skin with the same gentleness she showed everything.
Next to him Marija settled back down, a smile on her full lips as she gazed down at the slightly scruffy man that meant so much to her now. She propped her book back open and let out a contented sigh that was swallowed up by the hush of the rain that always meant Bucky would be back at her side.
A game is now played between Mitch and Melanie, who goes along with the role of shop girl as she assesses the dashing stranger. His request for 'lovebirds' introduces an explicitly erotic undertone to their exchange, which she accentuates, as she hesitantly improvises her way around the shop, by thoughtfully tapping her pencil on her chin and cheek as artfully as Scarlett O'Hara brandishing her fan at the barbecue in 'Gone With The Wind.' --- What I value about this scene, and what I have taken from so many great filmmakers, is the way that sexual attraction is shown surging back and forth beneath the level of language (hence my rejection, for example, of rhetorical rubrics like 'No always means no' as useless in the date-rape debate). Words for the keenly visual Hitchcock do not reveal but conceal.
Hello!!! Hope your exams went well and wishing you good luck with them! Remember to take care of yourself please <33
Can we get Harumasa, Hugo and Lighter where they are drinking together and reader gets drunk which reveals a completely different side of them? Like reader is normally against pda other than hugging and holding hands or is somewhat bashful with getting too touchy yet the moment they get drunk they're all over them like leaning against them, fiddling with their clothing and stuff while complimenting them a lot with lots of shameless flirting and confessions like "it actually really bothers me when your fans ask you private questions or for your heart, don't they know you're mine? Your choker is so pretty on you by the way..." for Harumasa for example-
Tipsy Hearts and Tangled Hands
Tags: Hugo x Reader, Harumasa x Reader, Lighter x Reader, Drunk Antics, Lightly Suggestive, Romantic Undertones, PDA, Teasing, Playful Flirting, Confessions, Emotional Intimacy, Comfort, Protective Gestures.
The night had gone surprisingly quiet after the laughter died down. The bar’s soft lights reflected in Harumasa’s half-empty glass, the faint blue of Ether-infused sake swirling lazily within. He’d long stopped drinking—his condition didn’t allow him to indulge—but he didn’t seem to mind sitting with you.
You, however, had absolutely overdone it.
“Harumasa,” you whispered, voice soft and slurred, leaning forward over the table until your forehead brushed against his arm. “Why are your sleeves always rolled up like that?”
He glanced sideways at you, lazy as ever. “Easier to move that way,” he replied, his tone carrying that familiar half-smile. “Efficiency, remember?”
“Mmm,” you hummed, eyes squinting as if deep in thought, then you giggled—light, airy. “You and your efficiency. You even make drinking look efficient.”
He sighed, amused. “That’s one way to say ‘boring.’”
You shook your head fervently, too close now, your breath warm against his shoulder. “Nooo, you’re not boring. You’re… efficient in a sexy way.”
That made him pause.
His eyes flickered, his hand stopping mid-motion as he set the glass down. You blinked up at him, realizing you’d said it aloud, and instead of backtracking like you usually would, you grinned lazily.
“Actually, it really bothers me when people flirt with you,” you continued, your words tumbling freely now. “Those fans asking about your heart or your choker, like—don’t they know you’re mine?”
The air froze.
You twirled your fingers in the strap of his tactical harness, tracing along the edge, completely oblivious to the soft crimson rising on his face.
“…Mine, huh?” Harumasa said, voice low.
You nodded without hesitation, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “Yup. I like your choker too. It looks really good on you. Like it’s saying, ‘off-limits.’”
He covered his mouth, stifling an incredulous laugh. “You’re something else when you drink.”
He meant to push you gently away, but you beat him to it—head falling against his chest with a content sigh. “Mhm. Warm…”
He let out a quiet exhale, almost defeated. You were weightless against him, murmuring about how cool his eyes looked, how his voice was comforting, how you liked his lazy way of smiling.
When you tugged weakly at his hand, threading your fingers through his gloved ones, his composure cracked just a little more.
“You should sleep,” he murmured, adjusting your hair away from your face.
“Only if you promise to stay,” you whispered back, already half-asleep.
