Happy 2026~
You know the gist: "Moments of Weakness" as in the reader beeing uncooperative and then reaping what she has sown. This has been sitting in my writing app for way too long, and I only got to finishing and proofreading it now. A shame that there were five men (since Jiaoqiu got a headstart), the banner pictures look kinda wonky now, but no matter. Bringing breadth of mind and vast patience into this year (◡ ‿ ◡ .)
In case you're interested, I have written the same sort of thing for both the Amphoreus and the Penacony men, and those can be found here and here!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Characters include: Blade, Dan Heng, Jing Yuan, Luocha and Moze CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Fem!Reader (she/her, THOUGH only at one spot in Blade's part I believe, and it's not very relevant to the plot), yandere content (imprisonment, possessiveness, obsessiveness) BUT it's on the milder end, and this is kinda fluffy considering the genre, hurt/comfort-ish, manipulation, reader has long enough hair to pull, forced non-schmexual touching, vomiting in Blade's part (the emetophobes might want to skip this one), blood and minor injury to reader, a few mentions of violence, and I know I write a fierce reader in general but they're like pissed-pissed in the Moze one. ⋆ Around 10,9k words. ⋆ Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort-ish
Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post.
˗ˏˋ ★ Blade
Oh, how you wish you had just accepted the cruel fate of going to bed hungry.
You sit on the floor of the tiny bathroom in the Stellaron Hunters’ current hideout with your back against the wall and your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach. You don’t need to even look in the mirror to know that all colour has vanished from your face, and even if you weren’t sure, you would rather live in doubt: You’re certain that if you were to try and stand up, what you had for dinner a mere hour ago would burst out of your mouth the second you got on your feet.
Of course, the roll left at the kitchen table was sort of suspicious in nature, but it looked abandoned enough for you to grab it without having to worry about anyone ever finding out. In hindsight, having been left there likely translated to having spent much too long of a while out of the fridge, and the rest of the tale is the scenario coming to be at the very present moment. You know you should have asked someone for food — you should have swallowed your anxiety and obediently gone to Kafka with your tail between your legs — but it’s much too late to regret any of that now.
The bathroom light flickers on and off, evidently fighting for the last few bits of its life span. The carpet you have seated yourself on is old and worn with stray threads unravelling at its edges, but it’s much more comfortable to rest your behind on than on the bare tiles. Huddling in silence, you listen to the never-ending, near inaudible plip, plip, plip of the leaking tap above you.
You’ve situated yourself directly in front of — or more like under — the sink in case a moment comes where you won’t be able to hold your reflexes back anymore. Your insides stir terribly, and though you’ve battled against the unbearable nausea for the better part of an hour, the sickness hasn’t yet showed any signs of passing. It’s the sort of surging feeling that comes and goes: Occasionally, the feeling builds up to the point where you’re certain that you’re seconds away from vomiting before it mellows down to a barely tolerable level again — it’s the kind that would have even the most hard-faced of people, like your captor himself, bending in half.
Even now, the churning shows no signs of halting. Yet another wave of the revolting sensation washes over you, and saliva gathers in your mouth to entail what you’re starting to think is the inevitable. Cold sweat rises onto the back of your neck as you feel your stomach lurching and preparing to empty itself out soon. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will the feeling away, but with every passing minute, your resolve wavers.
In your sorry state, you pray to whatever deity is watching you that nobody is going to find you in a minute. You can’t even begin to guess what sort of a reaction he would have to your troubles, and you’re not keen on finding out about it. No matter how bad the sickness gets, you’re sure it’s miles better than what sort of maltreatment you would have to face if Blade happened to stumble upon the sight of you hunched over in the bathroom. The crack in the mirror above the sink is evidence of that very fact: Your captors' impulses control him way more than he controls them, and though your body isn’t made of porcelain, there’s not a single doubt in your mind that you could very well end up the same as the looking glass.
It truly is as they say: No person truly knows spirituality before they find themselves in a situation where there is nobody but the higher power to turn to, and if the problem at hand is not one of those, then you don’t know what is. With your hand over your mouth, you silently mumble the names of any and all Aeons you could possibly remember before letting your forehead fall back against your knees.
However, as if you had spoken your thoughts loud and proud, the sound of footsteps from the next room permeates your ears. Immediately, you clasp your fingers back over your lips, muffling the sound of your elevated breathing while you frantically look around as if the cleaning cabinet-sized bathroom had anywhere to hide in. With your eyes blown wide open, the only thing you can think of in the split moment of deliberation you’re granted is to reach for the door handle and press against the force you know is a mere spitting distance away from revealing your hiding spot, but alas, once again, you’re a second or two behind on everything.
A deafening bang resonates throughout the entire building. Had your hand been even an inch closer to the frame’s hatch, your fingers would now surely be nothing but a wet, carmine spot on the dusty tiles on the wall.
“Yeah, she’s, um… She’s there…”
You don’t even get the chance to wonder what position you would want to be found in before you realize you’ve been put face-to-face with the very person you prayed not to find you.
Having used way too much power, compared to the resistance you actually managed to put up, for the simple task of kicking open the bathroom door, Blade stands in the narrow doorway, casting a tall shadow over the entire, single square-meter wide nook. Behind him, you catch a brief sight of Firefly’s concerned expression before the girl ducks around the corner and scuttles out of your sight.
Slowly, your eyes, as wide as the plate you ate the roll off of, travel up your captor’s legs, his torso, his neck, and finally meet his expressionless countenance. The hairs on the nape of your neck stand up as your gaze locks with his: Though the look he gives you is as cold as his lifeless soul, you don’t miss the fleeting, peculiar glint that flashes through his deep red irises.
He lets out a quiet, dry huff through his nose. Instinctively, you unwind one of your arms from around you and plant your hand on the floor, making an attempt to drag yourself away from the man, but you come to find that, as has been with every last bit of your interaction so far, you’re much too slow with your movements.
With a scoff, Blade forces himself into the tiny bathroom with you, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling in the process. Seeing your life flash right before your eyes, you raise your palms in front of your face as if it was enough to shield yourself from him, yet unfortunately, your jaw isn’t what he’s going for. Instead, his hand reaches for the back of your head. A tiny, strangled shriek echoes around the room as the man abruptly yanks you up from where you’ve been sitting and forces you on your feet. With a bit of a struggle, he locks one of his arms around your abdomen, nearly having you puke on him right then and there, and in the same, rough manner, he uses his free hand to brush your hair off your forehead before finding a solid grip on the strands.
