#blind Jiaoqiu

[generalsdiary]

the spice will warm me from the inside

Jiaoqiu x Moze

warnings: description of injuries, mentions of the 2.5 events, Jiaoqiu’s history, Moze’s history, nightmares, anxiety, breakdowns, knives/weapons mentioned, one swear word, assassination attempt (dw)

word count: 5.5k

description: a hurt/comfort fic, angst & fluff, life after the events of 2.5, kinda found family trope as well. Jiaoqiu's life with his newfound trauma and disability, Jiaoqiu and Moze living life and communicating in healthy ways. As much as it goes over their "angsty" pasts and traumas it is very healing and focused on moving forward and learning to find a way to go on even when all has gone dark (pun not intended). Feixiao shows up a few times, Sushang comes to visit. As much as it is hurt/comfort, dw as soon as it hurts you, you will be comforted. One has to process through their past traumas and everything they have been through in order to start moving on. A realistic approach.

Jiaoqiu's fingers pressed against the smooth surface of the window. Cold, smooth, glossy. Traveling between the ships of the Luofu wasn't something new to him, but the experience felt different. The darkness, the shadow didn't move no matter how wide he opened his eyes, hoping for light to seep in, for a picture to form. It was hopeless, the poison took its toll.

“Moze.” his voice was gentle as ever, trying his best to hide the tremble in it. The fear as every space feels unfamiliar. The small tremor in his hands that hasn't left since he was... rescued.

“Yes?” a deep-toned voice beside him makes his ears perk up, trying to pinpoint the location, to naturally turn to the man as he usually would. With the way he could before. He turns, hopefully towards Moze. A small crinkle in his eyes as he recalls how March corrected him twice because he wasn't facing her nor the others. Jiaoqiu expected his hearing to be better, to be a better aid, especially as a foxian.

“Describe the room for me. Please.” there's a small pause. A silence. The shadow guard was incredibly quiet, not even a rustle of his clothes.

“It is the same as the last time. Small room, red velvet seats, three across three, sliding glass door, warm light from the headlight, grey floors. The regular transportation.”

Jiaoqiu nods, bringing his fan out, hiding half his face and gently moving it creating a small whiff of air. He remembers some of it... such a mundane thing, he never paid it too much attention. It hurts. Leaning his head back against the soft seat he closes his eyes. They are straining him. an unfamiliar feeling this early in the day.

“Mhm, thank you, Moze... and. General Feixiao, where is she?”

“Arranging a private port for us three to exit at. to avoid crowds.” Moze keeps his answer concise.

The trio is still greeted by guards and some of the general’s usual caretakers. They have received the news, and a man eagerly approaches the trio. His hand is quickly gripping Jiaoqiu’s forearm, making him lose his balance, making him stumble. He desperately uses his tail to balance and tug his arm back. The irritation barely hidden in his voice, “You do not take my arm- one does not simply drag a blind man with them.”

Commotion. Calming words of the general. And a voice that cuts through the multiple voices talking. A low tone, beside him. “I’m on your right, half a step in front of you.” being taller than Jiaoqiu, Moze’s soothing voice is heard easily, mouth so near the foxian’s fluffy ears.

Jiaoqiu takes a calming breath. Another one. This is fine. No. It is not fine. He just has to get home. Home. Yes. Everything will be fine when he gets home.

His hand reaches out into the unknown, the rough fabric meets his fingertips, he gently rests his arm tucked into Moze’s and then grips his forearm. “Thank you. Please. ..Slowly. I can’t.-“ Jiaoqiu’s voice breaks, why did it- no he is fine. He is not breaking down in public. It has been years since has was able to cry. Not after he served in the military. Those tears have long dried up.

You don’t need to cry to break down. To feel the pain engulfing you. The war took most of his ability to taste away. The once lover of subtle, bland flavors, now chased the spiciest, hottest meals- no matter how much it burned his tongue or hurt his throat. It made him feel alive. The spice burned inside him, warming him up when all he could feel was an icy cold throughout his bones.

The familiar crack of the wooden floor beneath his feet lets him know he is finally home. Jiaoqiu immediately took his shoes off and let go of Moze. Stretching out his arms, feeling the smooth texture of the walls in his home. Navigating to his bedroom. Through many dark nights, he could move around his house effortlessly- but this wasn’t a dark night. No moonlight. No lamp. No candle. No soft lights coming off the electronics. He bumps into the couch, and a cabinet, until he finally sits down on the soft bed. Opening his eyes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Nothing? Jiaoqiu wants to rage, to throw furniture around. Hasn’t he done enough? Given enough? Deep breaths. He will not succumb to the anger that wants to drown him. Mindlessly caressing the cotton sheets beneath him.

“G-give me a scarf.”

Silence. Jiaoqiu cannot hear him. Moze was always someone he could see, even in his shadow form, he could always SEE him. he could not even smell him. the clean man. Not a single scent.

A fabric touches his hands, soft, strange patterns swirling on it. He drags his fingers across it. Deep breaths. Calm down. He folds it neatly and brings it over his eyes. Tying it up around his head.

“Why?” Moze asked quietly. The sound seems to be coming from below. He is… kneeling beside the bed?

“Every time I open my eyes I hope they will heal. That… that something maybe changed. And every single fucking time that hope is crushed. And I-“ his voice wavers, “I cannot deal with that. I cannot bear another time of my heart getting broken by my inability to see. … with this, I won’t be able to open them. Just. Just… until I get used to… things.”

“I can order a cane for you.”

“No,” Jiaoqiu says a bit too harshly. “I will not. I can’t. I… just. Please, I.” he stumbles over his words like he is falling down the stairs. Shaking his head. Hands trembling. Moze’s habit of not speaking is upsetting at this moment. The bed squeaks under the weight of the other man, strong arms encircle him. Firm chest pressed against the foxian’s back. Calm breathing on his shoulder and a strong steady heart beating against his own works wonders. Making him ground his own breathing in the pace he feels the other’s ribs expand and contract. Heartbeat soon enough coming into sync with Moze’s. A comfortable silence. Although to Jiaoqiu it isn’t a silence. The inhale, exhale, a reassuring sound in this abyss.

Jiaoqiu’s fingers gripped the peeled onion a bit too roughly. He worried it might roll away. Just have to tuck in his fingers, and it is okay. Chop, chop, chop.

Cooking is a big part of him. and his situation will not take it away from him. The last thing that makes him feel like himself. His hand hovers above the deep pan, warmth seeping in. It is hot enough. He chops more veggies and meat and puts it all on a low simmer. Doors open and close, and as per usual he turns towards the sound. It has to be Moze or Feixiao. A burglar wouldn’t enter that casually, right? These thoughts don’t ease his life. The constant worrying and anxiety-

“It’s me.” he doubts he is able to recognize everyone’s voice. Humanoid hearing is simply not suited for it. Expect that it is Moze. Jiaoqiu can recognize his voice. “I have brought you something” With a quick step he is beside him, warm hands holding his and handing him something… smooth. “You said no cane. This is a walking stick. Older people use it- I know, you maybe don’t want it, and it may cause more trouble. Simply put, at least it’s here to help you not fall. okay?”

