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slowd1ving · 2 months

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IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters.

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise.

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left.

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen.

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it.

He should leave.

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome.

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here.

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess.

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness.

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words.

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?”

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive.

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words.

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind.

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you.

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason.

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days.

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry.

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless.

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board.

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game.

“What gave that away?”

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had.

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured.

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped.

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on.

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first.

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips.

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence.

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection.

It’s too much. It really is.

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his.

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin.

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh.

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space.

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous.

Shameful.

He can’t sleep.

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber.

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say.

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts.

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone.

Pathetic.

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off.

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached] 02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest.

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life.

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting.

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like.

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air.

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater.

It’s yours.

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did.

It’s not enough.

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses.

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly.

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons.

He’s never felt so perverted.

He’s never felt so conflicted.

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I?

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely.

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society.

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso.

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower.

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in.

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion.

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day.

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face.

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area.

He gives up.

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over.

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst.

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband.

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough.

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off.

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying.

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits.

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat.

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase.

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating.

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut.

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin.

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning.

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense.

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater.

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating 00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out. 00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you 00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them 01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him.

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks.

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them.

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff.

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing.

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions.

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs.

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers.

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness.

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust.

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts.

Which is to say, not very honest at all.

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer.

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place.

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier.

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine.

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom.

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently.

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago.

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express.

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further.

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune.

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own.

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation.

He’s so close.

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps.

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers.

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them.

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening.

Finally.

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background.

No.

You’re real.

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this.

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt.

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm.

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you?

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick.

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded.

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess.

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend.

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe.

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this.

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation.

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence.

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided.

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed.

He holds his breath.

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know.

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline.

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it.

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t.

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence.

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels.

You were there, and you saw all of it.

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you.

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding.

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones.

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze.

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else.

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp.

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence.

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach.

He’s willing to help.

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight.

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers.

And he admitted I’m just a friend too.

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go.

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion.

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this.

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest.

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly.

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible.

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else.

“Just the lips,” he stammers.

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer.

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more.

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms.

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment.

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word.

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips.

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath.

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered.

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers.

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed.

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream.

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you.

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips.

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down.

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow.

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base.

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too.

He freezes.

I can’t think that way.

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat.

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you.

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace.

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours).

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold.

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him.

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher.

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach.

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind.

How shameful.

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them.

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult.

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation.

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe.

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides.

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body.

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks.

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass.

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread.

It finally sets in.

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him.

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat.

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin.

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body.

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes.

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off.

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets.

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation.

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches.

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you.

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss.

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft.

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it.

“You sure?”

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release.

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze.

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt.

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume.

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it.

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him.

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over.

This is a special form of madness.

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment.

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery.

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly.

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out.

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present.

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine.

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question.

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow.

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look.

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively.

“Your turn,” you prompt.

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds.

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame.

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such.

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head.

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions.

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach.

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more.

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release.

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes.

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you.

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated.

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight.

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself.

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts.

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star.

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you.

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend.

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh.

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection.

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer.

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #x male reader #x reader #male reader #reader #res ･ﾟ writing

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spiriteddreams · 1 year

Text

satisfied to run

Pairing: Dan Heng x Reader Warnings: angst, no comfort, hurtful words -> realizing you love someone when they leave trope Word Count: ~1.5k A/N: shoutout to @chickynuggy115 for beta reading and getting me to post lol

He will never be satisfied, and you think that this is the hardest part about loving someone who will always yearn for more. It is like chasing after the stars, only for them to blink out of existence before you can cup it in your hands and bring it close to your heart. He flees from your touch like it is a game, but a game he is completely unaware of, which makes it all the harder to come to terms with.

Dan Heng runs from a past that clings to him in the form of your physical presence and the memories that linger in his mind. There are things he has done that he is un-proud of, a history that will haunt and hunt him down for as long as he lives. Then there’s you. He stays close but keeps his distance, never once indulging anyone about his past and should you make an off handed joke, you’ll risk another day of cold shoulders and brushed aside concerns.

He finds himself caught in a dilemma of wanting to push you away but still keeping you within an arm’s reach. All he has ever wanted was to run from “home.” He doesn't think he’ll ever forget the sight of eyes filled with hatred that bore into his back as he turned away and boarded ship after ship. You were there. You always have been. You clung to his side, pretending to not care about the whispers that floated behind his back, gracing him with smiles and hugs that he never returned.

“Are you okay? Was it another nightmare? Do you want to talk about it?” You find him awake and still slightly disheveled, standing in the lobby of the Astral Express as he stares out blankly at the stars. You’re not a stranger to his nightmares, having slept in the same room and nearby as you’ve journeyed along with him. You’ve seen the way sweat builds on his forehead as he twists beneath bed sheets as he mumbles numbers and someone paying the price.

Dan Heng sighs and casts you a dry look over his shoulder. “You don’t need to check up on me, I’m fine,” his words are blunt but they still dig into your skin and you can’t tell what hurts more: his blatant disregard of your words once more, or the way your nails sink into your skin.

“You always say you’re fine. You’re not fooling anyone,” You shake your head. You’re taking a risk by speaking up again but after years of travelling with him, it gets harder and harder to ignore the clear pain and struggle that plagues your dearest companion. “Can you talk to me, for once, please? What do you mean, ‘one of them?” Dan Heng stiffens but you wait.

It feels like deja vu, with the way he scoffs and turns himself to fully face you. You know the words that will come next and yet no matter how much you brace yourself for them, they still plunge beneath the skin and sink deeper and deeper. You wonder how much more you can take.

“It’s none of your business! You’re always worrying,” he snaps. “Don’t you have anything better to do? I'm fine. You ask me this every time and when have I answered differently? Just… just leave. I don't need you right now.” The pent up frustration and shaking fear has bubbled up in his throat and spilled out in cruel words, throwing all gratitude back in your face. Your teeth sink into your tongue as you take the full force of his words. This time, his words are laced with more anger and frustration, clearly the same ones that have built up over time.

In a second, his expression changes, shifting from anger in response to your question, to surprise at the sudden snapping of words, then remorse as he realizes how they sounded. But he can’t say anything. Dan Heng has never been one for words and he curses himself when he can’t bring the right ones to his lips. He watches your eyes shift from that same caring compassion he had taken for granted to blank hurt. Your lip trembles and yet you hold your composure, as if you’d practiced this over and over before because of him. He feels a lump in his throat grow, choking him into silence as you purse your lips and nod, mumbling something under your breath. He doesn’t even reach out or open his mouth when you turn away. He just stands still and does nothing. He’s not sure if that hurts him or you more.

He begins to notice too late that you’ve begun to flee from his presence. No longer are you a comfort at his side to fill his silence with commentary, or to poke him in the shoulder when he says something rather blunt. Instead, he’s met with silence and a dull ache that makes him wonder where you’ve run off to. Finding you throughout the week turns out to be a much more difficult task than he could ever have anticipated. One day you’re next to him, a constant presence at his side to fill his silence with commentary and offer a subtle sort of warmth that he’s gotten used to over time. He sees you in glimpses: rushing down the hall to your room, hugging Himeko tightly, popping into the archive at unusual times before leaving in a hurry. The only time where you really spend time with him is during meals. But even then, you seem far too happy to be caught up in conversation with the others. When you do talk to him, it’s almost clipped. There’s still warmth in your eyes, but it's laced with a hesitance that Dan Heng realizes that he’s starting to dislike more and more. It reminds him of the sight of your expression the night he snapped at you.

“Are you okay?” He asks those three words as if they hold no weight. You sit on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of something warm held between your hands. He won’t admit that he had been searching for you throughout the day and yet you’d seemed to evade him at every turn. You look more tired than usual, head resting on the cushions as you stare up at the sky. There is longing in your eyes and Dan Heng wonders if he’s the cause of it.

You don’t look at him even as he steps closer. He’s hesitant to come closer, afraid that if he does reach out, you’ll try to run. He’s been running all his life, desperately trying to bury the past and distance himself as much as possible and yet you’re the one constant that continues to linger from “home.” He thinks that he should be thankful that you’re putting yourself at a distance, because that would mean it will be easier for him to let go and finally try to forget all that he had done. But the more and more you pull away, the harder he wants to tug you back.

“You don’t need to check up on me, I’m fine,” your words are so soft and tired that he almost misses them. But they strike deep, a clear reminder of his own careless words. And here you are, throwing them back at him with no fight in your tone, just exhaustion. He wants you to look at him so he can read your expression the same way he’s learned to read your every emotion over the years. He opens his mouth to respond, to push back against your stubbornness but you are faster to speak up.

“Look, I just wanted to admire the view before I go to the Xianzhou Luofu,” you glance over at him with a gentle smile. Your eyes are slightly puffy but you act like nothing’s wrong. He stares at you, unsure of what to say as he’s reminded that you’re leaving the next day. You’re not banned from the Xianzhou, only he is, and for the first time, you’re going somewhere he can’t follow.

Dan Heng takes a deep breath, “I was wondering if we could talk?” You barely react to his words and sigh.

“How about when I return?” you turn away from him. “I don’t really feel like talking to you right now.” The words sting more than Dan Heng will ever let you know. He has nothing to say, can’t say anything, because if he did, it might very well make the situation worse.

“Return safely to me then, please?” You seem surprised at his words and look at him fully for the first time. Your brows are raised, mouth parted slightly as you’re taken off guard. And then you smile and that dull throb in his chest returns. You haven’t smiled like that towards him in awhile and you’re about to leave.“Of course,” you chuckle and turn back towards the sky. You turn away from him on the couch just as you turn away from him the next day, leaving him with empty promises and words caught on his tongue. All he’s known is running from his life, never satisfied with his life on the run and yet when someone else, when you, run, Dan Heng doesn’t know what to do.

Bonus: And when Dan Heng hears of Blade’s presence on the Luofu and he can think of is you. There is a certain franticness and waver in his voice when he says your name aloud. For the first time, you are just out of his grasp and the fears buried in the depths of his mind begin to surface as he throws out all rationality out the door to get you back.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: ya'll see those leaks of 5 star dan heng cause like.... haha.... fics with lore....

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng x reader #hsr #dan heng #spiriteddreams writing #spiriteddreams

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viktorxsheep · 1 year

Note

HI! i apologize for any mistakes, i dont send requests to often :,)

I was wondering if you could do the Star Rail boys and Fem! Reader with a pucca dynamic? Like she's over here tracking them down just to give them kisses and stuff, and gets jealous pretty easily. If all of them are too much just Blade and/dan heng! :))

hi!! thanks for the request! i loved this show so much when i was younger haha. thankyou for allowing me to indulge in my dan heng and welt yang love teehee. (no mistakes by the way!! :>>)

dan heng, welt yang, blade, jing yuan, gepard x fem! reader

___

dan heng

Dan Heng liked his peace. He liked his days in his room, looking through the archives as he sorted through every single data that he had jotted down in his notebook.

Ofcourse, he also knew to always expect you. Disrupting the perfect peace that he made for himself. He always acted annoyed and a little bit grumpy whenever you bursted through his doors, but he genuinely did like it. He loved your kisses, he could drown in them and he would reincarnate just so he could open his arms and allow you to ram into them.

As your relationship grew, he started getting a bit more flustered at your strong declarations of love. Your jealousy, your passion- he’s never experienced a love this strong and this good. All he wants to do now is to return it tenfold…r he’s still a little bit shy.

So when he can finally rest beside you, you sleeping in his arms, he can kiss your forehead as he hums a soft tune from his past. He didn’t expect that he’d love you this much, but now he even gets a little grumpy if you don’t kiss him all over the face in the morning, or go and tightly hug him. He still has nightmares..but now, he can atleast envision your body dashing to his to kiss him when he wakes up instead of the fear and the hurt.

blade

Blade was a little different from Dan Heng. Where Dan Heng was shy and a little bit unsure on how to repay your affections, Blade embraced this wholeheartedly. He relished in the affection, it made him happy.

