#but it doesn't bode well for the rest of the script

[moondirti]

JIGSAWS [ surgeon! simon riley x f! reader ] — masterlist / each part can be read separately : dealing with cruelty is hard when stress has a crippling effect. simon gives you a place to find comfort, however unconventional

dom/sub. dubcon (power dynamics). adjustment disorder. sexual harassment and battery. dacryphilia. hurt/comfort. biting. marking. brief fluff. medical settings. 2.8k

"Fuck aff, ya useless pillock."

At 0600 hours, a belligerent intake is the last thing you need.

Fatigue works her wily fingers into you, kneading staunchly into your shoulders to add resistance for every step forward. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the horizon, pellucid blue sky outside somehow consolidating every misery from the past week. If your exhaustion felt impregnable during the bright stretch of summer, autumn encroaches vindictive, dreary winds intent on teaching you to count your blessings, next time.

"Good morning, Mr. Cook. I'm one of the daytime neurosurgical residents, here to see how you’re doing since your admission last night at... 2100, is that right?" The script, if not plainly artificial, is a cornerstone for when you cannot muster your own words. Too often, you opt to lean into its guidance – a habit you picked up the hard way during intern year. Control all variables. That way, if things go sour, you can be almost sure that the error did not lie with you.

But perfunctoriness doesn't always bode over well. Mr. Cook's face twists into something foul, sunken eyes assessing you spitefully from his cot. You should have known to affect a different approach. He called you useless after all, for what you assume is frustrated reason. No one likes spending their time here without answers.

Try cutting to the chase, then.

"I see from your chart that you came in complaining about headaches, fever, and nausea. I understand how tired you must be. If it's alright with you, I’d like to perform a quick exam to get to the bottom of things."

"Ye'd be wasting my damn time, girl. Jus' lookin' at ya, I can tell the only thing ye're good for s'wetting my cock."

You sip a startled breath, consoling the erratic stutter of your heart with oxygen and four fingernails curled into your palm. It's not a serious threat – that much is evident by the slurred cadence, the unfocused hands he waves accusatorially in your direction. The overnight resident hadn't noted any aggression on his chart, either; which suggests this is new. Exacerbated by his condition, else the pain has loosened his tongue.

(And Kyle knows better than to schedule you with the tough ones. It's noted especially in your file, documented as a corrective action plan in prim, red ink.)

Though the smile has long since slipped off your lips, you amass what sympathy you can, nodding like it'll do anything to dissuade his suffering. Useless. "A little civility would help things run a lot smoother, Mr. Cook. It's just a few questions that will give me insight to your malaise. I'll even forward those to a senior physician, if you would prefer more qualified care."

Just one face refines itself in your mind's eye. Deep-set brown eyes, prying behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Sentiment that teeters the tightrope between indifference and affection. The days have buried their thumbs into your obsession, urging it deeper, beyond professionalism. Nudging your lungs, finding place amidst life-sustaining organs to become one of its own. Now, veins wire through, supplying blood to what should not be encouraged, should not be sustained–

You think of him, anyway.

"A'll tell y'what." A blurry shape swipes for your face. You flinch, neck snapping back, before finding that the rest of your body can't follow suit, arm held in a vice grip by a set of gnarled fingers. Mr. Cook's hold curls into bone, urging a whole world of pain to match the terror storming through your head. Your blood pressure skyrockets. Stress whistles sirens behind your ears. "How 'bout you call a proper doctor in now, and put on a li'l show for me in th'meanwhile, eh?"

A multitude of scenes, each more harrowing than the last, unfurl at his implication. If you cannot wrench yourself from him, what's to say you can fight back should he decide to pull you closer? Oh god. Your wrist struggles, thrashing wildly, disregarding its wellbeing for the opportunity to screw out of his grasp. The clipboard clatters to the floor. Your heart palpitates arrhythmically, unsteady palpitations battering war drums on your ribs. Though you've been trained for this, you cannot regulate your response to adrenaline. The exercises given to you by your therapist scatter at the first sign of real turmoil. Your body shuts down. Things spiral out of your control.

But your assailant's condition is not usual. Where a healthy man would only grow more determined in your struggle, he lets his aggression get the best of him. Roaring, his legs kick from beneath tight-fitted sheets, arm shuddering with the force it takes to keep you tethered in place. Eventually, your panic grows too much for him to subdue. With a final push of your heel off the floor, you free yourself, stumble three steps back, and fall flat on your ass. Hurt, but safe.

