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slowd1ving · 2 months

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OUT ON A LIMB ･ﾟ DAN HENG NSFW

"Tender was the kiss when you held me captive In your sweet embrace, Lips begin to burn and my heart beats faster, Than the normal pace." The prestigious Astral Institute is no place for those who are too afraid of competition. Though the thralls of the Music Society may tear you asunder with their particularly fierce intra-club rivalries, those fears are brushed aside as the company of a certain bassist overshadows them. PREQUEL to roommate au rough designs for blade & dan heng here male guitarist reader warnings: amab m! reader, nsfw, porn with plot, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, overstimulation, friends with benefits but one's already got feelings lmao wc: 11.4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Few universities on the globe offer the same prestige that the Astral Institute does. Talk to anyone on the streets with more awareness than a rock, and you’ll find that the common opinion is this: amidst its hallowed stone walls, a treasure trove of knowledge it hosts. Take a stroll beneath its grand marble friezes, and if the architecture isn’t enough to enthral you, perhaps the floating snippets of discourses and lectures echoing from the halls are.

Naturally, aspiring scholars from across the planet find their way here—either on their own two legs, or from their vaunted perch on their parents’ coattails. Yet, contrary to popular belief, the sprawling grounds offer less competition to get in than one expects.

Maybe that’s the reason the fierce streak of rivalry manifests in other ways.

It’s not unusual—the sports teams for the Astral Institute dominate the field, and for the past n decades, the goal of every other college in the area is to get second place. Silver is most coveted, for the hapless scholars know they’ll never touch the gilded gold of the Institute. But even their aspirations for second cannot hope to reach the silver tongues of the more academic societies: such as the Debate Society, completely trouncing their opponents round after round with mercurial elegance.

Vying for heights grander than one can even imagine is encouraged—nay, it is the shackle placed about a scholar’s wrist.

It is even worse, you’ve observed, when clubs that aren’t necessarily clubs germinate and flourish beneath the nourishment of the Institute. The most prevalent example would undoubtedly be the Music Society, but the Dance Society is another place where intra-club, cutthroat rivalry occurs.

It’s an official society: has its own choral branch, orchestral branch, and even its own dedicated division of audio engineers and managers who aren’t necessarily involved with the music but the image cultivated for the club.

Officially. On the spidery ink detailing the aged vellum, which resides outside the building the Society claims.

Unofficially, it is also a stamp of authentication for the numerous bands that have sprung like weeds with the revival of pop culture. On school grounds and the buildings surrounding the university—which the Institute owns, whether it be the sensuous jazz bar downtown or the towering library next to the river—only groups with permits can perform at these locations.

Though, with the spike in tensions between bands in recent years, it’s become a de facto requirement to blend in: anonymous, identified by only the mask that conceals your appearance during performances. Of course, with the roughly dozen or so factions, there's new speculation about a particular member’s identity every few days: only fueled by people practising in the music halls in the open, or those prone to gossip.

For scholars with a meagre social life and even less free time, joining a club in the school roster is practically a given. It’s a distinguished mark to put on your school record—and if you want the full Institute experience, competition needs to be an accustomed flavour on your tongue. To those who successfully balance both studies and the rigorous requirements of the Institutional Societies, it is a distinction in of itself for any academic.

Venture forth in spite of inexperience; only ignorance shall meet those who keep still.

That’s the pretentious quote of today, faintly watermarked onto your post-it note as you carefully unpeeled it from the stack in the on-campus café just a few moments prior.

“How stupid.” You tap your pen on the list inked harshly on the paper: Engineering Society, Archery Club, Chess Society, Classics Society. Though they had initially piqued your interest as being mildly intriguing, it now seems more of a bother than anything: time-wasters dressed up in erudite clothing.

“What is?” Kafka sits opposite you on the plush couch: steam wafting from her Earl Grey and against her maraschino lips as she observes you amusedly.

You don’t even know how you became friends with her—the Literature buildings and the Physics laboratories are on opposite sides of the expansive campus, after all. Maybe it was your frequent trips to the bars last year, or maybe it was your exasperated comments plastered on the school gossip board—which she ran, believe it or not—but whatever it was, you’re now stuck with a fuschia shadow at your side. Though she’s as mysterious as they come, you don’t think she’s a bad person. Key word being think, not know; there’s just something shady about her, after all.

“Ah,” she figures as you grimace. “The club deadline’s coming up, right?”

There’s an unspoken rule when it comes to joining clubs in a university as large and diverse as the Institute. Halfway through the second year is the cutoff point—it becomes exceedingly difficult to join any society past this point. You’ve still got four months, give-or-take, but the notion of not getting anywhere is unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the intrinsic striving this college has slowly ingrained in you over the past year—but part of you really can’t be bothered.

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. Mindlessly, you swill bitter coffee down—savouring not the aromatic taste but the piercing heat entering your mouth.

“And you can’t figure out which to join?” she prompts. You stare down at the list—neither the Chess nor the Classics society sound particularly inviting, the Engineering Society sounds dead, and the Archery Society seems too dangerous for the you who does calculations and paragraphs by hand almost daily.

“Uh,” you reply intelligently. “No.”

“How about the Music Club?”

You pause. And you swallow, temporarily debating the pros and cons of navigating a minefield such as the aforementioned club.

And as the wise men of years yonder have sagely expressed to problems which require impulsive solutions: fuck it.

“Sure.”

It’s too late for regrets.

✦ . 　⁺

Though, against your nervous expectations, you’re not immediately dragged into the thick of the competition and bloodlust. It’s surprisingly underwhelming—a brief ‘that’s it?’ before you’re assigned a small pass granting you access to the numerous practice rooms and a basic certification to perform in the less-prestigious venues.

Hmm. You stare at your electric guitar gathering dust in the corner of your friend’s garage, and just like the void, it stares back.

No doubt the literature student expected you to pick up some managerial duties, but maybe it’s fate that led you back to collect your stuff—and not the nagging after your friend bought a new motorbike and needs more space for his baby.

“No hard feelings, man,” he says, and perhaps it’s the forgotten discovery that allows you to break into a smile that is neither terse nor annoyed.

No hard feelings, indeed.

It’s a week after you’ve received the metal placard, and an hour after attending a lecture for vector fields. Maybe it’s the curiosity peeking through, but something prompts you to ditch the stack of thick sheets of homework on your desk and pick up your guitar.

Your guide through the long-winded halls pauses, blood-red hair swaying to a cascading halt as she points to her right. “This is your practice room for today. Make sure to read the rules before you begin, alright?”

She’s friendly, introducing herself as Himeko with a dazzling smile. She’s one of the managers in the music club—veering into engineering territory. Compared to her, you’re just some guy with his guitar; you look away from her cheerful expression, gazing at the rules emblazoned in a red less vibrant than her locks.

No intercourse. No hot food. No unauthorised persons. Scrawled beneath in messy purple pen is a blinding neon post-it: get the fuck out if you’re not using the room properly, you bums.

“Wow,” you cough out in surprise, breaking your laconic pattern of responses. “I assume those have some crazy stories behind them.”

That elicits a small laugh from her, and finally it feels like you’ve done something right.

“You have no idea,” she bemoans exasperatedly, ushering you into the room. It’s nothing too large—small enough to feel cosy rather than make you self-conscious, but big enough so sound carries well. “Right, if you need help setting up, just let the admin at the end of the corridor know.”

She leaves in a whirl of crimson and gilt gold, and you’re left standing bemusedly in the doorway.

It’s not like you do need the help: hands deftly unravelling and plugging in cords and tuning the pegs with the ease only muscle memory evokes. How long has it been? With your mountainous studies, it’s little wonder that your hobbies were pushed to the bottom of the priority list.

Your breathing turns rhythmic as you warm-up: chord after chord gently brought into existence with the fretboard and a copper penny as an impromptu pick. Though it’s been a few years, your hands fly across the strings.

A little bit of Bauhaus. Improvisation for The Cure. A brief snippet of Fields of Nephilim.

“I was cold as I mouthed the words, and crawled across the mirror,” you sing along with the backing track, embellishing the sombre baseline—chords ringing out clean in the daylight. It’s been so long that your mouth tastes sweet: letting the tones sweep you away in its ebb. The melody and harmonies blur together—as do your eyes. They flutter shut, focused only on replicating the feeling. “I wait, await the next breath.”

The notes fall apart and distort in the empty room: jarring and incomplete, yet harrowingly beautiful.

“Your name like ice, into my heart.”

Your voice is hoarse: fingers raw and voice scraped tender from just these meagre hours of practice.

“Everything is as cold as life—can no one save you?”

It’s not enough, but as the sound of song dies out and is replaced by the buzz of alternating current and low whir of air conditioning, you realise there’s someone in the doorway.

Fingers drum on the lacquered body of the guitar as you look at him, and he looks back at you. He’s roughly your age: wavy black hair cut messy round his head; silvery chains decorating his neck and pale wrists; red liner accentuating sharp, lucid eyes that bear directly into you.

