#I really ought to go in for a physical only for the doctor to tell me it’s all in my head

[frink-o-matic]

I’m not sure how much longer I can handle being anxious.

[peppermint-toads]

you don’t like doctor’s offices. especially not now. you don’t like the hypnotic hum of the fluorescent lights, the cabinets that’ve been there since the late 80’s, the pamphlets sitting in an acrylic holder telling you that you have options.

options. not anymore. because you’re sitting on the examination table about 16 weeks pregnant, waiting for the doctor.

“the baby looks healthy,” the doctor tells you, barging into the room without a knock. “i’m prescribing zofran for the nausea. the nurse will see you out.”

thank fucking god. you wanted nothing more than to get the fuck out of this place. the best part about these visits was the walk home. they are usually quite pleasant. being pregnant in the summertime has its downfalls, but feeling the breeze in your hair and through your thin dress is your saving grace.

it’s just another bonus that you pass your favorite ice cream shop on the way home. you think you’ll have an affogato today, decaf, of course.

it smells like heaven in the shop, that cool, sweet smell from the coolers. your favorite. this is your saving grace, this affogato will solidify the day as a good one, despite the lingering feeling of doctor on you.

ice cream in hand, it’s finally time to go home. the walk is clearing your head already. you eat a spoonful of vanilla and sigh. maybe you ought to stop by the pharmacy for those meds. on second thought, that can be tomorrow’s task. you’ll be alright.

actually, maybe not. because you see simon riley’s stupid, bulking form walking towards you about a block away. fuck. shit fuck. you should hide. duck into the closest shop before he can come after you. but it’s no hope, you’re looking up and you’ve already made direct eye contact. nausea meds sound so good right now.

may as well keep going forward. it’s not like he’ll notice, anyway. you’re barely showing, but your white dress isn’t doing you any favors right now.

you’ll give a polite smile, duck your head, and all will be well. no stopping, no small talk, no—

simon is physically cornering you to a complete halt in the middle of the sidewalk, and there is nothing you can do about it. maybe if you curl your back in a little bit, the bump won’t be as noticeable.

“what are you doing? stop that.”

he is so gracefully referring to your posture.

“i don’t have time for this simon. i’ve got things to do.”

you walk sideways around him, and he follows.

“where are you coming from?”

you can’t help it. “you lost the right to ask that question when you fell off the face of the planet.”

you hear him grunt behind you and smile. great, no snide comments yet.

“you look different.”

shit. he’s jogging, catching up to you and walking by your side now. the breeze is picking up and you shift uncomfortably. the fabric of your dress is clinging to your stomach.

simon looks down, his intent is to see what you’re eating, but he catches a glimpse of your swollen stomach and freezes. he’s nearly swallowed by all the foot traffic.

“simon?” you feel the loss of him by your side. he’s stood still, strangers bumping into him and jostling his shoulders.

great. now you’re backtracking, when really all you want is to be at home, in bed.

“simon, what’s your problem?”

“you’re pregnant.”

time stops for him. he’s the father, no way he couldn’t be. unless you were cheating on him, which he highly doubts considering your heart is the purest thing he’s ever encountered during his time on this earth.

you let out a long, long sigh. “yeah.”

then you’re swaying, trying to keep upright and simultaneously swallowing down vomit. simon watches as the life drains from your face a bit. his hands are gripping your shoulders to stabilize you. his touch feels nice, warm.

“i need to get home,” you tell him with a sad smile, pained to be leaving his soft touch behind yet again.

“i’ll walk you.”

you nod. you don’t have the heart to ask him to take his hand off your waist, feels too good. and he’s keeping the world right side up.

it’s only a short distance home, and soon he’s ushering you up the stairs to your flat. you don’t stop him from doing that, either.

you also don’t stop him from pulling your favorite blanket over you after helping you lie down on the couch.

you don’t even get the chance to tell him to leave because you’re just so tired, and his presence makes you feel so safe. you’re falling asleep and quickly. he lets you.

he sits and watches you sleep for the better part of an hour. when you stir, he’s there, staring.

he’s in your lounge chair, chin resting on his folded knuckles.

“i’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

you’re barely awake and what’s he saying? “huh?” you say stupidly, wiping your eyes of sleep.

“i said,” he swallows, “i’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

you’re sitting straight up now, definitely more awake now. “i couldn’t have told you. even if i wanted to. you disappeared, simon.

he did. but he doesn’t have the time to explain that now. so, he ignores you.

“how far along are you?”

you tell him. he stands from the chair, sitting down right next to you. he asks if he can feel your stomach. you guess so.

things are getting a little too serious for you now.

“right, well. i had a lovely nap, and i’m feeling much better. thank you for walking me home, but i need to stop by the pharmacy and—”

he interrupts you, tugging your wrist when you try to stand. “i’ll go for you. i’ll do it, please. i’ll do anything you ask me to.

you frown down at him. “simon, there’s no point to this. please just go. it’s just… too late.”

simon’s heart is breaking. he didn’t think it could break anymore than it already has in the last few months.

“let me stay.”

he begs. you think there are tears in his eyes, and if you let them fall you know there’ll be no going back. so you sit with him, you let him kiss you with his hand on your stomach. you let him lay you down on the beat up couch he was always pestering you to replace. you let him pull your dress over your head and kiss his way down your stomach. you let him sink into you slowly and pull your calves up to rest on his shoulders. you let him cum inside of you, again.

you even let him go to the pharmacy for you.

[alexaloraetheris]

I juat remembered the day, about two months ago, when I went to renew my perscription and ended up derailed by some kind of divine influence that really, really wanted my help. 😂

So I have an appointment at 9. First thing I do is sleep in because my alarm simply did not ring. First time that happened. I cursed out the damn phone and ordered a taxi, which I had specifically hoping to avoid because of the traffic congestion.

My driver is a woman a bit older than me, and she's in a good mood so we chat. She told me she was thinking of moving to [city on the coast] because taxi drivers are paid better there, and I tell her I have family there, we comment on what it's like to drive in a city essentially built into three hills and a cliff. She mentiones she has scoliosis, and it sometimes impacts her ability to sit in a car for long periods of time. I had scoliosis as well, but I had managed to fix it with exercises almost completely so I recommended my physical therapist, and assured her it's not too late, because some of the people in my therapy group were even older than her. When she let me off she thanked me for the help.

Feeling good that, even if I had to pay out the nose for the ride, I got there in time and even managed to do a good deed. I rush in, tell the reception guy I'm here to see my doctor and settle in to wait.

Two hours later, I see people being called in but not my name. I ask why, and doctor looks at me blankly and says I'm not in the system. I have to tell the reception I've arrived so I show up on his schedule.

I'm mentally cursing out the entire hospital, but I wasn't raised by wolves. I thank the doctor, politely tell the different receptionist that the last guy probably didn't hear me when I told him my appointment, got added in and went back to wait.

Ten minutes later, a visibly nervous girl with freshly printed papers sits in the waiting room. I'm in a bit of a mood, but I'm also a firm believer in helping if I can. I paste on a smile and ask 'First time?' and she admits she just got sent here for a potential ADHD diagnosis and she had no idea what to do. Having been there and knowing exactly how hard it was to do it on your own, I gave her the number of the psychologist who made my diagnosis, assured her that the psychiatrist she was here to see is the same one I have and that he's a good guy, explained what ADHD actually was and how the meds work. She was neraly crying with relief by the time I was done, and I promised she could send me questions if she needs to.

I finally, finally go in for my appointment in a slightly better mood, only for my psychiatrist to tell me Concerta is no longer imported, I have to go on some other meds and for that I need my family doctor to sign off on a regular perscription instead of getting an Rx perscription from him.

This is the worst case scenario, because I do NOT want my mother, who thinks ADHD was invented by quack American psychologists to sell expensive meds to parents with unruly children, to know I have ADHD. So I mentally curse out the entire healthcare system, go to the family doctor and explain the situation, that my mother absolutely CANNOT know about my diagnosis. Even though the doctor was not aware of my diagnosis so far, she listens attentively, and we make sure that my mom can't check the insurance we're both under to see what meds I'm on or that if she checks my name in the pharmacy directory she can't see me either.

I thought I handled that situation rather well but I must have looked more worried than I thought, because the doctor admitted her high-school age granddaughter had been asking questions about psychologists and antidepressants and she had so far been dismissive. But if she really needs help, she might do the same thing I did and seek help on her own, and my doctor realized she ought to either change her attitude fast or be left in the dark while her granddaughter is struggling. So I told her which psychologist I went to when I was also a depressed high schooler and how it helped and what I would have wanted my family to keep in mind. She thanks me and hands me a new perscription and sends me on my way.

So by now I am starting to notice a pattern.

Now, I'm actually an atheist, and I have 'Culturally Catholic' as a flaw and a laundry list of Stuff(TM) I have had to unlearn, but sometimes I really wonder if Someone Up There looked at me that day and thought:

"Hmm, looks like I have three problems I can solve with one well-positioned dumbass. Time to ruin her day for the good of the world!"

I mean. Happy to help but I really hope ruining my day won't be necessary next time.

[sercezgazety]

It’s going to start raining soon because of-fucking-course it is. Why not. It’s not like it’s going to change anything, Dan is already completely drenched, and maybe something that isn’t his own sweat would be a reprieve. Or, you know. Herbert could do something besides peering over the edge of the hole with a flashlight, commenting on Dan’s technique and imperiously demanding changes in the angle at which the shovel enters the soil.

Dan tells him as much. Backseat driving is one thing when it’s, well, driving — and even then it’s infuriating. When it’s grave robbing, it’s a whole nother thing. It wouldn’t kill Herbert to get back down here for a couple minutes. He’s pretty experienced with a shovel, Dan reminds him, and seems to have a lot of opinions. High time he starts pulling his weight around here.

“At this depth? In these shoes?” Herbert asks, and then makes an offended sniff to drive the point home. “I’d just keep slipping and losing my balance.”

“I mean,” Dan pants, “you could have worn different ones.”

“All my shoes are the same.”

Yeah, it figures.

“Well, they shouldn’t be. You ought to have at least one pair of sneakers.” The shovel finally thuds against the lid. Thank fuck. They really took the whole six feet thing into their hearts, huh. “Specifically for this kind of occasion.”

Dan can’t see him, but he just knows Herbert opened his mouth to start saying something, and then changed his mind and closed it. He can almost hear the asshole’s thought process anyway. I don’t need sneakers, you do this kind of work. Or something along these lines. 

“Somebody needs to hold the torch,” West decides to say instead.

It’s sad, actually, how Dan’s initial reaction is this absurd sense of pride. Herbert wouldn’t have kept the original words to himself, were he interacting with anyone else. 

Christ, what a low bar to clear.

Thankfully, they’re— no, Dan, Dan’s not digging a hole the size of an entire coffin. That would take days. But the opening still needs to be much wider and longer than just the bit that would give them access to the right part of the lid. Dan’s learned the hard way that getting rid of excess soil when you’re four feet deep is bloody exhausting. There are steps to take, first you make a hole that is wide and long and deep enough, with something like shelves, so that later on you can put the contents of the shovel next to you instead of throwing pounds of dirt over your head. He’s more experienced in digging than he’d like, though it’s not often that they’re trying to get something out of the ground. And it’s not that Herbert didn’t do anything tonight, oh no. He’s been very careful to do bare minimum and pant so pitifully, it was Dan who told him to take a break. It was more than an hour ago, by the way.

At least the coffin’s made out of wood. Last time, it was metal. Almost impossible to open, and no point in doing so anyway, given that the corpse boils inside it. Dan sometimes wonders whether people who buy those things actually know how physics work. Probably not. He’s not entirely sure he knows, though he’s definitely seen the results.

Now that the lid is partially visible and the goal seems so close, somehow everything drags on. It’s as if the time was made out of rubber, stretching instead of rushing the way it does whenever Dan actually needs a couple seconds to restart a heart or sew up a wound a tad too close to an artery. Now, he wants to be done, away from here, and not only do they have to get the cadaver out and bury the empty casket, but first they need to get to the goddamn casket in the first place, and it’s already been three hours, and someone’s bound to come and catch them, there’s no way they’re getting away with it, and the it —

“Herbert.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s ancient.”