But a small pet of him wondered if this was alright, if he even deserved this. From all of his past actions, the mistakes he would most definitely make in the future- did he deserve you running to him and toppling him over for kisses? He doesn’t want to dwell, instead, he hopes you let him love you the same way.

If ever you are jealous, he will sit you on his lap (albeit a little awkwardly at first) and he will comfort your insecurities. Are his comforting words not exactly very comforting? sure, but he tries. “You must be sick if you believe I do not love you, don’t be silly.”

Although he really hopes you would stop trying to chase after him during missions for affection, you could get hurt and it’s a bit annoying being teased by Kafka (well, he’d go through it if it’s you at the very least).

welt yang

He is such an old man. Stop giving him heart attacks as you go and kiss him every morning! atleast let him brush his teeth, but he has a feeling you don’t really mind that much. Welt always wakes up earlier than you do, smiling as he watches you excitedly open your eyes to meet his loving embrace.

You may be overexcited and very in love, but Welt can almost beat you in one thing…being the greatest male wife house husband figure you could think of. For every gift, kiss you shower him with, hugs- he surprises you with homemade cooking, clothes that he patched up, flowers and chocolates (that he made himself).

Whenever you get jealous, he can’t help but stifle a small laugh. You were so cute- though he really does not want you to feel insecure. When he knows you’re getting jealous (because he can read you like an open book) he calmly sets you aside and kisses your forehead, assuring you that his love and his heart lies only with you. He couldn’t imagine his life without you in it, so tell him if ever you feel insecure or jealous, he will always listen.

jing yuan

The fearsome leader of the cloud knights believed he was prepared for any sort of challenge. Some fearsome and formidable foes? no matter, stellaron hunters? he will ensure the safety of everyone he can. But who knew he would be so soft and fall victim to-

you. Wonderful, amazing, beautiful you. You in all of your glory, your soft kisses and excited smiles. He could sleep all day just to see you in his dreams, but he loves you even better in real life. He will get flustered (and never show it), and he will always feel bad when he’s forced to ask you to wait outside a meeting room due to the confidential information being shared.

He will ease your worries, he will hold your hand. He wants you to be as safe and as happy as possible, so how could he not indulge you? whatever kisses you’d like the give him, you may. While he can’t always let you bulldoze over to him just to kiss, he will always make it up to you after the moment you two get home.

gepard

You wanted to kill him.

He was sure.

Fearsome, strong, loyal knight captain. That was who he was and how his reputation was…atleast until his underlings saw the red hot blush on his face as you somehow got through the silver mane guards just to kiss and hug him. While he always scolds you (always with a small stutter due to the shock and flusteredness) to not follow him while he went away, he always held you in his arms and let you do as you pleased.

He would walk you back to the safer areas in the administrative district of Belobog, letting you get your fill in of as much hugs and kisses you want before he’s forced to rip himself and his tomato red face away from you.

You being jealous was the most shocking for him. You’re jealous? why? he may be a knight captain, but you were infinitely more beautiful and amazing and- if this line were to continue on, it would fill pages and pages of writing. An entire novel dedicated to every affection you’d offer and how he would call you.

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fountainofrubies · 10 months

Text

NSFW Honkai Star Rail : Dan Heng x reader

Sexual content. Adults only!

“You are all work and no play”, you complain, flirting with him as you come into his room. He looks over at you, aloof as always, but pleased to see you nonetheless.

“How are you?” he asks.

You smile, “Better now that I have seen you again.”

He suddenly approaches you and pins you to the wall, pushing his hard cock up against your tingling center.

“You’ll do more than see me.” he says breathily as he pulls his erect cock out, pulls your panties to the side and roughly shoves it into your dripping pussy. You moan loudly as the pleasure grips you and squeezes you from the inside out.

“OH! Dan Heng! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Fuck me, Dan Heng! Ahh! Fuck me-“

You open your eyes from your dream as Dan Heng, whom you have never slept with or even outright hit on, slowly comes into focus. You quickly notice that he is just staring at you with his mouth agape, his face, full of surprise and he is speechless as he withdraws his hand. He was only trying to wake you. He initially thought that you were having a nightmare.. After all, you were squirming and whimpering when he walked past your room. Normally, he wouldn’t ever intrude or come in uninvited, but your door was left open and for whatever reason, you caught his eye. With you being in a recliner only a few feet from the doorway, he really thought that he would gently shake you awake and free you from whatever ugly memories from the past that were now running rampant in your dream world as they often do. With his fragmented memories from his past life often invading his dreams, this was something that you two had in common and had spoken about before during general conversations. So here he was, frozen in the position that he was in when he leaned into your room and reached down to stir you. His jewel like eyes were locked onto you as his mind raced.

As for you, you’re not sure what exactly he heard, but you can somehow tell from your expression that he definitely knows what this dream was really about. You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. “What did I say!?”

His eyebrows raise slightly as he holds his hands up as if to surrender. “I have no intention of trying to make you feel weird about this. I thought that you were having a nightmare, I’m so sorry that I invaded your personal space..”

“No, no, that’s okay, I’m just sorry that I made you feel so awkward. I’m not sure what all I said.. but I am pretty sure that you at least gathered the type of dream I was having.. from your reaction.”

You notice that his cheeks are a bit pink as he smiles weakly, but he otherwise seems composed again. “You don’t have to worry about that.. I mean, I should be flattered right?”

Your eyes widen. He knows exactly what I was dreaming about and who I was dreaming about. You must’ve said his name out loud as well. Your heart is beating fast, but this is your chance. You’ve been around him for some time, but because he has never shown any kind of interest in things like dating or flirting, you were sure that your feelings would not be reciprocated… but since he knows now about your desire for him.. and seems to be flustered, something in you just says “Screw it, shoot your shot.” You give a shy laugh but look at him playfully, “Dan Heng, I have never seen you blush before.” you say in a teasing way. “If I would have known that I could make you blush, I would have tried to sooner.”

He’s smirking now. “Y/N, I’m starting to think that you are flirting with me. You are, aren’t you?” He shifts into a more relaxed stance as he waits for your response.

“Well.. you are the man of my dreams.” you shoot back, slyly.

He looks amused as well, although his heart beat has quickened and his blood is rushing. He wonders what he should do as he stands in your doorway. He laughs softly and nervously. “It seems that way.”

“I mean.. do you want to come in?”

Dan Heng looks at you with a coy expression. Although he hasn’t said anything, he knows exactly what is happening and the truth is, he is rather aroused and interested in seeing exactly how this was going to unfold. He comes in but stands in the middle of your room. He just watches you as you shut the door and lock it.

“I just want to say first, that although I am willing to.. umm.. play.. I really do just want to make it known that I do actually like you, Y/N. I’ve liked you for some time.”

Surprised, you complained, “You never said anything…”

He shrugged, “Neither did you.” He was smirking now.

You begin to remove his coat. He inhales deeply as you push his coat down his arms. He smells good. Well, he always does really. As you lay his coat onto the chair behind you, you return to him as you run your fingers up his arms and over his shoulders, feeling his muscular arms underneath the black, long sleeved shirt he is wearing.

You keep strong eye contact with him, even though you’re full of butterflies. “Is this really happening?” you wonder out loud.

Still smirking, he answers, “It is.”,

Now your hand is running down his chest, and as you reach his abs, you feel their definition through his shirt. “Wherever your stopping point is, make sure that you let me know when we get there..” You’re unsure what exactly he is willing to do.. what he’s wants, what he doesn’t want.

He looks at you slyly and confidently answers, “Don’t you worry about me. After all, maybe this is a dream as well.” He reaches down until his nose is close to mine. Then, he whispers, “Treat this like it is your dream. I’m sure that I will gladly do whatever it is that you want me to do.” His eyes shift to look at you in each of yours.

You close the rest of the gap and lock lips with him, almost dizzy with desire. His lips are soft and warm, but his kiss is deep. Every time his tongue ventures out, he touches yours with it, breathing slightly heavier each time until he pulls back, sounding as if he is ever so slightly panting.

His hands run from your lower back around your waist and settle on your hips. At this point, it feels as if he’s gazing into your soul as he asks you, “Am I gentle with you or am I rough with you?”

You’re breathing heavily as you whisper back to him, “You always start gentle, you always make me beg you before you start to get rough.”

He smiles wide, revealing teeth that almost glitter. His voice is sultry as he shares, “That actually sounds like me.” Your knees feel weak. Before you know it, he picks you up and is climbing on top of you as he places you onto your bed.

He’s boldly presses his body into yours as he holds himself slightly above you, making his very large, very hard erection known. “Mmmm” he groans as you arch your back, filled with desire in his arms. He shifts his weight to lean onto his left forearm in order to hold himself up, yet free one of his hands. He grabs and squeezes your thigh, just below your short skirt and runs his hands up to the point where your leg meets your hip. You feel his thumb make contact with your lips as he rubs it up and down your wet center. You can’t help but moan and it prompts you to reach for the remote on your nightstand in order to play some music to cover any sounds that might be overheard.

You can’t keep your hands off of him, whether you’re stroking his arms through his shirt or running your fingers up his muscular abs underneath it, the only thing that you can think about is how good he feels. Surprisingly, he seems passionately gentle as he leans in to kiss your neck. You begin to pull his shirt up and he helps you take it off of him. He then moves to unfasten his pants. You stare at the obvious bulge in his pants as you remove your panties and slide them down and off of your legs. He gets up for just a moment to remove his pants entirely, and his cock sticks straight out, hard as a rock. Seeing the size of it makes you glad that you told him that you wanted him to start off gently with you. He runs his precum down his length and dips his fingers into your gooey center and rubs that all over his cock as well. “Mmm you’re plenty wet for me.” he said, his voice soft and sexy. You’re speechless, your blush apparent while he lines his cock up with your entrance and looks into your eyes. “Are you ready, Y/N? Do you still want this?”

You’re panting now and shake your head yes as you say between breaths, “Yes.. oh yes.. please.”

He pushes into you just a bit and then holds himself up with both forearms again as he slowly enters you. Your hands stroke him, one in his thick, dark hair and the other caressing him and holding onto the back of his neck. He stretches you open wide as he pushes further into you, always pulling back out in order to make the ordeal wetter and to get you acclimated to his size. He releases the slightest, breathy moan as he pushes back into again. Sounds of pleasure spill out of your mouth as you take him, and you stifle a louder moan as he pushes his length the rest of the way in. Pleasure ripples through your body as he applies pressure and retreats over and over again, slowly and smoothly. His eyes gleam of azure and his perfect face seems to be studying you as he soaks in the sight of this experience. After plenty of smooth, slow strokes, he suddenly closes the gap quickly, pushing into you with a lot more force, making you gasp. As he grasps the top of your shoulder in order to hold you down, he pushes into you again, and his breath hitches just before he lets out a low, breathy moan. You moan louder, unable to help it as he thrusts deeply into you again, continuing this at a much slower pace but with a lot more force than his earlier strokes.

His mouth opens as he exhales, he looks remarkably delicious as he starts to let out more and more sounds of his own in between his strokes.

Who knows how long you’ve been here already as he continues to go in on you. The pleasure builds and builds as you gyrate and rub your clit. He’s clearly enjoying himself, he bites his lower lip as he smiles at you. He’s breathing heavily in between his soft, low moans and the delicious, full length of his cock is bringing you nothing but gripping, mouth watering pleasure now that you’ve gotten used to his size. He pushes his arms underneath your back and reaches up to hold your shoulders, bringing himself delightfully close to your face as you continue to rub your clit. He slams into you once and puts all of his weight into the pressure as if he is trying to reach further up inside of you than ever before and he stays there. He rocks slowly, back and forth as he maintains the strong and intense pressure he has created with this contact. His breath spills out, warming the side of your face and your neck as he lets out of series of soft, breathy moans as he tantalizes himself with the feeling of your tight walls.