He hesitated. Then, softly—almost to himself—he said, “You really shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”
But even as he said it, his thumb brushed your knuckles. And though his gaze returned to his glass, the faintest smile lingered, like a man who’d stopped fighting the inevitable for one quiet night.
“Wine is meant to be savored,” Hugo had said earlier that evening, all graceful gestures and smug charm. “Not devoured.”
You’d apparently taken that as a challenge.
Now, two and a half glasses later, you were anything but savoring. Hugo sat beside you, impeccably composed, watching your drunken antics with both amusement and mild disbelief.
“Darling, if you continue like that, even your liver will start questioning your life choices,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat.
You giggled, pointing accusingly at him. “S’not fair. You talk so fancy when you’re tipsy. Why can’t I be classy drunk?”
“Because, my dear,” he said, swirling his wine, “you skipped the ‘graceful decline’ stage and dove straight into ‘confession hour.’”
You frowned, unamused—then pouted. “You’re so mean when you’re right.”
He smiled faintly, eyes glinting in that half-amused, half-adoring way. “And you’re quite adorable when you’re indignant.”
That made you blink. Then your face lit up like a firework. “You think I’m adorable?”
Before he could answer, you slid closer—far too close—until your knees brushed his. Your fingers tugged at his tie, eyes hazy but sharp with boldness alcohol had coaxed out.
“You know,” you murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, “your fans don’t deserve you.”
His smile faltered. “Oh?”
“They call you charming and mysterious, but they don’t see you,” you continued, the words spilling freely. “They don’t see how tired you are when you come home late, or how you always feed Robin before yourself, or—” you hiccupped—“how gentle you get when you think no one’s watching.”
For once, Hugo was speechless.
You tilted your head, smiling dreamily. “I get jealous, sometimes. When people ask for your attention. When they talk about how handsome you are.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? You?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, fingers now tracing the buttons of his vest. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t like sharing.”
He chuckled, the sound soft but laced with something deeper. “Possessive, are we?”
You hummed in affirmation, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’m drunk and possessive. Terrible combo.”
He looked down at you, amusement flickering into something gentler. Carefully, he set his wine glass aside, one hand brushing against your cheek. “Terrible? I’d say… dangerously endearing.”
You nuzzled closer, muttering incoherently about how good he smelled and how pretty his eyes looked when the light hit them. Hugo listened in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching every so often.
When you finally drifted off against him, murmuring a sleepy, “Don’t leave, okay?”, Hugo exhaled softly.
“Never,” he whispered, voice barely audible.
He draped his coat around your shoulders, eyes softening. For once, the great phantom thief looked less like a man of mystery and more like someone who’d found the one thing he could never steal—peace.
Lighter had seen plenty of drunks in his day—bikers, fighters, mercs—but none quite like you.
You were sitting cross-legged on the counter of the gang’s private bar, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, clutching your third glass like it was a life goal. He leaned nearby, arms crossed, scarf fluttering faintly from the ceiling fan’s wind.
“Y’know,” you slurred, “you always look so cool, it’s unfair.”
Lighter tilted his head, his usual grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Unfair? You saying I should look worse?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “You should have at least one bad photo somewhere. It’s criminal that you don’t.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You hopped down—barely—and stumbled right into his chest.
“Woah,” he caught you, steadying you with one arm. “Easy there, champ.”
You looked up at him, dazed. “You called me champ. That’s your thing.”
He smirked. “Guess you’ve earned it for surviving three shots.”
You squinted at him, then reached up to tug his red scarf. “Why do you wear this all the time?”
“Symbol,” he replied. “Means I fight for the gang, not just myself.”
You hummed, fingers running over the fabric. “It suits you. Red looks good on you. Passionate, brave…” your words softened, “…and warm.”
That last part caught him off guard.
He tried to look away, but your next words hit harder than a right hook.
“I get so jealous sometimes,” you whispered, tugging gently at the scarf again. “Everyone calls you ‘The Champion,’ everyone cheers for you—but they don’t see how tired you are when you come home, or how much you hate blood, or how gentle you get when someone’s hurt.”
Lighter’s breath hitched.