How the hell did Dan not notice that before? Yes, his brain tends to turn into mush the moment he’s confronted with a stressful situation — a terrible trait in a doctor, really, he knows that — but to such an extent? At this point, he really should be able to tell a fresh grave from whatever the hell this is. Come to think about it, all the flowers were withered when they were getting them out of the way. 

“Not ancient,” Herbert responds serenely. “Just two days old, you’re short a couple millenia.” He probably thinks he’s funny; he usually does. “Well, it’s almost three days now.”

Dan stops digging. Not the best idea, given that this way he’s probably going to remain in the compromising situation for even longer. If he gives his muscles a moment to catch up with the exhaustion, it’s going to be very difficult to start moving again.

Still, it would be nice to know why is he supposed to be moving at all.

“Herbert,” he says very calmly because he’s a calm and rational guy. Also because he’s down here and Herbert’s all the way up there, so it’s impossible to just throttle the imp without some extra effort, and he doesn’t have any energy to spare. “It’s way too old, what the hell do you even want with it? The brain’s completely useless at this point.”

Looking up, Dan half-expects to see Herbert sitting over the ledge and kicking his legs, but that’s not happening. First, there’s been no foot colliding with Dan’s temple. He’s pretty sure he’d notice. And second, when it comes to keeping the slacks spotless, it doesn’t matter how appealing disrespecting the dead might be. Herbert’s always going to choose clean clothing. Unless it’s blood. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, and yes, it’s not that noticeable on black clothes, but the shirts, the sheer number of shirts that turn out to be single-use is impressive. Herbert’s propensity for the blue ones is absolutely fascinating. At least the white ones can be bleached. The blue ones go straight to the trash. “They’re more cheerful,” Herbert deadpanned once, and to this day, Dan doesn’t know whether that was supposed to be a joke. What an absolute waste of money, but then again, when one is used to having money, they don’t consider it an issue.

It is an issue to Dan, though. Just like the fact that he’s currently standing in the middle of a grave they’ve been attempting to desecrate, and he doesn’t even know why.

“Liver failure,” Herbert informs him as if that were supposed to explain anything.

“So?”

Dan feels ridiculously proud of himself — look at him being so assertive! — for not resuming the digging. He stares at Herbert, and yes, it’s hardly intimidating, given that he needs to keep looking up and squint at the torch, but Herbert still seems a bit surprised by Dan’s resolve. He falters, he actually falters, so that’s something.

“We don’t require a body, per se,” he admits. “At this stage of research, it would be prudent to do some further tests on individual parts. They don’t need to be that fresh. Actually, we need to see what happens when the decay has not only started but progressed. The neurons atrophy immediately, so we should look into reversing the process, not only stopping it. Muscle tissue would be a good start, I figured. Although, well. Bloating would be ideal, but—“ Herbert gives a long-suffering sigh, confronted with a world that simply refuses to respect his wishes. ”For the moment, this will have to do.”

Dan wipes at his brow, which is completely pointless. He smears the sweat around, and now it’s mixed with even more mud than before.

“Is it at least embalmed?”

“...yyyes.”

“You think so or you know so?”

“I know,” Herbert answers a bit too quickly. 

Perfect.

Dan drops the shovel, and winces immediately as it clatters against the lid.

“So all of that for… parts?” he asks. He wants to sound incredulous, he really does, but it’s not even the tenth most insane thing Herbert’s demanded this month. “Not a whole subject. I’m busting my ass here, we could get caught any moment, and all of that for parts?”

“A part,” Herbert says in that monotone he uses to offer a helpful piece of information.

“And you couldn’t have gotten it at Miskatonic?”

“Well, we’ve had no fatal liver failure in weeks.” Dan can’t see it, but he’s certain Herbert is shrugging. “This one comes from a different hospital, actually. They transported the body back to the place where she grew up.” He pauses to readjust his voice and make it into something more cheerful. “Isn’t that nice of them?”

Dan finds himself digging again, but that’s not because he’s a pushover. That’s because he just wants to be done with it, and the longer they stay here, the more likely they’re to get caught.

“Why liver failure, then?” he huffs.

“You’d better focus on digging.”

Dan makes a point to stop moving.

“Why liver failure, Herbert.”

As if it weren’t already obvious that West is avoiding the answer, he pauses for a tad too long.

To learn why liver failure, continue reading here. The answers might surprise you (unpleasantly). warnings in the notes opening the chapter on ao3

[jomiddlemarch]

call understanding thy kinswoman

“Here,” Mary said, pushing a steaming mug in front of Rilla after hurrying through the ordinary polite exchanges required of a greeting, even among family. “Drink this first. You look green around the gills and I don’t fancy explaining to Jem why his baby sister ended up in a puddle on our sitting room floor.”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Rilla said, turning her face away from the table. Feeling the nausea rise in her throat, hardly daring to take a deep breath. “I can’t drink your coffee, it’s too strong—”

“It’s ginger tea, silly. And if you faint here, I’ll still tell your brother we were in the sitting room, not at the kitchen table. He’s been at me to get a girl to help and I don’t want one—”

“You’d lie about something like this,” Rilla asked. She reached forward and picked up the mug, inhaled the spicy scent of the ginger tea. She gestured with a little nod of her head at the scene, Mary across from her at the well-scrubbed table, all the pots and pans gleaming copper in the dull, cloudy light of a dull, cloudy afternoon that hadn’t made its mind up yet to rain.

“Of course. If the lie was what was needed. What James— what Jem needed,” Mary said. Rilla recalled Mary called Jem by his Christian name, the only one he’d allow to do so, though he’d given their mother a quelling near-glare when she’d remarked on it. Mary gave Rilla a familiar look, one that sized her up in a moment, though it was fonder than it used to be, an alteration Rilla attributed to Mary’s affection for Jem. “It’s Ken you want to talk about. Go on then.”

“How did you know?” Rilla said. She sipped at the tea, willing it to do something. Ginger was said to help. She’d learned though, that many things people said would help a difficult situation weren’t the least bit helpful and that people, with the possible exception of Una and Rosemary Meredith, had an endless supply of suggestions. Mary most often held her tongue around the Blythe family, but she wouldn’t hold back if you asked her opinion.

“You’d have gone to your mother if you were fussed about morning sickness or having the baby,” Mary said. “It would’ve been a gift, to give her something like that to occupy her. If you wanted some coddling. You’re here instead and it’s certainly not for my shortbread. Nan’s away and Jerry’s crippled because of his back, nothing else. She wouldn’t be much help and you don’t want her pity.”

“Mother’s useless,” Rilla said. Admitted. “And Nan’s a priss and always has been—”

“Finally,” Mary muttered under her breath.

“But it really is that Jerry’s wounds are all just physical. Sometimes I wish, I think, maybe if Ken had lost an arm or needed a cane, it would be better. Easier,” Rilla said.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’d be like he is now only with one arm of his jacket pinned up or walking around like an old man before he’s turned thirty. There aren’t any bargains to be made about this, Rilla. Nor wishes.”

“He came home and he said, he asked me, ‘Are you Rilla-my-Rilla?’ and I said yes,” Rilla said, looking down into the crockery mug. It was sturdy and practical, like her sister-in-law, and her own mother would have blanched to serve a cup of tea in it, let alone her sister. There were no tea leaves to read, so she looked back up and found Mary watching her, a little half-smile on her lips.

“Are you bothered by your answer or his question?” 

Rilla laughed in spite of herself.

“Dad says you’re wasted as a doctor’s wife, that you ought to be a barrister.”

Mary smiled and though there was no flush in her cheeks, her expression warmed, her fair hair suddenly seemed richer in tone, more like the narrow gold band on her fourth finger.

“Your father’s twice as fanciful as your mother is and I’ve heard her go on to Bruce Meredith about fairies and mayflowers more than I could ever believe,,” she said. “Being a doctor’s wife suits me fine. Jem will be home in a few hours, though, and I’ve his supper to see to, so if you do want to talk, you might be getting on with it.”

“He’s not himself. Ken. He’s not who he was when he went away. When he asked me to wait. He’s not mine, even if I’m his,” Rilla said, all in a rush. She felt queasy again, unsure why, neither explanation a comfort.

“Couldn’t be, could he? Especially since he came home and others didn’t. Walter,” Mary said. “I think he’d hate it, Walter, how he’s a saint now and Ken and the rest of them, they’ve got to be men all the time and tell us it’s all in the past, it was worth it. Cheerful, determined. I’ve never wondered Shirley won’t come back to the Glen, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Rilla said.

“There you go. That’s what you needed to get to,” Mary said. It was rare to be praised by her and Rilla was surprised how much she liked it. How much it was a balm. “Can he sleep?”

“Sometimes. Not well. He has dreams, he won’t talk about them,” Rilla said.

“I won’t say anything,” Mary replied. “To anyone. Certainly not your brother. He can’t sleep either. He cries sometimes, without ever waking up. You won’t say anything about that.”

“Oh,” Rilla said. “I didn’t know—”

“He doesn’t want anyone troubled. I’m the only one who won’t let him get away with that. Which is partly why he married me,” Mary said.

“I don’t know why Ken married me,” Rilla said softly.

Mary chuckled, but it had none of the wry mockery of her usual laughter.

“You poor pet. I forget, sometimes, how young you are.”

“I’m only six years younger than you, Mary, not a generation,” Rilla snapped.

“When I was six, my ma hung herself and my pa slit his wrists,” Mary said. “You were always precious. I wasn’t, not to anybody, not ‘til Jem anyway. Ken married you because you were the dream he had that kept him alive in that absolute hell in France. Because you wrote to him and you raised that baby and because you’re the happiness he always thought he wanted. You’re easy on the eyes too, but I’ll grant him that it’s easier to fall in love with a pretty girl than a plain one.”

“You can’t marry a dream,” Rilla said.

“No, you can’t. Nor live with one. They came home, however they did, and for a while, anyway, I suppose it’s up to us to figure out how to be more than that. It’s harder for you, because of your families and how you had that crush on him and he had that memory of you in a party dress in the moonlight to go by. Jem didn’t have any dreams of me to get in the way,” Mary said.

“Is this how you talk to Jem?”

“I’ll thank you to keep your nosy questions to yourself,” Mary retorted. 

“I only meant, is this how you help him through?”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to find out how to talk to Ken and I haven’t any advice about that man. Well, I’ve a little. I think he’s got to feel guilty as sin to have come home with just a few scars and everyone expects him to write some masterpiece and he won’t want to let anyone down. I bet it’s hard to have any ideas after the trenches and it’s hard to write when your hands tremble.”

“How did you know?”

“Jem’s do, sometimes. I’ve learned to look for it. Get Ken a typewriter, that’s my advice. Tell him about the baby before you tell your mother. Promise him you won’t call it Walter. Say you want some ordinary name that no one in your family’s gotten all tied up with sentiment and honor. John. Margaret. Maybe Alice, like Alice in Wonderland.”

“My grandfather’s name was John,” Rilla said. Grandfather Blythe, who’d died before she was born.

“Everyone’s grandfather was named John,” Mary said.

“I suppose that’s nearly true,” Rilla said and smiled. 

“Nearly true’s good enough more than you’d think,” Mary said. “You should come round for dinner here sometimes. We can let them go sit on the porch while we gossip about Faith Drew while we make some tea to go with the cake you bring. I heard she bobbed her hair and she smokes and Bertie don’t care. ‘Scuse me, she calls him Will, like we all don’t remember him being a holy terror and his ma hollering his name Bertie Shakespeare for him to come home.”

“You’ll serve my cake?” Rilla said. It was the biggest surprise, as Nan had already passed along the gossip about Faith’s hair and her modern ways. Fast, Susan said, frowning and Rilla, who had never thought it possible, had found herself nodding along. 

“Susan won’t give me her recipe for plum cake and it’s one of Jem’s favorites. He’ll have two slices, enormous ones, if we’re there for Sunday dinner and she puts it out,” Mary said. “He’s greedy for sweets now, though he hates to admit it.”