“Ahhh Yes, Y/N.” he coos after a moan, “So tell me, do you want more?”

You beg, “Yes! Oh Dan Heng, please! Fuck me faster! Give it to me hard. Please! I want you so fucking bad. PLEASE! I’m begging you...”

He raises his eyebrows again, “How bad do you want it?”

“I need it bad. I’ll do whatever you want, please just fuck me harder. Please, please just fuck me baby. Fuck me.”

“Mmmm” he moans as he softly tucks your hair behind your ear. “I like that.” he says as he grabs your shoulder once more and then roughly presses it downward into the mattress. He then starts to speed up, fucking you faster and faster as he rams into you, holding you down with an intense grip. Not long after this begins, he also begins to moan and breathe hard himself. He continues at an exhilarating pace, pumping and pumping. One minute he’s looking at you directly, the next he’s tilting his head back and moaning breathily as he nails you over and over again, still holding you down so that he can hit you with more and more forceful, greedy strokes. His movements start to become sloppy and his moans more urgent as he continues to fuck you as faster and faster, each with slightly more force than the last thrust. Your moans are constantly coming at this point, softly pouring out and building in volume in between each breath as the pleasure seems to boil over. You go rigid as you grab ahold of his waist. He is obviously in the homestretch as well and watches you closely as you come, moaning his name as you spasm repeatedly, humping desperately and quickly as you cream.

He moans, coming in closer as he still fucks you with speed and force. Now he’s ramming you even more rapidly, “Ah! You’re going to make me come with all of that now..” he warns. “You’re shaking..” He continues at top speed, and you grab him roughly and begin to hump wildly as he rails you.

“Oh yes, give it to me! Come, baby, I want you to!”

He begins to moan repeatedly, hunched over you, fucking you so quickly that he’s breathing rather hard now. His hold on you becomes even more intense as he squeezes you as he begins to approach climax. The sounds he is making are so hot and delicious. His movements start to become unpredictable and choppy, slapping into you and bouncing you upward , regardless of how strong his hold is as he tries to keep you still. He inhaled as if he was holding his breath for quite some time as his mouth opens and he makes eye contact with you. “I’m coming!”, the words spill out of his mouth as he starts to push into you most greedily and even more desperately. His breathing is quick and strong as he half moans, half holds his breath. He’s squeezing your arm very hard as he starts to release, his movements are passionate even though they are slowing. His sounds become softer as he dives into you again and again, repeatedly squirting everywhere that can be reached as he comes deep into your core. Every little splash you feel inside of you is accompanies with a new thrust and a short pause as he moans alongside of each spasm of release. As he finishes, you’re still spasming you, squeezing his cock involuntarily as if you milking him of every drop he’s got.

His moans only grow softer and quieter as his breathing begins to slow down. He looks into your eyes while he is still inside of you and thinks for a second before he speaks. “Was it as good as you expected?” he asked, inquisitively yet confidently.

You reply, breathlessly, almost whispering, “Oh Dan Heng, you are fucking incredible at that.”

Just before he pulls out of you, he kisses you, softly and sensually. “Let’s do this again sometime.” he says with a slow and sexy smile.

Your heart flutters as you get up in order to clean yourself up and put on fresh panties. Dan Heng also carefully gets dressed again after cleaning himself up. As you leave the car, the Trailblazer and March come around the corner of the hallway and see you two.

March, none the wiser, greets you two with enthusiasm. The trailblazer however, notices that both of you had slightly messy hair and your skirt looked wrinkly. He smirks at Den Heng, who raises his eyebrows and asks him, “What?”, feigning innocence. March goes into her room as the Trailblazer stands there for a second. He just smiles at Dan Heng as he smugly and knowingly says “Mhm.” Then he begins walking towards his room, breaking eye contact with Dan Heng, leaving you two alone.

After the trailblazer entered his room and shut his door, Dan Heng, looks down at you, smiling widely and he let out a rare laugh as he rubbed the back of his head. You laugh too. When the hallway is empty, he gently pushes you up against the wall and grabs a handful of your hair. He rubs your clit through your panties as he pulls your head backwards, exposing your neck to his kiss. The Trailblazer, peering outward through the peephole of his door, sees every second of it.

#honkai star rail #dan heng #imbibitor lunae #dan heng x reader #dan heng x y/n #dan heng x you #so fucking hot #dan heng smut

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descendinginto-madness · 9 months

Text

welt except he has a fever and desperately needs sleep

cw: descriptions of illness, high fever, being kinda delirious/out of it, sleep deprivation?, nightmares, headaches, mentions of death

contains spoilers for welt's hi3 lore

also, disclaimer! welt in here is very reluctant to ask for help and feeling bad about it because... well i imagine he'd react like this, BUT! needing help and asking for it is completely normal and valid and okay; please remember that and take care of urself ok!! ily /p

alright, so...

i'm gonna be honest since i found @bugbytez13 's blog welt sickfic ideas don't want to leave my head LMAO except i will write a detailed description of a fic instead of the fic itself. that's it that's the post

tbh this ramble in particular could be made into two separate fanfics (one sickfic and one specifically about the nightmares) but shh

i will forever be self conscious or anxious about things i post that aren't just headcanons or silly little rambles, but also... writing this went surprisingly smoothly so! enjoy the essay or something idk HAHA

======================================

so, about welt...

i just know this man is going to force himself to stay awake. maybe his self-sacrificing issues are less present now, and he doesn't immediately throw himself in danger in every fight ever, but he's still stubborn as hell. so he won't admit something is wrong. he won't admit that maybe getting way too little sleep several days in a row wasn't doing wonders for his immune system and he's now finally feeling the consequences. to be fair, he expected it might end like this, but he didn't want to take breaks - there's still too many things to take care of before they finally head to penacony. and now, he will still insist of taking care of everything, even though his body is basically begging him to go take a nap.

except maybe, he didn't even expect it to get this bad. or thought that he can just power through it. i mean, he's been through much worse, right? this is nothing compared to literally losing his body for some time. but he's sitting in the parlor car, and he's half awake, and unusually cold, and his head is hurting, and keeping up the act is getting harder and harder - but he has to, because the younger members of the crew are here too, even if only march is talking to him.

but they pick up on the fact that something is wrong, of course they do. his eyes are unfocused, he looks like he's about to fall asleep - or pass out - and march had to repeat herself twice for him to even fully process what she was asking him, and so suddenly stelle is next to him, attempting to touch his forehead - and he recoils. "i'm fine," he says, and it's probably a bit too quick and a bit too firm than he'd like it to be, and all of this is stupid, really, because he shouldn't be scared of someone touching him. how hot can it really be anyway if he's feeling so cold, right? but if that wasn't enough dan heng asks an even more dreaded question, "are you sure, mr yang? do you want us to call himeko?" and welt decides it's time to excuse himself, before he makes them even more worried. because even in his present state, he can pick up on the fact they're concerned, but at the same time unsure of what to do, and it makes him feel guilty. of course they're unsure; he's usually their caretaker, and he always knows what to do, and it should never be the other way around. he should've just stayed in his room all day, shouldn't he.

"thank you all for your concern, but i'm alright." he stands up. "now, please excuse me, i still have some work to do." of course that's true, but he's almost certain he won't be able to focus on that- but he just needs an excuse to get out from here and be left alone anyway.

but stelle is right next to him, and looking determined to accompany him to his room, too. "you look like you're about to fall, mr yang," they explain, and he wants to insist that he's okay once again, but realizes he's too tired to do so. it would take him at least a few minutes, and it's a few minutes he doesn't have nearly enough energy for. he just wants to finally lie down. so, he lets stelle essentially escort him into the hallway and to his bedroom, and make sure he doesn't collapse on his way there, and-- it's embarassing, honestly, because it's already so difficult for him to show himeko the slightest hints that something might be wrong, and right now the situation is similar but ten times worse - so it's also ten times harder for him to come to terms with the fact he needs to rely on someone.

"my... apologies for making you all worry," he says quietly when they reach his room, and he's so thankful that he left the lights off, because the parlor car was way too bright, and though the hallway was a bit better, it still wasn't good.

"it's alright," stelle shakes her head, and stands there in the doorway, even as he heads towards his bed and sits down. "i'll ask himeko to check up on you in a bit?" she asks, and he only nods, though he isn't sure if she can actually see it. he doesn't want to talk anymore, he doesn't want to think because even just that seems to make his headache worse, he just wants stelle to leave, he just wants to sleep-- he isn't even sure if he understood her question correctly, but he also doesn't have the energy to care. he falls asleep the moment the door closes behind her, fully clothed and half covered with a thick blanket, but even then he isn't allowed a peaceful rest.

memories from old battles flash before his eyes, silhouettes of enemies he once fought, those against whom he won - but also of those who severly injured or even killed him, and with that come the memories of the pain

and the fear of losing his body again.

when he finally awakens, sweating, shaky for reasons other than his fever, and still feeling pretty awful, it takes him longer than usual to remember where he is. it takes him longer than usual to remember that he's safe.

but now there's medicine and a thermometer on his nightstand, and a note written in himeko's neat handwriting - though he actually spots and reads it some time later - telling him to rest as much as he needs to, because she'll take care of everything; and only after he does read it and feels a sense of relief come over him, he realizes how much the thought of having to leave all the work in order to take a break actually stressed him out. he still feels bad about it, because of course he does, and of course he's going to apologize to everyone later.

but he's also able to sleep more peacefully now.

#whump #whump writing #welt yang #honkai star rail #hsr #rambles #hsr headcanons #headcanon #stelle #march 7th #dan heng #ig these three are here for a bit!#sickfic #angst?#hurt/comfort #i guess #himeko #dim writing ☁️

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teaberrii · 1 year

Text

Chapter 15: The Stuff of Nightmares

You've been Cupid for as long as you can remember. You've brought countless soulmates together, yet you've never found love.

When you're assigned to bring two childhood friends back together, it should be simple until you unexpectedly catch feelings for the mysterious and cold Ph.D. student, Dan Heng, the man with a soulmate… the man with answers to your past.

Dan Heng/You

Notes:

Cross-posted on Ao3

Female reader

Chapter index at the end of chapter one

Cloudy skies loomed above the palace the day Luocha had passed his exam to become a certified doctor. He’d gotten the news from his teachers today and couldn’t wait to spread the word to the family. You were nowhere to be found, which lead him to suspect you were probably with Young... again. Luocha reached his parent's room, but just before he could slide the wooden door open, he heard the familiar voices of the maids.

“Surely, that’s just a nasty rumour. How could Master Luocha not be their son?”

His heart almost stopped.

"It was a conversation I was not supposed to hear. But, the Queen admitted it! Besides, haven't you ever wondered why he looks a little… different from his sister?"

Luocha heard something like an object hitting something soft.

“But he has his father’s eyes!”

“That’s because he’s the king's son, not the queen’s!”

“Luocha?”

Startled, Luocha turned around and saw Jing Yuan. Suddenly, the doors opened, and Luocha heard a gasp.

“Master Luocha!” Luocha turned and saw the obvious surprise on the maids’ faces. Then, he looked in the room, and one of the maids quickly said, “T-They paid a visit to the village. We haven't seen them return."

“And my sister?”

“We…” The maids glanced at each other. “We haven’t seen her since this morning.”

They quickly excused themselves. As they hurried off, Luocha saw one gently hit the other as if to chastise her for what she’d said. Then came Jing Yuan’s footsteps. Soon, he stood beside him.

“You look a bit pale,” Jing Yuan said. “Are you all right?”

Luocha didn’t know why he couldn’t look his friend in the eyes. Perhaps it was because he was still reeling from what he’d overheard. He knew better than to believe the words of gossiping maids, but he knew they wouldn’t go around spreading lies, especially something as serious as that. There had to be a grain of truth, no matter how small. But this was too much.

“What… What are you doing here?” Luocha finally asked.

Jing Yuan was a rising commander in the ranks. With the developing relationship between the North and the South, the kingdoms often held military training together, which explained Jing Yuan’s growing presence in the North. But today was no training day.

