#some memories are just too difficult to recall ... or acknowledge

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: A lover's embrace is often all the comfort one needs. Your companions show you, through their touch, just how much your bond means to them.

[Lae'zel x Reader/Tav, Gale x Tav, Astarion x Tav cuddle headcanons]

Genres: Romance, fluff, humour, angst.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

(This turned out a lot more romantic and sentimental than the humour/fluff I'd planned. Either way, hope you enjoy it, lovely readers!)

Lae'zel: Dodge and Feint

In all fairness, you hadn't expected her to be party to softer forms of affection.

When all of this had started between you, it had been the result of a rather bold proposition after a difficult battle. Lae'zel had warmed to your fighting prowess, and your first time with her had reflected all of that desire, and more.

What you hadn't expected was the depth of respect, passion and acceptance you'd received from her, when you considered that in her eyes, you'd started off as a specimen of a weaker species with a nose that was too long for comfort.

If you'd been in her shoes, you're not sure you'd find yourself attractive.

Those thoughts aside, you'd found yourself wondering at times, whether you'd be able to persuade her to appreciate other things too. The softer side of affection, touch specifically, had always appealed to you.

You hadn't dared suggest as such to her yet, but you'd be lying if you hadn't fantasized about her strong arms holding you close, the tickle of her braids over your collarbone, the steady beat of her heart against your back.

But how to proceed?

Lae'zel was a tough nut to crack. You'd considered the direct approach; simply asking her outright for a cuddle. The images your mind threw up as a response made you choke on your tea. She might just coldly turn you down, and somehow, that seemed a lot worse than being punched in the face.

And yet ...

On a particular afternoon, after trekking through the mountains, your exhausted band had camped out on a rocky outcrop. The sky was an embroidered masterpiece above you, adorned with pearly stars stitched by some heavenly hand.

Blanket draped across your shoulders, you'd brought a steaming drink of mulled wine to Lae'zel, courtesy of Gale's stash of recipes. She'd glanced up at you silently, accepting the vessel.

You seated yourself beside her, before inching closer. She showed no sign of feeling the cold.

"The stars look beautiful tonight."

She turned her gaze upward, fingers curling tightly around the cup in her hand.

"I've seen the stars, up close. Most are chunks of cold, empty rock, without even the memory of a single soul's tread. They are beautiful, I suppose, in their loneliness."

Something in her description caught at your mind, causing you to glance sideways at her.

"And once you leave your tread on them? Do you think they retain some fondness of that moment?"

"Stars have no soul."

"And if they did?"

She snorted and took a sip of her drink.

"You ask the oddest questions."

"You seem to like them. Most of the time."

You offer a cheeky grin in response to her sharp look.

"You assume a great deal."

Emboldened, you shift up until your side is pressed to hers, before passing the blanket across her shoulders and tugging the end snugly back towards you, effectively wrapping you both within the soft, comfortable folds.

She didn't move, but raised her eyebrow at your actions.

"I don't recall saying that I was cold."

"Maybe you're not. Maybe you are. It's my job as your chosen partner to wrap you in a blanket either way."

"Hmm. More presumption. What do you gain from this? You'd feel warmer if the blanket was wrapped more firmly around just you."

Your voice grew softer, almost hoping she'd let the comment pass without acknowledgement.

"I like this better."

"This?"

"Being close to you."

She remained still and silent for the rest of the time, but you noted that she'd made no move to remove herself from your proximity.

In the course of your short relationship with her, you'd found that Lae'zel was highly observant, mentally recording a lot of the things you said and did, only to produce that knowledge later in the most unexpected ways.

A few days after that night camped on the mountain, she'd suggested a sparring session, with no weapons involved. You'd eagerly agreed, deciding that your hand-to-hand combat skills needed some practice.

Not that you'd appreciate being flung down into the dirt multiple times, but it was certainly better than being caught lacking in a decisive battle.

And Lae'zel had proven herself an efficient, if somewhat ruthless teacher.

You readied yourself for the session, stretching your muscles and hopping back and forth, limbering up. Lae'zel took a sip of water from her canteen before closing the top, joining you in the open glade near camp that you'd chosen for this session.

She didn't give you the grace of an easy start, as you knew she wouldn't. Her hands darted out, landing a series of sharp jabs against your ribs, so rapid that you didn't feel anything at first, but then the impact kicked in and you winced.

You took courage from the fact that just a month ago, you'd probably have been doubled over in pain. Lae'zel had certainly conditioned you well.

Regaining your balance, you swept your leg out, watching  as she nimbly leapt back. You hadn't managed to knock her over, but you'd put some space between you.

Circling, watching her follow your motions, you felt a shiver pass down your spine. Lae'zel's demeanour shifted, very subtly, during sparring. You gained a taste of the way she faced her opponents in battle, focused, predatory, a born hunter stalking its intended prey.

You feinted high and swung a blow that actually landed on her side. You felt the muscles of her abdomen clench, absorbing the impact before her hand closed around your wrist and she tugged sharply. The momentum behind your swing had you catapulting forward, off balance, right into her powerful hold.

Your feet left the ground, and you heard her grunt as you turned the tables, throwing your full weight back. She went down, but her hold on you never slackened.

Breathing hard, you squirmed in her grasp, but she stayed firm, one arm looped around your torso, keeping your arms trapped at your sides.

You huffed out a frustrated breath. You'd really thought you'd had her for a moment. More fool you.

Tilting your head back against her shoulder, you gave your concession.

"All right, this round goes to you."

"Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. It'll take much more training before you can best me."

"Thought I did get lucky for a moment there."

She remained silent, but you noticed that she hadn't released you from her hold.

"Lae'zel?"

"What is it?"

"Are we ... continuing?"

She didn't answer, but her grip around you loosened enough for you to free your arms. You turned slightly.

"Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," she snapped.

"Then why have you stopped?"

Her put-upon sigh blew against the shell of your ear, warm, almost gentle.

"I thought you liked this."

"What? Being wrestled to the ground?"

"No, you imbecile! Being close to me."

The pieces suddenly slotted together in your head with stunning clarity.

She'd wanted to offer you physical proximity, and offering a sparring match in a secluded area, away from the prying eyes of others, had obviously been the logical conclusion in her mind.

You almost laughed, but then decided that this would be a very, very bad idea.

Instead, you sighed happily and leaned back in her embrace, head tucking beneath her chin.

"You thought right. I do like this."

"Hmph. So easily pleased. You should be glad I volunteered this training session. Otherwise, you'd just have to go without."

Her triumphant (rather smug) tone sparked a surge of something unbearable in your chest, a yearning you hadn't know you were capable of feeling.

How did she manage to do this to you?

Even with her clumsy, abrupt manner, her biting comments, her quick and sharp reprimands, her stand-offish nature, Lae'zel had somehow rendered herself so vulnerable to you.

You could feel it in the way she pressed her cheek to the top of your head, you could see it in the way she trusted you to lead her. You could sense it in the way her words reached you, always sincere and spoken from the purest of fires that burned within her, a warrior's constant in your cosmic equation.

And when her lips find yours, the latticework of the trees above you seem to open up further, exposing the arch of the sky, and your fingers find their way into her hair, sinking into the sweet hope of traversing that endless plane alongside her someday.

Gale: Materials and Method

"So, I've heard ... "

You downed the last of the healing potion and looked quizzically across at Gale.

He cleared his throat and stirred the pot with a little more vigour.

"I've heard ... no, read, a treatise on the healing power of touch. You know. To make you feel better after ... large and potentially traumatic events."

You grinned at him.

"And where did you find this treatise? Sharess's Caress?"

He shot you a reprimanding look, betrayed a little by the way his mouth twitched.

"Hmm. I don't think we're talking about the same written work on the subject of intimacy, although, dare I say, both have their merit."

You propped your chin on your hands, your breathing now a little easier as you felt the potion go to work on the bruising around your ribs.

The bandits you'd encountered in the hills had gone down fairly quickly to your party's combined attacks, but not before getting in a few blows of their own.

"So tell me, what does your treatise say?"

"Well, it speaks of the psychological benefits, all well researched, mind you, of maintaining skin to skin contact with someone you are already ... attached to. Someone you care for."

"And how are any of these things measurable?"

"Ah, through the release of certain hormones in the blood. Those can be measured."

"Is it really as simple as that?"

He was quiet for a time, gaze distracted.

"There was a time when I thought it was. That perhaps, love could be quantified. That its increments over time could be precisely measured by how much ... one gave. And how much was taken."

"And now?" you prompted him, gently.

"Now, I don't prescribe to the same school of thought."

He turned to you and smiled, that familiar warmth you'd come to associate with Gale's regard passing pleasantly over your features, as if touched by some invisible sun.

"Now ... well, I don't know what I believe. Let's just say that I'm ... open to conducting more research."

"Are you now?"

"Indeed, I am. A fortunate position to be in, don't you think?"

You laughed and watched him stir the stew for a while. You were fully aware of what he had done, setting out the offer for you, waiting patiently for you to turn it over in your hands, consider it from all angles, and decide if you'd give your consent or not.

In actuality, your mind had been made up some time ago.

"So, is there any way I could help you with your research?"

"There most certainly is."

His answer came a little too quickly, and your expression grew sly as you noticed the embarrassed flush steal up his neck.

"All right. Humour me, Master Gale. Where does all research begin?"

"With a question."

"How do I know if I'm asking the right one?"

"You have to refine it. Make it as concise as possible."

"Hmm. Here goes then. Gale, would you like to position your arms around me?"

"That's the wrong question. The real one should be- "

"About the benefits of embracing someone. I'm aware."

"Then - "

"Let's cut to the chase and begin experimenting?"

He uttered a soft laugh, one infinitely full of affection. Rising, he approached you with playful deliberation, pausing before you, one hand on his chin.

"I'm simply taking a moment to check whether you're ... receptive to my experiment."

You drew your knees together and raised your voice in a piteous falsetto.

"Oh, what foul Gods have sent this mountain breeze my way? I am so very cold. If only a warm and toasty man, of the scholarly persuasion, could come by and warm me."

Gale checked off a point on one of his fingers.

"It seems my services are required after all."

He resumed his steady pacing around your form.

"Next, I should observe the reactions before and after an embrace. Does it really have the intended effect, or can my subject survive quite well without it?"

You collapsed sideways across the log you were seated on.

"Oh, I am about to perish from this cold and loneliness. If only there was a man with a handsome beard, smelling slightly of stew, to come by and deliver sustenance to my soul."

"Ah. It seems they are both cold and lonely. A frightful combination, to be sure."

Gale was now right behind you, both hands coming to rest on your shoulders. His touch was light, but the weight of intention laid heavy across you both. He began to move his palms in soft soothing circles, beginning at the tops of your arms and slowly traversing the slope of your shoulders.

"Now, how does this feel?"

"Quite marvelous. I feel like I may be cured in no time."

"Never rush to conclusions like that. A true scholar would question the validity of what they feel in this moment. Does it really make you feel good?"

"Are you ... fishing for compliments under the guise of scientific inquiry?"

"I am merely following the method. Wiser men than me speak for its merits, you know."

"Well, wiser men seem to be beating about the bush an awful lot. It feels wonderful, Gale."

There was a pause before you felt him shift, the material of his trousers scraping across the log as he stepped over it and positioned himself in front of you. You took his outstretched hand, standing to face him.

"Looks like the spirit of experimentation is growing bolder."

He shook his head, shoulders heaving with silent laughter.

"You've played along wonderfully so far. Don't stop now."

"Oh, fine then."

You straightened and met his eye, shivering slightly in anticipation at what you'd seemingly kindled there.

"What next?"

"Put your hands on my shoulders."

When you complied, he stepped into your space, breath fanning along the flesh of your ear.

"And now for the final determination. The proving of my hypothesis, so to speak."

His arms slid around your waist, gentle, enclosing you in everything he was, his hold always considerate, but firm. You felt the light scratch of his beard against the side of your neck and inhaled sharply.

"And what is your hypothesis?"

"That this is most beneficial indeed."

"I have to agree."

You felt the curve of his lips against your skin, the tightening of his arms as he drew you close, enveloping you in his scent. Your hand found the nape of his neck, running up into the flow of his hair.

He inhaled deeply, taking you in, before he froze, gripping your waist and moving you a little further away. In the dim light, his eyes gleamed with amusement and chagrin.

"I do believe, in my desire to test this hypothesis, that I've managed to burn the stew."

Astarion: Practice makes perfect

He was staring again.

You could feel his gaze tracing along your skin, like molten threads of metal through a sword, fresh from the forge.

Making the journey from the Shadow-cursed lands (now no longer under the hold of Ketheric Thorm), had been slow at first. Your party was exhausted after the battle at Moonrise Towers.

Even though you had taken respite afterwards, the imperative nature of your mission to overthrow the Absolute was pressing. You compromised by setting a steady pace towards  Baldur's Gate, frequently stopping to rest and re-supply.

As occupied as your thoughts were with what awaited you in the city, there was another puzzle to be unraveled.

Astarion's recent behaviour.

Since your encounter with the drow blood merchant, Araj Oblodra, there had been some revelations in your relationship with him. Astarion had come clean about his original 'plan' to seduce you, and his own budding feelings that had put an end to it.

As much as you were still processing what it all meant, you couldn't help the spark of hope that

flared every time you looked at him and saw the genuine softness and affection, the well-concealed pleasure he took in your company.

And now, there was something new. This ... watchfulness, for want of a better term.

You couldn't make head or tail of it.

He seemed to be waiting to ambush you at every dark corner in camp, his flowery drawl snaring you every time you passed his tent. He sat with you while you ate, even considering his distaste for regular food. Sometimes, you'd check your clothing and find new embroidery or repairs, probably done in the dead of night.

All this was well and good. You could accept the attention, and lavish him with your own, but he seemed to be ... expecting something from you, and you couldn't possibly make out what it was.

It was obvious that he was growing rather impatient with your lack of discernment. Once, you'd given him a peck on the cheek to say good night and you'd spied the flash of hurt that had lingered in his eyes for a moment, covered up instantly with charm and wit.

It was bothering you to no end.

What did he want from you? Why wouldn't he come out and say it?

On one particular night, the thoughts he'd inspired left you tossing and turning, sleep evading you. Rolling onto your back, you stared at the roof of your tent.

Right. No answers there.

It was then that you heard it; a soft tread just outside. Raising your head slightly, you listened carefully, one hand inching beneath your bedroll for the knife you kept handy there.

The footsteps stopped, then started up again. You realised that the person was pacing. Up and down. To and fro. It went on for some time, with pauses in between.

You put the knife back.

No assassin would be this indecisive. And besides, you recognised that tread. Your senses had all but made it highly familiar.

You called softly into the night.

"Astarion?"

The footfalls stopped abruptly.

"I know you're there. Come inside. It's so cold out."

There was a pause before he pushed the flap aside and crawled in. The dim glow from the campfire filtered into your tent, outlining him in flickering shadow.

He sat cross-legged, silent.

You waited for a few seconds before inching across to him, wrapping your blanket around his shoulders and retreating.

He uttered a small sound of frustration.

"Why do you do that? I'm not made of glass you know."

