#dwindling braincells day by day

[dulyet]

Dear tumblr, please stop recommending me Ink saying skibidi toilet rizz, sincerely Dulyet

[seleswrites]

serena ira | Leon S. Kennedy/Reader | find on AO3

And on the seventh day, god brought your soulmate into a dying city, crawling with the monstrous undead. Damn your luck.

Fandom: Resident Evil 2 (remake)

Relationship: Leon/Reader

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,568

Tags: soulmate AU, canon divergence/not canon compliant, no Y/N, Leon A and Claire B (in my head they meet up before the final train scene), canon typical violence, lots of cursing, reader can be anyone but I tend to write queer afab reader-oc's.

Event: @lunarbuck's Soulmate AU writing challenge

Soulmate Prompt: "You and your soulmate have matching tattoos that become clear once you meet." (Added a bit of flavor so hope it's a good read still!)

Photo credits: Nicolas Ladino Silva (woman in shadow) and Trevor (city landscape) on Unsplash

A/N: Nothing like a new fandom to control the braincell. Please be kind, I just got into RE like two weeks ago lmao! I only know half of RE2:make, the RE4:make, and Lady D from Village.

An entire city overturned into a place of nightmares not even within a week. 

Familiar streets turned into dangerous traps filled with, what you could only describe as, the undead. You had no idea how you were going to survive. Hell, you had no idea you've survived this week. Damned Luck pitying you perhaps, for Her sick game. 

The Raccoon City PD was no longer a safe haven like the radio repeated, a turned labyrinth of monsters, and the group of people you escaped with (stupidly taking your chances outside, running out as quickly as you had run inside) and traveled with dwindled in number as many small hordes of once living and breathing people descended upon you all, multiple times. Until more people broke off on their own. Until more people became part of the living dead numbers. Until it was just you. Just you. Alone. 

Didn't anyone learn about the buddy system? 

And, somewhere in the middle of this all on the sixth or seventh day, your outer forearm inked with your soulmate mark -- a large raven feather that broke into smaller silhouettes of the same bird, flying off your skin if it could -- burned with the damned telling sign that you were close to that First Meeting. That they, whoever they are, were close. And very much alive. 

Great. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse and your soulmate had to arrive somewhere within this large ass city. That would be the cards dealt by Lady Luck. And your luck would pin either of you as dead before arrival. 

You couldn't curse your bad luck enough. On the verge of leaving, meager and stolen supplies packed up in a motorbike you've hidden in a secure space and a route planned out of the city, you hesitated. A settling sinking feeling sat in your stomach like a heavy stone. You can't leave your soulmate here to die. With a growl, you shoved your assorted pockets and bags with as much ammo, medical supplies, food and water as possible, finality lining every movement. 

Damn it! Damn them!

Following the burning pulse radiating in strength as you, hopefully, close the distance, you leave your own safety bubble to seek your soulmate out. Out in the rainy night in this dreary city. Bundled in the remains of a warm outfit. Whatever fucking idiot was roaming around here better be worth it. 

Hours of slow going, getting soaked to the bones, avoiding the hoards as they swarmed the PD station again as a loud siren and explosions echoed in the night air, your heart sank. 

You gotta be kidding me. 

That would be the most likely place in the city, wouldn't it? 

Damn your luck. 

(On any other day, you wouldn't curse your lack of luck to incur more of Lady Luck's wrath; even now, you're still alive thanks to the whimsies of Luck and the Fates. And firearm and survival lessons of your paranoid and militaristic step-fa-- your dad. For another countless time this week, you wished he was still alive so you could thank him for his hindsight for all his 'ridiculous' teachings. Still: fucking damn your luck--) 

Stop. 

Control your breathing, even as panic laced every inhale, every exhale. Focus on keeping quiet, on this warmer-colder game of tag with someone you don't even know, on keeping alive because what's the point if you die in process? 

Focus on the undead blocking your path to get back into the metal graveyard of the museum-turned-police-station before you. 

Aim at the back of its head.

Line up the shot. 

Inhale.

Steady.

Gotta thank the old man when you die a natural death of old age and see him in the afterlife. Or something like that, you thought, firing the shot. 

The creature shrieked a horrifying hiss as the bullet hit, like someone released air out of a balloon, a squeaky sound that you still internally wince, unused to it even after this week. It twisted and turned, head lulled back, and you ready-aimed-fired a quick second bullet before you could see its face. You didn't want another ghost of their human self to add into the mix of your dreams -- whenever you did find a safe space to sleep next. 

The body dropped to the wet ground in an awful slump. 

Exhale. 

White puff of cold air left your lips as you stared at the body for a second to see it unmoved. Quickly, you checked your surroundings for any other zombies; four more shots fired, three downed dead, three more bullets in your P220's mag. Another prayer casted towards the capricious Lady Luck: please, don't summon a licker.

An empty street was all that greeted you. Nothing attracted by the sound of bullets firing, nothing but an unnerving feeling that you were being watched, shivering beyond the coldness of the rainy night. A loud scraping sound kept you low to the ground, half bent over and nearly squatting, as you casted your eyes around, looking for signs of threats. 

No threats. Street still empty. Empty, except two survivors in the distance, exiting from the Station’s parking lot. 

From where the noise came from. 

On the other side of the sinkhole and its halted repair started before this week of hell. 

You managed to get yourself to the edge of it, avoiding two zombies eating flesh along the way, them happily and thankfully ignoring you as horrifying chewing and slurping sounds loudly scraped against your own gut. Managed just quick enough as the two strangers had their back to you, one working their way to get inside the gun store, its neon sign lighting highlighting the woman's silhouette with a fade glow of red. 

"Hey!" you wanted to scream, but the word stuck in your throat. It wouldn't do anyone good to scream here and attract monsters. Selfishly, you wanted someone to turn around, to see you in the distance, to wait for you-- As if you could be heard, the other silhouette turned, ever so slightly, enough for you to read the miniscule and faded letters of R.P.C. across his chest. 

The mark hiccuped in its heat, only fluttering coolness the brief moment you both saw each other. Your breath hitched in your throat. 

Him. It's him.

The door to the gun shop opened and, even from your spot across the way, you heard the woman call out to the cop, distance obscuring what she actually said however. She entered the shop without a backward glance. He hesitated, giving you a look you were too far away to read, before following in after his partner. 

You couldn't help but rub your fingers along the cooling shape of a feather on your arm, a silent prayer on your lips to the Fates or fucking Luck or whatever listening to give whatever goodwill you had and send it to him. Let him survive. 

And then you were alone again.

Let him be safe. Please. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A curse hissed out of your mouth, unwanted as a zombie bit at your not dominant arm, the one burning with the feather soulmate mark. The wound's deep enough where blood blossomed under your sleeves, but you yelped as you wrenched your arm free. Its teeth pulled away with your skin and shirt fabric in between its maw. It growled. You shoved the barrel of your pistol against its temple, firing. 

Blood and brains splattered onto your long sleeves, already soiled with sewage and dried gore. A loud groan left your lips, frustrated at your sloppiness over the fact you were bleeding. Contagion was the least of your worries; you'd been a zombie three times over during this week. But regular infection of an untreated wound? That could kill you. 

Your thoughts stilled as a chilling scream sucked in your breath. 

You should have expected the NEST to be filled with zombies, everywhere else in the city was. It's why you shared your ammo with Claire as she explored her portion of the NEST to unlock the antiviral needed to save Sherry; if anything, she had a better sense of survival than you, especially after the way she fought that terrifying eyeball monster of a once-human. 

What you didn't expect was the fucking licker crawling around on the ceiling. 

You should have.

A high pitched whine sent a chill down your spine, before its long claws scraped across the walls. 

Tensing, you covered your mouth and held your handgun in its direction, hoping that it didn't hear you. You didn't have enough rounds in the mag, hell in general if you had to fight it. Two shots left before reloading. Your pistol’s full eight wouldn't even be enough. 

Circle around it slowly as it seemed to sniff the air (and deluded yourself that it could not smell your disgusting stench of sewer and sweat clinging to you). 

Slowly, foot by foot.  

Freeze as it hissed again.

