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hogwartsuniversity-rpg · 7 years ago

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Sirius Black | Gryffindor ✗ Major: Literature | FC: Ben Barnes

✗ Traits:

+ Easy going, adventurous, smarter than he lets on

- Cocky, inconsistent, emotionally unavailable

Ø Past:

Sirius Orion Black should have been his parents’ pride and joy. As the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son of the Black family, he was expected to be the next great patriarch. The Blacks traced their heritage to a Baronetcy granted after the English Civil War and have an honest-to-goodness framed page from Dungale hanging in the foyer to prove it. However, somewhere along the line one of the ancestors had been a younger son, and when the titled side of the family died out, forgotten drama deprived the surviving branch of inheriting the title. A fact Walburga and Orion Black remain jealous of to this day. Sirius, for his part, couldn't care less about family history, except to laugh at the striking similarity to the Elliots in Persuasion. Lady Susan remains his favorite Austen, but that is mostly because he doesn’t think he makes much of an Anne Elliot. For one thing, he doesn’t see the value in a persuasive temper, though perhaps that’s because he’s spent most of his life fighting against his parents’ expectations. He was meant to be proud and powerful. You can really spit those words out, what with all the P’s, as it didn’t take Sirius long to learn. When he was young he and his parents could play the part well enough; they’d dress him up and he’d smile just right so he might be smirking (like his father did) for all their rich friends, but when they were alone, well… relations between the boy and his parents been frosty for most of Sirius life.

He never liked to talk about it, or think much about it if he could help it, and maybe that’s why he can’t remember when their relationship flew south for the winter and never came back. It could have been when he was five and his parents wouldn’t let his new black friend come over, it could have been when he was eight and first heard them talking about ‘filthy queers,’ or when he was nine, or when he was 6, or, or, or… Or maybe those were only the times' fuel got added to the fire. The truth, he knew deep down, was that in addition to being horrible people, his parents were simply unprepared to be parents. Babies are loud and messy and emotional and everything his parents hated. Sirius later thought of them as more actively abrasive versions of Tom and Daisy Buchanan. They were wealthy and careless and absentee and, well, Fitzgerald never gets into how the daughter grew up in the end.

So, Sirius rebelled. In everything he ever did. He wore his hair long and stayed out too late. He tried to run away three times before he was 15. The third time he got dragged back into the house by his ear he saw Regulus’s face�� tired and drawn— and they might be less than a year apart but Sirius never wanted his little brother to look that old again, so he stopped running. Still, he never stopped regarding himself as a soldier in a one-man war and was always searching for the next inch of ground he could gain from his parents. He was determined to love everything they hated. He never regretted fighting them, either. Every cut from a bottle shattering against the wall near his head after Walburga drank too much was a medal of valor. Every bruise Orion left on him (always where clothes would cover it) after Sirius pushed just far enough was proof he was winning. Every screech that pierced his ears was a war cry. Once when Sirius was 13, Regulus asked him if he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. “Yes,” Sirius had told his brother, “I’m preserving myself against them. You ought to as well.” Regulus infuriated his brother because he bowed his head and went with all the shit their parents said, but in some ways, Sirius couldn’t help blaming himself. He’d rebelled, he’d separated himself from the Blacks. That had left his parents with only Regulus. They funneled their anger, their hatred, at Sirius, yes, but he knew they pushed their manipulation, their pressure, onto Regulus. As pissed as Regulus made him, he got it. Maybe he didn’t understand it, how he could play their games, but he got it. They were his parents. Hell, Sirius wouldn’t have fought so hard if they weren’t. On some level, Sirius knew he was pushing back because he wanted what every kid wants; for his parents to engage with him, to love him. Regulus sucked up in search of that, Sirius fought back. At least, the war had started that way. By the end, Sirius wanted nothing to do with them, but at its roots, well. Some rich kids smashed expensive cars into trees, he smashed himself into his parents’ ideology. Same basic principle.

As a result, he’d been planning his escape to Uni for practically as long as he could remember. He’d accepted going to Hogwarts as a legacy student, mostly because of the school’s somewhat funky reputation, and actually leaving was one of the most liberating experiences of his life. He’d been to boarding school before, but with overbearing headmasters and Walburga and Orion never more than a short drive away, that hadn’t done much to elevate the stifling nature of his childhood. That said, he’d taken every chance to fuck around in the past and had every intention of continuing the tradition at Uni. He might be able to angst and brood like Mr. fucking Rochester, but he honestly preferred what he would call a certain care-free roughness. Chaotic Good, as he described his sixth form DnD character. Consequently, he’d never been fond of self-reflection, but if he’d bothered, he’d have realized that those first few months with James and Remus and Peter were terrifying. He’d been so angry his whole life, he never really learned how to make friends casually. So, when he met the three of them during Freshers Week and knew in an instant he wanted them to be friends, he threw himself wholly into making it happen. Any scheme James thought up, any late night Remus wanted to stay up talking, any homework Peter wanted to put off to play just one more round of chess, Sirius agreed, no questions asked. He never thought about the possibility of being rejected, only plowed forward with everything he was. In the year that followed at Hogwarts, he did everything in much the same way: full speed ahead, no questions asked.

He didn’t mean to be careless or to run over people's lives with his own, he just couldn’t bring himself to care that he did. Sirius lived for the moments and didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was of the opinion that anyone who had a problem with him, his friends, or their pranks was too sensitive, and they only hated people who deserved it. Grey area was a concept Sirius had a hard time grasping. He and his friends were good, nothing they did could be evil. People like his parents were evil, no one who was associated with them could do anything good. He had no illusions of being perfect, (that, after all, would be boring) but in the end, he was one of the good guys.

As his second year at Hogwarts opens, that certainty is flagging. He’s grown up to realize some of the pranks he’s pulled and the ways he’s acted have been very, very not cool. Other people have told him he needed to lay off before, but he’s always dismissed them as being uptight. He knows he has a… big personality, and that people listened to him, that he could goad people into doing things. So, coming to those realizations, he’s starting to see that he’s been hurting people. And it’s messing with his head. He’s thought back to all those pranks and jokes that had been just so funny only to hear a voice keeps telling him “you are just like your parents.” Whether that particular thought is true or not, he’s trying to change. He’s struggling with what needs to change and the walls of stubbornness he’s built up, but he’s promised himself he’ll at least pay attention. He has no plans to follow the rules to the letter, or anything crazy like that, but he is growing more aware. Of himself, and of the world around him.

→ Connections:

The Marauders (James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew) - Best Friends. Sirius is a proud drama queen, but he’s not being over the top when he says he’d die for any of them.

Regulus & Narcissa Black - Family. Sirius has a difficult relationship with family, to say the least. He cares for Regulus and Narcissa and wishes they’d come to their senses and stop playing their family’s mind games.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. - Hates. Barty’s angsty teenager attitude ticks Sirius off, as does the fact that he thinks he’s so rebellious when he refuses to actually stand up to his dad.

