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There’s a catastrophic female loneliness epidemic happening rn but nobody gaf bc women aren’t going out and hurting people about it we just betray and destroy ourselves for nothing
It's almost like loneliness isn't a gender issue. Maybe just maybe our tech overlords manufactured it to sell us more stuff to fill the void of real genuine human interactions.
i'm not sure if it's just me, but admittedly i feel like a change has been done with infold's writing team. i almost feel like it's some sort of tonal change from the original characters to pander into the fan vision of what the audience wants.
i understand if it's from the amount of content they're constantly pulling out, and time distorting their original vision of these characters. however, there's a lot of glaring issues im beginning to see with this gacha game in itself that stems from a clear lack of communication, lack of met expectations, and clear greed for money.
i myself have my issues with the game itself because of how utterly bloated it's become from events, gameplay, and the new features. not to mention the amount of resources it still takes to level up cards. as much as i do enjoy the fighting functions, i can't log out of the game without harboring a minor headache from feeling so overwhelmed.
i am a lore girlie. i love writing, i love stories. i love watching characters grow. however, seeing the indefinite timeline of these characters growing with us, i fear that they'll tank these characters completely given this is a greedy company.
i just didn't expect to see the signs so soon.
from the writing from the beginning to recent events, the announcements from this company, to recent cards. they're clearly exploiting our fondness for these characters in favor for greed. there's no clear communication with the company to their fanbase, what their goals are, and where they align themselves as a company.
but their actions are clear: it's money.
as an anti-capitalist, i was willing to initially push away the signs for suspension of disbelief. but it's growing more and more obvious, and i fear that the expiration date for this game may be coming sooner than i thought.
i hope the chinese audience of this game continues to pressure/boycott this company to present these issues regarding quality and communication moving forward. :/
tags: neurodivergent!reader x zayne, barista!reader x zayne, comfort, self-indulgent, post-burnout recovery, biblically accurate pre-relationship zayne, pre-relationship dynamics, can be interpreted as platonic, zayne is also neurodivergent fight me
(a/n: um. ✋🏻 hear me out. underrated dynamic w/ zayne ragebaiting you. like ik that's mostly sylus's thing but like. the difference between those two is that zayne would go "yes ma'am" after being told off. sylus,,,, would probably egg you on. anyway. ENJOY.)
zayne didn’t know when it all started. had it been a random monday? a wednesday, maybe? he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. he may have been meticulous with his schedule, but he’s not known to be the most well-versed with time.
it started as a little back and forth between you two. since that day when he began ordering you some drinks, it’s just been a perpetual game of passing notes to each other.
as if they were any better than students in high school.
it was decent enough. a matcha latte. a banana espresso. a hazelnute frappucino. all came with notes on them.
‘work hard today! rest harder!’
‘don’t forget to hydrate! (coffee is not a replacement) xoxo’
‘glad to see you again today! hope to see you tomorrow~’
it was things like that that initially got zayne to write back to you. he had kept all of those cups that you had written to him in a little bag, seperate from the usual tote bags for the pastries that he’d get from your quaint cafe. he had figured it was only natural, that things would progress the way that they did.
after all, it couldn’t be just you that kept things running. for the sake of his pride, he’s a man who knew reciprocation.
as he observed you from his peripherals, he knew you were a person who naturally worked hard. you adapted well to any circumstances thrown at you, but he wonders.. what’s the best way to throw you off?
“why the hell would anyone order something like this?”
your exasperated voice brought zayne back down to earth. he briefly looked up from —zoning out— scanning his medical report to watch you narrow your eyes at your order.
“venti white mocha, quad shot, 2 shots on bottom, two on top. almond milk, extra hot, caramel drizzle.. inside the cup???” you repeat to yourself, staring at your order. “god, what the fuck.”
a lightbulb went off above zayne’s head.
______
“venti iced americano.”
okay, standard.
“five shots decaf with almond milk with extra ice.”
pretty normal.
“eight honey.”
..oh god.
“seven matcha—”
gross???