The door opened, creaking. Both the licker and you tilted towards it. One booted foot in, someone you know by the returning of the intense burning of your forearm in the shape of a raven's feather. 

Him. 

The licker posed to jump in his direction, like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. 

Fuck you Lady Luck and her shitty timing.  

"Careful, licker!" you shouted. 

It whipped around towards you, its loud growling wheeze echoing in the room. Fucking shit-- 

The bastard howled as it lunged forward. 

Into your space. 

Duck -- too late. It jumped on your body, throwing you to the ground as its large claws hit your shoulders. You yelped from the impact. Happlessly, you fired your two shots into its large, brain-like head. The bullets hit, but not the weak spot. 

Another shot rang out in the room. Enough for the licker to hesitate sinking its teeth in your flesh. It erupted in flames as He came closer, holding a fucking flamethrower in his hand. It screamed. Its weight disappeared and you scrambled back on your hands and arms, pain shooting through them in the movement as blood, old and new, smeared along your palms. The smell of burning flesh, nothing like the sweet scent cooking but more ashen and decay, filled your nose, alongside the metallic under layer of blood, your blood. 

The screams died as the licker did, flames simmering down into nothingness alongside its charred and blackened skin. You forced yourself to sit up, groaning in pain. Everything hurt. Your back, your shoulders, your arms especially -- but you couldn't tell if that's because of how heavy you hit the ground or that damned fucking mark that threatened to burn your own arm off. 

He cursed, repeated fucks and shit expelling under breath as he made it to your side. "Here, you're okay, you're okay, I got you."

He pulled out some medical supplies from within his packs. A bottle of hydrogen peroxide. A roll of bandages. Without thinking, he reached for your bleeding arm. 

And the burning stopped, his touch instantly dropped your arm into a freezing chill as his eyes took in the teeth marks ripped in your skin, the bloodied feather and its tiny ravens, ink gradually running clear. You shivered and he did a double-take on you, hand shaking as if he too was dropped below zero. 

A moment paused into an eternity as you caught your breath. In the darkened room with broken flickering lights overhead, dark shadows chiseled his face in sharp angles, despite his youthful look. Stands of light golden blonde hair clung to his forehead, dirtied with grime and sweat. Blue eyes swept over your features, just as you did to him. 

Even in this mess, he was handsome, pretty even. Heat licked your cheeks as your mind wandered on how pretty would he be cleaned up…

"You’re the goddamn idiot,” you muttered under breath, face heating from embarrassment. Talk about a dramatic First Meeting. 

"What?" the stranger asked, strangely breathless. "Hey. Are you okay?"

His eyes widened, blues roaming between your arm and your face again. You didn't answer him, but you said a bit louder, "It’s you."

"It's…me." Words he repeated, but laced with a question. Like he didn’t realize who he was to you. Not until the remaining half an outline of the feather, barely just visible, disappeared entirely as he laid another glance on it.

Nothing. Like you were never marked at all. 

“Oh…”

He knew now.

"Yes, you! The kind of idiot that strolls into an infested city of the undead!" you said, words streaming from your lips in a hiss, holding back your scream as he no longer knelt frozen before you and worked to disinfect your wound. Unwanted tears pricked at the edge of your eyes; you lied that it was because of the sting of the disinfectant, not frustration nor relief to see him. "You were safe up until today!" 

And you could have been okay dying with that knowledge!

He tied the bandage tight, too tight, and you winced from the pain. “Sorry,” he apologized softly, even as his lips pressed into a thin line. “But I had my duty. I couldn’t leave the city without helping.”  

You slapped his hold on you away -- he let you go easily -- and forced yourself to your feet. He followed you quickly, arms reaching out to steady you as you swayed and stumbled onto your feet, sliding on gore and fluids, legs trembling in pain and useless adrenaline. His grip on your arms were tight, hands warm and comforting. 

"Right… Duty.” The word tasted like blood in your mouth. You’ve seen enough people die for the sake of duty; you’ve seen others die for less honorable reasons. Something hot burned down your grime-streaked cheeks. “And I was leaving. I was leaving," you confessed. “I couldn’t, not with you here. Guess we’re both the idiots here.”  

A faint chuckle, akin to puffs of air more than anything, left his lips. Slowly, as if you were a spooked cat, his hands found your cheeks, thumbs running comforting wipes along the trails left by your tears. You tried not to lean into his touch, craving that comfort from him selfishly.

"Thank you." It's soft, embarrassed even as his eyes gaze just a little out of your reach, and his cheeks tinted with pink. 

"Don't thank me yet,” you scoffed, “Now we can die together." 

Another laugh. "Fair enough. It's not safe out here." 

"Duh, Mr. Obvious.” 

But he smiled like nothing happened, a cheeky little grin that warms you even further. Oh shit, he's cute. "It's Kennedy, actually. Leon Kennedy," he said, introducing himself. 

You gave yours, rolling your eyes as he repeated it reverently. 

"We're going to get out of here alive. I swear it," Leon promised with such conviction you believed him. “Okay?” 

He waited until you nodded to release your cheeks, but not before his eyes lingered on your lips. As if you didn’t share the same thoughts. Later, later. 

Instead, Leon grabbed your gun from off the floor. Relief settled your limbs as your hands found the familiar metal of your handgun. Silently, you reloaded, as he did the same, hands reaching for his shotgun. 

Not dead yet, still a chance.

Taking a deep breath, you grinned at him as fake confidence steered your lips, "Alright then, pretty boy, lead the way. I got your back." 

"Pretty boy?"

[mrpenguinpants]

Childe: First Kiss HCs

I tend to make things gender neutral by not putting in pronouns and just using “you” but you can definitely read this as female^^ But I completely agree, I love this boy so much. He’s my favourite character to play (im so sorry razor) until Xiao comes out. I literally have a genshin team named “waiting for xiao” and it’s just Childe and Zhongli haha. 

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Today’s appreciation post goes to childes-starconch. Fitting that this is a Childe fic but ty for your support^^ I always notice you pop up as soon as I post a fic and I really enjoy seeing you. Hopefully you read this since tumblr won’t let me tag people, for whatever reason I don’t know anymore, but just saying hey, I see you 💕💕

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I’m just gonna piggy back off my last Childe fic. I’m sorry. 

Semi Part 1:  Fiance HCs [honestly, one of my favourites haha] 

Xiao Ver:  First Kiss HCs

Venti & Kaeya: Mistletoe HCs

Venti, Xingqiu, and Razor: Kissing HCs

[Masterlist]

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[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@hanniejji​  @mikeysbike​ @unionwitch​ @musekala​ @twistedsunnshiii​ @stanzastic​ @akaasea​ @xoneaboveallx​ @adoring-ghost​ @asheseiler​ @childelover​@youaskedfurret​ @snowy224 

@youaskedfurret​ @diaxfeliz​ @wintergreen-aix​ @dandelily​ @thegayrubberducky​ @lovelykittycatmeow​ @yuunoagivesmelife​  @dokidokisama @simpygrimoire @minakohasmanyhusbandos​ @strwbrry-lia    @tigerpriestess 

For some reason I can’t @ certain people. I’m talking to tumblr about it. 

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Childe: First Kiss HCs

Childe was never one to shy away from affection, be it holding your hand in his or wrapping an arm around you, he was always happy to be close to you. He was always a bit territorial which lead to some embarrassing situations for you but it was from a good place in his heart. But when it came to public kisses, he preferred to keep it between you two. It felt too private of a moment that he didn’t want to broadcast to the rest of the Fatui, especially to the other Harbingers. That is to say, if he actually kissed you in the first place. For all the two braincells Childe had, one was fighting and the other was protecting his loved ones, just imagining kissing you was too much for him and he needed to go find some poor recruit and beat his inner problems out. The Fatui recruitment process would always dwindled down during his inner turmoil sessions that Scaramouche himself, had to throw his goddamn hat at Tartaglia, and yell at him to hurry up and fix his problem. It was clogging up the air. 