James Potter - Best Friend. Sirius is closer to James than he is to the other Marauders. He loves them all fiercely, but James is a brother to him.

#sirius black #closed #closed gry #closed gry m

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shiftytracts · 4 years ago

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Stop Wanting More, part 2 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part one here.

Content warnings for this half:

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport

—

“Statement of Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner, regarding—”

“Shhhh! You’ll wake the tape recorder.” Her hand clapped over his mouth so hard his teeth buzzed like mugs in a cupboard. He did his best to say Ouch. The salt on her palm made his inner lips itch. Daisy sighed: “Too late; I can hear it hissing.”

At once the cushions began to lurch again, and his stomach contents with them. On her way past him off the couch Daisy managed both to step on his trouser leg and elbow him in the sacrum. Chills curled up in the shadows of heat she’d left on his forehead, stomach, legs. Her way back into her prior position went smoother, though. She even remembered how tightly to press his belly with hers. Why did returned warmth always make him shiver?

“Alright—skip the spiel. Just Ask.”

“What did you used to do when—” Daisy cut him off with a hollow laugh, which Jon seconded. As soon as he’d begun to speak the tape recorder clicked back on, as he’d suspected it would.

“Whatever; just do it.”

“You won’t be too self-conscious?”

She shrugged. “Won’t matter; I’ll be compelled.”

Jon bit down the wave of remorse and resentment her words stirred inside him. She’d agreed to this—cajoled him into it, even. He could examine those feelings later, when she’d gone to bed. When he was alone, and warm, and.

Unbidden into his head came the passage from Tristram Shandy about the “beds of justice.” He’d never read it before, having got through hardly ten pages of that book, and wondered now for half a second how Beholding could have thought this would help, until there thundered across his mind the words, I write one half full,—and t’other fasting;—or write it all full,—and correct it fasting;—or write it fasting; and Jon swallowed, as if that would make it stop. Less than a second later he could feel his stomach trying to expand around it.

Last week he’d tried reading an encyclopedia—vore-ing it, cover to cover. No good; he quit a third of the way in, when it bored him so much he caught himself fantasizing about its giving him a paper cut he’d have to get up to attend to. Eating fear-free trivia was like trying to fill up on tic tacs. Only when stuffed could he even feel it going down.

He told himself if he didn’t Ask her for her story now he’d only spoil his dinner with more useless facts.

“What did you used to do when you got shaky between hunts?”

“I hunted rats around my flat,” Daisy said at once, in the expressionless way of compulsion. In a voice more like her own, she went on, “Not inside, not at first, just—around the dumpsters. First my building’s, and then some nights the whole block. However long it took before I got too slow to enjoy chasing.

“Then one night I thought I saw one dart past in the corridor. So I left out bait for it, half hoping it’d attract more rats into the building. It worked; I found three in there that week.”

“What do you mean bait?”

Again her first sentence emerged as though she were reading it off a list. “Leftovers, mostly. Wasn’t hard—I didn’t have much appetite for” (in one-handed air quotes, with a huff of laughter) “'people food,’ anyway. I’d just make sure to leave a few bites unfinished, and stick them under the mat at the top of the stairs. Sandwich crusts usually, nothing gross. When I got Chinese takeaway I’d use the cabbage they put in the box.”

To make air quotes Daisy’d had to fish her hand out from under the blanket. Now she returned it to its slot on the side of his gut where hip gave way to bloat. Jon almost wished she hadn’t; he feared the reminder might weigh him down. He felt giddy and light, like if he stood and walked, hell, ran, it might not hurt his legs and chest. Like if he flapped his hands instead of wringing them he’d bump the ceiling. For Daisy to comfort his body he’d have to remember he had one.

“How did you catch them? It does—uh.” Whichever Watcher department took charge of compulsion seemed to know his question ended here, because Daisy responded before Jon could finish his follow-up sentence. (It doesn’t sound like you laid traps, he’d meant to say.)

“By the tail. I ran after them and stepped on their tails and then.” She paused for an entire second and closed her eyes tight, but by the time Jon realized what this meant she’d already concluded: “I snapped their spines with my shoe.”

That was all she said, but not all he learnt about it. The Eye let him—made him hear the crunch. For an instant it shared with him the satisfaction Daisy’d felt at the finality of that sound. It had been a sore spot for her, a then-recent wound, how many monsters didn’t die when you broke their necks.

Then her satisfaction left him, and he felt intensely sick.

“Stop—don’t say any more—I’m sorry Daisy, I didn’t—”

She snarled a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Guess I should’ve told you not to ask about that part.”

“Oh. No, it’s. I'm alright, I just meant, it looked like you… didn’t want to tell me that.”

“No I didn’t,” Daisy concurred, in a tone so flat he wondered whether he’d somehow compelled it.

“Is there anything else you don’t—er. What other questions about this would you prefer I didn’t ask.”

She shrugged. “Everything else is fair game.”

“Okay,” Jon said, wishing that answer reassured him more. “You don’t—need a minute, or?”

Again she shrugged. “Yeah, alright. You look like you might, anyway. How’s your gut feeling.”

It took him a moment to realize she meant his actual gut, not like. When he did he answered without thinking: “Not bad? Ignorable, mostly, but. That in itself is.” He looked down at his fingertips for some loose skin to peel. “I’m… stronger, now, already, my. My limbs feel like.”

Daisy nodded. “Like they could carry you without having to think about it.”

“Quite,” Jon agreed, though he wished as soon as the word left his mouth that he’d picked a different one. Something that sounded less like he wanted to talk about the phenomenon’s downside, its sinister implications. He very much did not.

“The rats, did you… eat them?”

“Ew, Jon,” she replied, like it was obvious. “Not literally, no. Didn’t have to. You don’t literally eat statements either, yeah? I just killed them and it… fed me.”

“But didn’t satisfy you,” Jon suggested.

“No. They didn’t make me less hungry, just made it easier to sleep. And they made my belly swell up like yours.” (She patted his; he huffed in pretended offense.) “That’s why I only did it after I’d gone home for the night: it made me slow. I’d know I’d had enough to go to bed when I couldn’t run after them anymore. When I tried to go without—I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. Soon as I stopped thinking about it, they’d fly open. Or at least, it never felt like I slept. Guess I must’ve done, though, ‘cause sometimes I’d find myself chewing on the bedding.” Daisy shook her head, with a sigh interpretable also as a laugh. “Think I’ve started doing that again. I keep finding holes in Basira’s sleeping bag.”

“Not yours, though?” Jon knew she and Basira slept with the edges of their two sleeping bags zipped together. (A frankenbag, Daisy called it.)

Daisy grinned: “No. Hers is a better texture.”

“Thought you said you didn’t remember doing it.”

“I don’t, but mine looks like it’d be grosser to have in your mouth.”

In reality, Jon had never seen her sleeping bag up close, but now Beholding showed him what it looked like. Once kelly green but now faded grayish, like a pond; the fabric was all over pills. It smelled like wood smoke, Ritz crackers, and the lone sock one finds at the bottom of every suitcase.

