Feel free to ignore if it's already been done before :P
Sunday, Aventurine, Ratio, Jiaoqiu and Dan Heng with artist reader who secretly dreams him a lot and plans to keep it a secret forever but OH NO! 😱😱 The sketchbook somehow fell into his hands‼️‼️
Beyond the Paper
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Quiet Admiration, Introspection, Secret Affections, Artist!Reader, Emotional Tension, Unspoken Feelings, Subtle Romance, Guilt and Understanding, Vulnerability, Forbidden Attraction (?).
Warnings: Mild Embarrassment, Subtle Angst, Vulnerability, Emotional Confusion, Quiet Tension, Unrequited Feelings (?).
The Astral Express hummed gently as it glided through the cosmos, its crew scattered across the various compartments, each with their own quiet thoughts. Sunday, as usual, was deep in contemplation, his wings fluttering faintly as he wandered through the hallway. His gaze was fixed on the swirling lights outside the train, but his mind was elsewhere.
You had been following him for days, subtly sketching him from afar whenever the opportunity arose. You had grown fond of him, but never dared to express it. Your admiration was captured in every stroke of your pencil—his serene demeanor, his ethereal features, the way his wings fluttered ever so slightly when he thought no one was watching.
But it wasn’t just admiration that you felt. There was a quiet longing in your sketches—a longing you knew you could never voice. Sunday, the quiet, distant figure, who seemed to drift like a celestial being, was out of reach. His complexities, his quiet sadness, only added to the allure.
Today, as you sat in the corner of the crew lounge, sketching him as he spoke with Welt, your heart raced. You never expected to be caught, and yet, as you turned your attention back to your sketchbook, you realized it was no longer in your hands.
Sunday stood before you, the delicate golden halo behind his head softly shimmering. The edges of his wings shifted nervously as his eyes—those eyes that had often watched you with a mixture of quiet concern and introspection—now studied the pages of your sketchbook.
The silence was thick with tension. Your heart dropped to your stomach.
“I… didn’t mean for you to see that,” you stammered, quickly rising to your feet. But Sunday simply stared at the drawings, a faint flicker of understanding crossing his face.
“I see,” he said, his voice as gentle as always, yet laced with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.
His gaze lingered on the pages before he met your eyes. There was no judgment in his expression, just a quiet reflection, as if he had understood something about you without you having to speak a word.
“You see the world differently than most,” he continued, lowering the sketchbook slightly. “Your art… it tells a story, not just of what is, but what could be.”
You swallowed hard, unsure whether to explain, or to let the moment pass. His presence, always so serene, now felt different. Closer, perhaps. But still, distant.
“I… I never meant to make you uncomfortable,” you managed.
Sunday tilted his head slightly, his wings shifting in that familiar, almost nervous way. “I am not uncomfortable,” he said softly. “It’s just... I suppose I never considered how others might see me.”
You felt your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and relief. Your heart thumped erratically, but his gaze remained steady, reassuring in a way you didn’t understand.
“I’ll… I’ll keep it a secret, if you want,” you said quietly, feeling the need to offer something in return, even if your words didn’t make much sense. “It’s just that… I… I think you’re someone who carries so much weight in silence. And I wanted to understand that.”
Sunday looked at you for a long moment, and then his gaze softened. “You do understand,” he said, his voice almost too quiet to hear. "More than most. Thank you."
With that, he gently returned the sketchbook, his fingers brushing against yours briefly, before stepping back. His wings fluttered softly as he gave you one last look, then turned to leave.
For the first time since you had met him, Sunday’s gaze lingered on you in a way that was not distant—but thoughtful.
The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the overhead lights. Aventurine leaned against a table, his eyes scanning the faces of those around him, all unsuspecting of the game he was about to play. His confident, charismatic smile played on his lips, a mask for the tumultuous thoughts beneath.
You had always been a quiet observer, taking in his every move, every word, as if they held the key to some mystery that you desperately needed to understand. You didn’t let on how much you admired him—how you found the sharpness of his mind, the fluidity of his movements, the way he approached every situation as a calculated gamble, utterly captivating.
And yet, in the privacy of your quarters, you sketched him in secret. Your pencil danced across the paper, capturing his essence—the tilt of his head, the playful glint in his eyes, the way his fingers drummed against a surface when he was thinking. You never let anyone see your sketches, not even him. These were your secrets, your silent musings.
But fate had other plans.
One evening, as you walked through the halls, your sketchbook slipped from your hands, its pages fluttering open as it hit the ground with a soft thud. You cursed under your breath and rushed to retrieve it, but before you could, a voice interrupted you.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Aventurine’s voice was smooth, laced with amusement, as he crouched down, picking up the sketchbook with casual ease.
You froze, heart hammering in your chest. There was no escape now. The damage had been done. As he flipped through the pages, you could see the smirk slowly forming on his lips.
“You really do know how to capture a person,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, catching the subtle flush that had crept up your neck. “This is... unexpected.”