When he tried to think about it, it shouldn’t be this hard to simply lean in for a kiss. But it was his first and while Childe might run into whatever danger or prospect of a fight without a second thought, he didn’t want to ruin it. What if he accidently bonked his forehead with yours? He should remove his mask then right? Just in case? He’s only given forehead and cheek kisses to his younger siblings so it should be the same right? Yeah he could do this, this was just another battle for Tartaglia to conquer! 

But whenever he would see you or you would both sit and bask in each other’s presences. He couldn’t bring himself to initiate something or heck, even looking at your face made him a bit hot under the collar in sub-zero temperatures. He can almost hear Scaramouche and Signora laughing maniacally at him behind their hands. He’s the youngest of the Harbingers, he should get a “get out of jail for free” card that all youngest children have whenever they get into trouble. But in this case it’s murder. He quickly slaps his cheeks to get his mind off fighting for one second which startles you beside him. 

The first time you’ve seen Childe shy was when he first confessed to you, stuttering that he liked you and just really badly wanted to hold your hand without using the frost of Sneznaya as an excuse. You flushed pink but nodded that you returned his feeling and slipped your hand in his. Whatever shyness Childe had was quickly wiped off his face and he cheered and brought you in for an eskimo kiss. Rubbing your nose with his as he laughed in joy, the tips of his ears and cheeks still coloured pink. You always hold that memory dear to your heart because not only was it the start of your relationship, it was the first time you felt you were staring at Ajax. Not Childe. Not Tartaglia. Just Ajax. 

But now, you’re not to sure what to call this. Lately he seemed to be out of it, always staring off into space or frowning at some poor poor snowmen that did not deserve that much pressure.  Was being a harbinger starting to take it’s toll on him? Did something terrible happen to his family or was the Tsaritsa being too hard on him? You were beginning to get concerned because you’ve never seen this much mental turmoil in him. This never really happened before and he usually bounced back pretty fast. Would it be better if you left him be and he sorted it out himself? Would it be better if you asked? 

Childe is startled out of his thoughts of possible committed murder because he’s too scared to ask his own partner if kissing was something they could do, when he felt your hand slowly nudge his. No matter how many times he holds your hand, you’re always warm. It could be snow storming outside and the only heater he would need would be you. He offers a small but warm smile as he laces his fingers with yours. He remembers when you first started going out he was so scared about boundaries and what was okay. Brushing your fingers together and overall, not doing a good job at saying he wanted to hold hands that even he cringes slightly at his younger self - even though it wasn’t that long ago and he’s doing it again just with kisses - but now he borderline clings to you like some overgrown animal. Scaramouche’s words, not his. 

It’s still evening in Snezhnaya and the Tsaritsa herself seems to be taking a vacation because there’s only a light snow falling down between the two of you. You’re both sitting outside his house while his family is inside, warm and having fun playing games. He breathes in, closes his eyes, and let’s the world fade away just a second. He slowly brings his other hand to cup your cheek, his hands are always numb and the tiny pin pricks are dancing on his fingers again before they fade away too, and guides you towards him so he can place a small kiss on your fore head. Then tilts your face to the side so he can kiss your cheek. Brings his nose near yours to nuzzle against. Then hesitates when his lips hover above yours. 

“Ajax is there something bothering you?” you ask softly, you’re so close to each other that all you can see is him. The small puffs of breathe you both take bounce off each other’s face before evaporating into the air. You never really took the time to appreciate Ajax’s bright blue eyes. His pupil from this distance seems to be slitted too. 

“Hm? Ah no, of course not. Where did you get that idea?” he tries to laugh it off and tries to move back before you quickly bring your hand to the back of his head and nudge him forward so he stays in place. It wasn’t like him to run away from something, it was really starting to bother you what could get Ajax of all people to retreat from something. 

“You know if there’s anything that’s bothering you, you can talk to me right?” you asked as you brought both your hands to cup his face as you softly rubbed circles just under his ear. He closed his eyes and hmmed happily at your actions and nuzzled further into your hand before turning his head inward to kiss your palm. Before relaxing and parting his eyelids half way as he seemed to be back in concentration mode. Before awkwardly saying what was troubling him these past few days. 

“So wait, you mean to tell me that this entire time I was worried about you. How out of it you were and how many fights you’ve been getting into. Was because you wanted a kiss?” you asked dumfounded as he pouted but nodded. You sighed but bonked your foreheads together softly, “You’re such an idiot....C’mere.” 

“Wha-” 

You grab the scarf on his harbinger uniform and tug him forward as your lips slot over his. You kiss him hard and for a few seconds as Ajax just stares at you as his brain tries to catch up, before his eyes seem to dilate and he kisses you back just as hard. All his past worries are quickly thrown out the window as slowly pushes you on your back, cushioned by the soft snow, as he basks in the feeling. It’s a bit sloppy given this is both your first kisses but that’s what adds to the charm. You both have to separate at some point for oxygen but Childe looks like he’s ready to dive in again. 

“One more,” he pants as he goes in for another but you quickly place your hand in the way so he ends up kissing your palm. He whines but you chuckle at him, place a small kiss on the back of your palm of where his lips would be, and push him off you. You’re both still outside his families home and you aren’t in the mood to be caught in this kind of position. Especially not in front of his younger siblings. He rests his cheek on your shoulder and looks at you, trying to make his eyes bigger and look like a kicked puppy. You sigh as you give a small pet on his head, running your fingers through your hair. What a troublesome partner you’ve gotten. 

“Alright, one more.” 

---

My entire taglist was just made for the  “Enemies” to “Lovers” post and I still haven’t started hehe. Trust me, it’s coming. I’ve got requests for it and we’re slowly getting there. The entire time I’m writing this I’m just thinking “honey..no, that’s not how this works.” God you’re so dumb. I hate you. You’re my favourite character. Pour one out for Xiao, I was going to make this a crack fic too but ended up making it somewhat serious. 

So yeah, xiao is a cat and childe is a fox. In other news, water is wet. But I did actually google fox behaviors just for this shitpost. ALRIGHT TIME TO SPIN THE WHEEL OF “WILL TUMBLR BE NICE TO ME?” OR DO I NEED TO DOUBLE REPOST AGAIN. 

[twentytworoses]

The Fates (Maleficent AU)

"M–my Lord," a rat-faced man speaks, knees sinking to the floor. "I know where he is, I know where Harry Potter is."

The Lord on his throne laughs. A cold, hollow sound that could shake the fear out of the ground.

"It would seem," Voldemort smiles, "the Fates are on my side."

(As the Lord sits and prowls on his glory of grandeur, above the clouds, the Fates snicker with shaking heads for they are not, in fact, on his side)

They have done well to hide his location.

Kept in the deepest, most dangerous parts of the woods. Secured under a barrier of protective magic. It takes a while for Voldemort to pierce through the wall. That fool, Dumbledore did his homework.

Slowly and slowly, he lurks closer to the crib. He is disgusted to find the thing already staring at him.

With big, green eyes that shone a light of innocence only seen by youths, this thing, his would-be destroyer, looks nothing more than a common baby with a head as big as a potato sack. Truly, an oversized thing. Offended, he is, that the majority of townsfolk considers this to be their earthly savior.

Either way, Voldemort would gladly crush their hopes once he encloses his claws around his neck and squeezes.

His oversized head tilts up, curiously staring at the face of his soon-to-be killer.

Then softly smiles. A grin wide enough to display multiple gaps of his small baby teeth.

The oversized thing raises a hand, fingers dwindling in a plea to come closer. Amused by the request, Voldemort reaches out a hand of his own.

His palm and fingers are significantly longer, both in length and width, dwarfing the oversized thing's own hand. With this, he could easily crush his wrist, and finally be rid of this ungodly thing.

"A–are you going to kill him yet my lord?" the rat asks, and for a blissful minute there, Voldemort nearly forgets his existence

He looks back at the oversized thing. His would-be killer. Then smiles wickedly, "Not yet."

(Voldemort is curious—

What would the boy become? Does the prophecy hold any relevance? Is this boy just an oversized thing with an oversized head and oversized eyes?

To not be careless, he'd send Barty to watch over the boy. In case the prophecy indeed holds some truth.

Perhaps some day he'd visit that cottage himself)

"My Lord," his servant bows his head. "I have returned, and came to report you per usual."