“We’ve received new equipment today, so I was asked to test its quality.”

“That’s not something you’d usually do.”

"You're right. I have a motive, if I'm being honest," Jing Yuan said. "I stayed because I wanted to spend time with your sister."

Luocha finally looked Jing Yuan in the eyes. “Are you… interested in her?”

Jing Yuan looked down and smiled slightly. "I hope I have your blessing."

“If there’s anyone my parents would want her to be with, it’s probably you.”

Jing Yuan curiously looked at him. “I answered your question. So, shouldn’t you answer mine?”

“I’m fine. I… passed my exam, so I can officially start training to become a doctor.”

“Well, this calls for a celebration.”

The last person Luocha was expecting to celebrate the good news with was Jing Yuan. But he was a good friend. So, Luocha nodded and pushed what he'd just heard to the back of his mind, not knowing that it wouldn't take long for him to confide in the commander.

“...which will ultimately help boost efficiency and productivity. Are there any questions?”

Jing Yuan is sitting at the end of a large desk, the latest project proposal in front of him. He barely got any sleep the night before as he was trying to piece everything together, and the ultimate question he came up with is whether there was a way to get all of his memories back… at once. He'd brought it up with Lan the other day, and the god's answer sounded too ominous.

“There has to be a trigger powerful enough,” Lan said.

Jing Yuan gestured for him to go on. “Like…?”

“Extreme happiness… sadness… hatred… an event that mirrored one of your past to trigger a powerful emotion. But”—Lan walked over and poured himself a glass of alcohol—”that’s just what I’ve heard. I haven’t tested this theory myself.”

“In other words, you don’t know,” Luocha said.

Lan shrugged. “I never had to get my memories back.”

Jing Yuan still has nothing to go on. How can he mirror a past event if he has no memory of them? That’s just ridiculous. Then, he thinks about you.

Jing Yuan subconsciously starts twirling the ring with his thumb. Do you know about this theory? You and he are clearly connected, but you hate him. While Jing Yuan has no idea what he did, he feels there's no other way. He needs to get back into your life… whether you like it or not. He likes to think he's doing you a favour.

His golden eyes flash toward the presenter as he crosses one leg over the other. After firing a series of questions, Jing Yuan says, "We need to address these problems first. Fix 'em, and then let's talk."

Jing Yuan is the first to leave the room, but it’s not long before a tall man wearing a black suit approaches him from behind.

“You have a visitor, Boss.”

Jing Yuan turns the corner. “Schedule him for later. I—”

“He says he’s willing to pay.”

Jing Yuan stops and turns around. “Who are we talking about?”

“The government official.”

Only one person comes to mind: the father of the latest victim of The Withering. They crossed paths years ago as Caelus's father almost put one of Jing Yuan's own behind bars. However, with Jing Yuan's blackmail, the situation quickly reversed. They would keep each other's dirty secrets and pretend not to know of one another for years. But after finding out about Caelus, Jing Yuan wonders how long it'd take for their paths to cross again.

Jing Yuan enters an exclusive area, and just before he steps into the elevator, he says, “Send him up.”

By the time Caelus’s father arrives at Jing Yuan’s office, Jing Yuan is sitting on a sofa with his laptop. When he hears the door open, he looks up.

“It’s been a while, Mr. Official.”

“Not long enough,” Caelus’s father says with a frown as Jing Yuan gestures for him to sit on the couch across from him.

“Oh, come now. Why the long face? We haven’t seen each other in years. The least you can do for me is smile.”

“I’m here for business.”

Jing Yuan crosses one leg over the other. “Well, shoot. Time is money.”

“...I need your help. I need you to find somebody.”

Caelus’s father reaches into his pocket, pulls out a note, and puts it on the table. Jing Yuan looks down and sees a scribbled message: your father’s one of the useless ones. can’t do anything about the disease that’s killing your brother. why don’t you die too

"Somebody sent that note to my daughter." Jing Yuan looks up as Caelus's father continues, "I checked all the security cameras around the house. Nothing."

“What about your son?”

“He says he’s fine.”

Jing Yuan almost feels sorry for the family. Who knows when Caelus's lie will blow up in his face? How devastated will his family be when they find out? Jing Yuan would almost pay to see their reaction.

This sounds like a job for the police,” Jing Yuan says. “You know… actual law enforcement.”

"I can't afford to wait. There's already an article that will run about the government's incompetence to discover anything worthwhile about this disease. I've managed to stall its release, and that's what I'm focusing on."

Jing Yuan can see the frustration all over the man's face. His furrowed brows, his inability to sit still, and the dark circles under his slightly red eyes. Jing Yuan almost finds it amusing. A father who’s more concerned about public opinion than finding a person who’s threatening his daughter? Well, whatever. As long as he’s willing to pay. Jing Yuan can make anything happen… as long as his client has the cash.

Jing Yuan twirls the ring on his finger with his thumb. "Why don't I solve both of your problems? At a price, that is."

Caelus’s father narrows his eyes. “As long it’s within reason.”

Jing Yuan slightly leans forward, looking at the man as if he’s his next meal. “Do you want results?”

Of course, Jing Yuan has his motive. Who's threatening Caelus’s father? How do they know about Caelus? How do they know about The Withering? Perhaps it’s just a psychopath. Jing Yuan vaguely knows about Stelle, so maybe it’s a deranged fan? Regardless, something tells him that whoever this is shouldn’t be taken lightly.

Jing Yuan smiles upon seeing the look on the other man’s face. It’s telling him everything he needs to know. He leans back and says, “I accept cash only, like always.”

◆◆◆

Ever since Luocha came under suspicion, you and Dan Heng made an active effort to check on Caelus every day. However, Caelus's hostility towards you doesn't go unnoticed. So, you've stopped your visits and left them to Dan Heng. After telling him about your special ability, you thought Dan Heng would consider telling Caelus. However, it's just recently Dan Heng tells you and Pom about his stance.

"I never thought I'd say this," Dan Heng said. "...But we can't use that to cure him."

"Are you thinking about the consequences?" Pom asked. "That Caelus could die through some other means?"

"That too. But"—Dan Heng sighs—"he's... been acting strange lately."

"In what way?" you asked.

"He's been telling me about who he used to be."

Pom tilted his head in confusion. "Who he... used to be? As in his past life?"

When you saw Dan Heng nod, a million questions came to mind. But most importantly: Where was getting Caelus getting this information from? Dreams? Visions? Was that why he was so hostile towards you?

"...This is going to sound crazy," Dan Heng said quietly. "But, I've noticed that the more the disease spreads, the more he tells me."

A small pause.

"I'm starting to think The Withering isn't really a disease... but more of an actual curse."

You're visiting Caelus today as you want to see for yourself how much Caelus knows. According to Dan Heng, Caelus hasn't talked about you, which makes you wonder if Caelus is purposely hiding something. While Dan Heng wants to go together, you might get a bit more out of Caelus if you go alone. Of course, there's also Luocha to watch out for. But you, Dan Heng, and Pom are one step ahead. At least... that's what you thought.

When you arrive at the hospital, you get a text from Dan Heng that he'll be there in a couple of hours as he's supervising an undergraduate chemistry class. You also get a text from a Pom that he has safely arrived at Stelle's place. She had messaged him, saying she wanted company as everyone else was busy.

You're about to reach Caelus's room when the door opens, and you stiffen upon seeing Luocha coming out of the room. As he closes the door, he looks over at you and smiles.

“It's been a while. Here to see Caelus, I assume.”

“How is he?” You hope you don't sound as tense as you think you do.

Luocha's face falls. "Not good, if I'm being honest." You put a hand on the door, but Luocha's hand is on yours so fast that it surprises you. "...You have something to do with this curse, don't you?" His voice is low, borderline threatening, and you're almost afraid to look at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

“You can’t play dumb forever… Cupid.” Your eyes widen when you hear the nickname. Finally, you look at him. He’s staring at you, but you’re no longer feeling like it’s the gentle doctor you first met. "That necklace... it's meant to protect you and you alone, isn't it?" At your silence, Luocha scoffs. "Caelus has been regaining his memories. He’s been telling me things… things that I don’t think you want to hear.”

You hate how it sounds like he’s one step ahead.

"Are you sure you should rely on one person?" You glare at him. "Do you even know what he's talking about?"

"I know about doppelgangers and reincarnations." His polite smile is back. "Your friend, Lan, was so kind to provide that explanation." You clench your fists. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I've known about The Withering long before Jing Yuan. My father was the first victim."

His father? Your heart almost stops. But if his father was the first victim, and Luocha was your brother in the past, did that mean the King was the first victim of The Withering? Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. If you’re the one who created The Withering, why in the world would you curse your father?

"I've had suspicions that the disease isn't what it appears to be." Luocha smiles as if proud of himself. "I've withheld a lot of information."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Luocha steps toward you. You step back. This continues until your back is against a wall.

"Because I've been trying to figure out who started this damn thing in the first place. Why is it even here? And because of you, it looks like I can finally start piecing everything together." He smiles as if he's proud... of you. "I never thought you'd had it in you. You completely changed, Sister."

Your eyes widen.

"I don't know how much you know, but let me tell you something." His gaze turns cold. "There are no heroes in this story. Not even you." He nods toward Caelus's room. “Maybe you should talk to him.” Then, as if reading your mind, Luocha says, “I’m not going to keep him quiet.”

You hear him walk a few steps, and then, “Trust me, Sister… I’m not your enemy. Jing Yuan’s not your enemy. Not in this time period, at least.”

As Luocha finally walks away, you hear your heart hammer. You slowly look at Caelus's door. You want to take that step forward, but it's as if your body is frozen in place. What can possibly be awaiting you behind that door?

Suddenly, you feel a light breeze on the nape of your neck and flitters out to your shoulders. It’s as if you can feel someone’s hands on them, reassuring you, but when you turn around, the windows are closed. Then, you gently grip the pendant around your neck. You can do this. You have to do this. You have no choice. So, you turn around and open the door to Caelus’s room.

It’s eerily quiet when you slide the door open. You look around the nearly empty room and see Caelus sitting on his bed, facing the open window. The notebook sits open on the nightstand. When you get closer, a breeze comes in and flips the pages of the notebook. That's when you realize he's been using it… a lot. You see scribbles of illegible words, but then you start seeing drawings. But before you can get a closer look, Caelus suddenly speaks.

“It's been a while.”

You quickly look towards him, but he hasn’t turned to look at you.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

Caelus looks over his shoulder. His eyes are slightly reddish, and the pigment has already reached the front of his neck.

“What do you think?”

“What have you been telling Luocha?”

Caelus looks back out the window. “Stories."

...Stories?

"The more this thing spreads, the more my story expands." He stands and fully turns to you. His head is slightly tilted, and one of his hands has been taken over by the pigment. “Today, I told him about the story of me... and you.” He walks toward you, and with a tight smile, he says, "Should I skip straight to the climax?"

You hold his stare.

"I helped Jing Yuan kill Young."

It felt like someone punched you in the gut, but the shock morphs into a bubbling rage…

The night was not nearly as quiet as the others. A crowd had gathered on the palace grounds. Some were holding torchers while other onlookers were whispering amongst themselves. You had just returned from the forest to the palace grounds to a growing chant of “Execute him!”

You forced your way through the crowd, your fear escalating with more of what you saw. Finally, when you reached the front, the scene ripped your heart out of your chest. Young was naked from the waist up, in handcuffs, and on his knees where his ankles were chained together. His back was riddled with deep scars; some still had blood oozing from the gashes.

“...No!”

You didn't even get close to him when two huge men grabbed you from either side. You quickly looked from side to side and saw they were your father's people.

“Let him go!”

One stared at you with dead-looking eyes. The other was looking at you as if you’d gone mad. Young slowly looked over his shoulder, and as soon as your desperate eyes met his, all he could do was give you a little smile.

“I was wondering when you were going to show.”

As soon as you saw Jing Yuan, everything snapped.

“You son of a bitch."

