#Moze HSR

[lostmar]

me when they put me in a rubber room with rats but the rats are blorbos

credits under cut

i did anaxa, moze, dante, and my oc zale

@starqop drew black sapphire cookie, candy apple cookie, shadow milk cookie, pure vanilla cookie, teto, and their oc sitri

our other irl friend did emu, miku, and golden cheese cookie

[sapphireicecream]

Moze 🪶🗡

[rainnbzj]

idk if this has been done yet but i thought it kinda fit them lol

[macrosmic]

i don't know the proper ship name but i'm kinda obsesed with them

[ufofrommarss]

They come as a set, do not separate

[b1adie]

HELLO????

[sundayslullaby]

Just thinking about.. Ft. Sunday, Aventurine, Phainon, Dr.Raito, Moze, Boothill

NSFW. TW. Pussy eating, pnv, BDSM themes, use of toys, fingering, marking, tit play MNDI

a/n here as well - all of my content is made with a plus sized reader in mind. However there are no explicit wording that would exclude others. No mention of hair texture or skin tone.

Word count: 894

Being so fucked out by Sunday and the sick pleasure he gets when youre unable to even finish his name so stuck on the “Sun” He will just look at you with a smirk and with a cooing voice 

“Awh poor baby.. Can't even finish my name.. How cute” his own lips were parted and swollen and the tinted pink on his cheeks one would think he would be ethereal, however the sinful words that kept spewing from his lips were anything but angelic. 

Of course you're embarrassed, but the draw of his cock feeling it slipping out of your soaked abused cunt made your head fuzzy. Not like you could speak anyways, your voice getting caught like hiccups and breath hitching with each deliciously pleasure filled thrust. 

How Aventurine would make bets on how long either of you could hold out. Of course he didn't care about the cost, he bets his life away every single chance he gets. However what was on the line was much less extreme, loser could go whatever they wanted to the winner, within reason of course. 

So here you were, tied up to the bedpost. Legs pushed apart by a spacer bar and a vibrator resting perfectly against your clit. You had lost count of the body numbing orgasms you've had. Body twitching craving more yet screaming at you to stop. The aching need to be filled yet so overly sensitive. A gloved hand running down your sweat sheened body as Aventurine let out a deep chuckle. “I told you I don't lose, pretty baby. Awh dont start crying now baby, the fun has only just begun” 

Phainon loves every single thing about you, but the one thing that can’t compare to anyone else no matter the size or beauty. However, the one thing he seems to be yearning for the most is the way you feel in his hands. Nobody has the same feel as you. He wasn't sure if it was the combination of how soft your skin felt against his rough palms or what, but nobody could ever be you. Phainon loves to nuzzle his nose against your neck as his tongue drags up the column of your throat. Soft grunts leaving his lips in quick breaths, sinking his cock deep inside your warm gummy walls. Feeling how you suck him in so deliciously, it made his knees buckle and shake every single time. Phainon was such a sensitive man after all. He could have your sweatshirt or even used panties pressed to his nose as he ruts into his pillow that never felt the same as your cunt. You ruined him, and he was just fine with that. 

How dr.ratio will spend hours between your legs, eating you out, having came more than once already on his tongue, having lost count. Begging for him to stop as you can't take anymore. But he's so drunk on your pussy and how your thighs muffled the sounds of your moans and cries he can't get enough of it. His hands are always on your thighs, having your back against his chest as he pressed the vibrator harder against your clit, hand pressed against your thigh keeping your legs spread open. He loves how they tremble under his grasp, how soft they are when he rubs his hands over them. How they jiggle with each step you take. It makes his head spin. 

How Moze just comes over to you while you’re bent over picking something up and just slaps your ass so hard you’re almost tumbling over. He loves to just cup and grab and knead at your ass. Always met with such a cocky smile too. It’s so full and bouncy and he just can’t help the feeling of how full it is in his hand he really can’t help himself.

Especially when you’re bouncing on his cock and the skin to skin contact drives him mad. Moze also can’t keep his hands to himself ever, it’s his toxic trait really. The groans that he tries his best to conceal but it's so hard when you feel this amazing. His rough hands coming to grip at your plush cheeks. Pawing at them and gripping the flesh as he head knocks back against the headboard. You're not sure who is more gone, you or him. 

