Omg I loved the Doctor!Reader prompts you wrote! T.T
Could we get a continuation of said prompt request series, but this time with Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, Dr. Ratio, and Phainon?
(I keep thinking Phainon would get stabbed or seriously injured after a tussle with the black tide monsters, but the rest are up to you!)
“Even Heroes Need Saving”
Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Doctor!Reader, Slow Burn Hints, Found Family Themes, Emotional Vulnerability, Protective Instincts, Tender Moments, Gratitude, Recovery, Soft Romance Undertones.
Warnings: Injuries, Blood Mention, Medical Treatment, Near-Death Situations, Emotional Angst, Combat Aftermath, Exhaustion, Mentions Of Pain.
The first thing that returned to him was weight. Jing Yuan’s body felt like stone, a heaviness pressing him against unfamiliar bedding. His ears caught the muted hum of an infirmary ward, a far cry from the open sky and clash of steel he’d last known.
Golden eyes opened slowly, registering bandages wrapping his right arm, the faint sting of treated wounds. A ceiling lantern swayed quietly above him. He turned his head — and froze.
There you were, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside his bed, your small frame curled inward. A physician’s coat slipped from your shoulders, one sleeve crumpled beneath your cheek where you had clearly drifted off mid-watch.
Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, though it quickly tightened into a wince. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke:
“So even the Dozing General earns himself a guardian in turn.”
You stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent but didn’t wake. He watched your steady breathing, and warmth pressed against the calm mask he wore. He recalled—fragmented images, then clarity. The ambush at the docks, his forces scattered, the sudden blow that tore through his defense. Darkness had nearly claimed him. And yet… when his eyes had fluttered open again, just briefly, it was your trembling hands staunching the blood, your lips murmuring instructions to unseen assistants.
Jing Yuan tilted his head, observing the faint ink stains on your fingers, the exhaustion etched into your posture. You weren’t a warrior. You weren’t meant for battlefields. And yet you’d dragged him from one, against all odds.
His voice softened. “You always avoid the spotlight, Doctor. But you’re far braver than you realize.”
The words were meant for you, though you were asleep. He let his eyes fall closed once more, not to rest, but to savor the quiet. For once, he allowed himself to be still — trusting that, if the world crumbled for a few more minutes, you would keep it together.
When you finally startled awake some hours later, fumbling to check his pulse, he only smiled lazily at you.
“Don’t look so alarmed. I’m alive. Thanks to you, it seems.”
And though you stammered, cheeks pink as you fumbled for professional composure, Jing Yuan only reclined back, studying you with a gaze brighter than any golden dawn.
“You’ve earned yourself a debt from the Arbiter-General. I wonder how you plan to collect?”
The battlefield smelled of ash. Black tide monsters lay scattered like broken glass, their shrieks finally silenced. And amidst the ruin, Phainon had fallen.
You had found him sprawled against fractured stone, sword still clutched but blood soaking his side where a jagged spear had pierced through. He was still breathing — shallow, labored. Too much blood. Too little time.
You hadn’t thought, only acted. Compress, stitch, burn away the infection with practiced flame. Drag him with trembling arms until your own legs nearly buckled. Somehow, impossibly, you’d hauled him back to the ward.
Hours later, when Phainon stirred, it was to sterile light and the faint rattle of medical carts. His eyes cracked open, immediately clouding with alarm. He reached instinctively for his sword — only to groan when pain lanced his abdomen.
“Stay down,” you whispered sharply, surprising even yourself with how firm it sounded.
His gaze turned toward you. And there you were, collapsed in the chair beside him, one hand still resting lightly over the edge of his cot. You’d fallen asleep that way, head tilted, lips parted slightly in your exhaustion. Your other hand still bore faint traces of ichor, cleaned but not entirely erased.
For a long moment, Phainon simply stared. Memories rushed back — your frantic voice, your hands refusing to let him go even as he sank into darkness.