Jing Yuan stood in front of you, blocking your view of Young. Then, he leaned toward you and said, “Am I really the bad guy when I have so many people on my side?”

"If you kill him, you will kill the entire nation," you spat.

Jing Yuan almost laughed. "You think I'm dumb enough to let this start a war?" He cupped your face. "I'm smarter than that, Princess."

You literally spat in his face.

"Fuck you."

After wiping your spit from his face, Jing Yuan said in a low voice, "You really shouldn't tempt me, sweetheart." He lifted his hand, ready to snap his fingers. "I'm going to give you one chance to apologize. Or else Young gets the whip."

"Kill me instead." Your nails dug into your skin so forcefully, you almost bled. "Please." You couldn't stop the tears anymore. "Let him go."

“You’re willing to die for him?”

"Yes.”

Jing Yuan clenched his fists. He was angry. You could tell. The bob of his throat when he swallowed. He was glaring at you but turned the other way when you held his glare. “How romantic. Unfortunately, only one of you dies tonight.” Finally, he looked back. “Your fate will be worse than death.”

You couldn’t see it, but you heard the sound of a whip against flesh and Young’s muffled cry of pain that shattered your heart.

“...Please,” you begged. “Please stop."

When you heard footsteps approaching, you finally looked to the side and saw a young man with short, silver hair wearing a yellow and black hanfu.

"...You," you said quietly. The man was looking at you with such hatred that could only be explained if you had done something personal to him. It wasn’t until much later that you figured out the reason why. "Why are you..."

Jing Yuan suddenly snapped his fingers, and you saw a large man carrying an axe begin walking towards Young. When Jing Yuan stepped aside, you saw Young was now facing the crowd. Facing you. There were patches of dirt on his face, and there was no life left in his green eyes. Yet, when he saw you, you saw that familiar sparkle in his eyes. Coupled with that smile, it left you trembling.

You desperately struggled to free yourself from the two men. You were struggling so much that they had to force you to the ground. When the man raised his axe, tears were falling from your red eyes.

Young smiled and the wind carried the sound of his broken voice.

“...I love you.”

And the axe came down.

You can’t see it, but your eyes have become darker. You’re standing in front of Caelus with a hand around his neck. He's still looking at you as he tries clawing his way out but to no avail.

“...You.” Your voice sounded slightly distorted as you tighten your grip on his neck. You know he can’t breathe, yet you’re relishing in his suffering.

Suddenly, a hand is over yours, but it’s not Caelus. The touch is warm and gentle, and it’s when you look to the right that you see Dan Heng looking at you.

“...Let him go,” he says softly.

You don’t.

So, he tries again. “Please." There's a desperation in Dan Heng's voice that instantly snaps you back to reality. "Let him go.”

Your hand is trembling as you slowly release Caelus, and the man falls while holding his neck and coughing continuously.

Dan Heng takes your hand in his and puts another around your head. The way you’re pressed up against him, he can hear your thundering heartbeat. He reassuringly strokes your hair as he calmly says, “Everything’s okay.”

Dan Heng was on the train to the hospital when it entered a dark tunnel. He’d been thinking of you… and about Young. Young was in love with you, perhaps so much that he became tied to the world after his death. But, why? Was he waiting for you? Waiting for you to regain your memories so the two of you could move on together?

Dan Heng looked down as he contemplated his feelings for you. Were they genuine? Or were they because of his connection to Young? Was everything that was happening a repeat of the past? Things that he’d experienced with you… were any of them new?

When Dan Heng looked at his reflection in the door, he immediately sensed something was wrong. He turned and saw that the other passengers had disappeared, but he also saw Young who was standing in the middle of the empty aisle.

Was Dan Heng dreaming?

“You need to look after her,” Young said. " Help her.” His voice was fading away. “...Help her move on.”

Then, Dan Heng blinked once, and everything was as it should be.

“Let her go, Dan Heng.” Dan Heng looks at Caelus who slowly gets to his feet. “You saw what just happened. She’s dangerous.”

Dan Heng pushes you behind him as he says, “What’s gotten into you?”

As soon as he sees his friend's clouded eyes, Dan Heng knows something is not right. But before he can do anything, Lan suddenly appears in front of him. The god looks over his shoulder and says, “Take her and get out of here. Now.”

Dan Heng doesn't hesitate. Once you and Dan Heng are in the hallway, he notices the colour still hasn't returned to your face. He puts his hands on your shoulders, which makes you look up at him. But before he can say anything, you look back down. Instead of prying for answers, he hugs you in silence.

The door slides open, and Lan quickly slides it closed as he steps out.

“We need to talk,” he says. “All of us.”

Chapter 16

Tag list: @suoshiii @lordbugs @lxry-chxn @seirenspinel @tanspostsblog @theprinceofkhaos @nqctre @lunavixia @akwardbiscuit @kplatzman @sunsethw4 @hiqhkey @n8mareee

#dan heng x y/n #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng #dan heng honkai star rail #honkai star rail dan heng #honkai dan heng #danheng fluff #dan heng fluff #danheng x y/n #danheng x you #danheng x reader

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feathers-and-song · 5 months

Text

Click here for the rules and in-depth info on my blog

(note: Doesn't have all the smaller character stories. See the linked pages below for those. Though the link above is the better source, as tumblr has been eating my posts recently)

For faster updates on my writing, come see my main blog @drowning-in-cabbages (mod is 18+ but don't let that deter you. I'm open for interactions with everyone)

Click the links below to find the master lists for each character:

Ovis (Stage of Wonders)

Kai (Like a Pendulum Swings)

Galaxy Ranger Kai AU

Stellaron Hunter Kai AU

Castlevania AU

Warnings:

This blog will contain some triggering topics that differ from character to character. Most notably are

Trauma

Parental issues

Injury

Nightmares

Hallucinations

Allusions to substance abuse (cigarette, alcohol, medication)

(more to be added)

I will ask beforehand if you are uncomfortable with any topics before they arise.

Tags

🎵 Singin’ sweet! (asks and interactions with Ovis)

🪶 Different from the rest (Interactions with Kai)

✒️ Penning for a friend (Anon asks)

🛰️ To see the stars (roleplay)

💀 Please don’t be someone I know (interactions with the IPC)

🕷️ Creepy crawlies (asks about bugs)

☁️ The thundering (Interactions with Cloud Knights)

⚔️ Old times gone by (Interactions with the High Cloud Quintet)

🐉 Daddy Issues (Interactions with Dan Feng/Dan Heng)

🌹 Spear and Shield (Argenti)

⛈️ Stormy Night (Phobos)

💎Unearthed Stone (Jien)

📖 A glimpse beyond the stage (character stories)

🥬 Cabbage creations (asks and interactions out of character)

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai roleplay #honkai rp #roleplay blog #🥬cabbage creations

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finalism · 4 months

Note

aloe & anemone for blade!!!

aloe : how does your muse handle grief ? since becoming blade, he hasn't actually had a lot to grieve about. keeps those he cares about to a select few and none of them have yet to perish. while there a lot of memories he has forgotten, blade will have instances of feeling and recognition of his past as yingxing. he remembers the grief of losing baiheng (though he couldn't remember her name) that destroyed his soul and caused him to go against his very morals and commit that terrible sin.

blade is actually quite emotional and he lets his feelings overtake him which is now exacerbated by the mara. he believes that he will be able to handle grief better now after all he has endured and his new appreciation for death, but despite everything he is still as emotional as yingxing. when the hunters die, it will hurt and those negative feelings will only strengthen the mara. if anything, he might go mad with it, left to ravage all in his path until he is killed. if his feelings of betrayal have chased dan heng throughout the cosmos, what unimaginable destruction will his grief cause?

anemone : how does your muse view the world ; as a cruel & unforgiving place , a land full of wonders , or something in - between ? where does that world view come from ( what experiences , life lessons , etc . ) ? blade's life is a living nightmare. his goal is a permanent death that he will stop at nothing to achieve. but even will all the pain and madness, there a fleeting moments of quiet. it is a car ride with firefly. it is playing a game with silver wolf that they both can do. it is cooking for kafka after she comes back from a mission. it is the silence shared between himself and dan heng when they grow tired of the chase. the world is cruel and unforgiving but it is those pockets of gentleness, of peace and silence, that keep blade from going completely mad.

botanical hcs / accepting.

#swahnn #𝐫𝐞𝐧 : rejected by death. infected by life / character study.#thank you for sending this #i am now going to cry about blade actually #i love him so much

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viviennevermillion · 1 year

Text

to rise from the wreckage

✧ notes: day 4 of my "autumn remedies" event! if you liked this fic, consider reblogging and commenting! 💕 this was a lot more introspection rather than interaction but i like how it turned out!

✧ synopsis: dan heng loves a reader who has trauma from bullying. 1.3k words

✧ now playing: praying - kesha

✧ warnings: past trauma

It was late at night and you had woken up from another nightmare about your past; thankfully, this time, without stirring your sleeping boyfriend awake. Dan Heng was snuggled up to your chest and despite the terrors of the past haunting you, you couldn't help but smile at his soft expression as he instinctively pulled you closer when you shifted your position. You ran a hand through his hair as if to remind him that you didn't intend on going anywhere, even though you doubted that he would actually notice. He just seemed to let out a satisfied sigh upon feeling your touch.

Dan Heng was the one thing keeping you grounded during nights like this. Without him, you knew it would be much harder to quiet down the voices in your head; the sneers and laughter that seemed so threatening and yet so distant from you that you wondered whether these things even happened to you. Yet, your dreams were proof of it. They'd often replay scenes that seemed all too familiar; albeit under different circumstances. You'd close your eyes in some nights and you'd be back in the dark; chained to the whims of someone else, a punching bag for the hatred in their heart; longing for a taste of the winds that would carry you to a faraway future.

You'd fight back desperately each time. Every time you found yourself back where you started, whether it had been back then or in the dreams you saw, you were slowly but steadily fighting your way to the surface; to a place you belonged and a future you knew you had long since earned. Progress was slow, but it was there. You knew Dan Heng was struggling with a similar fate. Your circumstances had been different; yet he was also plagued by dreams he didn't connect to, memories that had been hidden from him for his own good. Like you, the past was trying to drag him back to the depth of helplessness and a fate that sometimes felt like he couldn't escape it. And like you, he was fighting up his way back to the surface and although he was struggling, things looked so effortless when you watched him. You wondered whether he thought the same about you.

Seeing Dan Heng fight for a new life, a future which he could call his own and a freedom that he could never take for granted, had kindled the flame in your heart even more. It made you long for that place in the sun; one that seemed so filled with that light and warmth that Dan Heng gave you, and once you had a taste of it you knew you'd be fighting for it for however long it might take or die trying. Both of you longed for a future in which there was no longer such a divide between what people saw and who you knew you were with every fiber of your being. Most of the fight was internal; your bravery only applauded by those who could see your journey for what it truly was, like Dan Heng did.

Few understood the loneliness that followed a childhood that had been scarred by false expectations, abuse and punishment for reasons you didn't understand. Few understood the struggle to step into the light and show what had been in your heart all along nor the bravery it took to look in the mirror every morning and telling yourself that your time would come despite. That people would see one day and the climb would get easier. That you'd catch up to the people around you who seemed so much further ahead. But Dan Heng did. You could feel that day closer than ever, almost in reach, in those evenings you spent with him by the water under the setting sun with a peaceful smile on your face. Making peace with what happened was easier on some days than others. But when it felt like you couldn't go on anymore, Dan Heng was there to pull you along until you had regained your strength. And you were ready to do the same.

You both carried a dream in your heart like a slumbering flame that was ready to ignite into an inferno and as you grew closer, they merged and became stronger, festering in the light of your love. You knew that after all that time your soul was lost in infinite space, you had someone you could count on to take your hand and walk those scary next steps with you. A net to catch you, should you ever fall.

