#I have the worst migraine right now I hope this is coherent.

[toomuchracket]

following on from anon wanting to talk about smutty matty… thinking about you meeting him at a dinner party for your friends bday or engagement or smth (and maybe he had to leave straight from studio so you couldnt go together) and him trying to find any excuse to leave early because he wants to rip your dress off of you xoxo

i had another ask in the inbox that i'm going to modify slightly to fit in this one (anon who sent it i hope you don't mind!): being at dinner w your family and matty touching your thighs under the table and eventually going up stairs away from your family and him fucking you but you have to be quiet

ok! so let's say that you actually all go away for the weekend to celebrate your friend's 30th - he hires a big house somewhere out in the country, with its own pool and all that, and every couple has, like, their own suite/apartment within it. on the friday night, you're kicking off celebrations with a big dinner party in the MASSIVE kitchen, like a proper catered one, and it's a somewhat dressy event - you've got a gorgeous dark green velvet dress, asymmetric hem sitting right above your knee, with a DEEP sweetheart neckline (like, your boobs look tasteful but still absolutely incredible), and matty hasn't seen it at all. like you said, he comes to the house straight from the studio, meets your friend at the door and heads up to get changed without seeing you (you've been roped into helping make cocktails). anyway, matty comes downstairs freshly showered and shaved about half an hour later, in one of his fancy shirts and dress trousers (the polka dot saint laurent one he had on at the show the other night), and stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the kitchen and sees you standing there with your aperol spritz, talking with one of your girls. like, the man loses all coherent thoughts other than you in that dress, and literally cannot move until one of your other girls comes up beside him and goes "i know. she looks unreal", and matty turns to her and just goes "... i am punching so far above my weight", and your friend laughs. and you turn at the noise, beaming when you see matty, and walk over to him (on shaky legs, because he's so hot your knees go a bit weak) like "hi handsome", kissing him quickly and then asking "do you like my dress?" - matty's eyes go wide and he's like "do i like it? you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen. honestly, sweetheart". and you blush and kiss him again and say "so you'd want to see it again?", and matty winks and says "preferably the next time i see it it'll be on the bedroom floor" and you're like "... that could be arranged" and matty gets so eager like "how about right now? we could say i had a migraine after recording all day and we need to go to bed!". and you giggle at his enthusiam but you say "we've been here for ten mins babe, we can't leave so soon! and dinner's about to start", and matty pouts but he knows you're right.

however, you being right doesn't deter him in the SLIGHTEST - throughout the hours-long meal, which is lovely, matty keeps up the compliments in your ear, alongside fantasies of what he wants to do when he gets you out of the dress, and asks you if the two of you can leave yet between every course. his worst behaviour, though, is during the champagne toast to the birthday boy after dinner - matty keeps one hand on the bottom of his coupé glass, but his other starts to creep up your thigh towards the hem of your dress, and then under it towards your lace-covered slit. and you just let him, because you're feeling needy for your extremely sexy boyfriend too, let matty's fingers dip behind your panties and drag up through your wetness towards your clit. when he touches it, your legs jerk, but you manage to keep control of your body, leaning over to matty and whispering "do you still have that migraine? maybe it's time for you to go to bed" and matty's like YES. so you bid farewell to your friends and tell them you'll see them tomorrow.

the two of you run up to your room, and literally as soon as you get in the door matty's borderline TEARING your dress off as you step out of your heels and get to work on his shirt. he groans when he sees you've no bra on, and starts kissing and sucking all over your chest while you undo the button on his trousers, and within about 3 mins of being in the room you're both fully naked on the bed kissing and grinding. and i think you're both so desperate that there's no need for foreplay or just anything other than matty being inside you - you offer to go down on him first, but he's like "babe i need to fuck you properly right now, please". and who are you to deny him, when you're as soaked and whiny as you are? so you line matty up, and he's inside you with one powerful thrust, just fucking you hard and fast and talking dirty in your ear, hand over your mouth so you don't scream, until you explode and he follows suit in seconds. and THEN you spend the rest of the night going down on each other, fucking until you're both on the verge of passing out, then falling asleep together. and the next morning, when matty catches sight of that green dress on the floor, there may or may not be a repeat of some of the previous night's activities... <3

[fistsoflightning]

crackling tension

for wolcredweek day 3 - trust/heart

this is excavated from an old fic i discarded, but is sort-of a prequel to ‘let it all be said’! somehow, it was more coherent than the stuff i wrote yesterday even before editing :pensive:

The room in Meghaduta that Vrtra had provided them for the night was almost luxurious, which was not that surprising when Zaya remembered that they were in a palace, rather than the Andron or an inn. Through some manner of alchemy—the same kind that kept the alchemists living at the Great Work from overheating, they assumed—the room was far cooler than the humid air outside, the difference and relief heightened by how much Thavnair had been on fire in the past day.

(It was also very nice to be crashing somewhere that was accustomed to accommodating Au Ra, especially after a day’s worth of fighting; the washroom counter had a number of sponges and scrubs made for scales that they had eagerly took into the bath, and on the bed was a set of pillows that would make lying on their side comfortable and hopefully save Thancred from any undue stabbing. There had been a note laid atop them, written in a deep red ink—but Thancred had picked it up first, made a funny noise, and pocketed it before Zaya could bother to look up from where they were rearranging their pack, their belongings a disaster from the rush to Thavnair. Something to bring up later, when they had time to spare.)

All the cool air and comfort provided hadn’t done shite for their headache, though. A bad enough omen on its own—all the smoke from the flames of Vanaspati was liable to give them a migraine the same way the reagents in the Great Work had a few moons back—but joined by the vertigo and the sudden wave of emotions not their own the moment they arrived in Thavnair to see burning skies, Zaya was inclined to believe it was the Echo screwing with them.

Which was fine now, since they weren’t in the middle of a battlefield or a crowd of people anymore—useful, even, given how the best plan they had was to hope whatever remained of Elidibus could speak with them—but it would be nice if the Echo would just drag them into the memory already so they could rest.

Zaya bit back a groan when the ache at the base of their skull flared, white hot as they curled their fingers tight, a dull throb in their knuckles from the strain. Alone, they might have shoved their head into the pillows and stayed there until the worst had passed. With Thancred’s arm draped over their waist, though, his hand pressed just above the base of their tail and heavy with sleep, there wasn’t much they could do without bothering him more than they had already.

Counting his steady breaths while waiting for the reprieve was easier than counting their own, when they managed to uncurl one of their hands from the sheets and gently press their palm against his chest, right over his heart. In, out, rise, fall—accompanied by the faint tempo of his heartbeat beneath their hand, it was easy to wait out the long seconds of pain. Zaya exhaled in relief when the aching receded into discomfort only to fail in biting down a hiss when it returned near immediately and shot up the sides of their head, hand reflexively gripping Thancred’s shirt in their momentary lapse of control.

They must have accidentally scratched him, with how fast he rose from sleep. “Good gods,” he hissed, face still pressed halfway into his pillow. One of his eyes cracked open to squint at them, still hazy with exhaustion.

“Sorry,” they mumbled, tongue cotton in their mouth, and reached back for a pillow to shamefully bury their head beneath only for Thancred to stop them. His eyes were clearer when he sat up; Zaya snorted at how his disheveled hair before immediately regretting it, jaw clenching at the bright spike being driven up their neck.

“‘Tis hardly your fault I sleep lightly,” he said lowly, bringing their hand to his mouth and briefly pressing his lips to their knuckles before letting go. He adjusted the silk ribbon tied around their horn, then brushed his thumb against the line of their jaw and asked: “Still feeling dizzy?”

Zaya shrugged, nudging away his hand to turn onto their back—it wasn’t comfortable, crushing their tail like this, but they needed both their hands. They raised their hands level with their forehead, index fingers outstretched as if ready to point, before gently rotating their wrists in opposite directions and motioning their hands towards each other.

Thancred’s eyes pinched at the corners with worry, the sheen of their limbal rings reflected as he searched their face—his work had taught him to misdirect, and to school his face, but his eyes were always so expressive when he looked at them (which Zaya liked) though often the emotion was in some variation concern (which they didn’t). They were still working on that, not making him fret so much.

He reached out again to touch them; they shivered when his thumb brushed just below the base of their horn, his hand warm against the scales of their neck, and again when he pressed it against some tense muscle. “May I try something?” he asked, and when they nodded sedately in his hold he smiled faintly. “I fear I’ll need you to sit up, bluebird.”

[liminalhollow]

So I like the concept/headcanon of “shades.” Which if you don’t know, is the idea that’s there’s a type of ghost that’s kinda like a blob ghost and they’re weak little globs of ectoplasm that are formed from strong emotions and hang around the human world, usually harmlessly.

And I was thinking about that with Batman crossovers.

Bruce is traumatized. He’s definitely got a shade or two following him around. Wayne manor is probably a playground for them.

So what if there was one that formed back when he lost his parents. The trauma that’s at the core of all his other trauma.

And it stayed with him all these years, growing with him and being fed and shaped by his emotions.

The day Danny meets Bruce Wayne, he sees it immediately.

It’s one of the strongest shades he’s ever seen. It’s still weak compared to him of course, because it’s still just a shade. An entity that’s dependent on the emotions feeding it to exist, and mostly undetectable by ghost hunting equipment. But it’s still exceptionally strong for a shade.

It looks just like the Batman, except it’s glaringly not human. A big, black, looming shadow, its body a featureless silhouette with blank, glowing white eyes. Long tendrils curling up at the ends of the cape. Gliding about with fluid motions and able to twist and stretch its wispy form how it sees fit.

It's like the version of the Bat imagined in the stories told of him. Less of a real human being and more of a larger-than-life tale.

It likes to take the place of Bruce’s shadow. It moves with him wherever he goes, only sometimes peeling itself off the walls and floor to peer around its host’s shoulders. 

Danny can’t take his eyes off it.

Bruce wonders why this kid keeps staring at the empty space behind him.

The night Danny encounters Batman, he thinks Bruce’s shade wandered off on its own.

Then he gets a closer look. It’s not the shade, it’s a man enveloped by the shade, wearing it like a cloak. Or a suit.

As soon as Danny realizes that, Bruce’s secret identity is compromised.

(He doesn’t say a word to Bruce. Even the next time he meets Bruce in the daylight and the shade is back in its place, posing as his shadow.)

People tell stories about Batman. How he melts into the shadows like he is one. How he moves more silently than a human should be able to. How his glare has a force behind it. How maybe he’s some kind of meta, or even a ghost.

The rumors have a shred of truth to them. But he isn’t a meta or a ghost, just a man wrapped in his own shadow.

Anyway just... Bruce unknowingly has a shade buddy as his sidekick and reflection of his mental state and it gives him subtle shadow manipulation and fear-inducing powers AU.

[snakeboistan]

‘Cause You Had A Bad Day (You’re Taking One Down)

AKA: A Nagisa-Centric Sick Fic

Pairing: Nagisa x 3-E (platonic)

Today was not Nagisa’s day. Not at all.

It all started when he woke up that morning feeling like he had been hit by a freight train that was coming at him at full speed. Groggily, he blinked open his eyes to find his forehead covered in a glistening sheen of sweat covering his forehead and a giant boulder that he could not see had him pinned down onto his bed. With strenuous effort, he had rolled over, planted his feet onto his bedroom floor and clutched onto his bedside table to help him stand up - and then almost fell over backwards because of how his head spun from the movement. He had dragged his feet towards his bathroom and his reflection in the mirror above the sink would’ve made him gasp if it weren’t for the woodpecker drilling in his cranium and the raw scratchiness of his throat. His normally porcelain white face was flushed pink and his eyes lacked their usual brightness. Oh god, of all days for him to get a fever, it had to be on the day they had an English test. Well, at least it was Friday so he’ll have the whole weekend to sleep it off. He was then overcome by a feeling of dread as he threw himself before his commode, retching and emptying out the contents of his stomach - which already felt unnaturally empty to begin with. Groaning in despair, he fumbled an arm above him to flush the toilet and flip down the lid so that he could rest his head on it’s cooler surface as he breathed deeply.

‘This is the worst,’ he lamented, noticing how his body was currently shivering despite the heat of the early morning sun, ‘completely defeated by a stupid fever. And I’m supposed to be a trained assassin. How the hell am I supposed to kill Koro-Sensei if I can’t even stand up properly or think straight.’ With a hefty sigh, he pushed himself upwards, blinking rapidly as he waved his arms about to steady his shaking legs. ‘I bet Karasuma-Sensei doesn’t let something as small as an illness stop him from doing what he does. That man has like no chinks at all. I can’t afford to skip, not with my grades. If I don’t want to let him and everyone else down, I’ve got to act as normally as possible. I’ll be a liability if my sickness drags me down and the last thing I want is to burden my classmates. An assassin should be able to overcome anything and shouldn’t get in the way so that’s what I’ll do. Hopefully, it’ll get better later.’

Once he had dressed himself in his usual school clothes and tied his hair into his usual pigtails, he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed off to school, choosing to skip breakfast and not pack himself lunch with the hope that the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach would die down if he didn’t eat anything. What followed was what Nagisa would describe as the worst walk to school he had ever undergone in his entire life: his throat was dry, tongue parched, body weak and every noise he heard only amplified the throbbing in his head. His insulating clothing felt suffocating, his black tie practically holding his neck in a choke hold, and he knew the heat he felt radiating off of him wasn’t due to the fact that it was nearing summer. 

“Hey, Nagisa,” Sugino called, somehow materialising out of nothing, “what’s up.”

Nagisa tried not to jump from shock. Normally he would’ve been able to hear his best friend from a mile away, would’ve been able to discern the tell-tale thuds of the taller boy’s favourite sneakers against the concrete and sense his presence before he could’ve said a word. It was common knowledge in their so-called ‘Assassination Classroom’ that sneaking up on Nagisa is about as difficult as getting Fuwa to go twenty-four hours without referencing a manga - his ability to observe his surroundings and everyone in them was one of the few things he was actually good at. To make up for his current lack of observational skills and his tinted complexion he hastily threw on a smile and greeted, “Oh, hey Sugino. Nothing much. How are you.”

Sugino narrowed his eyes at the shorter boy as Nagisa mentally congratulated himself for stringing those words out coherently. With a raised eyebrow, he replied slowly, “I’m fine, thanks. Are - are you okay, dude.”

“Of course I am,” he laughed, somewhat nervously, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look a bit… tired.”

“I am,” he sighed, “I stayed up a bit late to study for that test we have today. I guess I was kind of pushing it with my sleeping hours, huh.”

Sugino looked at him for a second before stating, “sure.”

Sensing that Sugino was going to probe into something that he really didn’t want to discuss right now (or ever), he continued, “hopefully I studied enough. I mean English is my best subject so I’m hoping for at least an eighty-five percent.”

The sceptical look was washed off of his best friend’s face as his features softened into the usual fond smile he wears around the bluenette, “I’m sure you’ll ace it, man. I know how hard you work. You’ve just got to watch out for those spelling errors, right.”

“Right,” Nagisa echoed with a half-authentic grin, whilst in his mind he castigated, ‘you can’t let your guard down like that, idiot. You saw the way Sugino looked at you. You’ve got to get better at hiding this before you inconvenience the entire class and mess up their day. God, mom was right - I really am a burden. Just spend the rest of the day like nothing’s wrong and hopefully this will go down.’

Unfortunately for him, his pain only got worse and every step up the E-Class mountain made him feel like his calf bones were being split open. It was a considerable effort for him to remain upright as he conversed with Sugino, and his sweat-slicken body made his shirt stick to his skin in the most uncomfortable way possible. His muscles were screaming at him, begging him to stop what he was doing and to just collapse into a heap on the forest floor but he continued to trudge along the path towards the classroom at the top. He could do this. He’s used to hiding his emotions. He’s spent years mastering the art of concealing what he truly felt, surely he could last seven hours - even if they were under the watchful eye of a superpowered octopus, a government agent, one of the world’s top assassins and twenty-six assassins in training.