”No, wait, please-!” you wail out, reaching for where his fingers are digging into your scalp, but before you’re able to get a proper hold of his wrist, he shoves your face right into the sink.
You’re not sure what you’re expecting — all kinds of possibilities from him smashing your skull against the ceramic to your head getting a surprise bath rush through your mind in the span of a single second — but if there’s one thing you didn’t prepare for, it’s for him to simply hold you still with your forehead basically touching the metal tap. A cold droplet of water lands on the bridge of your nose as you attempt to turn your neck to the side, but the frantic nature of your movements does nothing to aid the cause.
For a moment, you forget all about your initial bother and do your best to get yourself out of his grasp. However, just as the cycle has gone on for the all too agonizing past hour, the nausea reaches its peak yet again, and this time, with the position you’re in, there’s hardly anything you can do to stop the attack from running its full course.
Like a dam breaking, the vile-tasting matter gushes out of your mouth and all over the sink as you finally arrive at your breaking point. Distantly, you feel Blade tighten his hold around your abdomen as your midriff heaves along with the convulsions that accompany the torment. Then, as the initial wave quells down, you only barely have enough time to catch your breath before more spew comes up right after.
You cough, you gag, and you retch until every last bit of your dinner has gone down the drain. Your scalp burns where the large, unforgiving grip is woven into your hair. Though in any other situation you would reach your hands to try to free yourself from his hold, you can concentrate on nothing aside from seeing the current, repulsive fit through. With your fingers grasping the edge of the sink with all you have in you, you wheeze through what just might be among the worst moments of your life so far.
Though you could swear that the ordeal went on forever, the attack is over in less than a minute. Your stomach, though now shuddering and jerking with the aftershocks of your fit, immediately feels much lighter. With one more strained hack and a wretched sob to finish, you finally inhale a proper gulp of air into your twitching lungs.
The strain on your hair loosens. Rather carefully, Blade untangles his fingers from the knot he has created before taking hold of the back of your collar and pulling your head back from the sink. Seconds later, you hear the tap turn on.
Your legs fail you the moment he lets go of your waist, but his broad arm catches you back just in time to prevent you from toppling to the floor. You feel like a dehydrated fish flopping on arid land, yet the sudden lack of nausea feels, plainly put, euphoric.
Distantly, you take note of the footsteps that arrive by the wide open bathroom door. Glancing at the doorway through your half-lidded eyes, you find that it’s Silver Wolf that has come to investigate the ongoing ruckus. Idly, she observes the situation for a moment while blowing a large, pink bubble with the gum in her mouth. After a bit, the thing pops over her chin, and only then does she address the sight.
”What’s up with her?” she asks.
”Nothing of importance”, Blade answers her in his usual, gruff tone.
”Oh”, Silver Wolf raises her brows, seemingly rather uninterested. ”Are you gonna be done soon?”
Yet another, conveniently timed cough bursts out of your mouth before your captor can respond to the woman. You hang your head low so as not to have her see your worn and ashen-hued features.
”Soon”, Blade says.
”Did you, um, need anything?” another voice you recognize to belong to Firefly joins the conversation. Once more, you see her round face cautiously peek at you from behind Silver Wolf’s frame.
Blade fixes his hold on your limply hanging body. Graciously, he brings one of his hands up to your head to shield your face from the prying eyes gathering at the bathroom’s entrance. What follows is a rather awkward exchange of all sorts of looks between the Hunters — one that you don’t think you could ever entirely decode.
As the quiet lingers for a few seconds too long, Firefly fills the silence in herself.
”I’ll go get you some water”, she mimps.
The pitter-patter of footsteps moving away follows. Similarly, Silver Wolf decides that the matter doesn’t match the level of interest her phone could offer, and you watch through Blade’s slender fingers as her legs disappear from your limited field of view.
As all the adrenaline in your veins wears down, you’re hit with a sudden spike of drowsiness. Your body feels as heavy as lead, and despite the man’s firm grasp, your lax form slips past his hold and puddles on the carpet at your feet.
With a raspy sigh, Blade crouches down to your level before resting his broad hand on the back of your shoulder. His touch, though frightening in its own right, doesn’t really manage to elicit any sort of reaction from you in the state you have been reduced to.
”How is your stomach?” he asks you.
You can’t tell if there’s any sort of actual concern behind his words — you never really can. Still, despite his usual coarseness, the weight of his palm against your back feels relatively comforting.
You fail to muster up an answer and instead settle for weakly nodding your head. Fortunately, Blade has never been one to appreciate meaningless talk, and so, the wordless response suffices well for him. Moreover, he doesn’t seem to mind the way you have a difficult time keeping your eyes open, and so, as the last bits of the tremble finally leave your muscles, you allow yourself a little slack.
˗ˏˋ ★ Dan Heng
The amount of times you’ve turned over in the span of a single night couldn't possibly be counted with two hands anymore. You’re not sure if the number could be displayed even if Dan Heng were to give his fingers for aid in the calculation as well, but regardless, you’ve stopped keeping count a long while ago. On your back, on your stomach, sitting up, floating in the air upside down — you don’t think any resting position could ever hope to get you to the dreamlands as long as you’re subjected to the sorry excuse of a bed you need to spend a third of your time on.
How he’s able to sleep on a mattress so thin and rigid, you don’t have the faintest idea. You’re starting to feel like the worst thing about having to sleep with him isn’t actually the fact that you have to, well, sleep with him, but just how deplorable his nest is. Sure, after you complained enough, he agreed to get you an extra pillow to properly rest your sore neck on, but no amount of additional cushioning would be enough to make the thing comfortable to lie on. He seems to be aware of the very same fact, too, but even then, something tells you that he isn’t currently too invested in finding a solution for your problem.
The clicking of the keyboard a mere few meters away from you is also very much a playing factor in your insomnia. Though Dan Heng swears up and down to being a well-routined person, he sure seems to like his nightly computer sessions. It’s an unfortunate side effect to his bedroom functioning as the Express’ archives: The room is unsuited to sleep in from the blaringly bright screens to the constant humming sound that the countless computers’ fans emit. Yet, somehow, none of the obtrusive stimuli seem to bother him the least bit.
