#stelle x reader

[aventurineswife]

[hunnieknight]

Golden Eyes

Was drawing Sleazy!JY but proceed to draw some of the yellow-eyed hsr characters

Gn!Reader, posessive tendency,obsessive tendency, OOC!

A/N : I DO NOT PLAY HSR ANYMORE

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High..school..AU?

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[devoteeoftheknight]

final round of 'pads with wings'!

feat. blade, boothill and robin with fem!reader

a/n: happy very late pride everyone.

round 1 here!: phainon, anaxa, ashveil

round 2 here!: sunday, danheng, jingyuan

BLADE:

♡ ah, yes. our resident fugitive girl dad.

♡ if you haven't seen silver wolf lvl. 999's character trailer and played the recent hsr patch, i urge you to because it's pretty self-explanatory.

♡ HE KNOWS. blade DEFINITELY knows what you're talking about.

♡ he literally lives with three other girls who drag him on shopping trips all the time. you mean to tell me he's never once seen a pad in all the time he's been with them?

♡ i fully believe that blade is a pro at picking out pads because kafka, silver wolf and firefly have likely asked him to on multiple occasions. so much so that off the top of his head he remembers exactly what each girl needs.

♡ he's the kinda guy who will just hand you a heat pad silently and walk away without explanation. meanwhile you're all confused like what???

♡ another guy who predicts when your periods happen because he's just that in tune y'know? he has a sixth sense for them at this point, it's like a radar.

♡ the moment you ask for pads blade is going to calmly open a full cupboard of them, all neatly arranged according to use and length and go "take your pick."

♡ our dearest bladie is also the most compliant at this time. you want him to stay and cuddle you? alright, you're the tree and he's the koala.

♡ you want him to give you space? okay he'll leave you alone for the whole day. just message him when you want to see his face again.

♡ all in all, blade has a PHD in period care. dude is READY for anything you throw at him.

♡ one more thing is that the girls have definitely sat him down before to give him a powerpoint presentation on periods and pads. (I WILL STAY ON THIS HILL AND DIE ON IT.)

♡ blade always tries to act like it isn't a big deal that he does all this but when you hug him and call him yingxing he's gonna look away and say "unnecessary" with the smallest smile.

♡ you have nothing to worry about. blade will take such good care of you that you'll forget you're even having the period.

"yingxing, i—"

"the cookies are on the table. don't eat too many or you'll ruin your appetite. dinner will be ready soon."

"...did you read my mind or something?"

BOOTHILL:

♡ "you looking for pads? sure, i can help ya look. planning on riding a horse, darlin'?" -> referring to cowboy pads.

♡ i feel like boothill would know what periods are but he wouldn't know what women do during them.

♡ the thought process is less of "i don't think i should be getting involved." and more of "yep the ladies' have got it covered 👍". but he'll still help if you ask.

♡ it would be an extremely funny affair. just imagine boothill up to his arms with different packs of pads while on call with you so that he can figure out what to buy. every time he bends down to pick one up another falls out of his hands.

♡ each one he raises up to the camera he asks about ten questions on and says something about if you really need that many options. the look you give him shuts him up and he never says it again.

♡ dude reads out the names of the brands and has this confused look on his face while simultaneously trying to get it right. it's like "l-lauri...laureel??? forkin' hell, what kinda name is this?!"

♡ and you're like, boothill, just get the damn pads. meanwhile the galaxy ranger is more concerned with trying to pronounce the names right. he's determined to, you will not stop him.

♡ he IS the proudest mf ever after finishing the job and he brags about it. if someone asks about it boothill will just start grinning and go "yeah, i did this for my lady and i'm proud of it. what're YOU gonna do about it?"

♡ you are going to get doted on, pampered, the whole nine yards. boothill is at your every beck and call. you are getting the princess treatment and beyond.

♡ the petnames all come out too. 'sweetheart', 'doll', 'sugar'. in that accent of his too? mhm you're jumping his bones when you can.

♡ just a personal opinion, but he looks like the type of guy to crack stupid jokes to distract you from the pain of your cramps. it's a 75/25 hit or miss but when he gets you, he GETS you. he's so happy about it too.

♡ he also knows he doesn't have a filter, so he's given you the permission to hit him if he says something stupid. aim for the head, you'll hurt yourself if you hit his body.

♡ boothill may not be the best, but he tries. and i think that's enough.

"wait, i swear i have a good one this time!"

"boothill, no."

"why are cowboys bad at math?"

"..."

"because they're always roundin' things up!"

"do me a favour and shut yourself down."

ROBIN:

♡ the sweetest girl alive who is committed to the cause.

♡ robin will get you the best pads money can buy because you deserve the best. yes she knows the brand you always use, but a few extras from the more pricier brands wouldn't hurt. gotta make sure her angel is taken care of!

♡ you have to remind her sometimes not to get too carried away or else she'll spend more than she planned to. she can't help but spoil you really.

♡ i feel like the way she chooses pads is both mindful and certain, like robin doesn't spend much time on deciding but she also doesn't go through it quickly? it's this very nice balance that makes it seem almost leisurely.

♡ she's just a girlie shopping for pads leave her alone.

♡ sometimes she'll find new products on the shelf and ask if you want them. even better if they come in a pair or set so both of you can try them together!

♡ you know that thing where girls are able to sync up their periods? it happens to you both more often than not and robin is always so excited when it happens because it means you guys are suffering together.

♡ just kidding it means robin gets to cuddle you while you're swaddled in a heap of blankets and watching Say Yes to the Dress. you are not leaving for the next 48 hours.

♡ you'll be like "baby i can't breathe." and robin will just purr and nuzzle further into you, pressing her body against yours to savour some more of your toasty warmth. the nesting urge is real with this one.