“—double blended, double cupped, and split into three cups.”
what the shit. you slowly looked up from the register to see zayne staring at you back, expressionless. what a pleb and a pansy for getting drinks double cupped.
“did you just have a bad day or something??” you ask, incredulous. “there’s no way you’re asking me, legitimately, to make this drink.”
zayne just tilts his head, strands of dark hair covering the edges of his eyes. “i am.”
“zayne.”
“it’s the consumer’s rights.”
“zayne.”
“do i not get to have a say in my order?”
“zayne li.”
“i’m paying you for it. i don’t mind paying extra.”
you sigh, rubbing your face. you swear you could see the edges of amusement slowly giving way into the slight gleam in his eyes. it pisses you off, but what are you going to do about it? say no?
zayne receives his drink, not without you giving you a massive side-eye in response. his lips twitched as he carefully picks up the drink you made, without fail.
after all, he couldn’t have ms. barista’s precious drink spill all over him, can he?
in the meticulously double-cupped abomination you’ve made, you’ve written down a note. zayne would recognize the metallic lettering at any time.
‘ if i were a snake, i'd be a boa constrictor because i want to constrict you in my arms. xoxo <3"
___
“trenta iced coffee, 21 SFV, 1% milk, 2 venti scoops of ice, blended for 6 seconds ONLY, split into two trenta cups.”
“tall Pike in a grade cup with toffee nut three pumps a shot extra hot caramel drizzle steamed breve all the way to the top.”
“venti decaf java chip frappuchino, almond milk, five equal, add hazelnut, extra frap chips, whipped cream, extra ice, extra caramel and mocha drizzle inside the cup.”
“decaf coffee frappuchino with 4 equal, almond milk, whipped cream, and extra ice.”
your eye twitches. you think you’re about to strangle zayne on the spot.
but as zayne's eyes glint in the setting sun behind him, you also think you've lost the ability to say no.
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i love that discord doesn't tell you if someone's read your messages. like genuinely. normalize others not needing every second of your time right away. normalize taking time to formulate a proper answer. normalize this.
concept: both you and sylus having a strand of each other's hair braided into each other after grassland romance (or dragon!sylus/archfiend!sylus and sorceress!you having it)
tags: neurodivergent!reader x zayne, barista!reader x zayne, comfort, self-indulgent, post-burnout recovery, biblically accurate pre-relationship zayne, pre-relationship dynamics, can be interpreted as platonic, zayne is also neurodivergent fight me
you were never really the type of person who thought that you were anyone particularly extraordinary. but you weren’t exactly normal either.
you nearly laughed at the concept, because you wished you could.
you wished, desperately so, that you could be described as normal. but that wasn’t exactly the case for you—couldn’t be the case for you—because it was as if everyone around you followed a script, and you weren’t up to date with the words, roles, or expressions. you could only mimic the best you could through trial and error; some that ended with scorned looks and whispers, and others that ended with others describing you as ‘charming’, ‘cheerful’, and ‘magnetic’.
it took years, but you got there. you learned somewhere along the way, that others either outright hated you or loved you.
whatever. you stopped caring a long time ago. you just wished that it could be easier to survive like this.
you had reasoned, between learning your ‘script’ and getting scorned, that to assume a standard of normal was bullshit. within 1.8 billion people in the world, normal was just a standard that only existed within a cultural context of a society.
what exactly is normal anyway?
so then, maybe throw that term out the window. perhaps the right term for you would be.. odd.
you were a bit odd. with you being medicated for one of the handful of mental illnesses you had. but that wasn’t really out of the ordinary for you. maybe the symptoms that aligned a lot with each other. but you are well-adjusted, you swear.
asides from feeling uncomfortable with.. everybody that existed, you knew to get over it quickly. you had even written encouraging notes towards your customers to help you get over that discomfort in social interaction.
( he came as a doctor with a cold pair of hazel eyes, wearing a grey waxed cotton jacket over his light blue scrubs. he always had scarred hands that were freezing to the touch when he handed you over both his card, and a little coupon to afford the sweetest pastries you had. he was quiet, but he’d never treat you any differently in the times you interacted in your early morning shift. )
there was only one man that you felt comfortable with.
there was only one interaction, among the many circles you were in, that made you feel comfortable without having to learn that script others came across.