Upon entering the classroom, he gave his usual greetings, whilst narrowly avoiding any direct contact with any of his classmates lest they feel his unnaturally high body temperature, before slumping onto his seat.

“Hiya, Nagisa,” Kayano chirped, as bubbly as always, “how are you doing?”

Nagisa looked up and hoped that the weak smile he gave her did not resemble a grimace at all, “I’m fine, thanks. How are-”

He was interrupted by a smooth voice, “you sure about that, Nagisa? ‘Cause you’re looking a little on the red side.”

He swiveled his head around and immediately regretted that particular action as his migraine worsened. Karma, who was standing next to Kayano on the adjacent side of his desk, had on his signature smirk but the look in his eyes was calculating. He huffed out a laugh, “I’m fine, Karma.”

“Really?” the redhead raised an eyebrow, “because you look like the walking dead.”

“I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, that’s all,” Nagisa argued, tone a tad bit on the defensive side, “I was so caught up in studying for today’s test that I only got like five hours.”

“That’s not good, Nagisa,” Kayano admonished with a gasp, “you need to take better care of yourself, you know. Studying is important but so is your health.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nagisa mumbled with his head down.

Great, it’s only been like two minutes and I’m already making them worry.

“Besides,” Nakamura chimed in with a grin, “you’re great at English. You were one mark away from me in the last test we took so you shouldn’t worry so badly.”

“That’s what I told him,” Sugino said, “but he’s Nagisa. He just has to worry about something.”

They all traded fond looks as Nagisa let out nervous chuckles. It was then that his stomach constricted sharply. He quickly excused himself with a squeak of ‘bathroom’ before fleeing the classroom, unaware of the narrowed golden eyes that followed him.

Once he was locked within the cubicle of the building’s lavatory, he was quick to once again empty out the contents of his stomach, thanking every deity out there that he arrived early so his discordant gagging wouldn’t have been heard by their teacher with his enhanced senses. It was then a lightbulb when off in his head as he mentally slammed a palm against his forehead. Zipping open his schoolbag, he fumbled inside before drawing out a bright red first aid kit. With a sigh of relief, he opened it and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen but then his hope dissipated when he capsized it to find it empty. Oh, right, he gave the last few pills to Okano the other day when she was complaining about her menstrual cramps and he forgot to go to the pharmacy to buy more. ‘Dammit, Shiota. What if someone else needed those. Your classmates could be in pain and you would’ve been useless in helping them.’ Despairing at his fate, he flushed, got up, washed his hands and made his way back to his classroom, wrapping his arms around himself to hide his shivering.

Entering the room again, he was met with concerned looks from his peers. Giving them a comforting smile, he walked as confidently as he could with the little energy he had back to his desk, ignoring the eyes that he felt on him. Luckily for him, before anyone could speak, they all felt a gush of wind whoosh through the classroom and in a blink of an eye, their homeroom teacher stood before them.

“Good morning, students,” he called out cheerfully, “I hope you all are ready for your test today. I know that it’s the last day of the week but I’m sure that each of you will be able to power through. Now, I can see that everyone is present but why don’t I take the register anyways as you boys and girls try to kill me, alright? It will be a perfect warm-up exercise to get you all pumped for the day.”

And with that, their class’ school day began as it always does; with Koro-Sensei holding the register and calling out names whilst dodging bullets at Mach 20. Even in extreme agony and lethargy, Nagisa could only find amusement in that as he aimed and fired, whilst simultaneously doing all he could to not let the abnormally heavy gun slip from his grasp. When roll call was over, he could only tell that his fever was getting worse as he was hunching down to grab the stray anti-sensei bbs that lay littered on the floor. He knew that he should probably tell Koro-Sensei that he wasn’t feeling well, that he could use some medicine that he knew that the octopus could get in less than a nano-second but doing so would draw attention and alert the others and then everyone will know how weak he is, how he can’t handle his own immune system, how he is unfit to be an assassin. Or even worse, they’ll be concerned;  they’ll fret and worry over him and lose focus, make mistakes that could cost them, their billion dollar yen and the fate of the Earth. He could ruin everything. So it’s best to keep quiet. Even when his throbbing head feels like shutting down and his skin is on fire and there's enough sweat covering his body to water the tulips in the E-Class garden.

Fortunately, he was able to complete the test to the best of his ability. It was a comprehension assessment and it wasn’t too challenging for him, which was good because he was able to put more effort in keeping his head up than he planned to. Unfortunately, however, his theory of the fever getting better was horribly horribly wrong. If anything, it became worse, if that was even possible: His stomach twisted sporadically every time he took a breath, the cave of his mouth and the empty vessel of his oesophagus stung like they had been rubbed raw and so every painful swallow only increased their pleas for water (he had finished his bottle and he was not going to be asking to borrow anyone else’s), he could feel the build-up of perspiration along the outline of his shirt under his arms (he was so glad that he wore a dark waistcoat to school) and he could see the way his hands would shake no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. It was already the second period of his five-period school day and so all he had to do was last three more lessons and he can go home and hibernate for the rest of the week. He had no idea how he was going to survive Physical Education with the military training exercises that Karasuma had them doing for the past three days. He hoped and prayed that they wouldn't be sparing because that would require contact and fast moves and there’s no way he’d be able to hide anything then.

He didn’t have to wait that long, however, because he was found out by period three.

After spending their break acting as normal as possible without drawing attention to the way every single cell inside him ached and groaned as well as the fact that he was without his usual breaktime snack, he walked into the classroom, ready for their science lesson. Today they were going to do a practical (something about reactions or something, honestly he couldn’t concentrate at all at this moment because his mind was so hazy and he was currently too busy trying not to cry). He turned to Sugino, his regular partner in science, before Karma swiftly walked in between them.

“Yo, Nagisa,” he said, “wanna be partners.”

Nagisa blinked at him before looking around him to meet Sugino’s eyes. The baseball lover only shrugged and then walked away to pair up with Kanzaki. With the way he and the redhead shared eye contact as he left, Nagisa was sure that the two of them were planning something for once the twisting of his gut was not due to his current affliction.

“Uhh, sure,” Nagisa agreed, half because he has a problem with saying no and half because he was sure that even if he did refuse, Karma would still pair up with him anyway.

“Great,” the taller boy grinned.

As soon as the class had set up the apparatus and began their experiment his conjecture was confirmed as Karma had stated, “so what’s with you?”

Nagisa almost dropped the textbook he was holding, “huh.”

The other boy scoffed, “don’t play dumb, Nagisa. There’s something wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Karma.”

“Oh really. Then explain why you didn’t eat anything during break today-”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“-Or why you look like you’re about to keel over any second.”

“I told you. I stayed up too late.”

“- Or what that little trip to the bathroom was for.”

“I had to use the bathroom like any other normal person. I didn’t realise that I had to tell you the purpose of everywhere I go. And what’s with all of the questions?” Nagisa didn’t mean to sound so defensive or snappy, not to one of his best friends who he knows is only looking out for him. He knows that that’s how Karma is; whilst Nagisa approaches problems with caution and care, the redhead goes on with a complete offensive attack - assaulting with blunt words and hard facts to break you down. He doesn’t believe in the roundabout way, he’s always direct and wants things done at the time. His ability to get what he wants is one of the qualities in the other boy that Nagisa admired, but right now it was a pain in the neck. He felt cornered and trapped and something inside him, the viper he could feel curling around in his unconscious, was ready to lash out and bite and that’s the last thing he wanted.

“Hey, no need for that tone,” Karma held up his hands, “I was just asking. There’s no harm in that, right.”

Nagisa let out a sigh, “you’re right. I’m sorry for snapping. It’s just that I really just want to get on with this.”

“I still think you’re hiding something.”

“Karma, I’m trying to read the instructions. You’re kind of distracting me.” (it’s not like he was able to read the words anyway, they all seemed to blur into one big smudge of dancing black on the page)

“Why can’t you just say what’s wrong. What’s the big deal.”

“Karma.”

“Just go ahead and say it, Nagisa. What are you so afraid of.”

“I - I,” he sighed wearily, dropping his shoulders, “I should get another test tube. We’re missing one for the experiment.”

“Nagisa,” he could hear Karma calling him but he ignored it as he speed walked to the front desk to grab another piece of apparatus. It was on his way back that he could feel his stomach give a lurch. His heart was racing as the pain in his head had reached a new intensity. His stomach dropped and he felt apprehension crash over him.

‘Oh no,’ he thought as his hands began to shake.

His surroundings started to lose focus. The floor was swaying under his feet.

No, no. Not now. Not in front of everyone. 

His head felt light. So so very light.

‘Come on Nagisa, one more step,’ he urged before his eyes rolled. He could faintly hear the sound of glass breaking and horrified shouts of his name before the world went dark.

…..

The first thing Nagisa noticed when he came to was that this was not his bedroom. His eyes opened after steady blinks, and the first thing he found himself facing was a blur of different colours that he was sure didn’t belong in his house. Once his eyes adjusted themselves and focused properly, he recognised it as a notice board with lots of paper pinned onto the multicoloured backdrop. Then he realised that his forehead was covered with cold water, probably from the ice pack that he found lying on the floor next to him. It was when he heard the soft clicks of a computer’s keyboard that he registered that he was in the teachers’ lounge. With a gasp, he sat up on the row of chairs that had been pushed together to form a makeshift bed, the softness under his palms made him realise that a pile of blankets were thrown on to make him more comfortable. Karasuma, who was the one that was using the computer, turned around on his chair to face him.

“Nagisa, you’re up. How are you doing,” he asked as he stood up and walked towards him with a bottle of water, “we were all very worried.”

“Uhh,” was his coherent reply.

“Here, this will make you feel better,” the man said, holding out the bottle as well as a small white tablet. When Nagisa reached out to grab them, he found that his right hand was wrapped around in a bandage. He blinked at it in shock, “when you fainted, your hand landed on some glass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll inform your classmates and the target that you’re up and I’ll be right back.”

Nagisa watched as Karasuma left, and continued to observe the door for a few seconds before looking down at the uncapped bottle. He threw his head back and downed it hurriedly, yearning to relieve the pain in his throat. It didn’t do much since he still felt like just begging god to just finish the job and get it over and done with but he appreciated it regardless.

“OH NAGISA, I WAS SO WORRIED!” Koro-Sensei wailed as he appeared before him with medicine boxes, books on fevers, and five bottles of water, “WHAT A TERRIBLE SENSEI I AM TO BE UNAWARE OF MY STUDENT’S SUFFERING. THE SHAME. AH, I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIVE ME FOR BEING SO CARELESS.”

“Koro-Sensei, please,” Nagisa said, “it’s not your fault. I was hiding it because I didn't want anyone to know.”

“Bu-but why,” his teacher asked, sniffling, “as your teacher, it’s important for me to be aware if you’re not feeling well. OR AM I NOT APPROACHABLE ENOUGH FOR YOU TO UNLOAD YOUR WORRIES?”

“No, no,” he replied quickly, “I just - I just don’t like people knowing when I’m not feeling well, that’s all.”

The octopus paused. Slowly he said, “why’s that Nagisa? Do you think that your classmates will treat you any differently if they knew?”

Nagisa looked down and mumbled, “it’s - it’s just that. Well, we’re supposed to be assassins, Sir. I don’t think trained killers let themselves fall back just because they’re not well.”

“Nagisa,” Koro-Sensei’s voice was stern but still held his kind and gentle tone, “you are a valuable member of this class. Every single one of your peers consider you an asset, an ally and a friend. We all look after each other here. We are all striving towards the same goal. Together. As students and as assassins, an important aspect of life is to be able to work as a team. To carry on through your strongest and lift each other up at your weakest. I see you looking out for others. Why won’t you let others look out for you?”

“I just didn’t want to be a burden, “ Nagisa whispered, “I thought I could deal with it.”

“Nagisa, you are not a burden. You have a burden. A burden that you have no need to carry on our own. I know this may seem difficult to you, but please: next time you find yourself in a situation where you can ask for help, don’t be afraid to.”

Nagisa looked up and despite the wide smile on his teacher’s face, he knew that the octopus was serious. He nodded.

“Wonderful,” Koro-Sensei beamed and clapped his hands, “now, I’m sure that the others would want to see you so I’m not going to keep them waiting any longer.”

“About time,” Karma said as he walked in.

“Were you there the whole time?” Nagisa asked as Koro-Sensei gasped theatrically.

“Karma, I thought I told you to wait in the classroom.”

“I know,” Karma smirked, pulling up a chair and sitting on it, “but the thing is that I didn’t want to.”

“WHY DO YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!?”

“Uhh, Sir?” Nakamura popped her head in, “are you going to leave or not because the rest of us are waiting.”

With a cry of despair, the teacher left the room. Nagisa turned to face Karma.

“I-,” 

“You okay,” Karma asked, cutting through the apology that Nagisa had at his throat, “and don’t you dare lie.”

“I’ve been better.”

“God, Nagisa. Why did you try to hide this? You scared the c**p out of everyone. It would've been funny to see Terasaka lose his s*** if it weren’t for the fact that you were lying on the floor, bleeding and not responding to anyone. Did you know that you had a temperature of 40°C?”

“I’m sorry, Karma. I didn’t want everyone to freak out, I swear, that’s kind of the reason why I didn’t tell you guys anything. I just -” he was cut off as his migraine increased and his stomach flipped. His wince and groan of agony made Karma’s eyebrows furrow.

“You good? Do you want to rest more?”

“I - yeah. I think that might be best.”

“Alright then,” Karma pulled out his phone and began scrolling through it, “rest all you want. I’ll make sure no one comes to bother you.”

…

The rest of the day continued with his classmates coming to check on him, even after school was over: Sugaya had made an A3 sized get well soon card and the entire class had signed it, Fuwa decided to help him go to sleep by reading a manga to him like a bedtime story, Sugino and Kayano berated him for hiding his illness before hugging him, Hara offered him some soup to help him feel better, Hazama offered to use a spell to ‘expel the sickness and other evil entities’ from his body (he was quick to decline that), most of the girls were fussing and doting over their ‘kind of little brother’ and were quick to do whatever he wanted to help him get better (especially Yada, who actually had experience with looking after her sick younger brother) whilst the boys tried to cheer him up with funny anecdotes. When it was time to return home, Karma and Sugino took turns in carrying him down the mountain and to his apartment (ignoring his protests and reminders that they would get sick), even going as far as to tuck him in and place a bottle of ibuprofen on the bedside table. They left with promises of returning the next day to make sure that he was taking care of himself and as they did, Nagisa couldn’t help but be glad that he had such loving classmates.

[anarchistgumball]

Bakukami- hurt/comfort

It was one fight, one stupid fight. He was angry, he knew he was making excuses. It shouldn’t even matter as it happened almost a year ago. It did matter though, it mattered then, it still matters. What he said was coming back to bite him in the ass.

He was in a plastic chair with a light cushion on it, comfortable for fifteen minutes, but not for four hours. Leaning over the side of the hospital bed, peering at his fiancé. Plastic digging into his arms leaving imprints, but he refused to leave. Denki was an idiot, how could he do this? He’d gone off and overused his quirk again. Even though he didn’t usually go overboard much anymore, when he did it usually wasn’t that big of a deal. An hour in his ‘stupid mode’, some pain for him unfortently. Then he came out of it. He really fucked up this time. He was trying to take on multiple villains while waiting for backup, he didn’t listen to his body. It had been six hours. He got the call in the middle of work, choosing to ignore it. After he was done and listened to the voicemail he immediately went to the hospital. Once he was alone in the room with Denki he broke down. Bakugo didn’t normally break down but this was his fiancé for fucks sake. Denki tried to comfort him but it was hardly comforting to see his thumbs up and hear his ‘wheeyy’ when he knew Kaminari had been like this for two hours. After the first hour of him being there Denki fell asleep and Bakugo was left with his thoughts.