Sometimes the things that took the most bravery for you were things that seemed so simple to others. Approaching new friends, opening up, asserting your will... But you wouldn't be a member of the Astral Express Crew if there wasn't something inside you ready to blaze a trail without looking back. To dare, despite everything, over and over again. Your past and those who hurt you had thrown rocks onto your path than seemed like they'd burn the soles of your feet if you dared walk across them but Dan Heng took your hand and encouraged you to try anyway. To push through and find, to your surprise, that a lot of them didn't hurt as much as you thought they would.

He didn't need a lot of words to convey that he was celebrating your achievements, whether they were big or small.

Imbibitor Lunae. Dan Heng had told you it meant "drinker of the moon". But to you, the one you loved had always been the sun for you, casting a shadow on you that challenged you to step out of it and walk the rest of the way by his side.

There was power to be found once you moved past the pain. A transformation much like his own, that would enable you to make things happen that felt like a miracle to you now. Dan Heng gave you a glimpse at a future version of yourself that watched over you like an older sibling, conscious of every new step they took in order to make you proud. One whose voice you could almost hear when you felt safe within Dan Heng's embrace, as if they were telling you that things were going to be okay. Both of you carried two dragons within your heart; one of the past who was steadily swallowed by the darkness of bygone times and the weight of new memories and one of the future looking back at you as though you were a child taking their very first steps. You were hardly at peace with either of them, but you knew deep down they both were telling you one thing. "Go. And don't look back."

You were pulled from your thoughts as Dan Heng eventually woke up beside you. He opened his eyes and you were reminded of all the times those eyes were the first thing you saw when you woke up in the morning. They carried so much love in them; as did the memories you made together that seemed to slowly drive away the horrors of the past. The days you had spent fooling around with the rest of your friends from the Astral Express. The afternoon you had spent exploring the Xianzhou Luofu with Dan Heng, forgetting all about Imbibitor Lunae and just talking about the history and food of Dan Heng's world of origin. The kisses you had exchanged and the gifts you had given each other. You had expected Dan Heng to ask you whether everything was alright when he woke up, as he had always noticed when you had another nightmare about the past. Instead, while you were looking into his eyes, he simply requested to know what made you smile. You hadn't even noticed your expression had changed from one of fear to one of peace just now. You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, smiling against his soft skin.

"I'm just reminiscing."

#hsr x reader #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng x y/n #dan heng fluff #honkai star rail x reader #imbibitor lunae #hsr #honkai star rail

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slowd1ving · 2 months

Text

III. THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

Friendship. The definition provided by the Standard IPC Dictionary of the True Universal Language (TUL) Dialect describes it as a strong interpersonal bond in which involved parties have a relationship of mutual trust and affection with each other. He knows it well.

The book was logged in approximately a month ago, and it has been accessed recently once more.

He looked it up first out of boredom—the definition had stood out when he skimmed through, looking at various slang and wondering whether he could finally put meaning to your long strings of curses.

“I think you’re the only friend he has apart from me, Pom-Pom and Welt,” Himeko had told him once: a simple additive after her lively discussion on the current politics of the Palosia-VI strata in the Palosian cluster.

“I see.” His reply was bland and blunt, just like him.

Mutual trust and affection. He looked it up again, just to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the first occasion he’d looked at it.

He supposed he hasn’t—which is why he’s mystified when he recalls her words.

Mutual trust. He doesn’t trust you. You don’t trust him. No, maybe there is some element of ‘trust’; there’s simply nothing below the dermis. It’s like comparing a breathing, living human to a mannequin. It’s a deplorable imitation.

He’ll be leaving soon enough anyway. That trust will never come to fruition.

Mutual affection. He supposes that yes, in its own twisted way, affection has been borne. Nightmare after nightmare has reduced him to a shell, and the feeling of someone caring— whether it be through tossed clothing and a cold glass of water—is something that does feel like affection. There was that one night, and it was anomalous in every shape and form—but in some way, that was ‘affection’ too.

Except, not really.

He’s seen the look in your eyes as you gaze at your machines. It’s not adoration, or anything close to it. It’s akin to understanding, one that almost extends to your eyes when you talk to Mr. Yang, and sometimes Himeko. He supposes you’re a lot more affectionate with your creations.

When you look at him, there’s simply that dispassionate neutrality, as though your projects were breathing humans and he was just some scrap metal.

He laughs bitterly.

You make it so easy to consider stepping off the train and into the void; yet, at the same time, you’re the biggest obstacle in preventing him.

And as luck would have it, he’s given the opportunity to help deepen his understanding of you, just near the three month mark of his stay.

“We’re nearing the Argo cluster,” Himeko starts off the day, which is rare as she doesn’t tend to speak before she’s at least drunk half her coffee.

Well, this is an extraordinary conversation, if he takes the time to calculate the probability of you appearing in the past fifty-eight days (one-point-seven percent). Of all days, you chose to seat yourself at the breakfast table, next to Mr. Yang. That seat is opposite Dan Heng’s.

You glance at him briefly, and for once it’s him avoiding your eyes.

“I do believe I should be sent to Argo-II to safeguard any contingencies for the bronze negotiations.”

Not Himeko? The question is obvious in Dan Heng’s eyes as he tries to surreptitiously stare at first the person in question, then Mr. Yang.

“Well, I’d normally go, but there needs to be at least one person on the Express when we visit various planets,” she explains. It makes sense. Her words ring out logically. They do. They should, but suddenly they don’t, and she’s mystified him once more.

At least one person implies that all persons—save Pom-Pom and Himeko–will be embarking on this mission.

All persons. That definition includes you.

You blink innocently at him.

“You and him are going to Argo-I.”

What?

He’s not just mystified. He’s baffled, he’s confounded, he’s every synonym of confused. Both you and Pom-Pom are constants with each mission; neither of you ever leave this train. Even Himeko occasionally joins either him, Mr. Yang, or both of them when they visit another planet together. He’s gotten the impression that you’ll never leave this train until you’re old and grey.

“What’s our mission, then?” Dan Heng instead chooses to ask.

“You’ll see.” She’s got a tight-lipped, cryptic smile when she speaks, and yours isn’t much better.

He sighs.

Ultimately, he gives up. He gives up trying to figure you out when you’re packing literally hours before the scheduled departure (at three system hours, the time you’re supposed to be in the kitchen). You cut the conversation short early, excusing yourself to do something you should’ve been doing sooner.

Despite your usual lethargy, there’s a certain nervous, jittery anticipation to you as you breathe quicker than usual. And even though you try hide it, each careful step onto Argo-I betrays the complex feelings you have towards this place.

But as he mentioned previously, he’s given up in figuring out what lies beneath the painted statue.

This isn’t the first time something hasn’t gone to plan, after all.

Especially now.

It’s still the first day. It either slipped his mind, or perhaps he simply heard wrong—he focused on Argo and not the distinction between the two, planet-sized ships (according to the Handbook on the Mitaras Nebulae, the Argo cluster is distinctly considered a cluster of planets with spaceship qualities—he’s not entirely sure what that means, but he’s sticking to both concepts).

That’s not relevant.

He just assumed Mr. Yang would be there as well. Not just the two of you.

Aeons, it’s never felt more surreal to experience you talking to him while the artificial sun shines and it’s daytime.

Well, you’re not exactly talking right now. You’re racing on the streets on a motorbike, and he’s sitting right behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist.

He can feel his jagged pulse as it spikes with adrenaline, each brush of air against his body—it snarls his jacket and allows it to billow in the wind. He’s been on starskiffs before, but this is so entirely different.

It smells like you: the motor oil, the metal, the roughness of it all. Here, he can feel each bump of the road as you navigate your way with an ease that almost takes his breath away.

Is this where you’re from?

You take him past towering skyscrapers, through grey landscapes with nothing but endless roads in sight, past foliage and cliffs and cities and small towns, until you finally arrive at your destination.

Behind the two of you is the setting sun and the vast metropolis gleaming with lights. Before the two of you is the spreading ocean, swallowing the last lights of ‘day’.

“The Argo-II is renowned for its sophisticated bronze architecture and cities,” you begin, slow and soft to match the pace of this evening. Dan Heng doesn’t reply, instead trying to read your wistful gaze.

This isn’t the gaze of someone looking at their home.

“It’s beautiful,” you continue. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard that sort of turmoil within your vocal chords—like they’ve been stretched thin with tension. “I would’ve told you to go with Mr.Yang, since I come here alone usually when we’re near the Argo; this city isn’t as technologically advanced, or as clean. There’s remnants of air pollution, after all.”

There’s a million questions he could ask. He could ask, but he doesn’t.

“It’s a breathing mechanical metropolis, coexisting with what remains of nature. Industrialisation has led to less death, more resources—yet it slowly kills the planet over a few centuries in return. In fact, that’s the reason there's more people migrating to Argo-II.”

You speak like you know this reality well.

“There’s no mission here. I just take a week to let go of shitty memories in a shitty time period.”

Your smile is strained.

It’s the first time he’s seen you vulnerable like this.

“Ah, forget it,” you sigh. “I’m sorry Himeko dumped you with me.”

He can’t recognise you at this moment. It’s metamorphosis; you’ve shed your marble exoskeleton and become something else.

“No,” he finds himself blurting out. “I don’t mind spending time with you.”

He’s blunt with it—always has been.

It’s the first time your eyes meet his own tonight.

Mutual trust.

He thinks he’s getting closer to that overwhelming precipice.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

It’s the second night on Argo-I that he learns your definition of relaxation.

The hotel you found was in the heart of the bustling city; right next to the beating metal heart. Steel skyscrapers and office buildings rose in the metropolis, and despite how bleak it looked during the day, he thought it looked rather pretty at night.

You and him have separate rooms, and there’s no shared communal space on your floor.

For once, there is no meeting at three system hours.

He wakes up panting, then wears himself out by whirling Cloud Piercer in short, precise drills that leave him dizzier and dizzier. Though his sleep at four is filled with similar nightmares, he can’t bring himself to knock on room 137. And so it repeats, until he finally wears himself enough to have dreamless, restless slumber.

Dan Heng stumbles out of his room at roughly eleven system hours. And when you inevitably encounter him in that hallway— like fate— your eyes can’t help but flicker to the dark circles under his eyes.

“More nightmares?” Affirmative. He nods yes, and you exhale wryly.

“Is that so…” you trail off, and once again he is reminded that some things never change. The roll of your eyes as you mull over a problem. The tilt of your head as you fix the stiff joints in your neck. The slouch of your shoulders as you lean against the wall.

“Actually, there is one thing that helps me through tough nights here,” you laugh. It’s a strange mixture of self-depreciation and bitterness.

There it is. That vulnerability.

“What?” It’s a little desperate, but he’s long stopped caring.

“There’s a specific booze sold in the bars and clubs of this city.” You speak like you haven’t forgotten up until now. You speak as though you know of the drink full well. It’s a nostalgic sort of hum, one that makes him glance at you anew all over.

“People turn to vice in hopeless situations. For those stuck in poverty, for those who have nowhere to go, for those longing for just one sweet dream—drink and gambling go together.” It’s a tired anecdote.

What is the hopeless situation like for you, then?

“Argo-I is no exception,” you murmur, brushing a stray piece of lint from his jacket. The proximity makes him swallow. “Tonight, we’ll drink the devourer of dreams.”

“What does it do?” he breathes, careful not to disturb your fluttering hands as they quickly fix his collar too.

“What else?”

Gentle dust motes float in the warm air, backlit by the rays of the artificial sun.

“Your dreams will be fully lucid.” You step back. “You’ll get rid of your nightmares for a night.” You place your hand on your doorknob. “All for the price of a glass or two.”

Finally, you pause.

“I’ve got a few of my engineering society contacts to meet today while I’m here,” you inform him. “Be here before 22 hours and dressed in something—” you eye his clothes, briefly contemplating his gear. “—suitable for going out.”

It’s hard to take you seriously while you’re sporting the baggiest clothes to man, but he finds himself nodding in agreement regardless.

You leave, and he takes the chance to wander around aimlessly.

It’s not entirely unpleasant, but the pulse of the metropolis feels diluted without you there to breathe life into it.