Your vexation regarding the matter isn’t even about you needing immediate sleep, no: You yourself wouldn’t mind staying up either if it wasn’t for the fact that you know the wake-up is going to be at 7 AM sharp. His scant need for rest must have something to do with his race’s peculiar nature, you believe, but considering the fact that he is the one who forced you into the position you’re currently in, you wish he remembered that you don’t exactly function well with mere five hours of slumber per night.
Then, of course, you would rather not fall asleep before he has gotten into the bed with you. It’s not that you fear that he’s going to do something weird while you’re under, necessarily. Rather, the thought of being unconscious around your captor leaves you with the same sort of dread as resting in a burrow filled with spiders would: It’s the subtle anxiety; not about what is but about what could be. That, and — perhaps the more important detail considering the circumstances — his bicep makes for a fantastic pillow compared to the one he has gotten you. You’re pretty damn certain he has it that way on purpose, too: His pink-haired acquaintance appears to have more than enough fluffy cushions to share for the entire Express crew, yet all he managed to find you is the flimsy bolster that now digs into the back of your neck.
Rolling your eyes to yourself, you turn over once more to face away from the bookshelf on the mattress’ side. With the fatigue weighing heavy on your eyelids, you gaze at the man-shaped shadow that is cast over the entire opposite wall of the room.
If Dan Heng is aware of your restlessness, he doesn’t really show it. The last you checked, he has his earpieces in, and you haven’t yet caught him glancing your way from where he’s seated in front of one of the smaller screens on the desk. As he usually does when the evening rolls around, he has rid himself of his overcoat, changed into a more comfortable pair of pants and gotten cracking with whatever it is that he’s busied with with the Express’ data bank. You can’t quite see what he’s working on — it mostly looks like a big wall of text to you — but whatever it is, you’re certain that it could wait until the next morning. He hasn’t taken as much as a minute’s break in the few hours you’ve desperately tried to get your break from reality, and the most moving he has done has been letting out a sigh and rolling his shoulders back every once in a while.
You could ask him to come to bed, yes, but there is no way in the universe and under the Aeons’ watchful gaze that you would stoop down low and beg him to hop off the device. In the back of your mind, you’re all too aware of the fact that as long as you don’t directly complain to him about it, he isn’t going to stop any time soon, yet with how things usually go in between the two of you, you have a creeping feeling that even your words might not be enough. Besides, though he insists otherwise, verbal communication has gotten you plain nothing with him so far, and so, a fortiori, you’re not going to open your mouth about the matter.
But, you’re tired, you’re annoyed, you’re too cold and too hot at the same time, your leg is itching, your neck hurts, your hip is digging into the ground, everything is wrong. It’s the age-old tale of sleep deprivation in its worst form: Not a single thing seems to be going in favour of your comfort.
Once again, with a purposefully loud huff, you turn over. Only this time, just as the gleam from the big screen strikes your eyes, Dan Heng’s gaze catches yours.
There isn’t anything much going on on his features aside from the usual, a tad bit concerned look that his flat brows naturally give him. If you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t be inclined to believe that the man with a thick, black nest for hair and serene, jade-coloured orbs for eyes could be capable of the atrocities that have been inflicted upon you. Without the pair of glowing horns and the pointy ears, he looks eerily normal, even.
You stare at each other for a while, hesitant to break the silence that has lingered in the room save for the sounds from his project. It isn’t until you flick your gaze away that he cracks his lips open.
”You should go to sleep”, he speaks in a soft, quiet tone. ”You’ll be tired tomorrow if you don’t.”
You don’t say, you want to snap back at him, yet for the greater good, you keep the words in your mind.
”I can’t sleep”, you settle for curtly telling him.
”Hm”, Dan Heng hums in response.
He reaches for his phone lying on the desk. You watch as the device lights up and paints his face a pale blueish colour.
”It’s already way past midnight”, he says as he sets the phone back down. ”Are you not sleepy?”
”I can’t sleep in a room this bright”, you whine at him, barely nudging your head off the pillow to make your point. ”And the computers make way too much noise.”
”I have a pair of spare earplugs for you if you’d like”, Dan Heng suggests, although the offer comes out as more of a statement as he seems to already know that it’s not something you’ll agree to.
”Why can’t I sleep in the Parlor Car’s couches or something?” you question him as you prop yourself up on your elbows. ”Where do you think I’ll escape? Space?”
”They’re reserved for Sunday for the time being”, he responds to the first question only, setting one of his feet to rest atop the other’s knee.
”And he can’t, like, share the 30 square meters of couch he has for himself?”
A sigh breaks past Dan Heng’s lips. He folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head back. You’re about to get one, final word in, but the glare he sends your way is quick to shut you up.
The conversation ends with the silence that ensues. With your brows furrowed, you let your thoughts be known with a quiet click of your tongue before plopping back down on the mattress and turning your back to him.
”Try to get some rest”, Dan Heng advises. ”I’ll be done in an hour or so. I’ll try not to wake you up.”
Your eyes flash wide open.
”What, an hour?” you raise your head once again. ”Dan Heng, I can’t sleep!”
”I can get you the-”
”No, it’s too bright!" your voice rises in volume as you carp at him. "It’s too bright and too noisy and the mattress is so stiff, and-, and...!”
Exasperation shines through in your tone as you flail your hand along with the complaints. You’re so frustrated that you could cry, yet no part of your outburst seems to actually make it through to the guy if his deadpan expression is anything to go by. As you find yourself running out of things to say, you instead settle for pulling the duvet over your shivering body and theatrically sandwiching your head in between the two measly pillows you have so graciously been gifted.
For a good few moments, you simply concentrate on cooling yourself off. Firmly pressing the cushion against your ears, you test if the damned clicking sounds can be heard through the layer of foam, only to find that the noise itself has already paused.
”... Would it help if I joined you?”
You hear the question, yet you don’t make a single move to signal that you do. With your back facing him, you pull your knees up to your chest and gather yourself into a ball under the teal quilt.
You don’t know what it is about his presence that makes you act so difficult. Maybe it’s his innate, subtly belittling way of making you feel like he always knows better. It’s something you’ve noticed even between him and the other crew members: He’s considered to be the level-headed of the bunch along with Mr. Yang, and to be fair, the little competition he has in that regard hasn’t really impressed you with their intelligence yet. Nevertheless, while you don’t consider yourself to be the most clever, the most sensible, the absolute most judicious, you still remain certain of the fact that not even he has the right to treat your smarts with so little respect. You know what you want and need, and he isn’t going to get that in words a single time more, even if it costs you the entire night’s worth of sleep.