“You…” His voice was hoarse, awe-laced. “You pulled me back.”
You didn’t stir, only breathed softly, fragile in your slumber. Something within his chest tightened. He, who had stood against titans, who had seen empires rise and fall, found himself undone by the sight of one medic refusing to surrender him to death.
Carefully, painfully, Phainon shifted his hand toward yours, covering it with his calloused grip. Your fingers twitched but didn’t wake. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh.
“Even legends need saving, it seems.”
When you finally woke hours later, heart leaping at the sight of him conscious, Phainon smiled — pained but genuine.
“Doctor. You carried me from the dark. And I swear by flame and dawn — I will never let that debt go unkept.”
And in that oath, you felt the weight of his promise: not obligation, but gratitude blazing brighter than any Coreflame.
It was quiet aboard the Astral Express — too quiet. The crew had gone to rest, leaving only the hum of machinery. In one of the smaller medical cabins, Dan Heng awoke.
His sharp eyes adjusted quickly, narrowing when he recognized the feel of bandages wrapped along his ribs. Memories flashed: the mission gone wrong, the ambush, the sharp bite of steel across his side before the world blurred.
He sat up too quickly — pain flared, sharp enough to drag a grunt from him. That’s when he noticed you.
Curled in a chair, head resting awkwardly against the cot’s edge, you were fast asleep. A medical kit still lay open at your feet, instruments cleaned but scattered. You hadn’t even taken off your gloves, fingers curled in exhaustion.
Dan Heng stared, still as stone. His usual instinct — to recoil, to slip away unnoticed — faltered. He remembered dimly the sensation of arms catching him as he collapsed, your panicked but steady voice commanding him to “stay with me.” He hadn’t expected anyone to risk so much for him, not with his past shadowing every step.
And yet… you had.
His chest ached in a different way now, quieter, harder to name. He reached toward the blanket folded at the bed’s edge, hesitated, then carefully draped it over your slumped shoulders.
“…Foolish,” he murmured under his breath. The word lacked any bite. “You should rest properly.”
He leaned back, forcing himself to settle. His eyes didn’t leave you, though, following the rise and fall of your breathing. Something inside him loosened at the sight — a fragile tether he hadn’t known he craved.
When you jolted awake later, startled by the realization he was watching, you flushed, fumbling for words.
“I-I just… I didn’t want to leave your side in case—”
Dan Heng shook his head, his expression softening in a way you’d rarely seen.
“You saved me. That’s more than I ever expected.”
And though his voice was steady, his fingers brushed the blanket now over your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment. You had seen him at his weakest. And instead of scorn, you had chosen to stay.
For someone who had run from his past all his life, that quiet truth was more healing than any medicine.
The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and parchment — someone had left a book half-open on the counter, forgotten.
Ratio stirred, his mind clawing back from the abyss. The sensation was foreign; he rarely let himself be vulnerable, even in thought. His first instinct was irritation at his own lapse — until he noticed movement.
You were there, collapsed gracelessly in a chair beside him, chin resting against your chest, glasses slightly askew. One hand still clutched a chart at an awkward angle, the other dangling near his arm as though you’d been checking his pulse until sleep claimed you.
Ratio blinked once, twice. Then a sharp, incredulous laugh slipped from him.
“Of all things… to be rescued by a shy little medic.”
He tried to sit up, only to feel the sharp tug of sutures across his side. The memory returned — the lab explosion, the collapsing scaffold, his own body failing faster than calculation predicted. And then you, dragging him from the wreckage with hands far too small for such a task, demanding he live.
His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, softened in exhaustion. You, who shied from praise, who flinched when spoken to too loudly — and yet had stared down death itself to save him.
“Brilliance does appear in the strangest of places,” he muttered.
He reached up, adjusting your glasses with uncharacteristic gentleness before they could slip further. For once, he didn’t analyze, didn’t dissect. He simply allowed the warmth of gratitude — foreign, humbling — to seep into his chest.