That’s a lot of words for the shadow guard who prefers to stay silent. Jiaoqiu feels out the walking stick, tapping the ground with it a bit. “I appreciate the thought, I will. I will keep it near.” With that, he sets it against the kitchen counter and stirs the food. Sour and spicy notes hit his nose. Home. Breathing it in like smoke. Wishing it could take him back.

“Why are there green peppers in the trash? They appear fine.” Moze questions. Jiaoqiu exhales, his throat tightens. Opening his mouth to explain but the strain stops him from voicing anything. Why are they in the trash can? A perfectly good ingredient, still fresh, he is never wasteful. The everpresent tremble is his new companion, his imagination makes him feel the finger that pressed against his back causing immense pain so he may give away secrets about Feixiao. The claws that ripped his clothes apart and left rough textured scars- still wounds, they have yet to heal to become scars. The makeup that ran down his face. The tugged hair. Flashes of scent induced fear. The last thing he ever saw was that monster. Hoolay. Green peppers. No. It isn’t something he can see- … it isn’t something he can smell, eat, or feel again.

Moze quietly observes the way Jiaoqiu grips the counter, the way his breathing becomes shallow, the silence piercing his ears, worry coloring Moze’s face now that he doesn’t have to conceal his expressions anymore. “I will take the trash out.”

“Please, thank you.” Jiaoqiu answers in a shaky, broken voice. The voice one sounds like right before they will break down. With swift movements, Moze ties the bag and takes the trash out.

With a slow step and one hand on the walking stick, he carries the food to the table. Plate by plate. Chopsticks, spoons. Beverages. If it were any other normal day he’d carry the pan to the table. But it isn’t any other normal day. This is the new normal. And carrying a heavy, soup-filled pan is risky. Finally satisfied, he sits down and smiles gently. Like he used to. Small wins, little joys.

Moze returns and wishes to say how he could’ve helped. Those words die down in his throat. Would it be more condescending than helpful? Would he even care for his words? Moze lost his voice, his will to speak, from his “second family”. Where no one cared for what he said. He convinces himself that this time he isn’t speaking because it might be rude.

“Would you text the trailblazer for me?” Jiaoqiu inquires during the meal, once Moze returns from washing his hands.

“Now?”

“No, no. after we eat. And could you switch the settings to voice commands and audio-specific notifications?”

“Consider it done.”

Technology is another thing Moze has a great understanding of. Updating the phone and other digital items in their home poses no issue. “When I call you in the future, or anyone whose number you have saved this is how it will sound” Moze calls Jiaoqiu’s phone, and instead of making a pleasant melody, a robotic voice starts talking ‘Moze Moze Moze Moze…’ Jiaoqiu nods with a small smile. “That is helpful, I appreciate it.” “And you can text the trailblazer by giving voice commands to the phone. You don’t need my assistance.” Moze sounds proud, showing Jiaoqiu that he is perfectly capable of doing it alone, just a bit differently than what he is used to.

“I’m going to meet Suyi. You can take the time to clean, Moze” Jiaoqiu takes his cane and exits their home. Hopefully, by giving him obligations and keeping clear of the area, it will make Moze not follow him.

It has been a few weeks. He took an orientation and mobility class. Learning how to use an actual cane. It felt easier to exist. Jiaoqiu was once again mobile, he could go to the market, buy fresh produce, and go out to meet old friends. Tap tap taping his way to the café. Jiaoqiu had a preference for a nonfoldable cane. The subtle vibrations carried through much better. And concrete felt like hell so he tried to stick to the pavement the best he could. The Yaoqing, sadly, had no pathways adjusted to those with impaired vision. Tap tap tap. Jiaoqiu made do with what he had. Walking in public with his cane made him feel free again, akin to feeling in control again. There is a lingering hope in it. Reminiscent of a small candle’s light, not too strong, yet it may illuminate a whole room.

Another assassination attempt failed. Moze groans. The general suggested asking for advice from others, and the trailblazer, the first person he asked, had nothing useful to say in that regard. The silver shine of the knife glistened in the artificial sun. Like sharpening it will make the attempts successful. Feixiao killed his entire family. His family. His close ones, they healed him, gave him a roof over his head, they fed him… poisons under the claim he will live forever with it, his words ever only falling on deaf ears, mantras shoved down his throat like rose spikes. Intoxicating his insides even after he knew of the evil those same words caused. Not to mention the first family that abandoned him, the village that left him to die.

Is this what you call a family? Moze asks himself as the sharp blade lingers above Feixiao’s throat. There he stands. About to succeed. To win his freedom. Is he not already free tho? No, no, she killed his family. This was the agreement and the rightful vengeance. Moze outdid her. Snuck into her home, he won. Yet his hand is frozen. It stands still in the dead of the night. Unmoving. Static. Immobile. Eyes observing the resting face of the woman who saved him. Educated him, showed him kindness, and actual warmth. And in his adult years, she is the one who introduced him to his current partner. Be that as it may, what becomes of him if he let go of it all now? What is his worth? This was his goal, all this time. The driving force of his medically adjusted body. Is this what you call a family? Is this who has been his family all along? The general and the healer? The borisin and the foxian. The air is deathly still. His hand is calm, free from tremors. His brow furrows deeper, thinking through all of it. Until he comes to a decision.

“Feixiao.” Moze says in a normal tone. The knife was still against her neck. The general stirs awake, eyes widening at the surprise, however she makes no move to shove him away. Feixiao knows if he wanted to do something, it would have been done.

“I have won. … I shall remain your guard, General. Death will have to walk through me to get you.” in the blink of an eye he is gone. Feixiao exhales and returns to her sleep with a smile on his face. Moze finally, slowly, started to move on. Decades later, he managed to take small steps toward acceptance.

A few minutes later he is holding his partner in his arms. “Jiaoqiu” Moze whispers into the soft ear. The foxian stirs, “hm?” “I have succeeded in my revenge.” Small shuffle and a sharp inhale, Jiaoqiu turns towards him, “Hm?” sleep-driven hum. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. She is my family. I cannot. I would never bring harm upon the ones I care about. Never.” Moze speaks his vow aloud and nuzzles his head into Jiaoqiu’s neck. Nothing more had to be said, in his opinion, time to sleep. A gentle hand caresses his hair, “Good.” Jiaoqiu leaves a feathery kiss on the grey hair after which he continues sleeping.

Misty rain soaked his clothes and the small boat rocked along the smooth surface of the Rainsoar lake. Jiaoqiu used to come here often. Alone he’d collect herbs and fruit in the herbal basket on his back.

“You didn’t have to come with me, one of the locals could’ve taken me.”

“It is not a problem for me, Jiaoqiu. I’m glad to be in your company, we see each other less… and it brings me joy to be beside you.” Feixiao answers, slowly rowing the boat through the lake covered with heart-shaped foliage, blossoms, water chestnuts, and the occasional fish jumping out. A beautiful sight, a tranquil atmosphere surrounding the two.

Jiaoqiu reaches out beyond the small boat, dipping his fingers into the icy cold water to collect the lotus flowers and floating heart plants. An old tradition for him, one he did even before he joined the army as a doctor. The cold fingers pluck a wild rice stem and open it up. Bringing the fresh rice to his mouth.