You frowned. He sounded ... tired. A trifle bitter.

"Do what?"

"You know what."

"Astarion."

You took his hand, feeling his strong, cool fingers clench convulsively around yours.

"You need to speak to me. I really have no idea what's been troubling you."

"You ... it's ... why do you avoid me? What have I done wrong? Are you ... regretting being together with me? Is it not enough? I knew it couldn't be enough. Why else would you ... "

You held up a hand to stem the confused flow of words, bewildered.

"What are you talking about? I've never once avoided you. I love being with you. You know that."

He was watching you again, eyes flicking between yours, as if to catch some hint of insincerity.

He found none, of course. You felt some of the tension leave his body, but your question still remained unanswered.

"You need to tell me. Why do you think I avoid you? And when?"

He shifted, dropping your hand and taking a deep, bracing breath.

"Do you remember the night we ... spoke. After meeting with that drow merchant?"

"Of course."

"Well ... why haven't you come to my tent since then?"

He waved his hands wildly, as if to grasp answers from the air.

"I'm pretty certain that I don't smell bad, for an undead being. And I'm beautiful, that much goes without saying. My hair hasn't been at its best in recent times, I admit, but plant extracts are rather hard to come by in the Shadowlands, darling, and I - "

You snorted incredulously.

"Are you serious? You really think any of that would put me off you?"

"Well, obviously something has. You don't ... you haven't ... "

He cut off, head lowered, hands braced on his knees. This was evidently difficult for him.

Reaching out, you gently stroked his cheek, a flutter of something vital and warm surfacing as he leaned into your touch.

This foolish, foolish man.

But you had to choose your words carefully.

"Astarion, I haven't been avoiding you at all. I was just ... giving you space. You trusted me with the knowledge of everything you've had to endure. I wanted to let you ... come to me on your own terms and ... oh."

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realised what you'd done. Falling silent, you lowered your gaze.

He folded his arms.

"Oh indeed. You're truly dense at times, my sweet."

"But I - "

His finger laid itself across your lips as you opened your mouth to protest.

"Gods, you're the most lovely, silly, frustrating ... idiot I've ever had the misfortune to meet."

You scowled under his silencing finger, but the relief in his voice was so palpable that you couldn't help the smile that bloomed in quick succession. You reached up and caught his wrist, lowering his hand.

"So, you want me to ... not be quite as considerate of your space as I've been."

"One would think you'd get the idea, considering how I've been invading yours. Not your brightest moment, my love."

A laugh bubbled up in your throat.

"So that's what all of that was about."

"I'm so glad you noticed my bounteous desire for your company."

"All right then. Now that we've cleared the air ... what would you like me to do?"

He scoffed, some of his old panache returning. A welcome change.

"Honestly. Can you not remember a thing about that night?"

"Wait, what?"

"The thing you did."

"Eh?"

"Gods below, I've developed feelings for a deep rothé."

"Can you just tell me - "

"This," he hissed, before leaning forward and wrapping both arms around you. He released you almost instantly, observing your face with attentiveness. The firelight turned the ruby hue of his eyes to something darker, more desperate. In spite of his light-hearted banter, he was -

"Astarion."

Your voice was so full of tenderness, so soft, that you saw him flinch from it.

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Well, it's not exactly - "

It was your turn to silence him, finger lightly grazing his lips. He took a shaky breath.

"What the fuck is this? Why is this so damnably difficult?"

"It's not. We just ... both of us just ... need to learn how to speak about things, I suppose. That's ... simple. Once you get the hang of it."

His voice had lowered to a whisper.

"It is?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure myself. But we'll start with this."

You held out your arms and he approached eagerly, slinging the blanket over both your shoulders. His unusually graceless movement pushed you off balance, and you tumbled back with a huff of amusement, tugging him down with you, his head knocking against the bridge of your nose.

"Ouch!"

"Lae'zel was right. Your nose is too big."

"What are your elbows made of? Gondian steel?"

"All the better to prod you with, my dear."

After a series of scuffling movements, you finally found yourself lying on your back, his head propped on your shoulder, just beneath your chin. Soft curls brushed your cheek as he shifted, his arm curling possessively around your body, leg sliding over yours.

His scent was familiar, breathtakingly so. It pervaded your senses, the sharp stringency of the soap at the Last Light Inn, the faint citrus essence of his hair cream, the smokiness of burning wood from where he'd sat too close to the fire.

You hadn't realised, until that moment, how you'd needed to hold him like this once again, the immediacy of his presence a comfort beyond words.

He raised his head slightly, mouth now on level with your ear. You felt the shift of muscle beneath his shirt, the slide of his hand against your ribs.

"Can we fall asleep like this? Every night?"

"We can."

"You ... really don't mind?"

You turned over, now facing him, your breath dancing across his lips.

In the dark, you couldn't see much detail, but you knew the lie of his features as well as the most well-traced map. Reaching up, you passed fingers lightly over his eyes, mouth, ears, nose, chin.

Your devstatingly handsome rogue. Your shadow dancer. Yours, in all his vulnerability, within these fragile canvas walls.

"I want to wake up to your face. On every morning until ... "

His lips silenced you, opening in unspoken passion against yours. When he parted from you, it was no loss. His entire body was pressed against the length of yours, and your arms had found their way around him again, holding him the way he had desired beyond anything.

"Don't. Don't say more. Just fall asleep with me."

"Just like that?"

You felt him smile into your hair.

"I suppose it''s simple, darling. Once you get the hang of it."

[destinysbounty]

I think I wouldn't mind Zane's NPC-ification quite as much as I do, if it didn't feel like they were also retconning the fact that he was ever a person to begin with.

Like, sure, I totally understand. Dragons Rising has a huge ensemble cast, and the RGB trio + new ninja are the clear focus. And I don't mind that! Everyone who does get proper narrative attention is written so wonderfully and I adore what we have. But...sometimes it feels like they're just kinda divvying up everything that makes Zane who he is and giving it to everyone else, and never even briefly acknowledging Zane's ties to those traits.

Remember when Zane used to have prophetic dreams foretelling future events? Me neither. Hey Lloyd, how are your visions coming along?

Or, y'know how one of Zane's most integral plot lines, character details, and motifs is his struggles with memory and identity? Remember that time he got amnesia and was then both manipulated and magically corrupted into being a villain? Nah that never happened, anyway check out what Jay is up to now

Or, does anyone recall how Zane is a canonically really good cook with pies so delicious they made Jay cry on screen? No that's Arin's thing, actually

Heck, we even have our quota of ~Silly Robot Beep Boop Bop~ jokes fulfilled by Lobbo!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not hating on any of the other characters for having these traits. Nor am I arguing that Zane should have a singular monopoly on these types of storylines. But when they take traits that have for so long been primarily associated with Zane, like cooking and visions and amnesia, and share them with someone else without even briefly acknowledging Zane's prior involvement...idk. It just feels like they're trying to repackage all the things that make Zane interesting while still writing him out of the narrative. It feels like they're going "whaat? Zane, have personality outside of being a generic robot character?? That never happened!" Like they're just trying to have their nindroid and kill him too.

And I mean, to some extent I can understand their hesitation. It's the same reason the Mr. E/Echo reveal got scrapped in s8 - theres just way too much going on right now, and the narrative load required to explain somwthing this complicated during a reboot/sequel would just bog down an already very complicated story. Zane has a very convoluted backstory that, for new fans dropping in to the sequel series for the first time, may be difficult to explain. How do you recap Zane's history with amnesia in a neat an tidy way for the next gen story, when there's already so much going on?

Like i said, i get that. But they could at least make, like, brief blink-and-youll-miss-it allusions, yknow? Like how they played the Ice Emperor theme during Zane's existential crisis during drs1, or when Zane told Zanth not to follow dancing birds in drs3. Tasteful, subtle, doesn't require much insider knowledge and newer fans could easily interpret it as a noodle incident comment without losing out on their comprehension.

Maybe after Jay gets eliminated from the Tournament, Zane offers to go after him saying, "I've lost myself once or twice before. If anyone understands what he's going through, it's me." And if you want to preserve the plot unobstructed, maybe you can have it so that either Zane fails to get through to Jay or Jay is gone without a trace before he can get to him. Maybe there's a brief scene of Zane making a pie to try and cheer Sora up, but she can't eat it because it reminds her too much of Arin. Or maybe Lloyd has a panic attack over his visions and Zane is the one to offer him the advice about not fighting the vision and letting it come naturally.

Don't you see how easy that is? You would change literally nothing about the story at large, and you're not detracting from the main plotlines or character arcs that are quite validly dominating this series. But you're also throwing a bone to the people who actually like Zane. Like???? I'm not even asking for much here, man :/

Idk. Maybe I'm just bitter and need to touch grass, who's to say

[mirrology]

I wonder how will the reader in the itoshi brothers x male reader view the snow after the fight of his older brothers there

NOYADE ❛ ❁. ━━ (n.) an execution carried out by drowning. / UN.

❛ ⟡. blue lock, itoshi brothers & male reader. platonic. wc: 1.2k

❛ ⟡ ━━ reader sure is going through it!!! , reader isn't into football ,, communication? I barely know her , more alnst world memories ,, reader misses people who he doesn't even remember , some wholesome moments with Rin & Sae at the end ,, reader, Rin and Sae no longer share a room. this surprisingly took a while （；´д｀）ゞ

❝ It's not the room. Not beginning. Not the crowd. Not winning. ❞ 𓂅 not, big thief.

You lay in the cold embrace of the snow, staring at the gray sky in contemplation. Your arms were slack and spread out in a starfish pose, having just finished making a snow angel. You took a deep breath, feeling the frigid air rush into your lungs, and it hurt as if needles were sinking into them. You shifted to your side, and the iciness of the snow touched your cheek, melting instantly upon contact with your skin.

You closed your eyes, undoubtedly exhausted from the events that had transpired only days ago. Sae had come back from his trip to Spain. You had been watching Rin practice Football from the sidelines after his match since you never got into it like your brothers, nor did you have the talent to.

The eldest walked onto the field. His face had changed since his youth. It was a sad sight; he looked tired. Despite his expression, you felt happy to see him. Next thing you knew, things went south. Sae told Rin that he had given up on his dream, and Rin didn't take it lightly. Hurtful things were said, and you were not acknowledged. Not even once.

You watched with wide eyes and a heavy feeling in your chest as the once fruitful relationship between them crumbled before you. It was cold, too cold. Your hands shook, you were frozen in place as cold beads of sweat ran down your face. You felt useless.

Sae had given you a single glance as he left, a look that sent shivers through your body. Your eyes burned with the urge to cry, but you didn't. You couldn't. Shedding tears was difficult and it was hard to think about it. Instead, here you were, drowning in memories of a fleeting past. The image of music sheets and a boy with silver hair surfaced from the depths of your mind, presented in snippets.

There were two others: one girl had black hair, while the other girl had the brightest pink hair you had ever seen. That was all you recalled, and it frustrated you.

The snow surrounding you melted into your winter coat, ruining the snow angel you had created just moments before. An itch in your nose snapped you out of your daydream, causing your face to scrunch up in discomfort.

You let out a sneeze, which made you open your bleary eyes. Reaching up, you wiped under your nose, cringing in disgust as watery boogers stained the sleeve of your coat.

You returned to your original position by flopping down to your back, groaning as you suddenly felt queasy. Footsteps crunched in the fallen snow as a person walked up to you. A shadow covered the lower half of your body and a familiar voice spoke. "What are you doing?" Rin raised an eyebrow at your dazed expression.

He had changed in these past few days. His outgoing personality had become more closed off and harsher, although not much to you. You merely grunted back at him, too tired to reply verbally. You raised your arms at him, opening and clenching your hands again and again to emphasize that you wanted him to pull you up.

Rin deadpanned up but did what you asked anyway. You stumbled a little as you stood upright as a wave of nausea hit you like a truck.

Rin noticed because of your swaying. He sighed out from his nose and crouched down, signaling for you to get on his back. You blinked and quickly wrapped your arms around his neck as he grabbed your legs to carry you. You buried your face into his neck, mumbling an apology. "M'sorry Rin-nii…" your voice wavered, even though you knew he didn't mind carrying you.

"Why are you apologizing? I don't mind." He fondly spoke, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He started walking back into the house, his body heat helping you stay warm. When the both of you entered he let you down and you took your shoes off at the front door. Once you were done Rin grabbed your hand and let you to your room.

You took off your coat and fell limply onto your bed, just wanting to take a nap and get rid of the nausea. Your brother sighed when he saw your exhausted state, he walked over and covered you in your bed sheets. He smoothed out the edges and gently tucked you in.

Rin nodded at his handiwork and went to leave, although he was stopped by your hand grasping his. He looked back and was met with your pleading face, "Don't leave Rin-nii… please?" you said, your voice slightly hoarse. The former's face softened.

He mumbled out an "Okay." and urged you to scoot over. He laid down beside you and wrapped his arms around you, just like he would when you both were little. You quickly fell asleep, you always did feel safe in his arms.

When you woke again Rin was gone, perhaps he had gone to his room. Your eyes darted to your phone that was on the nightstand next to your bed. Picking it up, you squinted when the harsh light of the phone shone on your face.

You looked at the time, it read 1:49.

It was late and your throat was dry, so you got up to get some water. You snuck downstairs as quietly as you could, grabbed a cup, and filled it with the refreshing liquid. You gulped it down eagerly and let out a relieved sigh when you finished it.

"What are you doing?" A monotone voice said behind you.

Your eyes widened, knowing exactly who it was. You quickly got yourself together and turned around to Sae, meeting his piercing gaze. Bringing up the cup you held, you pointed to it and simply said "Water."

Your voice was still hoarse even after drinking the water and your expression was slightly dazed. Sae narrowed his eyes and reached over to pluck the cup from your hand, and set it down on the counter. He then grasped your hand to pull you out of the kitchen.

"Get back to bed." He murmured, his grip tightening slightly as he felt how warm you were.

"Kay" you replied as you let him tug you back to your room, getting increasingly sleepier. When you both got to your door, he let go of your hand and turned to look at you. You looked back.

It made you nervous just looking at him like this even though it didn't show on your face, since you sported a blank face. But Sae knew he was your brother after all.

Sae reached over and wiped a bead of sweat that had formed on your forehead. "Sleep well." He spoke softly and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway. You touched the spot that he wiped and an indescribable feeling overtook you, maybe he was still the brother you knew.

Whatever, you would think of it tomorrow. You walked to your bed and got under the covers, sleep enveloped you as you thought of your brothers.

The snow made you confused and it was now hard to look at because of the memories attached to it, you want to stay away from it. You were always sensitive to the cold anyway.

[chokisei]

11:20 PM — itoshi rin

genre: angst, angst no comfort. gn!reader.

synopsis: when the clock hits 11:20 PM, rin is reminded of the events that took place earlier that day. the fateful memories that now stick with him unravel.

word count: 0.8K

warnings: profanity/harsh language, using insecurities, insults, self-wallowing, illusions to break ups. (not proofread !)