“Can I help you?” you frown, scanning his face and realising you’ve never seen him around before: be it at a lecture, the library or any of the small stores dotted around campus. At least, you hope you’ve never seen him around—it’s awkward enough knowing he heard you, let alone that you might’ve come across him and forgotten his name.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice is pleasant: slightly melodious and clear even with his lowered volume. “The other rooms are all full—I was wondering if we could share?”

Wow, you blink. He’s so damn polite.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug it off, ignoring the smile that he gives you. While it may do you good to get along better and make friends with your fellow club mates, you don’t particularly care about that.

“Wait,” you call out to him as he walks past you towards the back, scratching your neck hesitantly. “I don’t have headphones to plug into my guitar.”

Sure, you may be cold, but you aren’t that much of a prick to disrupt his own practice like that.

But contrary to whatever you expected him to do, it’s certainly not him rummaging around in his bag and extending his hand with a pair of headphones. “I’ve got spares.”

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, fairly dumbfounded as you walk forward. After all, the most prepared student in the physics class you’re in only carries around a half-eaten pencil and a crumpled sheet of A4 paper on a good day. Yet as you reach out for them, he holds on to the pair. Inevitably, his fingertips brush yours, and you swear his hand trembles minutely.

“Dan Heng,” he introduces himself. “Data analysis major.”

“Bit too late for introductions, is it not?” you comment, and it’s the second time someone’s laughed today with you. No, it’s not really a laugh—more like an exhale of air that suggests a laugh. It suits him: restrained as he is.

“It’s never too late.” He doesn’t budge: fingers firmly clasped around the headphones, tips still brushing past your skin.

“I’ll give you a clue instead,” you compromise, wondering what exactly keeps driving the conversation. “Analyse that qualitative data instead.”

“So original,” he remarks dryly, but he does free you from his warm hands. His eyes linger upon you as you gift him a strand of red to investigate: one of the sciences. It’s vague enough to be frustrating, but he could easily view the roster for the Music Club. Or not, actually—since the club is so volatile, it can’t be easy to peruse just who’s in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave dismissively, plugging the plain black headphones into the instrument with practised grace. “Think of it as repayment for letting you stay here.”

“Hah,” he grins freely this time—as bright and messy as a finger painting—and you stare at him for a few seconds. “You’re really stingy, you know that?”

The mask of politeness has slipped minutely; you see it in the crescent shape of his eyes and the casual cant of his head. Even the long white coat he’s wearing is falling from his shoulders—he simply shrugs it off and tosses it on the couch behind him, as though he’s shedding an outer layer of his very being. It’s strangely personal; for a brief second, you’re privy to a stranger’s deeper feelings beyond meaningless platitudes.

“Better than outright kicking you out,” you mutter, averting your eyes from his now-calm face. “How many doors did you knock on before you stumbled on my generous being?”

“Generous—” he coughs abruptly, and your head whips back up from your guitar. “—apologies, that was purely reflexive.”

You sit on the sofa by the window, letting the sunlight dapple over you as you watch him clear his throat. There’s no use sitting awkwardly when the tension has pretty much dissipated; you lean back until you’re comfortable, elbows resting neatly on top of the body.

“So? Who slammed the door on you?” You adjust the jack in the insert until the static fades completely, gazing at him all the while.

“I was hoping you’d imagine yours was the first door I knocked on,” he sighs. “How embarrassing.”

“I’m not an idiot.” You tap your penny against the lacquered wood of the guitar. Tap, tap. “This room’s on the very end of the corridor.”

A heartbeat passes.

Tap, tap.

“So how many people rejected you?” you snicker. Third time’s the charm.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” he mutters. His eyes flick up to yours, and you stare at him with raised brows, evidently nonplussed. “...Twelve. Three rooms are out of commission currently.”

“Pff— wow,” you stifle the sound against the back of your palm, but you can’t hide the grin in your words. “Your charm sucks, man.”

He sighs in exasperation. “Then what does it say about you if you’re so easily swayed?”

Did he just call me easy?—you gape, then quickly deduce he’s pretty funny when he wants to be: all dry humour and quick wit.

“Sorry, sorry,” you wave your hand in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not surprised that they all rejected you, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

“I don’t mean it like that.” You rub the penny—the familiar metallic scent coats your hands now, and you can almost taste it on your tongue. “I mean the students here are mostly competitive pricks.”

“Unlike you?” he deadpans, and you feel somewhat offended at the sarcastic undertones he’s emitting. So rude.

“Uh, duh,” you grin, flipping the coin with a calloused thumb. “I let a stray cat like you in, didn’t I?”

“And here I was, about to compliment your playing,” he sighs out instead of acknowledging your words. “Guess you won’t want to hear it from a stray cat like me, huh?”

Woah, you blink, almost impressed at how quickly he’s mastered passive-aggressiveness.

“No, I would,” you retort shamelessly. “I love cats, strays included.”

“Think about it,” you continue, missing how startled he looks—the tiny twitch of his brows as he looks on incredulously, the minute waver in his hands as he raises his finger hesitantly. “If a cat came up to you, started talking, that would be cool as shit, right?”

“I’d think I was on psychedelics,” he proclaims flatly. “And possibly insane.”

“Way to ruin a scenario.” You lean back your head until it hits the back of the couch: warm sunlight gently washes over your face and closed eyes, all red through your blood vessels in the delicate lids. “We’ve established I would absolutely not mind talk from a stray cat, so give me my compliment.”

“You always want the last word, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You’re a bit too quick with your reply.

He sighs. Deeply this time.

“Fine. I don’t think your rougher style of playing will ever get boring,” he considers thoughtfully, and you can feel his eyes rake over you and your guitar. Assessing—just some guy with his instrument, lazily basking in the sun.

“And… your style is very emotive,” he adds, and there’s something about that emphasis that’s ever-so-slightly different.

“Aeons—you’re only saying that because you heard me singing, right?” You peek one eye open in a glare.

“I liked it.”

“Be serious,” you groan.

“I am,” he shrugs. “I’ve never heard someone sing ‘Cold’ so enthusiastically. There’s real hope for The Cure fans.”

“Damn, you’re definitely making fun of me,” you quiver in mild irritation.

“You figure that out for yourself then.” And you’re left just like that—staring at him dumbly while he unlocks the tall cupboard in the back. This bastard…

From its mahogany depths, he pulls out a hard black guitar case—and silently you wonder at the coincidence. It zips open with a strangled buzz: careful teeth sawing against careful teeth under his nimble fingers. You watch, entranced, as he pulls the guitar out by the neck.

It’s not six-stringed like you expected. Rather, the black fretboard and polished azure body boasts only four strings. He’s a bassist, you realise with a start; the notion enthrals you, just a little.

“That’s yours, right?” You point, double-checking not just the way he took it from the cupboard, but to make sure you aren’t hallucinating it.

“And to whom else could it belong?” he humours you.

“Oh wow.” You sit up, setting the headphones around your neck while he sets up. “It must’ve been fate leading you here.”

“I would’ve come here to collect my guitar regardless of fate,” he answers.

“So fate assigned me this room in particular,” you shoot back, undeterred.

“Coincidence.”

“Explain why no one else wanted you in their practice rooms then.” It’s a pointless back-and-forth, which is precisely what entertains you.

“As you said—” and here he looks up, eyes catching yours in such a placid stare with lips poised in a nigh-triumphant grin that you can’t look away. “—they’re all competitive pricks.”

Seamless. You can’t even argue back; he’s agreed with you and gone against your words in the same breath.

“Shame,” you sigh, twirling with the length of headphone cable streaming out from your guitar. “Here I was, about to use it as an excuse to get you to play with me.”

“You needed an excuse?” he comments. You look on as he fiddles with the amp: too preoccupied with the technical aspects of setting up to notice your stare honed onto the back of his curls. Or maybe he does notice—he’s observant, after all.

“Who knows? Maybe you’d demand my name in return.” You pluck the D string lazily—it faintly echoes against your neck through the headphones. Jokes aside, there’s something itching against your flesh that urges you to take this opportunity for practice.

“Great idea,” he replies laconically. Just like that, he’s standing with his own headphones still in his grasp—as clear as scales with just another push to tip the balance in your favour. “You’re quite stingy, after all.”

“Act broke to stay rich.” You pluck another string, then another. With the presence of your hand covering the fretboard, there’s only a jarring quality to each note.

“So—” you look up this time, only to find he’s already staring your way. Got him. “—wanna play with me?”

“Depends. Can you keep up?”

“I mean, based on your spying, what do you think?”

One stingy, the other arrogant. It’s a perfect joke—a meticulous comedy Kafka would no doubt write in a moment of drunkenness.

Your hand wavers on the headphone jack, as though awaiting his answer. A stingy, hesitant fool.