♡ she insists on skin care and massages as well, and warm bubble baths are a must too. robin will lather your back and you'll preen her feathers, allowing the stress of the day to wash away.

♡ robin also lulls you to sleep with that angelic voice of hers, the singing melodious and utterly heavenly. the pain and aches all but disappear when you hear it, and you somehow feel lighter each time, a numbing haze over your mind.

♡ the week is more bearable with her by your side.

"that wedding dress is stunning."

"it is! i adore the lace front on it. would you wear something like that, angel?"

"when we get married, sure."

"hehe, maybe it will come sooner than you think."

"um, robin?!?!"

BONUS!

THE TRAILBLAZERS:

♡ these two will combine the half braincell they each got into one and accomplish the task. but before that they will each need to roll a nat 20 on intelligence just to be safe.

♡ stelle and caelus bring all kinds of 'pads with wings'. examples include bicycle pads with wing motifs, seat pads with wings etc. just know that each one is more ridiculous and deranged than the next.

♡ it's quite impressive that in the huge pile of knick knacks, there is absolutely nothing close to what you were asking for. in fact, you swear you see some living things in there...

♡ along the way, instructions were also lost in translation as they bring pom pom to you, the conductor dressed in an angel outfit and bound by a red ribbon. they squirm and struggle as stelle flashes you a grin.

♡ honestly, you would've been better off asking anyone else on the express than them. but i guess the power of love makes you believe in them more than you should.

♡ in the end, you need to write a very specific list for the both of them to follow and provide a few pictures, to which caelus nods along like he understands and stelle squints to scrutinise the picture more.

♡ when they get the job done, trust me when i say that they're ALL over you. it's an active competition between the both of them to see who is the better helper and they WILL sabotage each other.

♡ you have to be the one to prevent stelle from choking out caelus when he 'accidentally' knocks over the cake she made for you and caelus from setting stelle on fire when she trips him up and makes him drop the pot of tea meant for you.

♡ i like the idea that stelle and caelus are major fumblers and goofballs until they realise their actions are actually pissing you off and not helping whatsoever.

♡ only then will they lock in and function together like a well-oiled machine, suddenly becoming the best caretakers in existence. the switch-up is crazy.

♡ the express expresses their respect to you for being able to tame two raccoons.

"stelle, you're in the way. get your head off her thigh."

"no way! first come, first serve. get in line, caelus."

"guys, please, i have two thighs for a reason..."

[maopll]

imagine if you got transmigrated into the star rail world, with all your memories intact. you realize that now that you're here, you will not let anyone suffer anymore deaths in all the worlds yet unexplored and with all the information you have now.

"Next stop, Jarilo VI !"

pompom announced as you seated yourself. march, dan heng and stelle, the new member rescued from herta space station with your very thorough help is now travelling with you all.

you understood that they were kind of... wary of you considering how you knew what will happen the next moment. its just that you remembered each and every moment by your heart since honkai: star rail had been your favourite game.

threat of stellaron handled easily with your precise guidance. your team never met any threat along the way. rivet town anomalies all cleared out. and you made sure that cocolia lives !

"I can't thank you enough for the help the nameless provided to belobog...i was sure my mother would..."

march chirped in "oh come on! its because of [name] right here that we were able to realise what cocolia was up to!"

you heave a sigh of relief after returning to the express car, your mind going a thousand miles about xianzhou because there is phantiliya! a lord ravager. its one thing fighting her with your characters and another physically...

and you stood corrected. your body all beat up as you fought phantiliya as if your life was on the line, making sure she had a wound that would last her centuries.

with rage seeping through your eyes as you clutched your weapon while kneeling on the ground "Our fight is not over lord ravager of hunt! i will find you again!"

as your days in xianzhou went by, the story as you remembered progressed, meeting the zhuming, fei xiao didn't lose her sanity, hoolay defeated and jiao qiu had his eyes. and the best part is that tingyun lived, just that her body went into a state of deep slumber. and dan heng embraced his vidyadhara status after his...'meeting' with old friends...you couldn't and wouldn't have been able to help with that no matter what.

the whole of xianzhou was eternally grateful. jing yuan and fei xiao agreed to provide you assistance no matter when and where. he nameless became a legend and your feats were heard all across the cosmos. 'the fortune teller' and the 'the seer' is what they would hail you as.

during the dinner meeting with the express after your returned...

"you know all our trailblazing expeditions have been even more fruitful with the least loss of companions. before you, we would have many unfortunate incidents" himeko propped her chin on her hand "we couldn't be more grateful for you exceptional abilities [name]"

welt fixed his glasses and crossed his arms "you have relieved a lot of stress for us. we know that in all future expeditions it would continue like so" he gave you a gentle smile

"there's nothing to be worried about when we have our 'lucky charm' with us! hehe" march swung an arm around you beaming brightly

you on the other hand grew more worried with each passing trailblaze, growing unsure of the fact that you will be able to live up to their expectations. it was just by narrow luck that you managed to not have anyone die at your last stop.

"the Family from penacony sent us a letter to attend their charmony festival... you all will be willing to go right?" like fate had ordained, or more specifically the devs had ordained, you all went into penacony.

fast forward, sunday left penacony to become a nameless, after saying a proper farewell to robin. no one got to know about his idealistic 'all day should be sunday' endeavor because of you.

"[name] i'm forever...no the whole oak family and me are grateful for you ensuring that me and brother could meet one last time before he leaves to find what he wants the most. thank you"

in the express car, you were slumped on your cushiony bed, contemplating Amphoreus...an extrapolation similar to a knock off simulated universe which was the cradle of iron-tomb. and also the place where one or basically most of your favourite characters live...

Phainon...