—

heavy breaths are the only thing that can be described as heard in the silent room. rin finds it difficult to breathe, the walls feeling tighter, as if closing in on him. he dreads the feeling, however he's only reminded that he was the cause of this mess, evident by the way dried tears streak down his cheeks. with his head buried in his hands and his heart heavy, he recalls the events that occurred before this.

he feels numb yet so utterly disgusted with himself and the way he spoke to you. the words spewed out from his mouth echo around in his brain like a broken record. he wants to throw up. he can't take the antagonizing ache in his chest.

—

it'd been a couple hours since he'd gone out to practice. you knew how much the burden of soccer and aiming to be better than his older brother was weighing him down. this didn't come as a surprise when he entered your shared home, frustrated and fuming.

this routine happened almost daily. he'd flop down on the couch while you approached him, sitting right next to your lover. however, today seemed a tad bit different. you had noticed that he didn't turn to acknowledge you like usual, but you continued on with your routine: asking about his day.

when you didn't illicit a response from him, eyebrows were immediately raised. "babe? are you listening? i asked how your day was," you tried again. still, not a sound came from the man sitting beside you. puzzled, you took a different approach, wrapping your arms around him.

only to be shoved off by an annoyed groan. "seriously, rin? at least have the decency to reply to my questions then," you huffed, now growing equally frustrated. however, nothing could've prepared you for what'd you'd hear next.

"you're so damn clingy and annoying. can't you tell that today wasn't the right day to pry? why can't you ever mind your own business?" his waning patience finally snapped. you hadn't even registered all his words, too shocked to even realize.

when they finally implanted in your head, you felt a mix of hurt and anger. it wasn't fair, you were only trying to comfort your boyfriend, not asking for a mouthful of insults. too stunned to speak, you could only mutter somewhere between a gasp and a scoff.

he took this as a sign to continue. "what? cat got your tongue? maybe you should always be like this and give me some damn peace and silence. i don't even know why i bother with you." each word he spoke was like another blow to your already fragile heart.

you felt the warm, salty tears as they started pouring, making their way down your utterly disappointed face. "what are you saying? i'm your girlfriend for god's sake, what do you mean 'why do you even bother'?" you couldn't believe this was the same man who adamantly professed his love for you just earlier this morning.

no. the man sitting beside you now was a completely different person. "i mean you're so fucking irritating! you always leech onto me like some lovesick puppy! i can't have one moment of silence with you!" his voice raised several octaves now.

when you thought it couldn't get worse, the insults he just threw twisted the knife that already pierced your heart. you let the tears and sniffles flow freely, feeling nothing more than dejection. is this what the man you called your boyfriend really thought of you? ouch.

the two of you stared at each other in a moment of tense silence. "fine..." you muttered, "i'm sorry for every moment i cared for you. i'm sorry for even bothering to ask about your days. i guess you just see me as nothing more than a bother, don't you? you just want to be alone, don't you?" you laughed bitterly.

and when he didn't seem to deny your words, that's when you knew something had changed. you knew something was going to change today as well.

—

it hit him all at once. now nothing was in the room beside him and his presence alone. he felt empty, but isn't that what he asked for? no, it was simply too eerie for his liking. he misses you.

he curses at himself, why couldn't he just control his anger today? you didn't deserve it, not one bit, yet he directed it all toward you. he acted like a fool, a complete moron. despite all of his regret now, there's no way he could go back in time to fix his wrongdoings.

it spoke volumes now that he was all alone. he looked up for the first time since. he noticed the way all your stuff was missing from the home you once shared. it made him feel even lonelier, the realization sinking in that you were actually gone.

he'd let you slip away from him, all due to the nasty words he couldn't keep in. when the clock strikes 11:20 PM, itoshi rin is once again reminded of the solitude he resides in. the consequences of his actions serving as a silent but effective reminder.

[mavrintarou]

[4:38 PM] Oikawa Toru [9]

I'm 89% sure the next part will be the last. This chapter is filled with heavy angst but comfort and understanding.

Warning: implied mild smut, angst & comfort but cliffhanging ending

Eighth part Tenth part

.

Toru glared at the new wall that had been replaced between his and Y/n’s unit. He acknowledges his disdain for it. He detested both the physical and emotional distance that had arisen between him and Y/n.

Within a day, maintenance repaired the wall between their units, putting this unbearable space between them.

In the blink of an eye, everything changed, or more like in a heartbeat, everything changed for him and Y/n.

His heart has been numb since the moment Y/n announced she was pregnant and felt like it had stopped beating when she said the baby may not be his.

Everything became a blur at that moment.

“P – plea – se le – leave… I need sp – space…” she struggled with her stuttering and hiccups from her cries.

Toru was reluctant to leave her alone but to his best judgment, he needed some time to process what she just told him.

How had he not realized the changes? Especially when he had first-hand experience with Lucia when she became pregnant with Mateo.

As he recalled the brushed memories… it all began to piece together.

“Don’t – don’t suck too hard…” Y/n whimpered, blushing from watching Toru and feeling the suction he had on her sensitive nipple.

Another time when he was buried deep inside her, Y/n cried with tears pooling in her eyes. “You feel… you feel so deep…”  

Toru immediately stopped his movements and caressed her cheek, “am I hurting you?”  He wiped her tears away and only smiled when she shook her head, telling him he made her feel good.

These were tell-tale signs he remembered going through with Lucia.

It had been 48 hours since he last saw her but it felt like an eternity.

She has not returned his seven missed calls nor the numerous text messages. He knows he should respect her space but he couldn’t help but feel the distance between them is only pushing them further and further apart.

For an hour, Toru and Mateo hung out in Mateo’s large playpen together. The baby kept himself occupied with the toys Y/n had purchased him and Toru could only wonder what was running through his son’s mind.

Did he miss Y/n too?

It was two short nights but Toru spent every second of it going over the scenario.

Y/n was pregnant.

There was a probability that the baby could not be his.

That meant… it was that man that had visited her weeks ago?

“Woojin?” the name fell off his lips  

All he could remember from that first and last encounter was that this person was tall like him, a slightly smaller physique but he and this man had the same dark hair and body complexion.

Toru couldn’t help but feel jealous of this Woojin person. Who was he to Y/n and what was their relationship? How long have they known each other?

All questions attacked him and he groaned, making Mateo look at him confused.

“I miss Y/n,” he told Mateo, who instantly perked up at the sound of her name. “You miss her too?” His son stared at him as if waiting for her to appear. “Should we go see her on the other side?” He picked up his son and together they headed towards the door.

The moment his door swung open, Toru’s eyes widened seeing Y/n leaving her unit as well.

With a suitcase beside her.

Y/n called his name softly, yet he heard the sadness and pain in her tone.

“Are you… going somewhere?” He shifted Mateo in his arms, who was squirming at the sight of Y/n.

He sensed the hesitancy as she quickly shut the door to her unit before letting out a deep breath. She approached him with her luggage left by her door.

“Where… are you going?” The question weighed heavily on him, as difficult to utter as it was to bear. His heart throbbed with discomfort, reluctant to confront the truth.

“I’m – I’m going to Ko… rea… to Korea for a few days,” Y/n answered, looking at him directly in the eye. She hesitated but reached for his free hand, holding it gently. “I will be back, I promise.” Y/n gazes into his eyes, “I’ll come back to you, I will come back to you.”

Toru untangled his hand from hers and drew her into an embrace, murmuring, “what is the reason?”

Despite knowing the reason, he understood the rationale behind it and knew that it would only inflict pain upon himself by asking, but he felt compelled to inquire regardless.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, and he felt her fist a handful of his shirt. “I should – I should tell him.”

Toru clenched his eyes tightly shut. He anticipated it, and braced himself for it, yet why did it sting even more?

“I understand,” he sighed, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Okay, have a safe flight and please come back to me.”

“I will,” she pressed her lips over his heart.

.

Mateo slept soundlessly in Toru’s arm for his afternoon nap. Their large living room seemed larger and too quiet than usual. Even for a short period, his living room was filled with Y/n’s laughter, her singing to the wrong lyrics of Mateo’s lullabies. It felt so lively and filled with lots of comfort that warmed his heart.

After ensuring Mateo wouldn’t wake up, Toru laid him in his crib. He reached for Y/n’s wool cardigan that had been in his crib and placed it beside the sleeping baby who found comfort in it.

 He closed the door to Mateo’s nursery and turned on his baby monitor. Toru was about to help himself to a cup of tea to calm his nerves when he heard something strange outside his unit.

If Y/n was on her way to the airport, who would be outside?

Without looking at the camera that pointed out to the lobby shared between him and Y/n, he pushed the door open and was ready to confront whoever it was but froze halfway.

Y/n looks up, startled and half crouching. Her luggage was lying flat on the ground as if it slipped from her hand.

“Y/n?” He blinked a couple of times, even rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands to make sure he was truly seeing her and that she was not just a hallucination. Over an hour ago he had made a tough decision to let her go, how was she… “Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport? Or on the plane to Korea?”

He walked towards her when Y/n quickly stood up and closed the distance between them, throwing herself at him, and wrapping her legs and arms around him.

Toru caught her, his arms naturally wrapping around her and supporting her weight. He sighed and hugged her tightly.

“I couldn’t do it,” Y/n finally whispered, she leaned back to look into his eyes. She quickly explained how she sat at the gates contemplating the situation and made the decision not to get on the plane. “I couldn’t go through it. Woojin deserves to know but I think I’m being too impulsive right now.” She cupped his face and pressed her lips against his. “I should have talked to you, figure this out together… that’s if you… want to figure it out together.”

“I do,” he confirmed quickly. One of his hands snaked behind her head, bringing it down to his. “I want to figure this out with you.”

Y/n brushed her nose against his, “I love you. I love you so much Oikawa Toru.”

Toru sighed, and a soft grunt came from his throat. “I love you too, Y/l/n Y/f/n.” Without putting her down, he walked over to pick up her luggage and towed it behind them into his unit.

.

They lay in the middle of Mateo’s large playpen.

“I want to get a paternity DNA test done.”

Toru rolled onto this side and supported his weight on his elbow. “Okay, I think that’s a good start too. Should we start with me?”

Y/n looked at him confused, “you?”

Toru nodded, a hand reaching out to palm her flat belly. He couldn’t voice how badly he wished and hoped that the baby that was nourishing inside Y/n’s body was his.

It never crossed his mind that he would want another child after Mateo, he’ll be honest that he didn’t want any more children and would be content with just Mateo. But since his rekindling with Y/n and the current situation, would he be so bold and willing to help her raise a child that was not his own?

“To rule it out,” he answered quietly, “it’s a small possibility… but I’m willing to hold my breath that this child could be mine.” He reached to touch her hair, “if it’s my baby then you wouldn’t have to bother talking to Woojin.”

Y/n sat up and motioned for him to sit up and as soon as he was upward, Y/n crawled on his lap and hugged him.

“Toru,” she uttered his name quietly under her breath, “I need to – need to know…” she paused to take a deep breath, “will – will you still want to be with me… if – if this child is not – not yours?”

No matter how many different scenarios he thought in his head, the one that weighed heavily on him was the high possibility that this child was not his. He asked himself if he would be able to raise a child that was not his own and the answer was yes, he would be able to raise another child that was not his.

If it was Y/n, who was also willing to love another child that wasn’t her own, Toru could also love a child that was not his own by blood.

Toru pulled away enough to see her face, he waited until she finally looked into his eyes and he smiled. “Yes, I will still want you even if this child is not mine. I will love them just as if they were my own.”

Y/n smiled, her shoulders relaxing as if his response had blown all the anxiety that burdened her. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to…”

A lingering, unidentified fear gnawed at him, compelling him to seek answers.

“If…” he took a deep breath. “If this child is not mine and is… his… what – what will you do?”

Please don’t say you’ll go back to him, he repeated over in his head.

“Woojin and I have agreed to go our ways a few weeks back and I have contemplated on either telling him or not.” Her face bore the unmistakable mark of guilt. “If this child is his, I know I should not keep it away from Woojin.”

“No, you should not,” Toru concurred, though inwardly he wished she wouldn’t have to confront that man. Yet, he acknowledged that Woojin deserved to be informed about the pregnancy and the child; he deserved to be included in the journey even if he and Y/n had no preexisting relationship. “I encourage you to tell him. If he decides not to be involved in the baby’s life, then that’s his decision. You’ve given him a choice.”

Toru would have been at a loss if Lucia had concealed her pregnancy and the existence of Mateo from him. Despite the life-altering revelation, being a father to Mateo brings Toru immense pride and joy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He has no desire to return to his life before Mateo came into it.   

Y/n pressed her forehead against his. “If this child is Woojin’s, then we will have to figure out how to co-parent but it’ll be a bridge we’ll cross when we get there.”

The weighty burden he had carried for the past few hours finally lifted. “But regardless of what decision he chooses, I will be beside you.”

Y/n leaned to press her lips to his forehead, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve me because I deserve you. We deserve each other.”

.

Three weeks later, Y/n was scheduled for the testing.

Toru squeezed her hand, assuring her that everything would be okay. “The nurse said many have gone through this test and there is nothing to worry about, no risk to you or the baby.”

Y/n nodded, squeezing his hand tightly. “We’ll be okay.”

Sometime after they were separated, they reunited again. The same nurse who took Y/n away brought her back. As if sensing Toru’s presence, she looked up and smiled tiredly while sitting in a wheelchair. She reached a hand out to him, which he took and squeezed it lightly.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, “let’s go home.”

.

Toru gently pulled the covers up to her chin and carefully got off the bed without disturbing her.

Y/n groans, curling up into a fetal at the loss of his warmth. Once they reached home, she began experiencing cramping shortly after they got home. They were informed that cramping and light spotting was expected and normal. Toru wanted her to stay with him at his unit so he could monitor her.

He swallowed hard, despising the sensation of helplessness and his inability to alleviate her pain. Plating a gentle and light kiss on her forehead, he allowed her to rest while he stepped away to make a brief phone call to his mom to check on Mateo.

“Hey mom,” he greeted quietly over the phone, “how is Teo?”

When Toru and Y/n had dropped him off with his grandma, Mateo displayed signs of distress. He appeared apprehensive in the unfamiliar surroundings, clinging tightly to Toru. When his grandma attempted to reach for him, Mateo recoiled, refusing to go to her – a behavior that shocked both Toru and Y/n, as he had never exhibited hostility before.

They had to ease him in and get him comfortable before leaving him for a few hours.

“Teo is just like you. The moment you and Y/n disappeared and he noticed it, he looked everywhere for you two.” His mom explained, “you were just like that when you were a baby. But how is Y/n? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s okay, she is resting,” he felt slightly guilty for not telling the truth to his mom about Y/n’s appointment, only saying she was not feeling good and he was going to take her in. “I’ll be there soon to pick up –“ Toru loses the rest of his words as he turns his head towards his unit door. “Mom, I’ll call you back in a second.”

Walking towards his door, he pressed the button to turn on the camera outside his unit.

His eyes narrowed when he saw someone standing at Y/n’s door, ringing her doorbell and knocking repeatedly on her door.

“Y/n!”

Opening the door, he faces the man head-on. “Can I help you?”

Woojin wiped around, his disheveled hair and ruffled clothing told Toru something didn’t feel right.