Right now his mind was his own worst enemy, along to whoever did this to Denki. They were lucky they were in jail because they would not have liked what Bakugo would’ve done if he had found them. First his thoughts consisted of what would happen if Denki didn’t leave this state, as he didn’t particularly want to think about that he shoved it out of his mind. Next the memories came. Memories of when he was in his ‘stupid mode’, memories of happy moments between them. Next came the bad memories, the things Bakugo would rather forget. Fights, misunderstandings, personal issues floated around his head. No matter how much he wanted them to leave his mind always honed in on them. One in particular. He couldn’t remember what the original argument had been about, money, hero work, or furniture were the most likely options. It ended up dissolving into cutting remarks and insults. Denki and him both said some horrid things that day, but Bakugo’s had been the worst. That and the crying were the only clear things from that day.

‘Maybe you should just overuse your stupid ass quirk and go dumb for good. At least people would like you then.’ He cringed just thinking about what he had said. He had known Denki’s worst fears and used them against the other. He couldn’t believe the other forgave him, after weeks of not talking, but still. Tears welled up in his eyes for the second time that day. That’s when he agreed to go to anger management, he never wanted to hurt Denki like that ever again. Though he knew however bad this was for him it was ten times worse for Denki. He could still think in his ‘stupid mode’, it was a little distorted and not all coherent but his thoughts were there. He just didn’t have enough cognitive abilities to do anything but a thumbs up. He wondered what he was thinking about. Was he scared? Was he in pain? Denki once mentioned it was painful but Bakugo never inquired further, does it get worse the longer it goes on? How did it hurt him? Was he okay while sleeping? Bakugo hoped so. He wondered if Kaminari would be out of it when he woke up, from that thought he got the urge to shake the man on the bed awake.

Two more agonizing hours had passed of Bakugo crying, almost getting a hold of himself then losing it. He was tired. Tired physically and emotionally. He tried napping but kept jolting awake at the slightest sounds. Somewhere throughout the night Kaminari woke up. He seemed more aware but that might’ve been his sleep addled brain fooling him. With Kaminari being awake he himself got up, moved Kaminari slightly and got into the bed with him, holding a sandwich he got earlier in the night. He probably should’ve gotten something like soup instead, but he didn’t really think he’d have to feed Kaminari, thinking that Kaminari would be back to normal. Or well at least holding onto a sliver of hope that said he would be. Kaminari seemed to gain some control but he still wasnt speaking or moving. Bakugo held the sandwich in front of the other slowly feeding him. Kaminari’s arms and hands were by his side, probably not able to use them much still.

“Thumbs up if you can understand me, Kami”

Kaminari complied, thumbs up and let out a little ‘wheey’, Bakugo assumed it was to confirm his point even more. Bakugo nodded and Kaminari let his arms fall back to where they were.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?”

In response Kaminari put his thumbs back up. Bakugo sighed, getting up and going over to the other side of the bed to help Kaminari up. He picked him up, even though he knew Kaminari could probably still walk on his own.

Once they were back in the room, side by side again, Bakugo decided to play some music he knew the other liked and he didn’t hate. After he laid his phone on the table next to him he wound an arm around his fiancé’s waist.

“Jesus christ Pikachu if you ever do this again I’ll probably have a heart attack” he buried his head into the crook of Kaminari’s neck “You worry me too fucking much even when you aren’t doing stupid shit like this”

“M’sorry” Bakugo’s head shot up so fast he conked Kaminari’s nose.

“What”

“I said im sorry” Kaminari’s arms lifted and curled around the one around his waist. Fuck, Bakugo was going to cry again.

“Don’t be, idiot” He choked on a sob. Denki wiggled his way out of Bakugo’s loose grip, wiping the tears off his cheek with the pads of his fingers. “Fuck, I’m so happy, you have no fucking clue how worried I was. And I meant that, don’t fucking try a stunt like that ever again.”

Kaminari smiled, putting his head on Bakugo’s shoulder, “Yes, sir” he laughed a little.

On their way home the next morning Bakugo bombarded him with questions, sounding more like Deku than himself.

“You said it hurt once”

“What?”

“You know, when you short circuit and shit”

“Oh, yeah I mean it does”

“How?”

“Oh well usually I get pretty bad migraines from it.”

“Oh”

“It’s okay though, I mean I’m out of it now”

“But what if you weren’t”

“I...I don’t know”

“You can’t do shit like that, you can’t permenantly fuck youself up. Be careful”

“Yes I know, Katsuki”

“Do you? You fucking pushed yourself when you knew backup was coming, you can’t just do that”

“I know, I won’t, can you just drop it?”

“....I’m just so glad your back, I can’t lose you to something like this. I- I don’t know what the hell I’d do”

Kaminari grabbed his hand, “I won’t leave you, Kacchan” Bakkugo groaned at the nickname.

“Really? Now you use it? Never mind you should leave”

Kaminari just shrugged while giggling “Nope, can’t get rid of me now”

Bakugo grumbled, under his breath “I guess there could be worse things”

“Aww you love me” Denki put his free hand up to his chest, dramatically.

“I love a dumbass”

“I’ll take it! I love you too”

“Why did I decide to marry you”

Kaminari faked offense, “Because I’m amazing and beautiful obviously”

Bakugo snorted. “Obviously”

———————————————————————

IF YOU LIKE THIS PLEASE REBLOG OR ILL EAT YOUR TOES

[darkpetal16]

The Bucket List: Ambiguous Morals

A/N The other HP fanfiction that I might choose to finish once I wrap up a couple more of my stories. This one does feature a reincarnated student, and a very heavily morally gray OC. 

Reborn as Harry’s twin sister at the start of his story means a completely fun, and relaxing life.

Not.

Genre: Adventure / Fantasy

Rating: T (involves breaking the laws, and child endangerment) 

For the longest time all I felt was pain. There was no singular thought, no coherent feeling. Only pain. I felt it all throughout my body, and yet I felt like I had no body. I was flattened; spread out and steamrolled over repeatedly. The pain was unlike any I had ever experienced, and when I was finally given a relief I wanted to sob with gratitude.

The relief, unfortunately, was painfully brief.

And then the pain started again, but this time it was focused on my head. The worst possible migraine in history, I believed. Nothing - absolutely nothing - could be compared to that pain.

My body felt loose, wobbly, and utterly helpless. I had little to no motor control, and I could do nothing but cry and cry. At times I felt a rush of cold and the pain vanished instantly, but it only lasted for a minute, or two.

And then, one day, the pain abruptly stopped.

I woke up.

My eyes stared at the painted ceiling of the night sky. Stars twinkled, and I saw a comet shoot across the sky. There was a single waning moon to the far right corner, and when I turned my head to look at it, I realized that I was surrounded by wood bars on all sides of me. Confusion entered my mind, as I struggled to understand why I would be in a cage without a ceiling.

After another moment of staring at the bars, I began to look around and I realized how proportionately large (and blurry) all the furniture were around me.

I was inside a child’s room.

A… a baby’s room.

Fear, with more bewilderment, shot through me and adrenaline forced my body into action. I flailed around, unable to find the strength to do more than roll a little to the left and right. I looked down in horror at my tiny, chubby hands that I knew were not mine. The hands before me were pale and pink, and most certainly too tiny to belong to any adult. My arms were covered in fat, and stubby. I was wearing some kind of footie pajamas.

Impossible.

Impossible.

I tried to think back on my previous actions. I tried, desperately, to remember past the pain.

My head throbbed sharply for second, causing my brow to furrow as I winced.

Then I remembered.

I died.

I died. I know I did. There was no possible way for me to have survived what had happened. I was in my third year of medical school, I knew it was impossible for me to have survived. I remembered thinking how utterly disappointed I was about my life as my heart stopped beating and I could no longer breathe.

Then pain.

So how was I here?

I died - but now I’m alive?

I was -

I mean.

I was reborn?

How?

Why?

I was no one special. I was a groomed child who did everything right. I wasn’t mean to anyone. I had no grudges. I went to prep school, boarding school, absolutely everything my high-powered lawyer mother had me do. After graduating from high school with many university classes under my belt already, I tested in early to medical school and did everything expected of me. I studied. I pulled all nighters for the longer shifts at a chance for more experience. I practiced my sutures religiously.

I did everything right, so why do I have to go through it all again?

I didn’t want that. That would be a special kind of hell if I had to do it all again.

Wasn’t death supposed to be the end?

“Rosie?”

My gaze turned towards the front door of the room as the door slowly creaked open. A woman entered with startlingly bright green eyes and a halo of dark red hair. She approached me, her gaze warm and loving as she looked at me. There was a hopeful light in her eyes and her lips slowly upturned. “Rosie? Are you feeling better, sweetie?”

I didn’t know what to say. Hesitantly, I reached towards her, stretching my tiny fingers up in the sky.

Her eyes watered, and she swooped down and picked me up with ease. “Oh. Oh, my sweet little flower. Is the pain gone? James! James!”

Then a man appeared at the door way as the woman held me close and began to kiss my forehead and cheek. James, I assumed, had shaggy dark hair and deep blue eyes behind round glasses. A strong sense of familiarity hit me upon seeing him.

In his arms was a baby - perhaps three weeks, I would guess - who was sound asleep. “Lily? What’s - Rosie isn’t crying anymore?”

Lily was crying quietly by that point, kissing me over and over. “She’s safe now. She didn’t hit the one-month mark. Her magic finally stopped building in her head.”

Magic? Wait… Lily? James?

No way.

James choked back a sob as he stepped towards us and - and placed the baby in his arms in the middle of the air.

I stared in shock at the floating baby before James pulled us both into his arms and began to kiss Lily and I each on our cheeks. “I knew she would be okay. I knew it. Our little rose is as tough as they come.”

“Yes, love. Oh, Rosie Lily Potter you had us so worried.”

Rosie Lily Potter.

Potter.

Lily and James Potter.

So, in addition to being reborn, I was reborn as the daughter of Lily and James Potter. Likely twin sister to Harry James Potter, protagonist of Harry Potter.

Death is the next great adventure.

About a week later, I had mostly everything figured out. I had died and been reborn as the fraternal twin sister to Harry. I was (by that point) a month old.

Typically, a month old child would not be able to remember sentences, let alone an entire past life.

It would appear that all that pain I had felt after Lily gave birth to me was my brain having repeated aneurysms and the magic inside of the body constantly fixing it. My tiny brain was forced into rapid development to accommodate all of the memories and knowledge I possessed. In a typical sense, that would be impossible.

But in a magical sense, it was apparently entirely possible. The doctors had told Lily and James that my magic was building up inside of my head, and if it didn’t relieve within a month, they would be forced to cripple my magical core and turn me near-squib, or I would become brain dead. The phenomenon was called Death’s Kiss. It occurred in newborn magical infants, with a fatality rate of eighty percent, squib rate of fifteen percent, and everything becoming a-okay five percent.

The sheer luck I had was unprecedented. Not only was I reborn into my all time favorite series, but I survived the process, and I got to be Harry’s sister.

I could not have asked for a better “next adventure.”

How many times had I dreamed about being able to effect the Potterverse? And here I was with the greatest opportunity of lifetimes.

I was not going to mess this up.

I had a bucket list. And I would complete it before I was forced onto the next great adventure.

Lily was a wonderful mother. Although, she clearly was new, and at times seemed at lost with how to ease Harry’s cries. My darling baby brother (even if he was born ahead of me, given my true age he would always be my baby brother now) cried easily, like all newborns. He couldn’t yet sleep throughout the night and if for an instant he was left alone in the room, he would ball hysterically.

Lily did her best, though, and James tried valiantly to help. Lily would rock her son, while murmuring sweet nothings, while James would do odd bits of tricks to coax a smile or laugh. It was endearing to watch, and I felt incredibly affectionate towards the duo.

While they loved Harry, they never ignored me or showed favors between the two. The young couple showered us with love and attention in between every moment they could spare. When Lily wasn’t attending to us, she was working on complex and alien-looking schematics. James, though, would try to fix non existent problems around the house.

It wasn’t hard to surmise that we were already under the fidelius charm, with Peter as our secret keeper.

The thought made me sick. Peter was easily one of the most hated characters in the fandom. His slimy nature on top of his betrayal was simply unforgivable. I wished I could voice my thoughts, but what could I do? I barely had control over my own body; and there was simply no way they would believe me when I said that Peter would betray them. I could try to tell them I “dreamed” about Peter betraying us, but I knew in my heart that would never work.

Still, I would try. I had to at least try. When I was old enough to say words without drawing suspicion, I would tell them I dreamed of a “scary man” following “a rat” to us. That the rat opened the door to our home and the bad man came in. I couldn’t get more obvious than that short of telling them all I read about everything to come from a book.

That could have dire consequences that I didn’t understand.

But, that was still a solid four months (if I wanted to push it) to five months (to be safe) away. For now, it was watching the world around me, learning to control my body, and trying to get a hold of the magic inside of me.

I always thought, you know, that it would be painfully obvious I had magic inside of me if I was ever magical. Considering I had no magic in my first life, I thought for sure I would be able to notice the distinct difference between the bodies. Alas, the difference was not obvious enough I could easily detect it. In fact, the magic inside of me was so “quiet” I had to strain and focus for nearly an hour before I could properly feel it. I hoped that in time that would be easier (both from practice, and that my magic would grow alongside my physical body).

Only time would tell, though.

There was a crackle of fire, and whoosh of green flames before Sirius Black stepped into our living room. I raised my head up from where I sat in the playpen in the living room. Harry was snoring quietly on a pillow beside me, clutching onto a patchy stuffed deer. I had been playing with soft cubes for the past hour or so, attempting to force my fingers to pick them up and move them over, and over, in hopes of obtaining my previous life’s dexterity as soon as possible.

Lily looked up from her pages of work - she nearly covered half the living room floor with her pages and floating books. A smile lit up her face. “Sirius!”

“The one and only,” Sirius said with a grin and a gleam in his eyes. “How’s my favorite newly mother?”

Lily laughed. “I’m fine. James is upstairs if you want to see him.”

I squealed out loud.

Sirius turned his head, and his gaze widened. “Little Rosie isn’t crying anymore?”

Lily beamed, levitating herself up so she could stand up and hop over her papers. “No. Everything is fine now. She hasn’t cried all week.”

I squealed again, reaching up my hands, trying to grab the attention of one of my favorite - ah, can’t really say character anymore, could I? - person ever. Sirius’s smile stretched widely over his face and he hurried over to me to pick me up. Large hands grasped me and swung me up high. “Look at you, Rosie! Look like a little princess in that dress.”

I giggled with delight, reaching out towards his face and patting his cheek. Lily smiled at the two of us, reaching over and tucking behind a strand of dark red hair behind my ear.

“She looks exactly like you, Lily,” Sirius said, readjusting me in his arms. “Got your hair, eyes, nose, mouth - mirror image.”

“She has James’s curls,” Lily corrected.

Sirius patted the top of my head, running his fingers through my unruly hair. “That she does. She’ll be beautiful.”

The thought made me laugh. Beauty was something I had never associated with myself. Scrubs and dark circles were all I could see myself with for the past three years of my life. Even with gorgeous parents such as Lily and James, I still couldn’t imagine myself as one of the pretty girls in school. It would be neat if that happened, but I certainly wouldn’t hold out hope.

“She’ll be the most beautiful girl in the whole world,” Lily bragged, kissing my forehead.

“James and I are going to have to beat the boys away, huh,” Sirius joked.

“Or girls.”

“Or girls,” Sirius corrected.

“Padfoot?”

James’s voice drew our attention towards the stairs where he hopped off the last stepped and beamed at his best friend.

Sirius grinned. “Prongs! Been too long.”

Sirius handed me to Lily in order to man-hug James, the two men laughing and already starting to whisper mischievously to each other. Lily rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to help me keep them in line, Rosie.”

I patted her cheek. That would be an impossibility.

At five months old I had finally achieved control over my body. I still lacked the strength and stamina to do many things, but I was greatly relieved that I wasn’t quite so helpless. Since I had reached the standard age (albeit a month early) for most children to start speaking, I decided to begin talking.