This time, you will not see your friends waste away...

you make a silent promise to whoever is watching over you, be it fuli or nanook, hell it can even be aha for all you care.

"so for our next stop we have a few options like Lushaka, Ampho-"

"...Amphoreus...lets go there"

The whole crew, even pompom was bewildered. you've never suggested places before. Himeko stuttered before replying "We can do that but...any reason as to why?" you hesitate before remembering black swans reason for sending you all, the one she told the crew before speaking privately with the trailblazer. "the express doesn't have enough fuel to stay in one place for too long and Amphoreus is a place where even Akivili had not trailblazed so it can be a new start into the history of the nameless...!" wow your memory came in clutch!

good thing you remembered about the spear falling from the sky so you were able to save both dan heng and stelle before they suffered any serious injuries. however, unfortunately march was unconscious and frozen even here.

you three trek your way into...Januspolis, the first ever place where the setting started. and like it was before, furiae praetors swarm your group, and then comes a flash of gold streaked ocean blue eyes and hair like that of snow, smirking at you as he passed by you in a flash, taking stelle's bat from her and swinging it with a dramatic pose.

ah...there he is...

"Khaslana..."

you let your voice carry into the depths of the abyss...

something that came to me twice when I was taking number 2 and in my dreams. lmk if you guys want a part 2! in that one I'll make sure to include beating lygus's ahh up—

© 2025 maopll. do not copy, repost or modify my work in any form

[toruskiii]

Group chats texts with them!!!

Genre: Fluff, crack Characters: Multiple x gn!reader (platonic, but you can view it as romantic if you want...somehow) Warnings: mild cussing, may be ooc [masterlist] [about me]

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ────♡

Dan Heng, March 7th, Caelus, Stelle

Blade, Kafka, Silver Wolf, Firefly

Jiaoqiu, Feixiao, Moze

Boothill, Argenti

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ────♡

[meebochii]

🦝

[uncraven]

"Who's their favorite member?" — four different ways of saying 'you'.

synopsis ;– you ask around the Astral Express to complete your one question survey— "Who's your favorite Astral Express member?"

featured ;– Dan heng, March 7th, Sunday, Trailblazer (Stelle or Caelus).

contains ;– Fluff, hints of guiltday, mentions of the 'other' trailblazer, gn!reader, you/your pronouns, ooc? bonus at the end!

DAN HENG

He raises a brow at your question. Then he ponders for a moment. “You all have unique qualities that are endearing…”

You stare at him eagerly. “And my qualities? What about my qualities?”

He has to stifle a humored smile. “I didn't know you wanted my favor so badly.”

Somehow he managed to avoid your question all together. A mix of vagueness and redirection.

He doesn't linger on the question much longer after you leave— successfully diverted into something else.

Everyone on the express has their own quirks and habits, each fit for their own tasks.

Who better than March 7th to compile an album of precious moments? Who better than Himeko to make sure the Express is running smoothly? Who better than the Trailblazer to… find trash cans in each world they visit?

And you, he wouldn't admit (nor easily realize) how much comfort you bring him. You're a constant – someone he can rely on to be there.

Subconsciously he seeks you out when he needs help. Not from a sense of wanting to burden you, but knowing you're capable enough to problem solve with him.

He loves those nights where you two say nothing, and just exist in each other's company.

There's a silent recognition in moments like those. A wordless “I'm here.”

He may not have an answer to your question. But you are the first person that comes to mind.

MARCH 7TH

“You of course!” She answers immediately, then she quickly looks around, checking if anyone else could hear her.

You look at her, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

March nods, “Yep! Definitely, aha!” You stare at her until she breaks– two seconds approximately.

“Okay well, DanhengandTrailblazerhelpedmeoutwithscrapbookingyesterdayAndMrYanggavemesomereallygoodadviceaboutsomethingtotallyunreatedand–” She took a sharp inhale, “you all are so high up on the ‘March's Favorites’ scale its way too hard to pick one!”

That was NOT how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to say your name and list out all the things she likes about you!

But she suddenly became aware of Shush in the party car, and the chance of someone else walking in and ruining the not-yet-moment moment. Only for her to do it herself

March could tell you felt bad for asking her such a tough question, even after you laughed at her defensive rambling.

But you are her favorite member! Ever since your first conversation, March has held a deep fascination for you.

For her, you're new and innovative. You're everchanging but still recognizable. She could relate anything back to you without fail.

Her camera roll would fill up with random pictures of objects and landscapes, and she'd save them in a folder called ‘show to [name]’

She definitely realizes her feelings for you quickly. After all, she's done plenty of ‘Do you have a Crush?’ and ‘Does your crush like you back?’ quizzes online.

The former would always say “Yes” in bolded words. The latter? varied.

She just hoped you'd ask her that question again, and she'd admit it proudly. No takebacksies!

SUNDAY

“What do you mean by favorite?” He asks, eyes raising from whatever book he was invested in.

“Y'know favorite. Out of all of us.” Sunday looked unimpressed. “Like if you could only choose one of us to see for the rest of your life who would it be?”

“Your first question is very different to what you just asked me.” He was entertained by your insistence.

“Could you just fire off a name?” You pleaded. Sunday only chuckled as he refocused on the page he was reading, much to your disappointment.

Sunday never thought about that question. He still felt indebted to the Nameless, and admitting he had a “favorite” put a sour taste in his mouth. ( who was he to assign a preference?)

The “Astral Express Family” as the name of the group chat he was added into suggested, was much more tightly knit compared to The Family back in Penacony.

To brazenly say you have a favorite in The Family, is like debuting how much use a person was to you, according to the political lingo.

The thought of using any one of the nameless felt discordant with what he's become. And, he's already used more than enough favors from the nameless.