( 'zayne li' hung from his badge as the doorbell chimed. there was a strange gut feeling that struck you. that somehow, with that blank expression on his face — you weren't the only one who was a bit odd. )
you wondered to yourself if he’d arrive again today at this hour.
in your little cafe, you didn’t have to mask as much. for now. there were barely any people in here at this hour, at.. five o’clock in the morning.
not that you were complaining. it’s been a long, long week.
you wiped down previous stickiness of the tables, scrubbing away the last traces of a coffee stain on a counter. as you threw away your latex gloves into the bin, a cold gust of wind overtook you once the entrance opened.
“hello sir, may i take your order?” you asked, forcing your voice to be as light and pleasant as possible. as you lifted your eyes, the tension wound up around your shoulders relaxed.
a pair of hazel eyes behind spectacles stared back at you.
they were neutral, but the fleeting glint of recognition glinted behind his lens. his dark hair remained immaculate since the first day you met him, his scarred fingers adjusting the scarf around his neck. he raised his brows.
you pursed your lips in an awkward smile.
zayne tilts his head agreeably. “yes. one matcha latte please.”
you nodded, letting the smile slip from your face. you exhaled deeply when you started narrowing in on the register, focusing on tapping the right order. “right. anything else?”
those eyes, green and gold speckled in his irises, peered at your soul for a moment longer. “and one banana nut loaf. warmed up.”
“of course.” you nod, discreetly glancing at his badge.
the name tag clipped on his breast pocket: zayne li, shone underneath the bright headlights. it swung around when he leaned over to hand his loyalty card. you took it, eyes flickering down to the tag for a bit.
he’s right on time. you didn’t know why you were getting so antsy.
“by the way,” you cleared your throat, stamping it. “it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“it has,” confirms zayne, then he tilts his head as he studies you.
“..what?”
“you haven’t resting properly, have you?”
“oh! i-” you fumbled over your words, your voice a little bit hoarse from underuse from the past few days. the words stretched in your mouth like chewing hard taffy, hands hovering over the register. “i didn’t—well, no. no, not—” you laughed helplessly. “not really.”
zayne only hums, then turns around to sit at a table to pull out his phone. he falls into the background after — nonchalant and quiet. per usual.
as you turned your back to get to work on his order. it took you a good fifteen minutes to get the milk and water ready, and five seconds to whisk the matcha.
before that, you couldn’t forget your favorite part: writing on the cup.
‘always so sharp with your deductions. spare some braincells for the rest of us, and don’t be like me. rest properly, don’t be too dependent on caffeine. not that im complaining about your visits.
sincerely, your on-call barista. <3’
zayne came again at a random tuesday.
you don’t know how it led up to it — there wasn’t any particular trigger that made it feel as if everything felt so.. numb. as far as you knew, it was always onto the next thing. onto the next project, next event, next customer. one thing after another.
life never waited for you. it would never stop to let you breathe, and why should it?
maybe it was inevitable then, that your body broke down that day.
your head frantically span as you sat yourself down in the break room, bringing your knees up to your chest. you tried desperately to keep yourself awake, but darkness spotted your vision every time you tried standing up.
“no.” a familiar tenor met your ears, cold and firm. “sit back down.”
several coworkers spared concerned glances your way as you stumbled onto your feet from the register. your dress swayed across your knees as you wobbled across the ground, feet nearly hitting the counter. you felt so disoriented, that you didn’t even notice the door chiming open when it opened.
ah.. this wasn’t good. you still needed to get your regular’s favorite pastries out the oven..
you instinctually waved it off. “no, i’m fi—”
“no if’s, and’s, or but’s. sit. your boss sent you on break.” the voice was clearer by the day, slow and clear in its enunciation.
….zayne?
your eyes landed on his familiar form hovering above you. he stands near the guest chair you were situated on, about ready to sit down right next to you. there’s a plastic bag in one hand holding all the pastries he accumulated, and an espresso cup on the other.
you furrow your brows in confusion before you looked at the clock above you.
twelve o’clock at midnight. you blinked twice in disbelief. “you— huh? i thought you normally have operations at this hour?”