“That’s fair,” Jon allowed, hoping the strain in his voice would sound to her like a laugh. Somehow this piece of information, about the godforsaken sleeping bag, had brought his stomachache back way above the “ignorable” waterline. The nauseating smell, maybe? He tried to steady himself with a deep breath, but, well.

“You look sick.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“You’re not subtle, Jon,” she scoffed; “you gasp and writhe.”

Jon tried to shrug, tried to laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just… a lot. I’m alright, I’ve just never.” What, been this full? Compelled an eldritch snack after having already eaten his weight in paper? As if that weren’t obvious. He drew in breath to speak, but still hadn’t thought of an end to his sentence. Then he felt Daisy’s hands—both of them—start to dig shallow trenches, one up each of his sick sides. His breath came out in a shaky sigh.

“That help?”

“Yeah.”

Each time they reached his ribs—or, in the left side’s case, the place where his ninth and tenth ribs used to be—her hands turned back, in a slight arc so that they made narrow ovals, each a little closer to his stomach’s center than the last. Until they met in the middle, then worked their way slowly back out to his sides.

“Could you… keep doing that while I hear the rest of your.”

Her laugh had an edge to it that miiiight have been contempt? But she said, “Sure. What do you still want to know?”

“Uh.” He pretended to have to think about it. “Why don’t you hunt rats now?”

“I don’t want to kill things just because they’re weaker than me.” Daisy’s hands had frozen in place while she spoke these words; now they resumed. She sighed, but Jon wasn’t sure at what. “Rats are fine, they don’t need to die.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re fine,” Jon scoffed; “pretty sure they serve the Corruption. They spread hantavirus, ratbite fever, lymphocytic”—he paused to swallow a wave of nausea, hoping it was the ugliness of these facts and not their sheer bulk that sickened him. He hoped also that she’d assume his voice had caught on the pronunciation, rather than. He cleared his throat and continued: “Lymphocytic choriomeningitis, and leptospirosis. And the plague, of course, though not without help from.”

Daisy groaned, her teeth bared to the canines. Jon could feel her fingers curl into fists, though thankfully none of his skin got trapped between her nails and palms. “That’s exactly the kind of judgment I’m trying not to make anymore. They’re—they’re also good, okay? Rats. Had a friend with a rat once, when I was a kid.” For an instant Jon wondered if she meant Calvin Benchley. Then the Eye told him she did. “You can teach them tricks. Like dogs. His knew how to fetch, roll over, go through mazes to find treats. And they’re affectionate, friendly. The tails are weird, but—they have sweet eyes.”

A huff of laughter tumbled out of Jon’s nose. “All animals have sweet eyes. That’s a pretty low bar.”

“Don't flatter yourself.”

The Ceaseless Watcher seemed to side with her on this, showing him the eyes of lemurs, flies, goats, anglerfish (the regular kind).

“Either way, I hardly think that outweighs the plague.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Daisy insisted, still sounding querulous. She’d retracted her hands now, and held them balled together close to her chest—like Jon himself did when he felt too shy to stim outright. If they hadn’t been talking about rats the attitude probably wouldn’t’ve struck him as rat-like, but.

“It doesn’t always need to matter which one of those things is more important,” she went on. “It feels like it does, but—sometimes that’s just a habit we get into. Some things just are, okay? I like not having to think about it anymore.”

“Right, that makes sense, we can….”

“Besides. I didn’t care about any of that when I was hunting them. The diseases or whether they’re part of the Filth or whatever. I just knew they were gross, and that people were scared of them. That’s the main reason I killed monsters, too.”

“What if you just… caught them and let them go?”

“Monsters?”

“No, rats.”

“I don’t want a substitute, Jon. I’m alright going cold turkey.”

“But it’s not cold turkey, it’s—no turkey.”

Daisy looked at him for the first time in what felt like a while, and smiled, but furrowed her eyebrows. “Just what do you think ‘cold turkey’ means?”

“I know there’s no actual turkey,” Jon sighed, trying to ignore the Eye’s barrage of suggestions for where the phrase might have originated. God, his stomach hurt. He missed having her hands there to rub away some of this nausea and ache. Wondered what he could say to bring them back. Doing it himself at a time like this would’ve felt so. “I just mean, withdrawal is—different. It can kill you, but you’re still abstaining from something that people in general don’t need to live.”

“Aaaand you think people in general need the Hunt.”

“Of course not. I know you know what I’m getting at,” Jon persisted. “You’re talking about starvation—which, unless for some reason the Fears are too sentimental to throw their old husks away, means it will kill you. Not just—‘can.’”

“Maybe. Probably, yeah. If some monster doesn’t come around to kick me off the wagon first. I’ve told you that before, though.”

“…Okay. Yes, you have, that’s. Yes. So then—?”

“What?”

“Why are you giving me a statement!?”

“To commiserate,” Daisy recited first, in the flat tone of compulsion—and then, “Shhh!”

“Tape recorder’s already on.”

“Yeah but Basira’s out there; she might—be asleep. It’s not a statement,” said Daisy. “Just a story.”

As usual Jon let himself fall into the trap. Was it a statement? By Institute standards, maybe not; he wasn’t sure it counted as a supernatural encounter, except from the rats’ perspective. And most of the fear in it was the rats’, too. He supposed you could call it an encounter with her own changing nature? Statement of Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner, regarding her supernatural hunger and how she.

“But why would you feed me a story when the answer you come to at the end of it is that it’s better to starve?”

This time he didn’t mean to compel her—was sure he’d phrased it indirectly enough not to. But Jon was surer yet Daisy wouldn’t have given the answer she did except under compulsion:

“Because I felt sorry for you.” Then she winced, bared her teeth, shook her head; Jon wondered if she’d felt that one. It seemed like people usually didn’t—just heard themselves speak words they hadn’t meant to, and surmised what had happened from that. But maybe after so many in a row she’d begun to feel the static.

“For what? Why?”

“For feeling evil. Because it reminded me of me.” In her own voice: “Think maybe I wanted it off my chest, too.”

So, what? The moral high ground was alright for her, but he was too weak for it? Or, or not, what, spiritually advanced enough to walk that plane? Because he hadn’t been conscious for his six-month limbo between life and death, like she’d been in the coffin?

“But you resist, so—? Why wouldn’t you think I should starve too?” On the ocean floor of his stomach something evil emerged from its hole. “Hhh—wait, don’t answer that, I’m—”

Too late. “Because eating the statements doesn’t hurt anything. The ones already written down—just recording them, it’s harmless. And you can’t give me bad dreams anymore, so—ugh.” Jon opened his eyes to find Daisy clawing at her temples. She shook her head, to the extent she could without knocking into his. “I told you I'm trying not to do that anymore.”

I’m not ready, Jon had meant to say. But seeing how little she liked having answered, he wished he could claim it was for her sake he’d tried to stop her.