March was easy to have a conversation with, so Sunday would find himself borrowing her time. Welt was a great storyteller. Sunday had stories of his own– but compared to a man travelling the cosmos, he didn't have much to offer.

And there was you. He quickly found himself by your side after bumping into you in the parlor car at some obscene hour in the night.

A one off interaction turned into a routine, and suddenly The Express felt warmer, like he was a part of the family. (instead of The Family.)

Even when you two would be far away from each other, often enough you'd end up texting in between those late hours.

To call you his favorite would mean to admit he had some use from you. To choose only to see you felt cruel to the other nameless.

Oh.

He already had an answer, didn't he?

THE TRAILBLAZER

“Seriously?” They ask. There's an amused look on their face that screams they're going to drag out their answer (that is, if they even take the question seriously.)

You sigh and decide that their antics aren't worth the trouble. “Alright, I'll ask someone else–”

They gasp with faux-offense. “You hate me.”

You roll your eyes, playfully denying. “No I don't, so are you gonna answer the question?”

The trailblazer thinks for a moment. “I knew the best nameless since the day I woke up on the express–” so not Sunday, “–we were soul linked, bonded without words. So obviously, the best member on the express is…”

They say Stelle or Caelus depending on which trailblazer you picked.

In canon, do they know the name of the other ‘Trailblazer’? likely not, but the excuse is the name felt right on their tongue, so surely that person is the best member.

They were lucky you didn't mention the loophole they slipped through.

They said best not favorite.

If they had to say their favorite, you're the default answer.

You're fun! You get them in a weird kind of way.

They remember the first expedition where you stayed in the Astral Express, and it didn't feel the same without you.

They missed your banter, and you matching their energy.

They'd look off into the sunset as if they were mourning a lover, despite the fact that you were content on the express. Just living out your slice-of-life without them.

It only took a few days after that thought for them to realize ‘Ohhhhh…’

Yeah, you're their favorite. (They're still the best nameless though. )

masterlist . inbox . next?

BONUS

[lovinglyjinxed]

"🅸 🅻🅸🅺🅴 🆈🅾🆄!"

HONKAI STAR RAIL | Stelle, Caelus, March 7th, Dan Heng, Sunday

SYNOPSIS | You confess your love to your true love! I was inspired by Planarcadia, I wanted to write this with all the new characters but I don't think we have gotten to know them so well so... ya..

[DJINX♡!]

𑣲CAELUS Baseball Team Captain!Caelus x Tsundere!Reader

The rooftop is quieter than the field. Wind tugs at your hair, distant cheers fading like they belong to someone else entirely. You weren’t part of the team. Never were. Most people probably didn’t even notice you. You liked it that way—kept to yourself, invisible among the noise. But Caelus?

Despite the game ending not too long ago...he’s somehow already there. Lounging on the railing, one leg hooked over the edge, bat balanced lazily on his shoulder. That smirk—half teasing, half knowing—lands straight in your chest.

A beat.

“Finally decided to show up!” he says. “I came because you insisted.” you mutter, eyes on the ground. Suddenly, at the realization it is just you two, heat creeps up your neck. This was ridiculous. Why did he always make everything feel so… intense?

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, grin sharp. “Cute how you act like it’s some huge sacrifice. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?”

“I-I have not!” you snap, cheeks burning. “I just… wanted to see if… if you were… done being… a show-off or whatever!”

“Uh-huh,” he says, voice full of mock innocence. “…Sure. Totally believable. You’re just here for my batting technique, right?”

“I—shut up!” You cross your arms, turning slightly away. “…Not that it matters anyway!”

Caelus laughs, stepping closer until you can feel the faint brush of his sleeve. “Relax. I know you like me. I can see it, even if I have to dig it out of you myself!”

“…I do NOT!” you hiss, glaring but failing to hide the small heat in your chest. “Oh, really?” He tilts his head, grin teasing. “Because your face says otherwise."

Your stomach flips. “I-I’m no-! I just… you’re—ugh! You’re impossible!”

He chuckles, shaking his head, softening slightly. “Good. Because I like you too. Not the cheering, not the team… just you. The quiet, grumpy, impossible you.”

“…W-what?” you stammer, heat rising faster.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging casually, eyes bright. “…You stick out, even when you try not to. Way more interesting than anyone yelling my name down there.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it. He’s right. Of course he’s right.

A cheer rises faintly from the field. Caelus raises an eyebrow. “…Persistent. But we’ll let them wait.”

He steps closer, until the world below fades, leaving only the two of you. His fingers brush yours lightly, teasing, deliberate.

“…Stay a bit,” he murmurs, voice low but playful. “I like the quiet… only if it’s with you. And don’t even try to deny it—I know you like me too.”

“…I-I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, smirk tugging at his lips. “…And you know it.”

Your cheeks burn, but this time… you don’t pull away. The wind, the cheers, the world below—it all melts away. Here, with him, you’re exactly where he wants you, exactly where you almost can’t help but want to be.

𑣲STELLE Baseball Team Captain!Stelle x Rival Team Captain!Reader

The stadium is still roaring when you slip into the empty dugout.

Your team lost.

The scoreboard blazes overhead like it has something personal against you. Gloves are scattered across the bench, dirt ground into the floor, the sharp smell of grass and sweat still hanging in the air. Out on the field, her team is celebrating. You’re yanking off your batting gloves a little harder than necessary when someone steps into the dugout.

Stelle.

Battered cap tucked under one arm. Strands of silver-gray hair cling damply to her forehead, the rest tousled from nine innings under the lights. There’s dirt smudged along one cheek, and her amber eyes look just as calm as they did in the first inning. Expression unreadable as ever.

“You chased the third pitch in the seventh inning.” she says.

You stare at her. “Did you come here to gloat?”