Thump. That’s what you hear when he tosses his own headphones onto where his long coat rests on the couch. You received your answer after all.

It’s safe to say that your first encounter with Dan Heng is neither bad nor good, just a mixture of both that titrates itself into mundane neutrality.

His notes are mellowed against yours—smooth, buttery—and it’s like you read his mind and he yours. But it’s futile to ponder on the concept more; after all, it’s not like you’ll encounter him any more often.

✦ . 　⁺

You’re right, as you oft are.

Truly, your studies of physics have left you with a talent for predicting trajectories—including human ones. You don’t see the bassist in the following days; the practice room you’re beginning to get rather fond of is blissfully devoid of chatter and teasing remarks strewn back and forth.

It’s… quiet.

Rather, the only conversations you have are rushed ones with Kafka throughout the week when you spot her on campus—she updates you on whatever gossip she’s heard recently, and the scandals she’s personally witnessed.

Or, more accurately, Kafka isn’t the only one you talk to. Small tidbits of chatter between you and Himeko have also become tentative routine. It started off as polite exchanges, but ever-so-slowly, the two of you occasionally peruse different topics.

(“Have you thought of joining one of the bands in the Music Society?”)

The question she left you with just yesterday plagues your mind as you wait in line in one of the tiny, cosy cafés dotted around campus. There’s the strong aroma of roasted beans, but you can’t focus on them—nor the quaint atmosphere, nor the menu items.

No, you haven’t. Of all things, you’re not planning on entangling yourself with creating a persona to present to the rest of the student body—a mask slipping onto your features while you showcase your music to the world.

But as you turn around with a steaming coffee in your takeaway cup, there Himeko is: sanguine dripping off her shoulders in glossy waves, a crimson smile playing on her lips, a jaunty flair to her movements as she waves you over to her tiny table in the corner. She’s better suited for the window seats—shining like the sun itself. It almost makes you squint as you look over.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

“Aha,” you stare at the scalding cup in your hands nervously. There’s something about seeing someone with their life perfectly put together that makes you instinctively on edge. “Honestly, I’m not too keen on the idea.”

“Hmm,” Himeko rests her chin on a manicured hand, drumming on the varnished oaken table with her other one. Tap–tap. “Is it the competition? Per my understanding, you’re a rather reserved scholar, aren’t you?”

She’s sharp, you acknowledge.

“I just find it rather pointless,” you shake your head in half-agreement. “I may be reserved, but I can handle the pressure.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have picked physics for my studies,” you comment as an afterthought. “Call me pessimistic, but I can’t find much merit in anonymous rivalries that only benefit the ego.”

“You were assigned the Nihility path at orientation, weren’t you?” Himeko remarks—a reference to the quiz each first-year takes to determine a ‘house’. You thought it was more arbitrary than anything; with a school as intra-competitive as the Institute, it’s only natural that it has its own factions to compete with each other even further. But clearly, there are some who value the path system as measures of personalities.

You hadn’t given that much thought either.

“I think so.” You play with the empty sugar packet, twisting it in your fingers. “Dostoyevsky isn’t my favourite author, before you ask.”

She exhales wryly, and just like that, the small tension in your shoulders dissipates somewhat.

“Well, it’s not entirely ego-boosting. Of course, due to rumours and information of that ilk, the rivalries are what’s the main focus for those who aren’t in the Society.” Red stains her own cup as she takes a sip of her espresso. “It’s a good opportunity for scholarships, prizes, and extra credit. The rivalry’s a natural consequence, of course, but there’s only one or two groups with bad blood like that between them.”

“You’d need to be a bit more careful to keep your identity as a band member a secret,” she adds. “But since a portion of the club are part of bands themselves, they mind their own business out of a mutual ‘stay out of each other's' way’ policy.”

You think back to Dan Heng’s rejections from the practice halls, and suddenly it makes a lot more sense.

“But you’ll know who’s in your band, right?”

“That’s a given,” she nods, and you’re sweating slightly from the enthusiasm that shines bright in her eyes. “Group managers will be eager to snatch up a talented newbie like you, so I’ll extend my hand first.”

Your tongue is leaden in your mouth as you swallow.

And just like that, you begrudgingly join the Trailblazers.

✦ . 　⁺

“What the fuck?” you point at the man before you incredulously, though retrospectively, you should’ve expected this.

Himeko had driven you to the more private practice rooms in the city: a space subsidised by the Institute for each band. Your expectations had been low, but the glossy building led you to rethink your entire philosophy (each practice room was twice the size of your dorm) and wholeheartedly accept your new reality.

It was going too smoothly, perhaps. March 7th was the first proper band member you’d met—an enthusiastic Environmental Studies student in charge of the synthesiser. Her affable personality wholly reminded you of bubblegum.

Next through the door were Caelus and Stelle—twins which you had met before. Kafka had taken them under her wing a while back, and they’d tottered after her (or at least, that’s how you remembered it) before they grew accustomed to the Institute on their own. Theatre and psychology majors respectively, if you recall correctly. Caelus on the drums, Stelle on vocals; two roles that fit them surprisingly well.

“Ah, Welt won’t be joining us today,” Himeko informs you as you’re idly tuning the pegs for your guitar. You recognise the name of your blunt upperclassman; an animation major who looks like he’s on the verge of dying every time you see him. Condolences, you sympathise for the man who’s finally kicked his personal bucket. “But he’s good with the harp and cello.”

“So you guys are missing a guitarist?” you interject. As far as you knew, there was a bassist left on the roster. There’s also the ‘mascot’, Pom-Pom: Himeko’s small rabbit that you’ve unfortunately not had the pleasure of meeting but you have seen from March 7th’s phone as she gushes over the tiny, fluffy thing.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stelle sighs. “Our old one quit a while back.”

No—she assures you, the reason was perfectly normal and not any unsavoury reasons that would’ve definitely given you cold feet.

“He’s so late,” March 7th grumbles, but you don’t have time to ask just who exactly the mysterious bassist is—because speak of the devil, the wooden door swings open and suddenly you’re staring at a man whom you thought you wouldn’t see much of.

Which brings you to your current predicament: spilling an expletive from your lips while pointing at a man just as dumbfounded as you.

“Huh?” he stares back. “Himeko, what did you do?”

“You mentioned him, so I checked out his talent for myself,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “Even if you hadn’t said he was good, I would’ve seen it for myself anyway.”

He gapes for a moment longer, but your own astonished expression is a lot more difficult to stave off.

“Oh, oh—he was talking about you, you know,” March 7th bounds up to you with her hands clasped behind her back in a picture of innocence.

“What’d he say?” All too eager to play along, you lean so she can whisper it without the aforementioned man overhearing. She responds in kind, already cupping a hand around her mouth, but—

“March.” You’re pulled away by a glaring Dan Heng: hand firmly grasped around your wrist. Just as quickly, he lets go with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, she’ll probably embellish what I actually said,” he fumbles.

He’s warm, you notice. And flustered, you note, this time with far greater amusement.

“He said the two of you had great chemistry,” Stelle calls, and her tone of voice is so steady that you half-believe her.

“Stelle, I did not—”

“—totally did—”

“—part of ‘we played well together’ could you have possibly misheard like that? I said four words—”

They’re bickering, March 7th and Caelus jumping in on their argument—and suddenly there’s a messy, bright burst of feeling tangling in your chest.

They’re always like that, pay them no mind—Himeko tells you, but you don’t mind. Despite your initial reluctance, there’s something that draws you to this mismatched group.

And perhaps your second encounter with Dan Heng isn’t the greatest either, but it certainly isn’t terrible.

✦ . 　⁺

Though it doesn’t seem like it at first, Stelle’s offhand comment—chemistry—seems to be more prophetic than teasing. From a purely objective standpoint, his buttery-smooth playing wraps into your rougher style seamlessly: a steady, unwavering foundation.

It’s never boring; you’re watching as his hands practically fly against the fretboard as he plays a post-punk piece, spellbound even as you churn out gritty chord after chord. There’s a small smile on your lips as you gaze at his concentrated face—which breaks just as the last rattles of the song die out.

The two of you are back in the practice room like all those weeks ago. It was quickly made clear to you that other than the weekly meetups, individual practice is more efficient since there’s no other way to meet sooner without taking study time away. It’s either good luck—or fate, as you’d like to put it otherwise—that Dan Heng’s schedule is pretty similar to yours, since now you’ve essentially got a free partner to practise with in the afternoons.

“What?” His head snaps up as a response to the scorching sensation of your eyes drilling holes in his face.

“I think you’re my favourite bassist I know,” you answer seriously. In all honesty, he’s the only bassist you know—but you’re not about to say his chord progressions give you goosebumps. It’s become a running bit—one that you feel a strong obligation to commit to—which consists of offhand remarks that seem a bit too much like compliments.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only bassist you know,” he deadpans. “So that compliment doesn’t count.”