He still wasn’t ready to hear or think or talk about this, really. The top half of his belly seared with such pain he couldn’t think straight; lower down it squirmed. He felt perilously sick. His whole body wanted so badly to curl into a ball that his legs wouldn’t quit twitching against Daisy’s. He pressed his elbows into his sides, while his hands hovered, pathetically he was sure, just over the top and center of a stomach he feared would pounce if he dared touch it.

But he felt like owed her some proof he’d been listening. “Do…?”

“Judge people. Decide what’s right for them.”

“I see,” Jon lied; that was all he could manage for now. In truth he needed a break before he could even parse what she had said.

“Turns out I can’t lie to myself under compulsion either. I didn’t think that was the reason?—thought I was just not judging you.”

“I think”—he pushed himself back from her, sure for a second that he was about to be sick. It passed, but his breath caught on it as on panic, so he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

Especially not since Daisy too shot upright, her nails loudly scraping the cushion behind her as she hurled herself against it. “Shit—turn around—not on the couch—”

“I’m okay, it’s.” He did turn around, just to ease her mind, but the motion required had quite the opposite effect on him. Jon heard the sounds of ragged breath and whimpering, then recognized his own voice behind them.

Daisy’s hands came to perch one on the back of his shoulder, the other on his side between rib and pelvis. “Don’t worry about it, just get it out. We’ll clean it up later—just like last time, remember?” The fingertips of the hand on his side twitched back and forth at his stomach’s very outer edge.

“N—o, I.” He swallowed. “I think I’m alright.” Tried opening his eyes. Nope, not ready. His breath shuddered again. Daisy’s hands vanished from his shoulder and side; he heard the flapping sound of a blanket being shaken out, then felt it flutter and settle on top of him. Must’ve got dislodged when he rolled over, though he was warm enough now he hadn’t noticed. Dimly he recognized this as a victory.

Her hand moved to stroke his back; she kept saying Shhh, but not in the harsh way she had earlier. “You, uh.” Again Jon swallowed, though what ailed him was a lack of spit rather than excess of it. “You weren’t nearly this nice last time.”

“What?” The hand on his back stilled. “I was too! I tied your hair back for you! I let you ruin my jumper by wiping your pukey mouth on it! I sat with you, on the cold hard floor, in front of the toilet, and let you babble all your egghead theories to me about vomit and the Corruption, even though I’d been sick not two days before, and could barely stand the smell even without you philosophizing about it—”

“No, I meant—the time before, when you. Never mind.”

“Oh—when I had to clean it up?” Jon nodded, hoping she’d be able to tell that from the back of his head. “Yeah, well. Guess I like you better now.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Me neither.” And yet she scooted closer to him, hooking her chin over his shoulder. Her hand came to rest on his belly again, its heel in the hollow at the edge of his pelvis. “This okay? You alright with touch right now?”

In response Jon felt around for her hand. When he found it he slotted his fingers between hers, pulled her hand to a sicker-feeling place a few inches higher up, and left his there on top of it.

“Right,” Daisy laughed—“my mistake.” She dragged their combined hands very gently back and forth across the place he’d brought them to. “This where you’re feeling yuckiest?”

His breath caught again, but with surprise and relief this time. With his free hand Jon covered his eyes, willing himself not to think about how ridiculous he must seem to her right now. “That’s, er. That’s perfect, yes.”

“Sure.”

“Though actually—do you think—maybe a slightly… longer stroke?”

Again she laughed. Her hand went limp under his. “Backseat driver. Alright, show me how it’s done.”

It took him a minute to determine that himself. He tried pulling her hand back and forth past his navel, but that grated against something sharp inside. Supposed he couldn’t consult the Oracle for this. Up and down, maybe? Yes, that would do. Or a circle perhaps. Anti-clock—? No, clockwise, definitely. Much better.

Once they’d got that sorted out, Jon said, “I wonder if… you’d let me Ask. One more question.”

“Seriously? I can feel how stuffed you are; how could you possibly want more? Five minutes ago you nearly puked.”

“I’m just—curious, alright? I won’t be sick, I promise.”

“Fine.”

“Did you ever… throw them up?”

“I didn’t eat them, Jon. Told you that already.”

“Alright, poor choice of words. Did you ever—” he tried to think how best to phrase it. “When you threw up regular… people food. Did something of the rats ever come up with it?”

“Yeah. I only got sick once in the time I was doing it, but, I think so, yeah. Thought I was just really out of it at the time though. They didn’t make me sick, I don’t think—just another stomach bug, like the one I gave you. One of those bugs where everything has to come out? And it came on me in the middle of the night, so the last thing I’d”—a pause to sigh; her hand slipped out of his, presumably to make air quotes, but then took it again before he could think of somewhere else to put it—“‘eaten’ was the rats. Not as many as usual; I was already feeling slow that evening. But, yeah. They… it wasn’t their actual bodies, though, okay? I thought I was just dry heaving at first—you know when you’re hanging over the toilet bowl because you know you’re gonna be sick—”

Jon squirmed, fighting a temptation to cover his ears. “Yes, thank you, I’m familiar with—”

“—but you can’t get anything solid up yet, you just retch and drool and cough into the bowl. Well it started then, and then, some of it got mixed up with my sandwich. It was like I… felt their fear, like I—became them, for a second. Each one of them.”

She’d been right; it was too much. God, please don’t make him be the rat! Jon bit his lip ducked his head to his chest curled his toes bent his knees, anything, trying to barricade the doors against the onslaught of information. He pressed his and Daisy’s combined hands hard into the place where his stomach jutted forth from ribs for fear if he didn’t try to equalize the pressure inside from without he might burst like a sheep in clover and flood this whole room in half-ruminated text, a cloud of serifed letters scuttling heinously all over himself and Daisy like half-formed spiders.

“I don’t know how I knew that’s what it was,” Daisy went on. “It wasn’t like I saw the scene again, or heard the crunch, or felt the. Anything like that. I just—was the rat. I was prey. Just for a second. And knew that I—me, as in.” Again her hand slipped out of his. “The Hunter, was about to kill me. And… then it faded and I was me again until the next one.”

Her hand returned to the dome at the top of his gut where he’d last set it, but its ghosts on his palm and between his fingers remained cold. She brushed the hand up and down his belly, airily—oblivious to how its muscles clenched and undulated. Jon panted and forced himself to focus on her hand and nothing else. How it bumped and shuddered when his stomach’s shape morphed under it. How at the end of his every exhale her touch became so light it tickled. This was the present Daisy, and the present Jon. Here on this couch in the Institute basement. Both thin, her bony ilium pressed closer to his sacroiliac joint than was quite comfortable. Warm, except up one leg where the blanket let in a draft.

The one who’d tried to prey on him was long gone. If anything he was the one feeding on her, now. And they just laid on the couch together, massaging her horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him.

“That enough?”

Jon grunted an incredulous huff. “Too much,” he admitted, unable to keep the strain out of his voice. “You were right—I, uh. Didn’t know stomachaches came this size.”

Her laugh sounded affectionate. The lines up and down his stomach morphed into circles around it. “Ha—look how much higher your belly comes up on this side. That must be where your ribs were.”

