Impulse Control (Yagami LightxReader)

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!!!!!THIS FIC HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED!!!!!

At least on Wattpad. It's moved entirely to A03. It's easier to edit chapters there and the comments are more amicable. I go back and tweak my chapters frequently—if you want the best reading experience, I HEAVILY recommend the A03 version. These chapters have not been revised in over a year.

I'm keeping up to chapter 20 on Wattpad. All future uploads will be exclusively on A03.

Your OTHER warning: this story is hyperverbose. It is LESS so on A03, due to heavy backlash, but still wordy. In exchange for fanfiction you get my big word dumping grounds. Try A03 if you're fed up with it—if you're still unhappy, you won't like this fic.

It was appalling, really. You couldn't blame the student at the front; such carnage displayed so brazenly on the whiteboard was enough to make anyone feel nauseated.

"Yagami?" Mrs. Yamada pressed.

The numbers had descended to discord—a multicolored maelstrom of acid green and cyan. It strained your eyes to even gaze upon such a disunited, disorienting problem. You could see there was something wrong. Hear there was something wrong. Sense, smell, taste it.

And the student at the board had no clue. He stood up there, staring like a deer in headlights at the amalgamate of numbers and letters, whilst his uncertain peers began to murmur. At last, you couldn't handle it. The ocular migraine, the secondhand embarrassment, the sour taste on your tongue or prickling in your fingertips. You stood up.

"Mrs. Yamada, that's wrong."

A silence fell over the room, hastening the feeling that a weighted blanket had been thrown over your head. The teacher turned to you, a quizzical smile befalling her thin, worn lips. "I'm sorry?"

The student at the board looked at you like you had just shot his dog. You grimaced. "Not- not you. Not him, ma'am, the equation on the board was, I can only assume, incorrectly copied from it's concept."

By now, Mrs. Yamada's veneer of pleasantry had morphed to flummox. She looked to you, to the board, and back to you, her brow furrowing further by the second. "Where?"

You swallowed the unidentified mass in your throat, and meandered over to the board.

Combining the numbers' hostility with the anxiety you felt with the class' eyes on you, the air by the equation bore the consistency of oatmeal. The stirring in your stomach has blossomed into an extreme urge to vomit, the paresthesia in your lower arms surfacing as goosebumps.

Your eyes flickered to the start of the problem. Not long after, a liquid of a flavor akin to pink lemonade had scaled your esophagus and reached your mouth, flooding it with a shudder-worthy tang.

Every digit cascaded wildly across your eyes in frantic flickers of fuchsia and turquoise and lime. Operations scorched, rotting, falling off the board, leaving naught but the convulsing values to sear your retinas. A massacre of mathematics.

Clenching your jaw in protest of this bile bubbling up your throat, you took a dry erase marker and did your best to drown out such lurid coloring.

"A negative sign on the exponent in e to the power of x^2 over two σ^2 was dropped," you managed to croak. "And the magnitude of the σ at the end was supposed to be taken, not its true value."