The tense atmosphere looms over the two of you. With how you’re situated, you can’t exactly see Dan Heng's expression or read his emotions off of his face, yet even then, you think you sense a subtle shift in the stalemate.
You hear him sigh through his nose.
The light cast by the screen flickers off. What follows is the sound of a chair being dragged along the wave-pattern floor, after which the muffled thud of footsteps and scuffing of clothes reaches your ears. Next, you watch as what you recognize to be his black shirt lands on the metal railing beside the bedroll you’re lying on.
The mattress dips as Dan Heng crouches down and gets on his knees on the sheets. You feel the duvet being tugged on, and soon, he slips under the covers with you and lies down next to your form. Carefully, he takes hold of your wrist that’s clutching one of the pillows over your ear, moves your hand to rest beside your face, and then settles the cushion on his side for his own head to rest on.
You bring your knees closer to your chest as you feel something prodding at the back of your neck. Using his hand to gently lift your head off the bedding, Dan Heng first brushes your hair out of the way before he slides his arm beneath your nape.
Once more, there’s shuffling. The sound piques your curiosity, and you glance at him over your shoulder just in time to see him picking one of his earpieces out of its place. You send him a weary, questioning look, but you don’t have to wonder about the matter for too long as his hand reaches for your face next. Softly pressing his knuckles against your cheek, he urges you to turn your nose back towards the door.
His touch tickles the side of your jaw as he carefully slots the earbud into your ear instead. The gesture is terribly invasive in its own way, yet you do nothing to stop him from doing it, for the second the plug settles in its place, you no longer hear the constant whir of the computer fans. He then proceeds to snake his hand over your waist before settling his palm over your abdomen where he usually ends up resting it overnight. His bare chest moves to press flush against your back as he finds himself a more comfortable position on the mattress.
”Goodnight”, he mutters into the back of your hair. “I’ll wake you up in the morning.”
˗ˏˋ ★ Jing Yuan
The issue at hand is self-inflicted to the degree that if you could go back in time and tell your past self one singular thing, it wouldn’t be about not befriending the General, nor would it be about never stepping foot into the Seat of Divine Foresight in the first place — it would be advising yourself to be very careful when choosing what sort of defiance you truly want to put your efforts into.
Sitting cross-legged on the grass of Jing Yuan’s estate’s garden, you silently rub your hand along your tense neck, pressing the pads of your fingers into the terribly aching muscle beneath your skin. For how small the actual problem area is, it sure radiates pain across the entire same side of your upper half, all the way from the base of your skull to the tips of your fingers. The self-massage is doing very little to help with the ailment, to be frank — the arm you’re using to conduct it is starting to hurt from the effort as well — but settling down, which you already tried quite a few times, feels like just as bad of an idea. You wonder if you have managed to actually pull or tear something in the tissue, or if the limb is simply irritated, but nonetheless, you can’t think of a more effective way to alleviate the throbbing, regardless of what the actual core of the issue is.
However, you do know what your problem originates from, or at the very least, you have a very educated guess on the matter: You really, really need to rethink the positions you rest in. It’s not about the quiet hours of the night, no — you have long since gotten used to having to fall asleep with the General’s arms around you — but the time you have to waste lying around throughout the day.
Naturally, as displeased as you are about the matter, realistically speaking, there isn’t much to do around the house when he takes care of his duties. He wants to have you in the same space as him, whether that be inside the house or out in the yard, but when you run out of books to read and things to fiddle with, there’s hardly anything left to do but to doze off. Of course, you would much rather have your sleeping surface be a bed, a couch, or anything soft, really, but the only options you’re usually granted are the ground and his lap. It’s a tactical move on his part, no doubt: He always seems a tad bit too happy when you rest your head against his legs, and so, to save yourself from having to act as his lapdog, most of the time, you have resorted to sleeping on the floor instead.
A bunched-up piece of clothing, a pile of books, a stack of documents, your own hand; all of them have had to suffice as your pillow for when it has been time for your daily nap. In retrospect, you realize that if you had just gone along with his whims and given in to the temptation of using his legs as a pillow instead, the problem at hand would never have come to be.
With how many hours he spends handling official documents and whatnot, you would expect him not to want you bothering him by twisting and turning on his thighs as he tries to work, yet that hasn’t exactly been the case. You have found that having you rest in his lap like some sort of a fidget toy is actually something he vastly prefers: At this point, you feel like you have been demoted to his personal weighted blanket.
A pair of dragonflies fly past your face, effectively pulling you away from your thoughts. Raising your gaze, you blink a few times as you follow the couple of bugs with your eyes for a moment before setting your attention on the sight of your captor sitting a dozen or so meters away from you. As he typically does around this time of day, he seems to be reading over some sort of a report. If your sense of time is anything to go by, he has been busied with the matter for the past half an hour or so.
Though you’re getting quite bored, you can’t say you’re too interested in bothering him. You would rather have him lay his attention on anything besides you for the time being, as your moment of peace is to only last as long as it takes for him to start craving for something — someone — to pet while he concentrates on his task at hand. For how humble people describe him to be, Jing Yuan certainly likes things done his way when it comes to you. The mere thought of trying to find a comfortable position to sprawl over his legs in with your shoulder’s state being what it is has you shuddering.
You’re quite certain he isn’t exactly oblivious about your state, either. You made sure to express your mind to him about the matter when he tried to get you to act as his personal stress ball yet again a few hours earlier, and with what you’re currently doing, much can’t have been left to his imagination. You’ve caught him peeking at you more than once now, so it’s not like he’s entirely engrossed in his work, and moreover, you’re starting to see some signs of his focus faltering: He’s bouncing one of his legs, and the manner in which he taps the table in front of him seems rather impatient.
As if having heard your thoughts, he lifts his face from the documents in his hand. Before you can look away, his gaze meets yours for a fraction of a second. Though brief, the moment is just long enough for him to slip in a gentle smile of acknowledgment.
The uncomfortable chagrin of having been caught off guard rises onto your cheeks.
You debate whether you should just turn your back to the man out of spite. His mere presence feels like it’s mocking your trouble. For the amount of ache he has caused, the least he could do is lend his own hand to aid you in your distress — you’re pretty certain he has some relaxants or something lying around in the house — but gosh, you would rather suffer in silence for the rest of the week than start begging him for help. Besides, you’re pretty certain that the cure he has in mind for the malady is one that involves an unfortunate amount of touching.