It was getting dreadfully boring squealing, pointing, and crying to communicate. Although, I had to hand it to Lily, James, and Sirius for picking up on my cues relatively quickly. Sirius came by about once a week when he could. He only stayed a handful of hours - enough to play with Harry and me, and update the Potters on the warfront. I had yet to see Peter, thankfully. I wasn’t sure I would be able to not scream in rage at him for what he would do to this loving family.

And it was a loving family. It was absolutely nothing like my previous homelife. I felt no obligation, or expectation placed upon me. Lily and James were doting parents, and tried their best to keep us happy in an obviously dark time. It was admirable, and it made my heart ache even more so at how Peter would betray them.

I would do my best, though. I had to let them know without giving on how much I knew. I had no idea what would happen if someone else got their hands on all of my knowledge, so I had to be absolutely careful to not overtly give anything away.

Oh, and of course study Occlumency as soon as I was able. I was certain I would be able to have quick grasp on it, since I already had the self-discipline from my past life instilled in me.

I played with Harry’s hair in our playpen. Harry’s bright green eyes lit up while he tried to fit a cube into a circle. His hair was soft, fluffy, and bounced back up when I patted it down. Harry enjoyed having his hair played with, and we quickly found that it soothed him when he cried.

Lily was preparing dinner for us (plus Sirius), with James’s help. She waved her wand, and potatoes began to peel themselves before being placed into a  boiling cauldron. James, meanwhile, was mixing a cake batter (who knew he loved to baked?) while telling Sirius to “watch his damn language”.

My stomach rumbled, and I stood up from the playpen. I leaned heavily onto the red gate, watching the trio of adults. I cleared my throat and then said (squealed more like), “Mama!”

Everything froze. All adults turned towards the playpen, and Lily’s face morphed into sheer excitement. “Rosie?!”

“Mama!”

Lily screamed, leaping up into the air and then shooting across the room towards me. “Rosie! Did you say Mama?”

“Mama! Papa!”

James dropped his bowl of mix, his face bright as can be as he ran towards us. Lily picked me up into the air, twirling me around before James then picked both of us up. I repeated their titles in a chant, warm feeling of happiness bubbling inside of me that I could make such wonderful people so happy. When the spinning was done, James picked up Harry and ruffled his hair. “We have the brightest kids.”

“Papa hungry.”

“Look at that,” Lily exclaimed. “Her first words and sentence! She’s so early - so bright!”

Pretty sure this constitutes as cheating, but the compliment is still appreciated.

“Let’s feed the pups, then,” Sirius said, giving me a wink. He had cleaned up the mess in the kitchen during the commotion.

“Paddy!” I declared, pointing at Sirius.

Our godfather gave us a splitting grin and eagerly stole me from Lily’s arms; she whipped out her wand and threatened to hex him into tomorrow if he didn’t give me back, but he danced around the house and essentially played monkey in the middle (Lily in the middle, and I as the ball) with James. Harry squealed with delight, watching the game and sparks of magic around the house.

By the time it was done, dinner was well over burned and they had to start again, but nothing was able to shake the smile on their faces for the rest of the evening.

The next night, when Harry woke up screaming, I screamed alongside of him. It wasn’t hard to coax tears out - the hormones in my body were as powerful as puberty - and when the parents came to the bedroom Lily picked up her soon and began to rock and calm him while James picked me up and rubbed my back.

“Shh, shh,” Lily soothed. “It’s okay Harry, Mama’s here.”

James began to rock me in place. “It’s okay now, Rosie. It’s okay.”

“Rat,” I hiccuped. “Bad. Bad rat.”

James kissed the top of my head. “Bad rat?”

“Bad rat. Bring bad man.”

“The bad rat brings the bad man?” Lily murmured, taking Harry over to the changing table.

James kissed me again. “There, there, Rosie. There are no bad rats. You’re safe.”

“Bad rat brings bad man.”

“Do you think - ?”

“Of course not, Lily,” James exclaimed. “It’s simply a bad dream. The doctor told us she could have recurring bad dreams after recovering from Death’s Kiss. They’ll go away in a month, or so.”

Wait, what?

Shit.

Every night Harry woke up crying, I would cry alongside him and tell them about the bad dream. With stubbornness only a wizard could possess, James continuously dismissed the dream and reassured Lily it meant nothing. After a month passed and I continued to have the dream, James became a bit more hesitant.

The next time Sirius came by, he carried armfuls of books. I wasn’t able to see the titles, but James and Lily became engrossed in them for three days.

Upon emerging from their readings, they both looked immensely relieved.

My next nightmare of Peter betraying them, and they had me drink an odd white potion that bubbled down my throat.

Again, and again it happened. They never mentioned thinking for an instant they believed my dreams. As time went on, I got a bit more elaborate in my dreams, describing Peter as best as I could, but they never faltered.

(Later on, I would learn they would discover that children affected by Death’s Kiss were plagued by worse-case-scenario nightmares. They picked up on the worst possible outcome that could occur every night and for many years they would dream about it. It happened less than one percent of the time, but given that I was already in the five percent margin for surviving Death’s Kiss without being turned squib, they figured I was in the one percent, too. So no matter what I said, what I described, they would only ever view it as a dream and force-feed me a dreamless draught.)

I was fearful of what was to come. I wished Dumbledore would come by, but he never did. I even tried to drop hints that I needed to see him (I dreamed about him coming by, and that it made me “very happy”), but nothing worked.

Short of telling them the absolute truth, I was running out of ideas.

As we neared our one-year birthday, my mind was becoming more, and more flustered. My magic lashed out accordingly, and Lily and James were forced to put me to sleep frequently so I didn’t accidentally hurt myself or Harry.

I feared I wouldn’t be able to save them.

But, I had to keep trying.

On our one year old birthday, Harry woke up first with an excited squeal. He was levitating in his bed, slowly drifting up towards the ceiling from a burst of accidental magic.

It brought a smile on my face to see my brother so happy in the morning. He didn’t have a lot of accidents with magic, unlike me, but when he did it usually revolved around levitating or summoning items to him.

My bursts had died down the couple weeks leading up to the birthday, as I was able to get a very vague hold on them. Thankfully, I could sense my magic a lot easier after months of practice, but it was far from perfect. I still couldn’t command it to do as I wished, but that was to be expected. Apparently witches and wizards developed their magic up until the age of ten rapidly. Their magic would steadily grow, along with spurts of significant growth spurts that caused the magic to lash out. It was why children did not attend magical school until ten, because their magic would be unreliable until it leveled out in its growth. There were instances where people had bursts throughout puberty, as well, but nowhere near as common as childhood.

Magic during childhood was unreliable. It struggled to fit inside the growing body, and fought to stay calm. At times, it really seemed like it had a mind of its own. The only thing in tune with its desire, and my desire, was to keep the physical body safe and healthy.

But, I was stubborn.

If I wanted to do the things I wanted to do, I would need a hold on my magic sooner than ten years old.

So, every night after Lily and James tucked me in and fed me a dreamless potion, I laid in bed and tried to call forth my magic.

I tried to bring it towards my hand and push enough of it out of my body to see it. It took nearly an hour every night (sometimes two, if unlucky), but I had faith that dedicated practice would fruit success.

James was the first to enter our bedroom, laughing at seeing his son floating in the air.

Harry clapped his hands. “Papa!”

James reached up and plucked Harry from the air. “Morning, Harry. Happy birthday!”

“Happy birthday, Harry,” I chirped.

James waved his right hand towards me and I felt the tug of his magic. I floated out of my crib and into James’s right arm. Harry, in his left, reached towards me and hugged me. I kissed his cheek.

“Happy birthday, Rosie,” James told me.

“Happy birthday,” I echoed, patting Harry’s cheek. “Cake?”

“Later,” James promised me. “How about we head downstairs? Paddy is here!”

“Paddy!” I squealed with delight.

James carried us down stairs, and we found the living room to be lovingly decorated with banners, posters, pictures, and presents. A shaggy black dog laid on the carpet in the middle, his belly up in the air. I screamed with joy, squirming to play with Sirius in his animagus form. James laughed and sat me down on the living room floor, and then headed to the kitchen with Harry to work on our birthday cake.

My tiny toddler legs moved as quickly as I could towards the happy dog who playfully growled at me. I leapt onto his belly, hearing the soft umph from him before Sirius rolled over and grabbed my the back of my shirt before tossing me up into the air. I felt his magic coil around me, levitating me in the air before gently lowering me down. I fell onto the soft carpet onto my bum before scrambling to stand back up and proceed to chase Sirius around the carpet.

He would playfully catch me again, and again, tossing me into the air and then levitating me down.

It was an absolute delight, and I relished it.

I hadn’t gotten around to writing out James / Lily’s death. For the most part it follows canon, but when Sirius attempts to give Rosie and Harry to Hagrid Rosie throws a massive fit. She uses her magic to stick to Sirius with such stubborness Sirius ends up having to go with her to Dumbledore instead of confronting Peter. This results in Sirisu never getting sent to prison, Peter marked as the traitor, and Sirius taking guardianship over Harry and Rosie. However, Dumbledore is insistent that they live out of society, for their safety. 

The following scenes are life for the quiet family, and are pretty choppy. 

Sirius sighed quietly, and Remus poured each of them a glass of firewhiskey. I hugged my blanket around me, as I sat on the top step and peered through the railing into the living room below. The two friends sat on the couch, Sirius looking over an official-looking parchment and muttering. “Why? Why would she do this?”

“Who can say,” Remus murmured, taking a shot. “What are you going to do?”

“What can be done? I’m Lord Black now, now that that bitch died,” Sirius grumbled, then snorted. “The family I tried so desperately to escape, and now that title is bonded to me until death. That spiteful bitch.”

Remus patted Sirius on the shoulder as Sirius took another shot - that was his four that I had seen. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not a lot can be done. Want an estate?” Remus gave Sirius a weary look. “No, thanks.”

Sirius winced. “If I leave it to rot, as an official Lord, I’ll be charged fees for abandoning a Noble and Ancient home. I can’t move the kids there, shit’s filled with dark magic.”

“Won’t Kreacher be able to maintain it?”

“That bastard is too old. I would have to purchase another House Elf to help him, at the very least.”

An idea popped in my head. “Paddy? Moony?”

Both adults turned up towards the staircase, and Remus stood up. “Rosie? What are you doing up?”

“I don’t sleep well sometimes,” I said, squeezing through the bars on the stair and tumbling into the air. Sirius immediately cast a slow-falling charm on me, and then levitated me over towards them. He caught me and placed me in his lap.

“We should get you to bed, though.”

“But, I have an idea,” I protested.

The adults chuckled at the idea of a three year old having an idea that would be prudent to their predicament.

“Bring Kreacher here,” I said.

Sirius shook his head. “He’s not someone to have around kids.”

“Bring Kreacher here,” I repeated stubbornly, “and hire a new elf to clean the old place. It’s filled with Dark, right? We might need some of those stuff later. I bet Grandpa would agree.”

Remus’s brow furrowed. “Did this come from one of your dreams, Rosie?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I dreamed about Kreacher being here. We will need him. He is a good boy.”

Sirius grimaced. “I don’t know - ”

“Sirius, remember what Dumbledore said - ”

What did Dumbledore say?

“Yeah, I - ”

“Would it hurt to try?”

A sigh. “No.”

“Kreacher?” I called out, sitting up in my bed.

Kreacher appeared in my room with a snap, tired yellow eyes glaring hatefully at me. “How can I help the young mistress?”

“Regulus’s locket.”

The elf froze, his eyes widening. “What?”

“The locket he told you to destroy - it’s very special. It can only be destroyed through basilisk venom, a dementor’s kiss, or fiendfyre. Understand?”

Kreacher gaped at me. “Y-Yes.”

“Will you be able to destroy it now?” I asked him. “Give me an honest answer.”

“Yes,” Kreacher said.

“Good. Go do it.”

And he was gone.

EMPs were not overtly difficult to make. Anyone could make them, really. They required lithium batteries, wires, soldering experience, and time. After confirming, and reaffirming, that I could use technology under the wards (but at the very edge, and not inside the heavily magicked house), I set about at creating a makeshift treehouse to use as my workshop. I needed a safe place to create several dozen EMPs for the first step of my plan.

Plus I always wanted a treehouse.

It didn’t take much asking for Sirius to get some wood and make a treehouse for me within a day. It did take a little arguing on my part for him to not put any enchantments inside of the treehouse, but he relented soon enough.

It was a small, cute little thing. He built a ladder into the large oak tree, and put together a small house-looking abode. It was big enough to accommodate children, but once I hit puberty I would have to squat and crawl around to get around the room. He put in a couple tables, and we brought out an abundance of blankets and pillows and anti-flame-spreading candles.

Harry adored the treehouse, and he frequently went up there to read his beloved books. Sirius, thankfully, consented to our rule that no adults would be allowed inside of the tree house, and when the two of us went up, he would pull out the radio and sit outside listening to our laughter, and the music. Despite being a man child, Sirius was at loathe to let us out of his sight completely.

After obtaining the treehouse, I had to get the supplies to create an EMP. The hardware store had everything I needed, and thankfully Kreacher was more than capable of obtaining the items discreetly and dropping them off in my treehouse. I also had Kreacher pick up leather gloves, as a precaution against forensic evidence.

Then, it was time to create.

I headed up into the treehouse in the early morning, Harry quietly following behind me and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He had another nightmare, that night, and had crawled into my bed. I didn’t particularly want him to see what I was making, but it wasn’t such a big deal that I felt the need to hide it. Harry was good at keeping secrets, and if I asked him not to tell anyone else, he wouldn’t.

We crawled into the treehouse, and the candles flickered alive upon us entering. Harry immediately went towards his corner of pillows and blankets and flopped down. I pulled up a tiny chair to the bench, and dumped out the supplies from the first bag Kreacher placed upon the bench. I rummaged through everything before I pulled out the soldering gun, and numerous battery packs. I would need to use quite a few of the batteries to power the soldering gun, since we had no electrical outlets.

I set to work creating the first EMP. The process took nearly two and a half hours (because I had to be meticulous, and double check everything. It would become faster after practice, but for now it was slow-going.

Harry stopped reading his book after I finished the first EMP and looked over at what I created. “What’s that, Rosie?”

“Secret,” I told him. “Can you keep it secret?”

“Yeah,” Harry said firmly, nodding his head as his eyes grew wide. “What is it?”

“An EMP. It disrupts electricity.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s what Muggles use in place of magic.”

“Why do you need that?”

“To help keep the stature of secrecy.”

“Why?”

I turned around and pinched his nose. “Ask me when you’re older.”

Harry’s nose crinkled in distaste, but he did not ask further. He always was such a good boy.

“Kids?” We popped our heads out of the treehouse’s window as Sirius stepped outside the backdoor.

Harry grinned and waved. “Up here, Uncle Paddy!”

Sirius waved back, smiling at us. “Want some breakfast?” Harry nodded eagerly and dropped down the tree house hole onto the thick grass below.

I didn’t need the EMPs. All I needed was the cloak of invisibility, a broom, the spells Wingardium Leviosa, Silencio, and Alohomora down pat. I had spent the past three years perfecting the past three spells to the best of my ability. I could perform them without the wand, but it took great concentration, and unfortunately I still needed to speak them.

The EMPs were to provide an explanation as to why the security cameras didn’t work. I would activate the EMPs when I reached the goal, and in the thirty seconds it took for security to notice the error and call the police, I would levitate as many of the items I could under the cloak and into the expandable pouch.

With the camera’s down, they wouldn’t see the levitations, and the statue of secrecy wouldn’t be overtly violated. While they swarmed the place, I would hide in a corner on my broom under the cloak. Even if Aurors came, the cloak was far too powerful and would hide me from them. Then, I would make my escape and return home.

I had to place the EMPs around the museum - even in parts that I wouldn’t go to - and set the timer on them to trigger in ten minutes after placing them.

It wasn’t a lot of them, but I figured this would have to be fast.