Mr. Cook grumbles, moving on too quickly for someone who had been so passionate just moments ago.

Safe, safe, safe.

You force yourself to repeat only that as you straighten yourself out. Hone in the truth of the matter, and not what your body tries desperately to have you believe. Safe. It's just another patient with neurological deficits. Safe. You have reason to hand his check-ups to someone else.

Safe. There's a place you can go to sap this off your chest.

"I'll order a CT scan for later this afternoon. We will do our best to help you once the results come in. Have a good day, Mr. Cook."

Still, as you scuttle out into the white-lit hall, you feel anything but.

"Come in."

Dr. Riley's office is comparatively dark to the fluorescent rest of the hospital, brightened only by the warm light of his desk lamp. Though his curtains are drawn shut, beams of pink from the vibrant dusk outside sneak their way through, casting everything in a rich glow. The day has been long, leagues more taxing than usual. Stepping into the space offers brief respite, then, like sinking into bed to reach for better dreams.

He looks up at you, impassive. There's never any indication to how he truly feels – whether creeping adoration curls around his heart at the very sight of you, or if he reserves it for after hours – but you've found that the puzzle attracts you more than it pushes you away. You like feeling pinned under his scrutiny, a little lab mouse tested for its wit. Even now, with a whole host of real matters to discuss, you can't help but pick apart the minutia in his expression.

"Dr. Riley," You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity.

"Yes?"

"Um, I'm so sorry to bother you–"

"No need for that." He clips, the liquid of his eyes shifting as they coast back to assess his screen. The monitor projects stark shadows onto his face, harsher than usual. Despite your... relationship, it's hard not to feel discouraged. He wouldn't look away if he were interested in what you had to say. "We're alone."

"Right." Clearing your throat, you shuffle through the glossy prints in your arms. Cross-sectional imaging from Mr. Cook's CT scans, annotated in your illegible hand. The aftershocks of your stress are evident in the writing; loopy letters boasting sharp corners, a liberal use of shorthand where it wouldn't be allowed. When you place them on his desk, you pray he doesn't take heed of it. "A patient who was admitted last night. Though the tomographs are nonspecific, I have reason to believe it might be a brain abscess. If that is the case, I'd like to schedule him for surgery as soon as possible, and I know you're in the OR tomorrow, so..."

He doesn't look up at you while you speak, opting instead to skim the analysis you've left for him in the margins. Only after a long moment's silence do his lashes quiver, a voiceless acknowledgement to your request. The details come later. Tomorrow morning, likely, assigned by Kyle upon clocking in.

"You'll serve as my resident."

Your lips part. Seeing Mr. Cook again, even while under the effects of anaesthesia, brings a queasy ache to your stomach. It's about the most unprofessional thing you could voice, however – more so than any nasty promise Dr. Riley whispers to you in private – so you settle on keeping it to yourself.

"Okay."

But he doesn't miss a thing. The warble in your tone catches his attention like steaming gore to a predator, jaw ticking as salivate floods his mouth. You should have schooled your emotions better, should have given it a good, long mourn before coming to see him – because if you know anything, you know that there's nothing he loves more than seeing you cry.

And now–

Now, it's too late to renege. You're on a fixed path, the only variable being a matter of time until when. The rush of it already devastates your throat, stone lodged in a white river rapid of sentiment. Warmth fogs your eyes. Prelude to collapse, tremors buried deep beneath the earth's crust come to light.

"Out with it." He says.

And your body serves him, better than it could ever serve you.

A sob breaks the dam, first – snarling, ugly thing, face screwing up in a vain effort to tamp the subsequent flow of tears. Your head feels heavy, weighed down by briny devastation and the culmination of your pressures. Yet catharsis never fails; immediately, you feel it unravelling, hiccups picking the presumably impossible knots in your chest until they are nothing more than strings, meant to eventually tie back up again.

So it goes.