When you stirred awake later, mortified to find him watching, you nearly dropped the chart.
“Y-you’re awake! I… I wasn’t—”
Ratio smirked, voice dripping with theatricality.
“Careful, Doctor. Your bedside manner is atrocious. Falling asleep on the patient? Scandalous.”
But his next words, softer, betrayed the truth beneath his teasing:
“…Thank you. You’ve ensured this mind of mine continues to irritate the galaxy for another day. An achievement worthy of accolades.”
And though you flushed, stammering, his gaze lingered warmly. For once, his world wasn’t numbers and reason — it was the quiet heartbeat of someone who had chosen to stay.
I enjoy seeing your writings pop-up in the character tags. I also especially like how much fun you have with some of the prompts.
I saw requests are open, so I have an interesting request for you. The HSR Universe is ripe for suggestions and weird things, so why not?
I couldn't decide on who to pick for this prompt. So for maybe like 3 HSR characters of your choice, can I ask for a reader that decides to take an experimental drink, thinking nothing of it, but it ends up leaving reader reader with a temporary heart mark on their skin that turns colors based on their emotions? (I.e. A mood ring type of situation?)
“Feelings Are Just Colors in Disguise”
Tags: Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Slow-Burn Hints, Emotional Connection, Magical Realism, Light Mystery/Speculative Magic, Emotion-Based Magic, Slight Introspection and Internal Conflict, Light Banter (Especially with Anaxa), Gentle Warmth and Comfort (Mydei and Sunday), Themes Of Identity And Vulnerability.
Warnings: Minor Injury Mentions (No Graphic Violence), Emotional Vulnerability And Exploration Of Complex Feelings, Mild Existential Themes and Philosophical Reflection (Anaxa, Sunday), Brief References To Past Trauma Or Loss (Handled Sensitively), Experimental Magic and Body Markings.
A/N: I'm glad you enjoy them! <33
The battlefield was quiet for once.
You sat near the campfire, a little tent away from the rest of Mydei’s soldiers. Your fingers curled around a strange flask handed to you earlier by one of the alchemists from Okhema. “Experimental drink,” they’d said. “For fortification.” You barely listened—tired, thirsty, and desperate for anything that didn't taste like boiled roots and despair.
The liquid was sweet and strange—like pomegranate but effervescent and tinged with cheese. Oddly comforting.
Within minutes, a sharp warmth bloomed across your collarbone. You looked down and gasped.
A glowing heart-shaped mark pulsed there, tinted gold-orange.
“What in the—?”
“...You’ve been marked,” came a voice behind you, low and steady.
You turned to see Mydei, the Guardian of Amphoreus himself, crouching beside you. His eyes narrowed at the glowing heart. “I’ve seen marks of magic, but not this.” His gaze was calculating but not unkind.
“It changes color,” you muttered, pressing your hand over the glowing skin. “Based on emotion, I think.”
“It’s orange now,” he murmured. “Hopeful. Curious.”
You swallowed. “Is that...good?”
Mydei’s fingers brushed yours away gently. His gauntleted hand hovered near the mark, not touching—but close enough that you felt the heat between you.
“You should rest,” he said. But he lingered. “I’ll stay. To make sure it doesn’t...spread.”
You caught a flicker of red in the heart.
He noticed too. A rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Red. You fear me?”
“I—No!” you stammered. “That was—surprise. Not fear.”
“Mm.” He tilted his head, hair catching the firelight. “We’ll see.”
The mark flickered again—a warm, soft pink.
He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat. Just leaned in closer and whispered, “Then you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Drink this,” Anaxa said, sliding a shimmering vial your way across the cluttered workshop bench.
You frowned. “Last time you said that, I couldn’t stop quoting dead philosophers in rhyme for three hours.”
“Consider that a success,” he grinned, wild-eyed and amused. “This one’s subtler. Stimulates emotional resonance. I hypothesize it’ll project your internal state to the surface.”