Years before it had a wonderful sweet and refreshing taste. His taste changed after he came back from war. Jiaoqiu’s taste buds were the price he paid in the war. A renowned chef, and healer, lost his delicate sense of taste. The gaze of an Aeon who looked down upon the thousand-year war, and their choice to end it, burned everyone involved. Jiaoqiu’s tongue was the price he paid for running into the white light to save the young kid. Feixiao. The cold region was something he got accustomed to. Nonetheless, when the almighty power sliced down the battlefield, Jiaoqiu felt a cold unlike any other. Freezing him from the inside. With the leftover survivors, he decided to cook a stew. A warm flame. Some spice. More spice. Chili peppers. Not enough. All the spice he had in his pouch. Until he finally felt a taste on his tongue. A burning sensation. The last flavor he can actually taste. For it made him feel alive despite everything that happened, everything around him, the cold air, the cold insides, the tasteless tongue. And the heat… it sent a jitter down his body. So alive. … the sensation bordered on pain. As spice tolerance grows, surely his grew as well. And he might today very well be dancing with pain every bite. After he returned from the war the rice stems tasted too bland. No flavor to them. He reaped the consequences of his actions. Of choosing to save the girl. His scars from the war.

Years later, at the same lake, with the woman he saved during the war, the boat rocks with her movements. The second time he saved her he paid with his sight. Jiaoqiu never blamed her, why would he? It was his choice the whole way and his goal. The jump to save her from the Aeon. To drink… Tumbledust. To give everyone a fighting chance and to heal Feixiao’s moon rage. Jiaoqiu is an adult and he made his decisions to the best of his judgment in the circumstances that were given to him.

The wild rice lands on his tongue. For a sacred moment, he feels a tinge of sweetness, however, it is only for one moment. And gone with the wind. Even so, for one moment it was there. Is it because he lost his vision that his other senses have enhanced the tiniest bit giving him a single second, less than a second of something that used to bring him joy? The foxian could cry at that moment if his eyes had not dried from any tears while he was still in the army. A moment is still a moment. It is enough. Enough to give him more hope. To keep him moving forward. To have faith in the future. To even dare to look into the future.

For a man to willingly drink poison, deadly poison, he had to give up all hope. Any faith toward the future, any life he thought he had left. Jiaoqiu had to make peace with the fact that no one was coming to recuse him- that he would not be saved. So what was the last thing he could do? After Hoolay drained him of any secrets about the general, humiliated him, treated him less than the ground they walk on, and broke his ego and pride by allowing him to walk around knowing he will “always return to his master”. The only thing he could do was give the others a fighting chance, somehow use the knowledge he acquired; to save Feixiao and sacrifice himself.

The sweet flavor of rice on his tongue. A small flame of a candle, a hope. Hope for the future, he gets to live in. as he slowly finds his self-worth again, his self-respect, and his hopefulness for the oncoming days.

“We may return. I got what I came for.”

“Hm- I’m still-“ Feixiao speaks with her mouth full and Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit analyzing the sound, and a chuckle is ready to part his lips. “You are eating?”

“-mh, hey the water chestnuts are really good!” Feixiao probably has her mouth full of food. The general likely got bored and hungry. Jiaoqiu’s warm laugh cuts the silence of the lake. He hasn’t laughed in a long time. It makes his tummy hurt and he has to stop to not make the boat flip over. Feixiao laughs with him… after she chews down the food in her mouth.

How does one make noise when one walks? A question Moze never thought he’d ask himself. Hence, doing his best, it sounds like a child purposefully stomping the heel of their feet onto the floor. Heavy steps. It is ridiculous. Moze finds himself hilarious, ironic even. His stoic front breaks down when he hears his partner laughing from the couch. The sole reason why he is doing this. To fill the void Jiaoqiu sees. Moze will not move like a shadow in their home. He shall make noise. Even if it sounds like an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum.

“I’m trying!” Moze voices between bursts of laughter.

“Ooh, I can hear that indeed~” Jiaoqiu nods and giggles.

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. Jiaoqiu stands up, slowly making his way to the door, while Moze opens it.

A girl with a cloud knight uniform on and long dark brown hair with a big bright smile stands in the doorway. “Hello!” she says cheerfully, “It has been so long, I thought I’d come to visit, how are you, Uncle J?”

Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit, the voice not ringing any bells. “I’m sorry, you-“ Moze quickly buts in, “It is Sushang.” “Yeah, and I brought a gift!” Sushang happily stretches out her hands, handing Jiaoqiu a small box. There’s a few seconds of silence. Moze once again says, “She is handing you a small box, approximately the size of a human head, and by the looks of it not too heavy.”

“Ah, thank you, Sushang. Your presence is unexpected but I’m glad you came over, are you hungry?” Jiaoqiu carefully takes the gift in his hands and smiles. “I mean, I could never say no to your cooking Uncle J! Also... I’m sorry, you are..?” Moze sighs. This is the third time he has seen her and she fails to remember him. The shadow guard, proficient in remaining hidden, wonders why she never remembers him. Jiaoqiu speaks in his stead as he slowly walks to the kitchen, “This is Moze, my partner.” “oh! Hi there, Uncle Moze!” Sushang flashes him a bright smile and moves past him to sit at the kitchen island, ready to yap a whole storm about her life and catch her uncle up with it all. Starting with her best friend, Guinaifen. Once she finishes her stories, Sushang is more than happy to sit in a slump position, stuff her face full of dumplings while Jiaoqiu shares some new stories of his life (the happy ones). In her eyes, he tells them better than the storyteller at Sleepless Earl.

“You know I care about your thoughts, opinions, even random comments with not a single thought behind them, right?” Jiaoqiu’s hand effortlessly treaded through Moze’s silver hair, facing him on the couch. “I will try. I have learned differently and… despite it being a bad habit, those are even harder to let go of.” Moze’s eyes are closed, melting under his lover’s touch. Jiaoqiu’s voice is smooth like butter, continuing, “I know, Moze. When it gets hard, just remember that I care about you and what you have to say. I always have. I love you.” Moze leans forward, pressing his forehead against Jiaoqiu’s, “I love you too. I will do my best.” Moze softly kisses the bridge of his nose, where the cotton scarf lays across his eyes.

Jiaoqiu reached behind his head, untangling the scarf. Weeks, months have passed since he started wearing it. Taking it off only when he bathes or sleeps. He opens his eyes. “I missed seeing them. Such beautiful golden glow, Jiaoqiu.” Moze muses, enjoying the view of bright orange eyes. “Thank you. I feel finally… strong enough mentally to exist and move without it. I have gathered… hope and mental strength.” Jiaoqiu nods, the darkness beyond his eyes unchanged. “They still look beautiful to you, Tumbledust didn’t affect them?” “Even if it did, the fact would not change. To answer your question your eyes are unchanged. They cannot meet mine, but I was never big on eye contact.” The simplicity and honesty in his answer made Jiaoqiu feel secure and loved. The foxian smiles, and their home feels warm. So warm with them together, kind, loving, patient. Healing through their traumas and pain. One thoughtful word at a time.

In the peaceful moment, Jiaoqiu caresses Moze’s cheek and leans in to kiss him. One of the moments where darkness is welcomed… because of the way Moze makes him feel during the kiss, it makes Jiaoqiu feel like he can taste colors.