You smiled hazily, fingertips brushing his jaw. “You always say you can’t lose, right? But… you already won. You won me.”
For a second, the air between you stilled—quiet, charged, real.
Then you wobbled, nearly toppling, and he caught you again with a low laugh. “You’re gonna make me faint before you do, y’know that?”
“Mmm, maybe,” you murmured against his chest. “You smell like smoke and cologne. It’s nice.”
He froze. Then, slowly, his hand came up to the back of your head, steady but hesitant.
“Get some rest,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “You’re drunk.”
“You like me though, right?” you asked suddenly, peering up with glassy eyes.
Lighter blinked. “…You really want that answer right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed, smiling wryly. “Yeah. I like you, dummy. But we’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”
You grinned, satisfied, and nestled against him. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”
“Didn’t think you would,” he muttered, his cheeks faintly pink beneath his shades.
When you finally dozed off, his thumb brushed across your cheek briefly before pulling the scarf around you both, a silent promise wrapped in red warmth.
REQUESTS ARE OPEN YEYYY. Love the way you write the characters, so I'll be requesting 👉👈 (first time actually, so kinda nervous)---
(Also read your bio—I hope you have a great day and plenty of rest)
I got this idea from Luffy.
The reader (preferably a reader who is a member of the Astral Express) who has a piece of accessory (like a hat, bracelet, etc) that they treasure deeply, like they wouldn't trust anyone with it, like not letting anyone touch it, even more pissy when it gets torn or dirty by an enemy. That item was from a loved one who gave it to the reader, and it's very special to the loved one, so they take care of it (they’re also so far from that loved one too, so the more they cling to it). The reader finds comfort in it too.
Okie- now the scenario is, can I request a reader who gives a character the treasured item of theirs as a way to comfort them when they notice how down, panicky, or mentally unsettled they are at the moment? And the character being shocked, because they knew no one has ever really gotten to touch it, let alone wear it other than the reader themself. The action symbolizes intense trust from the reader and how much they value them. Hurt/Comfort, the reader can be fem/gn, and the dynamic can be seen as romantic. (Would love to see this with Phainon cuz that man needs a hug, Sunday, andddd Dan Heng).
Wishing you a good day! Sorry if my request seems unclear or messy, Im kinda sleepy when writing this😭
A Treasure Shared, A Burden Halved
Tags: Phainon x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support, Symbolism Of Trust, Vulnerability, Soft Romance, Romantic Undertones, Protective Themes, Slow Burn Potential, Found Family Vibes, Angst With Comfort, Gentle Intimacy, Emotional Healing.
Warnings: Mentions Of Past Trauma, Mentions Of War/Battle, Guilt And Regret Themes, Subtle Religious Trauma, Anxiety/Panic Hints, Emotional Vulnerability, Heavy Emotional Themes, Light Physical Touch (Hand Holding, Leaning), Brief Mention Of Death Of Loved Ones.
A/N: Don't worry, I'm mostly half asleep while writing and scheduling these reqs lol
The sun was falling beyond the horizon of Okhema, casting a muted gold over the fractured battlements of the city. Phainon had been quiet all day—rare, even for him. His usual warmth and easy smiles had been replaced by the taut lines of a man carrying invisible burdens. You noticed it in the subtle tension of his shoulders, the way his eyes seemed distant, staring through the walls rather than at them.
You had been following him, keeping a careful distance as he patrolled the outskirts of the city alone. You didn’t intrude—never with Phainon. He valued solitude like oxygen. But today, the air around him was heavy, and your chest ached watching the great warrior shoulder it alone.
You clutched the scarf tightly in your hands. It wasn’t just a scarf—it had been a gift from someone you’d lost long ago, someone whose memory was wrapped up in every thread. You’d never let anyone touch it. Not Phainon, not anyone. Not even when it brushed against your armor or hair during the battles in the streets. And yet now, the thought of offering it to him as comfort burned hotter than any Coreflame.
You found him at the edge of a collapsed tower, arms resting against the broken stones, jaw tight, lips pressed together as if holding back a tide of anguish.
“Phainon,” you called softly. He didn’t answer.