If all else failed, I had the emergency portkey Sirius gave each of us. I hoped not to use it - because it was a one-time use, and explaining to Sirius why I had to use a portkey would be tricky. But, it was there.

I descended upon the V&A museum in London, adrenaline and anxiety chorusing through me.

A part of me was thrilled - I was a thief! I was stealing! Like from Skyrim, or GTA.

In my previous life, I would have never considered it. I hadn’t even shoplifted before, yet here I was about to commit numerous illegal acts for the sake of a plan that I wasn’t even sure would work.

But, I needed the money. I needed the money and power fast if I wanted to do the things I needed to do.

I couldn’t access the Potter vault any time soon; nor was I talented enough to steal from Death Eaters (as I plan to do later).

All I had was my previous life’s knowledge of technology, and magic at my disposal.

And an undeniable urge to have no regrets this time around.

At least I could hopefully cross off Become an Art Thief off my bucket list after tonight.

I hovered before the back door of the museum before I raised my finger and went through the motions of Alohomora. It took three tries, but I finally got it and the door swung open. Then, moving as quickly as I could, I began to place the EMPs around each corner. I flew around the patrolling guards, and none of them noticed.

When I reached my goal: the crown jewelry room (filled with old royal crowns, uncut diamonds and other precious jewels, as well as antique and priceless jewels). I pulled out completely ordinary rocks from my expandable pouch, and took a deep breath.

1986: before bullet-proof glass was implemented in all museums, and perfect computer security.

My timer for the EMPs went off and I threw as many rocks as I could at the cases. I urged my broom forward, grabbing what I could and stuffing it into the expandable pouch, while levitating what was too far away towards me with my other hand. I heard shouts, as security officers sprinted through the hallways.

“Security is down! I can’t call for backup?!”

“We must have intruders, someone get the police!”

“Phones are down!”

When an officer came into the room I was in, I stopped everything, pulled the cloak tighter around me and began to make my escape. Thankfully, the EMPs worked a bit too well and the prevented the gates from coming down.

I was out the backdoor and soaring through the night sky again.

It wasn’t right, what he did. No matter how bad things got, deliberately harming children to get back at their parents was never going to the answer, nor was it forgivable. It was an awful, and cruel, thing to do.

But I could understand it.

Strictly from the psychological standpoint, at least. Shunned and forced into self-loathing isolation would permanently damage anyone’s psyche. Spending years alone, longing for acceptance but mercilessly turned away at every attempt would break even the strongest men. In addition, society itself would go out of its way to harm him for simply existing. Werewolves were the snubbed-ilk that society perpetually spat upon and conveniently looked the other way when it suited their needs. Anyone would grow bitter from that. Anyone would want justice, would want someone to know how unfair society was.

Fenrir Grayback made it his life goal to convert as many as he could, to force society to acknowledge werewolves and force them to accept them.

For someone left uneducated, alone, and consistently spurned, it was the only idea he had; the only hope he had.

So while his actions were deplorable, and unforgivable, I could understand them.

 And I detested the magical society more so for it.

I didn’t understand how I knew where to find him—didn’t understand how I knew to send the owl addressed to Fenris Gray. It was one of those odd things that floated in my mind and I had to wonder if maybe I read about it on Pottermore, or something.

I made a little basket with food, water, and basic medical supplies. I added a thick blanket because it was cold, and I knew he would be sleeping outside. Then I made a little letter:

To Fenrir,

You do not know me, and we will not meet for some time. You may call me  Enáretos, and you should know that I am on the side of the werewolves. I hope the basket helps you.

Your friend,

Enáretos

A small and simple gesture, but it was the first step I had to take. 

If I wanted to fix the prejudice in society, I had to acknoledge its mistakes and try to make it right.

There would be about a years’ worth of stealing, with Dumbledore growing suspicious. During this year the MC would continue to send care baskets to Fenrir, who would distrubute them to over werewolves on her behalf. A sense of trust is built between the two, and more of Fenrir’s backstory is explained.

At long last I had the money.

A part of me still felt a built guilty from stealing—especially from perfectly nice places—but the guilt was shoved aside in favor of how the end justified the means. I had never put my stock into that saying before, but I honestly believed my cause warranted a little flexibility with the law. I was, physically, a child. The idea of sharing my knowledge with the “adults” of the world sent me into a quivering mess that I knew I would never be able to reach out for help willingly. I could—I supposed—wait until I was physically an adult, but the idea of waiting around and letting others suffer for decades because I couldn’t handle a little rule breaking made me sick. It seemed like a pretty flimsy excuse to me, especially since I could always purchase back the items I pawned off with my Potter inheritance as an adult and give it back to the museums. Or donate their value anonymously.

Returning to the point, however.

I had the money.

Using Enáretos I purchased a large stretch of land—nearly a thousand acres of land—and began to put well over half my sum of money into putting up defenses, and building empty homes and shops inside of it. I hired people to build large concrete walls with barbed wires to discourage muggles from trying to enter, and I ordered them to pave roads and plant trees. I ordered the construction of several dozen greenhouses, and hired a handful of magical herbologists to begin growing the ingredients necessary for wolfsbane potion. I hired Gringotts to put up the best wards money could buy—and boy did they cost me a pretty sum, but I hoped it would be worth it.

The whole project would take a year, which would give me time to bribe the officials and press in preparation of what was to come.

I only hoped it would work.

The first party I bribed was one of the neutral parties, led by Lord Greengrass. They sat square in the middle of most of the debates, barely swaying to either side unless it benefited them directly. I sent them pretty things, and dangerous things. I sent Lord Greengrass precious gems I had personally stolen, and I knew his daughters would adore them. The party treated my bribes with no obvious response, likely waiting to see what I wanted from them. Through letters as Enáretos I only hinted at wanting to build a sanctuary for several months. It wasn’t until the leader of the party himself asked me directly what I wanted that I answered with care.

A sanctuary for werewolves.

I would pay for it, provide security for it, and handle the distribution of wolfsbane. It didn’t need to cost their party a dime, and it would do nothing to harm them to support me. The party didn’t care for what was right or wrong, they only cared about self-serving, and their families. So I painted them pretty words of how it would put their families at ease if all the werewolves were kept in a safe place, and not forced to run wild and risk random attack. I waxed gentle pictures of how my sanctuary could—in a few years of production—turn into Britain’s largest provider of rare herbs, and save Ministry a small fortune in having to important.

I told them I would consider it a favor if they supported its construction.

And after a total of nine months of bribing, and wheedling, I had their support. Lord Greengrass even offered to be the one to put forward my proposed bill since I—Enáretos—would not be able to attend.

I accepted his offer with gracious thanks.

The next party I curried favors to was not nearly as hard to persuade. It was Madam Longbottom’s party, the more Light-Conservatives. I knew she would take offense to bribes, so I skipped straight to a long-winded debate that lasted five months. Madam Longbottom wasn’t adhered to her prejudice of werewolves, but she didn’t see the value in assisting them, either. Eventually I was able to wear her down by arguing about how it was the ethically right thing to do in a manner that made her think of her lost son.

Low-blow, I knew, but a necessary one.

Next I courted Amelia Bones and fellow law-lovers, using how practical it would be for her aurors if the werewolves lived one place; of how safer it would make the public, etc. She only took a month.

To my friend,

I’m sure you have already heard the whispers of my plan.

Yes. It is true. I hope to create a safe haven for all werewolves to live in peace. I know it will take time for me to change society to fully accept those afflicted with the curse, but in the mean time I wish to give your fellow brothers and sisters some peace. I will personally provide security for the establishment until such a time that they can provide their own law-enforcement inside. I have already set up several businesses that are more than happy to relocate and provide merchandise. I have two healers who are happy to follow their families into the sanctuary and offer their care, and one potions master—so far—who will brew the wolfsbane potion.

I know it is not the solution you want, but I hope it will provide a safe space for until the time I have fixed society.

I must thank you for your patience and belief in me, my friend. I have sent several more blankets and basic first-aid to help those you come across. Please enjoy the cookies I baked, as well.

Your friend,

Enáretos

PS: Dolores Umbridge is a viable threat to my haven. It would be helpful if she could come to understand your situation better.

To my friend,

Elena sends her thanks for the food, and my pack expresses excitement in the prospect of having a home. It feels strange to say, and had anyone else but you told me about it I would not have believed. I have scouted the land, and watched them work for a few months now. I know those wards were not cheap, and the gardens look nice.

 Have you thought of a name yet?

Your friend,

Fenris

I think Umbridge will see our view in a new light on the fifteenth.

To Rita Skeeter:

My dear, we haven’t had much chance to talk, but I thought you might want a little tidbit of juicy information. Umbrdige has been ramping up bills against werewolves for the past few months for a reason.

I think you’ll be able to find that wonderful reason if you catch her on the fifteenth this month, after the moon has risen.

Happy hunting,

Enáretos

End, for now.

By the time Hogwarts rolls around I plan to establish  Enáretos as a powerful political figure in support for equality. MC will be sorted into Slytherin with the express purpose of "saving” the house. She’ll use intimidation, bribes, and blackmail to rule over Slytherin and slowly convert others to her side. That’s the plan, at least. 

[loverontheleft]

Ready to Leap (3)

AU with B as a band teacher and reader as an English teacher. Fluff and smut anticipated. Chapters 1 and 2 can be found on my Masterlist.

Brendon x reader. Language and sexual implications.

Word count: 2.8k

Before we go on this adventure together, you need to experience some things first. Don’t scroll past them. Really treat yourself. I love you. Happy Friday. You’re welcome.

“Son of a bitch.” The copier is jammed again. You try desperately to remember how Brendon fixed it last time (there’s been at least four times in between the first day of school and this moment where he has come to your rescue) and you remember watching his arms and fingers working but you can’t recall what they were actually doing. Fuck. You manage to find the front panel but it’s a maze of knobs and pulleys and trays and knowing your luck, you’ll just screw it up more. You stand up and cross to the bathroom. Hair is okay, it’s pulled back in a loose bun. Makeup is fine, you look a little tired but that’s to be expected. Outfit is your normal sleeveless blouse/skirt combo. Okay. You look presentable. Time to head to the band room.

When you arrive, the door is shut and you can hear a heavy bass sound coming through the door. You think about knocking but know he won’t hear you, so you try the knob. It opens and you make a mental note to teasingly (but not really) reprimand him for violating the school safety policy but all thoughts leave your head and your mouth goes dry when you see him behind the elaborate drum kit, playing like his life depends upon it. Holy shit. His shirt sleeves are rolled up (you’re beginning to think this is his norm and you like it) and there’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead and fuck, he is good. He looks up, his eyes narrowed in focus, and then he spots you. He drops one of the sticks, it seems accidentally, but then drops the other on purpose. “Well hello, Ms. Milton.” He wipes his brow and stands up with a broad smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It takes you a moment to form a coherent thought. “What are you doing?” You finally manage and he raises an eyebrow, amused. No, you didn’t come to ask him that and it’s obvious anyway, focus. “I mean. I’m here because the copier…” you trail off feebly, still looking at him. Is his shirt clinging to his chest? Jesus. No. You’re imagining that. Right?

He grins. “And you’re in need of my particular set of skills. Got it.” He flexes his fingers and is crossing the room when he answers your first question. “I was playing to blow off some steam. Drums always help me calm down.”

“What were you - never mind, it’s none of my business.” You wave your hand in the air as if to shoo the question away and hope he’ll ignore the awkwardness. He opens the classroom door for you and, following you out, answers.

“My second period music appreciation class was just a collective pain in the ass today. I think they realized they actually have to do work to get course credit.”

You roll your eyes. “What a novel concept, right? My first block was like that actually. I had to remind them that English is a requirement to graduate. They have to pass. But no, they just kept -“ you cut yourself off, frustrated.

He looks at you curiously and opens the lounge door for you. “What were they doing?” He drops to his knees in front of the copier and fuck, his shirt is clinging to his back so it was definitely clinging to his chest.

You roll your eyes but it’s solely for your benefit; he has his back to you. “They kept asking questions that are not relevant to my class. How old am I, am I single, what’s my favorite movie, what music do I listen to, where do I buy my clothes, oh god it was awful.” You slump against the wall and he looks up at you. You’re suddenly aware that today’s skirt is slightly shorter than the others and at his angle, he might be getting some serious thigh.

“Well, if they get to be too much, send the worst one on a special errand. You need new expo markers, you need a note delivered to a teacher, you need Diet Coke from the vending machine because you’re feeling a migraine coming on, something. You’re welcome to send me decoy notes.” He’s gone back to focusing on the copier.

“That’s a good idea. Thank you. I’m gonna keep that in mind, actually.”

He grins, meeting your eyes again. “And I’ll stall them by writing a decoy note back. Keep them out of your hair.”

You laugh. “This sounds like a great plan. All I need now is to figure out how to fix the damn copier. Can you teach me?”

He looks affronted and places a hand lovingly on the front of the machine. “Be nice to her! And why on earth would I teach you the one thing I know that you don’t and keeps you coming to my door?” He raises an eyebrow, obviously expecting an answer and you will yourself not to blush.

“I, well, I don’t want to keep bothering you is all. And I don’t like depending on people.”

He stands up and pats the machine. “You’re not a bother. And you can depend on me.” He pauses in the doorway to look back at you. “They’re good questions by the way.” You look confused. “How old are you, are you single, what’s your favorite movie…”

“Oh.”

“You’re great with words Milton and you’re real smart; you know that’s not an answer to the question posed.” He leans against the doorway and grins, waiting. “Ah, this is a test Milton. I gotcha, it’s the old scaffolding model. I do, we do, you do. We’ll just skip the middle step though. Here. 28, yes, Inglorious Basterds. See, not so hard.” His tone is playful and you aren’t annoyed at the teasing at all - particularly not after that second answer.

“27, yes, Little Miss Sunshine.” He smiles at you approvingly and you grin. “Do I get a sticker for doing a good job, Mr. Urie?” You flutter your eyelashes at him before you both start laughing.

“We don’t give stickers in high school. Now let’s go.” He walks out the door and you scurry after him.

“Where are we going? We don’t have duty this week.”

“I know.” He turns to look at you and you can’t quite read his expression. “Yep. Come on.” You don’t know what he saw in your eyes but you’ll follow. He stops short and you look around.

“Brendon, this is the cafeteria.”

“Y/n, I know.” He smirks and grabs your hand and pulls you through the doors. Second lunch is ending so you’re swimming upstream and when he finally comes to a stop, it’s at a door on the other side of the room, opposite the doors to the arts hall. He carefully opens the door and slips through, and because your hand is still (still!) in his, you go too. It’s dark. For a split second, all you can hear is his breathing and you can feel his hand gripping yours. What the fuck are you about to d- he turns on the light. Well, damn.

“What is this?” You look around, very confused. He chuckles, dropping into a chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.

“The student council meeting room. They do a fundraiser every Friday where they bake fresh cookies in that,” he gestures blindly behind himself, “and sell them to the students. Two cookies, one dollar.” You follow his flailing hand and see a branded Otis Spunkmeyer cookie oven. You wander closer and see that it claims to make delicious cookies in just five minutes when used with genuine Otis Spunkmeyer dough. He’s turned in his seat to watch you and he chuckles. “So if I’m ever craving a cookie, I sneak in, bake two, and leave a five dollar bill. Debbie almost definitely knows it’s me but she hasn’t said anything yet so,” he shrugs. “I keep them in dough. Literally.” He laughs at his own joke and you do too.

“So...why are we here?” You think it might be a dumb question but he stands briskly, walks to the freezer, and pulls out a bag of frozen dough.

“I said we don’t give out stickers. But I will give you a cookie.” He grins, flicking the switch to ‘on’ and dropping blobs of dough onto the baking panel. “And now we wait.” You sit side by side on top of the table opposite the machine in comfortable silence. Internally, you’re amazed. It’s never been this easy or natural with anyone. And his hand holding yours. Damn. Your thoughts continue to wander and you’re fighting it. No. Focus. Cookies. It’s no use. Shit.