"Speak, Barty."

"Harry Potter will be turning eight next week. He does his morning routine as follows; fetching water on a well, baking or tidying the garden, rolling down grassy hills, speaking to faeries and sometimes disregarding his godfathers' warnings or commands." He clears his throat. "He is a curious boy, indeed. It seems he has no knowledge of what lurks outside the barrier, and I believe, some day, he would be killed by wild beasts lurking on those murky woods if he ever tries to indulge on his curiosity."

Of course. A sigh almost escapes Voldemort's lips. Every year, as he grows, his young would-be destroyer becomes bolder and braver and perhaps losing braincells along the way. "Keep an eye out. That boy would die and seal his own fate before I could."

"My Lord, do you mean I simply observe... Or do I find a way to stop it?"

"Let no harm come to him. He should not perish." Not yet.

Many years

come to

a pass,

Voldemort decides to visit.

"How old is he?"

"Eleven, my Lord."

Voldemort hums.

That oversized thing— is not so oversized anymore. His head shrunk, eyes no longer overtaking most of his face and the child-like innocence Voldemort had distinctly remember before is mostly gone.

He's taller now. The softer lines of his face disappearing, replaced by older features and sharp angles; the evidences of his still maturing body.

"Is this a normal occurrence?" Voldemort asks, frowning at the obscured sight of a raven-haired boy sleeping beneath the thick, long grasses.

"Yes." Barty presses his mouth, biting an amused snort. "He usually sleeps here in this time of day. The friendlier creatures has deemed him Sleeping Beauty because of it."

"Hm."

(The boy slumbers, plays, runs and laughs. Unbeknownst to a crow and a Lord watching him beneath the shadows.)

Unbeknownst to a Lord who has taken too much interest in a way this boy smiles)

The boy left the barrier.

Voldemort seethes through his gritted fangs. Perhaps he'd finally get rid of his misfortunes and end him. One less stupid thing in this world filled of stupid things.

He encounters a galavanting grey-hound wolf, and decides to threaten question him.

"Where is he?"

The hound whines from his wrenching grip around its hairy neck. Voldemort has no time to waster. For all he knows, that boy could be slaughtered and his organs are left dangling somewhere in the trees.

He tears through the hound's mind, ignoring its cry of protest, and peers into his earlier memories.

In his search, he finds a glimpse of memory, a boy going inside a house built in saccharine sweets, fooled by its false illusion of security, and there, he is invited inside by a kind-looking witch.

That same witch, from what Voldemort knows, has a penchant for green-eyed boys who smelled of summer breeze and freshly rolled grass.

He growls.

Voldemort arrives right in the moment that the witch is ready to stew herself a next meal, pushing a white-stricken Harry Potter into her blazing oven.

Behind her, she is unaware of the hellfire she brought on herself.

(I knew it, are the first words that left the boy's mouth once the gag on his mouth is released.

Knew what?

You're real, he breathes out, disbelief. The faeries warned me of a stranger that watches me in secret. I had my suspicion... I remembered red eyes staring at me when I was a baby and for a while, I thought it was simply a weird dream. Was that you?

Yes.

You're real.

I am.

They stare. And the boy visibly swallows. What's your name?

I'm not sure you want to know.

He laughs like the hum of summer breeze. Why wouldn't I want to know the name of my protector?

When Voldemort provides no reply, the boy frowns. Oh. You really won't tell me? Fine, I'll just call you Fairy Godmother, that's what I call you to the faeries anyways.

Cheeky boy.

Fine, he says in final.)

"I was wondering when you'll appear again."

"I was unaware that you were waiting for me at all."

"It's my birthday," he says. "Is that why you came? Have you returned to me with a gift?"

Yes. "No, of course not."

Harry sits on his bed, legs crossed against the other. The snores of his godfathers hum behind thin, cracking walls. If Harry were to scream, his guardians would be informed within second.

But Voldemort could easily lure Harry outside, far away where no one could hear him at all. He'd believe in anything. This naive, foolish thing.

Harry blinks, moon-lit glasses splayed awkwardly over glittering green eyes. "Fairy Godmother?"

Voldemort scowls. "You insist on calling me that? I am neither a fairy nor a mother."

Full lips quirk into a sly smirk. "I wouldn't have to if you simply gave me your name."

Prickled by a sudden annoyance, his hand itches to—

Hold him?

Kill him?

Is there a difference?

He ignores this feeling.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

Already. Voldemort observes Harry and finds the image of a stupid, oversized thing inside balled up blanket too distant. The memory of that night grey and fraying on the edges. "Come."

"Where are we going?" Harry whispers, hastily following Voldemort out the cottage's oak door, and only then does he notice how the boy walks barefoot, wearing nothing more than a billowing night dress made of white, see-through cotton, his tanned legs seemingly bare underneath.

When late morning wind blows, Harry shivers. Voldemort refrains to mention it. He continues to dash forward as Harry struggles to follow along his longer strides.

At some point, they reach the end of the barrier. Harry freezes.

"...will it be alright?"

"You doubt yourself now? This is not the first time you stepped out of boundary."

"Yeah, but that was before! I'm not stupid to risk it again. Who knows what's in there at this time of day..."

"I'm here," Voldemort claims. "No creature would dare cross us."

"And you're so sure of this because...?"

"I just am," Voldemort responds coolly. "Unless you want to go back—"

"No!" the boy cuts in. "Fine. I'll come with you."

How remarkably easy that Voldemort nearly laughs.

("Is that...?"

Voldemort watches Harry gape, stunned. His moon-lit glasses glinting behind star-struck eyes. "Indeed. It's a unicorn."

Harry laughs, and Voldemort steps back when the creature of light threads closer to the boy. Watching the young thing with intelligent eyes. Its head bows, and Harry's jaw hinges free. Then with a shaky hand, touches its forehead, his hand engulfing through pure, vivid brightness.

Harry looks to his side. Grinning at him with all of his teeth present.)

"Will you come back?"

Without hesitation, he responds, "No."

"But you will, right?" Harry says, ignoring his initial reply. "You've been watching me for a long time. I know that black crow who spies over me on a basis somehow connects to you, I've been seeing it since I was a baby. Now, I can see you."

"Listen here, brat." He points a claw on the edge of his jaw, an inch away from piercing the skin. "I have other matters to attend, more important than playing tea party with a kid like you."

Harry stills like a puppet without its master. Until, he adds with a cheeky smile, "...but you will, right?"

Voldemort Apparates.

(Every time he comes back, he thinks this time, I'll kill him this time.

Only to come back to his castle, annoyed at this boy who easily slept on his presence, who's moon-glasses hid the starlight of his eyes, who's scent of summer wind and sunlight chases him everywhere.

It repeats the next year.

Then the next.

And the next—)

How old is he? Somehow, Voldemort always forget. And each time, he asks—

"Fifteen. He's turning sixteen tonight," Barty answers. Staring at him intently. "Will this be the year, my Lord?"

The crow-animagus looks at him in question, halting his breaths as if praying for a miracle.

Voldemort knows Barty, throughout the years of being the boy's observer, has grown aweak for him.

"We shall see."

Barty isn't pleased with the vague response but smartly keeps it to himself.

( Harry brightens at the sight of Voldemort. "You're here," he says, blinking shyly. "You said something about a party?"

"I did." Voldemort's scarlet eyes slide to the boy's form. "You're wearing that?"

"What?" Harry pouts. "Is there something wrong with it?"

It isn't but it is rather... revealing.

His dress shirt hangs loosely around his frame, collar spread out to display wispy collarbones and an infuriatingly amount of free-for-all skin. And if Voldemort observes any closer, he might even see an outline of a well-defined chest and perked nipples behind the thin sheen material of his shirt.

"Nothing," Voldemort says a tinge too quickly. Voice dry. A little choked. "Let's just go.")

Voldemort disappears the moment they step into the festivity.

With lanterns hanging above twisty twigs, with people, vampires, ghosts, faeries and a few centaurs gather together to dance. All gaudy lights and loud music, Voldemort hates it in the same intensity as Harry adores it.