“Y/n, where is she?”

Stepping out and closing his door behind him, Toru stood tall, “she is resting.”

Woojin marched across the lobby and grabbed Toru by his collar. “You bastard, is she in there with you?”

Toru emitted a bitter chuckle, “it is none of your business if she is with me, you guys are nothing.”

Woojin shoved Toru against his door, growling, “it is my business when she is my woman and carrying my child.”

Toru’s smile dimmed as his eyes narrowed, and then he shoved him away. “Leave before I have security kick you off the premises and banned.”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Woojin chuckled coldly. “You know it too, is that right?” His silence confirms his assumption. “I will not back down – “

“Toru?”

The two men turned their heads as the door slowly opened revealing a pale Y/n who gripped her abdomen. “Toru?” Her voice shook, “some – something doesn’t feel right…” her legs trembled as she looked down at her feet, her white ankle socks soaked with redness.

. . .

E/n: I know... I know :(

>>> @queenelleee @mfreedomstuff @erintaro @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wolffmaiden @cloud-lyy @rukia-uchia-98 @anejuuuuoy @tooruchiiscribs @mommyourcall420 @haikyuubiggestsimp @lilguycoded @random-734 @ghostlyneckoaftoad @abcde12345 @shotenvinsoot @princess-sunshyn @anonymoussimper @junglewoos @basically-an-anime-stan-acct @mih311 @m1nt-3lla @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whatamidoing89 @ssc7514 @lupita97lm @ushygushybaby

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Wanna Try? - Gaz x Reader

Thinking about Gaz in the worst way possible

Thanks to @shotmrmiller for indulging in the brain worms with me.

Content Warnings - DUB-CON. I cannot stress this enough, this is dub-con, pretty much bordering on noncon. Anal, PiV, throat fucking, weed usage, Gaz is maybe kinda lacing the weed. Photos and videos being taken and sent to others without consent!

I've never been high before so; inaccuracies!!

You are responsible for your own media consumption. Don't read this if you KNOW you won't like it.

You had been curious about getting high. You'd never done it before but the way other people talked about, well you were curious. So you brought up with your boyfriend Kyle, asking him about it. He had been open about his personal usage for weed, helps clear his head after coming back from deployment and with the aches in his joints.

So of course he was willing to let you experience the high. He rolled up a blunt and handed it to you, demonstrating the best he could on how to handle the smoke. You coughed and wheezed the first few times but the fuzziness set in almost immediately. "Totally normal love. It's your first time after all."

Your movements are sluggish, it feels like your brain is a static TV. Your tongue feels swollen and heavy, too thick in your mouth. Your words slur like you're drunk and you can vaguely feel Gaz undoing the buttons of your trousers.

"What're doing?" You slur, trying to focus your eyes but find it too difficult so you close them. Some part of your brain acknowledges what he says, even if it's drowned out by the static. He doesn't sound like you do, do you even recall if he had more than one puff?

"Taking care of you. Don't worry."

Vaguely you wonder what can you do? You must've said it aloud because he murmurs something about taking it. Gaz absolutely enjoys seeing how oversensitive you are. Every other sense is dulled down but the way he works your already slick hole open for him. You're overly aware when his hot tongue swipes at your clit but your mouth feels like cotton you can barely moan.

The world spins and you jolt when you feel something push into you. Your nerves are raw, every sensation drawn out and at least tripled. It stings, it burns.

"Kyle," you whine and you feel him slip something sweet into your mouth.

"Chew and swallow dove." He commands and you do as he says, mind numb to the glint in his eyes.

"You can't." You slur.

"You can and will take it."

You wake up sore, it kind of hurts to sit and your memory is fuzzy. You were sure just smoking weed wasn't supposed to give you such fuzzy memories. But Gaz tells you it's normal, it was your first time getting high, what do you know? You suppose that's true and it did feel nice to get out of your head for a little while.

He's pushing you to do another session sometime that week. "You enjoyed it yeah? Let's do another then love."

Convinces you that the reason your throat hurts is because you aren't used to the weed yet. Still, something within your gut is ringing the alarm. That weed wouldn't result in your ass hurting or how sticky your panties are after sobering up.

It's a few weeks later, and several smoke sessions, that you need to use his phone since yours was dead. He handed it to you without thinking and pressed a quick kiss to your lips saying he's heading down to the store to grab a few things for dinner. You can't help but think about how doting he is, how wonderful he's been these last weeks.

It's curiosity that has you checking his gallery app. And maybe a want to find a cute picture he took of himself to use as a new lock screen. Your breathing stops and your stomach rolls when you see his latest videos and photos. Of course there's the usual selfies he takes with that radiate smile but you see pictures of yourself.

Pictures of you looking up into the camera, your lips stretched around his cock and spit dripping down your chin. Eyes glassy with tears and red from the weed. You tap on the most recent video, taken the same day you smoked with him. His hand is in your hair, soft grunts coming from his lips as he pistons his hips against your face. Soft gags coming from you that turn more violent the harder he fucks your throat.

"that's it's dove." He groans and his fist tightens in your hair. You vaguely realize he's coming down your throat.

You slide to the next video. Your ass is in full view of the camera, slapped red and raw. Your back arched as he fucks his cock into your ass. He spreads the cheeks with one hand so he can video it better. Your moaning and mewling in the background that gets louder the harder he fucks you.

"you love this don't you?" You weakly nod your head in response, "love it when your boyfriend uses you while you're high? What a slag." His hand comes down harshly on your ass that results in a yelp from you. You close out of the video, close out of the app and set the phone down.

Just be grateful you didn't look into his messages where he's been sending these pictures and videos to the rest of the task force.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

I am you - Part 1 of 2 (Doppelganger story)

They always assume they would notice, that if something like this happened to them, it would be immediate and undeniable. People believe in dramatic revelations, in a single moment where the world tilts and the truth is exposed. They think of flickering shadows, distorted reflections, the impossibility of seeing their own face in places they do not remember being. But it never happens that way.

The process is slow, deliberate, and inevitable. A shift so gradual that, by the time they recognize it, it is already too late. It begins with something small—an exchanged greeting they cannot recall, a casual reference to an event they have no memory of attending. They assume it is stress, distraction, miscommunication, all reasonable things that allow them to dismiss the wrongness before it settles in. They do not understand that every moment of doubt is another step in the process.

I have been here for weeks. I know the way he moves, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his name. I have studied him long enough that I could be him better than he is. And soon, I will be.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he notices, it is so minor that he almost forgets it entirely. The barista in the café hands him his coffee and smiles as she says, “Back again?” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and tells her this is his first coffee of the day. She frowns for a fraction of a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush.

The second time, it is more difficult to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, asking how his meeting went. There is a note of expectation in their voice, something that tells him this is not a casual inquiry but a follow-up to an earlier discussion—one that, as far as he is concerned, never happened.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says, forcing an easy tone into his voice.

His colleague raises an eyebrow, pulling out their phone. “You said you were heading to one just before lunch. Look—" They turn the screen toward him, showing a text message from his number. The words are familiar, structured exactly the way he would phrase them. He reads them over and over, but the memory of sending them does not come.

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t.

______________________________________________________________

Denial is powerful. Even now, as the weight of inconsistencies begins to settle, he fights it. He checks his emails, his call logs, his purchase history, looking for proof that something is missing, something altered. The problem is, there is nothing missing. There are no blank spaces, no files erased or conversations removed. Instead, there are things he has no recollection of doing—transactions at places he has not visited, messages that sound exactly like him, plans he would have made.

He tells himself it is stress, that he must have been distracted, that memory is unreliable. He does not realize that he is not looking for an answer. He is looking for permission to believe nothing is wrong.

That is why he watches the security footage. That is why he asks the night guard to rewind the tape, just to check. That is why, even before he sees it, he knows what will be there.

The screen flickers, and there he is, walking into the office building at 11:42 PM. He watches himself take the elevator to the fourth floor, swipe his access card, and step inside. There is no hesitation in his movements, no moment of doubt or pause. His posture is relaxed, his gait smooth and familiar.

The guard chuckles beside him. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwalking.”

He stares at the footage, waiting for some sign that it isn’t real, that there has been a mistake. But there is no mistake. He was home at 11:42 PM. He knows this with absolute certainty. And yet, here he is, caught in a moment that should not exist.

Sleepwalking.

It is easier to agree than to argue.

______________________________________________________________

The moment of realization, the true breaking point, is not in what he sees but in what he does not.

His phone registers calls he cannot remember, but they are to the same people he speaks to every day. His emails contain correspondence that follows his usual habits, his tone, his way of phrasing things. Even his bank records show nothing unusual—just a life continuing as it always has, perfectly ordinary, except for the quiet, insidious knowledge that it is no longer his.

The key doesn’t turn.

He frowns, tries again, pressing harder, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over in his palm, but nothing is wrong.

Behind him, footsteps. A voice follows.

“Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking up, a small ring of spares already in hand. He barely glances at the door.

“My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Request came in from you a couple of days ago.” He slides a key free, presses it into his palm without hesitation. “Here. Just don’t lose this one.”

He stares at it.

“Why were they changed?”

The landlord shifts his weight slightly, giving him an odd look before shaking his head. “You tell me. You put in the request.” His tone is flat, uninterested, already moving past the conversation.

His fingers tighten around the key.

"Am I being charged for this?"

A shrug. “Yeah. Standard fee.” The landlord is already moving away.

The key will fit. It will turn.

I already have mine.

Something inside him lurches at the exchange. The way the landlord handed over the key without hesitation. The way there was no moment of doubt, no pause, no verification—just a decision that had already been made.

And then he sees me.

Standing at the end of the street.

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 11

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH one deal is broken and another is fulfilled.

FIC SUMMARY: Lucifer has always kept his distance from sinners. It’s what keeps him (relatively) sane — if he gets too close, he is haunted by visions of the tragic mortal lives that landed them in Hell. But in his new life at the Hotel, it is more difficult than ever to stay away — and when it comes to light that his daughter’s insufferable facilities manager is gravely wounded, it falls to Lucifer to deliver his soul from Death. In so doing, he falls headfirst into the sins, past lives, and heartbreaks of the one human whose contradictions he is powerless to resist.

[AO3 LINK]

New chapter time!! I didn't make art for this one, but I included a link to the crack version of this chapter I came up with while ideating for it, so hopefully that's a good enough consolation prize. Next chapter is next Saturday as always! 📻🍎

Chapter preview below!

Alastor opens his eyes in the hotel. It is the early hours of morning — dim violet light filters through the windows of Lucifer’s room. And Lucifer —

Lucifer sits across from Alastor, taking desperate, ragged breaths. His unfurled wings spill over the back of his chair. He runs a hand over the one he lost in the memory and shudders. 

“Alastor?” Lucifer says in a hoarse voice.

“Yes,” Alastor says.

Lucifer exhales once, twice. Finally he seems to catch his breath. He looks up, his red eyes flickering in the dark. “I’m sorry,” he says faintly.

This is perhaps the last thing Alastor expected to hear immediately after his magic strangled Lucifer into unconsciousness and forced him to relive what was almost certainly the worst memory of his millennia-long existence. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry you had to see that. I — ah — I couldn’t think of another way to fulfill both my deal with you and the binding from you-know-who.” 

Alastor can find no retort to this, no response. No existing script will be of any use. 

“How are you,” Alastor says at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

As the words leave his mouth, Alastor realizes he wishes to ask every possible angle of that question. How is Lucifer? How does he cope with the paradox he embodies? The creature of stardust, holy thumbprint of God — and the progenitor of sin, the pariah made to bear the weight of mankind’s depravity. Shackled sovereign of the universe’s negative space. It is easy to forget that Lucifer is inarguably another kind of God — a God of entropy, of emptiness, of endings. How is he?

Lucifer chuckles darkly. “Eh — been worse.” He snaps his fingers and a bottle of some kind of hard cider appears in his hand. He pries off the cap with shaking fingers, takes a swig, coughs. “Fuck — I always forget how bad that shit tasted.” He exhales a pathetic wheeze of a laugh and meets Alastor’s eyes. He seems to be seeking some kind of commiseration, but Alastor, having never personally tasted the Bitter Cup of Man’s Iniquity and Sin, cannot relate, and blankly returns the stare. 

“Oh — sorry, do you want some?” Lucifer snaps his fingers and a second bottle appears in front of Alastor.

“Why are you doing that?”

Lucifer looks at the bottle in confusion. “I dunno, it just felt rude to not offer —” 

“No. Why did you apologize? I —” Alastor cuts himself off. He is completely out of his depth; he cannot recall the last time he felt this sick over another person’s suffering. Perhaps not since he was alive. He nearly laughs aloud as he finds himself sifting through Charlie’s redemption exercises for guidance. What would she say in this situation?

“I regret my words,” Alastor finally manages — the acknowledgement burns on the way out. 

Lucifer shakes his head. “Not your fault. I didn’t think about the deal contradiction either. Probably should have.”

“No.” Alastor squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. He realizes belatedly that his smile has fallen, and he’s been speaking without his radio filter — details which would ordinarily alarm him but that now feel utterly unimportant. “I was referring to what was said prior.” 

When Alastor had snapped at Lucifer for considering Hollis — the easiest person in the world to love — a friend. He thinks of Lucifer and Hollis in the pool, or teaming up at bridge, or sitting next to each other in a streetcar, both of them smiling up at him. Alastor has no issue with any attachment Lucifer might feel toward Hollis — quite the opposite. That truth is obvious to him now. 

“Oh,” Lucifer says softly. “Well, I mean — I get it.”

[AO3 LINK]

[karrenseely]

Mother's Day?

This is a hard day. It is a reminder of how much my mother hates me. It is a reminder that she wanted me dead. That I felt loved and cared for by her until the day I told her I was trans and needed help. Of the complete and utter betrayal, of her conditional love.

For any of us who were abused by our mother's. This day is really hard. Society does not acknowledge that not all mother's deserve to have a day celebrating them. It doesn't acknowledge all of us who've been so damaged and hurt by them that we can barely function in our society.

It doesn't even acknowledge how hard this day is for some of us. Instead we get bombarded with messages about wonderful mothers and how we should love them and be grateful for them and all that they did for us.

But when I told her who I was, and that I desparately needed help. That I was hurting so much, and wasn't sure I'd survive the absolute torture of the wrong puberty, she denied me. Shamed me. Made me believe I was a monster. A pervert. That I was unlovable.

Before that day, despite some warning signs in my memory, I felt loved by her, I felt supported, I felt like she wanted me to be happy and to succeed.

But after I asked for help, it was a 180. Her love was completely conditional. But my child brain couldn't make sense of that, couldn't understand that. My child brain concluded I was the problem and I was so horrible that she wanted me dead...

This is a very triggering day. It brings me into emotional flashbacks, and tons of horrible memories. "[Deadname], I'd rather you were dead!" echoes repeatedly in my head. It's the only clear sentence I can recall her saying to me. All my other memories, even though she's shouting or telling me how horrible I am... I don't remember her words, just the horrible feelings she evoked in me. Fear, shame, humiliation, unworthy of existing.

My mother never loved me. Not really. She loved her idea of the son she thought I was. But she never loved me. She tried to hurt me, erase me, kill me.