“Jem’s greedy?” Rilla said.

“Oh yes. He’s all sorts of vices. I’m sure Ken has his as well. You’d do well to find out which ones,” Mary said.

“To help him overcome them?” 

“To love him for them,” Mary said. 

[queenlucythevaliant]

Six things I wish you knew about chronic migraine

(By a person who’s lived with the condition for the last eight + years)

While it’s true that migraine is more common than you think (something like one in five women, one in twenty men), it’s also true that there are lots of different kinds of migraine. Optical migraine (“aura”), vestibular migraine (vertigo), and abdominal migraine (lots of nausea and vomiting) can and do frequently coexist, but only a fraction of the people who get “migraine” experience all three all the time. Complex migraine has symptoms similar to both a seizure and a stroke, frequently in addition to some/all of the aforementioned. A person with chronic complex migraine (like me) and a more normal person who gets an acute migraine every month or so (like my mom) might as well have two entirely different conditions.

Corollary to the above: migraine advocacy needs to cover both breadth and depth of sufferers. Naturally, resources and up-to-date research ought to be available to anyone who experiences migraine symptoms, but there also needs to be acknowledgment that even some people for whom the condition is technically “chronic” (eight days a month) might have it relatively easy in the scheme of things. I often tell people that I have a seizure condition (closely related to migraine) in order to be taken seriously in lieu of a thirty minute lecture. 

Migraine is under-researched and poorly understood. I have one of the most expert migraine neurologists in the US and yet frequently, when I ask him questions that seem like they should have simple answers, his response is “good question.” Lots of meds/treatments are new and experimental and thus not covered by insurance. There is a LOT of migraine-related misinformation in the milieu. I cannot overstate this. Immense truckloads of misinformation. It’s incredible. Take anything a non-neurologist tells you about migraine critically.

You would be astonished by how many needles and hospital visits severe chronic migraine entails. There are periods where I’ve had to get painful injections 3x daily and had hospital visits every other week. IV steroid infusions are also a pretty common occurrence and they suuuuuuck.

Most people who get migraine take either OTC drugs or Imitrex/Sumatriptan pills, and if a person gets any kind of nausea/vomiting with migraine, this is pretty much insane. The body can process migraine like a physical trauma and as a result the stomach stops working (gastric stasis). As a result, if you take a pill after an episode has already begun, it won’t actually get digested until the migraine is basically over already. Injectables are much better if you can get them and it’s absolutely crazy to me that most doctors don’t prescribe them across the board. Doctors have known about the gastric stasis thing for decades now and it really ought to be common knowledge.

 Not specific to migraine, but the longer you suffer with chronic pain the more sensitive your body becomes (barring improvements in treatment). This is kind of counterintuitive- you’d expect to get used to the pain over long exposure, but actually your nerves get hyper-attuned to it. This goes double if you have any kind of allodynia. If you have long-term chronic pain—you’re not going crazy if you think something/everything hurts more now than it used to.

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights 3.3

Previously on Terrarium Lights: Gail found the ghost. The ghost had found.... some kind of an answer. Maybe. (Next part >>here)

"I… I see," Gail replied, not seeing.

"That's most everything I know," Samu—no, Jonathan—admitted. "As I found those reports, and looked around the city, I did remember bits and pieces. And I think… somehow… the operation did work and did not work at the same time. I… I would definitely classify the weird places that I remember going to as something unlike anything from here, that I’ve seen, and you didn't seem familiar with any of it, either. But… well… when I accidentally lit the lightbulb back at your place, I remembered, vaguely, a kind of blazing, blinding light, and being in agony."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that." A distant part of Gail wondered if either she or Jon—Samuel were going quite mad. This conversation was so normal despite its departure from all familiar wisdom. But also, she was talking to a ghost, and she wasn't sure if that made her more mad or less. At least in relation to discussing different worlds. "So… you said you found your body?"

"Oh, right. Well, the records indicated that the test was held at the lighthouse, six years ago. And I remembered the lighthouse. When we went to the church and I saw it, I knew I remembered it. So… I finally worked up the courage to come here. Just a couple days ago, in fact. I… I haven’t been sleeping at all,” he added, as if self-consciously. “I don’t seem to need to."

"And… your body was here from six years ago?"

He shook his head. "More recent. I don't know how recent."

"A few weeks ago, maybe?"

"That was the impression I got."

"How… how does it look?" Hopefully the lad hadn't gotten too traumatized.

"Well, I have a theory," he said, playing with the buttons on his vest. "I can't feel the cut on my shoulder, right? Well, my body is wearing pretty much the same clothes as me, except that there's a patch over the shoulder. So I think it must have been healed and my shirt fixed. So I appear to you as I arrived here in this world, but my perception of myself has changed along with my original body.” He paused, looking down at his vest and away from her eyes. “Which… I-I was planning on going back and talking to you, I really was… I just… didn't know how. And I felt bad about the terrarium breaking."

"O-oh. You have been through a lot, so it would take time to process." Gail reached out to pat him, stopped, then shook her head, as if by rattling the thoughts around in her head more physically they would make sense. "I beg your pardon, are you saying that the only thing that's noticeably different about your body is that your shoulder isn't hurt?"

"What should be different?" Jonathon asked after a long pause.

"Well, because, you know." She gestured at him vaguely, making an effort to keep her voice from rising at her general befuddlement. "You're, well… dead."

"Oh, right." He tugged on his vest. "I guess I forgot that, too. Forgot to tell you, I mean. I'm… well, I’m actually still alive."

"You're… still alive?" Gail certainly felt she ought to be pleased at this, but instead she just found herself more confused than anything. "But… aren't you a ghost?"

"I will be honest," Jonathon said, shifting on the dirt, "I don't quite understand it myself. I thought I was a ghost, too. But if I go in there, I can see myself, looking just like myself, but… physical, and lying on what looks like a sickbed. There's a bowl of water nearby, and a towel on my forehead, and once when I went in there was a doctor. But… well… I can go into places and look through papers and find things out and all that, but… I can't… talk to people." He looked down at his hands. "They don't see or hear me. And… there's still a lot I don't know. I don't really know who Samuel is, though he was my friend. I don't really know who Jonathon is, even though I found my name and my body. I don't know why I'm still at the lighthouse, and I don't know if I have any family anywhere. I don't know why I'm sick and lying there and why I'm out here, too, at the same time. I was… I didn't want to have to ask more of you… but… I think I was also delaying going to see you because… well, I needed to go back and apologize and talk to you. But there was more… and… I don't know."

Gail reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know you feel bad about taking my time, but I promise, you can ask me for help whenever you like. I want to give you my time, if that means I can help you. In fact, I was actually out here at the lighthouse because I was looking for you." He looked up at her with wide eyes. "I was worried about you," she said softly.

"O-oh." He blinked, looking from her hand to her face.

"So, to make it as clear as I can: if you want my help, I want to give it to you."

The distant rhythm of the sea filled the moment between them.

"That's… that's extraordinarily kind of you," he finally said, looking back down at the ground. "I… I don't really know what to say in the face of all you've done. I wish I had some way to repay you."

Gail nodded. "I know just the thing you can do to start on that."

He tilted his head to look up at her from the side.

She patted him again. "You can start by telling me what it is that you still need, and then, after I do what I can, and once we figure out how to get you back to your body, you can live a good life. And try and visit Michael and I every now and then."

If he had possessed the physical capacity for producing tears, the rapid blinking and puckering of his eyebrows hinted that there would be a lot of them. "I… I don't feel like that's really a fair form of compensation."

Gail heaved herself off the ground, dusting herself off, front and back. "No, it isn't," she grinned, "but never you mind that. I'm assuming you want me to talk to the folks in there and see what I can learn about you and your condition?"

He nodded. "Thank you."

"You can thank me after I've actually done something," Gail said with a wink, and, double-checking that she hadn't gotten too unpresentably soiled, marched around and in through the front door before she could think twice. She whispered a prayer as she walked through the door.

Previous

Next

[one-abuse-survivor]

It feels weird having abuse that only really started getting noticable in the last five years or so, and I don't know if the abuse STARTED then or if it just got worse. As a child, I had a physically abusive stepfather and when my mother left him, she wasn't able to take me with her (because she got herself committed to a mental hospital to escape him. And yes, she did it on purpose. She's admitted that). She was able to get on her feet while in the hospital (free healthcare is a blessing). So being able to move in with her after he finally decided he was finished with us felt so freeing, and her BPD was much better then too! But after working with her doctor to switch her meds so she could lose weight... suddenly all of the negative stereotypes became true. But she told me it might. I even told her "That's fine, I might keep to myself to avoid being the target of splitting, but once things settle down, we'll be good again". ... it never happened. She cheated on her now ex and then left us with unpaid bills that left us without POWER during the SUMMER (meaning no air conditioning or refrigerator). And a bunch of other things too, but when she came back I told her ex (who she was also abusing by this time, and he took her side over mine) that until she apologized for that, I wasn't speaking to her. She decided to manipulate me to try and get me away from my fiance (who told me not to accept her BPD as an excuse, which is what she expected me to do) instead of... just saying she was sorry. Eventually she kicked me out (of the place she WAS NOT LIVING) when I was paying more than half of the rent. I have screenshots of her lying about having evidence my fiance was breaking the law (Including trying to deadname him, but spelling his deadname wrong, proving she hadn't read it on any legal document lmao) as well as saying I 'lacked the mental capacity to make this kind of plan on my own'. I'm autistic.

Like when I think about the past I sometimes find things and I'm like "wait was that abuse?" and idk if I'm just applying things that weren't there.

(also I have a weird amount of people I know with BPD. Most of them aren't abusive at all. I don't generalize the disorder for my mother. They don't deserve that)

Hi there ❤️

I'm so sorry you've gone through all this, first with your step-father and then with your mother. And I'm really glad you were able to advocate for yourself and not tolerate the way she was treating you and her ex.

I understand what it's like to feel like a parent only became abusive later in your life after being a normal parent for years. My mother's abuse toward me also got significantly worse when she went off her medication, and for a really long time (before I went to therapy), I was so sure it had started then, instead of worsening. So I can definitely relate to your situation.

And I can tell you that it's absolutely possible that the abuse already existed before, and got worse when she changed her meds. It can even have been a different type of abuse altogether, with different dynamics. Just going off of what you've shared here, even though I don't know the details of her separation from your step-father, the fact alone that she left you behind to get away from him sounds like something that's ought to have hurt you immensely. At the very least, she failed to protect you from abuse.

I hope time and recovery can help you figure out if she was always abusive or not, but until then, I would trust my gut. If you feel like there were behaviours that harmed you and that are red flags of abuse in retrospect, I wouldn't dismiss them. After all, as you said, BPD (and personality disorders in general) are not what makes someone abusive, which means there is a good chance the abusive behaviours were only exacerbated by her change in medication, not caused by it.

I hope some of this helps to hear, and more than anything, I hope you know you're not alone in this struggle. And even if it turned out the abuse did only start five years ago, that would not make you any less of an abuse victim.

Sending a virtual hug ❤️

[novanhistorian]

The Vampire in Novan Folklore

I ought to have thought to post this on Halloween, but I didn’t, so bear with me now. About 850 words.

Courtesy of linguistic evolution, in the Imperium the word “vampire” has come to refer to something very dissimilar from what we think of when we hear it.

Instead, a vampire is what happens to you if you don’t do everything in your power to properly bury a body—a vengeful ghost with a master’s in applied economics and an indomitable drive to bring financial ruin to everyone who has had opportunity to bury them and has failed to do so.

After the first time someone fails to do everything in their power to get them properly buried,* a corpse will start to form a vampire. For three days, a flame will burn in the air above their chest; at the end of that time the vampire will awake, lying flat on their back about a meter above the ground.

* Your author really wishes there were a shorter way to say that.