You rolled your eyes—but downed it anyway. It was teal and fizzled like starlight.
And then it happened. A searing sensation just over your heart. You yanked your shirt aside, revealing a vivid heart symbol on your skin—magenta.
“Fascinating!” Anaxa clapped. “Magenta—emotional intensity. Possibly love. Or embarrassment. Maybe a repressed desire to throttle me. Which would be fair.”
You stared, horrified. “It glows!”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “So does truth. Most people just spend their lives hiding from it.”
The heart flickered bright red.
“Ah—anger now. Excellent emotional range. You're practically a living thesis.”
You stood up. “This is humiliating!”
He didn’t stop you—just followed you out into the moonlight, curious.
Silence stretched. You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart glowing violet now.
He studied the color. “Fear and mystery,” he said softly. “But not of me.”
“No,” you admitted, voice small. “Just...of what this means. Of being seen.”
Anaxa was quiet a moment. Then, to your surprise, he took off his glove, revealing a crimson sigil glowing faintly on his palm. “Then let me be seen too,” he said, placing his hand just inches from your heart.
The mark shifted to silver-blue.
Clarity. Vulnerability. A chance.
It happened during the layover at a celestial observatory.
You wandered through the festival bazaar, eyes catching on a Halovian vendor’s glittering elixirs. You asked for something new. Something unique.
They gave you a gentle drink, honey-smooth with lavender undertones. The moment it touched your lips, you felt warmth settle over your chest. Then—the mark appeared.
A faint heart, right above your sternum. At first, it shimmered pale blue.
You found Sunday sitting on the edge of a terrace, eyes watching the cosmos.
When he saw you, his wings fluttered gently. “You’ve changed,” he said, and your breath hitched.
You explained quickly, nervously—about the mark, about the drink.
He studied it silently. Then: “It’s...beautiful.”
You blinked. “It’s revealing.”
“Most beauty is.”
The heart glowed peach, soft and warm. Sunday’s eyes flicked to the color.
“I wonder,” he murmured. “What would I see if I bore such a mark? Guilt? Longing? Maybe...hope.”
You sat beside him. “Try,” you said, lifting his hand and placing it near your heart.
The heart turned a deep gold.
For a moment, Sunday said nothing. But his halo glowed softly, and a breeze stirred his scarf.
“That’s new,” he said. “It means you feel...safe. Around me.”
You looked at him, truly looked—and saw the flicker of conflict behind his serene mask.
“Maybe you could try,” you whispered. “Letting someone in.”
May I please request a reader who comes by to drop off a homemade lunch, while Anaxa, Aglaea, and Kaeya are hard at work, please?
Care is a Kind of Rebellion Too
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Aglaea x Reader, Kaeya x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Vibes, Caring Reader, Established or Blossoming Affection, Food as Love Language, Workaholic Characters, Gentle Moments, Subtle Angst, Touch-Starved, Teasing and Banter, Slow-Burn Hints.
Warnings: Mentions of Past Trauma, Implied Violence, Overwork and Exhaustion, References to Death and Sacrifice, Mild Suggestive Flirtation.
The heavy scent of aged parchment and burnt ether drifted through the sanctum’s arched halls. Books were scattered across marble counters like fallen leaves. At the heart of this whirlwind sat Anaxa, ink-stained gloves drumming against a glowing slate, his one visible eye narrowed with maddening focus.
You cleared your throat gently at the doorway.
“Anaxa—” you paused, remembering, “...Anaxagoras?”
He didn’t glance up. “If you’ve come to ask why divinity recoils at mortal autonomy, don’t. I’ve had six hours of rhetorical foolishness and three migraines.”
You held up a carefully packed lacquered box.
“I just came to bring you lunch.”
That stopped him. The quill hovered mid-air. He blinked once. Then again.
“I… see,” he muttered, voice suddenly softer. “You’ve made this?”