She blames me for losing her son. A son she never actually had.

And still. I miss her from the time before, from the time when I felt loved by her. Before she betrayed and tried to kill me for existing.

Mother's day is hard.

And then there's the other part that's hard. The reminder that I will never be a biomom. That I never could carry my child and give birth to them and love them and shower them with all the love, support, and understanding I never got. A reminder that I will never have these things. I have children. Sort of. Through my girlfriend. But because of the abuse I suffered as a child and foolishly thinking I'd healed from it. I've never really discussed my relationship with her, or her children. Though I love them with all my heart. I am so proud of them. But I am always aware if my tidy little relationship with my gf ever blows up, I have no right to those kids, no right to see them, or to continue to be part of their lives. And this day reminds me of this all too keenly. Not that I expect that to happen. But I'm still keenly aware of the possibility. It was hard enough, beyond difficult when I couldn't see them for three months during the quarantine at the beginning of the pandemic.

It reminds all of us that could never carry our on children and give birth to them, that we are not mother's. That we will never be mother's in that way. Ever. And that hurt's so very very much too.

Mother's Day is hard.

[goodfish-bowl]

Wired-In

Ectoberhaunt 2023 Day 2: Technomancy

AO3 Link

Summary: Valerie hadn’t noticed any differences at first, just life being a bit easier when it came to certain things. but with the hum now constantly under her skin, it’s difficult to focus on anything else.

Warnings: angst, slight body horror

Words: 805

It had been small and subtle things at first, differences that Valerie could only notice in retrospect. Devices no longer asked for passwords, and the broken cash register at work would suddenly start functioning again after a swift hit to the side. It would only take a good, percussive kick to get the bugged-out ice cream machine working again. All of them were small things that she wouldn’t look at suspiciously, but would make her day just the slightest bit easier. 

Then, some other things became a lot easier. Valerie’s fingers would fly across a keyboard, autocorrecting to exactly what she meant, even if the word was widely misspelled. Using her suit became so close to second nature it barely took the hint of a thought to get it to do anything, from her hoverboard to the manifestation of weapons she had never called upon before. Valerie actually noticed this one, but wrote it off as a progression of skill. That sniper rifle-style blaster had managed to land a solid hit on Phantom before he could even react. 

The first time Valerie really noticed something was up, it had been during a three way fight between Skulker, Phantom, and herself. A vivid image of Skulker’s wings deploying and sending him directly into the closest building flashed in her mind. With a show of teeth, and an audible snarl, Valerie gave into the impulse and harshly shoved the mechanical ghost out of the way. Red flashed beneath Skulker's suit, racing up his arm in a pulse of light, his eyes flickered to her signature crimson. With the sound of skulker yelling inside of his suit as he lost control, the wings deployed and he crashed directly into the office building to their left. Valerie only spared enough time to glance between her hand and the Skulker-shaped hole in the office windows, before forcing her hoverboard to go faster after Phantom.

It had been later that night, that Valerie truly acknowledged that something wasn’t quite right. The screen in her visor no longer projected the tracking formation before her face, but flashed with complete understanding behind her eyes. She accepted it easily in the moment, caught up in the chase, but laid in her bed for hours afterwards. After flicking through the mental computer in her mind for a while, Valerie ended up mentally going over recordings of her own memories, like they were recorded from her own eyes with perfect clarity. Even with her suit tucked away, she could still feel it humming under her skin, and buzzing behind her eyes. It didn’t go away, and she couldn’t find the power button either.  

Valerie couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or not, still lost in her own mind, but still hearing every minute of Mr. Lancer’s lecture as it was recorded and transcribed into a small corner of her mind. It made her feel less human, with every second of her memory being perfectly recalled like a computer log. Now that she was aware of it, Valerie could even feel the high-frequency buzz of electronics in the school building, the call of various devices tucked away behind the textbooks and in bags. It made her hyper aware of everything humming with electricity in this corner of the building. She absently wondered what she could do with it, but these powers reminded her far too much of Technus, usefulness aside it twisted her gut in a way she didn’t like as she was changed without her permission.

Valerie wondered if she should go to the Fentons about her newfound powers, but that brought the drawback of them finding out. Valerie herself didn’t want to know if they cut her open, and took samples, if they would find electricity and ectoplasm mixed into her blood. Chips and wires replacing her veins. Danny was terrified of ghosts, she didn’t want him to look at her in fear, if she turned out to be more ghost-like than human.

Valerie rammed the thoughts about her powers to the side with such mental force she thought Skulker would go through another building (in the room over, a light burst). She was human, some neat and very useful abilities didn’t change that, it was a good thing, it made her a better ghost hunter. If she could link into the local security and traffic cameras, she might finally be able to find out where that awful ghost went when he wasn’t terrorizing Amity Park. She could take him down for good. Valerie hummed in contentment at the thought of finally getting her revenge, matching the humm of the lights above her perfectly.

Valerie didn’t catch the brief glance from Danny across the classroom as his breath released in a cold wisp and caught a flicker of crimson in her eyes.

Ectoberhaunt 2023 Master Post

[teine-mallaichte]

Hi there and happy Friday! How about "Definitely just a cold" from your Bad Things Happen bingo card for Fenris?

Right I've been staring at this trying to find up with an ending for about an hour and decided "it will do" because that is the spirit of DADWC right? 😝

So... Some sick Fenris for @dadrunkwriting and @badthingshappenbingo

Fenris gritted his teeth against the chills wracking his body, the burning ache in his chest, and the relentless cough threatening to tear his ribs apart. "Just a cold," he muttered through clenched jaws, though each breath felt like daggers in his lungs.

He had stubbornly ignored the encroaching illness for days, brushing off mounting fatigue and worsening chills with the stoicism ingrained by years of servitude. Each hacking cough felt like a betrayal of his own resilience, a stark reminder of the vulnerability he refused to acknowledge.

But this morning, Hawke had intervened firmly, putting his foot down and insisting that Fenris was in no state to join them on today's mission. There was even a veiled threat to involve the mage if Fenris didn't comply.

Reluctantly, he had relented, retreating to his derelict mansion while the others set off. Fenris couldn't recall where exactly; it had been difficult to focus during the briefing.

Another fit of coughing racked his body, each convulsion sending sharp jolts of pain through his chest. He clenched his ribs tightly, fighting to suppress the agony and stifle his gasps, as memories of Danarius' punishments flooded his mind. The haunting image of sick slaves, rendered useless and discarded like broken tools, loomed ominously. In his former life as a slave, Fenris knew all too well that one's worth was solely determined by utility. Any sign of inability to work resulted in being deemed expendable—a fate met with punishment or disposal, regardless of the cause.

The thought of appearing weak, of being seen as incapable, gnawed at him. Hawke's dismissal earlier had felt like a challenge to his strength, his capability, his worth.

Did Hawke now see him as fragile, unable to endure even a mere cold?

Restlessly, Fenris paced the empty halls of his mansion, the oppressive silence broken only by the echo of his footsteps. Each stride grew heavier, his body weighed down by fatigue and the unrelenting ache in his chest.

Would Hawke begin to question his reliability in future battles?

He paused abruptly, leaning heavily against the cold stone wall, the weight of exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. The mansion around him seemed to close in, the silence suffocating. How could he prove his reliability, his strength, if a simple cold was enough for Hawke to doubt him?

Each cough, each sharp stab through his head, every shiver, felt like a reminder of vulnerability—a vulnerability that threatened to unravel the facade of strength he had carefully constructed.

Even in Kirkwall, amidst newfound allies and friends, the fear of appearing weak was a constant shadow. The thought of being seen as incapable, of failing to meet the expectations of those who now relied on him, gnawed at his resolve.

With a deep breath, Fenris straightened, pushing himself away from the wall. The room seemed to tilt slightly with the movement, forcing him to lean against the wall once more.

"It's merely a cold," he muttered once more. His legs gave way beneath him, forcing him to slide down the cold stone wall until he found himself seated on the floor. The ache in his chest intensified with each breath, a reminder of his body's betrayal. He gritted his teeth against the sharp stabs of pain, fighting to maintain the facade of strength that had always defined him.

"The floor is not the most traditional place for resting," Hawkes voice breaks the oppressive silence.

Fenris looked up sharply, surprised to see Hawke standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a wry smile playing on his lips. Despite the humor in his eyes, there was a flicker of concern that Fenris couldn't quite ignore.

"I thought we had an agreement? You rest, and I don't drag you to Anders." Hawke continued, his tone light but firm.

Fenris scowled, his pride stinging at being caught in such a vulnerable state. "I'm fine," he muttered stubbornly, though the weakness in his voice betrayed him.

Adrian's smile softened into something more earnest as he stepped closer, his demeanor shifting subtly from playful to serious. "You're not fine, Fenris," he said firmly, crouching down beside him.

Fenris met Hawke's gaze, "It's just... a cold," he insisted.

Hawke sighed softly, "So you keep saying... You should still be in bed. You look like you've been dragged through Darktown backwards."

Fenris scowled, the corners of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. "Darktown backwards? Is that a new insult, Hawke?"

Hawke chuckled, "Maybe it is. Just for you."

"I am not in the mood for your jests," Fenris grumbled, though the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

Adrian's smile widened, the familiar glint of amusement returning to his eyes. "Fair enough. But seriously, Fenris, this is not just a cold."

Fenris sighed, finally relenting under Hawke's unwavering gaze. "Perhaps it is not just a cold," he admitted reluctantly.

[audriel]

let's start thinkin' bout it

chapter 2: lingering wounds

Some wounds need to bleed before they can heal. Otherwise, they linger.

Qiao Yifan finds himself standing in front of the door to the room of Wang Jiexi–his current captain, he reminds himself again. While he has learned to be thick-skinned, Qiao Yifan is still an honest person and acting doesn’t come to him naturally. He cannot pretend to be someone he’s not. His current, older self is so much different than his younger self. His younger self might be a transparent Tiny Herb reserve player, but as his team captain, Wang Jiexi still has enough measure of his character and strength. 

Fang Rui has asked him if it was difficult to recall the memories, the feelings might be easier to recover in order to help him to be in the proper mindset of 18-year-old Qiao Yifan. He knew his hesitation showed, so he quickly assured Fang Rui he could do it. His senior didn’t buy it and suggested a script instead, but again, Qiao Yifan was no actor, he was sure he would come off wooden and forced, which would not help his case.

Qiao Yifan doesn’t like to linger on the past. The main reason is that it's unproductive. The other reason is… his memories in Tiny Herb weren’t pleasant. He never admitted it to anyone, not even himself. 

Qiao Yifan doesn’t remember his parents. The only memories he has of them is the vague impression of gentle hands and warm smiles, and their disappearing backs. All he has of them is the picture of the three of them, his mother’s handkerchief and his father’s watch. His grandfather took him in alongside his other cousins and distant relatives who had parents that were busy or neglectful. His grandfather loved children, and he had a lot of love to share. However, having so many children with such backgrounds to take care of didn’t make things easy. 

His grandfather was no longer young, and he was not a particularly wealthy man. He tried his best, though. They had a roof over their heads, and they never went to bed hungry. They also went to school. Qiao Yifan knew how fortunate he was. So he always tried his best to lessen his grandfather’s burden, trying to help in whatever way he could, however small it might be. He never missed a day of school. He got good grades. He helped with the chores. He never asked for more money. He never started an argument. It did get him into trouble at times, but his grandfather always noticed and acknowledged his efforts. His best memories were spending time with just the two of them, even doing something as mundane as doing groceries shopping and gardening.

However, eventually age caught up with him, and Qiao Yifan lost his last connection to his parents, the only relative that truly cared for him. His eldest cousins stepped up, but with little to no support from other adults in the family, it was too much for them, not when they were barely able to take care of themselves. It caused a lot of tension in the house, and Qiao Yifan often ended up staying out late to escape the stifling atmosphere. It was how he ended up discovering Glory, and finding out that professional gamer was a real job. 

It wasn’t difficult to get his cousin to sign him up for the training camp. Young Qiao Yifan did his research. Tiny Herb was a championship team, so their training camp was the best in Beijing. The students were guaranteed food and shelter. He also had enough savings to cover the registration fee and any expenses he would have. For them, it was one less mouth to feed. With almost all his personal belongings packed in the sole luggage he has, he entered Tiny Herb training camp.

He couldn’t remember what his original class was because when he mentioned his short time playing Glory, the training camp instructor seemed rather keen to see what class suited him best. Being rather a naive and obedient child and having no particular attachment to his account and class, he did as he was told and gave different classes a try. He was sure other students didn’t receive the same treatment. Many of them brought and used their own accounts in the training camp.

Now when he looked back, they all shared the same classes with the active members of Tiny Herb team, and none of the team members were in need of a successor. Until Gao Yingjie showed his potential as a Witch, they were looking for malleable talent, which Qiao Yifan was. 

For the first time, Qiao Yifan found that he was good at something. He also made a friend in Gao Yingjie. In less than a year, he was promoted to the team. He remembered how he felt back then. When he wore the Tiny Herb uniform and received his account and member card, everything felt surreal. The future, for once, looked bright. He shut down his cautious and pessimistic side, and allowed himself to hope .

Only to have it squashed not long after.

Qiao Yifan found himself struggling from the first day. He actually had a brief hesitation when he was assigned the Assassin account. From the different classes he tried, it was among the few that felt awkward in his hands. But he thought his captain and instructor knew better, and thought it would get better with training.

It did not.

From the top of the class in the training camp, Qiao Yifan became the worst performer in the team, whether it was in individual or team practice. In the first evaluations, Captain Wang Jiexi still gave him his personal attention. However, the longer he went on without clear progress, Vice Captain Deng Fusheng took over guiding him. It didn’t help that he had Gao Yingjie who joined the team at the same time. While they had similar personalities, their abilities were vastly different. He ended up always falling short. He was further cast in the shadows against the light of his best friend. Before long he became the transparent Qiao Yifan.

Qiao Yifan recalled the many nights spent training and reviewing videos from his own practice and Assassin players’ matches, only to have nothing to show in the team’s practice in the day. Only Gao Yingjie was willing to be his partner during free individual practice.

Qiao Yifan is and has never been a dreamer. Life made him cautious and pragmatic. He didn’t expect to be a famous pro player or the main roster of a championship team. However, he did expect himself to be part of a team, to contribute as a team member… to matter .

He didn’t pose enough of a challenge to become a training partner. He wasn't good enough to be played in a match. He gave no value to the team.

Those days before he met Ye Xiu had been the darkest time of Qiao Yifan’s life. He kept questioning his own worth. Whatever confidence he had built before joining the team seemed to vanish without a trace. He could even barely remember his grandfather’s warm touch and encouraging words. He had no one to turn to. He was close to no one else in the family, and no one else besides Gao Yingjie in the team. He felt incredibly lonely. He wasn’t even sure why he kept going, when he didn’t know his place in the team, or whether there was a place for him in the first place.

Qiao Yifan doesn’t realize as the recollections are coming back, his body is slowly hunching over as if there are invisible weights. However, he is cognizant enough to know he’s treading on dangerous waters. Before the memories can sweep him away, he forces himself to knock on the door.

