#foxian!reader

"Ah, playing a dangerous game, are we?" His magenta and cyan eyes gleamed behind his glasses, a smirk curling his lips as he caught your tail before it could escape. His fingers, adorned with golden rings, slid over the soft fur, as if weighing his next move.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Hmm? Just making sure you’re paying attention."

Aventurine chuckled, low and smooth. "Darling, you had my attention the moment you stepped into the room." He tugged your tail ever so slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to make you aware of the control he could have, if he wanted. His grip loosened, letting your tail slip away like a bet he was willing to raise.

"Though," he mused, adjusting his cufflinks, "if you're trying to tease me, you might want to be prepared to up the ante."

You flicked your tail again, this time brushing under his chin. "Oh? And what happens if I do?"

He grinned, leaning closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. "Then I’ll have no choice but to raise the stakes. And trust me, sweetheart, I never gamble unless I plan to win."

Your game had just begun.

Sunday was a picture of tranquility, seated near the viewport of the Astral Express, golden halo casting faint light against the glass. His eyes, deep with reflection, barely shifted as you approached.

You knew he noticed you—Sunday noticed everything. So when you casually brushed your tail against his cheek as you passed, you caught the tiniest flicker in his wings, the faintest hitch in his breath.

"You move like a whisper," he murmured, his voice as airy as ever. He turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. "And yet, you leave echoes behind."

You smiled, tail swishing playfully. "Are you saying I haunt you, Sunday?"

A soft chuckle. "Perhaps." He lifted a gloved hand, fingertips grazing the fur of your tail as if lost in thought. "You remind me of a dream—fleeting, untouchable, yet lingering long after waking."

A warmth settled in your chest. He was always poetic, always distant, as if he existed halfway between the waking world and a dream. But as his wings gave the faintest flutter—betraying emotions he so carefully concealed—you knew your touch had reached him.

"Maybe I don't mind being your dream," you whispered.

His gaze softened, but he said nothing. Instead, he let his fingers trail away, as if savoring the moment before reality called him back.

Dan Heng was focused, as always. Seated in the Archives, poring over ancient texts, he barely reacted when you leaned over the table. But when your tail flicked across his face—soft, playful, entirely intentional—he stiffened.

"…What are you doing?" His voice was steady, but you caught the slight furrow in his brow, the way his eyes flicked toward you with cautious curiosity.

You grinned. "Hmm? Just stretching." You made a show of flicking your tail again, watching as he exhaled through his nose, patience thinning.

Dan Heng closed his book with deliberate care. "If you're looking for a reaction, you won’t get one."

"Oh? So you don’t mind if I do this?" Another flick, this time trailing against his jawline.

His grip tightened ever so slightly on the book, and you saw it—just the briefest moment of hesitation. A tiny, almost imperceptible swallow. You’d cracked his armor, if only slightly.

"Ignoring me won’t make me stop, you know," you teased, leaning closer.

Dan Heng sighed, setting the book down completely. He met your gaze, calm but assessing. Then, before you could react, his hand moved—swift and sure—catching your tail and holding it still.

Your ears twitched. "Oh?"

His thumb brushed over the fur, absentminded yet oddly deliberate. "I don’t think you’ve considered what happens if I decide to return the favor."

A shiver ran through you, but you refused to back down. "Maybe I want to find out."

His lips quirked, just barely. "Then don't complain when I do."

Challenge accepted.

“You’re shivering,” he remarks, tone light but eyes flicking over you with that gambler’s precision.

“I’m fine,” you insist, tail swishing. “Foxians don’t need winter clothes.”

He hums, that rich, teasing sound that hides a dozen calculations. “Ah, yes, the ever-resilient fox. Must be nice to gamble with your own body temperature.”

You roll your eyes, but his smirk curves wider. He’s dressed to kill the chill—dark overcoat trimmed with fur, gloves, scarf tucked with infuriating elegance. You, on the other hand, have only your thin robes and stubborn pride.

When he catches your hand to steady you on an icy step, you realize just how warm his skin feels through his gloves.

The following morning, you wake dizzy, throat raw, head pounding like a losing bet.

By the time Aventurine strides into your quarters, the usual lazy amusement on his face is gone, replaced by a sharpness that reminds you why people fear him. “You’re burning up,” he mutters, setting down a stack of reports. “And you were bragging about not needing a jacket yesterday.”

You try to laugh, but it turns into a coughing fit. He sighs—long, theatrical, exasperated. “Congratulations, darling. You’ve proven your point. Now pay the price.”