How’d he know that?—you blink in surprise. Drat. “I think you’re a mind reader.”

“That’s just fact.”

He leans back on the wall at the back; maybe it’s the gentle sunlight washing over his features, or maybe it’s the low hanging light fixtures in the practice room, but his eyes sparkle cerulean at this very moment. A lazy smile paints his face, and your brows raise in mild surprise.

“Um,” you wrack your brains. “Your eyes are pretty.”

He coughs loudly—taken off-guard at how casually you admit it. Even now, you’re still tapping that damned penny against your keyboard as you keep looking at him: nonplussed, as though you’re simply saying the grass is green and two plus two equals four. No other intonation other than neutrality. Just like any other compliment you’ve given him nonchalantly.

His stomach tightens. Just a little.

✦ . 　⁺

It becomes habitual: practising every other day turns into hanging out. From walking to that shiny room together (both of your dorms are surprisingly close together, after all), to greeting him whenever you see him pass by to his lecture hall, it feels like you’ve gotten closer to the not-so-stoic man.

Twenty-one days it takes to form a habit.

You’ve gotten far too used to his company: neither March nor the twins live nearby, Welt looks like he’s fighting off death each time you see his haggard face, and Himeko’s a lot busier than you initially thought. Past those three weeks, and it seems like you’re slowly extending and accepting tendrils of friendship from the bassist.

Maybe that’s why you’re currently in this predicament.

Even with your new-found (and old-found) hobby, there’s an obvious need to keep studying—that physics degree won’t award itself, after all. In comes the expansive library on-campus: a marvel of classic academia and modern architecture that scholars never get used to.

“Is anyone sitting here?” It’s just you and Dan Heng in this corner. You—sitting down at a four-by-four walnut hued table, stacks upon stacks of atomic structure reading piled neatly on your right. Him—standing before you with a meagre, slim laptop in his hands that cannot possibly contest with the fat stacks of paper by you.

“Absolutely,” you lie through your teeth. “The whole table is reserved for my company.”

That’s a prime example of falsehood.

Dan Heng, the smartie-pants he is, sees through the fib quite easily.

“You and what friends?” His brow piques.

You make an obvious show of looking around him. If the space beholden to him was any emptier, there’d be a tumbleweed merrily sweeping past him.

“And where’s your company?”

He scowls.

“Know the enemy and know yourself.” You place a palm on your chest sagely. “It appears you do not know yourself, nor your enemy.”

“There’s someone willing to spend time with you?” He sits down anyway, but it’s not like you were going to reject him in the first place.

“Yes.” You turn back to your book mysteriously. Ignoring the very obvious contender who’s currently sat himself opposite you, willingly, there’s also a text on your phone refuting his words.

< Living Poets Society <3 > 11:32 > I’ll be there in fifteen. Save me a place, won’t you?

There’s a smile playing on your lips while you tap out an ‘okay, see you soon’, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dan Heng as he glances up at your sudden movement. He’s still looking over as you place your phone down and crack open the textbook once more: eyes so blatantly heavy you can’t help but speak while you skim over the information.

“Need something?”

“I still haven’t gotten your number—” and this time he pointedly adds your name to the end of his statement, courtesy of a slip-up from March 7th a few weeks back.

“Oh, yeah,” you turn your page, unlocking the phone without looking and passing him the device. “Just add yourself.”

He notes the anonymous sender in the back of his mind, the heart directly after, and the message itself. His teeth grit together as he adds himself to the list of contacts: why March and the twins are there before him, he doesn’t know. He’s known you longer and better, damn it.

His thumb swipes a quick message to himself so he can save your number too—a simple ‘hi’ that makes his mouth dry, even with how lacklustre it is.

Though, his mouth is dry due to deliberation over whether to put a heart next to your name, which he now knows thanks to March 7th. Just as quickly, he strikes the thought from his mind—it doesn’t matter.

Why the hell would it matter in the first place?

He glances back up at you—you’re engrossed as ever in the text, which is all well and good because his hands wobble a bit as he slides your phone back. You still barely notice: a low ‘thanks’ slipping from your lips as you turn the page.

Dan Heng appears to be working away silently from where you’re sitting, but what you can’t see is how he’s rereading the same few lines of data with furrowed brows.

What you can’t see when Kafka arrives and kisses your cheek in greeting is how his hands clench around his pencil—but she does, purposefully lingering just a second longer to leave maraschino smeared on your face.

What you can’t see when you make no moves to wipe the gloss off is the stony look on the bassist’s face—as well as the questions he has for himself. Why the hell is he so annoyed anyway? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t, but the way you’re unbothered by it increases his bothered levels as though it were inversely proportional.

He doesn’t know her—though he thinks he’s seen her with Caelus and Stelle before—but he’s never been so irritated by a stranger before.

She’s sitting next to you, a model scholar: typing away on her laptop with a concentrated look on her face. But she’s leaning into you, head canting in your direction at such a sluggish speed that had he not been glaring at her, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

You’re none the wiser. Absent-mindedly, she’s tapping on your palm: kneading away at the flesh and you let her, too preoccupied with inking notes into the memo pad before you to really care what she’s doing. She’s always been slightly touchy with her friends—lingering hugs, grasping your hands and twining her fingers with yours, dotting her spiced perfume right against your wrists—so this isn’t particularly out of the blue.

With a loud clatter, Dan Heng’s pen falls to the floor—you’re too busy looking his way to notice the coy smile brimming from her pout.

Gosh—she coos internally, what an oblivious little student you are. This is what collecting organic material is all about; even if he doesn’t realise it himself, he’s practically brimming with jealousy.

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispers after a half-hour of noting his reactions to various visual stimuli: outright holding your hand, resting her magenta head on your shoulder, letting you take a sip of her sweet coffee. It’s low enough to appear as though she’s making an effort to stay quiet, but she knows he can hear it; the now-familiar creak of the plastic biro graces her ears.

“Sure,” you reply absently. Perfect. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Dan Heng.”

And as she saunters out of the library with you in tow, she makes sure to wrap her long coat around your shoulders.

It’s rather cold outside, after all.

Well, certainly outside. For poor Dan Heng, he’s likely stewing over in his irritation.

✦ . 　⁺

If it weren’t often before, it is now—seeing Dan Heng has become a daily routine. Whether it be at the library or at the music practice halls, the familiar ping on your phone alerts you diurnally that he’s located somewhere in the vicinity.

To be more accurate, it’s nocturnally now. He’s at your dorm door tonight—

< Dan Heng > 23:48 > Snack run?

—a motorcycle helmet held out to you in his steady hands. This development only came to life a few days ago; you had opened his mini-fridge to find no actual food, and thus came his offer to go on a late-night snack run.

With his jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, and your hands tightly gripping the valley of his waist, his abdomen trembles somewhat. But not enough for you to notice, and certainly not enough to stop him from poking fun at you:

“What, you planning to fall off? Hold on properly.”

He shivers as your arms sling round his middle: fingers splayed then grasping his shirt, right at his shaking diaphragm. He can feel your chest press up right against his back—muscle shifting against muscle as you get comfortable against his quaking torso.

It must just be the frigid wind nipping at his body.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s offered these rides to you when he’s never done this with anyone else, but the smile you give him as you pick out food for the two of you to share is somewhat endearing. Dan Heng sighs in annoyance as you forget to get him a drink—yet he supposes he’ll just steal some of yours in return.

“You got a lecture tomorrow too?” Sitting outside on a bench—cherry juice on your breath—is pleasantly eye-opening. With the city just waking up, it’s a profound experience to witness.

“Yeah,” he hisses as you poke his cheek with your gelid fingers when he spaces out.

“And you’ll wake up for it?” you remark sceptically, retracting your hand. He’s warm, you note—a mild flush on his cheeks from the boreal night.

“‘Course.” His tone is somewhat insincere, especially right after he takes a swig of your drink. There’s a red trickle of the sticky juice that lingers on his mouth, and your eyes can’t help but be drawn to the motion of the liquid.

“Okay…” It’s clear you don’t believe him.

“What, you wanna skip?” Dan Heng doesn’t quite know what possesses him to ask. Maybe it’s the specific look in your eyes that makes him want you to acknowledge him—something childish and petulant, sure, but isn’t it natural to feel like this with your friend?

You weigh your options: Intro to Mechanics, or the slightly pleading look in his eyes?

“Um—” you swill down another gulp of the tart juice—there’s a prickle of redness on his cheeks as he realises he also took his sips from that particular spot. Sanguine coats your lips, and now it’s his turn to stare as your throat bobs and juice trickles from your warm mouth. “—sure.”

And perhaps watching B-rated horror movies isn’t the best way to keep grades up, but there’s something addictive about keeping his leg pressed against yours on his cramped couch—something he can’t quite put his finger on.

When you tell Kafka about those forty-eight hours, she lets out a cackle that sounds like it’s been marinated for that long too—and she won’t tell you why.