“i was let off early. seems like that was a good thing as you seemed like you were running on fumes.” zayne observes, settling next to you. “role models should exemplify good behavior, not enable bad ones.”
you let out an amused exhale through your nose. “well… it’s on the others to learn from their predecessors.”
“…since when has that worked?”
“since now. aren’t you a full-grown adult?”
zayne rolls his eyes, setting down his drink in front of you before pushing it to your direction. “hm. well, it seems clear that i don't need these anymore. but i think you do."
taken aback, you look at him. “wait. that’s your drink. is that really okay?”
“i bought it for you. i told you, it’s fine.”
your fingers delicately traced the rim of the cup for a bit. your eyes linger on zayne’s form hesitantly, before you turned the cup to see what kind of order it was. and there, inscribed on its white cardboard:
‘you underestimate yourself too much. however, i will say the warning came in late as much as i do try to emphasize the balance between work and personal lives.
i appreciate your concern. you might need this hazelnut latte more than i do. 𖹭
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May I ask how the lads men react to reader if they start dissociating in public after feeling extremely anxious all day 😩
combined these two!! also i was initially gonna write these for everyone seperately but then. they all sounded the same
He can feel you withdrawing immediately. He could already tell that something was off when the two of you went out but you were convinced that nothing was wrong. Secretly, you were just more worried about upsetting him by rejecting his request to go out today, knowing that he needed some time with you. However, you can't help that uncomfortable feeling prickling up your neck, words getting a little bit more difficult as you try to figure out if there'd be any store that you'd feel a little safer in considering how busy the plaza seems. Everything starts to irritate you, snapping a little at him as he tries to talk to you before you just decide you've had enough, following after him mechanically.
You go quiet, even more so than usual. He could feel the anxious energy radiating off of you, not mentioning it as he silently leads you back to his car. Without saying anything he'll start driving the two of you home, letting you sit in silence as you try to ground yourself. He'll give you a bit of space in hopes of giving you the opportunity to come back to him. He waits until you reach out to him before saying anything, making sure you're ready to be spoken to again after everything that happened.
If for whatever reason the two of you can't go home he'll just pull you to the side. He'll find a quiet place for the two of you to sit, holding your hands in his as he waits for you to come down from your overstimulation or come back from your disassociation. He'll lean your head on his shoulder, messing around with his phone in silence next to you. He doesn't want to add to your distress after all and when it comes to you, he's got all the patience in the world.
my least favorite literary smut turn of phrase is when a guy is like “im gonna ruin this pussy” “im gonna wreck this pussy for anyone else” like stop.. thats not yours…!
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even after 214 years on earth, the nightmares persist.
Xavier nightmare hurt/comfort fic inspired by To Your Yesterday and his Shining Traces 4*
this is a two-part fic, part two can be found here
Ი𐑼 ♪⋆.✮ ─────────────────── ★ ˙ ̟｡
It’s well into the night when Xavier finally wakes up. Midnight yawns, darkness stretching through the room, heavy, foreboding, strange.
It’s a subtle difference that only the trained senses of a Light Evol user would be able to perceive. Darkness didn’t end at sight— Xavier could feel it seep through his flesh, sinking into the marrow of his bones. Yet, it wasn’t unfamiliar.
He runs a hand through his hair, contemplating the foreign familiarity of his bedroom. Leather chafes his forehead, and he stills. Curiously, he flexes his gloved hand, his fingers snugly moving within the fabric. Gloves? He certainly didn’t sleep with those. The rough brush of his gloves against his face is interrupted by a familiar rip in the fabric. Not just any gloves— his Lightseeker uniform.
Xavier glances down at his hands, but nothing meets his gaze. Light blooms from his fingertips for a moment. A blink, and it’s extinguished. He sighs, suspicions confirmed by the absence of warmth.
A nightmare.
He bitterly closes his eyes at the realization. After a moment, he opens them again.
The scene changes.