You could barely form words. “I—I’m sorry, Aventurine. I never meant for you to see that. Please don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He interrupted, leaning in a little closer, his expression unreadable. “What do you think I’ll do? Tell everyone? Embarrass you?”
Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what would happen next. Would he mock you? Dismiss you?
Instead, he gave you a playful smile, that same enigmatic grin that you had come to associate with him. “You know, I think this is a gamble I’m willing to take.”
He closed the sketchbook with a snap and handed it back to you, his fingers brushing yours in a fleeting moment that sent a jolt through you.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said quietly, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. “But I’ll be watching you, artist. I’m curious to see where this gamble takes us.”
Ratio stood in the middle of his study, surrounded by ancient tomes and manuscripts. His wavy hair fell around his face as he adjusted the alabaster sculpture perched atop his head. He was deep in thought, as always, when he heard a faint sound—the soft rustling of paper. His eyes narrowed, immediately recognizing the faintest shift in the room.
You had been here for hours, working quietly in the corner, sketching the scene before you. It was something you had done countless times: capturing the brilliance of Dr. Ratio, his intense intellect and passion for knowledge.
But today, you had drawn more than just his exterior. The sketch on the page revealed something deeper, something you had never meant to show anyone—an intimate portrayal of him, not as the brilliant scholar, but as a man who carried the weight of his own expectations.
Just as you finished the sketch, the sound of footsteps approached. Ratio turned, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with an unsettling clarity.
“What is this?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with something else, something more pressing. He had noticed the sketchbook before you had a chance to hide it, his keen intellect immediately seeing the significance of what you had drawn.
You felt the blood drain from your face, your hands trembling as you looked up at him. "I—It’s nothing. Just a... a study."
He arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. His gaze softened for a moment as he flipped through the pages, the faintest flicker of intrigue crossing his face.
“Interesting,” he said, his voice becoming more contemplative. “You see more than just knowledge in me, don’t you?”
You didn’t answer immediately, unsure how to respond to the unexpected intensity in his voice. “I… I didn’t mean for you to see it. It’s just a sketch. It’s nothing important.”
Ratio paused, his expression unreadable as he placed the sketchbook down on the table. His fingers lingered over the pages for a long moment, his usual confidence momentarily tempered by something deeper.
“You have a unique way of looking at things,” he said finally, his voice softer than you had expected. “I suppose... I must admit, I find it intriguing.”
You blinked in surprise. “You do?”
He gave you a small, knowing smile. “Yes. But be warned, artist—your view of me is... uncomfortably accurate. The question is, do you truly wish to understand what lies beneath?”
For a moment, you could only stare at him, heart racing in your chest. What had started as a harmless admiration had now turned into something far more complex. But you weren’t ready to pull away—not yet.
You'd always been careful, meticulous. Your sketchbook was a treasure trove of quiet thoughts, rendered in careful lines and strokes. Most of your sketches were of abstract ideas, fleeting emotions, or tranquil scenes from your travels on the Astral Express. But there was one, a recurring subject: Dan Heng.
You never intended for it to become such an obsession, but his quiet, stoic presence had captured your imagination. You’d sketch him in moments of solitude, capturing the subtle way his eyes would dart from side to side or how his movements always exuded quiet confidence. But that was just it: it was a secret. A dream, captured only on paper. Something you swore you’d keep to yourself, tucked away in the safety of your sketchbook.
However, fate had different plans. The evening had been typical, the usual hum of conversation filling the train's lounge as you sat quietly, your sketchbook open in your lap. Dan Heng, ever distant, had drifted over to the window, deep in thought. You couldn't help but glance at him, your pencil moving on its own, capturing the serenity he exuded.
Suddenly, your sketchbook slipped from your grasp, falling open to the page you’d worked on just that afternoon—a sketch of Dan Heng, his profile deep in concentration, his eyes drawn in soft detail. You cursed under your breath as you scrambled to pick it up. But it was too late.
Dan Heng had already noticed.
“Is something wrong?” His voice was calm, but there was a slight edge to it as he stared at the open page, his expression unreadable.
Your heart dropped. The sketchbook felt heavier than it ever had before.
"I... uh, no. It's nothing," you stammered, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "It’s just a drawing. Of... just an idea."
But Dan Heng didn’t say anything, simply flipping through a few more pages, his brows furrowing slightly as he studied your work. There was a long silence, and you felt the world around you freeze, waiting for him to speak.
He finally glanced up at you, and for a brief moment, you thought he might ask questions, or worse, tease you. Instead, he closed the book gently and handed it back to you with a quiet, unreadable gaze.
"...It's a good sketch," he said, his tone as neutral as ever.
You blinked, unsure if you had imagined the faintest trace of something else in his words—something that seemed almost like understanding.
"Thanks," you whispered, taking the sketchbook back from him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, your heart still racing.
And as he turned away, returning to his usual spot by the window, you couldn’t help but wonder: had he seen through you? Or had he just offered you an unexpected kindness, one that didn’t quite make sense?
Either way, one thing was certain: your secret was no longer yours alone.