Harry drinks a variety of liquor, from cherries, pumpkin and carrots. He explores dishes he hasn't tried, and glances discreetly to the creatures he's heard but never seen personally up close.

A vampire even asks him to dance, his eyes, for a brief second, lingering to the delicate space of Harry's neck.

Harry cocks his head to the side, considering his options, before nods to his invitation, letting an arm take his waist and guiding him to the crowd of swaying bodies.

Voldemort does not care. He does not care when anger licks his temper, and the flames rise out to burn the vestiges of control he has left. The burning desire coils in his bones and he wants to—

To steal him away

To lick the teasing skin of his neck

To explore his hands under his shirt and watch him writhe under his touch

What he wants does not matter.

That boy will die, he swears to it, he swears—

( "I'm returning you to your godfathers—"

A tipsy Harry Potter pouts— pouts with fruit-scented lips, high off in the colour of his cheeks, as his dress shirt somehow draws looser and looser. "But I'm still dancing."

Voldemort shoots a glare at Harry's dancing partner from behind. "Not anymore. He left."

His partner pales, and does, in fact, leaves before disappearing out of sight.

Harry is stubborn, and wretches away his arm, folding them against his chest like a spoiled brat. "You didn't dance with me."

Irritable, Voldemort answers back, "You never spoke interest for it."

"That's because you left before I could," Harry grumbles, his dragon boot stomping on the ground.

"Next time."

The boy peers at his face. "You won't leave this time?"

"I promise."

And that seems enough to break Harry's dampened mood, he smiles, not to its usual cheerful extent, but its there, and it's still bright. Like his moon-lit glasses and starlight eyes. "Okay."

He grabs Voldemort's hand, tight and trustful.)

This is it.

Kill him.

Apparate to the furthest parts of the woods and kill him

Kill

Him

The boy is near-asleep, eyelids fluttering with drowsiness. Gently, Voldemort places him to bed.

It never fails to surprise him how his prophecy boy could fall asleep lighter than a feather. However, he notices Harry is not quite aslee yet, just conscious enough to mumble, "...will you ever tell me your name?"

"Not yet."

Harry lets out a half-hearted chuckle, eyes completely closed. "You said yet. Does this mean you'll tell me one day?"

"Maybe."

"You always seem to keep secrets from me. Will I never know or is that also a not yet?"

"Will you ever stop asking meaningless questions?

"And are they?" Harry whispers. "Are they really meaningless?"

Voldemort plucks the glasses out of the boy's face, admiring the way Harry's face appear softer without them. "For now, they are. Go to sleep."

He looks tired, body sprawled in a position that could tempt even the most proudest of men. And for a moment, he remembers Harry's earlier instance with the vampire. Imagining how that vile creature must've placed his hands on Harry as if he has a right— the beast in him howls for blood.

Leaning down, he sucks a small, pale mark on his neck.

Harry is fast asleep. By tomorrow he'd wake up with the sting of his fangs.

The boy, now aged sweet sixteen at the stroke of midnight, lies asleep. Neck claimed by a love bite as Voldemort watches him still.

He thinks, next year, he will kill him, for sure.

(He is not aware the Fates above him shake their heads at the man who's not aware he has already fallen)

[cuddlepilefics]

Hug me again, I don't feel good

Fandom: Stray Kids

Sickie: Jeongin

Caregivers: Stray Kids

Prompt: Fever @sicktember

No one’s POV.:

Stray Kids members always tended to drown their maknae in affection and although he always pretended to hate it, Jeongin secretly liked it. As long as the didn’t undermine his independence that is. Him pretending to hate their hugs, led to the members toning it down a bit, only going full out when they were in a teasing mood and felt like going on their youngest’s nerves. Today they had had to get up early, having a packed schedule ahead of them and not having slept much, the mood ranged from sleepy to grumpy. Jeongin certainly fell into the latter category. He wasn’t usually moody when he was tired but when he was woken up this morning, he felt more exhausted than he had when going to bed the previous night. As soon as they were in the car, he leaned his head on Hyunjin’s shoulder, dozing off again. Considering it was a rather long drive, most of them were trying to get a few more moments of shut eye. Their day would start with a photo shoot, followed by an interview and an afternoon of dance practice. To say Jeongin wasn’t looking forward to it would have been an understatement. He didn’t mind the photo shoot, which was comparably the least tiring activity of the day. The interview wasn’t too bad either but he really dreaded their dance practice, feeling too tired to move. Maybe he’d just need to wake up properly and he’d feel more energized over the course of the day.

While they took turns getting their make-up done, the group slowly started to come to life more. Chan had had his second coffee of the day, making the mistake of getting Felix one too, who was now going through a variety of fortnite dances and hyping Jisung up. The rapper didn’t even need coffee to go crazy, merely someone else he was sharing a braincell with. Together the two tried their hardest to get a reaction from Changbin by annoying him but the older kept a straight face, simply ignoring the pair. At some point, even Chan joined them. Minho and Hyunjin had originally started planning their dance practice but had soon gone over to teasing each other, which escalated to Minho threatening his dongsaeng. Seungmin and Jeongin really seemed like the most normal ones in the group. On other days, Jeongin might have joined his hyungs, having fun and fooling around but today he just couldn’t seem to shake his sleepy haze. Maybe he should get himself a coffee too, since it seemed to have worked wonders on Chan and Felix. Unfortunately, the photo shoot started before Jeongin had the chance to get coffee but the boy pushed the thought away. Busying himself would certainly do the trick too.

The photo shoot didn’t go as well as Jeongin would have liked. Usually, he had no issues with the bright lights surrounding him but they sure made the temperature on set toasty. The maknae was sweating much more than he was used to during photo shoots, even having to get his make-up retouched multiple times. This wasn’t like him and it was humiliating. The staff already clicking their tongues at the boy constantly needing his make-up fixed. Aside from the humiliation, Jeongin felt plainly disgusting with his clothes sticking to him. As his mood was dwindling, his discomfort became more apparent to himself and to the photographer, who kept reminding him to smile authentically. How could he smile authentically right now? He was sore from exercising the previous day, he was burning in his skin, his clothes stuck to him and pretty much everyone on set was annoyed with him. No, smiling seemed like the least thing he wanted to do right now, yet Jeongin always smiled. Maybe not as convincingly as usual but he smiled.

The more time passed, the more the hectic surroundings were getting to him. He was pretty much melting in the thick clothes and was slowly developing a headache, with how bright everything was. The flashing lights were worse though, leaving him feeling disoriented as he tried to follow the instructions given to him as fast as possible in hopes of getting things over with. Sweat was beading his forehead but instead of sending him to get his make up retouched once again, the photographer decided to take a few last pictures, which he’d edit later on, before releasing the boy back to the waiting area. A few of the members still needed to get their individual shots taken, so it was rather quiet back there. Jeongin debated removing his make-up completely but he didn’t want to bother anyone to put another full make-up on him for their interview later. This wasn’t his first photo shoot, so why had he been struggling so badly? In a matter of minutes, the smile he had plastered on, faltered and a single tear trailed down his cheek. Then another. Pursing his lips, Jeongin tried his hardest to calm down and hold the tears back. He didn’t want to mess up his make-up even more. The harder he tried though, the harder it got to keep it together. Yet he only allowed himself tiny, quiet sniffles after already being a burden to so many people so early in the day. He just wanted to be professional.