You nodded. “You skipped breakfast again.”
He stared at the box like it was a puzzle that might explode or bless him. Gently, he took it. Black-threaded gloves brushed yours, hesitating for a second too long.
“I assume this wasn’t bought from the market?”
“No,” you smiled, settling beside him. “I made it this morning. You don’t have to eat it all, but...”
He opened the box.
Warm rice. Spiced vegetables. A sweet honeyed roll. No sacred relics. No soulstones. Just food.
Anaxagoras, the one who had dissected gods and whispered forbidden truths, looked genuinely stunned.
“…You are,” he began quietly, “the most dangerous kind of alchemist. You conjure care. And I’m not prepared for it.”
You laughed. “It’s just lunch, Anaxagoras.”
He smiled faintly, his gaze glinting with something warmer than intellect.
“Yes. But perhaps, it’s the only magic I still believe in.”
In the heart of Okhema’s Loomtower, threads of gold wove through the air like dancing sunbeams. Aglaea moved with divine precision, her fingers conjuring glowing patterns into embroidered timelines. Her focus was a masterpiece unto itself—severe, poised, beautiful.
You knocked lightly on the crystal doorframe. “I brought you something.”
She didn’t look up at first, but her aura shifted. Subtly softer.
“Unless it’s an ambassador from Ka’venos bringing treaty edits, I will accept your offering,” she said dryly.
You stepped closer, holding out a golden-laced box. “Lunch. You’ve been working for hours.”
Finally, she turned. Her eyes met yours—sharp green-golden softening as they landed on your face, then the box.
“You made this yourself?”
“I did.”
She reached for it with elegant fingers, her touch reverent. She opened the box with a grace usually reserved for ceremonial artifacts.
Inside: hand-rolled grape leaves, a floral salad, and small sugar-dusted pastries shaped like laurel leaves.
For a moment, Aglaea said nothing. Then she looked up at you with something painfully gentle in her gaze.
“I forget, sometimes,” she whispered, “that I am allowed to be... nourished. Not just worshiped.”
You smiled and helped her sit.
She took one pastry, held it to her lips, then paused.
“…You are too good to me.”
“I’m just making sure you don’t forget to eat.”
Aglaea chuckled—a soft, airy sound.
“I will never forget this. Not the taste. Not the care. And not the one who dared to interrupt destiny with kindness.”
The sun hit the windows of the Knights of Favonius HQ just right, casting golden lines across Kaeya’s desk, though he barely noticed. Maps, reports, and half-drunk wine bottles cluttered the space. He leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning yet another mission log.
You slipped in silently, lunch box in hand.
“Kaeya,” you called, casually. “Guess who didn’t eat again?”
His head tilted lazily in your direction. “Would it be me? Because if so, I’m deeply offended at your accusation. I absolutely… almost considered a snack.”
You raised a brow and set the box on his paperwork. “Real food. Made by real hands. Me.”
He leaned forward, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. “You cooked for me? Am I being courted?”
“You’re being fed,” you retorted, but your smile betrayed affection.
Kaeya opened the box, revealing roasted meat with grilled fruit, sautéed greens, and a buttery tart with mint garnish.
He whistled low. “You really did go all out, huh?”
You crossed your arms. “You’ve been pushing yourself. Someone had to look out for you.”
Kaeya picked up a fork, then paused. His voice dropped a bit.
“...You always do.”
He took a bite, eyes closing slightly at the taste. “Mmm. Alright. This might be better than Diluc’s grilled tiger fish. Don’t tell him I said that.”
“No promises.”
He looked up again, smile gentler now. “Thank you. Truly. For this. You always know how to find me at my worst and bring me something better.”
You leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
“Next time, just remember to ask. I’d rather you didn’t starve before I could show off my cooking.”
Kaeya chuckled, and this time, it reached his eyes.
“Deal. But only if you agree to keep spoiling me like this.”