“Yes, I’ve. Noticed that before, thanks.”

“Think you’ll keep it all down?”

“Hope so.”

“Good luck. Wouldn’t want you to have to relive the rats again.”

Oh, god.

“The less said about it the—better I’ll feel, I think.”

“Well that’s a change,” Daisy mused, patting his stomach as though in summation. “I should get to bed. Be alright on your own?”

“Er.” No, no, no, god please no, not alone yet with all these? “Yes, alright. I should be fine.”

She laughed again. “I’ll stay til you fall asleep.”

(For Daisy’s take on “the time before,” when she had to clean up his vomit, see Abyss of Possibilities; to view the drawing in less-bad resolution, see this post)

#stuffing #hunger kink #nausea #stomachache #a shifty tract #nonsearchable tma tag #me: writes a story about eating information #also me: god why is this so LONG why did i have to go off on so many TANGENTS #uhhhhhhh hm let's think

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metaphysical-human-being · 5 years ago

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Switcheroo pt3

pt1

pt2

pt3

pt4

A/N- Why hello again. I am here with pt3 of this series. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Warnings- crying, food mention, swearing, talk of being slapped, tell me if i should add more.

Summary- De is trying his best, and its going pretty well.

Remus trudged to the car, De right beside him. Both males were silent but both for different reasons.

Remus was silent because...he didn't know what would happen if he tried to speak. The sick bubble of anxiety and dread in his gut made it clear that it wasn't gonna leave anytime soon and that meant an absolute war for the emotions he usually tried to bury. He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or scream or laugh or run. Maybe he wanted to do them all. Maybe he didn't.

De was silent because he didn't know what to say. The last time he had ever seen Remus cry was two and a half years ago. Remus had been adopted for about six months at that time and finally decided to open up to De and tell him about Roman, the identical twin he “abandoned”( if you ask De though, Remus was only trying to do what he thought was best. He was only trying to be a good brother) and after that he had seemed to be...fine. Then the incident, then therapy and then...now. He didn't know what was so bad to have gotten Remus to cry and beg him to take him home but he knew that it was definitely not good.

De tried to swim through his brain and search for memories of what his parents used to do whenever he had a really bad breakdown. The bullying and ptsd from his birth parents left a lot of troubles for the young male but his moms always managed to get him through it. They always made him hot chocolate and held him while he cried..maybe Remus needed the same?

They slid into the car, Remus in the back as always. De looked back at his silent son, casting a reassuring glance his way. Remus just leaned his head against the cool glass window and closed his eyes. With a sigh, De started the car.

The ride home was as silent as the walk to the car but a lot less awkward. It was more of a comforting silence. One that the father and son appreciated immensely. As they grew closer to their destination De tried to draw some reaction out of Remus.

“Oh! A starbucks...do you want anything, dear?” De had asked, praying to any god stupid enough to listen that his son would at least say no.

Remus lifted his head to stare at the building for a quick second. De felt a bit of hope well in his stomach. Although it died when Remus just blinked before putting his head back on the window and closed his eyes. De just huffed and continued on home.

He parked in the assigned parking space and turned to tell Remus to get out but Remus was already at the door. De got out and followed him in. Remus tried to escape upstairs to his room but De knew that this was way too serious to ignore.

“Hold it, mister. You are not going to hide in your room.” De exclaimed, causing Remus to pause at the top of the stairs.

“But Deeeeeee,” Remus whined. De just chuckled and motioned for him to come back downstairs. Remus took off his backpack and threw it towards the direction of his room before hopping onto the banister and sliding down. He almost crashed into De but De was smart and moved out the way, causing Remus to fall flat on his ass.

“Okay, to the living room. I'm gonna go make some hot chocolate.”

“Not your “spill your guts” hot chocolate, right?” Remus asked from the living room, flicking through channels.

“Yes, it is my “spill your guts” hot chocolate. Deal with it.” De called, pouring the warm milk into two mugs. He heard Remus whine but he didn't care, he was gonna drink it and he was gonna like it.

De walked into the living room with two mugs. One filled with hot chocolate and one filled with tea. De handed the mug of hot chocolate to Remus and plopped down next to him. He looked over at the show Remus had picked; Criminal Minds. Their favorite show….

“Nope!” Deceit said, turning off the tv. Remus looked at him like he was crazy. I mean, he was but he still didn't like the look.

“Don't give me that look, Rem. I know what you're doing.”

“I'm not doing anything!”

“Nope. You're trying to distract me with our favorite show and I don't appreciate i-”

“How are you so sure of that? I've just had a bad day, De, and i wanna watch my favor-”

“No. Remus. No.” De said, tone non-negotiable. Remus huffed and sunk into the couch cushion, taking small sips of his hot chocolate. De sighed at the sight.

“Remus, I know you don't wanna talk about it but you're gonna have to. If not with me then with Dr. Picani. You seemed pretty upset, and that's putting it lightly. I haven't seen you like that in years and I'm worried, dear. I want to at least know what happened.” De explained, tone borderline pleading. Remus tried his hardest not to cry, he really did….but with the look De was giving him and the hot chocolate and the safety of being home and with someone he trusts..

Remus broke faster than ankles being hit with a Razor scooter.

He collapsed into De’s chest, crumbling into a mess of tears and incoherent babbling. De, reliable as always, managed to snag the cup from Remus and place it on the coffee table before the boy could drop it. He also set down his own mug to calmly card his fingers through Remus’ forever messy locks.

“It's okay, dear. Let it all out,” De murmured, soft and sweet. It caused Remus to cry even harder, if that was possible.

“It's alright dear…. it's alright,” De whispered. He felt Remus shudder at the reassuring words, still unused to them even after three years.

“He-h-h-he was s-so a-a-ang-gry D-de!” Remus blubbered. De became worried when he said that. He? Who could be he?

It can't be...nonono...he’s...he’s supposed to be back in Florida!

De gulped. “Wh-who is he… dear?” De asked, trying to not let his nervousness slip through.

"R-r-r-roman…" Remus whispered into De' chest. De felt himself stiffen up and he guessed Remus felt it too because it just made the boy cry harder, if that were possible.

Deceit quickly continued to card his fingers through Remus' hair.

"You...you saw Roman? Your brother?" De said. It came out more like a question but it wasn't one, not really. More astonishment than anything. Remus just nodded.

"H-h-he-he ye-yelled at m-me and-an-and-”

“Slapped you?” De had finished. Remus stared up at him in astonishment. How in the world could he have known that?

De placed a gentle hand on Remus’ right cheek, a light sting alerted Remus of the bruise he had forgotten would be forming from the intensity of the slap. De frowned.

“We should tell the school, he hurt you and that's not-”

“De,” Remus interrupted, voice still a bit shaky. “I h-hurt him more than-th-than I could imagine. I-I gave him a..away. I didn't bother t-to contact h-hi-him or anything!” Remus said. De just stroked his non-hurt cheek and stared at him. His bi-colored eyes did something to Remus no adult could ever do; calm him. They made him relax into his gentle hold and the intensity in them just added to that. They made Remus feel protected, something he only ever used to feel with Roman.