Nonetheless, the problem is starting to feel like one you would allow any potent enough of a solution to fix. The entire area surrounding your shoulder feels like you had just carried an entire tree trunk from one end of the estate to the other. No matter how you try to soothe the muscle with your own hand, you can’t seem to quite reach the spot that’s actually behind the ache. The crude frustration of having reached the almost-but-not-quite is gnawing on your resolve, and you can’t help the way your thoughts travel from sheer irritation to the suddenly tempting mental image of his much larger hands on your back.
Shaking your head, you rid yourself of the notion before you can even actually entertain the idea. What is usually closer to a chore than leisure with him now seems like the obvious fix to your issue. Jing Yuan doesn’t exactly keep his massaging skills idle when it comes to you, but despite that, even though he must be thinking of the very same thing as you, something is clearly keeping him from taking the initiative at the moment.
Making sure your thoughts don’t make themselves known on your features, you allow your eyes to wander to his form yet again. Only this time, you find that his attention is already on you.
The General looks at you with his brows raised in an inquisitive manner. He has laid the document down in his lap, seemingly having decided that he’s done with the task for the time being. Instead of opening his mouth, though, he has settled for staring at you with a remotely complacent smile on his features.
You know he’s waiting for you to make a move. No doubt, he takes pleasure in seeing you all flustered, all obedient for him. However, it’s not something you’re going to give to him; especially not with how corporeal the matter at hand is.
Then, as if to mock you even further, his shoulders heave with an exhale, and he raises his arm to make a beckoning gesture in your direction.
You don’t scowl. You don’t so much as sigh at the sight, even though you almost wish you did, if only not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you so tepid. The offer he has presented you with is more tempting than you would ever admit out loud, yet still, you persist in your stance. Keeping your gaze locked with his, you sit as still as a statue.
Jing Yuan closes his eyes for a moment. Then, perhaps a little unexpectedly, he sets the papers in his lap on the table before standing up in a silent compromise. Running his hand through his ever-dishevelled hair, he makes his way towards where you’re sitting.
By nature, your limbs gather themselves in a somewhat defensive pose as he approaches. It’s a force of habit: Though he has not once raised his hand to hurt you, the instinct still remains strong, just as it did during your early days in his captivity.
”How are you feeling?” he asks in a soft tone as he kneels down on the grass beside you.
All sorts of possible answers swim through your mind, but with each passing second of silence, they start to seem less and less effective. On one hand, insulting him would feed the wrath you don’t want you to go out, but then again, spitting vile words at him has never proved particularly effective: The most you’ve been able to get out of him that way is a mildly amused chuckle. Moreover, asking for his aid is what you’re actually yearning to do, and the words for it are hanging at the very tip of your tongue, yet you can basically hear the spiteful part of your soul screaming at you not to let go of your pride just yet.
Though, it’s almost like Jing Yuan’s ears are picking up the sound of your inner voice as well, as instead of pressing you further, he extends his merciful side to you.
“Is it your shoulder that aches?” he asks you, flattening his brows in a sympathetic yet somehow all the more condescending expression.
You avert your gaze. A quiet sigh breaks past your lips as your eyes scramble for anything other than his face to focus on. Jing Yuan lets out an airy chuckle.
”It seems that it’s my place to apologize”, he continues despite your lack of an answer. ”Would you allow me to?”
Carefully, as if testing the waters, he brings his hand out. In a feather-light touch, his fingers come to rest atop your own where they still hang onto your shoulder.
You swallow. Saving yourself from the mortification of having to look him in the eye, the only thing you can muster is a pathetic little nod. It’s enough of an indicator for him, however, and without speaking a word more, he smiles and moves to seat himself behind you.
His legs come to rest on either side of your own. Wordlessly, you let him do his thing as he parts your hair in the middle at the back of your head and moves each section over to your chest’s side. Though you can’t help but wince as his fingers begin working on loosening the back button of your top, you don’t move away when he slides the garment down your arms, just enough to reveal the bare skin of the area of interest to him. You shift your grip away from your neck and instead go to clutch the front part of your blouse so as not to have the piece of clothing slip any further down.
”Where does it hurt exactly?” Jing Yuan asks as his warm touch settles over the side of your spine, caressing along the muscle in an experimental manner.
”The... This”, you bring your free hand up to where his own lies, vaguely gesturing along the upper part of your trapezius.
”I see”, he hums with a smile. ”That’s quite a common one. It looks like I’ll have to do a more thorough job in the evening.”
Once again, you find yourself unable to come up with an answer to his mildly provocative rambles. Though, with him, you never know if he’s actually being purposefully so: While he occasionally utters outrageous things with a straight face, at the same time, he seems genuine with his words.
You don’t get to mull the matter over for too long, however, as the man decides to go straight into work on your body. Without much of a warning, the pad of his thumb digs directly into the aching muscle.
”Ow-!” you let out a frantic yelp, straightening your back in a jittery movement in response to the sharp pain that shoots down your entire arm.
”Sorry”, Jing Yuan apologizes as he brings his other hand over to the nape of your neck. ”You’re going to have to endure it for a bit.”
”Don’t go so hard”, you quietly whine at him through your clenched teeth. ”It’s-, it’s really sore.”
”Ah”, he muses while drawing a circle over your shoulder blade with his palm. ”How come it has gotten into such a sorry state?”
You chew on the inner side of your bottom lip and consequentially cause the conversation to be paused by a few seconds of silence.
”Well, it’s of no importance”, Jing Yuan shakes his head dismissively. You feel his touch creep more towards the lower part of your neck. ”Sometimes muscles simply become irritated, especially the ones that are in a lot of use. And this area”, his fingertips trace the curve of your shoulder and tickle down your upper back, ”is full of those. The nape of the neck is quite a big offender as well in that regard, and even something as little as sleeping in an odd position could make it tender.”
You’re hardly registering even half of what comes out of the man’s mouth. Due to some sick and twisted instance of fate, he has been blessed with a voice that could lull the Borisin into the best rest of their life if he tried hard enough. In an embarrassingly short while, you find that your head has already begun drooping as Jing Yuan has to gently urge your chin back up. That, and his warm hand working directly over your hurting shoulder feels oh-so-good.
”Would it be more comfortable if you lay down?” he suggests in a clement yet all the more demeaning tone.
”I’m alright”, you answer him in a thin voice.
”Hmm”, he hums out a response as he presses the warm flat of his hand against the very spot you were trying to reach earlier. ”Let me know if you change your mind.”