 “The divine traces of Abundance shall heal your body... quick. Drink this...” Moze’s body was covered with sweat, his breathing was shallow. Hooded figures surrounded him.

“I don’t… don’t make drink… no…no” he mumbles helplessly, the thick liquid forced down his throat again. Goosebumps rose on his skin, “Drink child. You will… immortal… save… others…” Moze’s throat closed up, drowning on dry land and his mind disconnected from his body in an all too familiar way. Dying and fighting in the same breath. Half a second away from a silent scream or spitting the medicine back out. “Please… please… I…” his voice trembled, powerless against any of them. Once more his voice is ignored. His yelps and pleading for help, his begging for mercy shushed, ignored… put aside. Nothing more than a good test subject, convinced this is what family does. This is how it must be. Others live like this too, right? This is completely normal, right? He is cared for and nourished here, right? He will survive this, right? I will survive this…right?

A hushed voice hummed in the distance. The worn down building, cold and exposed cement his everyday environment, and the sound he didn’t recognize. “shh, shh, shh.” Rhythmical, paced… soothing? No one ever soothed him. Then he feels it. A delicate tender touch. Fingers brushing his hair. Moze’s breathing sped up as his surroundings changed, he inhaled sharply, his vision going black, all sound stopping into a painful echo of silence, a deafening sound, his lungs moving up and down with irregular breathing until there was none of him left. Abyss. Darkness. Black dots of midnight oil. A window. A window? Moonlight vaguely illuminated the space. A bed. And… “shh, shh, shh. There you go… back with me.”

Moze’s face felt wet, his vision blurry and his eyelashes stuck together, a salty taste on his lips. The sight of his partner holding him so carefully, gingerly, and taking care of him… Moze had no words. The nightmare swallowed him up again. He hated the feeling. Immediately he turns to press himself fully into his partner, to hide his face away from the shadows in the room, “Jiaoqiu” he whispers. “Yes, my precious. I’m here. You’re here. In our home. In our bed. Safe. With me.” For the next few minutes, Jiaoqiu keeps murmuring comforting words and hushed hums until Moze grounds himself in the present moment.

“I hate them. I hate my nightmares.”

“May I offer my healing abilities? A nine-squared grid hotpot will surely have a pleasurable effect on this, and help out.”

“I… that sounds good. If you say it will help, then I’ll take it.”

Jiaoqiu starts sitting up, “Very well.”

“Wait,” Moze utters, squinting his eyes to look at the clock, “it is 3 am, you don’t have to cook now.”

“Then when am I supposed to cook, Moze?” Jiaoqiu replies with a smile, “It isn’t hard. It doesn’t bother me.” He stands up and faces somewhat in the direction of the bed. “I’m happy to take care of you, Moze.” Jiaoqiu sits back on the bed and finds his partner’s face, cupping it in his hands. The texture of Moze’s unshaven face against his fingers feels rough but familiar, and in that familiarity, he feels safe. His home. He presses his lips against the younger man’s forehead and stands back up, already on his way to the kitchen.

Approximately half an hour later, a freshly bathed Moze sits across Jiaoqiu for a late night or an early morning meal. The warm liquid filled with various vegetables and spices feels good as it goes down his throat. It isn’t poison. It doesn’t hurt. It isn’t a threat.

“Thank you, Jiaoqiu. It tastes amazing.”

“Always a pleasure.” He answers with an all-knowing smile. “I could add a little more chili oil next time…”

“eh- I… it is spicy enough, darling.” Moze voices his thoughts hesitantly, which makes Jiaoqiu softly laugh and add a few drops of chili pepper flakes to his own bowl.

On the other hand, Jiaoqiu’s nightmares didn’t stop. Many nights he wakes up in fear of where he is. Is he still captive? Still kidnapped? Still surrounded by borisin and under the effect of lupitoxin? Jiaoqiu wakes up with heavy breathing every time, sitting up quickly, feeling the space around him- more often than not, waking Moze in his desperate attempt to gather where he is whether he is home or there. There’s a phantom pain where Hoolay pressed his finger onto his back to drain information from him. An itch on his chest where the wounds will form into dark pink scar tissue. In the beginning, it was every night. Every night for weeks, months. Jiaoqiu started relying on afternoon naps. Time has passed but his nightmares are still often. On the rare nights when Moze isn’t in bed, he has a good sleep schedule- most likely went to drink some water, Jiaoqiu is quick to spiral and clumsily get out of bed. Moze usually finds him kneeling on the floor, hanging onto the wall, mumbling, “No, no, no, no, no, no. I am not. This is home. This is home. It is. My walls. M-moze…Moze”

The curse of a doctor, a healer, they cannot heal themselves. The trauma he has been through, the scars from it that he carries still with him, most of them not even visible, it isn’t something that passes overnight. Healing is a long and slow process. It will take time. Sometimes he has no nightmares for weeks, only for them to torment his peaceful night’s rest for days on end. Some days, Jiaoqiu will have a bit more anxiety while walking around. What if everyone and anyone he talks to once again is under a guarantee of a death filled with fangs and claws?

Hence, he takes it slowly. When the world feels like it is crushing him, he takes a deep breath and eats spicy food. He grounds himself in his environment. Reminds himself that he is safe, Hoolay is dead, the borisin are under control, he isn’t being targeted, and everything is fine. Everything is fine. He will be fine. With time. One deep breath at a time.

The tremor in his hands never left him.

A breeze rustled various branches and leaves, providing a lovely melody of an artificial autumn on the Yaoqing. The scent of cooked apples dipped in caramel and baked cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“I see no threat in my retainers. The man you cannot see is my guard, and the foxian is my personal doctor. Surely, we don’t pose a problem?” Feixiao questioned the men in front of her, attempting to enter a highly secure space, on a very important and very secret mission.

Moze appears by her side, “I shall leave all my weapons with you.” he takes his time to slowly strip himself of his hidden knives and make a full scene out of it.

Jiaoqiu stands still with a small smile and his cane in his hands. “I do not carry weapons. I am a healer, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” If at all possible, his smile widens subtly with the honey-dripped words that coat the actual truth. “Moreover, I am retired. I’m here on the general’s command to accompany her to this… wonderful occasion.”

Rustling, murmuring, quiet chats, “…what could a blind man do…” “…the guard left all of his weapons…” “….yeah, we can let them through..” “You may come.”

Feixiao slowly walks towards the entrance with a confident stride, Jiaoqiu steadily taps his cane following her with the same smirk on his face, Moze soundlessly steps last, with at least, still 32 weapons on him.

[ihavesomejays]

text transcription:

Many springs ago, I perceived a sea of flowers upon a lake. I thought to myself that those fleeting colors held indescribable beauty.

The next time I perceived those colors was many years later, when the medic’s tent had blinded me to all but red. The radiance of that shining star was lost on my eyes.

Now, my eyes no longer perceive the subtleties in the colors around me.

But I am content.