“Come in.” The response comes not a second later.

“Excuse me.” Qiao Yifan enters the room cautiously. His eyes are everywhere but on the Tiny Herb captain, standing close to the door.

Wang Jiexi frowns at Qiao Yifan’s behavior. He doesn’t regard himself as an intimidating person, but the way Qiao Yifan is unable to look at him and to come closer makes him question himself. He remembers Qiao Yifan being a shy and reserved child, but he doesn’t completely avoid eye-contact and interacting with people. He is better than Gao Yingjie in that respect. He actually looks more comfortable than his successor on the stage despite the obvious apprehension and discomfort. He didn’t act this way around Fang Rui, either.

His choice in using Ghostblade and challenging Fang Rui was certainly surprising, but what was more surprising was how well he used it, better than he is as an Assassin and against the master of playing dirty, nonetheless. 

Wang Jiexi cannot remember Qiao Yifan showing any preference or inclination towards a certain class or player. He does notice his lack of presence which made him think that he was suitable to be an Assassin. It doesn’t occur to him that Qiao Yifan might be more suitable for other classes, which explains his lackluster performance in the team. As a captain he tries his best to know everything about his team members, but when it comes to Qiao Yifan, he encounters too much of a blank space, which doesn’t sit right for him.

“Come and sit down.” Wang Jiexi gestures towards the closest seat to the door. Being seated should make the conversation easier. Qiao Yifan hesitates for a bit before doing as he was told to.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Wang Jiexi reaches towards the fridge.

“Oh no. I couldn’t possibly- Captain, no need to bother.” Qiao Yifan quickly refuses. Wang Jiexi takes out two cans of soda and juice each and brings it to the table between them. From his experience with Gao Yingjie, refusal does not necessarily mean actual refusal. 

“Just in case you’re thirsty, you may help yourself.”

“Ah yes. Thank you Captain.” Qiao Yifan nods, but makes no further move, if anything his hands are tightly clenched on his lap.

“I’m not aware you can play Ghostblade.” Wang Jiexi decides to cut to the chase before the silence can stretch for too long.

“I… only started playing casually in-game.” Qiao Yifan answers cautiously.

“How long ago?” Wang Jiexi caught on to the choice of words.

“Um, a month ago?” Qiao Yifan answers hesitantly.

If Wang Jiexi is a lesser man, his shock will be obvious. Qiao Yifan’s Ghostblade is already at professional player level. Unless they are Tiny Herb team members and those who closely follow the team and remember their roster, no one will think that Qiao Yifan is the owner of the Assassin account, Dusty Miller. They might even think that he’s the one behind the Ghostblade account, Rangoon Creeper. He also looks much more at ease and comfortable with a Ghostblade than an Assassin. While he’s thinking about all of this, he takes note of the time Qiao Yifan picked the new class. 

“Is it Ye Qiu?” Qiao Yifan makes a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look, confirming his guess. His mind also picks up how oddly easy it is to read the expression of the rookie who managed to hold his own against the master of playing dirty.

“Your Phantom Demon is good.” Wang Jiexi is telling the truth. 

There might be some mistakes here and there, but Qiao Yifan managed to show the qualities that made an excellent Phantom Demon: ability to grasp the overall situation, to make quick decisions in unexpected situations, and to utilize wretchedness to create opportunities. By choosing Fang Rui as his opponent in Rookie Challenge, Qiao Yifan was able to showcase his abilities. Phantom Demon’s greatest value is in the team, but what he has shown in the 1v1 match is already promising, so promising that Li Xuan himself contacted him to ask about Qiao Yifan. The acknowledgment from the number one Phantom Demon speaks for itself. Wang Jiexi will be a fool if he doesn’t retain the talent for his own team.

“Unfortunately, players and characters cannot be changed after the season started. For now, you will take turns with Zhou Yebai in using Rangoon Creeper during practice.” 

“...I don’t understand?” Qiao Yifan asks in confusion. 

“Phantom Demon is not suited for 1v1s, but you did very well for your first time against a professional player. Zhou Yebai couldn’t do as well. His Phantom Demon was only played in team competitions. However, this will change if you are able to coordinate with the team well.”

Wang Jiexi expects any reaction from Qiao Yifan, but he doesn't expect how Qiao Yifan’s head and shoulders only seem to droop lower with every word he says.

“Captain, you couldn’t possibly mean that I’ll be taking Senior Zhou’s place.”

“Tiny Herb doesn’t need two Phantom Demons.” Wang Jiexi is merely stating a fact.

“What’s wrong?” Wang Jiexi cannot understand why Qiao Yifan reacts this way. He has expected for the kid to be excited at the prospect, at the possibility of finally being on stage, to play an official match like any other pro players.

“...I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Qiao Yifan speaks quietly. 

“Why is that?” Wang Jiexi frowns. Rarely he’s so perplexed, most often it is the other way around.

“Phantom Demons are most valuable in a team, when they cooperate with their teammates. But…” Slowly, hesitantly he raises his head to look at Wang Jiexi.

“For Tiny Herb, am I their teammate?” Am I considered one of your own? is the unspoken question.

Wang Jiexi is rendered speechless. He knew that Qiao Yifan is having a hard time meshing with the team. Considering his lacking performance, it is natural for the others to have difficulty to count on him during team competition or consider him as a challenge in individual practices. His personality doesn’t help, either. To say that it's reached to the point that they don’t regard him as a teammate…

“That doesn’t matter. They will acknowledge you when they see your abilities.”

“Do you really believe that Captain?” Qiao Yifan asks calmly, almost placidly, which actually manages to make Wang Jiexi reassess the situation.

Wang Jiexi is used to making snap judgments. He is able to take in a lot of information at once, make a quick and accurate assessment and to come to the best decision for the team on and off the stage. He is also decisive when he makes up his mind and regardless of the difficulties, he has the ability to follow through. It is how he gained the title of Magician. It is how he led Tiny Herb to win two championships.

It’s not to say that he’s always right. He recalls his incorrect first impression of Fang Shiqian. He committed many mistakes in his early captaincy. However, he had his seniors, particularly his former vice captain and God of Healing, to guide and challenge him. As he gained more experience, his judgment grew more reliable. His current and former teammates, and even himself, rarely questions his decisions. Furthermore, with the retirement of Fang Shiqian and other seniors, Wang Jiexi is left as the oldest and most experienced member of the team. He is also the captain and ace player of Tiny Herb, the championship team. His attention is constantly needed not only for team-related matters, but also club-related matters. This season is particularly tough and demanding with so many changes to the team and expectations from the club and for the club from fans and sponsors. 

Then, there’s Gao Yingjie.

Gao Yingjie is unlike anyone he knows, definitely not like himself. Yet, he is the most promising successor to Vaccaria. He is certain he cannot treat him like any ordinary member of the team, so he dedicates the most attention he can give between his duty and responsibility to Gao Yingjie. He doesn’t think it through how it appears to the team.

As a consequence, he… has left Qiao Yifan to fend for himself on his own, and by extension, he failed to foster cooperation and comradeship in the team. He has wanted to encourage competition within the team so they would keep striving to be the best and to aim for the championship, but not to the point that they will only see each other no more than competitors, that they will see their team members, their comrades’ progress and ability, but only see a threat to themselves and their place in the team. Instead of an opportunity for growth and betterment of the team.

This… is not what Tiny Herb is supposed to be. This is not what the Tiny Herb Captain Lin Jie has entrusted to him.

“Captain… I don’t think I’m suitable for Tiny Herb.” Such a sad, helpless expression doesn’t belong to such a young face. “And I don’t think Tiny Herb is suitable for me, either.”

This thought has actually crossed his mind, but to hear them spoken out loud, by the very person himself only makes it worse, especially when it is no fault of his own. Wang Jiexi can tell that Qiao Yifan is nervous, if not the slightest bit afraid, but he speaks out anyway. The boy is much braver than he can give him credit for. And right now, ironically, he’s embodied Tiny Herb more than anyone else.

Wang Jiexi closes his eyes and sighs in regret. 

“Then… What do you want to do?” Qiao Yifan blinks in surprise, not expecting Wang Jiexi to concede so easily.

“I… just want to keep practicing my Ghostblade if it’s possible, and find a team who’s willing to take me in.”

“Team Void is interested in you. Li Xuan has contacted me.”

“Senior Li has?” Qiao Yifan’s surprise is genuine. He does not expect such a response from Wang Jiexi. He and Fang Rui have come up with various scenarios, but they all share similarities in that there is some resistance from Wang Jiexi. Qiao Yifan doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if Wang Jiexi is willing to accommodate him even though he’s made it clear that he won’t be staying in Tiny Herb.

“I can give you his contact number. However, if you’d like to keep your options open, the club can contact other clubs on your behalf and see whether they’re interested in Phantom Demon. Maybe… Wind Howl?”

Qiao Yifan jolts up in response, completely taken aback. Wang Jiexi truly lives up to his name as the Magician, Qiao Yifan cannot really follow his train of thought. He has never worked with the number one Witch since he retired before Qiao Yifan joined the Chinese Glory team, and back then Li Xuan was still the most capable Phantom Demon to keep up with him.

“It seems you’re quite a fan of Fang Rui.” Wang Jiexi cannot help but notice the most honest reaction from Qiao Yifan throughout their conversation.

“Ah.” Qiao Yifan finds himself blushing. He’s never good at concealing his admiration for his seniors. Wang Jiexi finds himself smiling at how much Qiao Yifan acts like his age at the mention of his idol. His smile turns sad when he realizes he only discovers this now.

“There’s still five months left in your contract with Tiny Herb. During individual practice you may use your own Ghostblade account.” Wang Jiexi raises an eyebrow at that. Qiao Yifan ducks his head bashfully. He doesn’t comment on that and merely continues on.

“However, for team practice, you will alternate between Zhou Yebai in using Rangoon Creeper, whether in individual sparring or team competition. Forcing you to continue using an Assassin is not beneficial for yourself and the team. However, we only have one Phantom Demon account, I hope you understand.”

Tiny Herb’s young Qiao Yifan might not fully understand, but Happy’s Captain Qiao Yifan can understand Captain Wang Jiexi’s decision. 

It is a pragmatic approach, but also a kind gesture.

Professional gaming is no different than any other jobs. Just because they are playing games, it doesn’t mean they don’t have professional ethics. Qiao Yifan signed a contract when he was promoted to the team. With his lackluster performance, it can be said that he’s not upholding his part of the deal. He is the one at fault. There’s no reason for the club to accommodate him. They have all the rights to force him to keep practicing as an Assassin, or to change his class and use Rangoon Creeper during his term of contract. 

However, Wang Jiexi chooses not to. He respects Qiao Yifan’s decision to change class and not to stay in Tiny Herb. However, he still expects Qiao Yifan to give value to the team as Ghostblade even only in practice sessions, whether as a sparring partner or as team support. It’s also likely that he’s to use Rangoon Creeper as an incentive for the team, particularly Zhou Yebai, to learn and grow.

That’s good enough for Qiao Yifan.

While his sharp, analytical mind goes through all this, Qiao Yifan retains his shy, meek self who is alarmed at the unexpected gesture from Tiny Herb’s God.

“Ah ah. How can I?” Qiao Yifan flails around in embarrassment. “I know I haven’t been performing well, Captain. This is already too much. I’m really grateful. I do not wish to impose further.”

Somehow Wang Jiexi looks sad at his words.

“We’ll discuss more in detail when we’re back in Tiny Herb. I’ve kept you up too long. It’s already late, Yingjie must be worried.” Wang Jiexi stands up, making Qiao Yifan unconsciously follow suit. Only then he realizes how late it has been. 

“Thank you, Captain, for your time.” Qiao Yifan bows slightly as Wang Jiexi shows him to the door. He is about to open the door when Wang Jiexi speaks up.

“Qiao Yifan, I’m sorry. I’ve failed you as your captain.”

Wang Jiexi has failed this boy in many ways. He has failed to see his true potential, assigning him a class that didn’t suit him. He hasn’t bothered to look further, to understand why he wasn’t performing well. He has failed to pay attention to the substitutes other than Gao Yingjie.

The boy’s clear eyes round up in surprise, completely speechless. He certainly doesn’t know what to say to his captain’s words. Honestly, if Captain Lin Jie said the same thing, he wouldn’t know what to say either, so Wang Jiexi isn’t surprised that Qiao Yifan excuses himself in a small voice and hurriedly opens the door and leaves.

Wang Jiexi is left staring at the closed door.

Meanwhile, Qiao Yifan stands dazedly in front of the door. He takes a step, another step, and another, but doesn’t know where he’s going. 

He just needs to go somewhere, anywhere but here. 

His breathing is short and quick, as if he’s been running. But he isn’t running. 

He’s just in the hotel that he’s staying with his team. Tiny Herb, not Happy. Not his team, not his Happy.

Wang Jiexi, Tiny Herb’s captain. Not his captain.

Wang Jiexi, who has just apologized to him.

God Wang, who has just acknowledged his failure to Qiao Yifan.

Qiao Yifan doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what to feel. He-

“Yifan?” He turns sharply towards the voice, his eyes wide and wild. Fang Rui looks at him concernedly.

“...Brother Rui?” Qiao Yifan’s voice is dry and hoarse. He doesn’t understand, he hasn’t even spoken that much. Fang Rui approaches him carefully, he telegraphs his movement so he can see what he is about to do. Qiao Yifan only stares blankly as his senior holds his wrist gently, guiding him to the emergency exit. He blinks, adjusting to the contrasting silence and dim lighting. He still doesn’t remove his gaze from Fang Rui’s hand on his wrist.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Fang Rui’s voice is quiet. This time he takes both of Qiao Yifan’s hands on his own, the warm touch grounding him.

“...It went well. Captain… Wang Jiexi, allows me to keep practicing Ghostblade, and not to renew my contract with Tiny Herb.”

“That sounds great.” Fang Rui’s voice is a gentle, calming timbre. Qiao Yifan watches dazedly, humming absently in response as the older man rubs comforting circles on his smaller hands.

“Is that all?”

“He…” Qiao Yifan falters. “He apologized.” Fang Rui doesn’t stop his movement even though he’s obviously surprised. Qiao Yifan is infinitely grateful.

“He said he was sorry that he had failed me.” It only hits him then and there the weight of the words as he repeats Wang Jiexi’s words.

“...Did you accept his apology?”

Qiao Yifan’s instinctive reaction is to say there’s nothing to apologize in the first place, there’s no need for apologies, but those words die the moment Qiao Yifan’s eyes meet Fang Rui’s.

This is the person who has seen him at his worst, when he was starting out as Happy’s commander and later, captain, seeing him struggling and failing. This is his senior who has defended and stood by him when Happy performed badly, when the press and the public dragged his name through the mud. This is his brother who has listened to his worries and insecurities throughout the years, who has understood him best. 

“I-I don’t want to.” The first tears fall. “Does that make me a bad person?”

Fang Rui pulls the younger man–no, the boy–into his arms.

“Not at all. Not at all.”

