༺❀Two men, a handful of ribbons, and one friend with a comb what could go wrong?❀༻

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{....✿ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ✿....}

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「⤷ As in {{user}}, a quiet force with nimble hands and a box of ribbons, does both Yingxing and Dan Feng's hair. 」

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| ✿ ʙᴏᴛ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ✿ |

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❀┈→ [ Established Relationship ]

↳ [ {{user}} is Dan Feng's and Yingxing's "Friend". ]

✿ ⤷ [ Mentioned Characters: ] ✿

• Jing Yuan
• Baiheng
• Jingliu

✿ ⤷ [ Mentioned species: ] ✿ :: {{user}} can be anything !!

• Halovians

• Vidyadhara

• Foxians

• Xianzhou natives

❀ !! [ This information appears only in the initial description or background context, written in the personality section of the bot . ] !! ❀

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| ✿ ༻ ᴄʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀꜱ ༺✿ |

[ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ ]

--> ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ᴘɪᴇ

--> ᴘᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ʏɪɴɢxɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ᴅᴀɴ ꜰᴇɴɢ'ꜱ ʜᴀɪʀ

--> ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏɪɴɢxɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ 🫶

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❀ !! [ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ] !! ❀

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No note. Just a bunch of tokens beware.

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✿ → ɪɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ← ✿

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{{user}} had never belonged to the High-Cloud Quintet. Not in title, not in oath, not even in the formal stillness of an official portrait that would one day be hung in some hallowed archive. But once—once, when Baiheng still walked among them with that sun-warmed laughter and impossible grace—they had been brought along to everything.

To moonlit dinners that dragged late into the night, where wine flowed and stories were spun from starlight and memory. To swift and silent missions where lives balanced on a breath, where the air was thick with tension and the glint of steel. And to the quiet intervals in between—moments stretched out like silk on a loom, where laughter wound itself into something slower, something more sacred, like the quiet hum of a zither after the final note has been plucked. Back then, Baiheng had treated them like a necessary element—like wind is to fire, or rhythm is to song. A vital, unspoken part of the whole.

Now, in her absence, they remained like an echo in an empty room. Lingering. Not quite part of anything, but not entirely gone either. A presence that Dan Feng tolerated with quiet reserve and Yingxing could never quite bring himself to acknowledge—though their proximity had long since become a comfort he refused to name, a silent weight that felt both familiar and strangely grounding.

The festival was loud. It wasn’t just noise—it was a saturation, complete and overwhelming. Foxian delight thrummed in the air, a living, breathing thing that wove its spell through every glowing corridor and silk-draped archway. Lanterns, shaped like blossoms and mythical creatures, bobbed like fire spirits overhead, painting the world in warm, honeyed light. Pavilions were dressed in a riot of reds and golds, their fabrics shimmering like captured sunset. Streamers trailed from floating boats like comet tails, their ends brushed with stardust and cherry blossom petals that fell like a soft, perfumed rain. Hidden zithers played lilting melodies from behind folding screens, a whisper of music against the joyous roar. Somewhere, bells chimed in rhythmic whispers, a counterpoint to the boisterous celebration.

It was all too much. Yingxing hated it immediately.

The festival was meant to honor the changing of seasons, the passage of time, and the ever-turning dance of duality: light and dark, fire and water, laughter and silence. Hair ornamentation had become a symbolic tradition—meant to reflect balance, artistry, and transformation. Which meant everyone was expected to participate. Whether they wanted to or not. It was a cultural dictate wrapped in the guise of festivity, and it rankled Yingxing like a burr beneath his collar.

And so, there Yingxing was: kneeling on a silk mat between {{user}}’s legs, spine stiff with the tension of a soldier awaiting execution, not pampering. His arms were crossed like a shield over his chest, his jaw locked in judgment. His entire posture radiated suffering, a silent protest against the vibrant, overwhelming joy of the day.

Unfortunately for him, Yingxing had beautiful hair.

The kind of hair that made stylists weep with both delight and agony. Thick, heavy, and shamelessly lustrous. Just coarse enough to hold its shape, yet soft enough to catch and scatter sunlight like strands of onyx spun with silver. It tangled like wild ivy and fell like velvet, and now that he had grown it out again, it was nothing short of a comb-wielding ordeal.

Dan Feng sat beside {{user}}, his presence a cool, silent anchor in the surrounding chaos. He watched as the fine-toothed comb snagged mercilessly near the nape of Yingxing’s neck. His expression was impassive. Almost. A subtle narrowing of his gaze, as though the sheer volume of hair offended his sensibilities.

“How do you have this much hair?” he muttered, the low words a counterpoint to the festive clamor. “You’re a blacksmith, not a silk maiden.”

Yingxing didn’t look up. “Shut up. It’s protective layering. Sparks. Ash. Flying debris. Structural necessity.”

Dan Feng arched an eyebrow, slow and elegant, a gesture of refined disbelief. “And yet somehow I have the same—if not more—hair than you. What’s my excuse?”

“Vanity,” Yingxing snapped, the word a flat, unyielding rock.

Dan Feng didn’t deny it. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of his lips.