For I can now see the most brilliant colors in my universe.

anyways yeah why did they fucking do that to jiaoqiu bro

the planning for this experimentalish comic is under keep reading

[rot-to-the-core]

for people who want to write jiaoqiu's blindness, here's some research links that i think would be useful for research! :)

a fantastic master post on writing a blind/visually impaired character by mimzy-writing-online, a visually impaired author

a blindness simulator that shows how various forms of blindness can look like

a video of christine ha cooking, a chef who lost her vision. it's posted on her personal channel, where she sometimes posts vlogs about her everyday life as a blind chef

another post by mimzy-writing-online about writing characters with sudden blindness

hope that these links are a good starting off point for people who want to write him! ^^

[nazbruhh]

// Massive 2.5 HSR spoilers (Slight blood warning) :

:(

[minart-was-taken]

[SPOILERS for HSR 2.5]

Heads up to artists drawing Blind Jiaoqiu content!

The canon explanation for why he went blind is due to poison and not any physical trauma, so there's not really a reason for him to have bandaged eyes or a blindfold. Please take care when representing disabled people and avoid going right for the stereotypes.👍

@rot-to-the-core collected some useful resources here that should help with getting things right.

Not hating one anyone specific, just hoping to help spread awarness 👍👍

[xinesthetic]

Drew Feiqiu as an illustration for my own fic and completely forgot to post them here. Hi can I interest you in some dreadful foxes

[vuiltone]

piece for søll's dtiys in telegram

[tea-cat-arts]

Actually, I hope Jiaoqiu stays blind (at least for a couple years in our time) and just bullies the Xianzhou alliance into inventing disability aids and treating disabled people better

[thedemises]

tf u mean jiaoqiu is blind.

[ryanthel0ser]

I wonder what Jiaoqiu's eyes look like now. I'd like to think the poison has a visual effect on the eyes that we can't see since he's kept them shut, like a scar within his eyeballs where the poison damaged them.

[ratiosilence]

jiaoqiu and pv have so many similarities Pleaseee trust me

[generalsdiary]

jiaoqiu actively taking the strongest poison he knows of, for the chance his captor will honor the long tradition of drinking the captured's blood before battle is literally a given sign of him giving up hope. because any single person wouldn't do so if they were hoping to get out, to be saved, rescued, to escape- for him to ACTIVELY DECIDE that he will poison himself is him giving up any chance of getting back alive. and that does things to a person, as much as he was portrayed "alright" in the end, his mental ain't the same like before and no one can convince me otherwise.

he is alone, kidnapped, even let loose to walk around to find information (taunted by it)- unable to seek help, to get a message across, from the literal nightmare fuel foxian parents tell to their kids; and when help does arrive for once the first thing he says is "Moze... run". still protecting others. taking care of moze.

playing this play of lies and trickery, giving away every card in his sleeve for the off chance that his captor may kill him. and he gave up that hope of being saved early on. as early as the green peppers analogy. it is heartbreaking. in his last moments he is grateful that he has bested him, saved feixiao which was his long-term goal and yet he is dying alone, still captured, left in some corner to rot like a fruit gone bad. and then found on the brink of death.

and waking up, alive? well at first I doubt it was a relief for him, because what if he was still with the borisin. what if he wasn't safe. I'm certain moze was beside him but remember he is now blind. he wasn't able to look around and confirm, yeah I'm in this commission and I'm safe. so to go through the literal terror where they treat you less than equal, less than them, fight or flight or freeze for days on end, possible death or worse his friendly companion in every moment and then to actually bring harm upon yourself and on top of it all to thankfully be saved and then to wake up in unfamiliar surroundings with one of your main senses gone. yeah, jiaoqiu isn't the same man he was before this. repercussions he reaps are not light ones.

[banjomelodies]

Spoilers for the Luminary Wardance continuance quests.

I don't know if I'm just a party pooper or a downer, but I can't be the only one who really hates the "Jiaoqiu blind !1!1!" Jokes in the HSR fandom— It reminds me so much of the Butter and Sister jokes from DR, where you take something actually traumatizing for the character and turn it into a quirky joke that then overwhelms the entire idea of the character. Or a more mild example would be the "Hey, Girlie ;)" jokes for Childe. Not traumatic, but just, annoying.

Sometimes they can be funny. But only the first few times. Then they just start getting aggravating when it starts becoming a staple in the characters fan base. I hate looking for Jiaoqiu things just to get blasted by "haha he's blind!" twenty times in a row. Why couldn't his main fandom joke stay as Coriander. At least his comical HATRED for a herb was actually supposed to be amusing 😭

[fcxian]

i would also like more art of j.iaoqiu with his cane bc look at this!!!!

[gojoidyll]

+18, smut, p in v, mdni

Or in which Jiaoqiu gets tired with how gently you treat him after the hoolay incident.

Jiaoqiu noticed even after he recovered. You were being incredibly soft with him. And even though he was still blind, he could clearly "see" how much you babied him now than how you did before.

Even after he was given the go ahead of being physically capable and tried to initiate a more intimate setting with you later at night, you declined and decided to cuddle with him instead.

He was starting to get pent up. But that all changed when he finally lost his patience.

You yelped loudly when he snapped his hips into yours, his cock spearing you open as he set a fast and hard pace. The length of his hardened cock dragging against your tightening walls.

"See? I'm not some fragile, porcelain doll. I'm not going to break with a thrust of my hips."

He grunted when he leaned forward, his chest pressing into your own as he bent down to kiss you.

"I need you," he moaned against your lips as his angry red tip started to abuse your cervix. The way his cock angled and continually hit that spot inside you made you wrap your legs around his waist.

"Mmm, sorry, sorry, sorry," you babbled against him as he held you close. Not a single empty space was between either if you.

He wished he could see your expression. He wanted to see you so bad. And that frustration could only be shown through his harsh, unyielding thrusts.

"I need you," he said again.

And you could only cling to him, desperately so.

[welty4ng]

TEAR MY WORLD APART!

call transcript; “adapting is never easy. jiaoqiu supposes he only tolerates it because you’re with him”

cw; spoilers for the current quest !!! f!reader, NSFW (mdni) !! hurt/comfort, fingering (soft sex tbh), not proofread, ugh jiaoqiu i love you so much, fic below the cut, 4.7k words

When Jiaoqiu first returns home, there’s a heavy weight in his chest.

It felt horribly uncomfortable, having Moze walk him all the way from the docks to his house. It felt even worse to have his companion fish his keys from his pockets.

In his mind’s eye, he knows where everything is. He knows where you keep your plants and how to avoid running into them; still, he tips one over, the crunch of dirt beneath his feet ringing sickeningly in his ears. He knows where every corner of his house is; yet, he hits his shoulder when he rounds a corner a little too soon.

Shamefully, it takes him longer than he’d like to find someplace to sit. He’d never thought it to be so humiliating, to realize he spent so many years seeing the layout to his own home without memorizing it.

He’s unsure for how long he sits, the silence deafening and the darkness blinding. There’s a gnawing, ever-growing pit in his stomach at the realization that this might very well be the rest of his life. A shiver runs down his spine. He doesn’t think he’ll enjoy having his senses heightened any more than they already were.

Jiaoqiu jolts when he hears the front door open, his ears perking up. The sound of your footsteps reaches his ears before you call out his name, your voice gentler than he’s ever heard it.