“I just- I don’t ask for much. I know I’m not as good as Gao Yingjie. I’m not a Witch. I don’t mind being just an ordinary team member. I just want to know what I did wrong, what I should do to be better. I just- I just want to be good enough to help, to stand beside everyone.” 

The words that he keeps buried finally spill out. The hurt and loneliness that he has carried for all those months in Tiny Herb.

“I don’t understand. Why now? Why not before? What’s so different? What makes me deserve an apology? Why my other self didn’t receive one? Why? Why? ”

Fang Rui can only hold Qiao Yifan close as he lets out heart wrenching sobs, burying his face against his neck, his hands gripping the back of his shirt tightly.

This is an old wound that never quite healed.

Fang Rui is really, really glad that he stays nearby in the case of the worst scenario. He never doubts Qiao Yifan’s strength, but he also knows that the strongest people are most often people who have experienced many lows and yet managed to pick themselves up over and over again. It doesn’t mean they don’t have moments of weakness. It doesn’t mean they are completely unaffected, untouched by all the hardships. It doesn’t mean they don’t bear any scars.

He has noticed that Qiao Yifan rarely mentioned his time in Tiny Herb, and when he did it was rarely of his own initiative. He only spoke at length of Gao Yingjie, but precious little of others. There was nothing personal when he described the other team members, not even Wang Jiexi. He was not the only one. Ye Xiu and Su Mucheng certainly noticed. Other Happy team members picked up on it, Bao Rongxing was no exception.

Qiao Yifan was only 17, and he had lost his last and closest relative. He was looking for somewhere to belong, which Tiny Herb and Wang Jiexi were ill-equipped to provide. They might be a team, but they were also a workplace. Tiny Herb did nothing wrong, they did what was best, and Qiao Yifan, young as he was, realized it. He understood, to an extent, but it didn’t make it easier to accept. It felt like a personal rejection, that he was not enough, that he was unworthy.

Fang Rui understands, because he has been there. He was even younger than Qiao Yifan when Blue Rain didn’t promote him to the team. He managed to take the news calmly and even discuss his options with the manager and Yu Wenzhou. But behind closed doors, there was hurt and disappointment, there was even envy and jealousy. Everyone said that Blue Rain is the most inclusive team in the Alliance, why was I the exception? Why couldn’t you accept me?

It might be easier if he was lacking in skills and ability, but he wasn’t. His only flaw was his personal style was too distinctive, too dirty, too unsuitable for the team. When one’s personal style was so closely linked with their personality, how couldn’t he take it as a rejection to himself?

Fortunately, Wind Howl and Lin Jingyan quickly proved him wrong, reminding that he was wanted and needed. His compromise was not as much as compromise but an expression of gratitude for allowing him to be himself, a returning of favor for taking a chance on him, for believing in him. It didn’t matter that he changed classes from Qi Master to Brawler to Thief, changed roles from potential successor to partner. What mattered most was that he was allowed to stand on the stage and fight for the ultimate glory.

However, Qiao Yifan was not as fortunate. He was left questioning himself and his worth on his own for a long time until Ye Xiu appeared. He cannot imagine what the younger man went through. But he imagines it must be worse than his time in Wind Howl during Tang Hao’s captaincy. He was older then, and he was not completely alone. It didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt or tired.

Fang Rui still bears the scars. Some scars still hurt, some others barely register. Time heals all wounds, that is true. However, all wounds need to be allowed to heal before they can turn into scars. These wounds should be acknowledged first, to let them bleed.

Fang Rui sincerely hopes that with this, his little brother can finally start to heal.

Qiao Yifan doesn’t know how long he has been crying. All he knows is that his eyes and his throat hurt, that his nose is stuffed, and… he has been hugging Fang Rui.

At the horrified realization, Qiao Yifan hastily pulls back in embarrassment, nearly hitting Fang Rui’s chin. His face turns red when he sees the huge wet and soggy patch on his senior’s shirt and jacket. Before he can start apologizing, a playful flick on his forehead stops him in his tracks.

“Ah ah ah. If it’s an apology I don’t want to hear it.” Fang Rui then proceeds to take off his shirt and zips up his jacket instead. “Since it’s already wet, why don’t you use it as well to clean up your face? Don’t worry, it’s fresh out of the luggage and it doesn’t smell. I didn’t even sweat.”

Qiao Yifan blinks dumbly, before dissolving into laughter. He just can’t help it. He can imagine Chen Guo scolding him for being insensitive. It has happened before. Fang Rui isn’t being insensitive, he’s actually being considerate, treating his breakdown as if it was something normal, nothing to be embarrassed about. The older man also knows that he’s not willing to go outside with obvious signs of crying. Ergo, the most practical solution is sacrificing his shirt, which is already going to the laundry anyway. Pragmatic Qiao Yifan takes it, and without further hesitation uses it to clean his face from tears and snot.

“Feeling better?” After a while, Fang Rui breaks the silence.

“...Actually, yes.” Qiao Yifan admits, looking down at his hands. It feels like a huge weight off his shoulders. He doesn’t realize he has been carrying this for a long time.

“You know you’re allowed to feel hurt and angry, right?” It is an echo of a past conversation. He didn’t fully understand what Fang Rui meant back then. He had even been confused because he never saw Fang Rui truly lose his temper. He has always been quick to bounce back. He was the mood maker of the team. But he knows better now.

“...Even though it has been a long time ago?”

“Even then. Everything has its own time.” Warm, gentle hand is a comforting weight on his head.

“I suppose… I’m a bit angry at Captain Wang, and at Tiny Herb.”

Fang Rui’s thoughts are written all over his face. No shit. Qiao Yifan purses his lips to hold back his giggles.

“I know I was performing badly, but I deserve better than being left to flounder alone. I was just a rookie… I was just a kid.” Qiao Yifan’s voice was quiet in the beginning, but slowly it got stronger and firmer at the end. The calm, determined expression is actually a familiar one to all Happy team members, this is the expression of their captain when he staunchly defends the team. 

Fang Rui smiles. It’s about time for Qiao Yifan to learn to stand up for himself. 

“Good.” His little captain looks so confused at that, Fang Rui chuckles. One step at a time, he reminds himself. This is not a lesson that should be rushed. He didn’t even realize there was still something he could teach this amazing young man.

“Let’s go back to your room, shall we? Yingjie must be worried sick, looking at the buzzing of your phone.”

Only then Qiao Yifan notices the buzzing coming from his phone. He pulls it out to find out that Gao Yingjie has been sending him messages. He resorts to calling him since it’s close to curfew. Qiao Yifan coughs and clears his throat before picking up the call.

“Yingjie? I’m fine. I’m just about to go back to the room. I’ll be right there soon.”

Qiao Yifan puts back his phone in his pocket. He reluctantly returns the folded shirt to Fang Rui.

“See you tomorrow.” Fang Rui reminds him. Whether they remain in the past, or return to the present, they will see each other again tomorrow. The thought brings a smile on Qiao Yifan’s face.

Qiao Yifan hesitates before he opens the door. Fang Rui tilts his head in confusion, before somebody barrels into him, giving him a brief hug before disappearing into the hallways. Fang Rui chuckles in amusement, inwardly relieved that Qiao Yifan recovers quickly.

It may not be a bad thing for them to return to the past, it seems.

***

Qiao Yifan finds himself unable to sleep despite the late hours and the darkness of the room. After his breakdown he actually expected to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He turns around in his bed, his gaze falling on the sleeping form of Gao Yingjie.

When he returned to the room last night, it was obvious that his best friend had waited for him, most likely keeping himself up in a state of anxiety. However, he only took one look at him and told him to go to sleep, swallowing all the questions he wanted to ask.

He is undeniably glad for the reprieve. He doesn’t know yet what to say to his friend. It doesn’t help that his conversation with Wang Jiexi left him feeling raw and vulnerable. He is not ready yet for another difficult conversation, and he doesn’t want to keep his friend's hopes up. This Gao Yingjie is still hopeful for the chance for them to fight side by side. He might see his performance in the Rookie Challenge and the captain looking for him as a good sign. They will eventually have their chance, but not in Tiny Herb. 

It was only for World Invitationals, and only for three times, which might be nothing in comparison to the times they faced off against each other as opponents. And in those times, Tiny Herb most often loses against Happy.

Gao Yingjie is definitely a genius, he is worthy of inheriting the god-level account Vaccaria. In his hands, Vaccaria remains the undisputed number one Witch in Glory. 

…But he’s no Wang Jiexi.

It was not immediately evident after Wang Jiexi retired, since Gao Yingjie had Xu Bin as his vice captain, alongside Yuan Baiqing and Liu Xiaobie, who have only become more reliable with age and experience. It was not exactly a problem of skill and ability. It was just that Wang Jiexi’s influence was too strong, too deeply ingrained in Tiny Herb, which would take more than to stop seeing him as a crutch to remove.

Qiao Yifan is not privy to the details, but he strongly suspects that Tiny Herb suffers similar problems with Excellent Era. The title of two time championship team that was led by the Magician, God Wang Jiexi has become a double-edged sword.

Thinking of the worn and aged Captain Gao Yingjie in the future, his heart hurts. 

This is not something a rookie and a former transparent team member can tackle. It is pure arrogance to think that he can even make a significant change in the remaining time he has.

“I haven’t talked with Yingjie.” Qiao Yifan ends up texting Fang Rui, not expecting a response. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’ll come to you.” A chat bubble surprisingly pops up. “You’re best friends, aren’t you?”

Qiao Yifan smiles ruefully at the reminder.

“You might not need to worry about that if we return to our time after we went to sleep.”

Qiao Yifan blinks. The possibility that they might return to their timeline slips his mind even though he has been the one who brought it up.

“Is that why you’re still awake?” Qiao Yifan asks.

“I am leaving a note for my past self so he’s not too confused.”

“And playing Glory.”

“Of course.” A snort escapes Qiao Yifan at the matter-of-fact response. Fang Rui does have the All-Star Competitions to prepare for.

“I am telling him that a rookie challenged me. His name is Qiao Yifan from Tiny Herb. He is such a shy and quiet kid, but he is a Ghostblade, and he can play dirty. He’s only played for a month. His future is bright.”

Qiao Yifan feels his face heat up. Seriously, he cannot recall blushing as much before. It may be the effect of his younger body that he is so easily flustered.

But thinking of young Qiao Yifan reading this message when he wakes up in the morning, from another pro player that was not Ye Xiu… he must be very happy. His eyes soften at the thought, but he also thinks how much it meant for Qiao Yifan of that time.

“We’re changing the future, aren’t we?” In just one day, there are pretty significant changes to their past selves and teams. They did agree to stick as much as possible to their past in the case they did return to their present. Lin Jingyan will leave Wind Howl. Qiao Yifan won’t have his contract with Tiny Herb renewed. Those two main events are unlikely to change. It can be said the changes are merely changes in attitude and behavior, but they are also the kind of change that is most difficult to predict.

“Thinking of the butterfly effect?” Fang Rui asks, easily catching on to his train of thought.

“Yes.” Qiao Yifan responds somberly. There’s no immediate response from Fang Rui.

“Ultimately all I can think of is that our opponents are going to be different. That’s it. You’re the master tactician, you might already have several scenarios in mind.”

Fang Rui is right. Qiao Yifan has run through multiple scenarios and discarded many others in his mind. However, the most extreme scenarios are when ultimately people are in different places, either weakening or strengthening certain teams in particular or the Alliance in general, which will completely change the past as they know it.

“I did.” 

“You’re not worried?” Fang Rui’s question makes him stop and stare. The people they care about, and they are considering changing the past for, are the people that also happen to be their future opponents, and it’s not limited to Lin Jingyan and Gao Yingjie. They have grown to care for many others in their path of glory.

They all strive for the championship, for the ultimate glory. But the journey matters as much, so do the people, the companions they made along the journey. Their companions are not only their teammates.

Glory is never meant to be played alone.

Even so, Happy still is and will always be the most important, more than anyone or anything else. So why isn’t he worried that might make things more difficult for his beloved team?

“I believe in Happy.”

Qiao Yifan’s fingers move before his mind catches up. There’s no single doubt or hesitation, so long Happy exists, so long they’re together, they can deal with whatever comes their way.

“I believe in Happy, too.” Fang Rui’s agreement comes only a second later.

In the face of irrevocably changed future, in the possibility any wrong step will have enormous consequences, it's easy to buckle under the weight.

However, some things will never change, will never falter.

It is their belief in themselves, and their belief in Happy.

Thank you for reading until the end! This chapter sure takes a surprising somber turn when I wrote it, but I decided to keep going anyway. Let me know what you think! I also shared my headcanons and character/team analysis on my tumblr (see the tag bts: let's start thinkin 'bout it). Otherwise, the note will be incredibly long (yes, i'm self-aware enough, thank you) XDD

[saisons-en-enfer]

your traumas and experiences are valid. while living and existing might feel like a unbearably sisyphean task, it is through finding healthy outlets/coping mechanisms that you can pacify such intense memories and ruminations. on behalf of the mutuals know that you are not alone, we care and about you, and love you🍵🫶🏼 wishing you the best on your journey king <3

I appreciate you taking the time and sending this and I just wanted to answer this in a way that is honest to maybe help you understand where I stand, so I do not mean to demean or devalue anything you're saying

Firstly I don't really have healthy outlets/coping mechanism... I've learned the hard way not to ask friends, I don't matter that much for them to keep dealing with my constant distress. I just talk to a therapist but ye, once a week isn't enough and just today when I was speaking to him I made a confession that in the last 6 years, I had numerous times (way too many for my mind to comfortably recall) where I was in such an emotionally suffocating situation that I seriously had thoughts of ending my life. Recently, I seek out help more when it happens but I just feel like people are so desensitized to it and think that I'm acting up for attention, when I can't ever convey to anyone how difficult it is to live life for others, to live life on a thread, on a constant tightrope, because I'm struggling to just stick around for myself.

My primary struggle is that I desperately struggle to find purpose, value, and meaning in my existence, and these are somethings I need because I can't just... be. Because I've mentally touched the void; I've reached such a low point that I don't see or feel beauty and intrigue in the world anymore, I don't feel as vivaciously as before, all I feel is deep sorrow, because I know the world lost it's glow to me and It's not just because the world is going to hell right now, it's because I feel things deeply and having the realization that I have to continue living even when I don't desire it and have to watch everyone I love and care for grow old and fade away and be able to not do anything about it. It's torture...

The problem with purpose is I have to genuinely believe in it or else it'll just crumble into a breakdown and I haven't been successful at finding purpose, at feeling genuine value in my existence.

I made the grave mistake recently of attaching meaning to someone I was in love with in a way that was all too deluded and idyllic and now that that's rightfully fallen through I'm just hurting again. You could say maybe what would give me purpose and value would be love, but I don't know anymore, everyone I've ever loved in my life didn't even feel marginally similar to how I did... besides I'm not someone that catches eyes anyway; I'm not someone people look at twice.

And now I struggle just to exist and continue doing so only because I never want to hurt anyone but I cant begin to explain how difficult it is and how gut-wrenching the sorrow and dread of existence is. I keep having really fucking nightmarish days where I just keep thinking that I can't do it anymore...