Once again, you allow the silence to linger. Instead of talking, you focus on the feeling of the pads of his fingers kneading a point that nearly has you seeing stars. With your eyes half-lidded you, let your mind drift away into the realm of more pleasant memories.
”Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wish you would come to me on your own if you have anything to complain about”, Jing Yuan adds further still. ”That is not to say that I don’t enjoy this timid side of you, too, but for your own sake, I would prefer it if you didn’t wait until the scale has already tipped. It will be easier for you as well, that way.”
You resist the urge to scratch at the back of your head as you feel his nose prod at your hair. Tenderly, he plants a kiss right where your strands part in the middle.
”But, for now”, he concludes, ”allow me to take care of you.”
˗ˏˋ ★ Luocha
In Luocha's household, you have come to find, it truly doesn't take but a second for things to go from tolerable to where you wish the entire day had just been a long, bad dream. No matter how big or small, serious or less serious, you have noticed that nothing ever seems to quite go in your favour under his roof.
The knife you were holding mere seconds ago drops to the floor with a deafening clank. With your mouth still ajar, you bring your trembling hand to your face just in time to see a distinct, keen line of blood rise onto the skin on the side of your palm.
Hastily, you knock the cutting board on the kitchen counter further away from you so as not to ruin the food you’re preparing, pushing a few vegetable pieces off the table in the process. For a good moment, not quite having even come to terms with the sight just yet, you put all of your focus into squeezing on the wrist of your injured hand with the other and holding your breath, doing your best to suppress the pained whimpers that nearly slip past your tightly pursed lips. A thin, choked hiss makes it out of your throat as you proceed to shake your limb back and forth while reaching down to the floor to pick up the freshly bloodied blade. As carefully as you’re able, you set the tool down on the side of the boiling pot on the stove before turning the thing’s heat down.
Though you’ve long since grown past the age of getting teary when subjected to physical pain — especially the sort that’s a far cry from the kind that would actually warrant it — there has always been something particularly upsetting about getting injured while cooking. It’s the sort of activity that isn’t supposed to contain any rush or hectivity, and watching steam rise out of the stew you’ve been concocting is one of the few times where you could say your mind has been at ease during the last few weeks. The sudden contrast in going from the quiet sound of a ladle clinking against metal to now huddling up with a bleeding slash on your hand has your lashlines stinging.
Shaking your head, you take a deep, silent breath and snivel down the tears building up in your eyes. Then, as much as you try to steer your train of thought away from travelling in that direction, your immediate instinct is to veer your attention towards the kitchen door. Carefully, you listen for any and all footsteps that might sound from the other room over — the room where your captor is presumably lingering in. It’s only after a few moments of deafening silence that you dare to let out the breath you have been holding.
It’s not that you’re scared of his reaction itself, really. He never truly gets mad at anything you might do, at least not in the way where he would actually lose his temper, but you do worry for the fact that the privilege of you being allowed in the kitchen doesn’t exactly go without saying. It took you quite a while of convincing to be granted the concession, and there’s not a single doubt in your mind that Luocha catching you in your current state could compromise that.
Still gripping your injured hand, you pick up the fallen vegetable pieces off the floor and set them on the edge of the kitchen counter. Even as you’ve certainly made enough noise to catch the man's attention if it is to be caught, the sound of the utensil being laid on the wood still manages to have your shoulders tensing. Once more, you stop completely motionless to pick up on any shuffling that could reach your ears from behind the wall.
You don’t hear anything — or, rather, you don’t think you hear anything. A nasty habit of his is that he creeps around like a ghost: Though you’ve long since grown to recognize the subtle shifting of him moving around most of the time, every now and then, he still manages to sneak up on you.
Sighing, you turn your back to the door and finally direct your attention towards the rational side of the matter at hand. Glancing down at the cut, you find that the blood has trickled down the side of your wrist and dyed a red stripe on the end of your bright white sleeve.
Letting out a silent curse, you raise your head and begin trying to locate the kitchen towel with your eyes. However, just as your shoulders have dropped back in their place, behind you, you hear the all too familiar creak of the floorboards. In the very same second as your heart jumps into your throat, the dull click of the door handle being pressed resounds around the room.
You know even without looking that Luocha has already made his way into the kitchen with you. Resisting the urge to peek at the intruder, you whisk both of your hands to your chest like a kid trying to hide a cookie jar from their parents. Though you hope that you managed to catch your body language in time not to ring the alarm bells in his head, you’re quite certain that it wouldn’t take a medium the sorts of the Master Diviner to pick up on the tense atmosphere lingering in the room.
Silently, you as well as him stand in place and listen to the quiet simmering of the incomplete stew sitting on the stove. After a few, distressing seconds of deafening quiet, you hear the man take in a near inaudible gasp.
”How is the broth coming along?” his smooth voice asks from behind you.
You swallow down the thick lump in your gullet. Pulling your sleeves over your hands, you force the look of shock off your expression and turn to face your captor.
”It’s not ready yet”, you answer him curtly.
There’s nothing much going on on Luocha’s pale complexion. Though you find that his eyes are on your form, you can’t quite get yourself to hold his gaze. The fact doesn’t seem to bother him too much, however, as instead of commenting on your shaken appearance, he simply makes his way over to the cooker.
”I see”, he says, gently fanning his hand over the dish to disperse the steam. ”You have done a fine job.”
You don’t respond to him as you can’t think of a normal enough of an answer in time. Rather, you stand still and timid as you try your best not to let your eyes wander towards the blood-dyed knife resting on the counter in plain sight.
You’re pretty damn sure it was the commotion that attracted him to the kitchen in the first place — there’s no way he didn’t hear you fumbling around. He doesn’t show his curiosity outwardly, however: You find it entirely impossible to read his thoughts from his face.
”Isn’t the heat a little low for this sort of dish?” Luocha then asks. His gloved fingers rest idly over the stove knobs.
”... Oh, um. Yeah.”
Your mouth is as dry as your mind is devoid of any controlled thoughts. From day one, he has had an unfortunate skill to clock just where the weak spots of your resolve lie. You don’t know what it is about him that makes almost anyone dread his presence, and with the situation at hand, even you who have spent countless hours in the same room with him are hardly able to keep yourself in check.
Nevertheless, the disquiet in you doesn’t truly peak until the man turns to his side. Silently, his hand smooths over the counter’s wooden surface, caressing along its edge, sliding past the chopped vegetables and the abandoned cutting board before settling right beside the evidence of your carelessness. You know even without looking that the red on the blade is much too conspicuous of a point of interest for him to miss.