“Yes...” and then she hesitates. For a flicker of a moment, it caught you off guard, it was so unlike the girl you've fought against. “…And something else...” She continues.

You scoff, turning away. “Go celebrate with your team, captain.”

“I will.” Her voice stays flat. “Later...”

You look back despite yourself.

She walks closer, cleats clicking softly against the concrete. No crowd. No teammates. Just her. The stadium lights catch in the pale strands of her hair, making her look sharper somehow—like she walked straight out of the glare and into your space.

“You adjusted after the fifth inning,” she says. “Your bunt in the sixth was smart.”

“You won. Why are you analyzing my game?”

“Because I always do. Call it a...bad habit...?”

That lands harder than the loss. How much more annoying...ly... cute...? can she get. The game just ended and yet here she is analyzing your gameplay. Truely an odd creature. She stops in front of you, close enough that the noise outside dulls into static.

“When there’s a chance to make a choice,” she says, “make one you won’t regret.”

You frown. “What does that have to do with anything?” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m choosing now.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re stubborn,” she continues. “Too competitive. You glare like it does damage. Your team’s signals are predictable.”

“That sounds less like a confession and more like your a fan..."

“Whatever..." She says sort of sheepishly. For the first time tonight, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“I like you.”

The words hit cleaner than any fastball. You can only stare. Stelle folds her arms. “You’re the only rival worth beating.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “That is a terrible way to flirt.”

“It worked.”

She reaches out, brushing dirt from your sleeve with brisk, practical fingers. Up close, you can see the flush of exertion still lingering under the stadium lights, the loose strand of gray hair falling near her eyes.

“So,” you manage, “what now?”

“We stay on opposite teams.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“No.” She tilts her head. “It sounds fun.”

Outside, her teammates start shouting her name again. She glances toward the field, visibly unimpressed, then back at you. “They can wait another minute.”

You step closer. “Good. Because I like you too.” She goes still for half a second.

“…Good...” she repeats. Then she takes your cap off your head, settles it over her silver hair, and walks back toward the celebration like she won that too.

𑣲MARCH 7TH Yearbook Club March 7th x Student Council!Reader

The student council room is quiet except for the scratching of your pen. Budget sheets. Event reports. Meeting schedules. Anything that could be sorted, stamped, filed, or signed had become your shield these past two weeks.

If your hands were full, you didn’t have to think. If your schedule was packed, you didn’t have to wonder why March 7th had been laughing so brightly with that new yearbook assistant in the courtyard. If you stayed here long enough, maybe the ache in your chest would eventually become background noise.

The door swings open. You don’t look up.

“We’re closed.” you say flatly.

“Good thing I’m not here for official business.” Your grip tightens around the pen. March 7th strides in without permission, camera hanging at her side, yearbook badge still clipped crookedly to her blazer. She’s slightly out of breath, like she’d been searching half the school.

You keep your eyes on the paperwork. “…Do you need something?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “An explanation.”

“I’m busy.”

“No, you’re hiding.” That makes your head snap up. She points at the mountain of paperwork on your desk. “You finished next month’s agenda yesterday. You reorganized your filing cabinet alphabetically and by color.”

You pause. “…How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“That’s invasive.”

“You’re avoiding me,” she fires back. “That’s worse.”

The room falls silent. You look away first. “There’s nothing to talk about.” March stares at you for a long second, then marches around the desk and plants both hands on it, leaning into your space. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Your heart betrays you instantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me...” Her voice is softer now. No teasing. No bright performance. Just honest frustration.

“You stopped coming by the clubroom. You leave when you see me in the hall. You answer my messages with one word.” She frowns. “And your fake polite smile is terrible, by the way!”

You exhale shakily. “You seemed busy.”

“With what?”

“With them.”

Her expression blanks.

“Your new assistant,” you mutter. “You were always together. Laughing. Taking pictures. I figured…” You swallow. “I figured you liked them.”

For one beat, she simply stares. Then she groans dramatically and drops her forehead onto your stack of paperwork. “You are impossible.”

“…Excuse me?”

She lifts her head, cheeks faintly pink. “They’re helping with layouts because they know graphic design.” She gestures wildly. “The photos were for the feature spread. The laughing was because they tripped over a tripod.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Oh?” March repeats. “That’s all you have to say after vanishing for two weeks and making me chase you through administrative offices?”

“I didn’t make you—!”

“You did.” She straightens, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a small envelope. You recognize your name written across the front in neat handwriting.

“What’s that?”

“The notes I was going to give you.” She opens it and spills folded slips of paper across your desk.

"Don’t skip lunch again."

"You looked nice today."

"Come visit after meetings."

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"I saved you a seat."

Your throat tightens. March’s fingers press against the last folded note, keeping it closed. “I couldn’t give you this one,” she says quietly. “Because you kept running away.” She places it in your hand.

You unfold it.

"I like you. More than I know how to write neatly."

The room goes completely still. You stare at the page, then at her. “March…” She’s blushing now, trying and failing to look composed.

“You really thought I liked someone else,” she murmurs. “When you’re the person I keep looking for in every crowd.”

Something in your chest cracks wide open. You stand so quickly your chair scrapes the floor. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I was jealous. And stupid.”

“A little stupid...” she agrees. Then she smiles—that warm, bright smile you’d been avoiding because it hurt too much to miss. “But mostly jealous.”

You laugh helplessly. She steps closer, smoothing the front of your uniform like she has every right to. “So, Student Council President,” she says lightly, eyes shining, “are you going to keep hiding in paperwork…” Her fingers lace with yours. “…or are you finally going to take me on a date?”

𑣲DAN HENG Most Popular Boy!Dan Heng x Transfer Student!Reader

The classroom was louder than it should have been for first period. Desks scraped, gossip fluttered from row to row, and every few seconds someone glanced toward the windows like they were checking the weather. You stood in the doorway with your schedule in hand, already regretting transferring mid-semester. The teacher waved you in with tired mercy.