He carefully opens the door and slips through, and because your hand is still (still!) in his, you go too. It’s dark. For a split second, all you can hear is his breathing and you can feel his hand gripping yours. What the fuck are you about to d- he crushes his mouth over yours, pressing you to the door. “Been wanting to do this for awhile,” he says hoarsely, and you moan. “Had to be sure you were single. Interested.” He pulls back for a moment, eyes searching yours, and you nod. His lips are back over yours and his tongue is in your mouth when he slips a knee in between yours and tries to spread your legs, but the cut of your skirt prevents that. “Love this look on you. So fucking sexy,” he groans, tracing a finger from the center of your chest down to the waistband of your skirt. “But I need you to start wearing things I can work with.” You nod and gasp as his full lips move down your neck, leaving hot wet kisses as he goes. “I know I’ve been coming on kinda strong. Not real subtle. But fuck, I’m into you. So I’m not sorry.” This is murmured against your skin and you whimper, rocking your hips up, seeking.

“Brendon,” you murmur and he looks at you, eyes heavy.

“Yes?” Fuck. His voice isn’t muffled by your neck and shoulder. It’s beside you. Fuck. He looks at you curiously. “Uhm. Thank you for this. All of it. The copier, the fish fry, the advice, this. You’re being really nice to me.” He smiles softly.

“You need to reread your fairytales Milton. I’m a hermit, not a troll. I can be nice.” He doesn’t sound offended though. Just amused. You laugh, protesting.

“I just mean...thank you. Really.”

He places a cookie, wrapped in wax paper, in your hand. “For doing such a good job earlier,” he winks at you playfully and hands you another. “And for when you realize that Brendon Urie just made you the best goddamn cookie you’ve ever had and you find yourself needing another.” He wraps up his own, powers down the machine, wipes a damp cloth over the baking surface, and turns to the door. “But they’re best enjoyed hot. So don’t wait too long.” And with another wink, he holds the door open for you and you walk through to head back to your respective rooms.

He stops at the band room door. “Well, this is me. Thanks for being my pseudo-drum kit. I feel a lot better.” He grins and you return it.

You can hit this anytime. No, brain. Bad. No. “Well, it’s the least I could do, all things considered. Seriously.”

“Don’t give it another thought. I’m happy to help you.”

You smile and wave, before heading back to your room. Once you’re inside, you stop. “Wait. He said ‘happy to help you.’ That’s not the saying. It’s just ‘happy to help.’ And he said not to wait too long with the cookie. Is the cookie a metaphor? Fucking hell, I think this cookie is a metaphor.” You’re speaking out loud, pacing. “He is flirting with me.” You say it decisively and grin giddily. “Hell yes.”

The rest of planning, lunch, and fourth block all fly by. You’re in a great mood. You might stay for a little while and get some work done, but you’re not sure yet. What you do know for certain is, it’s hot as fuck outside and it’s creeping in and you want a water bottle. You get up from behind your desk and head for the vending machine, cash in hand. You can already feel the Dasani as it hits your tongue. Cash goes in. Button is pressed. Nothing happens. You groan. You hit the button again and to your joy, you hear the promising rumble of a bottle. To your surprise, two fall out. You’re standing there with both icy bottles in your hands when it hits you. Of course.

You set off at a brisk pace until you’re crashing through the side doors of the school. “Agh! it’s bright!” You shield your eyes and scan your surroundings. Yep. Practice field to your right. It’s down a steep hill, which you manage pretty gracefully all things considered, until his voice crackles through the air.

“Welcome to practice Ms. Milton!” You jolt in surprise. Oh. The electric megaphone. Yep. Your band director had one too. No sense straining your throat from the top of the band tower when megaphones exist. Shockingly, you don’t trip down the rest of the hill - but you’re far happier once you’re on flat ground. “Hold. Take a water break everyone. You’ve got five minutes.” You hear the sighs of relief from where you are and walk briskly to the base of the tower. He leans over and looks down at you warmly, megaphone at his feet and sunglasses glinting. “Well hello again Milton. What brings you to Urie’s Torturedome?” You look confused and he chuckles. “They don’t like practicing outside. They like winning, but they don’t like practicing. So until the school builds us an AstroTurf gymnasium, they refer to marching practice as the torturedome.”

The young woman clamoring down from the drum major’s podium protests. “We don’t mean it Mr. Urie! We really are grateful you hold us to such a high standard. Superior ratings aren’t given, they’re earned.” She looks at you earnestly. “Really.”

“All good Marissa. I’m just teasing because I know you can hear me. Get some water and you can extend their break.” She salutes and you don’t think it’s ironically. She’s definitely an honors kid. You relate to her so hard. You just want to please him. Fuck. Phrasing. He looks back down at you. “So. What brings you here?”

You hold up the bottle of Dasani. “The vending machine gods blessed me with a fruitful bounty this harvest. Figured you could use this more than me.” His eyes light up.

“Most definitely. Come on up.” You look warily at the ladder. “You don’t have to come up if you’re afraid of heights though. I’ll come to you. Hold on.”

You laugh a little. “It’s not the height. I’m just in a skirt, that’s all.” He nods in understanding and within mere seconds, he’s down the ladder and leaning against one metal rod of the tower with the bottle in his hand.

“You are an angel. An absolute angel.” He declares, twisting the lid off. You smile and shrug and he looks at you appraisingly. “You’re sure it’s not the height? It is the tallest marching tower in the state.” He isn’t even assuming his faux-humble look and tone. He’s actually proud, and you’re actually impressed. You shake your head as you take a swig from your water and gesture at your skirt as you swallow. “Well, I need you to start wearing things I can work with.” You freeze - those words sound familiar. Fuck. Student council cookie fantasy. That’s a coincidence, surely. But he’s still talking. “You’re a former band kid and I want a second pair of eyes. I need you on my tower. You did volunteer to help in any way you could,” he reminds you. “This is how you can help. Climb the tower, Milton.�� You can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses and he’s taking a slow sip of water and you can’t tell if he’s flirting or is totally unaware of the sexual euphemism he’s created. There’s a single drop of water clinging to his lower lip. Fuck. His tongue flicks out to collect it and while you’re not sure, you feel comfortable guessing that he’s watching you steadily.

“I’ll do my best to remember.” There. Solid answer that fits both scenarios. “I’ll let you get back to practice.” You aren’t wearing sunglasses so you can’t hide the long look you give him from head to toe but you don’t want to. You want him to see you looking. He’s changed from his usual uniform to another band shirt, a white tee this time with the current show design on the back, and black shorts. His hair is contained by a black, backwards snapback and you can’t lie, it’s a good look for him. Really good look for him. Damn. You take another sip of water, letting your eyes meet his.

He’s been watching you scan him, and his voice is lower now; students are starting to head back over. “Taking notes on what is appropriate band practice attire?”

You grin. “Nope.” And with that, you turn and head back up the hill.

[aquarianlights]

Anyone have information on the repeated long term use of Topamax (Topiramate) in correlation with memory loss and its permanency?

[c/ped from my FB]

I know this is a SUPER long shot as this is kinda specific...but..........

I forgot about the Topamax side effects........

So this is my...either 5th or 6th time being on Topamax for a long term period in my life. At least...this is the beginning of a long term period for me with it again (it's supposed to be...if it works out). I know it works for both my optical AND chronic migraines. . .my Metropolol was working fine, but will always choose any med over a blood pressure med because my BP is chronically low and adding a BP med is always dangerous and last night in the hospital, my BP was so low that they had to give me a bag of fluid and up my BP a bit through mere time in order to make me even eligible for the morphine shot. It was either 63/81 or 81/63. I think the latter...I can never remember if the higher number goes on top or not. But those were the numbers and one of them is supposed to be in the triple digits in order to have a "normal" BP and mine never is, but it normally isn't THAT low but I had taken my Metropolol before coming in and they said it was getting scary-level and since your BP drops (along with everything) as you're sleeping...it's even scarier since I was awake at that take and I take my BP med (for chronic and optical migraines---both debilitating) at night before going to sleep when my BP will drop even more. So...switching to anything different than a BP med has added benefits for me as someone with chronically low BP.

I can't even tell you how many times I wasn't eligible to receive my own goddamn medication in psych wards for hours on end because my BP was "too low" for it to be "safe" to give me my OWN MEDICATIONS. So they'd just have to take it again every 15 minutes until my BP was high enough for me to receive meds. They'd literally wake me up at the crack of fucking dawn BEFORE the other patients (which, if you've ever been in a ward, you know that you have to wake up and be out of your room at scary early hours) so I could walk laps down the halls in order to up my BP enough to reach just right at the limit to be eligible for my medications......some of which I needed to survive. They would literally withhold medication which resulted in life-threatening results because my BP was always too low. You'd think this would be illegal, but... Well, frankly, if you think this is illegal, then that really shows you've never been in a ward before in your life....lolololol.

ANYWAYS

So the side effects I've experienced the worst of while on Topamax are two things that have really impacted my life immensely and I'm terrified of: 1) Memory loss, both long term and short term, as well as altering memories and pulling my memories out of chronological order and 2) An inability to be articulate. Somehow I can never word/phrase things correctly or find the right words or even the correct synonym to a common word I use in my every day life... Sometimes I even forget the most basic of words that I use every single day...Or I forget how to form a complete sentence.

These are both after long term use. It usually doesn't happen during the first month or so. But... Number 1 was irreversible. I still have issues with that to this day and I still struggle with it because of the Topamax (aka Topirimate). Number 2... That went away after I stopped taking it. In fact, number not only went away, but I have become MORE articulate over the years and have expanded my vocabulary immensely.

What I'm scared of is... Part 1... The memory loss... It didn't stop when I stopped taking it, obviously. But it never worsened. I'm wondering if I take it long term like I am trying to do now...at the highest doses possible (starting at 25/25 morning/night for one week than 50/50 until I can titrate to 100/100 morning/night after 3 weeks on the 50/50 and possibly titrate more after that because of the nature and severity of my chronic migraines and the pure nature of my optical ones). I'm just straight up starting at 50/50. I don't care to spend a week on the 25/25. I just don't. I've been on this med too many times to care about titration.

Anyways... I'm scared that the memory loss will get worse. Like...to the point of dementia or even a medicine-induced Alzheimer's. Because...I have been told by many doctors and even neurologists that my memory will never return to how it was prior to Topamax. They took me off of it many times because of the 2nd thing...my loss of speech. Sometimes I couldn't even form coherent sentences...which was scary.

But we are choosing Topamax instead of something else because I already know it works and I've been on it a million times with every possible psych med so I know it won't interfere with anything and my BP will be fine and because I'm going to be spending a while....who knows how long....figuring out what's wrong with my psych meds and what to do about them. . .which I will be meeting with a different eval team for the same program only in my area on Tuesday. And probably get an appointment that same week. So...

I'm not TOO worried about number 2 because I know it will come back to me if I stop taking it. And I'm sort of...expecting and preparing myself for it. . .a loss of ability to be articulate verbally and write flowing-ly and such. My strongest suits, sometimes. I'm expecting it and preparing for it by creating a pocket dictionary and a virtual one on my phone that will have key words I use on the daily and things I think of that I use in casual conversation that I begin to forget AS I forget them. Coz number 2 happens gradually. Or, at least, it has all the other times.

Number 1 terrifies me because I HAVE to pass the MCAT.... I HAVE to be able to remember a fuckton of stuff for tests for my major...and I have to be able to recall anything on a moments notice to be a doctor in the ER in general, nevertheless a surgeon.

If my memory gets any worse, there's absolutely no hope of me ever passing a test again in my life, even if I know the subject matter. I expect to be on Topamax again for about a year. Maybe longer. I'm guesstimating 1-3 years... Coz it took 7 years to find the right psych meds for me at the right dosages. We have the right combo of psych meds...so we just need to play with the dosages...so I'm assuming that's gonna take at least a year, if not 2-3 years. So that's why I'm saying 1-3. I'm gonna be on Topamax until my psych meds stabilize and then I'm hopefully gonna switch back to the Metropolol.

Has anyone had extensive experience with Topamax? Not just...a one time "Oh yeah same. Like I lost my memory from it once and never took it again" sort of deal. But like...multiple times like me. Like I said, this is my 5th or 6th time taking it long term. Long term being 1 year or longer for each time. Does anyone have experience with topamax and this long of a term and like...intermittently like this?

The memory loss/alteration is irreversible if it gets any worse. And I can't afford for it to get any worse...

[rememberthepastme]

6/15/2020

So, I’ve switched to a new therapist named Jaime since GT kicked me out. No ill will towards my old therapist because it’s not her fault, but it still sucked. Looking for a new therapist was not a fun process. In any case, the reason I’m writing today is about a specific incident that occurred 2 days ago, on Saturday.

I had my first panic attack.

My family left to go to Florida for the weekend and a few days, so I invited Julia over to come hang out. We’re dating now. She brought an edible with her that she got from one of her friends, and we thought it would be fun to take together. I’ve taken edibles before, gotten high before, taken hits from dab pens, smoked, etc., so I wasn’t worried about it. But for whatever reason, this time didn’t go so swimmingly. It started off like normal, I began feeling the body high, I got pins and needles all over, my heart began beating a little faster, and I felt the cotton mouth. Then I felt the mental part, I had a looser track of time, my thoughts felt slow, and I had to struggle to stay focused on a single thing. These progressively got worse and worse. I first noted that it was hitting hard after around 30 minutes. Then, it was the highest I had ever felt after 45. Then I think around an hour or so after I took the edible, I began feeling a little ill. It manifested as a pressure in the back of my throat/esophagus, like I was going to throw up. I started feeling the cold sweats that usually accompany vomit so I ran to the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet to get it all out. I had vomited from drinking before and in that situation, once you get it out you feel a million times better, so I was hoping I would vomit, take a breather, and be fine.

Unfortunately, that never happened. Nothing ever came up, and I never had the heaves that come with throwing up. Instead, my symptoms kept getting worse. The pins and needles turned into cramps, and then full on muscle convulsions. My heart sped up higher and higher, and my breathing became more ragged. It felt like I when you’re sobbing and it’s hard to catch your breath. My thoughts became even more clouded, and my hold on time and place loosened. Eventually I couldn’t keep myself over the toilet anymore, at which point I caved and called for Julia. She came running over, and started caring for me. At this point, I felt horrible. It was just a little edible and I was on the bathroom floor incapacitated because of it. I thought I would just wait it out and then have a funny story to laugh at afterwards. But I kept getting worse. Alongside my quickly loosening grip on time and reality, I began to feel as though I was throwing up. I mentally felt every heave and the bile in my mouth, and it spewing from my lips, though none of it actually occurred. Every thought I had turned into an intrusive thought complete with a scenario that played out in my head like a movie, every second. It was incredibly hard to stay in the moment and not lose myself to these runaway thoughts. Every single one felt real, and reality wasn’t much different. I likened it to Dr. Strange looking through 14 million futures in Avengers to Julia. I stopped being able to move entirely, and breathing became even more difficult for me. I felt terrible since Julia had to care for me, and every moment that I got worse meant that the situation would probably be even more traumatic for Julia. I could barely speak between my cotton mouth, muscle convulsions, ragged breathing, and runaway thoughts, but I began apologizing to Julia over and over. I also started to describe these symptoms as much as I could. I thought if I focused on externalizing them, I could control them as if they were nothing more than the physical aspects of my emotions. After all, a bad trip was just mental, right? I tried voicing this to Julia too, though I’m honestly not sure how coherent I was.