They will find themself incorporeal but completely visible, clad in a pristine version of whatever they were wearing at the time of their death. Eventually they’ll figure out that, even though they can’t directly touch anything, they’re telekinetic and can interact with the world that way. If they really, really want to touch something (say, to comfort their crying grandchild), they’ll find they can; but it costs them an immense amount of energy and if they do it for more than an hour they’ll end up catatonic for a week. Drinking blood doesn’t help.

They are the same person as they were in life, and they know how they died and the names of all who failed them. The only alterations are (a) an indomitable drive to bring financial ruin to all who failed to give them funeral rites and (b) the equivalent of a doctorate in applied economics and psychology with which to do it.

From the time of their rising to the time of their dissolution, they are wholly dedicated to destroying the finances of anyone and everyone who hasn’t performed their obligations to their corpse. Failing that, they’ll go after descendants, although they usually don’t like it.

They are one of a class of “world-locked spirits:” the restless dead, usually because something—ambition, a spell, a wrong unrighted—binds them to the world of the living and holds them back from whatever they should find past the Gate of Death. Most world-locked spirits are ghosts, invisible and unable to interact with the world without especial effort to make themselves solid; vampires, as described above, are a variation on the theme.

To disperse a world-locked spirit, one of two things usually needs to happen: the spirit needs to accomplish their goal, or else certain rites need to be performed upon their corpse. The rite for vampires is a proper burial, and their goal is the financial ruin of anyone who has failed to meet their obligations to their corpse, or failing that their descendants. (There’s a third option in the old Montian territories, which is to have Pope Sylvester VI come by and bless them.)

There are three kinds of common vampire stories.

One is a short, often humorous recounting of a meeting between a vampire and someone who knew them in life, as the vampire tries to hide the various tells that they’ve died and become a world-locked spirit. Imperial ghosts as a whole (that being a wider category than world-locked spirit), even when visible and corporeal and not having any strange effects on the passage of time in whatever room they’re in, have a few universal physical “tells;” the most well-known is pitch-black nails and claws. Pretty hard to hide, especially since your average vampire hasn’t maintained a normal conversation for longer than fifteen minutes in the past three years.

The second class of common tale is a much longer narrative, beloved by the epic poets, that follows the vampire over years or even decades as they bring their (usually wealthy, invariably horrible) murderer to the point of breakdown and confession. These are far less comedic than the first kind, and they usually start not with an account of the murder but of the murderer’s life and villainy leading up to that point. Hamlet is sometimes considered an ancestor of this type, but this is universally dismissed by scholars, since basically no one in the War Era (whence most of these stories derive) even knew William Shakespeare existed.

Did you catch the loophole in the world-locked spirit rules where murderers can get off scot-free, if only they arrange for their victim to be buried? So do they, and the epics take particular delight in foiling their schemes by sheer happenstance.

The third follows roughly this plot: Pope Sylvester comes by and lays to rest a vampire whose body no one can find. The vampire usually died as a result of a tragic accident, or else was murdered generations ago and is now causing harm to innocents and hating themself for it. In the rare case a Sylvestrine story has a living killer, the pope deduces their identity and brings them to (worldly) justice before dispersing the vampire.

[insipid-drivel]

If you’re having relapsing panic symptoms after having a virus...

It’s probably okay! Don’t blame yourself! Don’t isolate yourself and try to hide it if you’re struggling “like you used to”! Talk to your doctor about it! There are explanations beyond “it’s just in your head” or “you had a shock from being sick”, and convincing yourself otherwise isn’t gonna help you feel better.

This past week I’ve been wretched with panic attacks and general “AAAAAAAAAAA” from my brain, and it was after I was very sick with the stomach flu (the news reports about the new strains of Norovirus are not jokes; please look after yourselves, everyone, especially if you need daily medications, and get to a hospital if you need daily oral medications and can’t hold them down). I got so violently ill that I wound up falling into a state of cold-turkey withdrawal.

I bounced back, fortunately, and am physically okay again, but for the past week, I’ve been really hard on myself for having relapses into panic levels and cycles that I haven’t struggled with in years! I’ve never been so vulnerable to things like my old triggers! I even have panic attacks in my sleep again for the first time in ages!

Finally getting in to talk to my psychiatrist, I got my answer:

Viruses can seriously mess up how you metabolize certain oral medications, including psych meds, and sometimes our bodies need help much longer than you’d expect to balance out. Most of the information we get about recovery times from common viruses don’t apply to people on medications, the neurodivergent, and the disabled, and holding ourselves to the same “healing standards” as others can actually make things worse.

My psychiatrist literally compared it to accidentally ingesting grapefruit while on a psych med (plenty of you know how bad an idea that is, but for those who don’t, it basically means your body won’t recognize your medication in your body), and gently explained that it wasn’t my fault for being anxious and panicked again, or for needing to go back on my panic meds. It wasn’t my fault for “backsliding” into being fragile and sensitive as I was before I ever set foot in a therapeutic setting. I was also told, “If you don’t feel totally ready to go off your anxiety medications, then it’s not time yet. This shows me that the meds are still helping.”

I also have a very, very slow metabolism (meaning it takes a lot less of a drug for me to feel sick from it than the average person), and so it made perfect sense I wasn’t bouncing back to my psychiatrist. My metabolism is just shut down, and all I need to do is rest and focus on keeping up with eating, my medications, and taking it easy!

I complained that not even weed was hitting me right and calming me down the way it should (I’ve been encouraged to use marijuana for multiple different reasons and live in a state and setting where it isn’t condemned and have had a wonderful experience with it). I prefer to use edibles or beverages as my mode of delivery for when I’m having trouble with anxiety, chronic pain, or stomach issues, but it wasn’t helping much this time! I’ve been feeling terrible about going through way more than I did before!

Until I just took a hit from my vape instead, bypassing my digestive system altogether. As soon as I did, I felt right again. I calmed down. I could get out of bed, and everything was okay. Like my psychiatrist said, my metabolism just wasn’t taking in my nutrition levels - even cannabis - correctly, and I just have to take it easy and let myself recover. It does not mean it’s permanent.

So, if you’re noticing that the meds you use regularly aren’t helping you like they ought to and your moods are hard to manage, especially after you’ve been sick, see your doctor and tell them. Not only will they be able to unburden you of your dreads and worries that can make your symptoms even more unpleasant, but they probably know how a certain sickness can throw you off and how to help reset and feel better faster.

[knockyasocksoff2022]

☾Unlucky(?) Cat☽

☾839 Words☽

"Thank you for allowing me to visit today, armed detective agency. The person I have selected to join the Port Mafia is Nakajima Atsushi."

The sound of Kunikida's pen slipping from his grasp reverberates like a bomb around the office. He hates himself for thinking it but his first thought is: 'It was supposed to be Dazai.'

"Atsushi-kun, please come with me, we ought to get going before lunch hour traffic. Elise-chan hates traffic."

With a start, everyone remembers the little girl standing eerily silent beside Mori. She smiles. "This is boring, Rintarou. Take me to the sweetshop!"

Mori melts, no longer a mafia boss, but a simple neighbourhood doctor, "Oh, of course, dearheart. I'll take you to as many shops as you want . . . perhaps you'd like to visit a clothing shop."

She huffs petulantly, crossing her arms, "In your dreams, old man."

"Hey! I'm only 41! I-" realising that everyone is staring, Mori clears his throat. "Back to the matter at hand. Atsushi-kun, is there anything you need to bring with you?"

Atsushi looks down in shame. Because of the constant battling since he joined the agency he hasn't been able to acquire many possessions. He thinks of the sad pair of torn night clothes he brought with him from the orphanage and shakes his head. "No, not really."

Even his futon was an extra from Kunikida. 'How sad is that?'

With that, Mori takes his hand and leads him out. The detectives can do nothing but watch as he goes. Atsushi doesn't like the feel of Mori's hand, due to his upbringing, physical contact by strangers and even sometimes friends has made him wary. He wants to wiggle free but he's scared.

'Isn't that pathetic? All I've faced and still some guy without even a gun scares me.'

Instead of focusing on Mori's hand, Atsushi watches Elie skip along, even cheerier now that she knows she's getting what she wants.

"I hope you don't mind sitting in the back with Elise-chan. Do tell me if she bothers you."

Atsushi doesn't know what to say to that so he just clambers silently into the backseat.

"Fasten your safety belts, alright you two."

Elise sticks her tongue out, but Atsushi obeys. 

'This is the nicest car I've ever been in . . . how many lives paid for this? Why is Mori-son being so kind? He's not always like this . . . surely.'

True to his word, five minutes later, they pull at the local gourmet sweet shop. Atsushi recognises it from his many visits on behalf of Ranpo, (with money from that rich Guild writer) but he's never bought anything here for himself. 

'Is this a test? I shouldn't give in to temptation . . . right? I don't want to be in debt to Mori-san, but I shouldn't be disrespectful either. He can't kill me, he needs me, but Executive Ozaki's torture sounds bad. Ahh, what should I do? This is sooo not what I thought the mafia would be like. Is this how it is? Crime at night and shopping during the day?'

Atsushi jumps at the young girl's sudden appearance in front of him, his claws at the ready.

"I recommend you don't stab me, Rinatrou would get mad."

"Huh? Who's Rin-" He looks down to find his claws out, a reflex at this point.

"Aren't you going to buy anything?"

"Oh, uh, I, uh . . ."

"Please don't stress, Atsushi-kun. Think of this as a bit of compensation for your troubles, hmm?"

Atsushi can't argue that this has been troublesome, but "I will be loyal to the mafia and do my best to serve it because the agency keeps its promises but I don't have to like you and I won't be won over by sweets!"

He may think himself cowardly but it takes great bravery (and perhaps some degree of stupidity) to stand up to any mafia member, much less the boss of the entire organisation.

Mori just chuckles like a parent when faced with a stubborn toddler at bath time. "Ah, well, I was under no impression you'd fit in right away. I expected you would need some convincing but you are, of course, entitled to your feelings, Atsushi-kun. I can't take that away. As long as you perform as asked it is of no harm."

There's something about the way he says it that carves a pit in Atsushi's stomach, like Mori somehow could indeed change his mind at will, but the pit is filled as soon as Elise proclaims "More for me!"

"Only the best for my dear."

"Hmm, all my favourites. Good job, Baka-Rintarou."

-

Only when they're back in the car does Mori speak directly to Atsushi again. "Say, Atsushi-kun, you mentioned earlier that you lacked any possessions. I can fix that for you if you like. After all, you'll be living in the port mafia dormitories now."

Atsushi, feeling he's made his opinion clear before, just scowls silently.

In the driver's seat, Mori smiles to himself, gazing fondly at the youth in the backseat, 'Oh, it appears our young tiger fancies himself a rebel. No matter, we'll soon see what he's truly made of.'

☾🐈‍⬛Where Black & White Make Red🥀☽

☾The Deal☽

☾1,316 Words☽

"Did no one ever tell you, Jinko, that on certain moonlit nights in this city, black, white, and red become one and the same?"

☽☾

In the chaos the Armed Detectives Agency has almost forgotten the deal they made with Mori . . . almost. And just before they do, mori comes to collect his debt.

Who will be chosen to lead the rest of their life as a mafioso?

Everyone knew it was coming, looming like distant rain clouds on a sunny day. But, for now, at least, they'd put it all out of their minds.

Today, however, on a miserably stormy day, the president has an announcement.

"Ahem, may I have everyone's attention?"

Affirmations echo around the office. The detectives think it's sweet how despite having their utmost respect the President still asks kindly for their attention.

"I want you all to listen very carefully. You can most likely sense from my tone that the news I bear is not good. At noon today, Mori-dono will be paying us a visit to inform us of which one of you he's selected for a position in the mafia."

Each member reacts differently, but the underlying emotion is all the same: shock.

Everyone thinks some version of the same thought: "I thought we'd have a little more time!"

Kunikida steels himself, stepping a bit in front of Atsushi. Yosano pulls Ranpo closer. Kenji finds Kyouka's hand and grips it tightly. The Tanizaki's cower in the corner. Dazai stares off into space, eyes fixed on Yokohama's five tallest buildings visible from the window.