Synopsis: On a day where the air feels heavier than usual, you find comfort in an upbeat, cheerful tune to lift your spirits. Unexpectedly, you're caught in the moment by someone who sees right through your smile—and decides to stay a little longer, just to listen.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Robin x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Vulnerability, Soft Moments, Music As Healing, Found Moments, Slow Burn Hints.
Warnings: Mentions Of Past Trauma, Emotional Repression, Light Angst, Mild Introspection.
Requested by: @suncr0ss
You didn’t hear him come in. Not at first.
You were too caught up in the cheery tempo, fingers drumming on the table, foot bouncing to the beat. “Driftveil City” filled the room like sunlight pouring through windows. Bright, nostalgic, determined.
Aventurine leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a raised brow and a grin that curved sharp like a card’s edge.
“Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Didn’t know you had such... adorable taste in music.”
You jumped. “Aventurine!”
He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with that unmistakable glint of mischief. “You usually listen to orchestral pieces when you're ‘focused’ or some moody synth when you’re brooding. So tell me—” He strolled in, steps too smooth, too theatrical. “—what’s put this spring in your step today?”
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I dunno. I just wanted to feel good, I guess. This song—makes me feel like I’m winning.”
Aventurine paused at that. The grin faded, just for a moment. “Hmph. Catchy lies. Optimism. Like luck in a melody.” He tapped a finger against his watch, eyes flicking over you, sharp as ever, but something softened behind the usual glitter.
“Keep listening to that one,” he said finally, slipping off his blazer and joining you on the couch. “Might be the only good gamble you make all week.”
You elbowed him playfully, and for once, his laugh sounded... real.
You didn’t expect Robin to return so soon from rehearsal.
You were curled up on a velvet settee near her window, the soft hum of upbeat chiptune playing from your pad. “Driftveil City” danced through the air—chirpy, insistent, golden with rhythm.
Robin stepped inside like a whisper—graceful, radiant, halo tilting ever so slightly. She stopped when she saw you.
For a moment, she just listened.
Then: “That’s quite the charming tune,” she said gently. “Is it a new favorite?”
You glanced up, a little embarrassed. “It’s kind of silly, I guess. I’ve had a hard week, and... I just needed something to make me smile. This song reminds me of simpler times.”
Robin approached, gloved fingers brushing your shoulder with warmth. “There is nothing silly about chasing light,” she murmured. “In fact... I’d like to listen with you. May I?”
You nodded, heart fluttering.
She knelt beside you, closing her eyes as the song played. Her wings fluttered gently, catching the beat in delicate twitches. “You know,” she said softly, “I often forget that joy doesn’t always need to be complex. Sometimes it’s just a tune that makes your soul dance.”
Her hand found yours.
You listened together, not speaking—just letting happiness ripple between you like a shared harmony.
The music was blasting when Sunday walked into the common quarters.
He blinked, taken aback—not by the volume, but by the tone. Bright. Jovial. Alive.
You were swaying slightly to “Driftveil City,” eyes closed, mouthing along to the wordless melody like it was scripture.
Sunday stood quietly, eyes soft, halo pulsing faintly as if it, too, was reacting to the rhythm. He didn't interrupt. Not at first.
When you finally opened your eyes and noticed him, you smiled. “You okay with the noise?”
He gave a faint laugh, more exhale than sound. “It’s... unexpected. But pleasant.” His wings shifted. “It suits you.”
You blinked. “Really?”
He stepped closer, glancing at the player. “This is music meant to lift—like wind under feathers. I can feel the dream in it.” He paused, eyes far away. “A simple dream. To be happy, without reason.”
You reached out, catching his hand. “I was feeling down earlier,” you admitted. “This helps me remember that there’s still joy, even if it’s just... pixelated memories and bouncing basslines.”
Sunday looked at your joined hands, his voice quieter. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“Of what?”
“That even fleeting dreams are worth holding onto.”