The symptoms continued to get worse. My hands started hurting because of how hard my muscles were contracting and trembling, and my breathing got to a point that made me feel faint. I was past just feeling like I had been sobbing. I also started losing the sense of feeling in my body. I felt cold and hot at the same time, and I couldn’t feel the ground under me. My vision tunneled until I couldn’t see anything but the singular point I was focused on, almost like the inverse of my ocular migraines. Once my breathing got really bad, I started to freak out. My thoughts turned to those of serious injury and passing out, so I started trying to control myself as much as possible. Julia laid me on the ground once it was clear I wasn’t going to vomit, and then propped my head up on something. (I never looked at what it was). I was trying to consider the repercussions of calling 911 at this point. I knew that American healthcare was terrible and if this whole thing was going to blow over I didn’t want anyone else involved. I especially hated the irony of involving cops in these times, because I much as I hated them they would end up showing if 911 was called. Even more than that, I knew that I was exactly the stereotype of rich white boy tries weed and has a bad experience. I vehemently hated the idea of being that person. I tried to downplay all the symptoms in my head and justify them, but it was clear I had little control and they kept getting worse. Eventually, my breathing got to a point where I was struggling to keep conscious. I finally gave in and told Julia to call 911.

This was when I started feeling like I was fighting to stay alive. I was still externalizing to Julia as much as possible, and I told her I felt like my soul was leaving my body, and I if I gave in even the slightest it would leave and I would die. I felt very, very close to death. I started conflating this feeling of fighting for my life with fighting against my symptoms. I had to prove that this was all mental, it was all for show, and that I was still in control. I first tried forcing my breathing to slow, but my heart was still beating so fast it felt worse than what I was doing before. So I tried moving. I was clenching and unclenching my hands at first, but when I felt as though I was going to die I attempted to stand and walk outside. I’m not really sure what the rationale was, I remember thinking if I made it outside I would have a greater chance of living somehow. I made it out of the bathroom and about 5 steps before collapsing into a chair Julia pulled over for me in the middle of the hallway. The time being propped up on the bathroom floor and walking to the hallway was probably the peak of the symptoms, as it plateaued from there. Can’t get much worse than feeling close to death, I suppose.

I started sobbing that I didn’t want to die to Julia. I was terrified, scared out of mind, literally. The crying made breathing even more difficult though, so I tried to focus on my movement. Eventually, the paramedics showed up and checked me out. They told me I wasn’t going to die, and coached me through breathing. They told me to focus on in through my nose, and out through my mouth. With that technique I was able to get my breathing under control to a degree, and I no longer felt as though I was dying. However the other physical effects were still there. They offered to bring me to the hospital, but they said they basically wouldn’t do anything for me but lay me down and give me oxygen, and I’d probably be fine after a while on my own. I chose to stay, and thankfully they said a visit is free. However, I’ll have to wait and see if I get anything in the mail.

After that, I calmed down and the symptoms mostly went away. I was left just feeling very high, though it certainly wasn’t pleasant. The pressure in my throat I felt from the beginning remained constant, and so I was terrified that it would happen again. I realized that even thinking about the attack instantly gave me trembling and constricted my throat a bit. This was about the worst possible scenario for me because the way I think is by playing out my memories in my head and envisioning new ones, so not thinking about a memory was incredibly difficult. I tried distracting myself by watching TV or tiktoks but ultimately I would remember that I’m doing that in order to distract myself from thinking about the attack, which of course would make it worse. Eventually I just tried my hardest to fall asleep, and thankfully I did. By the time I woke up, the high had worn off and thinking about the attack no longer made me worry about triggering another.

The entire experience was extremely traumatic and I don’t think I’ve really processed it yet. According to Julia, the entire episode from me calling for her to the paramedics leaving was around an hour, though it felt much much longer to me. I had no sense of time at all. In any case, I’m not gonna go near weed for quite some time.

[greenergrassinsafermeadows]

Chapter 12

He’d made a definite mistake.     Ok, so Clara’d been putting in some overtime lately. Which meant she wasn’t at home as much. Which meant she wasn’t with him as much. Which was not ok. However, Craig quickly learned that eating half a loaf of bread and using a migraine as leverage to keep her home for the day was NOT worth it. He groaned into the pillow he’d buried his face in. The noise from the air conditioner was grating and all together too loud. Had it always been too loud? Even with the lights turned off the room was still far too bright, he didn’t even bother lifting his head anymore. “Claraaaaaa…. I’m gonna die. My skulls gonna explode and I’ll die. You’ll need to clean up the brain chunks after I’m gone.”    Clara only sighed, crossing the room and sitting down beside him as gently as she could, he still whined as the mattress shifted. “Payton. You kinda did this to yourself sweetheart. I’m not sure what you want from me here.”   “A little sympathy and compassion maybe? These are my last moments.” “You have about 20 ‘last moments’ until the Excedrin should kick in. I think you’ll make it.”   “No I WOONN’T” He rolled over to look at her, wincing and shutting his eyes again because fuck way to bright. “Turn the lights back off you jerk..” “The lights are off Payton.”   “Well turn off the fucking sun. My eyes are being stabbed out of their sockets.” She didn’t answer, and he almost panicked when he felt her get up. “I’m not leaving,” She whispered, “I’ll be right back ok?”    He only whined again, and alright maybe a few tears were beginning to burn the corners of his eyes, but god damn his head hurt. He was focused on pressing the heels of his hands as hard as he could against his eyes without blinding himself when Clara returned.     Again she sat beside him and gently pulled his hands away with a murmur of “Jesus Christ honey don’t liquefy your eyeballs.” Before laying a cool washcloth over his face. “That’s about as close to turning off the sun as I can get without imploding the entire solar system and killing us all.”    “.............Thank you.” She settled next to him, wrapping an arm around him as carefully as she could. Immediately Craig curled into her, clenching his fist in her shirt as the throbbing pain in his head worsened with the movement. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep Payton, let the meds kick in.” She spoke softly enough that it didn’t hurt to listen, that was already an improvement. He managed a weak “ok.” before letting his mind shut off, finally falling asleep through the haze of pain.

   He woke up an hour or so later, still groggy and a bit nauseated, but no longer convinced he was on death's door. Clara hadn’t moved, or at least it didn’t seem like she had, the cup of water resting on the nightstand said otherwise. He moved slowly, testing the waters, it wasn’t excruciating anymore, but he didn’t have the energy to make it farther than rolling sideways and resting his head on her chest.   “Hey,” She still spoke in a whisper, not wanting to risk making things worse, “You alright?” “Mhh..” He hoped that sounded affirming enough, he didn’t feel much like elaborating.     It must’ve been, because she reached over and grabbed the water, holding it out to him. “You need to drink some, it’ll help.”   Making another noncommittal sound he complied. She was right. Upon awaking his throat felt gummed up and uncomfortable, the water helped with that much at least. “Do we have any Mountain Dew in the fridge?” Was his first coherent sentence.    Clara snorted a laugh. “Glad you’re feeling better. We do, you can have some later, caffeine actually isn’t the worst idea.” She stopped smiling though, her face flickering from concern to contemplation, “So… are you ready to talk about why you thought sitting down and eating half a fucking breadloaf was a good idea?”    Ouch. Why couldn’t she just be stupid? This would be a good time for her to be stupid. “I… Thought it was the gluten free kind?” He tried. She didn’t look impressed. No dice.    “You mistook it for the clearly labeled bread in completely different packaging that I’ve had in my kitchen since we started dating?” “Yyyyyyyyyy...es..?”    “Payton.” “..........You needed a day off. You’ve been working nonstop, you’re gonna turn into Boringfuck Mc’shitski at this rate. I did this for you. You’re welcome.”    She somehow managed to look even less impressed. “So it’s about the overtime?” “Yes. I just told you. I did this to save you from yourself. You can thank me anytime now Clara.”     She huffed in frustration before sitting up and pulling him into her lap, cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together. “Payton. Is this or is this not because I’ve been busier and had less time to hang out with you?”     “It’s uh…… it’s” He couldn’t meet her eyes at this point, opting instead to look down at his own hands. Clara let out another sigh and hugged him tighter. Craig rested his chin on her shoulder and decided that staying quiet seemed like the best course of action.     “I’m broke as shit and I like my job,” She started, “I’m doing something I enjoy and trying to make some extra money from it. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you and want to spend time for you, it just means I have other things going on in my life.”      He wrapped his legs around her waist and clung to her, taking a few deep breaths before speaking, “But- But this is every day!  Clara how can I not think that- that you, I dunno- don’t-” don’t love me anymore. He couldn’t quite get that last part out. It hung in there air like smoke after someone left a plastic container on the stove by accident and part of it melted and made the whole kitchen smell bad.    “Ok.” Clara said, finally breaking the burnt-plastic silence. “I get it. Payton I’m sorry. I got caught up in doing something with my life again and, yeah, I got a little carried away. I don���t need to be doing ten hours a day, you got me. I’m sorry you felt like it was because of you. I can tone it down, work extra two-  maybe three days a week, But I’m not fucking abandoning you alright? I promise.”    He nodded, “I just- I missed you and- and I thought…” “Payton.” Her tone was firmer now, “I need you to listen right now. I love you very, very much. I’ll still make time for you. But you can’t do this shit again. You can’t just make yourself sick so I have to drop everything without notice. I still have to actually do my job.”    “But-” “No buts. I’m being serious right now. You can always ask me to make time for you when you need it but this? Kinda manipulative. Obviously not fun for either of us. Don’t do it again.”     “...Ok.” “Promise?”     “Sure.” She pulled back, looking him in the eyes. “Promise.”     “Fine- alright. I promise.” She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him briefly before picking him up. “Ok. Let’s get you some soda and a dinner you aren’t allergic to.”

[icsek]

This just keeps getting longer. I’m sorry guys! I’ve just had a bad week of writer’s block in addition to a crazy long week of work. Hoping this week will let me get a few of these smaller things knocked out.

A month later saw them back to the front lines with the combined might of the 501st and 212th. During that time, Obi-Wan catalogued all the minor differences he noticed in Anakin’s behavior. The most noticeable was his sleep quality, gone was the tossing and turning through the night with recurring nightmares. Instead, he slept quietly and peacefully, his Force presence a steady lull of calm.

Other little things stood out to him, Anakin joining Obi-Wan in meditation and actually sitting still through it, the increased frequency in his real smiles, and his increased patience with the Council. Anakin was more detached from his feelings, he deferred to other’s judgement, he didn’t spar with his teeth bared and the dogged determination to win every time, he no longer argued endlessly about the outdatedness of the Code.

It was everything Obi-Wan had ever wanted for him. Everything he knew Anakin could be as a Jedi. And yet, it wasn’t Anakin.

If any of the clones noticed a difference, he couldn’t tell. Admiral Yularen had only given a few odd stares when Anakin had asked for his advice in several battle plans, but never said a work about it to Obi-Wan. Not even Captain Rex had made a comment when Anakin didn’t insist on leading Gold Squadron himself during a skirmish with the Separatists.

Maybe it was only in Obi-Wan’s mind, these differences. Maybe it was Obi-Wan’s attachment to Anakin that made him miss the deep burning flame of passion that had drove Anakin before. Or, most likely, it was Obi-Wan still grieving for forfeited second chance.

Their first engagement in the field was difficult. Anakin had known that his bond with Obi-Wan was what had made them work so seamlessly together, but he didn’t realize just how much he’d relied on it. Instead of their normal perfect synchronization, they were one beat behind each other or one beat ahead. Even dropping their mental shields and broadcasting their thoughts to one another wasn’t enough.

The entire time, Anakin felt restless and unnerved. Each slash of his lightsaber had him wishing for Obi-Wan’s presence in his mind to reassure him like he had as a padawan. It distracted him, nagged him, until he was no longer able to focus on the battle and had to rely on unconscious movement directed by the Force. Every time he tried to focus on the present once more, the ache in his head started again and blurred his vision. He knew he should be withdrawing and retreating back behind their lines, but they needed the press forward that, currently, only he could provide. The battle started to pass in a blur, no longer truly aware of his surroundings or that he was slowly drifting further and further behind enemy lines.

He felt the flash of warning a moment too late to react. One minute he had been slicing through another super battle droid, the next, his lightsaber was knocked from his hand and he was flying through the air. The impact into wall knocked the breath from his chest and left him stunned as Count Dooku advanced. Anakin was unable to do anything other than brace for the inevitable downswing of the red lightsaber.

It never came.

He was confused for a moment before the stun bolt caught him in the chest. Anakin fought the darkness, but another quickly followed and could fight it no more.

Groaning, he woke up strung by his arms in a position that had become far too familiar. “Obi-Wan is gonna kill me.”

“Come now, Skywalker, no need to be so melodramatic.” Dooku’s smooth voice came somewhere from behind him.

“Says the master of dramatic flair.” He just can’t keep his mouth.

“It is a common theme in our lineage.” Dooku sounded vaguely amused, much to Anakin’s relief.

“While we’re on the subject of  lineage, you think you can let your great-grandpadawan go before your grandpadawan decides to murder him?” He gave a cheeky grin, probably pushing Dooku’s amusement too far, but it was what he did best.

“I could protect you from him if you decided to become my apprentice.” Dooku shifted to finally stand in Anakin’s field of vision.

“Your record with apprentices and padawans doesn’t fill me with hope, Dooku.”

Dooku chuckled, stroking his beard as he stared at Anakin, “Yes, well, yours isn’t all that impressive either. All those years just for her to leave you and the Order entirely. At least she had sense to get out before it was too late.”

The mention of Ahsoka leaving had both his head and heart hurting as his thoughts turned toward her. He couldn’t recall their farewell, couldn’t remember what she had said to him or what he had told her. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind and not let Dooku get to him.

“Did I hit a nerve, young Skywalker?” He shifted back out of Anakin’s field of vision, “You always were too attached for your own good. Always struggling with attachment and letting go, to keep your emotions in check, to be a proper Jedi. As my apprentice, you wouldn’t have to worry about such things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dooku.” The pain in his head was only intensifying, whites spots starting to appear in his vision. He had never been attached, he didn’t struggle to let go, he had let go of friends time and time again. His emotions were washed from him by the force time and time again, as he’d been taught during his first year of training. “I am a good Jedi!” Wasn’t he? He followed everything the Council-

Pain completely blinded him, Anakin knew from experience there was nothing he could do except let this episode pass. Distantly, he could hear Dooku saying something but the words weren’t coherent in his head. A copper taste flooded his mouth and he briefly realized he’d bitten through his lip again before taste and thought fled him again. He tried to shunt the pain directly through him and into the Force, but it was hard to do without someone guiding him on the outside.

Time passed, he wasn’t sure how long, minutes, hours, days? It was impossible for him to tell. He’d passed out at some point he was sure. The cramping and aching of his joints meant he’d had another seizure during this episode. The smell and taste of vomit lingered in his mouth and nose making his desperately wish for the fresher. Pain persisted in his temples, but it no longer overwhelmed all his senses.

“Good, you’re awake now.” Dooku was sitting directly in front of him in a meditation pose, much like the one Obi-Wan preferred.

Anakin didn’t respond, his throat too dry and sharp from vomiting. Instead, he surveyed the room to see if there was anything that would give him a clue to the time that had passed. The lights were lowered, but whether or not that was from the night cycle or Dooku’s preference he wasn’t sure. They could’ve been this low before and he just didn’t remember.

“Well, considering your lack of panic or blame, this type of thing must happen to you with some regularity. Interesting.” The irritating beard stroking was back, the motion too much like Obi-Wan’s to be a coincidence. “I decided to do some delving around your head while you were incapacitated and found the strangest thing.”

Alarm flooded through him, if Dooku had been successful then the entire Republic could be at risk with the information he held. Battle plans, strategies, fleet locations, technical information on their entire fleet, and so much more that he knew could damn them. He kept the panic off his face and strengthened his mental shields, ignoring the pain it caused.

“I’m surprised you were able to find anything. Obi-Wan always tells me how disorganized I am.” His voice was hoarse and rasped in his throat, making his desperately wish for a swig of fluid to wet his throat.

“Sadly, I was unable to gather any real information useful to my cause. Master Kenobi is right in that regard, there’s a disgusting lack organization in that head of yours. But I did discover you have a very strong mind block in place.” Dooku waved a hand and a serving droid he hadn’t noticed in the corner brought a container of water to his lips.