"Nobody's taking my Junichi away!" Naomi declares, crushing her brother in a suffocating hug.

"Ahh, Naomi . . . l-let me go . . . please!" Junichiroiu whimpers.

The president's face turns hard, determination in every wrinkle, like a lone tugboat readying to face a Typhoon. The old wooden boat that could, the years only having made its planks sturdier, ready to take the waves without so much as a grimace, an immovable object preparing to meet an unstoppable force. 

"Mori-dono has given me no indication of who he's going to pick. It may very well be Junichirou or any of us besides Yosano-san, so please prepare yourselves. Say anything you feel you need to. Once you've been selected, you will immediately pack up your things and head with him to the mafia headquarters. You are to waste no time with your departure." 

The President's face turns sad. Well, not exactly sad, it's more than that, deeper, mournful, longing. "Once picked by Mori-dono you will be an official member of the mafia." He says this as if he cannot bring himself to say 'You will cease to be a member of this agency.' "and as per the rules of this agency, we cannot have mafia members on the premises unless for a prearranged meeting of absolute necessity. So with that in mind, I suggest that all of you start clearing out your desks of any personal items you would wish to bring with you. There is no need to prolong the process. Haruno-san will hand out boxes."

Haruno obeys, passing out cardboard boxes, and with heavy hearts, every agency member save for Yosano gathers their trinkets and places them inside. Only Dazai, who has nothing but his precious suicide manual which he always carries on his person, stands at the window, still looking out at what could be any of their future workplaces.

— 30 Minutes Later —

None of the detectives have gotten much done. Most of them have either mumbled quietly to their deskmates or looked thoughtfully at their effects. 

With his small personal shrine, Kenji prays for Mori not to pick Kyouka or Atsushi. He isn't naive. He knows someone must go, but not someone who only recently found a home in the agency. He prays for whoever does get chosen to have an okay time.

Kunikida writes his thoughts silently down in his notebook.

Yosano lets Ranpo sit in her lap, twiddling a ramune marble, whilst she sorts the infirmary supplies. She feels almost sick in her safety with the boy who showed her the light on her lap. 

'As much as I never want to be in the clutches of that . . . man (if I can even call him human) . . . if he picked Ranpo . . . I . . . I might go then, just to ensure that Ranpo can always stay in the light.'

Kyouka polishes her katana and dagger.

The Tanizaki siblings are locked in an embrace.

Atsushi tries his best to ignore the growing panic, aimlessly twirling the rows and columns of a Rubik's cube.

And Dazai just stares.

-

Not a second late, Mori arrives, Elise his only company. There are no guards and the single sleek black sedan cuts through the foggy morning like a wraith, a clear sign of who has the advantage and it sends shivers down the spines of the detectives.

"Well, we ought to give our guests a proper welcome," Kenji says, trying to cheer his coworkers, but sounding more desolate than anyone has ever heard him. 

The president sighs, "We may as well, but I will be the one to do it." He walks silently out of the office and down the stairs to the front door, having agreed only because it felt wrong to let Mori just let himself inside. 

"Fukuzawa-dono."

"Mori-dono."

The two men bow to each other, nodding affirmatively but exchanging no more words as the president leads the mafia boss into the quaint office.

-

Mori seems to be a black hole when inside the walls of the brightly coloured agency building, his boots clicking across the floor with finality, the sound bouncing off the walls and bathing the silent office in mafia black. After a moment of his steps filling the space, the man comes to a stop at the head of the room, back to the President's office.

The detectives hold their breath.

Mori smiles. If they didn't know him, the expression would appear gentle, one of serenity.

Kenji holds Kyouka's hand, steadying her as she shakes at the sight of her former superior. She knows she shouldn't be afraid anymore, and yet here he is, once again holding power over her. She can't help but tremble. This time she has more than herself to think of. Yet she still can't help but pray as hard as she can that it's not her. It makes her sick to her stomach that she wishes this after someone else.

'I should volunteer, and sacrifice myself so that the agency can continue on with its most essential member, it's the least I can do after what I've done. This is what the relatives of the 35 people I killed would want . . . B-but I-I . . . I-I d-don't want to go back to that place and take more lives. I don't want to kill EVER AGAIN!!!'

Kunikida clutches his notebook so hard his knuckles turn white as if the words inside will bring a solution, but for once his pen remains intact.

Yosano glares as hard at the mafia's leader as she can, willing laser beams to shoot from her eyes and explode him, hands itching for her cleaver to hack away at his evil form.

Ranpo is silent, grimacing. He knows who's going to be picked, of course he does. Yet, for once he doesn't shout out the answer in fear that if he does it may suddenly change. He knows that the person picked will be able to survive. If Mori were to choose another, they may lose them for good.

Junichirou stands, ready to fight, in front of his sister who curls around him with an expression of mock fear. 

"Protect me, Junichi-sama," she whispers, sounding almost aroused at her brother's sudden possessiveness. "It's alright, I won't let them separate us. Wherever I go, you go. Don't worry. You can do it."

Atsushi fights the urge to hide behind Kunikida, instead standing in front of Kyouka and Kenji.

Dazai just stares and stares and stares, brown eyes appearing to have suddenly lost all colour as they stare through Mori's very soul.

Mori's smile grows, and twists until the pressure in the room is nearly unbearable, like the deepest depths of the sea. The water swells up around you and before you know it, you can't breathe.

"Thank you for allowing me to visit today, armed detective agency. The person I have selected to join the Port Mafia is . . . "

[knewyouwereaweirdo]

“when the cast is sick” cute headcanons (that live rent free in my head)

buster:

- when buster gets sick with the cold or flu, he never mentions it until someone points out much he’s sneezing or sniffing.

- buster isn’t the type to deny having any sort of sickness but always tries to put the topic down by saying it’s just a “lil’ bug”.

- of course the theatre family is never convinced and they usually find buster passed out from exhaustion in his office chair, snoring away.

- usually when this happens one of them just place a fuzzy blanket over him and let him sleep throughout the remainder of the day.

- buster always tries to keep himself busy when he’s sick with more show-brainstorming or other work (it helps with the stress).

- rosita is usually the first to notice buster isn’t feeling well and makes soup for him (she’s such a mom, i love her).

- meena is the second one to notice and also makes him soup (+ ginger cookies because buster loves those).

- his sneezes are adorable, though. fight me.

______________________________________________

johnny:

- never admits to being sick until someone (usually it’s ash or nooshy, others can’t really do it) give him a death glare that reads “tell me the goddamn truth or i’ll crush you with love”.

- poor beans usually overworks himself with the theatre business—workaholic to the core.

- takes johnny, like, ten tries to finally convince him to briefly lie down or go home and get some fuckin’ rest.

- worst thing about being sick is that he can’t sing and he gets sad.

- when one of his friends come over to take care of him, he refuses to let them do anything for him.

- well, anything besides getting him a bunch of pillows. he needs pillows.

- drinks tea. drinks hot, earl grey tea. 

- still a child inside so refuses to take any medicine.

ash: eat it! eat it—

johnny: nO—

ash: oh come on, stop being such a baby—

johnny: it’s absolutely minging!

ash: it’s like, one spoonful. one, spoonful.

johnny: it tastes like ointment.

ash: *about to throw the spoon* HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT OINTMENT TASTES LIKE—

johnny: I JUST KNOW, LEAVE ME ALONE I’M SICK—

- when johnny’s really sick, usually just curls up in his bed and sleeps literally 24/7.

- will absolutely make himself a nest of blankets and pillows because HE NEEDS IT.

_____________________________________________

nooshy: 

- nooshy has a rock-hard immune system, so she usually doesn’t get sick.

- when she does, she gets very angry at herself.

nooshy: *sniffles while being wrapped in hundreds of blankets* this is so dumb.

johnny: i know, you’ve said it twenty-seven times in the past six minutes.

- nooshy has to play video games in bed—it’s the only way to keep her sane and from running away outside of the building.

- ash and johnny (sometimes they drag meena along) all come over to play video games with her.

- nooshy says at first that she doesn’t want anyone to come over to see her in “such a pathetic state”.

- but then of course she carefully she admits that she loves them all and enjoys their company, although said very grumpily.

nooshy: i ought to crush you guys. *aggressive sneeze* 

meena: is she serious?

johnny: that’s just her way of saying “i love you”.

______________________________________________

ash:

- deny, deny, deny.

- nope, she doesn’t admit it.

ash: *looking like a zombie* I’M FINE GODDAMN IT—

meena: we should really get you to bed, i mean—

ash: HISSSSSSSSSSSS—

- stubborn as well, and she will go on and on until her body just refuses to function like a normal porcupine.

- ash eventually ends up working all day.

- someone (usually johnny or rosita) will eventually get a phone call and ash will carefully ask tell them that they can’t get home from the theatre and that she (maybe) needs a ride.

- johnny (being her bi-best-friend) brings his truck along to save her and on the way there buys her hot chocolate.

- she’s thankful for this but she’s grumpy and embarrassed at this point so she mutters a quiet “thanks” with her arms crossed.

- she physically has to be dragged or carried to the doctors office.

- ash sits in bed with thousands of tissue boxes surrounding her while she stares at a netflix rom com without any emotion.

- she needs to get up and do at least something.

- so ash gets up and starts cleaning her apartment without a word—inch to inch.

- usually pissed off that her voice sounds like a scratchy record player and that her stupid cold won’t let her sing.

- gets a very specific craving for lemon tarts when she’s sick.

______________________________________________

porsha: 

- beautiful when healthy, a complete sniffling, shivering mess when she’s sick.

- doesn’t deny being sick, but never one to mention feeling under the weather first.

- usually she’s grateful that someone points it out for her.

- porsha recovers from her sicknesses very, very quickly. a good night sleep and she’s good to go.

buster: wait, weren’t you sick yesterday?

porsha: *completely fine* yea!

buster: a-and you’re all better now in a day?

porsha: YEA! :D

- porsha is always cold—wrap her in ten thousand blankets and she’d still say she feels a bit chilly.

- she wants cuddles and needs cuddles when she’s sick (and they’re usually given to her without much hesitation).

- when she feels absolutely awful from the headaches and the coughing fits she gets a little dramatic.

porsha: ash, ash, i thinK I’M DYING.

ash: porsha, for the last time, you aren’t dying—

porsha: *sobs* i’M DYINGG—

- she calms down immediately when she’s given one of rosita’s cold-curing soups and laughs at how ridiculous she must have looked earlier.

- she usually keeps herself cheerful even when she’s sick and eventually she can’t stop smiling from all the love she gets from the theatre crew (when she was sick it was usually one of the house workers who took care of her and not her dad).

(+ might add more!)

[babybluebex]

good doctor kreizler ch. 2: book of revelations

summary ↠ sequel to good doctor kreizler // the case of the murdered boys continues, and you're suddenly overcome with terrible emotions for seemingly no reason. but laszlo knows why. pairing ↠ laszlo kreizler x fem!reader (y/n) word count ↠ 3.3k warnings ↠ explicit language, mentions of menstruation, nausea, and pregnancy, descriptions of violence against children (yknow how the alienist works lmao) a/n ↠ enjoy! masterlist/taglist in bio!

You sighed heavily and pressed your palm to your diaphragm. Your corset was causing more discomfort than usual, but you could look past it. There were deeds that needed to be done. You stood up from your chair and moved to the telephone on the wall, and you caught the side-long glance that an officer gave you. Perhaps it was some sort of confidence that being with Laszlo gave you, but you found yourself saying, “Can I help you, sir?”

“D’ya need help with that telephone?” the man asked, puffing at a cigarette. The smell of it made you feel ill, especially the way he blew it nearly directly at you. “It can be awfully difficult for a lady.”

You gave him a plantative smile, and you said, “I can manage. Thank you, though.”

“You sure?” he asked. “Because I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”

“Really,” you said, taking up the end of the telephone. “I can do it.”

The man took a step closer, and he placed a hand on your waist. “You think, because you work for the police, you can be a bitch?” he hissed. “If a gentleman offers you help, you take it.”