Boothill on one hand loves to leave marks all over your body, but his favorite place to leave them is on your thighs. He will spend hours just teasing your body, leaving bite marks and kisses telling you how beautiful you are. Fingers deep inside your cunt making sure you're fully prepped and ready for his cock. He will trail down your body inch by inch but he will spend most of his time on your thighs, giving them the attention they deserve.

 Grabbing at them, biting where you're most sensitive, tugging on his hair trying to lead him where you want him most just for him to go right back to your thighs. Boothill hears your whimpers and cries for him to do something, even if it's just a kitten lick, the throbbing almost becoming unbearable. Needy tears collecting along your lash line, Grabbing at his forearms, it doesn't go unnoticed. He's just not done yet. 

[yurinaa-world]

"𝐼'𝓂 𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒟𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓀"

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Moze, Jing Yuan, Jiaoqiu, & Sunday x Gender-neutral reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: not recognizing them while drunk

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Fluff, Alcohol, Spelling mistakes

𝑀𝑜𝓏𝑒 “𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝒢𝓊𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒴𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓃𝑔”

“Enough drinking for you.” Taking the shot glass from your hand—it filled to the brim with hard liquor and it was obvious that if you kept on drinking at this pace, you were going to have the worst hangover in the morning—“Excuse me, who do you think you are—“ you slurred out, annoyed by him.

he takes your hand and tries to take it away, leading to you snatching your arm back. “How dare you touch me! I have a husband,"

“I’m your husband.” He just sighs at your drunkenness, he really should have prevented this. “Please, I know what my husband looks like, he’s not as ugly looking as you.” Wow, he's ugly to you now?  His eyes can’t help but twitch.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, deciding just to play along and use this to his advantage. “Do you even know where your husband is?” Like clockwork, you just start looking around, head sharply turning side to side.

No husband in sight. Stranger in front of you. And No way to get your husband.

“Well…” you just start to panic. that’s his qui, again grabbing you but this time deciding to put you over his shoulder, with your complaints completely ignored, “I know your husband, I’ll take you to him.”

𝒥𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝒦𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈"

Mind hazy and incoherent for any sober thought, staring at the little table blankly, taking the little shot glass to your lips, the more you drink the funnier it gets. 

“Seems like all that drinking has caught up to you, dear.”

Your half-lidded eyes finally looked up to take in Jing yuan in front of you, yet for how drunk you are you haven’t even realized it was Jing yuan, in your eyes it was only just a creepy man. 

“I have a husband, and I’m not your dear.” You slur at him, going to pour yourself another drink, yet he takes the bottle from you before you can even grab it.

“Your husband? He doesn’t have to know.”

“Do you even know who my husband is?”

“Hmm? Who is your husband?” Now he’s just messing with you. Glaring at him with a smirk on your drunk face, “He’s the handsome general, of course, you couldn’t stand a chance.”

“He isn’t with you right now, is he? He wouldn’t have to know about us.” He puts down the bottle in your hand and his hand goes to intertwine yours.

“He doesn’t have to know because I’m not giving you a chance!” You rip your hand away from his grasp, “Wait until Jing Yuanhears about this.” you mutter under your breath while going to grab your phone to call him—he already knows where it's going to end.

“Tell him in great detail about my shameless actions.”

“I will!”

𝒥𝒾𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓊 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒴𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓃𝑔"

“My husband wouldn’t like it if you touched my waist like that.”

Sputtering while Jiaoqiu has you lying your head against his shoulder with his arm around your waist to keep you upright. 

He’s taking care of you! Honestly, without him, he already knows that you’re going to wake up with a killer headache because you thought it was such a good idea to drink till you can’t even recognize his face or voice.

“Your husband wouldn’t want you to be sick because of all of your drinking.” Gently put a glass of water in your hands, Ensure you don’t drop it on yourself or anywhere else. 

“Well….I guess you're right but are you sure my husband will be fine with this? I don’t want him to be jealous.” 

Still so cute, how can he not take advantage of this situation to have some fun and mess with you a little, you’ll be so embarrassed when you’re sober and he’s planning to soak up everything.