De sighed but didn't argue, he could tell Remus was serious.

“Okay, I won't report him but try and avoid him. If he ever goes near you just turn around. No fighting, remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” Remus sighed. “N-not like I’d fight him anyway. Unlike R-Roman I’d never be able to hit my b-brother.” Remus said, barley stuttering. De knew that this meant that he’d calmed down but he also knew that he’d crash any minute. A breakdown like that would tire even the most active three year old down, which was what Remus was most times.

“Do you wanna sleep in your room or on the couch?” De asked. Remus retracted himself from the older man and thought for a second.

“Depends...you going back to work?” Remus asked. De shook his head which surprised Remus.

“You seemed so distressed that I decided to just take the rest of the day off.” De explained. Remus nodded, too drained to do much else.

“I’ll… I think I’ll nap here,” he decided before unceremoniously flopping onto the rest of the couch. De pulled a blanket on top of him and placed a gentle kiss onto his forehead.

“I love you, dear.” De mumbled into his hair.

“Mmm...love you too...de,” Remus mumbled back before falling into a deep sleep.

De smiled down at his son before walking into the kitchen to get lunch started.

-------------------------------------

peopel who wanna be tagged:

@datfearlessfangirl

#bob rites #deceit is a good dad #deceit sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders mention #tw crying #tw swearing #hitting mention #food mention

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friendlylocalwhumper · 5 years ago

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continuation of this drabble.

Fingers, wrist, forearm, they’re already broken. Next, his arm is twisted up behind his back, farther, farther - the shoulder pops out of its socket, resisting the tension all the way, and Lux worries that his scream is so loud, so high-pitched, that it might hurt Emory’s ears.

He rises up on his knees as he tries to escape the firm grip on his arm, fingers digging in and considerable strength twisting until already fractured bone clunks out of place. His breaths are reedy and thin, growing louder and breaking into sobs with each crescendo of pain.

“Ple-ease, nnh, please!” A scream wells up and breaks free as his dislocated shoulder is cranked back, tugged even further out of place. The glow of magic still hasn’t faded from his broken fingers, though, so the grip remains. The Hunter’s fingers wind into those messy curls and yank the warlock’s head back as the ruined arm is pulled downward. A shudder of agony tears through Lux’s body and pulls awful pitchy sounds from him.

“You’re not allowed to use your magic.”

“I know, I know,” Lux pants, whining his distress at being forced to disobey. He has no choice, he has to be bad, he has to protect Emory. “S-sorry, but, nnnh, d-don’t want you to h-hurt him… ple-, nnngh, please! L-let me go, ‘m so-orry, I can’t - I can’t, can’t be g-good.”

“Yes. You. Can.” With each punctuated syllable, the Hunter twists Lux’s arm further, pulls harder on it. He releases the fistful of curls to let Lux look to his boyfriend again. Predictably, Lux does, just as magic pops the joint of his elbow out of place. The forcefield around Emory shimmers and fades away for a second before coming back, Lux’s magic frantically restoring his lost focus.

“I’m going to make your magic fade away,” The man behind him promises. His breath is warm against Lux’s ear, the stubble there making his cheek itch just barely. Lux hates, hates, hates someone being that close without warning, especially someone who’s hurt him before. He can feel his resolve slowly crumbling.

He watches the forcefield fade again as his broken fingers are grabbed, and as his broken wrist is bent wrong. Lux screams hoarsely, begs openly, but he doesn’t let go of his magic.

He can see that it hurts Emory, can see each wince when a wail of pain explodes into the space around them, but he can’t imagine how much worse it would be to give in and then hear Emory’s screams instead.

The Hunter is getting frustrated. Lux can tell. The movements meant to bring Lux pain get rougher, harsher, more impatient. The grip on his hair returns, and the talking close enough to make Lux’s breath hitch becomes growled threats to break more bones, and each part of his increasingly mangled arm that sends tremors through him and sounds out of him only serves to make the Hunter angrier. This much pain, in his experience, has never failed to make Lux cave and obey.

“You’re not going to obey me, are you? You would die for him.”

“Yes, yes, I w-would, I - I - ple-ease…”

“You would take all the pain I could give you just to save him.”

“Nnnnh, y-yes, l-love him…”

The Hunter snarls in anger and shoves Lux down so his back is pressed to the floor. He places a broad hand on the warlock’s right hip, opposite the broken left arm, and shoves magic into the joint. Lux bucks up and screams, struggling wildly against what has already been done inside his body. The Hunter holds him down easily, watching the twisted expression of agony and the pitiful sounds with little more than fury.

“You are going to be so sorry that you chose him over me, little one,” The Hunter snarls with a vengeful shove against that freshly dislocated hip. He stands and leaves before Lux even registers that the pressure has lifted from the grating joint. Wide, glassy blue eyes flicker around the room in search of the torturer before Lux finally looks to Emory, still tied up but safe in the bubble of magic.

The warlock’s jaw clenches when he realizes, slowly and distractedly, that Emory will want to be freed of his restraints. Lux can move, he thinks - he’s done it before, in this much pain, when he had to. He can move.

In trying to bend his left leg at the knee, he jostles his hip, and the room disappears as his vision whites out. Lux can feel himself making a sound, but he can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. Instead of working on his legs, he reaches over with a tremulous right hand to try to move his ruined arm - one touch to the hot, swelling skin over any one of the breaks and wrecked joints sends him careening toward unconsciousness, though, so he quickly gives up on moving.

Through a haze of whimpering and gasping raggedly for air, he thinks he gets out some order of words like I’m sorry, I can’t do it, I can’t move, it hurts too much, I’ll try again when I can breathe. Really, all he does is keen “Nnnh, nngh, s-, so-orry, nnnnh, c-, hhh, can’t, can’t, mmnnh, tryi-ing… can’t…”

Emory tries to speak but his words are made unintelligible thanks to the cloth gag. Lux gives a vague whine at his inability to so much as lift his head and guess at what Emory is trying to say.

His right hand hovers, shaking, by his dislocated hip. One joint slammed into with a spell and he’s rendered completely helpless, unable to move without nearly passing out. Agony-glazed eyes stare up at the ceiling as Lux resigns himself to a stalemate between desperation and pain too great to process. With each twitch of his broken fingers, stinging with the magic forced through them after traversing frayed nerves all through his arm, the warlock keens, and pants, and loses his focus.

A very Emory-like shape forms above him. Lux stares up at it, lips forming pleas that his lungs can’t find the air to lend sound to. Emory comes closer, gets lower, and touches Lux’s face. The warlock leans into the hand at his cheek. He whimpers when fingers slip into his hair. Lux quiets down only when they cross over his temple with little interest in lingering and hold the back of his head, safely away from shoving magic into his head as a punishment.