But it doesn't matter here. Can't. Not when Dr. Riley scoots his seat back, clearing a space by his legs. Parting heaven's gates, a little sanctuary for the desperate. You run to it, crumpling to the floor to bury your wet face in his trousers, hugging the wide breadth of his calves. It is as though your troubles melt off your skin, wax held close to a flame. No cologne or scented-soap veils the true essence of him; him, who's able to pacify you with little word. Musk, traces of sweat, a sage and cedar-wood body wash that still clings to him, despite the day and several layers. You suck in a chest-straining whiff of it all, stitching your eyes shut to etch the smell into your memory.

"H-He was awful. Said I was... was good for n-nothing but bei-ing a whore." You sniff, curling tighter around him. A lab mouse indeed, basking in the hand that feeds it. His own – large, dry, warm – pets your nape, tugging a little at the baby hairs below your ear. Idly playing, as though your grief does not necessitate his full notice.

"Comes with the job, little thing." You know that. You know that – have heard it many a time from your parents, your therapists, your peers and higher-ups. Anyone who has ever been privy to your condition has warned you that the medical field is never stressless, that you'll spend years miserable until it grows to be too much. And he must feel your bristling, the discomfort his advice affords, for he moves on sooner than you can state your case. "Did he touch you?"

You doubt it's meant as more than a simple inquiry. Still, you fumble for the right answer. Though the one you tend to is yes, yes he did – a childish grasp for some cosseting – you wonder if he'll take your minor wounds seriously at all. Does it count if what you have to show for it are surface-level contusions? Or will it only warrant mention if you can match the fissures of his flesh?

Tucking your arm between your legs, you shake your head no. Dr. Riley's forehead creases, brows knitting together reflexively. The move must not have been subtle enough, because he extends an expectant hand, impatience igniting his tail. Bones work under the scarred skin of his knuckles, muscles rippling in the quarter-length of an exposed forearm. He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits there and waits, the ire emanating off him enough to urge you into lift your bruised wrist.

(Splitting to his will like brain matter to the knife.)

Anyone would look delicate when set against him, yet you marvel at the contrast nonetheless. It resembles porcelain, fine china in his grip. His thick fingers twist to inspect the splotchy discolouration, set there by Mr. Cook's hold.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when– ah," You huff. His thumb presses into the tender flesh, recalling the pain you've worked all day to ignore. "you do that."

"Hm."

The words tumble from your tongue before you can catch them.

"Are you mad?" You ask, softly, then cringe as the question finds its place in the lull. It's an awkward echo, like the ocean gnawing desperately on shore, trying to make its mark in the sand. No matter how hard the spume and saltwater crashes, no matter the devastation it wreaks, it will always be pulled back, away from what it hardly affected.

(You used to liken him to choppy waters, feeling drowned in all his callousness. Yet as you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, your passions warring with each other within a vessel that cannot contain it, it has never been more clear that he is the earth. The ground. Unfixed, unmoved. It is an impossible endeavour for you, whose impact is as thin as the tides.)

More than anything, you covet an admission of his concern. Warmth to feel him in your corner, eternally there, even as your sight’s set on other horizons. With it, you'd be able to stand it all, you think.

"No." He says. "Brain abscesses can exacerbate aggressive behaviour. I don't fault him for that."

It needles right over where it hurts, mangling the softened muscle of your heart.

"Oh."

"But," Dr. Riley adds, guiding you to a wobbly stand. If he didn't plan on transferring you to his lap, you would have fallen right back down. As it is, though, he uses your fawn-like strength to nestle you across his thighs, brushing the flyaways from your temple. "Don't like seein' the marks on you."

Your cheeks heat. Pressing them into his collarbone, you speak against his pulse. It flutters, tandem to your breath. "I'll put a warm compress on it tonight."

"Better. Should only be mine you carry, pet." His voice vibrates through you, sound waves absorbing to become one with your body. Never did you think it could feel so good, yet as he continues to speak, you find yourself wishing that he’ll do so forever, eternal, so that you may weld together eventually.

"Sir…"

"Lift your head f'me." He whispers, nipping your jaw when you follow his instruction. Thin lips scratch your neck, chapped from the tight constraints of his mask and the dry hospital air. You dizzy to think of wetting them with your tongue, running the muscle along his cupids bow, sharp canines, dunking to map the inside of his cheeks. But that isn’t what this is; he’s made sure to clarify that, of all things.

So, you dip your head, neck arching to widen the canvas to his onslaught.