“Hey,” you say, hushed. Jiaoqiu shudders when your hand finds his knee, trying to soothe him. His hands ball into fists on his lap.

“Hey,” he echoes, slightly strained. The weight in his chest grows heavier when you thumb at his knee. It’s horrifying, how he can practically picture the pity on your face — he’d never thought he’d be at the receiving end of it.

“General Feixaio told me what happened,” you whisper. Jiaoqiu’s ears twitch when you cup his face and he immediately nestles into your palm. Your thumb is gentle against his skin, caressing his cheek with the utmost of care. “I’m so sorry, love.”

There’s a lump in his throat, a million words on the tip of his tongue — ‘I’m okay. I’ll be fine. It’s nothing serious. I just need to adapt.’

All that he musters is a quiet, shaky, “I want to see you.”

Jiaoqiu wonders if you look as broken as he sounds.

Being molded into a homebody is not unideal, but Jiaoqiu has far too much to do.

He wonders if that’s why Feixiao sent Moze to inform him of the leave of absence he’d been granted.

It should be welcome. It is, to an extent, when guilt doesn’t chip away at his conscience; when he doesn’t feel like he’s a burden—

The clatter of pots makes him jump, his tail puffing up before matting back down. He exhales, low and unsteady as you call out a sheepish, “Sorry.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t think he can complain. Not when you’ve carved out time from your schedule to look after him — to help him adjust, or whatever bullshit Moze claimed Feixiao had said. So he’ll endure the ringing in his ears when something is just a little too loud, endure the tangy, bitter smell of something burning, and offer a patient smile, followed by a soft, “It’s okay.”

Because he knows you’re trying.

Cooking was never your thing. He’d never let it be, because, why would he ever let you dirty your hands when he could do it instead?

Part of himself feels guilty that you’ve been forced into a myriad of things that fell under his attention. It’s an ever-growing sense of uselessness that weighs on his chest, burrowing deeper with every ‘tap’ of the knife on the cutting board.

He presses his back against the wall, trying to suppress the familiar urge to take over the cooking for you. A knot forms in his throat when he hears you softly hiss, his eyes yearning to open and treat whatever wound you must’ve gotten.

When a soft rush of water reaches his ears, he inches off the wall just enough, taking a step toward the noise. It feels slightly disorienting, trying to guide himself simply through hearing. Still, he tries, awkwardly stumbling in your direction with an outstretched hand.

A shaky exhale leaves his lips when he touches your shoulder, his tail awkwardly flicking to the side when you jolt at the contact.

“Let me help,” he whispers, his fingers instinctively squeezing your shoulder. There’s something so horrid about being able to hear your breaths before you even speak. He loathes how clear he can hear your breath falter as you hesitate.

“Jiaoqiu, you—”

“Please.” He’s tired of feeling useless. He has enough to deal with, now that his eyesight is gone indefinitely. He wants to help — to be of use, even if it’s just a little.

The weight in his stomach sinks deeper when you gingerly clutch his wrist. For a moment, he expects you to drop his hand and lead him back to the spot on the wall he’s claimed as his own. Instead, you bring his hand up to your face, letting his knuckles brush against your skin.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you murmur, gentle as you press a kiss to the back of his hand. Jiaoqiu wonders what expression you’re making; wonders if it’s pity or sympathy.

He takes a step closer, his front bumping against yours before his free hand shoots out to hold onto the edge of the counter for balance. “Let me do something, at least,” he pleads, a vague hint of desperation lacing his words.

Your breaths fan his face, tickling his skin in a way that has his tail swaying.

“Please,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

There’s a brief moment of hesitance before you ask, “What do you want to do?”

Jiaoqiu’s heart hammers in his chest, a ticklish sort of hope flooding his being. His hand trembles against your face, softly squeezing your own when you grasp it.

“Anything,” he breathes out. “It doesn’t have to be cooking or cleaning or — just let me do anything.”

When your grip on his hand falters, he grasps it tighter, resting them on your cheek. The smell of something burnt fills his senses, but he can’t find it in himself to care; not when he can feel the faint warmth of your skin. “I want to be of use to you.”

His ears twitch when you sigh, his hand trembling lightly against your face. He can imagine the expression you’re making — pursed lips and furrowed brows, deep in thought. Still, he yearns to see it.

“You can help me stir the pot,” you offer, a hint of hesitance to your voice.

The weight in his chest lightens just a little, his fingers tightening around your own in a light squeeze. “Alright.”

It’s a shred of normalcy, he supposes; even if he’s just swirling a ladle. For a moment, it reminds him of a simpler time, back when he was younger and still learning to fend for himself. The soft ‘tap’ of the knife against the cutting board fills his ears, accompanied by your faint humming.

Will you let him keep helping you? Jiaoqiu can’t help but wonder. Would you let him stop being a burden? Do you even think of him as a burden? He hopes — prays — you don’t. He hopes you let him stay by your side, even if all he can do is rot.

It’s all he wants.

So, when you lead him to your dining table, trying to distract him from the scent of burnt meat, he’ll entertain you. He’ll keep his complaints to himself, even if the soup is far too salty; the noodles are a little too undercooked; and the cubed beef is a bit too charred.

You’re both trying, he reminds himself. Perhaps that’s why he can’t find it in himself to care much when he can hear the ‘snap’ of a noodle between his molars. There’s a slight tingle in his tongue by the time he’s done eating.

Still, Jiaoqiu doesn’t complain. Instead, he smiles, softening when your hand grasps his own beneath the table, squeezing twice in a comforting gesture.

“Thank you,” he whispers, hushed. When your breath hitches, a lump forms in his chest. Quickly, he adds, “For everything.”

For a moment, he supposes the only good thing about being blind is that he doesn’t have to see you cry. Though, he supposes it’s worse, hearing you hold back from it — hearing you struggle to remain composed.

When he opens his arms, you rush into him, leaving your chair behind and opting to perch in his lap — just like you’d always done. He holds you closer, instinctively; though, he rubs at your back with hesitance, almost trying to map out the length of your back.

He shudders when you wet the side of his neck. It feels more present, now that his world is shrouded in pitch black. Your cries sound louder, even when quiet and muffled by his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Jiaoqiu’s unsure if the apology is his or yours, the weight growing tenfold in his chest and ringing in his ears.

He can’t tell if the sobs are still yours, either.

Jiaoqiu learns to rise when you do. His routine morphs into your own, despite your insistence that he rest longer.

Staying in bed doesn’t feel the same without you, he’d argued. You were quick to relent after that.

His feet drag on the floor behind yours, his grip tight around the back of your nightshirt. There’s a dull ache in his head. He bumps into you when you stop, a quick apology tumbling from his lips before he can stop it.

When the sound of rushing water reaches his ears, they twitch, recognizing the familiarity. His hands perch on the edge of the counter, letting go of your clothes. It never takes long for him to hear the soft rustle of fabric falling onto the floor. It never takes long for him to fumble with his buttons, either, before you come to his aid.

“Will you help me wash my hair again?” he asks, quiet as you ease the fabric off his shoulders.

“If you want me to,” you reply, gentle as you help him out of his pants. When your fingers brush against his lower abdomen, he shivers, his tail puffing up as he sucks in a sharp inhale.