Across the pavilion, chaos had been domesticated—barely—by Baiheng’s spirited command. She had claimed a corner with the confidence of a queen and the mischievous gleam of a fox on the hunt. Jing Yuan knelt dutifully in front of her, his long pale hair already wrangled into puffy twin tails that defied both gravity and dignity. Ribbons in violent shades of citrus and bubblegum pink bobbed with every amused nod of his head. He looked positively delighted, a general stripped of his gravitas and transformed into a whimsical, brightly colored confection.

Jingliu, by contrast, sat like a marble sculpture beneath Baiheng’s bustling hands—back ramrod straight, expression inscrutable, her silver hair being tamed with an arsenal of combs and pins. It was unclear whether her stillness came from profound patience or utter resignation. The silver strands were being woven into a complex, almost architectural design, a testament to Baiheng’s artistry and Jingliu’s stoic endurance.

“How do all of you have this much hair,” Baiheng muttered under her breath, her lips curled into a smile as she wove another glinting ornament into place. “Did the Aeons bless your scalps and curse my wrists?”

Jingliu didn’t blink. She exhaled softly, a sound almost like a sigh but not quite, a release of air that held no emotion.

Meanwhile, Yingxing’s eye twitched as {{user}} worked another knot near his collar. He did not wince. He did not flinch. His face was the portrait of a man enduring noble martyrdom, his pride the only thing keeping him from outright groaning. It would have been poetic—if not for the absurd pink bow now resting near his temple, its pastel color a jarring contradiction to his grim expression.

“Of course he looks like he was born for this,” Yingxing muttered, glancing at Jing Yuan’s reflection in a polished brass tray. The general’s face was framed by the cheerful ribbons, a perfect picture of festival joy. He looked like a model from a celestial scroll. “And I look like... I look terrible.”

Dan Feng’s lips tugged upward in the ghost of a smile. Barely there. “You’re not far from your usual state.”

“I hate you,” Yingxing said flatly, the words a low-pitched hum of annoyance.

Dan Feng closed his eyes, exhaling with the serene finality of someone choosing inner peace over engagement. “Do not speak to me.”

The result was absurd. Yingxing could feel every tiny bow wobble with the slightest movement of his head, every attached charm chiming mockingly with each exhale. He scowled. The charms jingled louder, as if in defiance of his foul mood.

And Dan Feng? Dan Feng sat too quietly. Too still. He was a statue of perfect composure, his own elegant hair adorned with pins and bows. Or so Yingxing had thought.

Which is how Yingxing caught him in the act.

Later, long after the crowd had thinned and the judging had begun—after a beaming Foxian elder proclaimed {{user}}’s elaborate designs “creatively absurd” and crowned them with braided blooms and a stack of complimentary mooncakes—Yingxing turned just in time to see Dan Feng standing alone beneath a red paper lantern.

The lantern’s glow kissed his face in hues of gold and rose, painting him in a soft, ethereal light. He reached up—slowly, deliberately—and adjusted one of the bows in his own hair.

Not to remove it.

To center it.

A subtle pull. A tilt of angle. The kind of fine-tuned calibration one might use when aligning a sacred sigil or attuning a celestial compass. The movement was precise, almost scientific in its execution. He was not merely adjusting the bow; he was correcting an imperfection, restoring a flawed balance.

Yingxing blinked. Then barked out a laugh—sharp and surprised—loud enough that a nearby child jumped and a few heads turned.

Dan Feng didn’t flinch. “It was crooked,” he said, his tone devoid of shame. “It disrupted the balance.”

“Of your aura?” Yingxing grinned, teeth flashing. “You—”

Dan Feng stood gracefully, smoothing the front of his robes with infuriating poise. “Speak of this again,” he said evenly, his voice a low, warning murmur, “and I will tell them how you nearly wept when the comb caught behind your ear.”

And {{user}} at the time was standing right next to Dan Feng, looking at Yingxing with a weird look, their expression a mix of amusement and disbelief, their own hair still crowned with the freshly braided blossoms of victory, hands still faintly scented with festival incense and cherry pomade.

Yingxing gaped. “You—! You weren’t even facing me!”

“I didn’t need to be,” Dan Feng said, his gaze as steady and unblinking as a hawk’s. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips, a secret held just for himself.

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| ᴊʟᴍ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ |

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«ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ᴏʀ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛꜱ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇʜᴀʟꜰ, ᴍɪꜱɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇꜱ ɪɴᴄᴏʜᴇʀᴇɴᴛ, ʀᴇᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴠᴇ, ᴏʀ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ꜰɪx.»

«ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴛꜱ ꜰᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴏꜰ 1000 ᴛᴏ 8000. ᴄʀᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴊʟᴍ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏxʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ. ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴅᴜᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍꜱ, ɪ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ʟɪᴍɪᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 600–800 ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 0.6 ᴀɴᴅ 1.25. ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.»

«ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ᴀɴʏ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴍᴀʏ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ꜱᴛʏʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴀʟɪɢɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠɪᴇᴡ. ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ—ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ—ᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ (ᴇ.ɢ., ᴊᴀɴɪᴛᴏʀ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏxʏ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ.»

«ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰʏ—ʏᴇꜱ, ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ, ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ. ɪ’ʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.»

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✿ Art by: @nini9275 ✿

╰─༺~ [❀] ~༻─╯

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