✦ . 　⁺

With the rigorous academia of college comes a universal, practically hallowed tradition that resides on the other side of its gleaming coin. Parties. Gatherings, events, soirées—whatever elegant name one wants to disguise it with, all meld into a party with enough booze and enough people.

One lonesome Friday, there’s a ping that graces your phone—followed swiftly by another, then a final one that finally catches your attention.

< Music Society: ANNOUNCEMENTS (do not reply) > 10:00 > For those in the Society, an opportunity to socialise and mingle with fellow club-goers is here for next SATURDAY. Hosted in the illustrious Avis Hall by the POP MUSIC division…. [108 members reacted to this message]

< Kafkalicious <3 > 10:05 > I’m picking you up. 10:06 > There’s no way you actually have good clothes to wear for this.

Sheepishly, you type out an affirmative. The club can brand this however they want, but the specific division they’re referring to is often labelled the unhinged party of the year—sneaking in dozens of students who aren’t necessarily in the Music Club, serving enough liquor to comfortably drown in—yet still managing to keep it under wraps. Unfortunately, this also means the clothing you have in your dresser—casual ensembles and a few ones suitable for performing as a member of a band in the darkwave genre—won’t cut it.

Which is precisely why you’re feeling the biting cold particularly clearly as soon as the next Saturday rolls around—Kafka’s lended jacket does little to warm you up when the mesh, spider webbing top she selected lets through all the frigid air. It ghosts white against your skin, while the pallored cargoes she picked out are likewise spectral and blend in against the snow dotted around campus. Even the jewellery she painstakingly selected is almost intransient: shifting like silvery mercury against skin with their delicate links and chains. To put it simply, the only skin that isn’t somewhat on display is the skin of your legs—the trousers are thankfully opaque.

As you enter the building, the strong odour of spirits and alcohol hits you: just like any other college, its parties aren’t any more illustrious than the next.

There’s the press of bodies against bodies in the small hall; dim lights make it hard to spot anyone clearly, let alone your friends. If it weren’t for the stumbling wake of drunken dancers in your path, it might’ve been easier to navigate—but this building is crowded, and you probably would’ve been swallowed in the horde already were it not for the sight of the stairs in the corner.

With a solo cup unceremoniously taken, you inch past the thumping decibels of music that cannot be classified as pop—ironically, almost every genre save the division’s namesake plays before it—and the amorphous mess of people milling about on the ground floor.

A text from March 7th saves you the trouble of meticulously searching the rooms to find your friends.

< National Cereal Day <3 > 21:16 > first floor, room at the end of the corridor!! We’re playing seven minutes hurry up!!

It’s why you find yourself squished between Kafka and Himeko in the dim room; if you squint, you can make out Dan Heng, Caelus, March 7th and some other oddballs like Ruan Mei and a few you can’t place the name of.

There’s no actual closet in the room, which brings in question the integrity of this game. A confused glance at Kafka later, and you get your answer—the janitor closet next door will suffice, won’t it?

“You look simply divine,” she compliments directly into your ear, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who the glare she feels on her belongs to.

“I bet my stylist would love hearing that,” you shoot back, and she twirls her hair coquettishly in response. She’s right—the outfit she picked out for you feels like you’re about to step into an angelic rave, minus the wings.

Is it luck that spins your name first?

You swill down the bitter, slightly lukewarm alcohol down—setting the red plastic down as you select a piece of paper out of the hat. Kafka whistles as you take your time unfolding it; she’s got a knack for noticing things that people hide in the shadows, and currently she’s noticing how your little friend’s hands clench tight around his trousers in the dark. It almost makes her feel bad—almost.

“Uh—” your brows raise in mild surprise. Dan Heng’s breath hitches, and now even March notices—the look she sends him is one half-disbelieving, half it just dawned on her. There’s approximately a nine-percent chance of being drawn—

“Dan Heng,” you read carefully. What a joke—to have someone you’re close to rather than not to accompany you to the space sequestered away in the hallway. When you look up at him, there’s a strange expression settled on his face: slightly agape, as though he’s uncomfortable with the thought of being in a closet with you.

He stands abruptly, and you flounder after him: too busy ignoring the wolf whistles to notice the faint rosy hue that radiates from his ears.

Maybe you would’ve asked him if he was okay with this, but the way he opens the janitor closet door and steps in leaves you at a loss for words instead. As it stands, you simply follow him in—the heavy thud that resounds from outside confirms that there’s no backing out.

It’s smaller than you expected; only a foot or so separates the two of you, and the air is thick with the lingering odour of lemon-scented cleaning chemicals. You’re thankful for the faint tendrils of light that pierce through the small holes in the door—since at least now you can observe the look on his face as he glances at the floor, then the shelves. Anywhere but your face.

“You… alright there?” you murmur. There’s a certain incandescence to his features as he looks back up, evidently startled by your question. If you focus on the heavy bass that you can somehow faintly hear from downstairs, the effect is almost dizzying.

“Um,” he begins hesitantly—that in of itself strikes you as unusual. “I’ve never kissed anyone, so don’t expect too much—”

“Dan Heng,” you interrupt, and suppress a laugh as his head snaps up awkwardly. “This game doesn’t actually force people to kiss.”

“Oh,” he starts, and this time you don’t miss the hazy red painting his cheeks. “I… knew that.”

You snicker—he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Yeah. We can pretty much just stand here until seven minutes are up. Talk. Gossip. Hang out in this tiny space.”

It’s easier said than done, though. You can smell his cologne, the scent of the liquor he drank earlier tainting his breath; you can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he shifts in place. This isn’t comfortable, but you don’t mind staying like this for those few minutes.

“But,” and your eyebrows pique at that word. “I’d like the full game experience.”

Wow. That’s new, but then again, he’s always saying things you don’t expect. You mull over a reply quickly—he’s practically trembling after all, breathing shallow and face radiating the same rosy shade as his cheeks now.

“Oh? Would you have asked this of whoever you ended up with?” It’s out of curiosity that you ask, but you’re hoping his answer will be a no.

“No,” he breathes. “I’d rather have my friend be my first kiss.”

“So we’re doing this as friends?” you mutter. Your hand slips under his chin, and you can feel his breathing waver. You’re no stranger to friends with benefits-type situations, which is precisely why you miss the adoring look his eyes briefly hold—flushed, hazed, yours.

“Exac—exactly,” he practically whines as you grip his face tighter. He’s scorching to the touch, much more than usual. “Don’t get the wrong idea—”

His hands loop around your neck as you lean down to match his height. Your eyes follow his throat bobbing when he swallows nervously.

“Dan Heng.” He clams up immediately as you tilt his head upwards. “Shut up.”

“Mmph—” Whatever he’s about to reply with is cut off by your lips pressing against his suddenly—his movements come to a halt as his arms coil tighter around your neck. Almost reflexively, like some sort of snake.

He tastes like venom too—the impression of liquor and a hint of whiskey clings avariciously to his lips. If you weren’t so pressed for time, you would’ve spent longer tasting his flesh. But judging by the desperate curl of his hands tangling in the chains around your neck, it appears he feels hounded by the sand grains in the hourglass as well.

Your thumb and forefinger press into the sides of his face. Pliantly, obediently, his lips open with a gasp; you waste none of those precious sand grains in how you languorously probe into the warmth of his mouth. Just as you taste the profound tang of alcohol and salt on his tongue, so does he taste the familiar palette of sweets on your own. Sweets that you’ve shared with him on all those snack runs.

The very thought of it makes him press urgently into you. He’s shivering as he melds the seams between your lips and his more: chest rising and falling heavily as he laces you tight against him. But that’s a mistake—your much-too-thin shirt lays bare all the divots and dips of your flesh against his, and his mind blanks out shamelessly as he whines low into your mouth.

He flinches as he feels himself sink down onto your thigh—flinches as he hears himself.

“You good?” you murmur as you pull back. Your thumb traces small circles in his side, and perhaps that’s his last straw; he’s tugging you back onto his mouth with a small groan.

So, so good, his thoughts jumble out in a haze, and it’s not until you pause that he realises that he did, in fact, say that aloud.

But it’s not like he cares: not when your scalding mouth targets his jaw. Rough fingers grasp at his hair and crane his neck backwards, and it takes everything within him to muffle the sounds he’s making.

Fuck, fuck.

Almost unconsciously, he’s grinding on your leg—blood rushing straight to his head with how numb his mind feels. Aeons above. As you trail your mouth beneath his collar, he can feel his abdomen tighten impossibly.

“Ah—” he lets out as you nip at his collarbone, and those eyes go wide as saucers as he stutters to a halt against you. He’s practically dripping into his boxers: hips flush against your leg, so utterly done for as you shoot him a grin.

“I hope that was satisfactory,” you deliberately speak with a polite cadence, as if he wasn’t just writhing against you. As if— as if you weren’t just drawing him to the brink of pleasure. “Did you enjoy the game?”