The door to the room swung open, and you turned to see your lover there, wearing your favorite emerald-green suit and black coat. Laszlo was a gift from the gods, for sure. He made sure you knew that you were worthy of what you were given in the world, and he strived to give you more. Every time he presented you with a new dress or necklace, you always kissed him to show your gratitude, but reminded him that such gifts were not necessary. “You’re the only thing I ask for,” you would remind him. You knew that the thought of it troubled the good doctor, that he was worried that he wasn’t enough, but, every night, you kissed his shoulder and arm and assured him that he was more than what you deserved. You trusted Laszlo with your body, soul, mind, and heart, and he did the same of you.

Which is why you were thankful for the little fibs he would tell every so often to save face. “I would greatly appreciate it if you removed your hand from my wife,” Laszlo said firmly, his accent stronger than usual; his German gravel was intimidating to those who only knew him from stories in the newspaper. “New York’s finest and all…”

The officer took a step back from you, and Laszlo moved closer to you. “What do I owe this visit, sweetheart?” you asked, pressing your hands to his chest. Laszlo bent down and swiped his lips along your cheek, and you felt yourself grow warm at his unusual display of public affection.

“You left a file at home,” Laszlo said. “I remember you talking about transcribing it.”

You cooed softly, and Laszlo reached into his coat and extracted the file folder for you. “You’re so good,” you told him. “What can I do to repay you? I’m sure I’m making you late to the Institute.”

Laszlo tilted his head as he thought, and he put his hand on your waist, right where the officer had put his. Laszlo was hardly a jealous man, but the moments where his mood matched his suit made you giggle. He was a world-renowned alienist, but he was truly just a teenage boy in mind and matter. “Let me take you to dinner tonight,” Laszlo said, and you groaned. “And the opera. Please, my beloved, just one night.”

“Las, I told you, I don’t like when you spend your money on me,” you grumbled. “Just, please. I’m perfectly happy taking dinner at home. In fact, I prefer it more!”

“More than Delmonico’s?” Laszlo asked. “What if I invited John and Sara and the Isaacsons?”

“No, Laszlo,” you giggled, and you pressed your thumb into the little dimple in his chin. “The problem certainly will not be solved by adding more people. Can we just stay home tonight and listen to an opera on the gramophone? We’ve both been working very hard lately, I’d just like a simple night with you.”

“A simple night,” Laszlo said softly, pulling the words around in his mouth. “My beloved, I am not a simple man.”

“Boy, that’s the truth,” you chuckled, and you moved from his grip to return to your desk. “Maybe next week, we can go to the opera. Alright?”

Laszlo chuckled lightly, and he tugged you close and laid a kiss on your forehead. “Whatever you’d like, my beloved,” he told you. “When can I expect you at the Institute?”

You pulled Laszlo’s left arm up to your face and looked at his watch, ticking away at half noon, and you said, “Around three or so. Would you mind having some tea ready for when I get there? I’m feeling plain awful today.”

“What’s wrong?” Laszlo asked, and you smiled at the sudden emergence of Dr. Kreizler. While his degree wasn’t exactly in physical medicine, he always liked to be the first to examine you for maladies if they arose.

“Oh, nothing,” you sighed, waving your hand dismissively. “Just a bit of a stomach ache. I assume it’s nearing that time of the month for me, Las, you know how I get.”

“Of course,” Laszlo said softly. “You know, you could have just told me that’s why you didn’t want to eat at Delmonico’s tonight.”

You looked around quickly, finding the small space empty void for you and your lover, and you carefully took the furred lapel of Laszlo’s coat between your fingers and tugged him close, close enough for you to smell the lavender pastile that he liked so much. “Truly, my reason was more than that,” you whispered. “I wanted you to ravage me tonight, for as long as we both can bear.”

You almost missed the way that Laszlo’s breath hitched in his throat, but you were glad you noticed it. “It is getting to be that time, isn’t it?” he said carefully. “Increase in libido is a common side effect of menstruation.”

You hummed softly and pressed your fingers to his cheek. “I love it when you talk like that,” you said. “You’re so wonderfully smart, Las, I wish you wouldn’t be ashamed to show it.”

“I’m not,” Laszlo said. “You just choose to ignore my intelligence.”

“Now, why in the world would I do that?” you laughed. “You ought to be getting to the Institute. I’ll see you shortly.”

Laszlo gave you a warm smile and kissed your cheek, and you felt yourself shiver at his lips. God, you could hardly believe how much you loved him. You felt your stomach flutter, and you heaved a sigh. “I love you,” Laszlo said softly, and he brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear. “I’ll see you soon, my beloved.”

You fixed your jaw and swallowed down the ungodly feeling in your throat. Something was wrong, you could tell. The usual air of the parlor was not there, the cheerful if slightly remorseful lightness. Instead, the parlor was overtaken with a heady sadness that completely outweighed the macabre curiosity.

“Laslzo,” you said quickly, dropping your briefcase by the table, and you joined your lover at the window. He was smoking his pipe, something you had only ever seen him do a handful of times before, and you immediately ran your hand soothingly down his back. “What’s happened?”

“Another body,” Laszlo mumbled. “Another child.”

You bristled. “But-But I thought we had figured it out? The murderer followed Catholic holy days?”

“That was a suitable theory at the time,” Laszlo said. His gaze was fixed to the outside world through the murky glass, and you looked around the room. John was sitting at the long table, absently sketching something, and Sara was studying the chalkboard that was covered in Laszlo’s neat script. “But he’s gone off schedule, and we might as well be back where we started.”

“Not really,” you said softly. “I mean, so he jumped ahead a few days. If the body bears the same marks, if the victim is the same as the others, I don’t see why a change in date--”

“Of course you don’t,” Laszlo scoffed, and he stepped away from you.

You were stunned silent, and you watched Laszlo move back to the table with the heaps of paperwork. “What does that mean?” you asked.

“You’re not looking at the entire picture,” Laszlo said sharply. “You’re only focused on the way he changed the date, not the why. Why did he change his schedule, why is there another body weeks ahead of the next holy day? Now we have to be concerned if it’s even the same murderer. Is it a copycat murderer that hasn’t pinned down the schedule as we have? There are many moving parts to this that you don’t seem to comprehend.”

“Las, I do see that,” you countered. The way he doubted you stung your chest, but that was Laszlo. When he was angry, he lashed out. You had come to accept him, even if the words he said truly hurt. You saw Sara turn to look at you, a hint of pity in her blue eyes, and you sighed. “Look, do we have records of the new victim’s body? Perhaps that will give us insight.”

“Yes,” John said quickly, not even giving Laslzo a chance to answer and cut your feelings even deeper. Why had his admonitions hurt so much more than usual? You were afraid that, if he spoke to you like that again, you would start crying. And then they would be right, everybody would be right: a woman was too delicate to handle crimes like this. “I visited the morgue as soon as I heard. I sketched what I could manage, and took notes of everything else.”

You moved around to join John at the other side of the table, choosing to ignore Laszlo. You could feel his eyes follow you as you bent towards John to look at his sketches, and your eyes followed the charcoal lines of a young boy. Like the others, his eyes were plucked out, his throat slit, and his hand cut off, but a few errant marks on the boy’s stomach made you tilt your head. “What’s this?” you asked, gently tracing the lines with your finger. Soot of the charcoal came off on your fingertip, but you paid little attention to it.

“Our murderer made gashes in the boy’s stomach,” John said. “This one--” he pointed to a particular line, “Was deep enough to view the intestines. Four in total, but they don’t seem to follow a pattern.”

“Everything follows a pattern, John,” Laszlo said quickly. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

“Four…” you mumbled. “And this sketch is accurate to scale?” John nodded, and your eyes studied it for a moment longer. Four of them, two of them a bit shorter than the others. Those two were situated at the bottom of the boy’s belly, right where the V of his hip bones would be, and the one of them was at the top, just under his breastbone. The fourth, the biggest, longest, deepest, was straight down the middle, bisecting the boy’s navel.

Your vision became blurred. Your breath came in gasps, and you felt dizzy. A terrible sickness crawled up your throat, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to stop the flow of vomit. Vomit. You never vomited, not even when you had viewed past victims’ bodies in person. The smell of corpses wasn’t even enough to make you ill, but your heart quickened when you cast another glance to the sketch.

You fell into a chair besides John, and you gasped, “I think I’m gonna be sick--”

Sara came to clutch your hand in an instant, and John hurried to hide the sketch. “Las,” you mumbled. “Can you get me some water, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather stay here with you,” Laszlo said quickly. Your other hand was filled by his, and you cast a glance upwards at him. Now, instead of the tepid malice that he had had in his eyes, he had complete worry.

“I’ll get you some water,” John said. “Laszlo, watch over her. I’ll be back.”

“What happened?” Sara asked. “You started to sway and turned a ghostly pale. Did you see something?”

“J-Just those gashes,” you mumbled. “They-They looked like scars my mother had.”

“Scars?” Laszlo asked. “What do you mean?”

You sniffled, and took your hands from both grasps to wring in your lap. “I was born via Cesarean section,” you said. “M-My mother had been sick and fragile since before she was pregnant with me, and her doctor advised against natural childbirth. She had a scar right down the middle of her stomach in the same fashion as the body… A-And, when I was still in school, a doctor found a series of tumors in her ovaries. It had spread through the rest of her, but the doctor tried to combat it by removing the original tumors, and… The scars on his waist match the ones my mother had. I-I just-- Why would the murderer give this poor boy a woman’s scars?”

Laszlo bristled at this. You hardly ever mentioned your family, or him his, and he knelt down in front of you. “There’s something more than that,” he said softly. “My beloved, please speak to me. What’s troubling you?”

You chewed your bottom lip, and you gave a gasp as you tried to steady your breathing. “Sara,” you mumbled. “Can you give us a moment?”

Sara squeezed your hand and nodded, and she quickly excused herself. You waited until the door closed fully before sobbing and leaning forward to rest your head against your knees. “I’m sorry, Las,” you mumbled. “I-I just-- I can’t bear the sight of that today. I’ve felt ill all day, and now all of this, it’s far too much for me right now.”

You had nearly forgotten that you had requested tea earlier in the day, and you watched Laszlo rise from his knee and retrieve the tea cup. He quickly took note of your quivering hands, and he lifted the porcelain tea cup to your mouth. You sipped at it, hoping that it might soothe you, and you wiped your tears from your cheeks. “Laszlo, what’s wrong with me?” you sniffled. “I-I’ve never done this before, why now?”

“You already said that you feel ill,” Laszlo said carefully. “Maybe the sight of the body and the state of it was a shock to your system. Has the nausea passed?”

You shook your head quickly. The ugly feeling of it still sat in the very back of your throat, and you reached out for him. Laszlo set the tea cup aside and came to you, and you buried your face in his stomach from where you sat. Your arms circled his waist and you held him tightly, and you keened up into his hand as he began to stroke your hair.

Suddenly, Laszlo began to move with quickness, pulling you to your feet. You hardly had time to ask what he was doing before his fingers began to undo the back of your blouse. “Laszlo!” you cried. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Trust me, my beloved,” Laszlo said quickly. With his one arm tight to his body, he pulled your blouse off of you, then started at your corset. That sick feeling back came, and you reached forward and braced yourself against the table. Your head hung as you tried to control your nausea, and you whimpered, “Laszlo, what is this?”

Your lover gave a growl, one of deep frustration, and he grabbed your corset by the bottom hem and shoved it down your body, past your waist, to expose your breasts and stomach. You couldn’t help but sigh at the release of pressure on your middle, and Laszlo turned you around to see your bare skin. He knelt down in front of you and pressed his forehead against your stomach, and you watched him close his eyes and take a deep breath. You hardly understood what he was doing, but, if the half year courting him was any indication, he knew what was best. “When was the last time you menstruated?” Laszlo asked, next pressing his cheek to your bare stomach.

Your hand instinctively went to cradle his cheek, and you shrugged. “Several months ago,” you said. “I… They come and go, I suppose. Is that normal?”

“And your breasts?” Laszlo asked next, and you grimaced.