Jiaoqiu’s hand leaves the counter, moving to cup your cheek in a practiced (albeit clumsy) movement. Part of himself still feels like a fumbling fool when you move his hand just a little lower, correcting the placement. Still, you never mention it.

A voice in the back of his head tells him he should reject your offer for help — tells him he’s been more than enough of a burden by making you spend more time ensuring he’s clean than you do yourself. Then, a gentler, kinder voice reminds him you’d expressed your satisfaction at being able to aid him. Pride never stands a chance, when it comes to your delight; he realized this soon after meeting you.

So, he lets his finger brush against the apple of your cheek, his voice softening as he says, “I do.”

It’s become almost instinctive, following you. There’s always a certain gentleness with which you hold his hands, guiding him forward as you step into the shower. He hears the quiet scuff of a stool (your insistence, not his) being dragged across the tiles. Your hands remain gentle as you guide him to sit.

“Tell me if I scrub too hard, okay?” The statement is almost unnecessary, truly. You’ve never once treated him with something other than overwhelming delicateness — like he’s made of porcelain. Jiaoqiu considered himself tough, before losing his eyesight. He thinks that shell was stripped from him alongside his vision. He wonders if you know it, too — wonders if that’s why you touch him like he’s seconds away from breaking beneath your touch.

Still, all he says is, “Okay.” Then, after a moment, “Thank you.”

A lump forms in his throat at the beat of silence, his heart hammering in his chest. Aeons, he wants to see your expression — he needs it so desperately. It’s become hard to tell whether he says the right thing or not. Sometimes, he wonders if he oversteps. There are a million words at the tip of his tongue, all of them longing to spill out.

Something soft presses against his forehead, gentle and so, so soft. Two hands cup his jaw, holding him in place before drawing him in. His arms wrap around your middle almost instinctively, his face burrowing into your chest.

“I want to see you,” he whispers, his words muffled by your skin.

Your lips press against the top of his head, tender. Jiaoqiu melts when you cup the back of his head, holding him in place. He wonders if you realize how soothing your heartbeat is to him, currently. Your fingers weave through peachy strands, washing out the shampoo suds from his hair.

“I know,” you reply, your voice barely audible. “We’ll figure it out, love.”

A soft noise rumbles in the back of his throat, his ears twitching and tickling your skin. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head one last time.

For a moment, something akin to hope blossoms in his chest. It’s the first time he’s felt it, since losing his vision, Jiaoqiu notes.

Normal still feels out of place, though not as much anymore. It’s become a faint, lingering feeling in the back of his mind.

There’s still a vague sense of discomfort at being surrounded by darkness constantly. Jiaoqiu supposes it’s only through the habit of touching that he reminds himself he’s not alone.

He’s only grateful you indulge him, even if it must be a bother to have him hovering and pestering just to stick to you.

The streets of the Yaoqing — have they ever been this noisy? Jiaoqiu can’t tell. It’s uncomfortable, how loudly everything rings in his ears. He thinks he would rather trade the boisterous noise for the bright, vivid colors he used to complain about.

“We’ll head home soon,” you reassure, squeezing his hand as tight as you can. For a moment, he wonders if his distress is palpable (he concludes that, for you, it must be).

“You shouldn’t rush,” he replies, his words trailing off into a quick apology when someone bumps into his shoulder. His hand squeezes yours — the mere thought of separating from you makes his heartbeat spike in anxiety. Jiaoqiu softly clears his throat, quickly adding, “I’m fine, really.”

Neither of you seem to believe it, though you don’t call him out on the lie. Instead, you slow your pace even more to loop your arm with his.

“I was thinking,” you start, pulling him just a little closer to you as you walk, “We could get the ingredients for those noodles you like.”

Jiaoqiu hums, trying to ignore the way the corners of his lips curl up. “That would be nice,” he says, trying to keep his steps matched to yours.

“You could help me make them,” you offer, gently tugging him closer before someone brushes against his arm.

His steps falter for a moment. When he takes a second too long to reply, you rush to add, “Only if you want to.”

A lump forms in his throat, agreement sitting on the tip of his tongue. All he does is exhale. His heart hammers in his chest, thundering loud in his ears. You’re looking at him — he doesn’t need his vision to tell. A hushed, barely audible whisper leaves his lips when you call his name.

“Is it still too soon?” you ask, a hint of worry in your voice. Your hold on him tightens just a little. “I-I figured, maybe it had been long enough to try and ease you back into things you used to do. We can just pretend I didn’t say any—”

“I want to,” Jiaoqiu says, his voice wavering. He isn’t sure when his breath picked up, but he can feel his chest heaving. His tail lightly sways when you place your hand above his own, thumbing at his knuckles.

“Okay.” Your voice feels as soft as your touch. It tickles his nerves, sending a flutter through the pit of his stomach and down to his core.

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours (a jolt of satisfaction in his chest at the lack of clumsiness). His ears twitch when the pad of your thumb lightly presses into his knuckle. 

“Okay,” he echoes, trying to match your tone. Jiaoqiu softens, gently rubbing his forehead against your own.

Warmth blooms in his chest when you whisper. The market’s ruckus feels like white noise as your words ring in his ears. Like instinct, his lips part before replying in earnest. “I love you, too.”

He wonders if it’s your face that’s burning up, or if it’s his.

It pains him a little, just how long it’s taken him to ask this of you.

Jiaoqiu feels you shift beneath him, adjusting your position before wrapping your legs around his waist again. He softly exhales, tracing the slope of your cheek with the utmost of care. His heart hammers away in his chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, breathless as he pokes at the fat of your cheek. When you sigh, he lets himself cup your face, the pad of his thumb lightly pressing into the hollow beneath your eye.

“How much longer are you going to do this for?” you ask, curiosity lacing your voice. Jiaoqiu softens, his tail swaying when you lean into his touch.

“Until I’m sure I’ve memorized everything.”

“I thought you already knew my face by heart?” you reply. The corners of his lips curl up into a smile when he hears yours. He gently pinches your cheek, drawing a soft chuckle from your lips.

“I do,” he says, loud enough so it’s meant for your ears only. “I just want to make sure I know it, deep in my soul.”

A soft hum leaves his lips when you squeeze his waist. His hand moves, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear.

“How smooth,” you mumble, brushing a few peachy strands away from his face.

“I want to make sure it’s all like I remember,” he murmurs, complying when you pull him up with your legs. Jiaoqiu’s ears twitch when his nose bumps against yours, a breathless chuckle slipping past his lips.

His hand trails down, his thumb brushing your lower lip. When you gently kiss the digit, his breath hitches. He cups your jaw, trying to find an angle. You simply follow his lead, letting him lead.

He thumbs at the corner of your lips, your breath fanning against his skin. His mouth presses against yours in the softest — faintest — of kisses. When you sigh, he lets himself mold against you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, his tail swaying when you grant him access.

There’s a hint of desperation behind his actions. Jiaoqiu wonders if you can tell, by the way his tongue licks at your mouth — almost like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste.

He barely gives you any reprieve, breaking the kiss to catch the slightest of breaths before he’s attached to your lips once more. When his name leaves your lips between kisses, heat pools in his stomach. It’s a feeling he’d thought dormant since he’d lost his sight.