You don’t hear him sigh, yet the way his shoulders rise and fall reveals the gesture either way.
”Give me your hand, please”, he says.
Your chest lurches uncomfortably, and your heart picks up rhythm. Still, knowing better than to start trying to go around the matter, with your chin hanging low, you hesitantly offer your uninjured limb to Luocha as he steps closer to you. A violent shiver shoots up your spine as you feel him gently take hold of your forearm while his free hand slides the sleeve of your top up. Carefully, he inspects the unblemished skin for a moment, brushing his fingers over the delicate area on the inner bend of your wrist before turning your palm over and examining the outer side as well.
You hope he doesn’t see the way your throat bobs. The mere sensation of his cold fingers caressing over the veins under your skin has your stomach caving in on itself.
”The other one.”
Your gut drops. In the span of a split second, your mind goes over any and all possible answers you could give him to subtly refuse the request, but none of them would be even nearly convincing enough to fool him, of course. With your gaze settled on the blurry sight of his white overcoat’s chest right in front of you, you extend your wounded hand towards him.
The blood is visible even before he peels your sleeve up as the fabric itself has been stained deep red. Finally, as you and him both see that the jig is up, you muster up the courage to peek at his expression just in time to catch the subtle quirk of his brow.
Luocha has always had a distinct, prying sort of intimate quality to his touch. You don’t know if he makes it that way on purpose, but regardless, each tiny caress of his fingertips brushing against the edges of the cut builds up to the overwhelming need to pull yourself away from him. Still, you don’t, of course: You would much rather deal with this than not entertain the sliver of hope that you might still retain your right to roam in the kitchen of your dwelling.
The tense silence in the room is eventually broken by his sigh — this time loud enough for you to hear and clearly meant to convey his thoughts. After a few more harrowingly long seconds, his touch leaves your wrist, and your arm falls back into its place by your side.
”Hold your hand out like this”, Luocha then proceeds to instruct you, setting you an example by briefly raising his own limb in front of him.
You obey the man wordlessly. With your gaze directed at the most interesting-looking tile on the floor, you hold your injured hand out towards him, just like he told you to. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him fiddle with something up his own sleeve.
As you have seen him do a couple of times before, he digs out the golden pendant hidden beneath his overcoat’s cuff. Even now, you haven’t quite gotten brave enough to ask him what exactly the item might be, but to your understanding, it’s yet another one of those tools of his that you absolutely should not get closely acquainted with. Nevertheless, such a decision is not yours but his to make, and you do nothing to resist as he once more grabs the backside of your arm before bringing the charm over the wound.
It doesn’t really feel like anything as white, glowing speckles first gather at the edges of the cut, but as the tissue begins sewing itself back together, there’s an almost unnoticeable burning sensation. You observe the sight with your eyes glazed over, standing still as a statue, save for the way your fingers twitch, and allow Luocha to do what he unfortunately does best. Within seconds, the edges of the clean slit merge shut, and after the glimmering dust quickly vanishes into thin air the skin is left without a single trace of the injury.
”All done”, he then states, gently turning your hand to the side to inspect the results of his efforts.
You only barely manage to stop the ”thank you” from slipping past your lips. It’s not something he deserves despite his seemingly generous deeds: He could never, ever hope to redeem himself in such a way that would warrant gratitude from your mouth, no matter how many times you have had and will have to lean on his expertise.
Although you fail to answer his words, Luocha doesn’t seem to mind the silence too much. Instead, he slips the pendant back into its place up his sleeve before letting go of your wrist.
”You’re free to continue”, he tells you.
As you raise your gaze to meet his, you find that there’s a faint smile on his pale features. Finally having your attention on him, he rewards your courage with a gentle caress on the crown of your head.
”Ah, but switch knives before you do”, he adds as he takes a step back and out of your personal space. “I don’t think the taste of blood would suit this dish.”
A light warmth makes its way onto your face. You can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that you feel, but above all, you would rather not admit that the ordeal has managed to bring up some sort of shame in you.
Nevertheless, after taking a moment more to look at the now pristinely flawless patch on the side of your hand, you turn around to return to the incomplete task at hand. It takes you a good few seconds for you to reorient yourself — too many things have happened in much too short of a while again — but as you eventually get back on track of what you were supposed to be doing, you find that instead of leaving the room, Luocha has proceeded to make himself comfortable on the kitchen stool beside the counter.
You sent a puzzled look his way. He answers the gesture by raising his brows.
”I think I’ll remain here for the time being”, he responds to your unspoken question. ”It’s best if the help is near in case of any more… accidents taking place.”
˗ˏˋ ★ Moze
The sheer rage you feel towards an inanimate object couldn’t possibly be measured in words, scales or numbers alike. Though you don’t consider yourself to be a violent person by any means, the primitive sort of urge to just hurl the wooden comb in your hand towards the nearest wall is so overwhelming that it would put Nanook THEMSELF to shame.
You sit in front of the dressing table in your bedroom with a sour expression on your face. For how long you have worked on trying to pull the bits and pieces of what remains of the thicket you dove head first into out of your hair, it's a miracle that your arms haven't been the first part of your body to give the endeavour up.
Though you’re sitting in front of a mirror, the only help seeing your reflection might offer in tackling the problem at hand is that you can see the burs stuck on the front part of your hair. Whatever might be going on on the backside of your head remains a mystery to you for now, and with how you’re managing so far, you consider not wanting to find out anyway. That, and frankly speaking, you think you would fare better without no mirror at all, for every time you take a look at your image, your eyes forcibly stray a little to the side to glance at your captor silently looming a few meters behind you.
You dig the comb into the side of your head and try to pull down the tiny hooks stuck between the strands. Though the tool is sturdy and its teeth are slender, the debris hangs onto your locks like gum to a fluffy carpet, and with the current efforts you’ve put into the task, you think you’ve managed to tear off more hair than actual plant parts.
Moze, lingering behind you with his arms folded over his chest, lets out a quiet sigh at the sight. You flick your eyes to him just in time to see him take a few silent steps towards you and raise his hand with a clear intention in mind.
”Do not fucking touch me, I’m actually gonna rip your fucking head off”, you snap at him as you whisk your face to look over your shoulder and meet his blasé gaze.
”You’re not making any progress”, Moze responds to the rudery in as nonchalant of a tone as ever, but he heeds the warning nonetheless.