His efforts were in vain though, when Chan entered the waiting area after finishing his shots. He knew his dongsaeng well enough and calmly went over hugging the younger. “What’s up?”, the leader hummed, taking a step back when Jeongin tensed in his arms. The maknae was already sweating and he didn’t want to be touched, feeling as disgusting as he felt at the moment. “Frustrated”, Jeongin muttered, avoiding eye contact with his hyung, “was holding everyone back with how often I needed to get my make-up fixed.” – “It’s alright. Don’t worry, everyone who’s stood under those floodlights will understand. It does get toasty there sometimes”, Chan assured. He knew he’d probably feel the same if he was in Jeongin’s position, so he made a mental note to make sure the boy wouldn’t get teased for it. The maknae had already accepted that crying had ruined his make-up beyond what could be fixed and accepted the make-up wipe his hyung handed him. Still sniffling quietly, he scrubbed at his face to get it all off. He already contemplated what to tell the staff, who’d need to reapply everything for their interview earlier. At some point, he had managed to pull himself together but still looked a bit gloomy, besides, his face had taken a flushed pink shade, probably from how roughly he had rubbed it. Handing him a bottle of water, Chan sighed: “You feeling better now?” Jeongin shrugged. Did he? He was still just as hot as he had been previously and his head still hurt, through he wasn’t as disoriented. It was nice and quiet now, there were less people and it was less bright, so he had probably just gotten overwhelmed earlier. “I think today’s just not really my day”, he pouted, “I feel like I still haven’t managed to wake myself up and my head hurts from all the chaos.” – “Should we go and get you some coffee? Might at least help for the interview”, Chan offered, “Come on, let’s get out of here for a bit.”

Chan took his dongsaeng to a coffee shop nearby. They could have gotten coffee somewhere closer but he wanted to give the younger some space from their work environment. Jeongin however shuddered the moment he stepped foot outside the building. It wasn’t cold outside but the temperature change messed with his body. The maknae didn’t even notice how he started to walk progressively closer to Chan till the older wrapped an arm around his shoulders, asking: “Are you cold?” Jeongin shook his head but was betrayed by another shiver running down his spine. ‘That’s odd’, Chan noted but decided not to point it out. Instead, he just let the younger stay as close as he wanted. That proved to be of great help when Jeongin stumbled, tripping himself and only being saved the fall by the leader’s arms around his middle. “S-Sorry”, he laughed shakily, already tearing up again. “No, it’s okay”, Chan assured, moving away when the younger regained his balance. That resulted in a whine from Jeongin, who moved along, leaning against the Aussie. “Innie, what’s going on?”, the leader frowned worriedly, confused by the maknae’s behavior. Realizing his actions, Jeongin straightened up and mumbled: “Dizzy.” Why couldn’t the other hug him again? It was exactly what he needed right now, with how upset and cold he felt.

From that moment on, Chan kept a very close eye on Jeongin. He really didn’t seem to be himself today. After they had gotten coffee and returned to the venue, the youngest had gotten comfortable against Felix’ side, who absentmindedly ran a hand up and down the younger’s back. Felix noticed how damp and sticky Jeongin’s shirt still was and offered him to get changed into a fresh one. “No, don’t want to take it off. I’m cold”, the maknae protested, catching most of the members’ attention. Shaking his head, Felix sighed: “Yeah, no wonder you are cold. Your shirt is wet. You’ll feel warmer in a dry one.” – “Hyung, can I have your hoodie?”, Jeongin pouted, giving Hyunjin puppy eyes, who was quick to give it to him. By now, all of them had caught on to their youngest acting weird but could they blame him? They had slept so little, none of them could possibly be in their right mind. At least Jeongin seemed satisfied, pulling the long sleeves of the dancer’s hoodie over his palms. Knowing they’d have the interview next, they all filed into the van.

As soon as they were settled, Jeongin cuddled into Minho’s side, the dancer sitting next to him taken a back. It wasn’t usually Jeongin initiating the skinship but that didn’t mean he minded it. Smiling softly, Minho played with the maknae’s hair and studied the younger’s face. His closed eyes seemed a bit puffy, brows furrowed while sweat beaded his forehead and a small droplet dripped down his temple. Not knowing whether the boy was awake, Minho didn’t dare ask Chan if anything had happened while they were gone. Instead he just decided to let the boy rest on him. Looking up, he met eyes with Jisung, who seemed to think the same. Something wasn’t right. When they arrived, Minho went ahead to talk to Chan, leaving a sleepy Jeongin in his seat. Jisung had stayed behind to wait for the younger, linking their arms but still lagging behind. “Is everything okay, Innie? You seem off”, the rapper asked quietly. At this point, the maknae didn’t feel like keeping up appearances anymore and hesitantly admitted: “I kinda feel off.” – “Are you sick? You know we could let you sit out if you’re sick”, Jisung frowned but his dongsaeng was quick to shake his head, muttering: “I don’t think I am. Probably just slept too little and don’t feel like myself.” The older nodded thoughtfully as he guided Jeongin to get his make-up done again.

Jeongin was the only one needing his make-up done, which gave the rest of the group some time to talk. “He isn’t usually that clingy and he just admitted to feeling off”, Jisung informed and Chan nodded, sighing: “He was really emotional earlier and after almost falling over, he said he was dizzy.” – “Don’t you think he might just be tired? He does tend to get more affectionate when he’s tired”, Hyunjin mused looking at Jisung who had talked to their youngest mere minutes before. Nodding, Jisung pointed out: “He doesn’t think he’s sick and told me he slept to little but I need, who hasn’t? Yet he is the only one that out of it.” – “He seemed to be in pain when we drove here”, Minho disagreed, looking at Chan worriedly. The leader shook his head and sighed: “Let’s just wait, I’m sure Innie would talk to us if something was badly wrong.” Not feeling satisfied with that, Seungmin slipped out of the room, to check on his only dongsaeng privately. He quietly stood in the doorway, watching the younger doze off in the chair. “Do you feel alright, Jeongin-ah? Your face feels really warm”, their make-up noona asked, carefully applying a thick layer of concealer under his eyes to cover the lack of sleep. Jeongin smiled a bit and hummed: “I think the bright lights at the photo shoot heated my skin up a bit. I’m okay.” Seungmin however was only more convinced that the younger was not. Especially now that somebody else was sensing something off as well.

When his make-up was done, the make-up noona glanced at Seungmin and smiled before leaving the two boys alone to talk. “Hey”, Seungmin hummed, sitting down next to Jeongin, “How do you really feel? Something’s not right.” That was enough to bring the younger to tears again and he chewed on his lip, desperately trying to not ruin his make-up again. “H-hyung, I -I don’t know”, he breathed. He cursed himself, why did he have to be so emotional today? When he didn’t elaborate further, Seungmin got up and pulled Jeongin into a hug. He too noticed the heat radiating off the maknae and gently brushed his hand against the boy’s forehead, calmly asking: “Can you describe what you feel? Maybe we can make sense of it.” Jeongin nodded and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “I-I just feel really out of it, like I still haven’t woken up since this morning although I’ve been up for hours and even had coffee with Channie-hyung. My head hurts since the photo shoot and I keep sweating although I’m not hot at all anymore. I’m pretty cold actually”, he admitted with shaky hands, “For some reason I don’t feel really steady on my feet and kinda dizzy and I’m really sore from exercising yesterday. Could – could you hug me again? I don’t feel good.” Seungmin complied instantly, hugging the younger tightly and whispering: “I think you’re sick, Innie. To me it feels like you’re sporting quite a fever, which would explain why you feel the way you feel.” – “I can’t – I can’t be sick. My stomach feels perfectly fine, so it couldn’t be a stomach bug but my nose and throat are perfectly fine too, so it couldn’t be a cold either. None of this makes sense, why does nothing make sense?”, Jeongin whimpered, getting worked up again. “Shh, some bugs come only with a fever but that doesn’t make you any less sick. Does that make sense?”, Seungmin soothed, running his hand up and down the younger’s back. Sniffling quietly, the maknae nodded. Unwrapping himself from his dongsaeng, Seungmin smiled: “Alright, let’s go to the others and see what we’ll do about it, yeah?”

He pulled Jeongin to his feet too but the boy stumbled as soon as he was upright, crashing into Seungmin’s chest. Luckily, the older was quick to react and tightened his arms around the maknae, holding him steady while they waited for the dizzy spell to pass. Then they walked back to the room where the rest of the group was waiting. “Hyung, Innie’s sick and running a fever”, Seungmin announced as they walked up to Chan. Pressing the backs of his fingers against Jeongin’s forehead, the leader frowned: “You’re burning. Why didn’t you say anything?” – “I-I …” – “Hyung, we pieced it all together just now. He wasn’t aware”, Seungmin explained, reassuringly holding the younger’s hand. Jeongin nodded, face crumpling as Chan pulled him into a hug. “Do you want to wait here for us to finish the interview?” – “N-no, I can do it. They don’t have many questions for me anyway”, the youngest insisted. Minho joined them, agreeing: “We can cover for him, he just has to sit and look pretty. It’d be more frustrating to be dragged here for nothing. Afterwards we’ll take you home, yeah Innie?” – “No, I want to go with you”, Jeongin whined, always hating to be alone when he was feeling poorly. “We’ll see about that, let’s just get this interview over with”, Chan settled, seeing that it was their time to go on stage.

