#real life casting options

[arolesbianism]

Ok so. Uh. I am starting to have a sneaking suspicion that my entire assumption behind Wagstaff's age might come with an asterisks

[newjenns]

the clones make me so fucking sad ☹️

[eelhound]

"The idea of reforming Omelas is a pleasant idea, to be sure, but it is one that Le Guin herself specifically tells us is not an option. No reform of Omelas is possible — at least, not without destroying Omelas itself:

If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms.

'Those are the terms', indeed. Le Guin’s original story is careful to cast the underlying evil of Omelas as un-addressable — not, as some have suggested, to 'cheat' or create a false dilemma, but as an intentionally insurmountable challenge to the reader. The premise of Omelas feels unfair because it is meant to be unfair. Instead of racing to find a clever solution ('Free the child! Replace it with a robot! Have everyone suffer a little bit instead of one person all at once!'), the reader is forced to consider how they might cope with moral injustice that is so foundational to their very way of life that it cannot be undone. Confronted with the choice to give up your entire way of life or allow someone else to suffer, what do you do? Do you stay and enjoy the fruits of their pain? Or do you reject this devil’s compromise at your own expense, even knowing that it may not even help? And through implication, we are then forced to consider whether we are — at this very moment! — already in exactly this situation. At what cost does our happiness come? And, even more significantly, at whose expense? And what, in fact, can be done? Can anything?

This is the essential and agonizing question that Le Guin poses, and we avoid it at our peril. It’s easy, but thoroughly besides the point, to say — as the narrator of 'The Ones Who Don’t Walk Away' does — that you would simply keep the nice things about Omelas, and work to address the bad. You might as well say that you would solve the trolley problem by putting rockets on the trolley and having it jump over the people tied to the tracks. Le Guin’s challenge is one that can only be resolved by introspection, because the challenge is one levied against the discomforting awareness of our own complicity; to 'reject the premise' is to reject this (all too real) discomfort in favor of empty wish fulfillment. A happy fairytale about the nobility of our imagined efforts against a hypothetical evil profits no one but ourselves (and I would argue that in the long run it robs us as well).

But in addition to being morally evasive, treating Omelas as a puzzle to be solved (or as a piece of straightforward didactic moralism) also flattens the depth of the original story. We are not really meant to understand Le Guin’s 'walking away' as a literal abandonment of a problem, nor as a self-satisfied 'Sounds bad, but I’m outta here', the way Vivier’s response piece or others of its ilk do; rather, it is framed as a rejection of complacency. This is why those who leave are shown not as triumphant heroes, but as harried and desperate fools; hopeless, troubled souls setting forth on a journey that may well be doomed from the start — because isn’t that the fate of most people who set out to fight the injustices they see, and that they cannot help but see once they have been made aware of it? The story is a metaphor, not a math problem, and 'walking away' might just as easily encompass any form of sincere and fully committed struggle against injustice: a lonely, often thankless journey, yet one which is no less essential for its difficulty."

- Kurt Schiller, from "Omelas, Je T'aime." Blood Knife, 8 July 2022.

[peachesofteal]

The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2 - Part 2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel. 

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable. 

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive. 

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles. 

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top. 

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod. 

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.” 

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts. 

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.” 

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights. 

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse. 

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one. 

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind. 

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded. 

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area. 

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling. 

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body. 

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm. 

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and- 

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath. 

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment. 

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding. 

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind. 

Sleep. 

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won��t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel. 

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened? 

And why do you hurt so fucking bad? 

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember? 

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate? 

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no. 

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye. 

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip. 

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down. 

Still… 

Didn’t Johnny kiss you? 

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed. 

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?”  You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones. 

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience. 

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

 “Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

[foervraengd]

Mirre’s “How i render gemstones” tutorial!

(note: image above is not what is shown in the walkthrough. It is an example piece)

Ingredients:

Art program that has layers and selection tools

Patience (hubris or stubbornness is fine too)

(recommended) photo references of gemstones and/or prisms

(Optional but very helpful) Knowledge on how to use Reference layers and anti-overflow in Clip studio Paint

For this tutorial i am going to use clip studio’s “anti-overflow” feature. This post is not going to explain how to use that specific setting but you should be able to find guides on how to use it on clip studio’s official website or on youtube.

Please Note: The result of this technique will not 100% represent real life gemstones. These are more simplified but should still make an impression of the brilliance and appeal of gems, crystals and diamonds.

If you don’t work in CSP: the best workaround is to use the polygonal lasso selection tool for the same purpose.

This ended up being a long post so I am putting it under the readmore:

First off; Basic idea on how the light refracts inside a solid transparent object:

Wether it is acrylic, glass, water or crystal, the way light pass through more or less should behave the same as long as it is solid and not hollow inside. Pay attention to how the darkest parts of the stone goes along the inner edges, leaving a ”mid tone” sort of in the center. However, this might vary depending on the light setting. But it is a generally good rule-of-thumb to follow if you’re drawing something not based on a photo. Another thing to pay attention to here is how the placement of the highlight will lit up the inside of the gem in a parallel line. It also shows through on the cast shadow.

Light refraction on a cube:

I have already made two posts on this, so definitely go through them:

CUBE BREAKDOWN POST HERE

But a rough summary from those two links would be: Every side/facet of a gem or a cube etc refracts the light individually and not as one entity (that would make it look hollow and not solid). Think of it like how each piece in a broken mirror individually reflect your face back to you. Like a weird patchwork!