“What’re you getting at?” you asked.

“My beloved,” Laszlo said carefully, and he looked up at you from his place on the floor. His dark eyes were glistening with tears, and your heart sank and adrenaline rushed bitterly into your mouth.

“Stop,” you whispered. “Laszlo, no, I-I’m not-- I can’t be--”

“I think you are, beloved,” Laszlo said. He stood up and shucked off his suit jacket, and he laid it across your shoulders to hide your body from the cold room. “I think that you’re pregnant, my beloved. That would explain every malady you have: the aches, the irritability, the nausea, the delicateness, the increase in libido. Pregnancy offers an explanation for all of these.”

Your eyes filled with tears again, but a smile came with them. “You…” you started, and you sent a weak punch to Laszlo’s firm chest. “You absolute bastard!”

Laszlo laughed and tugged you into him, and you hugged him tightly. Laszlo, your wonderful Las, the father of your child. “Oh, my beloved,” he sighed, kissing the side of your head. “How did I not see it before?”

“Men can tend to be blind to such things,” you said. “But I feel as if a special blockade is up for you when it concerns me.”

“I agree,” Laszlo said. His hand came up to rest against your face, and you leaned into his touch. “My dearest girl…” he hummed, and he leaned into you and pressed his lips to yours. You pressed back, letting a smile grace your lips. “Marry me, my beloved.”

It was hardly even a question. “Of course, Las,” you said softly. “How could I say no to you? It would ruin your reputation, having a child out of wedlock.”

“Thta's true,” Laszlo shrugged. “But I think you would want to marry me regardless.”

“How dare you act as if you know what I want,” you said, but you kissed the tip of his nose anyway. “But, yes, Laszlo. I would love to marry you. Mrs. Kreizler… Is that something you ever thought you’d hear?”

“Not from you,” Laszlo chuckled. “I never thought that you would want the burdens of marriage. In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me that upon our first meeting.”

“How could you manage any thought during that interaction?” you giggled. “If what you told me was true, you were quite distracted that day.”

Laszlo gave a soft little grunt, and he snuffled his face into your neck. “Yes, well, a man has to learn to multitask,” he said. “Oh my God, I cannot begin--”

The door to the parlor banged open, and you hurried to cover yourself. “Marcus,” Laszlo said firmly. “Give us a moment, will you?”

“Doc, this is pretty important--”

“I am having a private conversation with my fiancée, Mr. Isaacson,” Laszlo said, his voice rising just a bit. “You can tell me whatever you wish as soon as I finish this conversation.”

You looked over your shoulder to the younger Isaacson twin, and your face grew hot when your shoulder slipped from the jacket. Marcus’s eyes went wide for a moment, then he put his hands up in a plantation gesture. “Right,” he said quickly. “Um, sorry, Doc. I’ll be--”

“Do hurry it up, Marcus,” you said, pulling your fiancé’s jacket tight around you. “The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return.”

You watched Marcus leave the room and shut the heavy door behind him, and you scoffed and dissolved into giggles. You buried your face into Laslzo’s warm chest and kissed just over his heart, and you sighed. “I’d love to speak more about this at home,” you said. “I love you to absolute death, Laszlo.”

“And I love you more,” Laszlo said softly.

[robininthelabyrinth]

I really like your takes on the Nie brothers! Could you maybe do something with NHS being a sneaky little badass (not that he isn't always) and NMJ being all "wait, you thought I was the brother you should be afraid of? I'll be over here laughing while NHS wrecks you in all ways but physically". I know that's not a lot to go off of so I understand if this doesn't click with you

In Here, With Me - ao3 (chapter 3/3)

People never seemed to understand, and Nie Mingjue was honestly tired of trying to explain it to them.

He’d never been especially good with words, or at least he wasn’t on a personal level. He apparently had a talent for speeches, especially wartime speeches made to soldiers in order to buck up their courage and build up their morale; that was easy enough, standing up in front of them and telling them the same sorts of things he’d been telling himself for years whenever the dreary endless sludge of politics and other people’s unwillingness to move themselves even in their own best interest started getting him down. He could use his height to his advantage there, towering over people, and couple that the strength of his voice – he suspected that half the time people didn’t even really listen to him, just looked at him and made conjectures for the rest, and that was just fine by him. Whatever worked.

But when it came to explaining complicated things like his brother…

Yeah, he had nothing.

Nie Huaisang had never been good at the things the Nie sect usually prized – he was a weak cultivator and bad at fighting, and at some point Nie Mingjue had more or less entirely given up on trying to teach him the fundamentals of saber fighting in favor of teaching him a much more narrowly targeted set of skills, designed to help keep him alive in a pinch. Even with that, he’d whined and complained, dragged his feet and resisted…he didn’t even have significant scholarly talents to make up for it, not really. Nie Mingjue had no taste for art, but those who did suggested (in however polite terms they could manage) that Nie Huaisang’s poetry was wretched, his composition barely serviceable, his attempts at philosophy convoluted and contraindicated, and as for his painting skills…

Well, he could draw birds pretty well.

But he could play a mean game of weiqi, even against Nie Mingjue, and he was lively and personable - nobody ever disliked him, assuming they bothered to pay him attention at all. He liked to barter with merchants whenever he went shopping, and shopping was the one thing he really did do with a passion; he could make the most grim-faced cynic on the street break out into a smile, and collected half a dozen or more free treats every time he went to the marketplace despite them all knowing he could afford their wares if he so wished.

Nie Huaisang, in short, was good for nothing, but he was fun to be around.

He was also – and this was the part Nie Mingjue could never explain to people – one of the most persistent and vindictive sonofabitches to have ever been born.

One would think, wrongly, that Nie Huaisang would have learned to be more forgiving on account of his personal weakness, but in fact, it just seemed to make him even more inclined to get vengeance on those who had wronged him. He bore grudges without ever feeling the weight, as immovable as the mountains – there would be times when something would blow up spectacularly in Nie Mingjue’s face and he’d turn around only to find Nie Huaisang there, smiling at him and reminding him of some grievance from years before.

And that was if he were lucky – if he were unlucky, he’d find himself in some blissful situation, given everything he’d ever wanted, and find Nie Huaisang patting himself on the back for arranging it.

When Nie Mingjue had been forced by the Wen sect’s overweening arrogance to send Nie Huaisang to them for reeducation and indoctrination, about nine-tenths of what he’d felt had been terror, thinking about all the things that the Wen sect could do to his weak little brother who had nothing but good humor to defend himself with. The last tenth, though, had been the lingering thought that he’d been unable to fully banish: I don’t think they know what they’re getting themselves into here.

Sure enough, they hadn’t.

Now, Nie Huaisang hadn’t personally delivered any of the finishing blows there, but then, he never did, preferring to use other people to do it for him - even in vengeance and spying, he was lazy as always. Wen Chao, who had mocked him, had been left to the vengeance of Wei Wuxian with his brand new demonic cultivation; it’d been an ugly sort of death. Wen Zhuliu, who’d threatened him, had ‘accidentally’ gotten his hand broken when Nie Huaisang’s saber had temporarily ‘gone out of control’ and pierced the key meridian of his wrist – those few months of forcing Nie Huaisang to take classes on medicine had clearly not gone to waste – and then been executed by Jiang Cheng with his steely-eyed hatred. Wen Ruohan, who had murdered their father and made Nie Mingjue’s life a living hell for years, had seen his sons murdered, his empire destroyed, his war lost, and in the end had been stabbed in the back by a trusted subordinate.

Throughout, no one had paid any attention to poor little Nie Huaisang, preserved only through the Wen sect's desire to humiliate the Nie sect by using him as a clown.

Even Lan Xichen, who ought to know better, had persisted in comforting Nie Mingjue throughout the war regarding Nie Huaisang’s health, as if Baxia wasn’t full up on all the complaints Nie Huaisang could possibly fit in given the size of his saber and the quantity of his qi. Meng Yao knew, Nie Mingjue supposed, but that was because he was himself another object of Nie Huaisang’s vengeance – he’d find himself with everything he’d ever wanted, the poor man, and in Nie Huaisang’s eternal debt to boot.

Poor, poor man.

It was a good thing for everyone, Nie Mingjue reflected, that he was too virtuous to sic Nie Huaisang on people.

Usually.

“You promised me that Jiang Cheng would be made Chief Cultivator instead of me,” he reminded Nie Huaisang, who sighed dramatically. “Huaisang. You promised.”

“I promised I’d try, da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms and glared.

“It’s a work in progress, all right? I’m going to have er-ge suggest it.”

Nie Mingjue’s eyebrows went up. “Xichen? How?”

“As a wedding present to his new in-law –”

Nie Mingjue held up a hand. “Stop right there. Who’s getting married?”

“Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang said obediently.

Nie Mingjue thought about their respective personalities and started to detect the start of a headache. “Which one are you punishing for some unremembered petty slight, this time?”

“Neither!”

Nie Mingjue gave him a look.

“…Wei-xiong screwed up helping me cheat on a test, and Lan Zhan bit me.”

“He bit you? How old was he, five?”

“Six! Old enough to know better!”

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes. “And which one is going to think that they owe you their lives for arranging this?”

“Lan Zhan knows I’m working on it,” Nie Huaisang said promptly, and Nie Mingjue nodded. That made sense: Lan Wangji was honorable and dependable, and would be easy to extract things out of in the future if things went the way he wanted. “Also, Mistress Wen promised to give me anything I want if I can make Wei-xiong stop pining.”

“Mistress Wen? You mean Wen Qing?” Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a doctor, isn’t she?”

“Her brother Wen Ning helped poison a whole bunch of Wen sect soldiers one time, very impressive, you’ll like him,” Nie Huaisang said, not answering the question. “It’s the least I can do, really!”

“Huaisang…”

“Listen, if Wei-xiong and Lan Zhan are going to start their own sect up, they’re going to need some support first,” Nie Huaisang said with great dignity. “We’re not taking in the Wen sect, we’ll just be housing them for a little while, that’s all!”

“Huaisang…”

Nie Huaisang grinned at him.

Nie Mingjue threw his hands into the air. There was really no point in worrying any more about Nie Huaisang, he decided – ever since he’d found his talent for spying, and for managing other spies, Nie Huaisang had decided that he was going to rearrange the entire cultivation world to his liking in just the same way he’d rearranged the furniture in his quarters in the Unclean Realm.

No, really, there was no point in worrying for Nie Huaisang.

Now it was time to worry for everyone else.

[the-finest-clockwork-soldier]

Well There's Jonny, Of Course You Know Him. He's Our First Mate, But Really He's A Better Captain Than The Captain We Had Before. Real Creative One, But He Much Prefers His Pistol To His Pen Half The Time.

Then There's Our Engineer Who Might As Well Be Our Co-captain: Nastya. She Seems To Decide Where We Go More Than Anyone Else And Dislikes Me Even More Than What's To Be Expected. I, However, Am Quite Fond Of The Way She's Tried To Better My Machinery- Even If She Gets All Grumpy When I Keep Working After It Stops.

Ultimately there were too many crew members for it to just tick them off on its fingers, so instead it knocked against the back of one hand to punctuate each new name.

Ivy Seems To Determine Where We Go The Other Half Of The Time- A Splendid Navigator, That One Is. She's Quite Nice; You Ought To Look At Her Collections Sometime For A Right Marvel. I Particularly Like The Way She Paints Me And The Way We Recite Her Stories Together. That Was The Way She First Introduced Herself To Me, All The Way Back At My First Show, You Know.

It will never change the others for treating it like the toy it is, but it was rather nice to have Ivy play with it while all the others scrutinized it for the performance.

Our Good Pilot Is- Hm- He's A Silly Thing. See, He's A Bit Like Me-

-The Toy Soldier lifted its hand and began physically moving the fingers with the other, highlighting the ball joints-

-Or At The Very Least, He Looks Like Me. Don't Be Confused, He Has Some Flesh Left, So He's Real! I Don't Spend Much Time Around Him, For He Gets All Fussy And Upset Over Me Being A Toy, And He Can't Say So Properly When He's All Boring-

Oh!