He presses a cool hand to your forehead, then, unexpectedly, his tone softens. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad…”

Aventurine pulls up a chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes tracing every flicker of discomfort. “You know, I make a living reading people. But you—” his smile flickers faintly—“you’re impossible.”

“Because I’m stubborn?”

“Because you make me care more than I should.”

He stays by your bedside for hours, making jokes between mixing medicine, his fingers brushing your cheek every so often to check your fever. He even wagers on how fast you’ll recover, scribbling your odds on a napkin with a flourish.

When you’re lucid enough to tease him, you murmur, “If I win, what do I get?”

He leans close, grin slow and dangerous. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Days later, when you’re finally upright, Aventurine drapes a heavy coat over your shoulders. “No arguments. House rule.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he adjusts the collar, fingers brushing the base of your throat where your pulse flutters. “Don’t think of it as surrender. Think of it as… hedging your bets.”

His smile softens into something almost sincere. “Because I don’t gamble on you getting hurt again.”

You pull the coat tighter, feeling the warmth seep in—and for once, you let him win.

The research outpost sits beneath a crystalline sky, wind slicing across the plateau. You pad behind Ratio, tail wrapped around your waist like a belt.

“You appear to be trembling,” he observes without turning.

“Foxians handle winter fine,” you reply, chin up.

He finally looks back, violet hair tousled by the gale. “That is an untested hypothesis, and I’d advise against using your body as the control group.”

You grin. “What, you’re going to write a paper on me?”

“I might, if you collapse mid-experiment.”

He gestures toward the observation dome. Inside, warmth hits like sunlight, but you’re already coughing. Ratio sighs—more resigned than angry—and adjusts his glasses. “Predictable.”

You attempt a witty retort, but the words dissolve into a sneeze.

Hours later, you wake in your bunk, a damp cloth resting on your forehead. Ratio sits nearby, reading a datapad, his expression carved from patience and mild irritation.

“Did you tuck me in?” you croak.

He doesn’t look up. “Correct. You lost consciousness while trying to prove evolutionary resistance to cold. An admirable, if foolish, display.”

“You could’ve let me freeze,” you joke weakly.

“Waste of a valuable mind.” His tone is cool, but his hand adjusts the cloth with surprising gentleness. “Besides, I find the silence intolerable when you’re not arguing with me.”

You smile faintly. “So you admit you like me around.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, little fox.” His eyes flicker, irises glinting. “I simply appreciate a challenge.”

When he stands to fetch more tea, you watch him move with deliberate care—every motion precise, as though affection were an equation he hasn’t quite solved. He returns with a steaming cup, testing its temperature before pressing it into your hands.

“Drink. Ginger and star-anise. It’ll accelerate recovery.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Indeed. And once you’re well, you’ll conduct an experiment: ‘The Efficacy of Proper Clothing Amongst Stubborn Foxians.’ I’ll supervise.”

You laugh, voice hoarse. “Sounds boring.”

“Then we’ll add a wager.” He leans closer, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “If you complete the winter season without another incident, I’ll grant you one favor—within reason.”

“And if I lose?”

He tilts his head. “Then I’ll design your wardrobe myself.”

The gleam in his eyes tells you it’s not an idle threat.

When your fever breaks, you find a folded coat waiting on your desk, embroidered with a small owl sigil. A note in his precise handwriting reads:

For scientific consistency—and my peace of mind.

You put it on. It fits perfectly.

Later, Ratio glances up from his papers, smirking as he sees you bundled properly. “Observation: the subject appears finally trainable.”

You roll your eyes, tail flicking. “Observation: the doctor worries more than he admits.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just murmurs, “Correlation does not imply denial,” and continues writing—his hand lingering near yours on the table.

Winter paints the training grounds in silver frost. You stand at Jing Yuan’s side, fur bristling against the chill, tail flicking irritably.

“Are you cold?” he asks, voice carrying the calm rumble of distant thunder.

“No,” you lie easily. “Foxians are built for this.”

He chuckles, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Built for stubbornness, perhaps.”

You spar with the Cloud Knights until your breath clouds heavy and your limbs tremble. Jing Yuan watches from the sidelines, arms folded, letting you tire yourself out before calling an end to the session.

When you bow, the world tilts. The next thing you know, strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

“You always push too far,” he murmurs.

You blink up into the halo of his hair, his red ribbon fluttering in the wind. “Guess I overestimated my… resilience.”

He smiles softly. “And underestimated how much I care.”

He carries you back to the quarters himself, ignoring the gasps of startled knights. Inside, warmth blooms as he sets you down on a couch near the fire. His armor clinks quietly as he removes it piece by piece, draping his cloak over you.