“You must love your husband that much to be worrying over what he might think.”

“Of course I do! He’s very hardworking and is good at helping, not to mention he’s very handsome…” you start to gush over him, going off about every detail you like about him, his hair to the small things he does for you.

“So many things you like about him? I’m quite jealous of you.”

“You better be! He’s my husband, and no one else will have him.”

𝒮𝓊𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓎 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝒶𝓀 𝐹𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎"

“I miss my Sunday...”

You’ve been whining in his ear about how you miss ‘Sunday’ for a while now, yet too intoxicated to even realize that it was Sunday you were clinging onto.

“Dear—“

“I told you not to call me that! I’ll make sure Sunday has your head for being a creep! You know what to call him right now!”

You whine yet here you are clinging onto him, and then switching up by telling him orders that he can’t follow because of your intense grip on him.

He really shouldn’t have left you alone with the consequence of you getting very drunk. The quick changes of your emotions just makes Sunday unsure of what to do with you.

Pressing the side of face against his chest, before silently sulking? “What’s the matter? Why are you sulking?” He worried, patting your head as if you were a child. “I just realized that you probably don’t know where he is since he’s always so busy…”

“How about I take care of you first, and then we find your husband.”

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[eternalblizzards]

bugs when you lift up a rock

[aventurineswife]

Hi, can i request aven, blade, jing yuan and moze taking care of reader during their period?🥺

Taking care of you during your period

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Blade x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Moze x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Period Comfort, Caretaking, Comfort, Soft Moments, Emotional Support, Gentle Love.

Warnings: Sensitive Content (related to menstruation), Mentions of physical discomfort.

Aventurine sauntered into your shared bedroom, his signature grin faltering the moment he saw you curled up on the bed, clutching a hot water bottle against your stomach. He raised a brow, the glint of concern flickering behind his eyes.

“Ah, the dreaded monthly gamble of misery,” he teased lightly, sitting beside you. “What are the odds you’ll let me help?”

You groaned softly, not in the mood for banter. Aventurine chuckled and adjusted his glasses. “Relax, darling. I’m on it.”

Moments later, he returned with a tray: your favorite snacks, herbal tea, and a heated blanket. He even placed a small roulette chip on the tray for dramatic effect.

“Self-care by Aventurine. High stakes, maximum comfort.”

As he tucked the blanket around you and settled beside you, he gently massaged your temples, his touch soothing. “Now, tell me—what else can I do to make you forget about the unfortunate gamble of biology?”

Blade noticed your discomfort before you even said a word. The faint tension in your movements and the way you curled into yourself didn’t escape his sharp gaze. He approached quietly, his usual brooding expression softening.

“Are you in pain?” His deep voice carried a hint of worry.

You nodded weakly, clutching your stomach. Without another word, Blade retrieved a warm compress and sat beside you. His large hands were surprisingly gentle as he placed the compress on your abdomen and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against him.

“I’ll stay until you feel better.” he murmured, his tone protective.

Blade’s presence was calming, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he held you provided unexpected comfort. Though he wasn’t one for many words, his actions spoke volumes.

“If the pain gets worse, tell me. I’ll find something else to help.” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve.

The usually composed and relaxed General Jing Yuan found you curled up in bed, wincing from cramps. Concern flashed in his eyes as he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Ah, no wonder you’ve been quiet today.” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You mumbled an apology, but Jing Yuan shook his head, his warm smile reassuring. “There’s no need to apologize. Stay here; I’ll take care of everything.”

He left briefly, returning with a tray of warm tea, a soothing balm for your cramps, and a small, fluffy blanket Mimi had been napping on. “I’ve enlisted Mimi’s assistance. Surely her warmth will help.”

Jing Yuan placed the tea on the nightstand and massaged your shoulders with care, his movements deliberate and soothing.

“Rest, my dear,” he said softly. “The Luofu can handle itself for a while. My priority is you.”

Moze wasn’t one for overt displays of affection, but the moment he noticed you grimacing in pain, he quietly took note of your needs. Without a word, he disappeared, returning moments later with a glass of water and pain relief tablets.

“Take these.” he said curtly, though his violet eyes betrayed his concern.