It went quite well with Jeongin just sitting there in silence. When they walked off the stage though, the maknae broke down, the tears he had held back, now spilling over. Felix was quick to pull him to a quiet corner of the room, cooing: “What’s wrong?” – “Do-Don’t know”, the younger choked out, his voice cracking pitifully. “Just really emotional, huh?”, Jisung hummed, running his hand through Jeongin’s hair. He had followed them worriedly, only getting more worried when the maknae desperately tried to pull himself together but failed. Watching him struggle like this really broke their hearts. Holding his dongsaeng tight, Felix whispered lowly: “You can cry, Innie. Don’t suppress and bottle it up. If you feel like crying, that’s alright, we don’t judge.” The younger nodded, hiding his face against the dancer’s shoulder. Giving them some privacy, Jisung went to get changed. When he was done, Hyunjin had already taken a bunch of make-up wipes and traded places with Felix, so the Aussie could get changed too. “Come on, let’s get your make-up off, so you can sleep. I bet you’re tired”, Hyunjin hummed, gently removing his dongsaeng’s make-up. He did his best to make the younger boy comfortable and couldn’t help but coo at how adorable Jeongin looked in his hoodie.

They got back into the car, where Jeongin settled against Seungmin, shivering slightly. Chan carefully hung his jacket around his youngest dongsaeng’s shoulders and smiled when the boy’s eyes closed. With how exhausted Jeongin was, it came as a surprise to none when the calm movement of the car lulled him to sleep. Not having the heart to wake him, Chan ended up carrying the maknae up to their dorm and to his bed. Minho soon followed them with a bottle of water and fever-reducers, which he placed on Jeongin’s nightstand, along with a note to take them later, when he woke up. When the two oldest members were satisfied their dongaseng was settled, they left the room and got ready for dance practice. Jisung plugged the maknae’s phone in to charge before leaving his roommate to get some rest. While Minho and Hyunjin discussed their dance practice, Felix grabbed a few plushies and took them to Jeongin’s room, so he wouldn’t feel too lonely while they were gone. They were almost ready to leave, originally scheduled to head straight to the company building from the venue of their interview, so they were running a little late. Changbin decided to make one last trip to the bathroom, running a washcloth under cold water and taking it to the maknae’s room. When he gently brushed Jeongin’s hair out of his face, the boy’s eyes fluttered open, disorientedly blinking up at the rapper. “Shh, go back to sleep”, he shushed, carefully spreading the cold compress on his dongsaeng’s burning forehead. He didn’t want to mention the medicine because that would’ve probably woken the younger up completely and they had agreed to let him sleep at all costs. Jeongin would find the medicine when he woke up. Hoping he’d sleep through most of their dance practice, so he wouldn’t feel lonely, Changbin promised: “We’ll be back before you know it.” Then he snuck out of the room and joined the others, eager to get their practice over with and back to the dorm as soon as possible.

[cindyslesbian]

so since vol 2 has dropped, fix-it fics will come streaming into sites like ao3, however if you’re more interested in a fun, active approach following the season’s conclusion, feel free to join hawkins hellfire rp server!!

u may b thinking ; thena u stupid bitch, y should i waste my time on that?

well...

- it has super cool embeds (not too flashy tho, ofc)

- simple layout (easy to understand)

- minimal roles (avoid the hassle of like a billion reaction roles)

- extra channels (taking suggestions for other interests, games, & opinions!)

now u may also b going ; well this isn’t well prepared, so y should i assume the server is any better?

tbh like u too im slowly fading away after that finale, so my braincells are rapidly dwindling, but I swear on dustin’s mother this’ll be worth ur while. 

also since its fairly new, literally all the characters are up for grabs, ocs are included too. as for AUs, i’ve included a few starters however if you have any ideas for good ones, there’s a channel for that 😌.

im too tired to add more so if ur interested & don’t hate me after this, the link is here !! ty for taking the time to read this utter bullshit ad & have a nice rest of ur day! <33

[maulusque]

consider the following: the old EU Hand of Thrawn duology is the funniest fucking thing

-Thrawn’s been dead ten years. But suddenly he’s back! Holy shit! And last time his whole thing was having a cloning facility and making a bunch of evil clones and also there was an evil luke clone so it’s probably an evil Thrawn clone but no, we can’t do that, we already had at least one evil Palpatine clone, we can’t just keep bringing villains back by cloning them

-so how is Thrawn back?

-get this:

-some Imperial dipshit hired a lookalike conman who does a really good Thrawn impression

-that’s it

-that’s literally it.

-that’s literally how they brought Thrawn back from the dead.

-Grand Admiral Thrawn is literally just this random fucking con artist in blue makeup with glowing contacts who doesn’t know fuck or shit about military tactics

-the conmans’ name is Flim. Fucking Flim. As in, Flim Flam. What the fuck. Where the fuck did they find this guy.

-the imperial dipshit who hired him- a grand moff- teams up with Flim and a former royal guardsman of the emperor to essentially parade fake thrawn around and boost morale in the dwindling imperial remnant.

-and they all hate each other and don’t trust each other and are constantly looking for ways to stab the other two in the back

-and YET. I am getting HIGH-KEY shipping vibes from Moff Dipshit and Mr. “group braincell holder” Guardsman. Whenever the moff does something stupid or flips out and gets all anxious over maybe getting found out, guardguy is just constantly reassuring him and telling him it’s gonna be ok and it’ll all work out fine. And the moff is just like “okay i believe you but i just wish you’d tell me your plans before you do them so i don’t worry so much” and the guardsman is like “of course” and i feel like if these books came out today, the fandom would JUMP on that shit

-there’s this big-name smuggler guy who runs a huge organization, and he finds out that the guy who founded his organization is still alive. The founder was this ruthless horrible person who ended up going kinda crazy and then disappearing. Smuggler guy ends up having to go track him down to ask for help, and he’s convinced the guy’s gonna kill him. 

-PSYCH! founder guy’s an old man now, and on his deathbed suffering from dementia.

-PSYCH! He’s actually fine. He lives in this super cool underground garden and also he’s really chill now. he just kinda hangs out doing his own thing, and he’s super happy that smuggler guy took over for him.

-and i’m listening to this on audiobook and the way the narrator does the founder guy’s voice, i just keep expecting him to end every sentence with “on this, the day of my daughter’s wedding”

-Don Mafia Voice tells smuggler guy what happened to him:

-he got kidnapped by a dark jedi (because sith aren’t a thing. There’s just Jedi, Dark Jedi, and these random monks who hang out near a rift).

-he ended up on degobah. Where YODA just. fucking ended the asshole jedi.

-yoda heals Don Mafia Voice. Which apparently makes him force sensitive???

-Don Mafia Voice is like “sweet” and fucks off and uses his newfound Force abilities to royally fuck everything up. Comes back to Yoda years later and Yoda’s like “wow you sure are an asshole” and Don Mafia is like “oh shit u right” and just. FUCKS OFF into the void, leaving behind his entire organization with zero explanation. He hangs out with the Rift Monks for a while, and they teach him a bunch of wacky force shit that the Jedi don’t know.

-Such as TELEPORTATION. The monk’s ships don’t use hyperspace, they just fucking TELEPORT to where they want to go. NO travel time. seriously people should be paying more attention to THAT because instant travel would be an unbeatable advantage in any conflict

-So you’ve got this old wrinkly mafia boss hanging out in his Retirement Garden, teleporting objects to him and going “ey check out this neat force trick (on this, the day of my daughter’s wedding)”

-the Hand of Thrawn, which everyone is desperately searching for because it’s obviously something Thrawn left behind that could bring victory to the Empire, is literally just a hand-shaped building with a bunch of Thrawn’s old buddies in it.

anyway you all should read this book, or listen to it, because the narration is excellent. hearing Marc Thompson transition from Flim voice to Thrawn voice mid-sentence is just. a TRIP

[bloodthirstymoonstone]

Square One (ooc ramble)

So I thought I’d make a quick post talking about my continued journey into getting my Spicy Mental Health™ treated and how all that’s going. TLDR, I may have isolated the problem as to my noticeable decline with attention span over the past year or year and a half, but the good thing is that there’s probably a very easy way to fix it! Which is definitely good to know!