“Class, we have a new student today. Please introduce yourself.” You did your best. Name, previous school, one awkward little wave. A few students smiled politely. A few others barely looked at you, too busy glancing toward that same corner by the windows.

There was only one empty seat left. It was by the back window, washed in soft morning light. It looked less like a desk and more like a carefully staged painting. Perfect! You walked toward it, grateful to be done with introductions.

Conversations died one by one until the silence became so complete you could hear your own footsteps. Weird school, you thought. You set your bag down and turned—only to nearly run into someone standing beside the desk.

Tall. Dark-haired. Sharp-eyed. Handsome in that unfair, sculpted sort of way that made magazines rich. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. Dark hair, composed posture, sharp features softened only by the sunlight catching along the edges of him. He wore the same uniform as everyone else, but somehow it looked neater on him, as though the rules themselves preferred him.

Most striking of all was how calm he seemed while the entire class looked seconds away from collective collapse. You adjusted your grip on your bag. “Oh. Sorry. Is this seat taken?”

For a moment, he only looked at you. The silence stretched so long you began to wonder if you had accidentally violated some obscure school custom. Then he answered, voice low and even. “No.”

You smiled in relief. “Great.”

You slid into the chair, set your bag down, and pulled out your notebook. Somewhere behind you, something clattered to the floor. You turned instinctively, but no one said anything.

You learned his name before lunch. Not from him, but from three girls whispering in the restroom with the intensity of people discussing national security.

“She sat in Dan Heng’s seat.”

“I thought no one was allowed there.”

“He let her stay!”

That last part was delivered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for miracles. You dried your hands and looked at your reflection in the mirror. “…Do we not have assigned seating?” They stared at you like you had arrived from another planet. No one answered.

Dan Heng, you discovered, occupied a strange place in the school ecosystem. He was top of the class, involved in more clubs than seemed humanly reasonable, and somehow admired by nearly everyone despite speaking less in a day than most people did before first period. Students watched him in the hallways. Teachers trusted him. Underclassmen moved aside when he passed.

He seemed completely uninterested in all of it.

During math, you forgot to turn in your worksheet until the teacher had already begun collecting them. You muttered under your breath and reached for it too late.

A page slid quietly onto your desk.

You blinked. It was your worksheet. Dan Heng had caught it before it disappeared into the stack.

“You skipped number six,” he said.

“I did?”

“You wrote the answer in the margin.”

You looked down. He was right.

“Oh.”

He tapped the side of the paper lightly with his pen.

“Your method was faster.”

You turned to stare at him, but he had already returned his attention to the board as if complimenting you were as insignificant as noting the weather.

You spent the rest of class pretending to focus. Lunch was worse than first period. The cafeteria was overflowing with noise, nowhere to sit, and the distinct threat of having to socialize before you were emotionally prepared. After one lap around the room, you gave up and took the stairs to the roof.

The door creaked open. Dan Heng was already there.

He sat on a bench beneath the overhang with a book open in one hand and a bottle of tea beside him. Wind moved lazily through his hair. The city stretched behind him in pale afternoon light.

He glanced up when you entered. You hesitated in the doorway.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting some mysterious rooftop ritual?”

“No.”

He closed the book, moved his bag from the bench beside him, and looked back out over the skyline.

The gesture was so small it might have meant nothing. Still, you crossed the roof and sat down. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt less like emptiness and more like shade on a hot day.

Eventually, curiosity won.

You leaned slightly to see the cover of his book. “History?”

“Yes.”

“You read that for fun?”

He turned a page.

“You say that like it’s concerning.”

“It is concerning!”

That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not a full smile, but the beginning of one. You found yourself absurdly pleased by it. After that, your paths began crossing with suspicious regularity.

When you arrived to class, the seat beside him was always empty no matter how late you were. When teachers assigned pair work, he somehow ended up next to you. When you mentioned not understanding a chapter in chemistry, a neatly written summary appeared on your desk the next morning without comment.

He never made a show of helping. He simply noticed what was needed and did it before you could ask. The rest of the school noticed something else entirely.

Rumors spread with athletic speed. Planarcadia had a way with words it seemed.

You were secretly dating! You had known each other before transferring! You were childhood friends reunited by Aha! You had blackmailed him! That last one was insulting.

You found him in the library after school, sorting returned books into careful stacks. “Apparently I’m blackmailing you now.”

He placed another book on the cart. “Are you?”

“Should I be?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it would be effective.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His hand paused over the next shelf. He glanced at you briefly, and something unreadable softened in his gaze.

It struck you then that Dan Heng listened more than he spoke. He collected details the way other people collected gossip. Your favorite drink. Which teachers you liked. The fact that you hated thunder. The way you tapped your pencil when thinking. He remembered everything.

One afternoon, the library was supposed to close early for inventory. You knew this because a sign had been taped to the front desk in aggressive red letters. Unfortunately, you had noticed it only after settling into a corner table with your notes, three textbooks, and the determination to survive tomorrow’s chemistry quiz.

You stared at the formulas on the page. The formulas stared back with equal hostility. A chair across from you slid out.

You looked up.

Dan Heng set his bag down and sat without a word, already pulling a pencil from his case. “I thought the library was closing,” you said.

“It is.”

He glanced at your notebook. “You still have six chapters of panic left.”

“That is not panic! That is focused academic distress.”

He held out his hand.

Your pencil hovered midair. “What?”

“Your notes.”

You handed them over before remembering you had dignity. He studied the page in silence, then turned it around and rewrote the first equation in neat, precise strokes.

“You’re memorizing the steps,” he said. “That’s why it feels impossible.”