You approached carefully, heart hammering. You didn’t want to startle him—he’d faced Titans and monsters, but today, he was just a man, and your heart told you he needed someone to see him like that.
You knelt beside him, pulling the scarf from your cloak. It smelled faintly of lavender and sunlight, the scent of home.
“I…” Your voice trembled. “…I think you could use this.”
Phainon turned toward you, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in that quiet, calculating way he always did when something unusual occurred. He noticed the scarf in your hands immediately. It was pristine, carefully kept, the kind of item only a person with fierce attachment would safeguard.
“You—you want me to wear that?” he asked, incredulity threading his tone.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I know you… you carry so much on your own. You don’t have to do it alone. Not tonight.”
Phainon’s eyes widened, just the tiniest crack of vulnerability visible. You could see the weight pressing down on him, the fear that he could fail, that the dawn might never come. And somehow, you knew he hadn’t let anyone touch your scarf. Not anyone.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for it. His fingers brushed yours, and you felt a spark, warm and steady, that wasn’t the Coreflame—it was human connection.
He draped the scarf around his neck, the fabric brushing against his collarbone. For a moment, he froze, eyes closing briefly as if committing the sensation to memory.
“I…” he started, voice low. “No one—has ever…”
You placed your hand lightly over his, encouraging him without words. “It’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to lean on someone. Even the Deliever needs a hand sometimes.”
He looked at you then, really looked, the fire of a hundred battles dimming to something softer, something fragile. He exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and it sounded like more than words—it was confession, apology, gratitude, and longing all rolled into one.
You moved closer, letting your shoulder rest against his. He stiffened briefly, then leaned in, just enough to share the warmth, the presence, without words.
“You carry so much,” you said softly, “but you don’t have to carry it all tonight. Not with me here.”
Phainon’s hand found yours again, fingers lacing instinctively. The scarf was around him, yes, but it was also between you, a tangible symbol of trust. You’d given him a piece of yourself, something you never let anyone touch, and in accepting it, he let you into his solitude.
“Why…” he murmured, voice low and rough with emotion, “would you… trust me with something so… precious?”
“Because you’re worth it,” you said. “And because I… want to be here, with you. Even in the dark.”
For the first time that day, the corners of his mouth lifted, tentative, almost shy. The blue of his eyes caught the last light of the sun, glimmering like the promise of a dawn yet to come. He didn’t need to speak again. You both knew: in that simple exchange, the scars and weight were shared.
And when the wind blew over the ruins of Okhema, carrying the scent of ash and hope, Phainon breathed a little easier, wrapped in your scarf, and in your presence. For tonight, the Deliverer was just a man. A man who could be comforted.
The soft hum of the Astral Express was almost meditative, but to you, it was unbearable tonight. Sunday sat on the observation deck, shoulders hunched, fingers tracing the golden accents of his clothes absentmindedly. His wings drooped slightly—a subtle signal you had learned to read—and the halo above his head dimmed imperceptibly under the deck lights.
Something was wrong.
You held the silver bracelet in your hand, cool against your palm. It had belonged to your sibling, a family heirloom meant to remind you of home. You had never let anyone touch it, never worn it off your wrist, never let it be tarnished or scratched. It was sacred to you, a thread to someone far away, and in the middle of the vastness of space, you clung to it for comfort.
Now, the thought of giving it to him struck you like lightning. Sunday was never weak, never careless, never someone who needed comfort… but tonight, he was human.
You walked toward him, footsteps soft against the polished floor. “Sunday,” you said, voice gentle.
He turned slowly, his eyes wary, but the minute he saw the bracelet, he froze.
“You… you want me to…” he gestured toward it, uncertainty thick in his tone.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I… I can’t explain why it feels right. But I want you to have it tonight.”
He blinked. “But… this—this belongs to you. No one—ever…”
You smiled softly. “I trust you,” you said. “More than anyone else here. And I think… maybe you need it more than I do right now.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Sunday reached out, letting you slide the bracelet over his wrist. The silver caught the light of the stars streaking past the windows, glimmering against his pale skin. He flexed his fingers experimentally, looking at it as though seeing it for the first time.