It gets pretty long winded and vent-y, too, though, so be warned. This is just a Real Ass Scoot Moment With Scoot Being Real, so keep that in mind.

So here’s a realization I made quite recently about my medication. For the longest time (I’m talking nearly 10 years or so) I assumed I didn’t have ADD, I just had anxiety and depression which was mimicking those symptoms. I believed this strongly, and for years despite getting legitimately diagnosed back in middle school (I think I was 13), before my anxiety diagnosis when I was 16. I think this is due in part to a REALLY BAD reaction to the drug Ritalin, which is notorious for making you feel like you’ve drank 10 coffees all at once. I honestly think that experience traumatized me so badly I truly thought I just didn’t have ADD at all.

I also probably believed this, in part, due to the anxiety medication I was on later, which did a great deal more to helping my condition. I won’t say which ones I was on because that would be TMI, but when I moved to Boston in 2016, I was on three different medications to treat my anxiety and depression. One was ancient and I’d been on it since I was first diagnosed back in 2009. One that was prescribed later when my Rock Bottom™ years started (I’m guessing 2011-2012). And then one I got at the tail end of my Rock Bottom™ years, in March of 2014. That last one might have been the one that Defeated The Evil and go the monkey of rampant, unchecked depression off my back for good, as well as a few key lifestyle changes.

Sometime when I moved here, I got a psychiatrist that, in retrospect, was fucking terrible for me. She barely listened to me at all, would shut me down when I came up with solutions she didn’t like, and ultimately discouraged me so much that I stopped doing anything more than going to her to get refills, and totally stopped going to therapy all together. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about my problems anymore, including her, because it was just so discouraging going to her about anything that she tainted the whole process for me. She shamed me for my weight, for not being social and making friends in a city and a part of the country I was totally unfamiliar with, and just never ever seemed to listen to me.

The most egregious case of this is when she fucked with my medication. Remember that list I just gave on the three types of meds I was on when I moved up here? Yeah, now I’m just on the last one. She took me off of the first two in 2016 (I think? Maybe it was 2017 -- my memory is shit), completely against my wishes, and she went totally cold turkey with it, too. I went to her, telling her that I ran out of those two maybe 10 days or so ago and though I wasn’t experiencing any withdrawal symptoms yet, but I’d really like to get back on the combination that had already taken me so far, and she literally refused. Saying “Oh, well, you’ve been off them both for so long already, so let’s see how it goes. I really don’t think you need to be on that much.”

It struck me as weird and panic inducing, even then, but she was adamant about it, saying that she didn’t want to risk me getting Serotonin Syndrome from taking so much medication for depression at once. Which, alright, fair enough, but she didn’t even try to ween me off of them. She just cut me off. But I trusted her judgement as a professional and certainly didn’t want to get sick or even die from taking too much medication, so I listened to her. And I never had a huge, unprompted depressive episode, so hey, maybe things were alright! 

There’s a catch though. The second drug I was introduced to, approximately in 2011? Remember that? Yeah, guess what. I did my own research recently and came to find out that it’s also been known to aid significantly in patients that have ADD but don’t want to be put on stimulants like Ritalin. Because if you have anxiety as well as ADD, it makes you painfully aware of that racing heart sensation. For the past 2+ years, I’ve felt my attention span slipping in ways I couldn’t understand or control, all because someone who didn’t really know me (remember, I’d only moved to this region a few short months before I even saw her) decided to play God with my life and not listen to my totally justifiable fears. 

I feel like all that time, all those abandoned threads and plot ideas, all the shit that I blamed myself for because I just couldn’t understand why it was so hard to pay attention suddenly!!! Is all her fault. I listened to everything she told me to do and then got so conditioned to never questioning her or talking to her about my problems anymore, that I didn’t even raise the difficulties I was having that were adversely affecting my life for what seemed at the time to be no reason at all. I feel cheated and angry. I might have cried a little bit when I realized it. 

The good news in this is that, 1) I don’t have her as a psychiatrist anymore THANK GOD. Last I heard, I think she was leaving the practice (probably because she was treating other patients as terribly as she was treating me), but she’s definitely no longer with the business I frequent. I’ve only met with my new psychiatrist once, and he already seems so much more kind than her, and I’m grateful for him. And 2) getting back on the medication that I was yanked off of should be an easy enough process. I really just have to talk to my new guy and tell him what I want. I’m not interested in going back on the first, because afaik, it wasn’t doing much for me anyways, and maybe serotonin syndrome actually is a problem I should be worried about taking all three at once. But at least I’ll have the two that helped get me through Job Corps and the most stressful move of my life helping me out again.

More than that, I’ve started going to therapy again, and that’s a huge relief as well. I miss my old therapist, but she seems to have moved to another office of the same company that’s slightly further away, but I love the new woman I go to see. She’s so friendly and easy to talk to, and she’s also from out of town, so we get to crack jokes about New England Drivers™, which is always fun, lol. More than that, she’s helped me see that there are good qualities to me instead of All The Things I Want To Fix, like my creativity, sense of humor, and passion for caring about and defending my friends and those I care deeply about. 

If we’re being honest, when I look back at these past years, it still kind of hurts. I can see quite clearly the break where my dwindling attention span started impacting my life and my presence in the RP community (technically it happened before I went indie, which means you guys have been dealing with 2 Braincell Scoot this whole time... My deepest apologies), and how it just kept getting worse and how frustrated I was with myself and things I couldn’t change about it. 

But that’s also the good thing about all this. I can and will get better, hopefully sooner rather than later, and I hope you guys will be around to reap the benefits. I love you guys, and hopefully I’ll be able to get to some replies soon! Either on this blog or any of the three others. 

[king-beard]

Trip down memory lane #3 Havelock Street, Canterbury. The scene of an act of monumental drunken stupidity during my student days. Walking home with @jimcohen after a night of heavy drinking, I thought it would be hilarious to charge full pelt at weedy Jim (think Louis Theroux on a hunger strike) and use my bulk and momentum to propel him through the front door of number 32 - a complete strangers house. To this day, I still don't know why I thought this was a good idea. Had my idiotic plan worked, the sound of splintering wood, shouts of alarm and Jim's feeble cries would have swiftly been followed by police sirens and the click of handcuffs. Luckily, I had underestimated wretch Jim's ability to sense oncoming danger (an ability he had honed after a life spent being bullied by small children.) He desperately tried to spin away, I clattered into him at an awkward angle, and instead, sent his forehead crashing into the corner of the brickwork surrounding the door with a horrible thud. The sort of thud you might hear if you dropped a Ten Pin bowling ball on to a carpet. Or a stolen bottle of gin onto a sleeping clown. Ouch. Luckily I hadn't killed him (although given his general cadaver like appearance, this might have been impossible anyway). A midnight trip to Canterbury A&E was required to stem the constant bleeding, with a still inebriated Jim requiring several injections and stitches to put his forehead back together. (I still recall the look of disappointment on this carer/girlfriend (now carer/wifes) @saracohen81s face, when she realised the impromptu medical procedure had done little to improve his actual face.) Naturally, the various NHS staff treating Jim were awesome, showing patience and good humour in, for what for them, was probably a boringly, regular occurance. Happily, Jim's normally grisly visage was unaffected by the incident (as were his dwindling supply of braincells) but his forehead does now sport a permanent, Harry Potterish style scar to remember me by. So it wasn't all bad after all. #drunkenidiots #shenanigans #idiocy #drunk #morons #a&e #whatwasithinking #nhsrocks #cccc #canterburychristchurch #canterburychristchurchuniversity (at Canterbury, Kent)