“It is impossible.”

“It isn’t.” He tapped the paper lightly.

“You’re treating it like a list. It’s a pattern.”

Then, with the calm patience of someone explaining gravity to a confused planet, he walked you through the problem one line at a time. No sighing. No condescension. No dramatic declarations about how easy it was.

Just steady explanations, examples, and the occasional quiet correction whenever you tried to skip ahead and sabotage yourself. Somewhere along the way, the impossible thing became understandable! Thank Aeons!

You finished the next equation on your own and pushed the notebook toward him. He checked it...

“Correct.”

You sat back in your chair like you had conquered a mountain. “I’m a genius!”

“That would be premature.”

“You ruin all my victories.”

“Whatever.”

You laughed.

The sound slipped into the quiet library and settled there between the shelves. Dan Heng’s hand paused over the next problem. For a moment, he looked at you in that still, unreadable way of his. Then he lowered his gaze and turned the page.

“We still have five chapters left.”

The lights flickered once to signal closing time. You packed your books with exaggerated suffering. “This was supposed to be independent studying.”

“It was,” he said, standing. “You independently required assistance.”

“That was rude.”

“It was accurate.”

He lifted the heaviest textbook from your stack before you could protest and tucked it under one arm. You stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re carrying my book.”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m capable of carrying my own things.”

“I know.”

He started toward the door. And because apparently that was the end of the discussion, you hurried after him. The halls were nearly empty now, washed in amber evening light. Your footsteps echoed softly as you walked beside him.

At the staircase, he slowed just enough for you to match pace. “You’ll do well tomorrow,” he said.

You glanced at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you understand more than you think you do.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no casual politeness. Just certainty. The kind that settles into your chest and stays there. By the time you reached the front gate, he handed your textbook back.

Your fingers brushed when you took it. A tiny, accidental touch. It shouldn’t have meant anything but the way you wished for longer said otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, suddenly too aware of your own voice.

Dan Heng gave a small nod. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

The more time you spent with him, the more the version of Dan Heng the school worshipped began to feel incomplete.

They saw the perfect student. You saw the boy who forgot meals when he was reading. The one who rubbed at his eyes when tired. The one who stood slightly closer whenever crowds became too dense around you. The one who always walked on the side nearest traffic. The one whose voice turned unexpectedly gentle when saying your name.

Popularity had made him into something polished and distant. But in quiet places, he was simply real. And you liked him far more there.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

Lockers slammed. Students drifted through the hallway in loose clusters. Sunlight spilled through the high windows in warm gold bars across the floor.

You were kneeling to change your shoes when two girls nearby began whispering. Not quietly enough.

“I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“Why her?”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You kept your eyes on the laces in your hands. Then another voice entered the space between you all, calm and clear.

“Because I like her.”

The hallway fell still.

You looked up.

Dan Heng stood a few feet away, one hand on the strap of his bag, expression composed as ever. The girls stared at him for half a second before retreating in immediate embarrassment.

He stepped closer once they were gone.

“That was abrupt...” he said.

“You think?”

“I wanted to be clear.”

Your heart was beating so hard it felt unreasonable.

“You… like me?”

For the first time since you had known him, he seemed to choose his next words carefully. Then he said, softer than before, “Yes.” The world narrowed to the warmth in his eyes and the late sunlight around him. A laugh escaped you, shaky and bright. “Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “good thing I took your seat.”

This time his smile came without hesitation. Small, genuine, and entirely yours. “Yes,” Dan Heng said. “Good thing you did.”

𑣲SUNDAY Solo Pianist!Sunday x Popular!Reader

Rain turns the whole street silver. It gathers in the gutters, taps against awnings, blurs the city into streaks of neon and shadow. Headlights smear across wet pavement. Storefront signs glow like watercolor left in the sun. Everything feels quieter in the rain, softer somehow—like the world has lowered its voice.

You and Sunday walk side by side beneath one umbrella that is definitely too small for two people. It has been like this for months now. Not the umbrella. The walking together. It started months ago, in fragments that never looked like anything important at the time.

You were everywhere in school—student council meetings, hallway announcements, group photos, assemblies where your name got called and people actually listened. You were known. Not quietly, not vaguely. Known like sunlight is known: impossible to ignore, even when you try.

People liked you. Trusted you. Followed your lead without thinking too hard about it. You were the kind of person teachers praised in passing and classmates waved to across courtyards. The kind of person who could disappear into a crowd and still somehow be the part everyone noticed. And yet—! It began after school one day when the building had finally emptied itself out. You stayed late again—student council work piling up like an avalanche politely pretending to be paperwork. When you finally stepped into the hallway, the whole campus had gone soft around the edges, washed in evening quiet. There was no real reason to still be there.

At least, no reason you were willing to admit. A Piano. The sound moved through the empty corridor like light through water—clear, measured notes threading themselves neatly through the hush of rainfall. It wasn’t loud or performative. There was no audience to impress, no stage to command. That only made it impossible to ignore. You stopped walking before you realized you had.

You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. The upperclassman people spoke about in lowered voices, as though saying his name too loudly might disturb whatever strange balance he carried around himself. Some said he had won competitions and turned down offers from prestigious schools. Some said he practiced alone every day after class and never stayed for celebrations. Some said he was kind. Others said he was impossible to approach. Everyone agreed on one thing: he felt distant in the way stars felt distant—visible to everyone, reachable by no one. And annoyingly, offensively, unfairly hot. You had never spoken to him. Which made your recent habit of taking the long route past the music room deeply embarrassing. You were not here for him. You were only… passing by. The melody shifted into something softer, slower. A lingering phrase that seemed to hesitate at its own ending before resolving beautifully. Your chest tightened for no good reason. Then the music stopped. Panic hit instantly. You took one step backward just as the door slid open. And there he was.