“You… let me wear it?” he whispered, voice almost lost in the hum of the train.
“Yes,” you said, stepping closer. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to lean on someone.”
His wings twitched slightly, left then right, betraying his internal conflict. “I… I’ve never…” he stammered. His gaze met yours, intense, searching.
“I know,” you said. “And that’s why I’m giving it to you. Not because it’s mine, but because I trust you enough to share it. And because you… need to know you’re not alone.”
The golden halo behind his head seemed to brighten just a fraction as he lifted his hand to touch yours, brushing your fingers lightly. A silence fell between you, heavy but comforting, filled with unspoken truths and soft promises.
“Thank you,” he breathed finally. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to,” you said. “Just… let it remind you that you’re cared for. That someone’s here, right now, for you.”
Sunday’s wings fluttered once more, this time a slow, measured movement as he leaned toward you. You felt the quiet vulnerability radiating from him, the barrier of his stoicism cracking, just slightly, because you had given him a piece of yourself.
And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to lean into it—to lean into you.
The Astral Express rattled along the tracks, a rhythmic hum that usually helped Dan Heng focus. Tonight, it only highlighted the tightness around his jaw, the way his fingers flexed obsessively around the spear he never let anyone touch.
You had noticed it hours ago—the way his eyes darted to the shadows of the train car, the shallow rhythm of his breath, the slight tremor in his posture. Dan Heng didn’t like being watched, didn’t like being noticed, didn’t like being vulnerable… but tonight, the weight of the past had found him, and you weren’t going to let him carry it alone.
You reached into your sleeve and pulled out the worn leather wristband, the one your sibling had given you when you were younger. You never let anyone touch it; it was too precious, too fragile in sentiment. You never even wore it in combat. But now, you held it out for him.
“Dan Heng,” you said softly. “I… think you need this more than I do right now.”
He froze, eyes narrowing, but there was no suspicion in them—just the careful, measured wariness of a man who trusted very little. “You… you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” you said. “that’s why I’m giving it to you. You don’t have to speak. You don’t have to move. Just… take it.”
Slowly, he extended his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slid the wristband over his forearm. His skin was cool, tense, and for a moment, you thought he might pull back. But he didn’t. He let you fasten it.
“I…” he said finally, voice low and quiet. “Why…?”
“Because I trust you,” you whispered. “Because I see the weight you carry, and you don’t have to carry it alone. Not here, not with me.”
Dan Heng’s eyes met yours, sharp and steady, but softer now. He flexed his hand, tested the wristband, then let it rest against his skin, grounding him.
A silence fell, comfortable and heavy, as the hum of the train filled the space between you. Slowly, he leaned slightly toward you—not fully, not yet—but enough to let you know that he accepted the gesture, the trust, the closeness.
“Thank you,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you said. “Just… wear it for tonight. Let it remind you that someone sees you. That someone cares.”
For the first time that night, he relaxed. Not fully, but enough for his guard to drop. And when he finally exhaled, it was less tension and more release. A subtle shift, a recognition that he didn’t have to face the past alone—not anymore.
hi hi!! can i request hsr men (aventurine, dr ratio, and any of ur choice <3) with a s/o who is an over-apologizer? no need if u dont feel comfortable just in case but thank u in advance 💙
I'm so sorry!!
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Over-Apologizing!Reader, Gentle Reassurance, Soft Moments, Emotional Support, Romantic Undertones.
Aventurine leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin dancing on his lips as he watched you flounder before him, your hands wringing in an anxious motion. He couldn’t help but find your constant apologies both endearing and, at times, amusing.
"Are you... apologizing again?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching with a playful smile. You, blushing, nodded repeatedly, as though your incessant apologies would somehow make up for the minor mishap you'd caused.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you late. I’m so sorry I knocked over the coffee earlier—again. I can’t believe I did that. I promise, I’ll be more careful next time," you rambled, looking anywhere but directly at Aventurine, who was still smirking, seemingly entertained by your flustered state.
Aventurine leaned forward, his eyes glinting with amusement. "My dear, you do realize I don’t mind a bit of chaos, especially when it’s you causing it. You’re an over-apologizer, yes, but that’s part of what makes you... you. And I must admit, I enjoy seeing this side of you. It’s rather charming."