Perhaps he should be grateful when the scraping sound appears once more and light—though not much brighter—floods into the small space. Perhaps he should be thankful, but instead he buries his red face in his hands and desperately composes himself—bile entering his mouth at the interruption.

He leaves early that night.

✦ . 　⁺

A friend, as he buries his face in his pillow and ignores the painful tent in his pants. The air conditioning turned on full blast with the winter breeze streaming through the open window does nothing to cool him down—skin burning, teeth worrying away at his lips.

A friend, as he recalls the skilled movements of your hands against both the fretboard and his skin—drawing out small noises that he can’t help but blush at.

A friend, as his own hands attempt to recreate the feeling of your body on his—practically towering over him in that small space. If he closes his eyes, he can picture it vividly: tasting even the liquor that lingered in your mouth just an hour or so prior, feeling the firm press of your arms as you caged him against those shelves.

Did you… want to go further?

As a friend, surely it would be rude to not acquiesce, right?

“Dan Heng?” That’s your voice, right? He’s not… imagining things now, is he?

With a start, he realises he’s staring at his phone—black reflection coming to life with his sudden movement, revealing that he did in fact call you.

“Yes,” he practically whines as he soaks in the rougher lilt of your voice; if he zones out, he can almost feel your breath ghosting across his neck and stirring the dark curls by his ear.

“Did you need something?” Stoic image gone, he’s entranced by the cooler tone of voice—fuck, fuck. There’s a dark crimson flush on his face, and a sheen on his forehead as he smiles against the receiver.

“Wanna come over?” Aeons he’s desperate—vocal cords twisting into something breathier, heavy with implication.

“Oh—” and he can practically hear the purring grin stretching out your face—taunting him that he can’t see it at the minute. “—I get it now.”

“You— you do?” He feels himself twitch against his mattress, ever so slightly shifting until he’s rocking gently while you speak.

“You want more from me, don’t you?” There’s a mocking tone laced under your words; common to when you make fun of him, but currently, it only serves to make him harder.

“Yes,” he groans, half-muffled through his pillow.

He’s so, so shameless.

“You alone?”

Luck smiles upon him tonight. He’s never been particularly fortunate—serendipity for him is painfully average. The most he expects from his middling chance is for his boot to occasionally knock against a discarded penny: burnished copper never picked up by his clean hands regardless.

But tonight? He’s lucky.

“Yeah,” he slurs into the soft fabric. “Roommate’s gone home for the weekend—I’m all alone for you.”

No feelings involved, he thinks—too oblivious to notice the dopey grin on his face as he hears your next words:

“Give me ten minutes.”

And when you disconnect with a sharp click, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the hazed look dilating his pupils is akin to a rather adoring one.

✦ . 　⁺

Fuck—he should’ve never suggested this, he should’ve never come to that stupid party in the first place.

It’s only one predicament after another; squirming on the edge of the bed was not what he had in mind when he practically begged you to come over. But now he’s in this mess because of only himself: rolling his fucking eyes back while you spread his pliant thighs even further with your shoulders.

His teary gaze meets yours from where you’re kneeling before him, staring right at his face as you trail your mouth across his weeping cock. It’s torturous—and worst of all, he can’t feel himself softening anytime soon. Not even with the pearled globs of white that spilled just from grinding into your leg, and definitely not with his sore chest as you soothed it with your balmy mouth: bruising teeth marks upon bruising teeth marks left to bloom mauve come tomorrow.

“Hurry—ah,” he whines as you suckle on the angry, flushed head; cold saliva and precum drip down the length, and he shivers at the sticky shick-shick that resounds in his small dorm as a result of your pistoning hand.

But contrary to his plea, your pace slows until it’s deliciously agonising. He wants to buck his needy hips into your face—yet your hand firmly maroons him on the spot by his trembling waist.

Aeons, his flesh feels scalding beneath his taut skin—the bloodiest of reds sprawls across his damp cheeks, to his shoulders, to even his very chest.

Even like this—with just your warm, slick mouth barely grazing him—he can feel the now-familiar tightness in his abdomen building up within. But you don’t let him adjust to the new pace you’ve set; almost immediately after his mind stops reeling, you dip your head and take him down your throat.

He’s arching into your touch reflexively as white spurts onto your tongue—messy, thick. It dribbles from the corners of your mouth as you swallow with him still in your mouth; tears streak from his placid eyes at the weird sensation in his stomach that leaves his hips writhing with how sensitive he feels.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mewls as you finally draw back with a wet pop sound—lips slick with his release as you lick them clean. The view certainly doesn’t help him; you’re looking at him so ravenously that his flush won’t ever let up.

“Happy?” You’re licking your fingers clean now, and he’s aching once more.

“No—” he sobs as he twitches in your tight grasp. His head’s spinning, but he’s so fucking empty he wants to cry.

“You want more?” Can you believe this guy?—your expression seems to state: a slight concern present in the pique of your brow.

“Yes, yes,” he slurs, cupping your face in his scorching fingers. “Need you in me.”

Despite his words, he’s gasping as you slide a single finger in: roughly probing to only the second knuckle, but he’s already gripping onto your shoulders for dear life.

“Mmph—feels weird,” he breathes before you kiss him sweetly. Your mouth swallows up his cries as he adjusts to the sensation that makes his stomach churn devastatingly. It’s uncomfortable, but he wants you to be buried in him—wants you to lose yourself in his tight walls and never want to let him go.

When you probe a second finger in, he’s struggling to prop himself up: arms shaking far too much as you scissor and stretch him open. It hurts, but there’s something budding in his gut that keeps pulling whine after whine out of his kiss-bitten lips.

That all changes when you crook your fingers slightly. Something shifts inside his walls—a specific spot of nerves is pressed, and he freezes in your arms.

“Wait—ah—feels strange,” he gasps out. You rock him closer, but you don’t relent with the steady pistoning of your fingers: making sure to brush and hammer right into that spot. His eyes dart everywhere and nowhere—dizzy as a twirling teacup, beyond measure. He’s stuffed so full; each time he hears that squelch, he can’t help but moan out.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly in his ear. He shivers at the small gesture—so tender he’s getting whiplash, quite frankly. “You’re doing great.”

“Ngh—” he whimpers—he fucking whimpers—at the praise. Maybe it’s the proximity of your skin against his naked body, or maybe it’s your words—but he’s clenching around your goddamn fingers as he spills more white over himself and now you. The aftershocks hit him like a train; blinding incandescence flashes bright in his eyelids while his body writhes against you.

“That’s a surprise,” you mutter. What’s a surprise?—is what he wants to ask, but a gasp is forced out of him as soon as your fingers leave him.

“See that?” you ask in fascination as you lift them—clear tendrils coat the digits, sopping all over his sheets and staining his own face a dark red. “Must’ve liked it, huh.”

“Shut up,” he hisses. Although, it’s pointless to even begin to defend himself—not when his dripping hole still flutters like it was made for you.

“Oh— oh fuck,” he eats his words as soon as you smear his fluids against his peaked nipples; cock bobbing stiffly against his tummy with each languid ministration.

“So weak-willed,” you coo; he’s so cute like this. Knuckles white with how fastened they are to the sheets, it’s really no surprise that he looks like he’s losing his mind. Those blue irises are almost completely gone—dilated completely as he gazes up at you with a quivering bottom lip.

With a shaking hand, he pulls you closer by your white belt loops—you’ll have to apologise to Kafka later, since you’ll never wear these ruined clothes again.

He’s the one who unzips your pants. He’s the one who palms your front—it’s so heavy and warm he can’t help but feel a little flustered by the foreign feeling. He’s the one who ultimately slips past the underwear and handles it with something close to reverence.

“Fuck,” you hiss as his hands wrap carefully around your sore cock—neglected, but so utterly worth it as he gazes all doe-eyed at you. “Dan Heng, baby—”

His fingers quaver to a halt, and he stares with eyes large as saucers. Ignoring the obvious stain on his cheeks, it’s evident his breathing’s picked up to shallow, rapid rise-and-falls.

“Aeons, please put it in,” he all but begs. His syllables stumble over each other in a race to exit his mouth first, but they trip into incoherency as he feels the fat head of your dick press against his slick hole.

“Ah.” He cants his hips upwards in delight—stars in his eyes and shimmering across his mind’s theatre as the very shaft burns into him with a slow squelch. Hurts so good, he wants to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a drawn-out moan as you latch onto his fat tits with your mouth—suckling—until he feels the sensitive buds harden once more.

He’s so embarrassingly close from just the tip alone—especially since your tongue is unrelenting, just the way he likes—

“Ngh— fuck, I’m cumming,” he wails, choking each word out just as your teeth graze his chest. But you’re unrelenting, even as you’re groaning into his ear from how he tightens around you—you simply rock him in your arms so he can ride out his orgasm.