Though the blistering sun beats down, you could hardly tell it was daytime at all with the dark clouds that seem to permanently linger across the firmament. There’s a odour that grows stronger as he passes the alleyways; trash overflows, there’s dried gum and plastic littering the grey pavements, and the trees that have been planted aren’t as vibrant as he’s witnessed on the Luofu.

It slowly kills the planet after a few centuries.

It makes him wonder how Argo-I is special to you.

This isn’t a useless day, not by any means. The first and second day are spent for reconnaissance anyway; he doesn’t feel like he’s wasted his time.

Still, it’s decidedly strange—doing things without a specific goal in mind.

Dan Heng walks back to the hotel approximately three system hours before he’s due to report to you. You made it sound so serious, as though your plan was a definite fix. Though maybe he’s the idiot, for trusting your word just like that.

It’s getting colder. Frigid air nips at his nose and face, while the bag he carries containing newly-purchased clothes cuts the circulation in his fingers off—just a bit. He takes the time to clear his head.

From the doorway of the hotel lobby, he watches people live their lives in the grey streets. It’s an exercise meant to develop his understanding of you all without your knowledge.

He studies them. Their clothes, their faces, the fate they slowly face that’s imminent to all: erosion. Planet extinction and destruction is a path that no one is impervious to, not even Aeons. Why is Argo-I so special to you, then?

There’s a wide variety of visages—as on all planets.

If he had to note distinctions in clothes, it’s that they’re unusual. There’s a medley of fabric; all sorts of various fashions and garb he can’t quite place. It’s not like on the Luofu, where each garment is intricately tied to your own legacy, your status and the role you’ve taken on.

There’s not many similarities interpersonally on Argo-I, either. From pressed charcoal suits, to bizarre shirts, to very casual attire, there’s too much variation to pick up a pattern.

He can hear yells, laughs, and chatter from where he observes. It’s a range of human emotions: there should be, of course, the knowledge that one day this planet will fall and it will be humanity’s fault. But there’s a drive to move forward that he senses—something so intrinsic to people that it always fascinates him. It’s a perseverance despite the impending death that will eventually greet them: the greatest masterpiece of people.

What is it?

What exactly does this place remind you of?

He wonders these questions as he finishes changing. As he fumbles with the mesh long-sleeved top that rests over his black vest, as he pulls on the baggy trousers that have too many fastenings, as he slips on the silver jewellery he bought on impulse, he cannot help but ponder your sentiments—over and over and over.

He’s ready to knock on room 137 to let you know he’s back. At this point, it’s almost two hours until the allotted meeting time—but checking in early won’t do any harm, right?

Or at least, he tries to knock.

He’s sure the Elation has a hand to play in this—in a bizarre twist of fate, the door swings inward just as he’s about to rap his poised knuckles on the honey-coloured wood.

“Oh–” you blink, and he simply stares. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

And he keeps staring, since he wasn’t expecting this either.

You’re not in your usual gear—slicked with machine oil and various stains from your work—but in something suited for going out, as you put it. It’s like his, except so different he cannot help but question if you and him have wildly different definitions for the phrase.

Delicate chains criss-cross the black straps that pattern your body—the vast expanse of dermis has been exposed to the cold air. Dan Heng can count each scar you’ve gotten from your work.

He observes the slope of your rolling shoulders as you open the door further. He observes the way your trousers crease like his when you lean onto your other leg. He observes the way the various pieces of jewellery adorning you clink just like the metal pieces do when you put them together.

He swallows.

It’s not everyday he sees something as unpredictable as this, but you’ve already established yourself as a paragon of inconsistency.

“Did you need something?”

It’s just like that first night.

Except, he can actually hear you this time.

“No,” he finds himself admitting. “I just decided to come back early.”

What will you do about that? What will you say back?

“Really? Guess you wouldn’t know the good places in the city,” you comment mildly, heading further into the spacious room while leaving the door open behind you. He follows you in. “I’ll have to show you around properly tomorrow and the days after.”

When you take a seat at the small table on the balcony, he takes the other side.

It’s quiet. Save the sound of cars and bustling lives, the time passes with no words.

He finds he doesn’t mind it.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

He takes back what he said. This place is loud.

There’s that music that he occasionally hears from your room: a churning, thumping beast that he can feel pulse against his own heart. It’s dark—illuminated only by the flash of the strobe lights and the silver jewellery sported in this place.

The crowd isn’t large enough to be suffocating, yet the twisted mass of people pushes him to the outskirts where the bar is. Where you are. Against the colours skimming you, the Argo-I silver illuminates you in a way he’s never seen before.

It’s fascinating.

You’re running a finger against the rim of your coupe glass, idly nodding your head to the heavy beat. The enticing liquid within is shimmering with the incandescence and topped with a slice of what appears to be a mandarin. He recognises it as the faint trace that appears when he takes your scent in: lingering, just barely noticeable.

“You made it to the bar,” you note in amusement at his struggle to get through without stumbling.

“Haha,” he scowls. He sits roughly onto the stool adjacent to yours, knees almost touching. The faintest brush of fabric against fabric makes him flinch slightly.

You don’t seem to notice.

Instead, you take a long swill from the glass, choosing to place your gaze on the amorphous mass of bodies, rather than him.

“It’s not the classiest place, is it?”

It’s loud. There’s a dazed, hallucinatory energy superposing his fatigued lethargy. No, it’s not, he wants to say, but there’s something that tells him it’s not quite the truth.

“Human struggle is everywhere. In a bar for the elite, it’s only more prominent,” you murmur, pressing your chin into your palm. “Look. Ordinary people swarm here and forget their sadness briefly.”

“Do they really?” He can’t help but disagree. He’s seen enough people on Argo-I to know that behind their smiles, there’s a tiredness they can’t wash away.

“I guess not.” A nail taps against the clear vessel. “But they’re trying. I think that’s what counts.”

You push the drink towards him. He stares it down; there’s a faint imprint of your lips on the edge from the tint of your lip balm.

“I’ve already had a glass.” Your eyes meet his. “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?” His chest feels tight, and the inquiry bubbles up as he notices your body poised like you’re about to take your leave like you always do.

“There’s no formal name for it, but it’s nicknamed the devourer of dreams.” You slide off your stool, coming far too close to him. “Wanna know why?”

“Why?” His whisper is soft— strained. He can guess this is the mysterious elixir promised to him, yet he grasps at the smoke of your phantasm with the naivety of the fool attempting to touch the moon. Stay a little longer. That is the underlying message beneath the question.

“Figure it out yourself.” With a consoling pat to his shoulder, you’re swallowed up by the crowd. Dan Heng is left grasping nothing but the stem of a coupe glass and the warmth you imparted on the shoulder covered only by thin mesh.

“Aeons,” he breathes, swallowing half the drink in one go—unconsciously directing his mouth to where yours was. For something meant to give sweet dreams, it’s surprisingly bitter. He supposes it complements you in that way.

There’s a poster displaying the liquor only a few stools away. If he was a bit more diligent tonight, he might have read it. Warning— it reads— over-consumption of this drink may lead to side-effects such as projecting into others’ dreams, waking hallucinations, or a severe headache. Please drink with caution.

Perhaps in another parallel universe, he might’ve spotted the bold red letters—and the poster in the first place.

Unfortunately, in this specific strand of the universe, he doesn’t.

He watches you instead. You somehow slot into these people like you belonged all along: moving when they move, dancing with strangers to the bass he doesn’t know. There’s a smile on your face—one he’s never seen before.

It’s a strange mixture of exhaustion, layered with faint guilt and wistfulness. But, beneath that, it’s easing into relaxation.

You, with people you’ve known less than a few minutes, have shown them more depth than he’s seen in around three months.

His eyes narrow, and he swills the rest down with a scowl.

There’s an unbearable feeling inside. Empty glasses start crowding around his right hand. Even when you come back, he can still feel its pangs.

“Now, we go to sleep and experience the effects of our dear devourer.” Your body carries the new smell of alcohol, and he can’t help but take you in fully once more. There’s a buzz to you now—tainted with liquor and slight tipsiness, while your skin glistens with sweat from the exertion. A small bead trails down your chest and out of sight, and his eyes can’t help but follow it.

“And it just works like that?” He can’t help but be sceptical, but he wonders just how far it’s scepticism and not the urge to remain like this for a few moments longer.

Pointedly, you eye the neat row of glasses by his elbow. “I’ll be more surprised if it doesn’t work.”

You’re closer to him than you would be in any other situation.

He can almost taste the liquor still on your lips, and involuntarily, his eyes flicker downwards—too fast for you to perceive it.

“What do I get from you if it doesn’t work?”

Just a little longer. Let him stay seated with you by his side a little longer.

“Nothing, since I never guaranteed anything,” you reply brusquely, seemingly unaffected by the proximity once more. “But I’ll buy you a round of SoulGlad from Penacony if we ever go.”

There’s a lingering feeling of disappointment that he can’t suppress. It’s your usual style of reasoning, so why is he feeling that way?

“Wow,” he remarks dryly. “What an interesting way of following Akivili.”

“Make a contract next time if you want a favour,” you yawn, grabbing his hand and tossing down currency that doesn’t resemble the uniform pristineness of credits. The various notes—both crisp and rumpled—are a light green and host different portraits on them. But he doesn’t focus on that—rather, he’s committing the feeling of your skin to his memory. “And I am trailblazing. New ways of negotiation.”

It’s raining when the two of you stumble outside the club. The skies have turned pitch black—nothing like the vast galaxies that watch over the Luofu—while the lamplight shines orange on the wet tarmac.

You’re still holding his hand while you take the lead.

He can’t see your face, but he can feel your fingers digging into his palm as you stare resolutely forward.

If he looks closely, he thinks he can see your shoulders trembling.

You alright?

That’s what he wants to say, but he presses his icy lips together instead as you both take the elevator up. When the doors open again, it’s not the familiar hallway that greets him but the very top of the hotel. The skyscrapers surrounding the roof glitter like stars, and he wonders if this is the detachment constellations feel from the rest of the universe.

You lean against the railing, allowing the wind to tussle and tug at your clothes and skin. There’s a bitter smile on your lips as you beckon him to your side.

The rain may have slowed to a drizzle, but someone is definitely going to come down with a cold and it won’t be him.

He doesn’t bluntly tell you that you’re being a fool at this moment.

He’s sure you’re already well aware.

“What do you think when you look at this world?”

Dan Heng pauses.

“It’s… loud. Chaotic. There’s not much rhyme or reason to this place.”

And as expected, you neither confirm nor deny his statement.

“It’s also impossible to generalise this place to just that. There’s struggle, there’s perseverance, and there’s sincere effort to try despite the knowledge that this planet is dying,” he finally summarises. “It’s a quality that can’t be tamped down in this universe.”

“If these people knew there was a chance to escape and live only in paradise, do you think they’d take it?” Your lips form hollow words—so fragile they’re battered bloody in the cold wind.

He thinks carefully about his next reply. It could hold the key to chipping more of that marble exoshell from you.

“Some would, some wouldn’t. You’ve already got people migrating to Argo-II for a better life. You’ve already got people succumbing to vice,” he leans back against the railing too, until his gelid shoulder presses against yours. “No matter where you go, you can’t have paradise. There’ll always be something missing. And what’s missing is unique to every person. Paradise is only a temporary fixture, and a pointless goal in the first place.”

Was that the right thing to say? It’s the first time he’s mulling over the strings escaping his larynx—the first time he’s properly consoling someone who looks so stricken at the sight of people below.

“Is it the wrong choice to escape? To take the dreams of others to escape and achieve it while they can’t?”

“No.” He meets your eyes this time. Dan Heng watches as they widen, then close in what he can only assume is relief. “To clarify, there cannot be a ‘right’ choice when it concerns doing what’s best for you. We survive and we move on.”

“I think it’s admirable when people decide what’s best for themselves. After all, we aren’t responsible for others choosing what’s best for themselves either,” he adds.

You can’t save everyone, he wants to say.

“Thanks.” It’s a quiet word, accompanied by you waving him forward. When he glances back, your face schools itself into a weak smile.