Mist curls around him, opaque tendrils dissipating at the brush of his fingers. Within seconds, they reappear, coiling around his hand again. It’s this kind of push-and-pull that he hates the most, the brief moment he’s awarded hope before despair so cruelly clamps around his throat. Xavier remains perched on the edge of the bed, waiting.
Nothing happens.
He didn’t mind. After all, Xavier was quite good at waiting. Patience was a virtue, and he was a virtuous prince. Or at least, he’d been expected to be for the better part of 400 years. Old habits die hard.
He steadies his heart for what’s to come. He strains his eyes in the dark, tracing the vague lines of the thatched cottage room above from his memory. He didn’t need to see it to know it was there. His fingers skim the hard mattress beneath him. At least some semblance of this dream was still solid. They catch on a thin, tattered blanket. The periwinkle fabric has long decayed since he first arrived here, and now he can feel the rough threads fraying at the edges.
A few beats pass.
Exhausted, Xavier relents to the dream. It took quite a few runs to figure it out— the vaguely game-like dream sequence wouldn’t progress until he did its bidding. He never stopped trying to stall it, though— that sort of stubbornness came easy to him. He’d ignored the well-tread path of fate to forge his own uneven trail right next to it. But for now, he’ll play along.
Xavier leans against the hard body of the mattress; It doesn’t creak under his weight. The room seemed to exist in a cosmic vacuum; no sound arose from any of his movements. He can’t hear the beating of his own heart, only feel the irregular drumbeat of his pulse echoing in his chest. He places his hand over his heart, desperate to cling to the faint reverb of it. It’s the only indication that he’s alive— and as long as he was alive, he’d always make his way back to you. He promised, after all. Xavier Shen wasn’t one to break promises.
At another stretch of nothingness, Xavier relents to the whims of his subconsciousness. Sleep, it speaks. He pulls the thin sheet over his body. The threadbare rag barely covers his torso, blanketing his midriff alone. It offers no warmth, but he lets himself pretend. It’s after he’s peacefully settled that the odour hits him, assaulting his senses. Heavy, foreboding, familiar.
Decay.
He sits upright with a start. Xavier instinctively reaches for the other side of the bed. There isn’t anything there, he knows, he’s known the last hundred times he’s done this. But he reaches anyway, because something is different this time. Something is wrong. Wronger even in this nightmarish dreamscape.
His fingers catch on something long, a weapon, he realizes. For a second, hope glimmers within the depths of his soul. The inevitability of space-time on which his dreams had been pillared on had now collapsed. His actions had changed something.
Xavier pulled it toward him, his belated realization drawing a noiseless sound from his throat. A human spine. At its apex, a skull. The soulless, fleshless remnant of life gleams white in the vast darkness, its empty sockets locked into his.
From the depths of the fog, a scream erupts.
…
Xavier runs his hand through his hair, slick with sweat. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his back, soaked in trepidation.
The guilt doesn’t get any easier after 214 years. It was just another perk of being near-immortal— he’d remain trapped in this body, encased in eternal youth as his soul decays. Philosians weren’t the type to get attached, knowing their fates. And yet, Xavier foolishly believed the path he’d carved for himself would lead him elsewhere, let him defy the nature of his being to be with you.
He couldn’t change fate. You were destined to die, no matter what he did, and he’d sworn to find you as long as his heart kept beating. But what after that? When the clock of his life had ceased to tick, and you’d remained a knightless queen waiting for a dead star for an eternity? How much longer could he go on like this?
It was easier to bear the guilt when he was asleep, but even that momentary reprieve has been stolen away from him. Once his breathing steadies, Xavier dares himself to look at you, slumbering away next to him. His pupils trail your undulating chest. He leans back against the bedframe, a small sigh escaping him.
You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive. And as long as you’re alive, as long as you’re safe and within his reach, it was okay. He’d bear the weight of it all on his shoulders for you.
“I hope your dreams are sweet,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse with emotion. He lightly pinches your cheek. “At least one of us deserves to be happy.”
He takes the flutter of your lashes as an affirmation of his wish.