You thanked him, his stoic demeanor oddly comforting. Moze began tidying the room—a subtle way of distracting himself from the helplessness he felt seeing you in pain. When he finished, he surprised you by sitting at your side and placing a cold cloth on your forehead.

“Tell me if you need anything else.” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

As you rested, Moze stayed close, his presence steady and reassuring. He didn’t need to say much; his actions showed his care. Even in silence, you felt his dedication, the way he ensured everything was just right for your comfort.

[lowkeyren]

—catch me if you can!

in which : it’s a classic game of cat and mouse between you and moze, yet why does it seem like the mouse is enjoying the chase far more than the cat?

pairing : moze x gn!reader

wc 1.9k, exorcist x ghost, last part ib a chinese superstition (ghost marriages), u tease HIM like.. a lot, implied past lovers if u squint, art by @/darkavey, reblogs r much appreciated!! enjoy <3

"the hunter gets haunted while trying to hunt the haunter" brain stroke? yeah me too. anyway, happy halloween! dearest @https-sourlimes moze kisser + lovely @cherieiu n @iceunhie proofread this ^^

moze senses your presence long before he sees you. the flickering candle flames dance erratically, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls as if acknowledging your arrival. his instincts sharpen as he scans the room, fully aware that you're close —though unable to pinpoint where you’re hiding.

his grip on the dagger remains firm, a steady calm settling over him as he prepares, knowing you're out there, watching him from within the shadows, waiting. he starts to recite an incantation; his voice echoes through the hall, the air crackles with energy, ready to draw you out. 

(after months of this relentless back-and-forth —countless of times you’ve narrowly evaded him, slipping through his fingers just when he thought he had you caught, he’s confident he finally has you in his grasp.)

the silence that follows his pause is nearly suffocating, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock. until a sudden chill slithers down his spine, accompanied by a soft, teasing whisper near his ear, so close it feels as if lips are hovering just above his skin, “were you hoping i’d appear just for you?” 

moze swears he can see you smiling through the reflection of his dagger.

instinctively, he spins around, heart racing, adrenaline surging through his veins —only to find nothing. the room is exactly as it was, albeit this time the ticking has stopped, and the candles in the room start to flicker, before the room goes completely dark.

he hurriedly scrambles to find a match, striking it to bring a flicker of light to illuminate the dark room, but his breath catches in his throat when he finds your face just inches away from his.

“boo—!” he’s unsure if his heart is racing from the shock of your sudden appearance or from your close proximity, perhaps it’s a mix of both. any closer and you would've…

he quickly composes himself and swings his dagger, aiming right for your chest —only for the metal to pass right through you. he stumbles back. “really, moze?”

“you should know by now that these basic rituals don’t work on me.” you tilt your head at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “you wretched—” he begins through gritted teeth; you gently place a finger on his lips, the ghostly touch silencing him instantly.

“better luck next time, pretty boy.” 

his eye narrows at the nickname, a mix of exasperation and a flutter in his chest he can't quite put a finger on. he raises his dagger in a futile attempt to strike, but by then, you’ve already disappeared into a whirl of mist, leaving him grasping at nothing but the lingering echo of your laughter.

moze isn’t able to get a wink of sleep. 

pretty boy? he scoffs at the thought, not sure whether he should feel insulted that you called him a boy, or focus on the fact that you called him pretty. 

he shifts in his bed uncomfortably, trying to dismiss the strange flutter in his chest, but it’s no use. every time he closes his eyes, you're there —hovering at the edge of his thoughts, as if you’re haunting him (when he’s supposed to be the one hunting you.)

the memory of your teasing voice and the glint in your eyes keeps pulling him back from slumber, making him question why, of all things that happened today, that’s what stuck with him.

moze is anything but weak, renowned for his skill, his expertise is unmatched; yet of all the spirits he's faced —some stubborn, some cunning —none have been as elusive as you. 

what makes you so different, so maddeningly irresistible?

but now that he thinks about it, you’ve never attacked him, not once. it’s always him on the offensive; chasing, striking, trying to pin you down. while you, on the other hand, merely tease and toy with him, calling him those pet names that feel far too intimate for mere “enemies” before disappearing into thin air.

breaking his line of thought, a soft giggle reverberates through the hall, a sound both familiar and infuriating. 