He hears his name. Lux refocuses on the Emory above him and tries to turn his deeply-etched grimace, or frown, or whatever face he makes when in agony, into something less unpleasant.

“...be okay, Lux, it’s okay,” His boyfriend is saying. His voice fades in and out of existence, Lux thinks. Not real, maybe. Certainly better than being alone.

“Hurts,” He croaks, in that one word expressing this is more pain than I can handle and I’m barely holding in my screams for you right now and please, please think that I’m brave, I’m trying so hard to be brave.

“I know, Curls, I know it does. You - I can’t believe - you’re just, you’re so strong, it’s gonna be okay, you can heal.”

“Nnnnh-” Lux tries to shake his head, moaning when the movement pulls at his dislocated shoulder. “I, I, can’t…”

“Your magic’s working, look!”

Lux makes his eyes shift focus from his boyfriend to the green glow surrounding them. The forcefield is still up.

“For you, ‘s for you,” Lux argues weakly. His broken fingers curl inward slightly with the sudden fear of them being grabbed. “I can’t, nnnh, can’t heal, s-so ang-gry, he, he’s gonna - nngh, Em-mory, s-scared…”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay Lux. Who can I call? Healers, how many do you know?”

The brash confidence in having generous warlocks as resources makes Lux’s eyelids flicker in restrained anxiety. He doesn’t know many healers, and only one whose number he has, and who he knows would drop everything to come fix this damage.

“Alex,” He mutters miserably. His very loyal, selfless friend whose magic is painful to use, and who is scared of the Hunter himself. “Mmmh, he m-might not - he - c-can’t call him, Em, he sh-shouldn’t have to…”

“I’m calling him,” Emory answers, and there’s no room left for whatever Lux has to say about what Alex should and shouldn’t be asked to do.

Restless with worry over citing Alex as someone who can be used for his healing magic alone, Lux tries again to move. There is an explosion of light, and cracking yelps, and hands on his body to force him to lie still. Lux whimpers and then dissolves into a shuddering mess when Emory brushes through his curls and shushes him gently.

“I can’t, ca-an’t, can’t m-m-move, Em-mory, ‘m sorry…”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Lux, you don’t have to move. Can you stay still for me, honey?”

With a feeble nod, Lux forces himself not to do it again. “O-okay.”

“That’s good, that’s good, Lux.”

Vulnerable on a bone-deep level to praise right now, Lux’s eyes glisten with need and he makes extra sure to hold perfectly still, only flinching when his broken hand twitches again as muscles compensate for bones out of place.

A kiss on his cheek, and the warlock’s brief conditioned response becomes more self-aware, less stiff. He remembers moving makes it hurt worse, so don’t move.

Lux wonders how Emory got untied. Got up to his feet, went to another room, used scissors or a knife behind his back to cut the ropes… as he thinks loosely, idly, he registers belatedly that Emory is on the phone.

Looks like the call isn’t picked up. Emory lowers the phone and looks at the screen, hits the contact again to redial.

Lux whimpers, something in his arm spasming, his hip on fire. Emory touches his cheek again; as Lux relaxes by a fraction, he recalls vividly how a single sparing touch in the cellar made the ache of a malnourished body curled up on the concrete floor seem to evaporate away. A chill threatens to steal away his already scant sliver of comfort, so he pushes the memories aside.

“Alex,” Emory cries out, relieved, and Lux’s heartbeats pick up in the thrill of promised relief. Alex can help, Alex can make it stop. He has magic that can make Lux’s pain disappear in seconds, can let him seep into the floor and fall asleep, all fixed, no speck of discomfort left behind. The unbearable - when did simple pain become unbearable to him again? - the unbearable pain will be taken away.

Lux keens, needy and half hoping that Alex will hear. Sweet, pitiful desperation, it always earns some sort of reward. Whine, moan, crumple, look up at someone with wide, terrified eyes, and they will always be pleased, they will always feel that he is good.

Make it stop, make it stop, please, I'll be good, forgive me, Lux begs in his mind so that he won’t stammer it aloud. He can tell that the phone call just ended; he missed the dialogue of it like a child playing while their parent deals with boring business on the phone. But he really, really wanted to know what was decided.

A single, pitchy whine conveys everything he wants to ask.

“He’s coming, fast as he can. Alex and Taryn are coming, they’re gonna heal you, protect us. Then you can let this down, okay?” Emory taps the edge of the forcefield, knowing that it won’t hurt him.

“Ok-kay,” The warlock replies. He pouts a bit at having to wait, but ultimately feels relieved that he’ll be healed soon. Alex can make it stop.

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warehouse-staff-blog · 7 years ago

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affordabledesignerbrands · 10 months ago

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: BEARPAW Emma Short Winter Boots Suede Med Gray 8M.

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hogwartsuniversity-rpg · 7 years ago

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James Potter | Gryffindor ✗ Major: TBD | FC: Dev Patel

✗ Traits:

+ Caring, expressive, fun loving

- Inconsiderate, overly protective, entitled

Ø Past:

Life it seems has always been easy for James Potter, The only son of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, The elderly couple wanted to give him the best in life. James, however, saw it as a way to get what he wanted and his parents only to willing to make him happy would get it for him. However instead of growing up entitled or with the mindset that he was better than everyone else, Euphemia always set out to make sure that James saw the best in others and that everyone no matter their class was all the same on the inside because money was never the most important thing in the world and it was all about who they were on the inside.

James, however, did grow up entitled though to a point. It was never about him having more money though but he felt that being the best soccer player, or being the most good looking or the biggest sweet talker meant that he was entitled to things other people in his high school weren’t. He got away with not handing in homework, skipped days to practice soccer, had the most girls around him and because he was James Potter he was entitled to all that.

However, the one thing he should have been most entitled to was his entry into Hogwarts University. His parents were well off and could afford the payments to send James there. Upon arriving he was ready to be known as one of the top guys around the university, using the fact that his parents had paid for him as a way to get more of what he wanted there. James decided that this year he would have fun. No parents around so he could do what he wanted, play the pranks that he wanted and slack of in class if he wanted. However what he wasn’t expecting was to meet Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. The three of them instantly got along planning the pranks that James so wanted to happen. Having fun and generally trying to rule Hogwarts University.

Lily Evans was the other person that he met his first day of university. He honestly finds her the most beautiful and interesting girl he has ever met. However, his methods of getting her attention were the worst and only seemed to make Lily hate him and his personality even more. With a plan in mind, he’s decided that this year he is going to act like less of an idiot around Lily and like more of a best friend. However, he still comes off as a jerk at times he feels like a friendship is more than he deserves with her.

Coming into this year at Hogwarts he’s realizing that if the school could bring in more Lily’s and Remus's in through the scholarship program, it couldn’t be bad. Sure he may have paid his way in but really the school could use more of the good people here with the good values. he’s also realizing that slacking off will probably not get him the degree that he needs and that he needs to rely on himself to get a job out of university. trying to actually go to classes and play football, James is determined to work hard, get the girl and have a heap of fun while doing it.