”Leave me alone and maybe I’ll make some”, you spit at him. "You're not fucking helping!"
”I won’t.”
You huff in response as you turn back towards the table.
”You brought this upon yourself, you know”, Moze continues despite your pristinely clear antagonism. ”You shouldn’t have tried your luck if you didn’t want to end up where you are.”
”Shut the fuck up, I know you did it on purpose!” you point your index finger at his reflection in the mirror with the comb still lodged halfway into your hair. ”You could’ve caught me earlier!”
”I didn’t think you would actually go through with it”, he claims, gently shaking his head. ”You lack self-preservation instinct.”
As much as you want to retort back at him and not give him the satisfaction of getting the last word in, he is, in fact, painfully correct about the matter. Though your little escape attempts have basically become a weekly routine by now, the one you went through with today was, admittedly, vastly on the daring side.
You’re no expert in botany, but even you could recognize the spiky, bell-like structures on the plants that have spread in masses right beneath the window of your prison. Moreover, you can hardly find anything to disagree with on the latter part of his remark: The decision to break the glass frame off its hinges and leap right into the sea of burdocks below was one you knew you would sorely regret later if you wouldn’t make it out, and alas, as usual, your run of freedom lasted for less than a minute in total. Now, the only evidence that remains of your fleeing attempt are the tiny scratches all over your skin and the deplorable state of your hair.
Moze didn’t even seem particularly mad about the entire ordeal. Though it burns on your ego, you can guess why: Much like the Merlin’s Claw treats his assassination attempts on her, you doubt he takes any of your endeavours all that seriously. It seems to be more of a game to him — the sort where he gets to see just how far you’re ready to take it in favour of pursuing your liberty.
Biting your tongue, you continue trying to brush the burs out of your locks, yet the man seems to have entirely different ideas about how the situation should carry on.
”There are some on the back of your head”, he comments once again, raising his finger to gesture towards what he has spotted.
”I know.”
”And the sides, too.”
”I know.”
”And-”
You breathe in the snarliest inhale you could possibly muster as you slowly, histrionically once again turn around on your seat. Sending him a glare that would surely pierce straight through his dagger’s blade, you hold his gaze with your own with what could only be described as barely contained, animalistic wrath.
However, as you perhaps should have guessed, Moze isn’t swayed by your performance a single bit.
”You can’t get anything done like that”, he simply says, briefly bending his wrist to point his claw at the comb in your hand.
“Moze, if you don’t fucking leave me be right now”, you hiss at him with your eyes wide open.
“I already told you, I won’t”, he responds to you in a dry manner.
The tone of his voice isn’t even particularly condescending, yet the mere words themselves are like gasoline thrown into your rapidly burgeoning flames. With your tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, you hang onto the last bits of your temperance and give the task at hand one final try.
Yet, no matter how many times you lock horns with him, he never seems to get any better at taking the fucking hint.
”You won’t be able to reach the-”
”Oh, for Aeons’ sake!!!”
In your fit of anger, you tear the comb right out of your hair and send the stupid thing flying at Moze. Briefly measuring the object’s trajectory with your eyes, you find that the throw was elaborately aimed directly at his face, yet, as do most things, the attempt at vengeance ends with him being far above you in all physical skill. In a simple, swift movement, he catches the item out of the air with sheer, unpretentious dexterity, using mere two of his fingers. His countenance doesn’t waver the tiniest bit as he holds your eyes with his with a rather unimpressed expression on his countenance.
You don’t know which urge is stronger: The desire to spit more insults at him or the need to immediately hide your face in your hands. Nevertheless, you settle for staring back at him with as much malevolence as you could possibly summon up.
”Not fast enough”, Moze then speaks as he inspects the comb in his hand. There’s an iota of amusement observable on his features. ”But you’ve gotten quicker.”
”Shut up and leave me alone”, you hiss at him as you turn your back to him once more, only to be faced with the sight of him in the mirror yet again.
“You already told me that twice”, he says, his tone as matter-of-fact as it gets. “You don’t call the shots here.”
“...”
”Anyway, I think it’s my turn now”, a sigh breaks past his lips as he closes the distance in between you. ”Try not to move your head.”
Yet another load of insolence is about to make its way out of your mouth, but as Moze’s steel-clad fingers come to rest right below your jaw, you decide to leave the quarrel for another time. Gently, so as not to pierce the sensitive skin over your trachea, he tilts your chin up so you’re looking yourself in the eye in the mirror. Simultaneously, he proceeds to carefully weave the comb into your hair.
He isn’t the least bit harsh with his movements. In contrast, he digs the tool’s teeth into your tresses with utmost gentleness. Heedfully, he picks a large bur out of your hair before setting the prickly globule beside you on the dressing table.
He has always been particular about cleanliness, you have noted. Whether it is about the room he keeps you in or whatever bloodshed he participates in, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a single speckle of dirt on him or in his living quarters. To an extent, it’s an admirable quality to have in oneself, but now, you find yourself detesting that very feature.
Just as your shoulders have finally settled back in their place, your head is abruptly jerked to the side as the comb catches in your hair. You let out a strangled sound, and your hand flies to grasp Moze’s own with the speed of a starskiff.
”Don’t yank so hard!” you bark at him, yet the only thing he does in response is gently take hold of your wrist and move it back down before getting back to the job.
”I’m trying not to”, he answers, tugging yet another plant piece out from between the strands stuck on the tool’s teeth. ”Stay still.”
You want to yell at him — you really do — but the tenderness with which he brushes through your locks pushes the words back down your throat. Though his metal talons occasionally scratch against your scalp, not once do you feel them actually prick you. Yet, still, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the sensation of the hands which have ended more lives than you could possibly count lingering so near to your vital spots.
It’s not like you have a choice, however. Whatever it is that Moze wants, he usually ends up getting — regardless of if you decide to stand in his way or not. Hence, just for the time being, you come to terms with the fact that in some situations, it’s simply for the greater good to just bite your tongue.
A/N
Trying to get content to you, fighting for my life with the post editor and Tumblr just
Bitch the moment of weakness was not THAT big
Once again, I ran into logistical problems when writing this: Where does Luocha actually, canonically keep the pendant? I hate when Hoyo does the thing with their designs where they clearly have an item on hand but it's nowhere visible on their person. Like, think the boba tea up Ayato's sleeve and the drawing board up Albedo's ass (っ'ヮ'c)