Good sense told him not to drink anything offered by Dooku, but the pain in his throat and the sharp aftertaste of vomit overwhelmed any sense he did have. He drank greedily, the water soothing the worst of his thirst and wetting his throat.

Dooku continued as he drank, “There are very few Jedi who are powerful enough to perform a mind block on another Jedi. Even fewer who are able to create one of that magnitude. I’d suspect the entire Council was involved in the process.”

Anakin couldn’t deny his own interest was piqued even if he refused to show it. He’d heard of a mind block, seen a few, but it was mostly done as something small or singular, much like a mind trick. Obi-Wan was rather gifted with mind tricks and had performed a few simple mind blocks on civilians when necessary. What Dooku was describing sounded much larger than what he had seen.

“Of course, I have assisted over the years in implementing some stronger mind blocks as part of a group effort when necessary. Usually in conjunction with a Mind Healer.”

“Whatever you think you saw, Dooku, is wrong. There’s no mind block, I’d be able to sense it.” Anakin was getting tired of the superior attitude, wishing he still had the bond with Obi-Wan so he would know if there was a rescue party coming for him. The more Dooku talked, the worse his migraine was getting and he couldn’t afford another episode.

Dooku chuckled, “As powerful as you are, Skywalker, you are far too naive. The reason you can’t sense the mind block is because an aversion has been built into your mind. When you start to think about the blocked memories, your head hurts. The harder you fight it, the worse the pain gets until you have one of those spells you exhibited earlier.”

He almost told Dooku about the psychic backlash he’d suffered that was the cause of all his episodes just to prove him wrong, but he knew he didn’t need to provide him with more ammo against him. Still, the temptation was there. Instead, he kept silent, not wanting to give Dooku the gratification.

“Still, there are ways to override even as strong of a mind block as the one in your head. It’s not… pleasant… but my Master wants to know what the Council doesn’t want you to know.” At another one of Dooku’s gestures, he heard the sound of multiple electrostaffs igniting. “I’ll be back to check on your progress later.” He left the room.

This wasn’t his first experience being tortured with an electrostaff by magna guards, he could endure it until Obi-Wan arrived. Obi-Wan would save him, he always did. The first staff touched his skin and he could no longer think beyond the pain.

The only reprieve from the torture was Dooku’s limited visits, usually with a med droid in attendance to administer the bare minimum to keep him conscious and alive. Occasionally he was allowed a reprieve as another seizure wracked his body. The remainder of the time was spent in unrelenting agony, the electricity doing its damage to his nervous system the med droid did nothing to correct.

Sounds of shouting, blaster fire, and the hum of a lightsaber echoed through the halls, filling Anakin with a dull sense of hope. The magna guards had stopped some time ago, but he was only just now aware of anything going on outside his room. He couldn’t find the energy to shout in answer to his name being called, slipping in and out of a stupor with his awareness.

At least the pain had stopped, or had it? He was confused because he could no longer feel his body yet he felt it all at once. His body hurt or tingled, the feelings were hard to decipher as his nerves were far too overstimulated. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or if it was simply dark in the room. Maybe he wasn’t even awake. Maybe they’d overloaded his heart for the last time and couldn’t revive him.

A hand brushed over his forehead and everything lit up. The contact was too much, the sheets he could now feel were too much. The noises, the smells, it was all too much. Panic set in when he realized he couldn’t move his limbs. Distantly, he heard someone saying his name, but he couldn’t answer, couldn’t twitch a finger, couldn’t do anything but suffer.

Blackness fell again and he blissfully drifted within his mind and the Force, free of the confines of his body. Memories that were his, but not his, drifted with him. Feelings, emotions, knowledge, it all flowed with him in the nothingness.

[vexley]

Just Things About Riverdale, Chapter Ten: The Lost Weekend

Well, here we fucking go.

Oh god.

“I barely acknowledge my own birthday.”

Same, dude. Same.

Gasp.

We’re finally talking about Archie “mysterious” mother.

Official divorce. Damn. What went down, seriously?

Two years, holy shit.

Ah, Fred is leaving. The whole scene-jumping sequences involving dumb high-schoolers  partying is starting to make sense, unfortunately.

“Friendervention.” I don’t know why I’m laughing, but I’m laughing.

Archie & Betty?

“Three musketeers!” Aw.

Aw.

“I thought maybe I’d surprise him.”

Yeah, that sounds like a bad idea.

“I think the best gift that I could give to Jughead would be to stay away.”

I hurt in places that don’t exist.

Hostile eye-contact with the Pussy Cats.

I hope they fuck Archie UP.

Sorry, it’s been a long day, I’m feeling a little hostile.

“Jughead’s never had a Birthday party!”

Archie’s head-nod.

Jughead and Betty clearly weren’t super close before the start of the school year, if she’s had no idea about that. How do you not know something like that about a friend?

Am I actually, like, sort of--maybe--classifying Archie as the Better Friend during this episode?

I’m not sure how to deal with this?

“A low-key surprise party!”

Archie’s anxious head shake.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“NO.”

“Jughead doesn’t like his birthday!”

Okay, guys, fine.

Jughead&Archie.

“Jughead is a lone wolf.” He fucking sounds like he’s quoting Jughead.

What part of “Don’t turn around” do they not understand???

“Not that I care because he’s evil incarnate.”

“You don’t have to go Dark Betty on me.”

Betty has so many fucking rage issues, and I find it alarmingly relatable.

I really want her to punch him in his smug little FACE.

“But I can damn well make sure my boyfriend has the best Birthday of his life.”

I’m having flashbacks to that stupid fucking baby shower.

“Screw it, I’m with Betty.”

Archie.

I was fucking rooting for you, man.

“It’s going to be epic.”

It’s going to be catastrophic, calling it now.

“I didn’t mean to ambush you.”

Are you sure? Because it looks to me like you meant to ambush him.

“You’re really falling for this Jones boy, aren’t you?”

I really just love the fact that there’s no judgement. Alice is straight up supporting her daughter; it’s such a violent turn-around from the Alice we knew Before.

Excuse me for a moment, I just need to go into another room and spend 5 to 10 minutes squealing over the fact that Jughead apparently comes with his own sound-effects.

This episode is uncomfortably relatable.

75 years? Holy shit.

This whole HBIC face-off just feels really...superfluous?

Also, I’m really disappointed that Cheryl and Veronica’s friendship just went up in flames, before my very eyes.

I have no fucking words for how angry I am.

Like, is Chuck really supposed to be some kind of threat?

Because, honestly? Who fucking gives a shit?

There is absolutely nothing threatening about that fucking toad.

Emotional blackmail, signed with love by Daddy. Nice.

THAT FUCKING SHIRT.

“Do I look like Jughead to you?”

Maybe in the right lighting.

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“...Are you drunk?”

Wow, yeah, just kinda hit me that Jughead would automatically know. How could he not?

A Spanish Happy Birthday! <3

I love the fact that they incorporate Veronica’s heritage into the show with little things like that.

“Thanks everyone,” he says with no sincerity, at all.

“Oh, it’s Kevin.”

Wow, hot damn, what a voice.

“That was..haunting, Betty.”

LMAO, yeah it was.

Wow, I paused the episode to type out my thoughts, and Betty is right in the middle of kissing Jughead’s cheek. In the other Just Things About posts that I’ve written, I know that I’ve mentioned the expression on Jughead’s face when Betty kisses him. The only way I can think to describe him in those moments is warm.

Right here, though, as Jughead stares down at that (honestly) weird-ass cake, and Betty pecks him on the cheek, Jughead reminds me of the cold. There is no warmth in his expression; there’s no happiness there.

I suppose that, essentially, Jughead looks the way that he currently feels.

(That feeling that he described to Archie over an entire pan of pizza in the Andrews’ kitchen.)

Jughead looks overwhelmingly, achingly alone, and it’s an unsettling thing to see when he is surrounded by people who claim to be his friends.

“I wish it were just the two of us right now.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Why the hell is everything so doom and gloom with you, Jug?”

It’s a real fucking mystery.

“I’m not normal. I’m not wired to be normal.”

“Did you really think you could throw a party without inviting moi?”

Why don’t these people lock their doors? It’s like they want to be robbed.

“Screw it, one in the kitchen, one in the backyard!”

I vote that we take Jughead and give him to some better friends, who’s with me?

“Valerie’s here, and I think she wants me back.”

LMFAO

IN YOUR FUCKING DREAMS.

“Now we’re here, in the middle of a Seth Rogan movie.”

I don’t even know why I’m laughing.

Joaquin&Kevin.

Joaquin&Kevin.

Why does this keep happening?

Oh shit.

“I’m sorry that, after you sexually harassed those girls, there were actual consequences, Chuck.”

“These kids are more on-the-ball than the Sheriff.”

You have no fucking clue.

LMAO

Alice Cooper, with the fucking binoculars. I can’t even.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in.”

I’m okay. I am so okay. I am, like, the most okay ever.

I don’t feel SAD. Like, what even are emotions, you know? I don’t fucking know.

“Why are you getting so upset?”

Hmm, maybe it’s because you did the complete opposite of what he wanted on a day that he clearly can’t stand.

“I hate that word.”

“We’re on borrowed time.”

“Or until Archie changes his mind and says he wants to be with you?”

I, uh

“You shut me out, remember? It’s too late.”

Melody, being there for her girl.

Ugh. Archie, you dumbass.

On today’s episode of Archie Makes Bad Decisions.

“This whole night is bad luck.”

FP’s Concerned Dad(tm) expression.

Cheryl and Chuck are, like, the worst tag-team in the history of ever.

“But did you love him, maybe, in ways that a sister shouldn’t?”

Holy hell on ice.

“I want you to go back inside and talk to your girl.”

“Don’t run away! You’ve got something good here, with her, with your friends! Something that--something that we could never give you.”

I”M NOT CRYING, YOU’RE CRYING!

“Snakes don’t shed their skin so easily.”

Omg, Alice Cooper makes so much more sense, now.

Does she have the tattoo? I really hope she has the tattoo.

“And all this time, I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.” “I’m both; I’ve got layers.”

Like an onion?

“Maybe I’m not used to it, maybe I’m scared.”

Oh, Betty.

</3

Jughead’s expression when he sees Betty’s palms.

His hands around hers, his lips pressed to her knuckles.

The way Betty looks at Jughead while he’s looking down at their hands, like he’s something special, and she doesn’t understand how she got so lucky.

“By Monday, this will all be but a dream. Trust me, no one will remember anything.”

Pfffffffffttt. Okay, sweetie, if you say so.

“Why do I keep doing this?”

I’ve been wondering the same thing. Only, like, along the lines of, “Why does he keep doing this?”

“I keep wrecking things.”

Again, except, “He keeps wrecking things.”

“Welcome to my life.”

Please don’t start.

There she goes.

“Everyday I wonder, what if I had left Riverdale with my mom?”

It’s like the writer’s are handing out prompts to fanfic authors.

“We all are, Archie, and honestly? You less than most.”

...What??

Archie&Veronica???????????

He took the mattress on the floor, that is so cute.

“Dont worry, my lips are sealed.”

Damnit all, can’t you guys be friends already?

“I believe in you, Mom.”

Aw.

OMG.

IT WAS A BURGER.

BETTY MADE HIM A CAKE THAT LOOKS LIKE A BURGER.

THAT’S FUCKING ADORABLE.

I need glasses.

“So, you and Veronica?”

Pinky out when he takes a drink.

“This is a small town, but it’s not that small.”

Shit is about to go doooooown.

Betty&Veronica.

Some much needed Beronica.

“The last time you brought me baked goods was because you kissed Archie.”

Betty&Veronica.

Betty&Veronica holding hands.

Oh, fuck off, you Actual Five Headed Dragon.

“We’re home.”

Oh shit.

I wasn’t going to do this tonight, because I just got off work, I’ve got the mother of all migraines, and I wasn’t sure I’d be coherent enough to take everything in and then spit out proper notes. So, I may come back to this episode at a later date, when I’m a little more awake, and add to it, like I did with Chapter Eight (?).

No, scratch that, I will definitely revisit and add a part two, because there was so much that I didn’t address, because I just??? I can’t even properly express the way I felt about some of these scenes right now, I’m really drained from work, and there’s a lot that I really do want to talk about.

On the upside, this time Jughead’s birthday was just as shitty as every other day of the year.

LOL

Okay, sorry, I’m going.

[ambistep]

Playing Games

(really don’t like this, feels far too coherent for farm memories, but i vomitted it out, so may as well post it.  really liked the notion of the Farm going through socialization training, )

“How did Dr. Robinson find you?” His hand rests on his glass, digits on his finger flexing and relaxing. He’s nervous. Doesn’t like spending time with you and the others. That’s fine. The ones who hated their work were safer than the ones who enjoyed it.

“Satisfactory, I think.” You smile - not too much, like last time. They don’t like to see your teeth. “I haven’t heard any complaints - and trust me, I’d have heard them.” Light humor is disarming, it endears strangers.. A mistake - he’s not a stranger - his frown deepens. You overplayed your hand and it just makes him more uncomfortable. He hates this. Hates this almost as much as you do, but he’s allowed to show it. It’s a game - all a game, but not for him. 

There’s no restraints here - not physical ones. The goal is to perform socially, to pass, hold small conversation. “Are you staying late this evening?” You guess it’s evening but you don’t really know. You must be right. Picked a sympathetic tone. Commiserating over long work hours is also endearing. You can’t relate but you can pretend. 

He doesn’t look eager to respond but it is part of the game, holding a conversation. With a sigh, he continues to prod his tablet screen, making notations, “No, actually, was hoping I’d wrap this up and get home a little early.” His eyes look up to watch your response. There were six other cameras that you knew of monitoring microexpressions.

“That sounds like a nice change of pace.” Home a little early. For some reason, you think about if you could finish strangling his thick neck with that hideous tie before safety measures activated. The white lights of the room stay steady - the game is still going. They would let you know when to stop. You want to be angry but you can’t be angry. Your neighbor had been angry. 

You’re still here because you weren’t. 

You’re still here because you’re better at this game than the others. Pretend to be pretending to be human - but not the wrong kind of human. All the implanted memories had common words. Tool. Asset. Soldier. Drone. In the edge of an implanted memory, you found a feeling, tucked away, and another word. Doll. That’s what performed best, when playing these games. Maybe if the others had found that word, they’d still be alive operating.

He taps a page on the tablet in front of him, nodding, slowly looking back up. There’s a long quiet, and the white lights of the room feel harsher. He looks up. You dim your smile and straighten your posture, waiting politely and thinking of nothing. It made the handlers like him who were already uncomfortable more so, when they could see the gears turning behind your eyes, so you just… hold that word close. Doll. 

The assessment’s taking too long. Panic scratches at your migraine. Maybe baselines and compliance have deviated - theyknow - It was in your biometrics - theyknow - leaking out your pores - theyknow - they can smell it because you didn’t bury it deep enough, you didn’t hide it, and now they’re going to punish you, or scrap this project. dig it out, find it there’s some traitorous tell - something that gave you away, some rebellious bone and you have to tear it out or smother it but you can’t all you can do is sit here. And smile. And watch him peck and swipe at his tablet. Searching for the option that will end you. Maybe not the worst thing that could happen.

The white lights dim and take on an orange hue - the game is over, you’re not socializing anymore, you’re not pretending to be a human anymore. they know? You stop smiling and look down to the table in front of you - eye contact was for humans, and if you forgot that, you’re sure they’d remind you. You remember. You haven’t been punished in awhile - because you’re good at these games - but you remember.

He doesn’t talk to you anymore - he doesn’t talk to things and the game, the exercise has ended, the game’s over. they don’t know. You won again. Good job. It makes you… relieved, happy, proud, angry, nauseous. Nothing that shows. 

He stands at the door, talking to the orderly, nodding. Some of the words you can overhear, “Yeah... kid’s got a softball game tonight, so I’ll be heading out, just take it down to Regina’s - I already filled out the forms, she’ll be expecting this one.”