→ Connections:

The Marauders (Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew) - Best Friends. James thinks of each of them as a brother. He’d do anything for them and fully believes they’d do the same.

Lily Evans - Close Friend. He’s been trying to be less of a douche lately and, if he’s being honest, he thinks that it’s starting to work although frankly, he’s just happy to be her friend.

Severus Snape - Enemy. Of course, the guys' obsession with Lily pisses James off, but it’s more than that. He’s a self-righteous arsehole and James sees a lot of the things he dislikes about himself in Snape.

Marlene McKinnon - Close Friend. They grew up very close and are similar in a lot of ways. Still, James thinks they sometimes bring out each others worst.

#james potter #jily #harry potter #harry potter rp #marauders rpg #closed #closed gry #closed gry m

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bigcomputerobject-blog · 7 years ago

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Camp Nou Zabraknie W Grze FIFA 13 › FCBarca. com

Gra EA SPORTS FIFA 18 zaciera granicę między światem wirtualnym a prawdziwym i ożywia zawodników, zestawy i atmosferę tego wspaniałego ruchu. Znajdzie się pośród nich chociażby Ronaldinho spośród czasów grania w PSG w 2002 roku, Ronaldinho w koszulce Barcelony z 2004 roku, jak i również grający w Milanie spośród 2010 roku. Dziennikarze Eurogamera mieli możliwość ograć edycję przeznaczoną na Switcha a także fifa 18 klucz aktywacyjny rozmówić się z do niej producentem. Na raz pierwszy w relacji serii rzeczywiste ruchy, wymiary i atrybuty piłkarzy decydują tym, jak zawodnik stanie się się zachowywał w pracach nad produktem, z racji czego każdy może naprawdę wejść w skórę najznamienitszych na ziemi. Nie zaakceptować ukrywam, że trudno mi się skupić na pozytywnych aspektach produkowaniu, mając w głowie fakt powielania tych samych błędów od czasu lat, tylko coraz ładniej opakowanych. fifa 18 cena w dniu premiery najpopularniejsi będą nieco tańsi gracze, którzy fifa 18 gdzie kupić mają jednak wystarczająco ogromną sumę umiejętności. EA Sports ujawniło FIFA 18 i na porządny początek oglądamy zwiastun, poznajemy datę premiery i uzyskujemy kilka ciekawych szczegółów. Tak wówczas jest jak niektórzy więcej zajmują się życiem piłkarzy aniżeli swoim i wymyślają jakiekolwiek ciąże. Organizowany przez ten koncern - we kooperacji z Sony - konkurs FIFA Interactive World Cup, rozgrywany za pomocą konsol fifa 18 klucz aktywacyjny z serii FIFA, oficjalnie uznany został za największy turniej growy na świecie i trafił do księgi rekordów Guinnessa. W akcji biorą udział karafki napoju owocowego marki FRUGO w opakowaniu PET. Wszystko zaczyna się od turniejów rodzimych, gdzie poprzez kolejne wygrane w pucharach weekendowych dostaniemy nie tylko tradycyjne gratyfikacyj w postaci paczek i coinsów, ale także będziemy awansować do coraz lepszej fifa 18 klucz aktywacyjny stawki. Jeden wraz z YouTuberów odkrył tryb misji ukryty w kodzie gry z 2008 roku. Rozgrywkę rozpoczynamy poprzez zebranie kart zawodników (raczej średnich) które przypadkowo dostajemy w prezencie według pierwszym wejściu do zabawy. Czasami zapominamy, że po tej drużynie gra najdogodniejszy piłkarz w historii. Mam nadzieje wraz z fifa 16 pojdzie po dobrym kierunku. Ale jak już mamy tego kucharza, opiekunki, barmana, sportowca, muzyka to fifa 18 klucz aktywacyjny niech oni zawsze będą pierwsi do zatrudnienia w swoich rolach i niech oni pierwsi zjawiają się na parcelach publicznych przy związku z wykonywanymi poprzez siebie zawodami. Kanał: Koza Sport Subów: 181133 Ostatnia aktualizacja: 2017-08-07 10: 08: 17. Możesz napisać kilkanaście słów sobie i wgrać swoje zdjęcie albo wybrać ilustrację z bazy awatarów. Robert Heheszka - TOP 10 damskich cosplay'ów z League of Legends! Z tego newsu fifa 18 gdzie kupić dowiesz się czy rzeczywiście można otrzymać FIFA Points za darmo, od kogo i w jakich ilościach oraz czy jest wówczas bezpieczne. Poza tym Ford pokazał oficjalnie stylową bogatą wersję Titanium oraz inspirowaną modelami sportowych parametrach usportowioną Fiestę ST-Line. Przed chwilą teraz dorwałem od kumpla pełną wersję PESa Gra wymiata i wgniata przy fotel. Tutaj doskonały przykład: (w FIFIE 17 nic się nie zmieniło). Nowy układ ustawiania się piłkarzy dzięki fifa 18 gdzie kupić boisku: Dzięki większej swobodzie ruchu pozostali zawodnicy dzięki boisku analizują sytuację dookoła nich i reagują odpowiednio do niej: wybiegają dzięki pozycję w odpowiedniej czasie albo pokazują się do podania, aby wesprzeć prowadzącego piłkę. Fifa 18 wiernie odtwarza ruch s��ońca po niebie, wprowadza składniki oprawy wizualnej zaczerpnięte spośród prawdziwych transmisji meczów, wspólnie z postępem gry przerabia się wygląd boiska, natomiast publiczność żywo reaguje dzięki fifa 18 klucz aktywacyjny niespodziewane zwroty akcji. Niemniej jednakże zupełnie nie znam się na takie grach i tu moje. Nad biurkami pracowników wiszą natomiast koszulki i szaliki z królestw, z których pochodzą. Jednak po tym roku, sugerując się informacjami czy nawet filmikami stwierdzam, że FIFA być może na prawdę zmiażdżyć PES-a. Niezalogowanie się w FUT i nieodebranie paczki w dowolnym tygodniu sprawi przepadek paczki przynależnej zbyt dany tydzień. Pelargonia, to jedna wraz fifa 18 gdzie kupić z najważniejszych roślin uprawianych w balkonach i tarasach.... więcej. Przy odpowiedniej konfiguracji PADa, gra przypomina bardzo tąże znaną z konsol, gdyż można robić przeróżne tricki z użyciem gałki analogowej. Podobne do: Encyklopedia komputerów i zabaw dla przedszkolaków - K. Charner, M. Marphy, Ch. Clark. Po wyłonieniu zwycięzców na obu platformach, zmierzą się oni tytuł Mistrza. Na ogół w tym trybie bycie jednego spotkania jest obcisły do 4 minut. Produkcja studiów Danger Close i DICE zatryumfowała na wszystkich trzech platformach - PC, X360 i fifa 18 klucz cena PS3. Wybudujemy więc trasy i drogi rowerowe (a także buspasy) dla bardziej aktywnych mieszkańców naszego miasta.

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