…ah right, focus. 

he scans the shadows, every inch of the room, but finds nothing. “come out, i know you’re here!” he calls out, frustration creeping into his tone. you’re playing your games again, always just beyond his grasp, a tantalising wisp of a spirit who knows precisely how to keep him on edge.

in the dark, you closely observe moze. you notice the subtle rise and fall of his breath; he’s tense, exasperated, and yet something in his eyes betrays that flicker of intrigue he tries so hard to bury. it’s almost endearing, the way he’s so wound up, yet completely at your mercy.

“you can't hide forever,” he growls, his voice low, the sound echoing through the empty room. "show yourself, or i’ll—”

“you’ll do what, exactly?” you whisper from just behind him, a teasing murmur that brushes past his ear, vanishing as soon as he whips around to strike. “you’ve had a hundred chances to exorcise me, but you still can’t bring yourself to let go.”

“i’ll finish what i started,” he scowls, though it sounds more like a threat than a promise.

“so you say, but deep down? i think you’re starting to like this little chase of ours. are you sure you’re not the one who keeps coming back to me?"

—you swear you catch the slightest twitch in his expression.

“don’t flatter yourself," he mutters, though his words don’t quite carry the same conviction.

"then why do you look for me?" you tease, circling around him like mist, your voice a gentle taunt in his ear. "it’s not duty that brings you here every night, is it, moze?"

he’s known many spirits, but this —you, are something else.

as he stands there, lost in thought, you whistle from the end of the hall, your voice ringing out like a beckoning call. “over here, pretty boy.”

he fights the urge to smile at your audacity, the playful lilt of your voice slipping under his skin. “what are you playing at?”

“nothing, i just want to see how far you’ll go,” you reply, your voice laced with mischief as you linger just out of reach. “come catch me if you can.”

with that, you vanish into the shadows, leaving him standing there, heart racing, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. he steels himself, adrenaline kicking in as he begins his pursuit once more, knowing that this game is far from over.

“i know you’re here,” he murmurs to the empty space, half hoping for a response, half expecting you to just flit out from a corner without warning. 

just then, a sudden chill envelops him as your cool hand gently obscures his vision, he feels icy fingers trail along his skin, teasingly tracing a path from the nape of his neck down to his shoulders and across his chest, sending shivers coursing through him. 

a huff of cold air brushes against his cheeks, delicate and fleeting, like the whisper of a lover's breath. it lingers just above his skin, as if someone exhaled right beside his face.

(every fiber of his being yearns to call it a night, and maybe it's the exhaustion washing for him but… for a ghost, you sure smell good.)

he feels a cold touch on his neck, and he knows damn well that it isn't your hand, because one of your hands is still covering his eyes, while the other rests on his chest, fingers splayed across his palpitating heart. a gentle nip leaves behind a chill, igniting his senses and drawing a soft gasp from his lips.

his grip on the dagger falters, the weapon clattering to the floor as if it’s nothing more than weightless feathers. one hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer. the other instinctively lifts to your wrist, gently prying your fingers away from his eyes.

“don’t hide,” he murmurs, his voice more of a plea than a challenge, as if he craves the clarity of your presence more than the thrill of the chase.

“you want me to look at you?” you tease, a familiar smirk gracing your lips.

he’s acutely aware of how your body fits against his, the way your cold body contrasts with the heat radiating from him. “yes,” he replies, there’s a softness in his eyes, his gaze traces over you, as if to will you into life.

you lean in closer, the space between you narrowing until it feels like you’re suspended in time, and he realises he doesn’t want this game to end. not yet. not ever.

in xianzhou, there's a superstition —a whispered belief, if you will; that picking up money from the ground can bring bad luck, or worse yet, lead to an "accidental marriage" with a ghost. accepting the money, it’s said, forms an unintended bond between the person and the spirit who left it behind.

moze is well aware of this. he’s also very aware of the strales scattered across the ground in front of him, seemingly waiting for him to make a choice.

he glances around, though he’s not entirely sure why; deep down, he already knows there’s only one person who could be behind this.