His groan is hot, ticklish as it fans over the area. You wriggle in his firm lap, coming to expect something much more permanent once he latches to your sweet spot. Practiced, trained to the hollow of your throat. Blood rushes to the capillaries sitting just under the skin there, bursting when it grows to be too much. Building pressure that takes away from your brain, your numbing extremities. Your cunt throbs, balmy and slick. He keeps a large hand anchored between your thighs as if he’s aware of what you’ll try to do without direction.

As a high whine pitches from your chest, and you darken to the shape of his maw, Dr. Riley doesn’t budge. He pushes further, rather. Digging his teeth into you, laving over the iron that surfaces. It hurts something terrible. If it weren’t so late into the night, you would doubtlessly be interrupted as a louder wail splits the sheltered office space, carrying through the labyrinth halls. Pain eclipses any internal worry, though. And perhaps that was the intention, mind buzzing with white noise once he pulls away.

Blinking, you clear the gossamer webs of delirium off your eyes. His mouth comes into view, first; swollen, tinted with a diluted wash of ichor, purpling with a bruise that no doubt mirror yours. You can only imagine what a mess he’s made of you, if the evidence of his own undoing is so stark.

The dual marks brings a dumb smile to your face.

“There.” He resolves, at last. It sounds like pride and feels a lot like damnation. “Good.”

You can’t help but agree.

(Even the earth will eventually erode away. Even the earth.)

[bekolxeram]

During this hiatus, other than rewatching S7 for cute moments that we missed and coming up with headconons and new fic ideas, may I suggest going back to actually read/watch/listen to interviews with the cast?

Certain more dedicated members of the fandom tend to overfixate on one single sentence or even word the cast uttered and ignore all context around it. Sure, some of them might came into it with an agenda (like many journalists did sadly) and confirmation bias took care of the rest of it, but at the same time, who has time to read pages of disjointed chat with actors improvising answers without full knowledge of the production side of the show?

I've seen people proving Eddie's queerness by this quote from Lou's interview with the Hollywood Reporter in April:

This alone has been interpreted all sorts of ways, from Ryan not accepting this storyline (which doesn't make him homophobic btw, he could've simply not seen Eddie's story going this way, or he thought he wasn't equipped to do this storyline justice), to Buck's LIs not agreeing to come back because of scheduling conflict, to the writers just thought it was more appropriate for Buck to be queer.

I'm not here to speculate anything, I'm just going to point out earlier in the same interview, Lou also said he always knew this storyline would be with Oliver:

I don't know what's going on here, Lou might have insider information, but it also could be him just speculating over Tommy and Eddie's quickly formed friendship. To my knowledge, Tim has never confirmed that Tommy's queer storyline would be with Eddie before it supposedly fell through. In fact, Tim did say once it felt like Buck's story:

And then there's Lou's supposed dislike of filming make out scenes:

I do agree with him that gratuitous scenes on TV are unnecessary. I can't even count how many times I'm watching TV with my family when a graphic sex scene comes on unprompted, and my family members and I have to try our best to pretend we don't see it. But he also said that he didn't like it only when it didn't add to the story. Like we saw in 7x06, Lou gladly rubbed his face into Oliver's because this is how Buck came out.

There's also the part most people skipped through when Lou talked about the 7x04 kiss:

Lou (and everyone involved in the storyline) doesn't want Tommy to seem predatory. I have no idea if it's a reference to a possible earlier version of the script with an Eddie bi awakening instead of a Buck one. What I'm getting is that Lou and Tim tried to avoid playing into the stereotype of gay men hanging around knowingly straight men just to get into their pants.

And boy was Lou right. If they went for a full make out scene, the fandom discourse would've been so different. Naysayers wouldn't have been latching onto bachelor party costume or daddy issue joke. It would've led to much more serious allegations.

I'm happy it all worked out in universe as well. As we've seen from the past 7 seasons, Buck has no problem getting sexual partners. In the past he tried having physical relationships with women in hopes that it would lead to an emotional one, he also tried intentionally holding off intimacy just because he thought it would get in the way of boding with someone on a humanly level. This is the first time someone picked up Buck's (unintentional?) flirting, decided to break the ambiguity (landing it like a good pilot), gave him a brief peck to test the water, and then left to give Buck time to process his feelings.

Not only was it okay for Buck, it left him wanting more.