I keep continuing but I don't have any hope and I don't believe there is anything good waiting for me in the future... when can I just acknowledge this as a terminal illness and just be allowed to let go... why do people perceive it as preventable when my mind has been so badly damaged it will never be the same again; I find it so impossible to feel or believe anything good or modest about myself:

All I know is misery.

P.S. after years of different therapists, medications, therapeutic approaches, change of life conditions etc. no one has been able to help me ward off the unshakeable thought and "truth": that I will take my life... it may not be today or anytime soon, but I just know it will happen with how intense and unbearable some days get, and those days happen all too frequently and the more they happen the more I just lose my mind and just want to take the leap.

[child-of-atlas]

Aspen Trees and Raindrops

My fear is my fiction; my fiction is my fear.

My fictions have consumed me, in every waking moment between every demand of daily life. I have given my heart, soul, and mind to the phantom shadow of a man that I haven’t yet verified truly exists.

These fictions play in a shadowy theatre of the mind when I’m lost for inspiration, or when I find myself stranded in the quagmire of my somnolent once-romance, or when I allow myself to wax hopeful for a different future waiting for me at a different time, in a different place, with a different man. These dramas are shadow plays of a deep-seated wish that there may be a future of mine where my image of this man of my imagination exists, and for now, the phantom shadow takes his shape, and his alone.

Perhaps the seamless shift from real to fiction is how much of my image of him is grounded in how I know him to be: captivating, brilliant, lovely, genuine, achingly handsome, addictive wit, and the occasional flash of something darker beneath the surface that only makes me want to dive deeper. (The guilt that eats at me to write this while attached to another is still not enough to keep me from acknowledging the basic truth, yet even with my issues, I would be crushed if my nonfiction partner so much as hints at the attractiveness of another woman. I, hypocrite.)

In spite of myself (my age, my shreds of dignity, my general composure), I find I am no different with him than the introductory co-ed girls in their sighs and smiles for Dr. Jones; in the moments we speak, I cling to his accolades, leap for his texts, and revel in his voice whenever the opportunity arises. On instinct rather than thought, I lose a heartbeat or two when a tall and muscled man with salt-and-pepper hair walks by before reason reminds me that this is not even possible.

As it turns out, all of these fictions in which I’ve painted us are predicated on my own simple crush, spiraled out of control, such is my nature; and somehow, the additional thousand miles between us and more frequent lulls have somehow made it more difficult to navigate.

In the face of my (admitted, self-aware, and non-actionable) lunacy, I wither to think that what I perceive is mutual is, in fact, another fiction. And I’m haunted by the idiocy of my own youth underpinning my ability to wrap myself up in a tidy, simple bow and give myself over now—his memories of myself as a younger, unformed, disastrous hyena, circling his classroom and most reasonable boundaries; God help me, I can hardly write anything at all if I think too much about it.

However. I have at least some concrete evidence, or so I believe (though I’m sure Beethoven felt the same für Elise, painfully enough). “I forgot how pretty you are,” said only once, lives rent-free in my mind, with his smile and unmatchable voice. At least once, I’ve seen his eyes wander low to just the right angle on a well-cut dress, and I can’t help but wonder if there were other instances that I wasn’t lucky enough to catch. And, some months later, he didn’t flinch when I nearly put my hands on his across the table the last we spoke (though thankfully, for both our sakes, I caught myself well in time to avoid any sort of impropriety).

Is this coquet bouquet enough to flower these detailed fictions, or inspire them to run behind my eyes whenever a moment permits? Not necessarily; in fact, probably not at all. (Or perhaps I truly am more masculine than I give myself credit for; perhaps this is how the other half of the population operates.) Yet, couldn’t there be chemistry? I would be hard-pressed to believe there wasn’t a spark of something between us. Foolishly, I wonder if there are more obvious notes I can’t recall or missed altogether, and mourn their lost place in my mind if ever they existed at all. (Unless, of course, I am more a Ludwig than a proper observer, in which case, I may just recuse myself from society altogether if nothing else for the shame of being wrong.) I could foster the idea that his allusion to a shared trip to London while I’m “in between boyfriends” was just fun wordplay for him—maybe he did want me to squirm, just a little, just in his subtle undercurrent of the dark side—and yet I visit that set in the theatre of my mind too often, in wee hours where I should be finding sleep instead of more restless fantasy. And while my mind should veer toward all the beautiful history he could lead me to so that I may soak in the beauty and excitement of another land during my first trip across the pond—the sights to see, the music to find, every savory bite of our meals—I imagine instead a shared room, a shared bed, interlaced, frenzied and refined, instinctive and fated, gorgeous and raw; I wrap myself around this idea a million times over and decorate it with his voice, his cologne, the color of his eyes, and down to the bottom of the dream pool I would sink just to experience this once.

Yet below this fiction lies another: a serpent sliding through my carefully manicured visions, hissing their untruth beneath the surface tension of my reflective pool from which I watch these fictions unfold.

In each reverie, I inhabit the body I’ve been subtly tasked with finding from my nonfictional partner: I am strong and lean, flexible and pliable, uniformly pale and without a blemish. I can handle any position, can ride without needing to catch a single breath; I am beautiful from all angles, soundless while asleep, eat perfectly, tipsy but never drunk, dainty and witty, coordinated and clever. In my dreams, I am my own enemy: perfect.

Perhaps my wishful placement of him atop me is less problematic than my glamorized, unattainable mirage of myself I place below him; a bar I still strive to reach for a story that may never unfold.

And more chilling for me yet is my staunch, nonfictional reflection shows more than just a physical issue with my prospective pursuit: in my estimation, I am too full of holes, too unformed, and missing too many pieces to sit at his table. Seven years ago, I had the luxury of youth, arrogance, and stupidity to scapegoat; now, approaching thirty, I have so very little to point to but my own shortcomings for why I am not yet fully autonomous, not nearly so successful, so inexperienced in the finer nuances of intimacy (not for a lack of willingness, I fell the impulsive need to add), so poorly-read and worse-traveled; so painfully unworldly, save those many intangible worlds engraved in staff lines. In a body unmarked by time, perhaps these transgressions aren’t so dire; but the creases around my eyes, the stretch marks that only he would be able to see if all panned out well, the cruelty of my craft on my hands: these marks are not just my faults, but give indelible, irrefutable evidence for every fault I have beneath my skin.

Somewhere in my Grecian blood flows a drop of Daedalus’; like his son, I fly too high and too close to sun after sun out of nothing but arrogance. Who am I to approach this man as I am now? Even more importantly, who am I to approach him as he is now, happy and successful and reaping the rewards of a long-fought and harder-earned career? Have I not learned a more painful lesson in the past with dual-edged blade of a May/December partnership? I tell myself that a lack of commitment, a more liberal and whimsical approach to this union, the emphasis on the physical joys and aiding his conquest of each inch my terrain more than the promises of tomorrows and exclusivity, may chip away at my unchangeable decades of experiential debt, but I have no proof. And I should not have confidence in seeking a man whose time spent where we met covers most of my lifetime. When he stepped into this institution, I was two; when we met, I was twenty; and when I assumed the same title as his first, I had only lived a quarter of a century. Realistically, I was not half his age, but half of a whole human being in comparison.

And yet.

Yet still I visit my hand-painted drapes and backdrops through my day, in various stages of unwind and undress, pining for a ghost of a future that will likely never be, where my body is the visage of a Grecian statue wrapped around the idea I keep of him. I have accepted this as fiction, and fear only how ardently I dreamwalk in the waking shadows of an otherwise plain day.

The fact remains that optimism is just another shade of lunacy. Under this light, life is beautiful and long and full of turns that no one could anticipate. So if I afford myself any hare-brained notion that this could transpire, perhaps, one day, we find each other in the right light and in the right wavelength. Perhaps he holds his own fiction in which I appear, radiant and free, unencumbered with whatever ails his nonfiction partner; and maybe, my fictions and my fears melt away in the face of the right embrace.

Perhaps, one day, I find myself on a plane to the land of aspen trees, and step out to a prelude of raindrops.

[xtinyslip]

"YOU MUST STOP CALLING ME THAT! THAT'S NOT WHO I AM, IT'S A UNFORTUNATE STORY BUT THAT'S NEVER WHO I WAS. IT'S JUST WHAT I WAS MADE TO BELIEVE ONCE. OH, DO MAKE YOUR MIND. YOU ACTUALLY BELIEVE I'M THE WORST FOR WANTING YOU AROUND WHEN YOU WANTED TO BE AROUND JUST AS MUCH?" it could have slapped her in the face and she wouldn't have known to call it love then. she had no idea what love was then. she wasn't denying now that her father had loved her in his own way all this time. that didn't mean, however, that she knew love the same way as anyone else did. how could she have then? "… it was. yes, i -- it's embarrassing to think, i know but i didn't know any other way. that was my sad little life. he made it all about him, and i let him." it had been just her and her father for really as long as she could recall. of course, she had the faintest memories of her mother but she had been so young when she lost her. "YOU'RE BEING SERIOUS, AREN'T YOU? YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" snapping at how he dared, after everything that she went through because he'd been talked into believing that once, and he was using that against her again now. it was difficult in the moment to keep in mind that he wasn't aware of that, it didn't really do much to take away the sting of his words right now. "… i was." they'd both forgotten about her, that was karma being a true bitch. "if he has no recollection either, i…" emotions starting to become overwhelming, just when she thought grief was going to be the biggest bitch and now there was whatever she was feeling right now. knowing he was alive, and seemingly happy healed her heart but knowing he could be all those things without her shattered it all over again. it was selfish, but then she always had been and always would be. "WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?" because she was telling the truth, and the truth made no sense if he couldn't remember. "what happened to our sweet, little gabi was a tragedy and i…" she sighed. "i am sorry. i have every intention of fully making this up to her in any way that i can." uh, well, it might not have been strictly true before but it was now. "most would argue what he did to me was well deserved. you do not need to apologise for his actions. it's fine." was it? how could she tell him that elaine had done so much WORSE that what her father had done was currently a distant memory. "you." yes, that was the simplistic answer but she didn't really see what good giving deep into any answers she gave would do right now. "i don't want or need anything from you. just you." she didn't need him to play some part in another scam, she certainly didn't need money… if that's what he was getting at? she just wanted him. "i know." cecilia had a hard expression, and when she couldn't manage hard, she could manage unreadable but she when she acknowledged he was right about what he was saying… she had felt her expression break for a moment. it might have been the briefest of moments but it had happened, probably at the same time she felt that last remaining piece of herself break too. will was a good man, they both were and they didn't deserve to be tangled up in her shit but how the fuck did she just let them go? "alright." wanting him to stop, to just shut up because she was really trying to keep it together and not cry but she could feel the emotion building into a lump in her throat. one she was struggling to swallow down. "here's the issue. you and will are the people who keep my world turning and in a fucked up version of events. you both don't remember even half the shit we've been through together here, and i'll accept that it's karma. i was a heartless monster in the past, i deserve it but you saying leave us be doesn't help me. HOW DOES ONE DO THAT? HOW DO I JUST LET YOU GO?" tears streamed down her face and she was so angry that they were betraying her like that. that they were showing him how vulnerable she was actually feeling that her hands clenched into fists. "… i want a glass of that strong bottle of wine first." @fcdcdmcmories

"AH, YES. IT'S ALWAYS ABOUT YOU AND ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT. ISN'T IT? WHATEVER CECILIA PEDERSON WANTS, SHE GETS. NO MATTER WHO ENDS UP HURT IN THE PROCESS.AND I DID STAY, DIDN'T I? UNTIL THE END. IT'S CALLED THAT FOR A REASON. the end. this is my life now." this? yes, it was. maybe he had tried to move on in all aspects, but.. this - the restaurant - was the only on that he had been successful on. sometimes? he felt as if he'd never be able to love anyone right - not in the way that he had loved her. was he always going to be stuck there? in the past? "always about him, isn't it? your father this, your father that. of course you were the one that made it out alive. YOU'RE TOO MUCH LIKE HIM NOT TO, AREN'T YOU?" was that meant to be an insult? right now, yes, it was. she had come here and was apparently right after turning his life around and he was.. angry and frustrated and every single thing in between right now. and more.. he dare not name. "no, you didn't. what the hell are you talking about? i've told will about what happened to me in the past. about you. about what you did to me. IF YOU WERE THAT CLOSE TO HIM, DON'T YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE HEARD OF THAT BY NOW?" she wasn't.. lying? he looked up, attempting to examine her expression and it didn't seem as if she was. that was what was weird. either he still couldn't see right through her mask or.. maybe, she was telling the truth? how? he buried his face in his hands for a second. all she was doing was giving him a headache. "right. well, the kid may have FORGOTTEN AND FORGIVEN what happened that night, but.. we haven't. gabi still has nightmares about all this. she's still afraid you're going to come back and finish the job. IT'S NOT IN THE PAST." not for his daughter, not for him, but how was it that it didn't seem as if she was lying? of course that this was happening and of course that.. the second that he spent more than five minutes with her, he stopped being able to see through her lies. "i'm--" she wouldn't lie about THAT. would she? he had seen too much over the years to believe that. "look, if that's the case- then.. i'm sorry. i really am. he's a monster, but.. but this town is big enough. you can get away from him for good. if you've really changed? you can have a life of your own here. AND I HOPE YOU FIND IT - WHAT I KNOW YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED, BUT I-" but i'm not a part of that? was that what he had been about to say? he.. he shut himself off, truly looking at her. no, she didn't look like the cecilia he remembered, but that didn't mean anything. did it? "then what do you want, cecilia? truly? no lies. no games. why are you here? what do you want? from this, from me? what?" shaking his head. "i know what i'm saying. i have people i love here. i have a life. and will? he's a good man. he deserves better than to be caught up in your games or, god forbid, your family drama. DON'T. LEAVE HIM BE. LEAVE ME BE. LEAVE... US BE." he froze, looking over at her, opening his mouth for a second as if he wanted to say something, but.. the words died in his throat, as he shook his head again. "no. i've.. i've seen what your love looks like. and i'm not sure i can.. go through all that again." she wasn't leaving, was she? clearly not and right now, he almost did feel.. no, he didn't want to think about what he had felt when he had realised that. fuck. "a small break and then, you leave and i go back to my life. deal? sit. sit and order whatever you want or don't-- i just.." had he just realised that most of the things he had added to the menu had been.. old favourites of hers, that he had used to cook for them back in the day? FUCKING HELL. SUBCONSCIOUS CHOICE MUCH? that wasn't happening, was it? he knew her too well to know that. for a moment, he found himself staring at her hand and.. without thinking, his hand moved upwards for a second, barely touching hers. no, no."THAT TABLE WAS ALREADY--" taken? fucking hell. "fine. i'm listening. better go and get a strong bottle of wine, because clearly, i'm going to need it for this. start talking." / @xtinyslip

[orbital-inclination]

So... Molt doesn't know he killed the villagers? Fun!!

Also before I even knew of this au I kept wishing there was an au with and corrupted Octo Dream and now here you are with my dream come true I love it!!! 💜💜💜💜💛💛💛💛

SDFslkdfjL Thank you! Though I am far from the first person to make a corrupted!Dream.