You blinked, taken aback by his words. You’d expected a scolding, not praise. Aventurine continued, his tone softening, though the smile never left his face.
"You don’t have to apologize for every little thing. I’m not the kind to hold grudges. If anything, you should only apologize when you truly mean it. Until then, just be yourself. I’ve already invested too much in you to let something like a spilled cup of coffee bother me."
You blushed at his reassurance, the knot in your stomach loosening. Aventurine’s words were always laced with layers of truth and care, though veiled in his typical flair. Still, you appreciated it deeply.
"Thank you..." you muttered shyly.
Aventurine chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "No need to thank me. But you might want to apologize... just once more. For making me wait so long." He winked teasingly, and your heart fluttered as you hurried to sit beside him.
Ratio had never been the most patient person. His brilliance was often paired with a sharp tongue, and he had little tolerance for those who didn’t meet his intellectual standards. But when it came to you, something about you made him pause and reconsider his usual cold demeanor.
You had once again apologized for something trivial—this time for knocking over a stack of books on his desk.
"I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—I’ll clean it up right away, I promise!" you said, frantically picking up the fallen books with an anxious look in your eyes.
Ratio watched you in silence, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of his desk. His eyes softened slightly as he took in your flustered state. You were always so quick to apologize, to the point where it almost seemed like you didn’t believe he would forgive you for anything.
"Enough," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "There’s no need for this incessant apologizing. It’s a simple mistake, nothing that requires endless regret. You can’t control every little detail, after all. The world is full of chaos, and you can’t simply apologize for every piece of it."
He walked toward you, his arms folded across his chest. He wasn’t angry—he never was, not with you. But your over-apologizing did frustrate him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
He tilted your chin up gently with his finger, a gesture that was both comforting and commanding. "I care for you," he said, his tone softer than before. "I’ve seen you apologize for things you don’t need to. When you truly make a mistake, you’ll know it. And when that happens, we’ll deal with it. But for now, stop apologizing for things that aren’t worth it. It’s exhausting, and frankly, it doesn’t suit you."
You nodded, your eyes searching his face for any sign of mockery, but finding none. He was serious, and somehow, it made you feel better.
"Thank you." you murmured.
Ratio gave you a small smile, a rare sight for him. "You’re welcome. Now, let’s get back to those books. I have a new theory to test, and I need your help."
You smiled back, finally feeling like you had permission to just exist without constantly worrying about your mistakes.
Dan Heng's eyes narrowed slightly as he felt you accidentally step onto his tail. He stilled for a moment, trying to suppress his reflex to flinch, and before he could even process the situation, you were already profusely apologizing.
"I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to step on your tail! Are you okay? Please don’t be mad, I—" you babbled, your face flushed with embarrassment as you fretted over the minor accident.
Dan Heng blinked, his tail twitching as he quickly recovered from the initial shock. His expression remained calm, but there was a faint furrow in his brow, and he could see the distress in your eyes. He wasn't the type to get upset over small things, but the way you were carrying on made him feel an odd mix of sympathy and a desire to reassure you.
"You don’t need to apologize," he said softly, his voice steady, but there was a hint of warmth in it that only you seemed to notice. "It was an accident. My tail’s fine."
Your eyes widened as you processed his words, still unsure whether to be more apologetic or relieved. But Dan Heng’s calmness eased the tension in the room, and you realized he wasn’t angry.
"It’s okay," he added, his tone a little softer. "You didn’t mean to, and it doesn’t hurt. Just... be careful next time." He gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that made his usual stoic demeanor seem a little less distant.
You, still embarrassed, nodded slowly, the knot in your stomach loosening just a little. "Thank you, Dan Heng. I’ll be more careful."
Dan Heng placed a hand gently on your shoulder, his touch reassuring yet firm. "You don’t need to apologize for every little thing. Life’s full of accidents. Just... don’t overthink it."
For once, you could finally relax, knowing that with Dan Heng, you didn’t have to worry about constantly apologizing for things that weren’t even your fault.