Jiaoqiu doesn’t think he’d mind its resurgence — not after the way you part with a whined gasp, struggling to catch your breath. His lips press against the corner of your mouth, then lower, until he’s kissing a trail down to the spot beneath your jaw.

When you struggle to hold back a moan, heat shoots through his veins. Your hands find the back of his head, your fingers tangling in peachy strands. He complies when you help him up, cupping his face before capturing his lips with your own.

For a moment, Jiaoqiu wonders if you taste sweeter than he remembers.

“Guide me.”

“Hm?”

A soft, huffed chuckle escapes Jiaoqiu’s lips. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb applying a delicate pressure beneath your eye. He feels you shift on the bed, your legs tangling with his own.

“Guide me,” he repeats, his ears twitching when you yawn. A gentle noise rumbles in his chest, his body pressing closer to yours and his hand moving lower to let his thumb press against the corner of your mouth. Then, he leans down, his lips replacing the digit.

Heat pools in his stomach at the sigh you let out. His tail lightly sways, the ends puffing out when he nips at your lower lip. “You’ve been patient for long enough,” he murmurs, gently ghosting a kiss over your lips.

“Jiaoqiu—”

“No excuses,” he says, “Please.”

After a light kiss, he adds, “Let me do this for you.”

For a moment, he wonders if it’s your heartbeat he hears, instead of his own. He lets his hand leave your face to rest on the underside of your breast, relishing how your breaths stutter.

“You’ve done more than enough for me,” Jiaoqiu reasons, his voice tender as he moves his face closer to the crook of your neck. “I ought to express my gratitude,” he whispers, noting how you shudder as his breath tickles your skin. He presses his lips against the underside of your jaw — right at the spot he knows makes your breath hitch and your thighs clench. “Shouldn’t I?”

“I didn’t do anything with the intention of getting something in return,” you say. He catches on to the quiver to your tone when his ears twitch. His teeth graze your jaw, soft and experimental as he thumbs at the lower part of your breast.

“Isn’t that reason enough to accept my gratitude with open arms, then?”

You shudder, your hand moving to perch on his shoulder when he trails kisses down to your collarbone. “We both know what your gratitude entails, Jiaoqiu.”

He softly clicks his tongue, letting his canines graze against your skin. The hand on your chest inches upward, moving until his thumb reaches your pert nipple. “Even more reason for you to accept, hm?”

His touch softens when you sigh.

“Isn’t it a little too soon—?”

“I think I should be the one to decide that,” Jiaoqiu mumbles. He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. 

There’s a slight hesitance to your actions — how you seem to mull over his words. His tail sways, lightly rubbing against the bedsheets as your fingers run through his locks.

“Still, I—” your breath catches, your words interrupted by a wanton whine when delicately rolls your nipple between his fingers. 

Heat shoots through his nerves, fueling the fire in his stomach as he pictures your expression — your face all scrunched up, but your lips parted as you pant. Jiaoqiu slows the barrage of kisses on your skin, softy exhaling.

He wants to see it, so, so desperately.

He wants to feel and touch and see. His ears twitch when you sigh his name, breathless. A soft growl rumbles in his chest in response before he presses an open-mouthed kiss on your collarbone.

“Let me take care of you,” he quietly pleads. “You shouldn’t have to suppress your own needs for my own.”

“I’m not—”

Jiaoqiu nips at your collarbone to cut off your words, his tongue gently soothing the spot. “Don’t lie to me,” he murmurs, his words slightly muffled by your skin. “Not when I hear clearer than I ever could.”

Your grip on his hair falters, your breath hitching. He wonders what expression you wear — are you flustered or taken aback? Or is it something entirely different? 

“Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I can’t touch you like I used to,” he breathes out, gently rolling your nipple between his fingers. You tug on his hair, your breaths uneven. His lips trail kisses along the expanse of your collarbone. “You just need to guide me.”

His fingers leave your nipple, drawing a soft whine from your lips as he trails them down to your hip.

“It’s about time you replace your fingers with my own, after all,” he rasps, kissing a path back up to your jaw, “Isn’t it?”

His ears twitch when a strained whimper slips past your lips. He nips at your skin before pressing a feather-light kiss on the spot. Heat floods the pit of his stomach when you nod against his head, your hand resting atop the one on your hip.

“You’ve been more than patient, love,” Jiaoqiu whispers, his tail twitching against the sheets as you help his hand down between your thighs. He shudders an exhale, his fingers inquisitive as they search for your clit. His breaths become heavy, fanning against your jaw in a way so ticklish that your thighs instinctively press together.

A choked whine leaves your lips, your fingers curling in his hair. “‘s n-nothing,” you murmur, your voice trembling.

He gently clicks his tongue, his thumb pressing against you once he finds your bud. “It’s not ‘nothing,’” he replies, rubbing his nose along your jaw as he begins to circle your clit. “It’s never easy to care for a patient.”

You mewl, lightly jolting when his index finger prods around in search of your entrance. “W-wait,” you stammer, your hand moving to aid his own. His tail thumps faintly against the bed when his fingertips ghost above your folds.

“Here we go,” he whispers, unable to keep the elation from his voice. For a moment, he wonders if you’ve realized the selfish intentions behind his idea to thank you.

Though, he’s sure that even if you have, you probably don’t mind. Jiaoqiu knows how tired you must be from fingering yourself in his stead. Your fingers were never as good as his at bringing you pleasure, after all.

The corners of his lips curl up into a small smirk, his finger pumping in and out of you with practiced ease. “That’s nice, isn’t it, love?” he asks, his voice a soft coo.

“M-mhm,” you shakily hum, slowly rocking your hips against his digit to match his pace.

“Your sweet cunt just needed my fingers, didn’t it?”

He can’t hold back the purr in the back of his throat when you nod, your fingers fisting his peachy strands when he pushes a second finger into your folds.

“N-needed them s-so bad—!” you cry, your voice cracking. Your free hand grasps at his forearm, your breath quick and uneven pants. “‘s never the same when t-they’re mine…”

Jiaoqiu gently shushes you, peppering kisses against the underside of your jaw. “I know, love,” he coos, his voice full of sympathy. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

You moan, your breath hitching as your walls flutter around his fingers. When they curl, you cry, your hips desperately rocking against his hand. “J-Jiaoqiu—”

“Close already?” he asks, though he fails to hide the smile from his voice. You huff and he chuckles, a sense of satisfaction settling in his gut. How long has it been since he’s felt that — felt anything other than a weight in his chest?

Jiaoqiu can’t be bothered to wonder. Not when your cunt spasms around his fingers, your broken cries and moans rising in volume the more he curls his digits against the spongy spot in your folds.

“That’s it, love,” he breathes out, his voice a heavy rasp. “Let go for me.”

When you cry, he can only picture the expression on your face — can only imagine you look just like you’ve always done when you cum. His chest aches for just a moment, then lightens when you mewl his name.

“T-thank you,” you whisper, your words slightly slurred. Jiaoqiu softens when you kiss the top of his head. 

“I should be the one thanking you,” he replies, hushed. He nuzzles into you, slowly pulling his fingers out of your cunt. His chest rises and falls, weightless for the first time in weeks. “For everything.”