Perhaps if he were a bit quicker, he might’ve not heard the lapse in strength—the vibrant vulnerability in your voice once more.

But as Vidyadhara, his hearing is good, while his timing is the worst. So while he’s carefully propping the door behind him so it doesn’t get locked, he overhears three words clearly not meant for him.

“I miss Earth.”

It’s a foreign phrase, one he doesn’t know the meaning of. It’s not the True Universal Language dialect, nor is it any he recognises.

He can only memorise the shape of the sounds and hope that one day, you’ll tell him with your own words what it means.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

If he had to describe his second night on Argo-I, it would be kind. For once, there’s a lack of nightmares—only a lucid field that describes itself as Asphodel.

Peace for the unremarkable.

In fact, he feels so well-rested in the morning that there’s even a mild smile on his face when he knocks on your door: something so uncharacteristic for him that he can feel his facial muscles practically creak with disuse.

You take him everywhere you can think of on the motorcycle. There’s the beach again; the waves lapping at his feet are cold and unlike the lightless waters he saw at night. He holds no particular love for the casino, and it appears you don’t either—you bet the minimum, easily resisting the beginner's urge to continue when your luck appears to be high.

You take him to scenic parks, loamy forests, and peaceful lakes. You take him to bookstores, coffeehouses, and various restaurants. And when the artificial sun is hidden, you take him to that club.

Dan Heng downs glass after glass of the dream devourer, never pausing to glance at the poster only a few feet away. And even if he did, he’d think the blood of Long would make him impervious to most of alcohol’s effects. Hallucinations, migraines, projecting into others’ dreams.

And each night is pleasant, save the very last.

He’s drunk more than usual tonight. He, also, has not noticed that crucial factor yet—the poster warning against overconsumption.

This is his first mistake.

His next mistake is drinking several glasses of this every night. Naturally, he assumed a larger dose before he slumbered would be more effective as a Vidyadhara.

So naturally, the latent effects are built up too quickly, too immensely.

Dan Heng still thinks everything is fine when his head hits the pillow. He thinks everything is fine even when the fields of Asphodel aren’t resembling the landscape he’s seen every night. In fact, he’s still thinking everything is fine when the topography begins changing.

Why wouldn’t he?

He’s had a taste of peace, so forgive him for craving it.

Clean, warm wind brushes past his face. This is no field. This is a beach: golden sand (unlike the gritty, grey stuff of Argo-I), aquamarine waters (also unlike the grey stuff here), and vegetation that befits this scene.

His eyes take it all in: the scenery, and you.

He can see you—your back is facing him, but he could recognise your form anywhere. Dan Heng swallows. There’s nothing covering your skin except a white fabric draped around your waist and cascading down your legs, and golden jewellery adorning your flesh. It shines against the vast dermis, and he thinks for a moment that he’s never seen something as entrancing.

However, you’re not alone. There’s various wisps surrounding you, speaking to you in murmurs he can’t decipher. It’s an alien language—untranslatable to him, but he recognises exactly one word from the conversation.

“◼◼◼◼— ! ◼◼ Earth ◼◼◼◼; ◼◼◼….”

“◼◼, ◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼,” you reply. There’s barely any coldness left in your normally harsher tone. Instead, your cadence is fragile and heartbroken. “◼◼.”

This is a dream, Dan Heng reminds himself. This isn’t reality, nor are you actually showing him layers of yourself you hadn’t before.

So, he watches as the wisps dissipate. He watches as you stay staring at the sea, watches as your shoulders relax in acceptance.

This is a dream, he repeats, before making his way to your side. Being lucid like this comes with clear benefits, but it also makes him notice details in his dreams with painstaking detail.

Of course, that’s a beneficial function.

But currently, he’s fighting himself to not collapse in shock.

When he noticed the fabric draped only around your waist, he naively assumed your torso was at least covered from the front, if only by those straps from the club.

It isn’t.

His eyes can’t help but trail across you, noting the gold dripping down your flesh, the metallic colour painting the skin of your face in graceful lines. And his cheeks can’t help but begin to flush rosy at the sight.

“Dan Heng?” It’s the first time he’s heard you say his name. Though your voice is harsher when you revert to Universal, he thinks it’s never sounded better.

“Yes,” he affirms immediately.

“Why are you here?” It’s not an accusation. It’s more tinged with disbelief, rather than anything.

“Why not?” he breathes. This is a dream, he thinks, so he doesn’t stop his hand from lifting and placing itself on the side of your face.

Why? His heart is thumping right out of his chest—skin and muscle taut as a result. Why does he feel this way?

“You appeared to distract me, didn’t you?” Your laughter is genuine. It’s so clear that you can’t be anything but a figment of his imagination—he’s never heard you sound so amused.

His skin burns where it’s come into contact with yours. If this were reality, he’d never have the courage to do this.

“Do you want to be distracted?” he replies, mind already hazing over as it succumbs to his body.

“Sure.” Your voice is steady, as though you’re utterly unaffected by this. So unlike him, where his legs are beginning to grow unsteady and his chest is rising and falling faster. “And you’ll achieve it, how, exactly?”

Aeons. His subconscious has replicated your mannerisms almost perfectly.

His other hand traces the planes of your face, finally settling across your cheek to mirror the first. He’s clasping your visage, while you quietly watch him.

What will your next move be?— your expression asks.

And he’s tired of his fluttering heart, tired of your elusiveness, tired of how it never seems to be enough—how he never seems to be enough to capture your attention like those machines do.

Dan Heng’s not entirely sure when the lines merged between friendship and something else. Looking at you like this in the palm of his hands, literally, he thinks it’s finally clicked for him.

This is a dream, he acknowledges. You won’t be looking at him like this in real life.

“You trying to kiss or gawk at me?” you ask bluntly, suddenly grasping the front of his turtleneck and pulling his face closer to yours. “Don’t waste my—”

He cuts you off with his own lips, pulling your face towards his while he feels your hand form a fist in surprise.

You taste like the sea. It’s yet another layer that’s been uncovered, except this is only a dream.

It’s only a dream, he thinks bitterly as your hands fall to his sides and press him into your bare torso. You’re warm, even through the seawater currently clamming your arms up. Some things simply don’t change.

It’s only a dream, he thinks with regret as his fingers trace the expanse of your body, watching the gold on you smear and leave its matching imprint on his own palms.

It’s only a dream, as he moves his mouth to your jaw and trails a burning path down to your collarbone.

“You—” Finally. You’re breathing heavily as he holds you as though you were his lifeline—lips still latched onto the juncture between neck and shoulder. Clearly, you’re not as unaffected as you seem.

Vidyadhara physiology is fascinating. Not only can he taste the salt of your skin, feel the dermis breaking slightly beneath sharp canines—but he can feel your pulse as it quickens to a dizzying allegro.

You wrench him away from you, and he’s still processing his disorientation over you when your palms push him into lying against the sand. He’s barely propped himself up on his elbows when you’re suddenly looming over him—almost straddling him as you bring him back into a bruising kiss.

He’s gasping now himself; not out of a need for air in particular, but because you’re practically forcing it out of him. He’s a greedy man—almost reflexively, he manoeuvres his arms to wind around your neck so he can press himself closer to you.

Dan Heng is losing his mind.

While there was a real possibility of that anyway after his stint in the Shackling Prison, he thinks he’ll go mad within the next system minute.

You’re straddling him fully now, and there’s only some folds of fabric separating you from him that are slowly riding up your thighs.

I need you.

The words go unspoken, but he doesn’t get an opportunity to speak them in the first place.

He’s fading away, grasping at your material form with his own incorporeal hand.

No, he begs.

This is a dream.

This is a dream, therefore the lucidity with which he moved ends when he’s waking up.

This is a dream, so the surprise in your face isn’t real as he feels himself drift back into consciousness.

This is a dream. This is not reality.

He wakes up panting. Sweat drenches his skin and makes his clothes stick uncomfortably against his body: suffocating, so overwhelmingly profound that his fingers scrabble against the hotel bed to make sure he’s not still at that fateful beach.

What the—

For once in his life, he is utterly and completely lost. As Dan Feng, letting himself be swept up by emotions was the end of him and his freedom. The plight of Dan Heng continues due to the downright foolish actions of his predecessor, which is why he resolved to act pragmatically and logically—to avoid those same mistakes.

The man buries his face in his hands. Those palms are clammy; after all, his nervous system has basically just rewired itself at your touch. Your phantom touch— because, as he reminds himself, it was not real.

He’s not an idiot. But currently, he feels like one. How else would he explain why he dreamt about his friend, and with all his mental faculties in order, chose to kiss him? This was a lucid dream. This was a lucid dream, meaning his limbs were in direct control of his mind.

The only other explanation would be madness induced by avoiding his usual nightmares. He must’ve lost all his senses by all the adrenaline catching up to him.

How will he face you?

At least, with his nightmares, there’s a very clear lesson embedded within them. Avoid the man with red eyes. It’s instinctual—primal, even—to run when he feels that disturbance caused by the man who perpetually hunts him down. That, though not easy, is relatively straightforward to deal with. It’s a matter of fight or flight. This, on the other hand, is perplexing to say the least. At four system hours in the morning, it is even more difficult to deal with.

This is now reality.

This is no longer a dream.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

There’s a certain sort of word attributed to situations like this. Shame. According to the standard TUL dialect, it refers to the painful humiliation or distress caused by being conscious of a foolish action. And he’s feeling plenty of it as he stares at you in the hallway.

The sensation is strange—like he’s hearing it through the deep end of water. In his past life, the emotion lingered in his shadow and was a constant reminder of his sins. He may not be able to remember the specific fragments clearly, but Aeons is the feeling palpable.

“What?” you yawn widely. A loose pair of trousers sits at your hips, and he’d think that were normal if it weren’t for your top half only consisting of another loose piece of fabric flung around your shoulders. It hits far too close to home—just when he thought he’d composed himself, there’s a rosy tint to his cheeks once more. “You gonna miss Argo-I?”

No. Yes.

He won’t miss the clamour that comes when watching the streets. He won’t miss the chaos and the glitzy facade this city puts up. He won’t miss the suffering found in these same streets that promise abundance and glory.

He will, however, miss this aspect of you. These glimpses of you he’s never caught before—flashes of pain, grief, acceptance, hopelessness—put cracks in your sculpture that he wouldn’t mind peering at forever.

But he can’t tell you that.

“Not particularly.”

“Right.” You lean against the doorway with a sharp grin, and he follows the motion with an accelerating pulse. “That explains why you look more depressed than usual.”

He frowns, and it almost feels like regular back-and-forth you two have slowly settled into.

“This planet is depressing,” he deadpans.

“Did the devourer of dreams not work this time or something?” you wonder instead. “And I almost completely won the little bet you tried to initiate.”

Dan Heng’s face goes through a rather alarming progression of waxy-white to puce. To his credit, he manages to compose himself remarkably quickly; it pays to have a resting bored face, after all.

Do you know? Have you somehow pieced together his erratic behaviour and drawn out his dreams for your own amusement?

Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms and form bloody crescent moons shaped just like your grin.

“No,” he grits out. “My dreams were the same as I’ve had all this week. You think we could get the drink imported?”

It’s not what he wants to say. After tonight, he doesn’t think he can ever touch another coupe glass without it feeling indecent.

“That’s interesting,” you tilt your head thoughtfully. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were the one following The Hunt and not him. “I had quite the fascinating dream last night.”

What does that mean? The way you word it has his skin prickling uncomfortably, but there’s no way you’d know what he dreamed. It doesn’t make sense. Not at all. This isn’t the legendary Penacony he’s heard about, and this sort of dreamscape offered is nothing more but cheaper mimicry made by the desperate for the desperate.

He’s still paranoid, and he hopes you don’t recognise his slightly shallower breathing.

“But no,” you add. “The specific composition in the drink makes it impossible to preserve for import, from what I’ve heard.”

“Actually,” you murmur, seemingly mystified. “What the hell is in that thing?”

Dan Heng has never agreed with you as profoundly as he does now.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

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