And lastly there's the allegedly "Tommy is just Buck's gay mentor to test thing out with" thing:

But earlier in the interview, it was established that Lou said it as a response to why the other shippers should still embrace Buck and Tommy's relationship. He didn't actually know what would happen in the future:

[ironworked]

Uhm, this doesn't bode well for Rescue: Hi Surf

we'll have to see if it steadies at 0.17 and 2m, but I have my doubts (eps 2 and 3 were against repeats of NCIS); also it has to be expensive, and look at cancelled Lonestar's numbers:

They're better. On a 5th season. And it airs before RHS!

--

Brilliant Minds is doing decent numbers, but predictably behind One Chicago.

will it be renewed? it'll depend on how many scripted shows they want, I guess.

--

Not enough data to say anything at all about the rest (other than Matlock had a great premiere)

[randomnameless]

Pat might not work on 3 Nopes (at least I heard so?) as a voice director, but his spirit is always with us!

So, I happened on a JP audio PT of SB’s chapter 4, and let me tell you...

:’)

If I had to get this game, I’d obviously play with the JP audio, and still feel out of the loop regarding certain things prevalent in the fandom - 

who am I kidding, here’s another round of TFW 4Kids erases stuff for the sake of it

First we start with Flayn’s line, as I pointed in another post 

But in the Jp Audio (10.14), Flayn answer to her “otou-” but catches herself and replies with the traditional “onii-sama”. Meaning, on the verge of defeat, Flayn was going to call Seteth her dad, but caught herself at the last minute.

Something that, obviously, doesn’t appear in the lolcalised script, because “...” doesn’t really convey the same meaning, nor how Flayn’s first reaction is not to pause and search for words, but to call to her Father.

Good right?

My ear might be playing a trick on me, but Inoue doesn’t mention Supreme Leader’s name during this line, like not at all.

And here, Inoue only mentions her name without her full title.

Why this was added, and why could it be important?

A long time ago, I had a discussion with a Friend about how Rhea saw Supreme Leader in CF - thinking she dishonors her ancestors and spits on the Hresvelg legacy Rhea helped Willy to build (let it biologically or just, she helped him become emperor because at that point she had faith in him).

It’s only late in the game (iirc, when Seteth’n’Flayn are not here anymore) that Rhea acknowledges Edel’s ties to the Hresvelg family.

So calling her, right now, and so soon a member of House Hresvelg is meh, but why not.

Now, the most objective reason why this is annoying, is because of NoA!Rhea and how the team perceived the character of Rhea.

Rhea is calm and composed, she “just is” and passes judgments on people she deem unworthy. Rhea is that figure of authority, just like Dumbledore, who has a certain presence and cannot say “trick or treat ~” with a sing song voice.

So why is Rhage calling Edelgard by her name, then full name? I wondered and then remembered something stupid, by giving Edel’s full name and making  a death threat, Rhage is “artificially” sentencing her to death.

Which would fit with Rhage’s general aura and the perception of her being a religious extremist who thinks she can pass down her judgment on people for being, idk, heretics or whatnot.

Yes, Jp!Rhea also makes death threat, but when Dimitri threatens to remove Supreme Leader’s head from her shoulder, he is only expressing his wish, not giving some “I have passed my judgment” crap.

Or, maybe NoA had Rhage say Supreme Leader’s full name to mark them as enemies, because let’s face it, their “rivarly” has always been pretty one sided, Rhea just doesn’t want to die, while Supreme Leader thinks she’s responsible for the world’s ills. So if Rhage notices Supreme Leader more and even acknowledges her by spelling out her full name, it builds some sort of connection between the two - marking them as enemies.

And not just, you know, Supeme Leader screaming at Rhea because she bought the Lizard Illumanity theory on Uncle’s FB group (or Wilhelm’s dead account who was taken over by Thales) and Rhea not understanding at all what she is talking about.

Tl; Dr : I wonder if there will be a datamine for this game, with the JP audio + I hope the person who made the video will make a PT of the subsequent chapters too without the localised dub.

[wellthatwasaletdown]

Was Harry being British (either in the sim part of the movie or throughout) in DWD part of the original script? Or did they have to change that because Harry's American accent was so shit? If it was because his accent was so shit then it doesn't bode well for the rest of his acting.

.