The waves of pleasure ebb and flow in his mind so poignantly he sees the most blinding of whites. Right after it fades, he’s greeted with the sight of your face and chest plastered with slightly thinner, paler ropes of liquid.

“Aeons.” He barely knows what he’s doing anymore. Weakly, his tongue kitten licks and suckles the salty liquid off the areas he can access—namely, your jaw and neck—before he bites hard on the flesh, slinking his arms tightly around your nape so he can arch into your touch.

He’s softened now, but he’ll be damned if you don’t stuff him full for the rest of the night.

“So pretty like this,” you whisper. The words, paired with the slightest roll of your hips as you adjust your position, jolts him with a delicious pain. “You wanna keep going?”

“Yes, ah—” he sobs, legs wrapping tightly around your waist. It hurts—his dick feels spent and all too sensitive to the lightest of brushes of your soaked abdomen. But despite it all, he can still feel the stupid thing harden once more as he imagines you filling him to the brim.

“Fuck,” you curse, long and drawn-out as his hole flutters around you once more. “So damn tight.”

Inch by inch, he takes you deeper; swearing he’ll be split in half by the time you’re done with him. Uncontrollable moans spill from him, mixed with incoherent babbling as he claws at your skin; he feels so damn full that his spent cock still dribbles precum from the slit.

“Are you in fully?” he slurs after a few more minutes of this agony. It’s not until he glances down and sees a bulge in his lower stomach that his heart skips a beat—only to find you admiring the sight too. You lift your hand, and—

“Wait,” he begs, but it’s already too late.

—you press down on the mound in his tummy, and he wails.

He arches into your touch fully; tears leaking out his eyes as drool escapes his lips. Like a mantra, he’s chanting your name in between his broken sobs—too cock-drunk to think about formulating any other word. There’s only thin cum streaming from his softened dick now—and it hurts so good.

His mind’s so numb, but there’s still something missing from this giant puzzle.

He’s so far gone with pleasure that he can’t think of anything else.

“Do you want to stop?” Your voice comes fuzzy and disembodied, like he’s hearing you through a pool. But he musters up enough energy to shake his head in a vehement no.

“Keep— keep going,” he whimpers. That’s all the encouragement you need as you start moving faster, thick cock splitting him right in two as you tightly grip his hips. With each collision of your pelvis against his plush ass, a devastated whine rips out his hoarse throat. He’s so spent, but somewhere in his subconscious he wants you to think how good he squeezes you, how tight and warm he is around you.

“Aeons, you’re so beautiful like this,” you mutter between kissing him desperately. With each rough thrust, you drill into his prostate over and over—blood wells up on your back with how hard he digs his crescent nails in.

“Fuck—” you swear as you finally spill into him—hot seed stuffing his hole so full that he sees stars one final time. It’s a dry orgasm—he thinks he hears you say, but he’s far too delirious to think of anything but the sopping mess between his legs.

His eyes flutter shut, and the last thing he can feel is the warm, gentle touch of a wet cloth wiping him down—and the sweet press of a kiss against his forehead as he slips into the land of slumber.

It may have been a bad decision. He may have a crisis over his terrible impulsivity. It may have felt so good he was positively wracked with pain.

None of that stops him from coming back for more. And more. And more, until it’s more common to see Dan Heng with a bite mark just poking out the top of his turtleneck than not.

When you tell Kafka about this hypothetical friends-with-benefits situation, she supports you—of course she does. But what she doesn’t tell you is how this man looks at you.

She’s a poet, so she could talk about how enamoured his gaze is. How devoted the brush of his knuckles against yours is. How he looks at you as if the stars strewn across the fabric of space were your doing.

But she’s a sadist, so the adoring haze in your so-called ‘friend’s’ expression is one she lets you be oblivious to.

If every other band-mate of yours can see how obsessed he is with your very existence, surely you’ll be able to tell eventually?

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #res ･ﾟ writing #slowd1ving #x reader #dan heng x you #astral express #gn reader #male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail #snippet #male character #sub male character #smut

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bluebellhairpin · 1 year

Text

Thorin Oakenshield X Fem!Reader

Summary; The chance to fight Azog is upon you, and you grasp it with both hands. Even if it costs you your life.

Warnings; Nightmares (cw. for deep water and a large underwater creature). Injuries and blood, and death. Reader is female-body-coded, uses she/her pronouns, and is Human.

Listening to; 'Mo Ghile Mear' by The Choral Scholars of University College Dublin - "Hail the hero strong and true who fought the fight and saw it through."

Part 4 || Part 6

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

You knew how this was going to play out. You knew that for Thorin this could be it.

You couldn’t let that happen.

With your heart in your ears, breath burning your lungs, you ran. Everyone ran. Orcs were on your tail, and it wouldn’t be long before their Wargs closed in. But you had nowhere to go.

Cornered at the edge of an impending cliff-face, you stepped to its ledge only to pull yourself back - there was no way you could scale down there, not even with your fear cast aside. You were stuck.

“What do we do?” Panicked, Ori spoke beside you. You had no idea what you even could do, but then it hit you in the face like cool water.

A flash of tree bark.

“Climb. Up,” you said, turning to see the wolfish creatures racing ever closer still, “Quickly, to the trees!”

You lifted Ori by the soles of his feet up into the tree above, racing back to a free tree just in time - a second later and your foot would’ve been lost between the jowls of a Warg. Your other foot slipped, but a hand grabbed yours and pulled you higher.

“You truly saw this coming?” Thorin asked, eyes down on the Wargs and across to the rest of the Company - making sure everyone was alright. His voice was soft - too soft considering the situation, and for a single moment you studied his face - he wasn’t angry, more like disappointed.

“It’s my curse.” you mumbled, shifting on your branch before climbing up one higher.

“It’s him,” Thorin said, eyes locked behind you, “Azog.” Turning your sights back towards the mountains you came from, the white orc approached slowly atop his Warg. You felt your blood chill at the sight of the Orc. The stories didn't do him justice.

Azog started speaking, but you didn’t understand a word. Select words, familiar ones, caught in your brain though - names - Thorin, and his father Thrain. Azog was taunting Thorin. But his eyes then switched over to yours, and your heart stopped as he spoke again.

Even though the barrier of literary understanding was held up high and strong, you knew he was threatening you. Azog spoke, looking you straight in the eyes, pointing to you with what was left of his arm, his tone filled with as much hate as it had when he was addressing Thorin.

You felt something sick swell in your stomach - a chill of fear and sweat - making you wish this were all just a bad dream.

Thorin looked up at you, clear distress on his features. You looked down at him, wondering if he truly was that scared - all for you.

Azog started yelling orcish again, and the Company scrambled further up the trees. You followed suit just as the Wargs ran towards the trees, snapping at branches in their jaws and shaking the trees so hard you almost lost your grip. Your palms burnt from the rough bark, and your knees scraped and caught your bearings when your feet gave way.

Then the world tipped. You’re falling. All of you were.

The trees start tipping, and everyone starts to move again, pushed into the final tree where Gandalf was. You were all teetering on what felt like the edge of the world. Considering the fall would end your and everyone else’s life, it kind of was. You refused to look down, but the sight before you wasn’t filling you with much comfort either.

The Wargs started towards your group again, as if you had anywhere else to go and they weren’t just taunting you all. You looked over at Azog to see him staring right back at you. You almost felt sick again.

If it wasn’t for the fact you knew you had to do something to help Thorin, you might’ve lost your wits altogether.

Then it hit you.

You had to take a stand here. Fight Azog here. Kill him, here, even at the cost of your own life.

Thorin and the Company wouldn’t run into him ever again. He wouldn’t be able to lead the Orcs anymore and disrupt the quest to return to Erebor. He wouldn't be the death of Thorin. Everyone would have a chance. Thorin would have a chance - if you could only act before he did.

Above you someone had been setting pinecones on fire, dropping them to the ground below and further to create a barrier of the one thing Wargs wouldn’t touch. Fire.

One fell into your hands suddenly, and you juggled it like a hot potato so it wouldn’t burn your fingers or singe your clothes. It had barely left your grasp when the tree you were in tipped.

It jolted to a stop, sending Ori falling, and Dori soon after. You needed to do something - and you needed to do it now.

You pulled yourself up onto the tree trunk. Before anyone could even realize, you reached behind you to draw your sword - your new one, shining and sharp - and walked through the burning orange glow towards Azog.

“Azog!” You yelled.

Thorin’s head whipped towards your voice, suddenly less concerned about pulling up Gandalf’s staff and the precariously dangling Dwarves, and more concerned about what in Aulë’s name you were doing.

“You will not touch a single one of their souls,” you gestured behind you, to the Company, to Him. “Not until there’s no breath left in my lungs. These words, I promise.”

Azog’s lips turned into a snarl, apparent in how serious he took your words. He didn’t scoff or laugh like he wouldn’t if Thorin said it, just turned his gaze dark, and yelled.