“not today,” he mutters under his breath, though the way his heart quickens suggests he’s not as resolute as he wants to be. “why are you messing with me like this?” 

a soft giggle echoes in response, light and airy, as if carried on the wind. “it's fun watching you squirm,” you tease, your voice carrying a haunting ring that lingers in the air.

he narrows his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling that clings to him— “i don’t believe in superstitions.” —yet a faint, stubborn “unease” still twists in his chest.

“is that so?” you reply, amusement dripping from every syllable. “then prove it. show me how brave you are.”

his own heart betrays him with its racing beat.

“fine, if you’re so keen on games, i’ll play.” he hopes the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor will mask the frantic beating of his heart.

but as he reaches out, the air around him cools, prickling the skin at his nape. your presence looms close, closer than ever. “...are you sure?” you murmur, the amusement in your voice giving way to something softer. 

his fingers twitch, as the cold sinks deeper, prickling through his skin and settling somewhere far more vulnerable. “i’m sure.” he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerously familiar, a reminder of a time when your touch was warm, alive. 

“i wonder, will you regret it?”

he glances over his shoulder, feeling your chill wrap around him like a shroud. his hand hovers above the strales, fingertips just grazing the metal. “only if you give me a reason to.” 

"careful what you ask for,” you whisper. and he closes his eyes, unable to deny the ache that resurfaces, raw and unbidden. 

what makes you so different, so maddeningly irresistible? it’s a foolish question, yet he knows the answer lies within your eyes. he can’t help but wonder if, when he opens his eyes to meet yours, he’ll be stepping closer to salvation.

MASTERLIST.

[121231212i]

Honkai: Star rail | Moze

[dualemblems]

Moze will always be there for Jiaoqiu even if he cannot see him anymore, he will make sure Jiaoqiu will remain safe under his attentive gaze

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[macrosmic]

talks a lot / listens

[ + extra because tuskpir looks like a mix of them ]

[moonsaver]

Warning; yandere, entirely ooc because idk anything ab moze other than the fact he might be an assassin.. whatever.

--

Moze likes watching you.

It's more curiosity than infatuation, at least at first.

Why do you like that perfume? Why do you like those colors? Why do you like certain foods and patterns? It's new to him, the way he seems to cling to your information.

He's not unfamiliar per se, but the implication is clear – he hasn't felt this sense of curiosity about anyone before. A few meager, short lines are enough before he sweeps up another mission. But he doubts he'll be satiated with even the pages worth of information he knows about you.

He ghosts you, sometimes. It's slightly.. endearing, the way you almost jump out of your skin from a small tickle or a whisper. The way your sleeping body unconsciously shivers when his rough hand trails up your bare back, goosebumps rising at the graze of his calluses on your skin, the way you stiffen when you feel someone breathe down your neck only to turn around and see no one there. The way your fingers twitch when his hand ghosts them. The slight flicker in your eyes when you think someone's whispered your name in a crowd. He sees it all.

He just needs a sure-fire way to get rid of.. obstacles. Rudimentary personalities that fill the gap between you and him. And considering his skills, it'll be no time until you're left vulnerable and grasping for any company. Perhaps he'll make sure to visit the marketplace where you'll inevitably be, succumbing to routine despite your mournful state.

He visits you, of course he does. But the risk of being discovered by you instills many feelings in him, contrasting to the indifference when his target spots him. He doesn't like the risk of being discovered – not when his diligent hands scan through your room, nor when he stalks you constantly anywhere, or when he maps out the measurements of your body. But another part of him, finds a sort of perverse pleasure in trying to imagine how you might react.. although distasteful, the idea of that burden of having to hide away his.. hobby, finally lifting from his shoulders is something he'd perhaps like. And perhaps he'd like to put his knowledge about you to good use.

Unconsciously, he even holds himself in pride when it comes to how much he knows about you. You avoid wearing that sweater because it's too stuffy, or maybe he notices the stitches of your garments come loose from how often you fidget. Maybe he sees the way you always order the same food when you have a crappy day. Maybe he notices who's been responsible for all your crappy days.

Maybe, just maybe, he notices the quirk in your step when they stop.

And he understands – slowly but surely, he's becoming a part of you in more ways than one.