The scent of sandalwood and steel fills your lungs. “General, you really don’t have to—”

“Jing Yuan,” he corrects, tone gentle but firm. “When it’s just us.”

He kneels beside you, brushing a damp lock of hair from your forehead. “You look like you’ve fought a thousand battles against winter itself.”

“Maybe I won a few.”

His chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. “I’d call it a stalemate.”

He leaves briefly, returning with a bowl of steaming broth. You sip slowly, feeling heat return to your fingertips. Jing Yuan watches every movement, his calm presence a shield against the cold.

“You’re not angry?” you ask quietly.

“I’m relieved,” he admits. “Anger fades. Worry lingers.”

When you finish eating, he sits beside you, his large hand enveloping yours. “You remind me of a lion cub I once rescued—small, defiant, convinced it didn’t need shelter. It caught a chill too.”

“What happened to it?”

“It learned to nap in the sunlight with its pride.”

You smile faintly, leaning against him. “So you’re saying I should rest.”

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, “you don’t have to prove your strength to me.”

Snow drifts past the window. He hums a quiet melody, ancient and soothing, until your eyelids grow heavy.

When you wake hours later, the fire still crackles, and Jing Yuan is dozing beside you, his head tilted back, one arm draped protectively across your waist. His usually stern features are softened by sleep.

You shift slightly, whispering, “You really didn’t have to stay.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. “And miss the chance to ensure my favorite fox survives another winter? Impossible.”

You laugh softly, curling closer beneath his cloak. His hand tightens around yours in quiet reply.

Outside, snow falls thicker—but inside, wrapped in his warmth, the world feels safe again.

You sat near the window in the quiet corner of the car, your tail wrapped around your waist like a warm, soft blanket. The gentle swish of your fox-like tail was a calming presence, and you found solace in the rhythmic motion. It had always been this way—your tail was an extension of yourself, and you treated it with the care it deserved. You spent hours grooming it, ensuring the fur was untangled and soft, the delicate features of it gleaming with the light of distant stars.

As you gently ran a comb through your tail, you couldn’t help but feel a presence behind you. You turned slightly, eyes meeting the stoic face of Dan Heng. His sharp gaze softened just a little, though it was clear he hadn’t come to intrude on your peaceful moment. He was, as always, quiet—reserved in a way that only made his presence more mysterious.

“You’re taking good care of it,” he said, his voice low but steady. It was a rare comment, and you found yourself startled by his attention to detail. Dan Heng wasn’t one to comment on others so easily. He was observant, yes, but he rarely spoke unless it was about something important.

You chuckled softly, glancing back down at your tail. "I have to," you replied, the smile on your face reflective but gentle. "It’s an important part of me. It’s not just for show."

Dan Heng nodded, his expression unchanged, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—an unspoken understanding. You knew he had his own burdens to carry, his own history he kept close, and it made sense to you that he would recognize the importance of small acts of self-care. Even if it wasn’t something he showed easily.

“Is it difficult, sometimes?” you asked, your voice softer now, matching the quiet comfort of the space between you. You had never asked him about his past, not wanting to push him into something he wasn’t ready to share. But in this peaceful silence, you found the courage to ask a question that had been in your mind for a while.

Dan Heng’s gaze shifted, his expression unreadable. He took a moment before answering. “It can be. But... we all have our burdens to bear.”

You nodded, sensing the weight of his words. There was no need to pry further. It was enough to know that even though he carried the weight of his past with him, there were moments like this—moments of quiet connection, where you both understood each other in a way words couldn’t convey.

You gave your tail one last tender comb through before setting it down beside you. You turned your attention to Dan Heng now, offering him a soft smile. “Would you like to sit for a while?” you asked. It wasn’t much, but it was an invitation for him to join you in this small moment of peace.

He looked at the empty seat beside you, then back at you. His usual distance seemed to soften, even if only by a fraction. "I suppose I could," he said, his tone as calm as ever. But there was something different in the way he said it—a subtle warmth that hadn't been there before.

He took a seat next to you, the two of you sitting in silence for a while. There was no need for words; the quiet companionship was enough. You were both travelers on a journey through the stars, each with your own pasts, your own secrets. But for now, in this quiet moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the shared stillness, the understanding that sometimes, the best comfort came from simply being present with each other.

And as the train continued to glide through the infinite expanse of the universe, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace, knowing that, for a brief moment, you and Dan Heng had found a way to connect without needing to speak a single word.

The Astral Express hummed softly, carrying you both forward into whatever came next, together.