“Fine, what’s the head of one girl to me in the face of the best prize yet?” It was even clearer to Thorin that you couldn’t understand what Azog was saying, you didn’t know the weight of his words. “You will die. Slowly. Painfully. I will enjoy it very much.”

As you readied your sword, Azog’s sneer turned to a smile, and Thorin almost spoke out against it. Almost.

Instead he stayed back, watching, waiting. He wanted to move desperately - something bubbled inside him that wasn’t just knowledge that he could do it better, that you’d just kill yourself, no. He felt something else - something that went deeper than you just being someone to help him get his kin’s home back.

He knew he needed to trust you - as much as a part of his heart ached having to simply sit back and watch when you were up against someone who had a far higher upper hand to yours - he knew what you were doing was for the best. You’d been quite passive with events so far - pleased to just stay out of the way and let things happen - but this, you standing up on your own without prompting from someone else.

This, Thorin knew, was something you had to do on your own.

You ran, nothing but your sword with you. Eyes honed on Azog as he urged his Warg forward and changed at you as you came at him.

The white Warg swung his paw at you, but you lifted your sword just in time and knocked it aside with your blade, tainting the steel a deep red. The Warg howled out in pain and frustration, but Azog made it keep moving.

You regained your stance again, Azog with his back to the Company - thankfully his focus was still all on you - and you took a moment to look back at them.

You could still see Ori and Dori struggling, and the other Dwarves trying to help them or you, but they couldn’t get past Thorin. You breathed a sigh of relief, realising he took your words to heart - he was trusting you. Now wasn’t the time to betray that.Now was the time to put yourself to good use - to kill Azog.

But the look in his eyes didn’t quite say that. He was still very worried. He feared for you. You realised then what Azog must have said. He must truly want you dead too - just like Thorin.

But that knowledge came like a curse. The cost was giving Azog the perfect amount of time to lay a heavy hit on your shoulder with his mace, twisting you around to fall to the ground with a cry of surprise - then a sharp, ongoing pain flared under the splash of red surrounding a sizable cut in your coat.

You were at least grateful it took away from how bad your head was throbbing.

The tip of your sword drove into the ground as you used it to pull yourself up. Your bearings were found just in time for the Warg to sink it’s teeth right around your middle - but though the sharp punctures around your abdomen you kept hold of your sword. You were not letting go of the only thing that could save you.

The Company all yelled out your name, and a little voice in the back of your head hoped someone would be brave for you. That help would come and save you if you couldn’t save yourself.

You couldn’t die here. Not by an Orc or Warg.

With gritted teeth you managed to lift your sword, landing a hit on the Warg on the underside of its jaw. The hit from the blade sent the Warg roaring in pain again, and you were dropped to the ground. You stood, hissing slightly at the new wounds on your stomach, but ignored them as you raised your blade up at Azog again.

You weren’t sure how long you could keep it up - but you knew it had to last until your last breath. You promised this monster you’d fight to the death to protect the Company, so that’s what you were going to do.

Azog snarled at you, speaking again, and you cursed yourself for not learning their language when everyone else around you clearly could have taught you. He reared his Warg, moving to swing at you again with his mace as he passed by, but you turned away in time to miss it, instead grabbing your old sword from across your back to throw it at him.

You aimed for the head, but between your lack of skill and that pain making your brain fuzzy, it didn't quite hit its intended mark. However it did skin right into the shoulder of his one full arm.

Azog seemed to curse at you, reeling from the sword prodding from his arm as if it burnt, before brutally ripping it out and throwing it to the ground. You almost regretted injuring him due to how upset he’d become. If he was feeling anger before, this was now pure rage.

The next moments all blurred together.

One second you’re standing - sword still in hand, then one of Azog’s Warg Riders was at your side and pushing you to kneel with his weapon right at your throat - you lacked the energy to stand anymore. Even on your knees you could feel the world tip until you fell to the ground, unable to keep your eyes open any longer.

“You are not helping her.” Azog said, sneering at Thorin as he stood over your lifeless body. Dwalin had taken a Warg head-on and stood to attention faithfully by his side, Fili and Kili soon joined, even Bilbo took courage by the hand. Suddenly the Company was less afraid than before.

“I’ll simply take both your lives at once.”

But Thorin wasn’t going to let that happen.

He wasn’t going to stand by and watch. He decided that this - you fighting until you literally couldn’t anymore - wasn’t good enough. He could almost hear your voice telling him some silly phrase around working as a team.

How he couldn’t get it done unless he did it together with others.

So they all fought, galient and without fear - for the sake of how you pulled at their heartstrings and gave yourself over to buy them time. When the battle started to sway in the direction of defeat though, salvation came from another place.

Eagles. Giant and foreboding. Thorin felt the power of their wings as they knocked back branches with gusts of artificial wind. But he also saw how they were here and helped them - plucking Orcs and Wargs from the ground before they could get so much as one more thought of fighting the Dwarves.

Thorin felt his heart beat in his throat when a pair of those giant claws clasped around you, taking you into the air and away from the remaining Wargs. But you weren’t dropped. Instead, flown into the horizon. With Gandalf’s becoming, they all followed, running off the cliff and being caught by this feathered salvation.

Thorin landed, searching the skies for anyone missing - but no one was. If it weren’t for the unfamiliar edge of flight, he might’ve been able to relax. But ahead also, was you. Limp in the hold of the furthest eagle.

He really hoped you’d be okay, but from the looks of you that might’ve been asking too much.

Your ears were blocked, and you were cold - so very cold.

Your eyes opened by you were met by nothing but murky darkness. Above and below you were nothing, an empty abyss. Then you realised you couldn’t breathe.

You were underwater.

Blinking once, and you weren’t alone anymore.

A large eye stared back at you, void of colour, surrounded by scales and lifeless among a wreckage of broken wooden planks. The change startled you, pushing you to wade back in the water - now seeing your hands. Scarred and scaled. Gnarled would be another word, but you were unable to dwell on it.

They moved, turning back at you, and your nails turned to claws, and then teeth - the lifeless creature was back and now alive, and it was going to swallow you whole.

You gasped, jolting from where you lay.

You stared up at a mess of hair and fur pelts and the pink pastel sky beyond the worried faces above you. You were fine. It was a dream.

Hands touched the sides of your face, and as Gandalf backed away you looked up at the owner of the hands. Thorin was looking down at you, his fingers traced the edges of your hair, careful of the cut on your forehead.

“There you are.” he said. He helped you move to sit up, slowly - the world was still spinning and muddled.

Oin came over, pushing his way past Bilbo and Ori to give you a once-over himself. But you weren’t paying him much mind. You weren’t paying anyone much mind anymore, not with the mountain in the distance.

A mountain you knew, felt in your heart, was Erebor. What a beautiful sight it was.

There was a flash of the creature from your dream, a creature you guessed could be the dragon, but you pushed it down. Who knew if that was a reality you’d see, so why worry about it now.

“Look at me.” Thorin started, saying your name to pull you out of the trance the Mountain had pulled you under. He moved you to face him with one calloused hand. “It is one thing for the likes of Bilbo to prove his worth, but what you did just then was too much.”

“Thorin, I was doing what I was here for -”

“- You died!” he said, and that had you sitting still, looking around with wide eyes. You saw Bilbo’s unsureness, how panicked Ori looked, even the concern on the faces of Dwalin and Fili didn’t go amiss. “What do you think would’ve become of you if Gandalf were not here to bring you back?”

“I’m sorry.” You said, voice meek and shoulders slumped. “But it was either me or you. I saw it. I just can’t let anyone die.”

You watched him sigh deeply, then he looked around at the faces of the Company, from Bombur and Gloin, to Gnadalf and Bilbo, then back at you.

“We can’t let you die either. Toy maker or blacksmith, doctor or scholar, Hobbit or Human. You’re one of us.” he said. He cared. They all did.

You nodded, smiling.

“I’ll make sure to look out for you, and you for I.”

“Just like we promised.”

“We all promise.” Bofor said. “If I do say so myself, I think we’re getting quite fond of all our new companions, can’t have any of them dying on us.” He nudged Bilbo’s shoulder, and the Hobbit chuckled wearily, but nodded along.

“Well I do say I appreciate that.” Bilbo said.

Everyone started chattering, each talking over another needing to put in their two cents, or excitedly making mentions of Erebor ahead.

Beside you Thorin was keeping his eyes on you. Fluttering between the red splotches on your coat to the cut on your head, and then finally to your eyes. He seemed to be searching you for something. The ice blue of his eyes made your heart flutter, and you realised something shifted between you.

He felt a little big more than just Thorin - the Dwarf you were meant to keep alive. Now, you were sure, he was something more. You wanted him to be something more.

Whether he’d have you was another thought altogether.

#the girl who knew the end #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin x reader #thorin x you #the hobbit x reader

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