Speaking Of, You Ought To Like Talking To Him About That Mask Of Yours! He Might Have A Word Or Two To Say About His Own Switch.

Just Don't Flip It On Your Own, Because Then I Would Have To Kill You! And I Don't Particularly Want To Do That.

That was a Rule. The crew could flip the morality switch all they wanted, but anyone else doing it made the Toy Soldier feel all wrong in ways it couldn't explain; therefore, it'd decided to join the crew in killing everyone who did and personally make it a rule to do so.

Tim Is A Bit Easier To Deal With; His Shots Have Been Magnificent Since His Early Days, And Even More So After I Helped Brian And Jonny Give Him Those Spiffing New Eyes. He Didn't Like That For A Long Time, But He Was Far Too Delightful And Far Too Brutal To Just Leave. I'm Sure You Understand.

Over the years he had only gotten more delightful and more brutal. Truly, it had made the right call with Jonny. There was no better addition to the crew since.

Ashes, Our Quartermaster And Higher Ranking Than Jonny- But Don't Tell Him That- Is Very Fun With Cards And Sending Me Out On All Their Lovely Little Schemes, Even More So After An Ale Or Six.

The Toy Soldier really wished they'd find a place to stay for a few centuries soon. It missed all the murders and spying Ashes tends to play it for after they establish themselves greater than a god wherever they go.

Raphaella Is...

Raphaella is nice to it, and cruel to everyone. She likes to dance with it and write songs together over tea. It's always been first in line to be her lab assistant, if only for the ways her eyes look so alive and it feels so perfectly fake under her praising it for its help.

It shouldn't say any of that.

Raphaella Is Our Science Officer.

Is what is settled on.

Right.

It really wanted to brush past that.

There's Also Our Baron-doctor Marius, And I've Been Told A Doctor On A Ship Of Immortals Is Even More Useless Than A Mascot On One! Sometimes I Find It Rather Fun To Pretend That's True.

Hm.

I Do Believe That's Everyone. Do Any Of Them Sound Fun?

Technically the Aurora was the ship and not the crew, so it allowed itself to act like Gizm0 hadn't asked about her at all in his question. It's feelings on her could be bad, not exactly, but they were conflicted at the moment.

They tilted their head slightly with a curious expression, pausing their carving

"I'm not sure i get what your implying? They were covered in blood yeah. Some of my own but mostly others."

The Toy Soldier fidgeted with its sleeves. It didn't stop looking at Gizm0, but it did seem awfully hesitant to make direct eye contact.

Well, I Was Just Curious If You Tore Through The Crew Then, Too. Never Saw You As One For A Gun, And I Could Have Sworn On The Crown There Was Blood Under Your Nails.

[tenthgrove]

Can I request la squadra discovering their Fem!Teammate (who's like in her early 30s) is actually a mother, who joined Passione to pay for her 5 y.o daughter's hospital expenses, and she sometimes secretly goes to visit her and spend time with her.

Mother Mother

La Squadra x Reader, Platonic, SFW

Risotto has always kept an eye on his squadmates. It’s not that he would ever entertain the thought of one of them betraying him, even a relatively new member such as yourself. It’s just that with La Squadra’s status in Passione, he’s always feared one of you being used against him against your will.

It’s for this reason that Risotto became concerned by your twice monthly trips away from the base. Risotto doesn’t usually police his underlings’ activities, but the solemn look on your face each time you leave is cause for deep concern. Perhaps if you weren’t so secretive about your reasons, he wouldn’t have to go to the lengths of spying on you.

Risotto catches sight of your car as you pull into the hospital parking lot. There’s a definite weariness about you as you cross quickly towards the entrance. Risotto activates his invisibility and follows.

As you speak with the receptionist, Risotto is fixed on which department you will turn to. Are you sick and hiding it? Pregnant? But then, you surprise him. You turn to the children’s ward.

Risotto follows you past white corridors and waiting rooms. The nurses address you by name, he notices. It seems you’re a regular visitor. Finally, you arrive in a large ward of lonely pods. In each one lies a sick or injured child. He cannot ignore the fact that the one you head towards looks exactly like you.

As you caress the little girl’s cheek, Risotto comes to realise what’s been happening with you all these months. These trips, this sorrow, it was all for your child. A child Risotto didn’t even know you had.

Risotto leaves you be as you talk with your daughter. He feels guilty, undeserving of being present in this conversation. He’d always wondered how someone like you ended up in such a foul business as his, but if it’s really all for the sake of your daughter he doesn’t know if he can bare to keep ordering you on such dangerous tasks.

He can’t cut you out either, that could be detrimental for your sick offspring.

::::::::::::

Risotto goes home and seeks out Melone. It really ought to show the desperation of the situation he’s in that he’d fall on Melone for advice, but the strange man is the only person he can think of who might possibly guide his conscience on such a matter.

“Melone, a word please,” Risotto demands, swinging open the door of the other man’s bedroom. Melone hums and sits up from his nap, pulling off his night-mask to rub his eyes.

“If this is about the vibrator, I swear I didn’t mean to have it delivered here.”

“I- what- no. It isn’t about anything like that. I need your advice,” Risotto explains. Melone taps his fingers excitedly and crosses his legs.

“Oh, by all means go on then!”

“If, hypothetically, a person like us were to have… unavoidable other commitments, how would you say it should be tackled?” Risotto asks.

“Clarify.”

“Family commitments. Children, to be precise,” Risotto elaborates. Melone tilts his head.

“Capo, did you knock someone up?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t done anything of the sort!” Risotto insists. “Alright I’ll clarify some more. How do you think I, as this team’s leader, should support such a person?”

“…Oh, I understand,” Melone assures him. “It’s (y/n) who’s pregnant, isn’t it?”

“I… forget it. (Y/n) isn’t pregnant you fool. I don’t know why I bothered with you,” Risotto laments, shutting the door.

Melone, meanwhile, is unconvinced. Risotto’s defensive behaviour suggests to him his theory regarding your pregnancy may be right after all. This isn’t something he can leave alone.

Melone’s foremost concern is your wellbeing. You’re his friend, and he wants to make sure that your parenthood (should you choose to go through with it) is as easy for you as possible. There’s one person in particular who comes to mind when it comes to raising children in the mob.

::::::::::::

“Prosciutto!” Melone calls, entering the second-in-command’s bedroom as he enjoys a cigarette out his open window.

“What do you want, and what did I tell you about barging in?”

“Please Prosciutto? This is important,” Melone begs. Prosciutto turns around.

“Alright, get it over with.”

“Didn’t you say once that you raised Pesci? I’m curious how it was,” Melone enquires.

“I hardly raised him,” Prosciutto rolls his eyes. “His mother was a good woman, and perfectly capable of raising him herself, money aside. My role was mostly as a financial supporter and an occasional babysitter when my step-mother needed a day off.”

“Oh, I see. But how was it with Passione? How did you balance your commitments between them and family?”

“I’m not a fan of this line of questioning, Melone, but I’ll indulge you. It was hard, very hard. They made me join when Pesci was 6 and back even then they constantly held his life over my head. I couldn’t spend too much time with him for fear of seeming disloyal, but at the same time I feared what would happen if I turned my back too long.”

“Christ,” Melone exclaims. “That’s rough. I never knew it was that bad for you.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all for now?” Prosciutto asks, cocking an eyebrow. Melone swallows.

“Well… I think (y/n) might be pregnant.”

“…What?!”

::::::::::::

“So that’s why we’re suspicious,” Prosciutto finishes. Formaggio stares at them wide-eyed.

“Fucking hell. I knew something was up, but pregnancy?” he exclaims.

“It’s serious, we know,” Melone affirms. “Risotto isn’t letting up so we need you to help us be certain. I’ve got all your DNA on record-”

“Creepy.”

“Regardless, I’ve got hers up on the tracker now, and I need you to take Baby Face and follow the dot until you find its location. Baby Face doesn’t show place names. If you’re spotted, you can shrink down, so it’s better you go than us. Got it?”

“Yeah sure, I’ll go,” Formaggio agrees, picking up the laptop and standing. “I’ll ring if I find anything.”

::::::::::::

Sure enough, 30 minutes later, Formaggio finds something. A hospital to be precise. He looks down at his screen, and back at the hospital. Nope, everything still checks out. There is no possible way the dot could be anywhere other than inside that building when it’s that close. You’re in there. You are in the hospital. Pregnant, near certainly.

Formaggio’s had enough shocks for one day.

Turning tail, Formaggio half-runs back down the pavement towards the base. He fumbles for his phone and calls Prosciutto. No answer. Thinking fast (but not well) he hits the next number in the list. Illuso’s.

“Illuso hi. It’s Formaggio! She’s definitely at the hospital like we thought!”

“…Are you high?”

“Oh fuck, did you not know? (Y/n)’s pregnant and Mel just found out!” Formaggio fills him in. There’s a long pause.

“Holy fucking shit! Get back here now and tell me more!”

::::::::::::

Shortly after this, the sitting room of the La Squadra base finds itself crowded with Melone, Prosciutto, Formaggio and Illuso all in frenzied discussion.

“This is insane. We can’t have a baby! In the hitman squad!” Illuso decries.

“We’re not recruiting the kid!” Melone reminds him.

“That’s not the point!” Prosciutto protests. Formaggio puts his hands up in a show of peace

“Okay okay can everyone please-”

“I AM CALM!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS SHOUTING ABOUT?!” A voice calls. It’s Ghiaccio, standing in the hallway with Pesci at his side. The four men in the lounge look between each other nervously. Formaggio steps forwards.

“Ghiaccio, Pesci… let me fill you in on some things.”

::::::::::::

“RISOTTO WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TELL US ABOUT THIS SOONER!”

Risotto Nero has seen a lot in his days, but never before has he had his office door kicked down by one of his own teammates, while in mid-conversation with two others.

“…Ghiaccio I beg your pardon.”

“(Y/n) was pregnant and you didn’t tell us about it?” Pesci says. “I was on a mission with her just last night! I could have done more to protect her if I’d known!”

“Risotto, I know you like to respect our privacy, but this is serious! If (y/n) is going to have this child then we need to have discussions about how it’s going to be feasible now. As a team,” Prosciutto argues. Risotto blinks.

“Capo, what on earth is going on?” Sorbet asks from by the window. Gelato, having clung onto him since the door fell, continues to look at the crowd in the doorway like… well, like they just busted the office door down.

Risotto takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs.

“I think you all may be under a severe misapprehension.”

::::::::::::

You get back to the base around 4pm, severely exhausted both emotionally and physically. Your daughter is stable, you’re assured, and clearly in better spirits than your last visit. With continued treatment, the doctor sees her out of the hospital and living comfortably with only minor supports within the year. But the bill to get her to that point will not be cheap. You honestly don’t know how you’ll manage it.

As you hang up your coat you are met with visitors. Sorbet and Gelato would like to speak with you, it seems.

“We’re glad to see you’re back. Could you follow us please? It won’t take a minute,” Gelato requests.

“Okay?” you agree, following them into the sitting room. Your entire team is present in dead silence, with Risotto at the helm in his usual chair. He is looking grave. This can’t be good.

Risotto gestures for you to sit down. You comply.

“(Y/n),” he begins. “We know about your daughter.”

Everything seems to go still. You cannot help it as tears well in your eyes. Before you know, you are crying in front of your teammates.

“We are willing to give some help,” Risotto announces. You look up from your tears. Did he just…

“We did some maths and we calculated that if we all pool together, we can pay half your daughter’s monthly bill every month for the immediate future, without any major changes to our lifestyle,” Sorbet announces. “We’re all happy to do that,” he adds, to a chorus of nods around the room.

“Additionally, we can look into getting her case transferred to a doctor on Passione’s payroll. It will be the same quality care or higher, and at a significant discount,” Melone suggests. Oh fuck, why didn’t you ever think of that?

“You would… you would all really do that for me?” you sob.

“And if it still isn’t enough, we’ll find a way. You can rely on us to help you, I swear it,” Risotto promises.

“Thank you… thank you all so much!”