Sunday stood in the frame like he had been placed there on purpose. Sleeves slightly rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had actually touched him. Pale hair fell in soft disarray over his forehead, catching the gray light from the windows behind him. His eyes landed on you immediately. Not surprised. Never surprised. “…You’re here again.”

You straightened so fast your bag almost betrayed you. “I was passing by.”

He glanced down the empty hallway, then back at you. “Through silence. Beside a locked room. Repeatedly.”

“I like this route.”

“You’ve taken it three days in a row.”

“I enjoy consistency.”

A pause. Then, faintly, like a note only half-played, he smiled.

“I see... me too.”

Your brain briefly stopped working. Because here was the problem: You were used to attention. You were used to people looking at you, talking to you, orbiting around you like you were some kind of center of gravity.

But Sunday didn’t orbit. It didn't bother you but something about that fact made you uncharacteristically shy. “You’re still annoying..." you muttered.

“And yet,” he said calmly, stepping out fully into the hallway and closing the music room behind him, “you continue returning.”

Heat climbed your neck. You hated that it was so noticeable.

“I don’t return.”

“You do.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t look like it.”

That earned a small exhale from him—almost laughter, but restrained, like everything else about him.

“Fair.” Thunder rolled somewhere far outside the building, low and distant. The windows at the end of the hall flickered with shifting gray light as rain thickened against the glass. Sunday walked to the wall beside the door and retrieved a black umbrella. Your eyes widened and then you realized what you forgot at home this morning. Your umbrella.

“I won’t.” he said, already opening it.

You stared at him. “I can go home on my own.” “Don’t say I told—” You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deny everything, but a low roll of thunder cut through the building. Both of you glanced toward the storm-dark sky outside. If anything, the rain had only grown heavier.

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Another pause. Then, quieter: “You will still get soaked.” That landed too softly to argue with immediately. He adjusted the umbrella slightly, testing its balance like it mattered. “I would prefer you don’t...” he added.

You should have refused. You should have told him to worry about himself and marched dramatically into the storm. Instead, several minutes later, you were walking beside him beneath one umbrella, trying very hard not to notice the warmth of his shoulder only inches from yours. After that, you kept running into him.

Sometimes outside the music room when he finished late practice. Sometimes by the vending machines after meetings ran too long. Sometimes in the library, where he’d wordlessly slide the book you were reaching for off the top shelf before you could embarrass yourself trying to climb for it. Eventually, those coincidences became routine.

You’d wait outside the auditorium while he locked up. He’d walk you toward the station. On rainy days, he carried an umbrella large enough for both of you—as if he’d anticipated weather and your lack of preparation equally. He was quiet, but never cold, reserved, but strangely attentive.

He remembered how you took your coffee. Not because you told him, but because he noticed when your eyes sparkled at sugar packets. He knew when student council deadlines were coming because your shoulders tensed two days beforehand. He could tell when you were tired by the way you held your bag. And somehow, without asking permission, he became the steadiest part of your week.

Tonight, the rain is heavier than usual. Water drums against the umbrella while the two of you slow near a crosswalk glowing red. Sunday adjusts the handle slightly so more of the umbrella covers you than him. His own shoulder is getting wet.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like hypothermia is a noble sacrifice.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “I thought it was subtle.”

“It wasn’t.”

The light changes. You cross.

Your heart has been loud all evening. Too loud. Loud enough to rival the rain. You had planned a proper confession. Something composed. Something elegant. But standing beside Sunday has always made rehearsed words feel unnecessary. You stop walking. He notices after two steps and turns immediately.

The streetlamp behind him catches in his pale hair, rainlight tracing gold along the edges. Even half-damp, even with droplets clinging to his lashes, he looks unfairly put together. “You’re staring...” he says. “I’m suffering!” you reply.

That earns a soft laugh. Then your courage, apparently tired of waiting, shoves itself forward. “Sunday...” you say, too quickly now to retreat, “I like you.” The words hang there, bright and irreversible. For once, he says nothing. You continue before dignity can survive.

“I know you’re hard to read. I know you’re busy. I know you probably have some graceful, devastating rejection prepared in five languages, but I needed to say it, because every day with you has become the part I look forward to most, and I’m—”

He steps closer. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just enough to stop the spiral. “You think I am hard to read?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“I have walked you home three nights a week for months.”

You open your mouth. Close it. He takes the umbrella from your stiff hand and sets it above both of you again. “I learned the meeting schedule of a club I do not belong to,” he continues. “I began carrying bandages because you keep collecting blisters from formal shoes. I practiced songs you once said you liked, despite your terrible taste.”

“My taste is awesome!”

“It is survivable.” There is warmth in his voice now, threaded through that usual calm. Then he exhales, almost amused with himself.

“I was trying to be patient,” he says. “I thought if I stayed near you long enough, you would realize I wished to stay.” Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. “You mean…”

“I mean,” he says, gaze steady on yours, “I like you too.”

The city seems to hush.

Cars pass in sheets of reflected light. Somewhere far off, a train horn sounds through the rain. You laugh once—small, disbelieving. “That’s it? You let me panic for ten full seconds?”

“I wanted to hear the rest of your speech.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You step closer until there’s barely space between you. His expression shifts—something gentler, less polished, more real. His hand finds yours beneath the umbrella—quiet, certain, like it had always known the route. “Tomorrow,” he says, lacing your fingers together, “you stop pretending this was accidental.”

You squeeze his hand once, pretending it doesn’t matter. It absolutely does. “Fine,” you mutter.

A faint pause. Then, softer: “But you’re still getting soaked.”

Sunday glances at his shoulder. “…Worth it,” he says.

And for once, neither of you correct the silence that follows.