Putting this into practice:

For this tutorial I’m going to be nice to myself and not try to draw perfectly accurate gemstones. Instead I’m gonna draw them with a more ”natural” looking set of facets. Which actually isnt as common in real world as video games makes us think. Some crystals have geometric shapes naturally, but a lot of other stones are not as fancy. Anyway, im taking artistic liberty on these example stones because the technique I’m going to use will work for these just fine.

So, in clip studio paint, I first draw the stones on a vector layer. I give them facets for the front side. Then I duplicate the layer, remove the front facets and replace them with the facets on the back of the stone. The third image here shows both layers visible on top of each other. I now put these into a layer folder and mark the folder as ”reference”.

Now, on a layer below the lineart folder, fill with your base tone. Then make a layer on top (if you can clip it to the base tone, do that), this layer is where you decide where the highlight will be placed. In some cases the highlight is only lighting up one single facet - it really depends on the design of the stone. You can also blend and soften the highlight here if it looks good for you, just make sure not every facet is highlighted. The highlight layer should be on top of all the other layers clipped to the base tone layer.

Now it is time for the juicy juicy stuff! Turn on both lineart layers so they’re both visible. I hid the hilight layer here because it was in the way, but might not be needed in your case. Make a layer clipped to the base tone and paint in the darkest tone. This is where anti-overflow helps me out, because when i run my brush over all these crossed lines it will make the stroke pop in and out for each facet. If you dont use CSP, this is where you can use the lasso tool and select every second facet. It will take a bit more time but it should work similarly.

After the darkest tones I then make a layer for the inside light that the highlight has lit up. Here i keep it inside the darkest tone but this might vary depending on the light setting. If it looks good to me, then that’s what i stick to.

The way I approach rendering the facets here is like the grid in the example images above, every shade and tone appear more or less in each facet but the amount is relative to their position. So a gradient wouldnt have a smooth transition; it would be slightly scewed in each square on this example grid. Essentially like how some bathroom window glass panes look like.

Now it’s time to hide the lineart layer folder and check if the gemstones look decent to you. If not, then you can look up some reference photos and analyze where the values group together the most; be careful not to focus too much on the photos 500 million sparkles. Squint your eyes or blur the reference and try to see how the overall values behae.

I, personally, am satisfied with these rocks so I slap on a gradient map (you can manually color in them too if that’s your thing) and call it a day. The lit up inside of a gemstone tend to have a brighter and more saturated color than the mid tone.

Other Examples with this technique:

If you look up ”gemstone types” you can often find images displaying various facet types from more than just front view. These can serve as useful base templates for practicing this rendering technique. The backside of a gemstone is called the “pavillion” and is really useful to have at hand when it comes to painting the inner refractions. You can probably also use 3D models and convert the wireframe into lineart. But that is slightly out of my pool of knowledge.

Applying this knowledge without using a base lineart layer is of course possible. In this painting I followed a simplified summary of how the facets sparkle: Keep the highlight shape to match the front facet design, and all the inner refractions should be more scattered and split up but face a direction towards the center of the gem. Now don’t you think this sort of makes the gems look like eyes? That’s right! You can, and absolutely should, apply this on eyes to create the most sparkly anime eyes ever.

Now, refracted light that lands on the surface surrounding gemstones varies depending on the material - and if the gem is inside a metal frame it usually doesnt create this much refraction around it. But I want to have fun so i decided to break this rule in the name of pretty sparkles. :)

[infamous-if]

you can’t completely avoid any character in infamous especially in a story in which you are forced to be put in situations on a TV show built for drama and doing that would mean I’d have to rework full scenes so I can’t exactly do that, your MC does not have to be happy about interacting with seven but much like in real life, we have to interact with co-workers we don’t like …

a lot of people hate Blake but I can’t write them out of certain scenes, I’ve been told multiple times that people don’t want to deal with G like idk that’s the way of the game IK it’s interactive fiction but it’s still a story with a plot and a purpose at the end of the day…MC is part of an ensemble cast on a television show, they dont run the show so they have to do things they dont want to do sometimes!

I try my best to give the option to keep Seven at arms length but there are also sevenmancers I have to take account of, people who want to interact with sev whether to romance them or to simply learn more about their shared history

not to mention that sev is a vital part of the band's storyline and the band route so things need to be established with them for the band's arc to make sense

What I can do is I can try to add the option to ignore Seven and cut a scene short if it’s not important, but I cant promise that every scene will be like that. Unfortunately, MC will have to interact with Seven on occasion lol

Cory is like actively trying to make sure that happens as well

sorry! ik it sucks but there's not much I can do beyond having to rework entire plot points and I dont want to do that <3

[felixandresims]

Hello Everyone:),

As the Chateau Set ended, I want to take you to a new destination. I have been thinking about the following subject for quite some time and my recent trip to the US made my decision final, we are going to New York City, precisely to SOHO.

It was an unusual beginning for me to start with the bathroom, but I wanted to have enough research time for a future exterior set. Seeing SOHO in real life was such a great experience and I feel very inspired :). After working on a traditional collection for quite some time it's refreshing to dive back into a modern aesthetic.

The bathroom consists of 23 items, you will get various sink options, double, single, monolithic, and basin-only versions, that either rest on a vanity or can have a shelf for 'Clutteration' underneath. I love a good bathtub, so you will get one of those. This Set includes a rainfall shower, plenty of mirror options, a sideboard, a stool, two rugs, and a lid-up Japanese toilet with a remote control. I also created Travertine/ stone walls and floors. 

Harrie has started working on her new Minimalist Set called KLEAN and I couldn't resist using her new windows and doors in My Promo shot. If you would like to know more about what she created you can check it out HERE 

SOHO Part 1 is on Early Access and you can find it here

In the coming months I will focus on the cast iron buildings and by the end of the SOHO I hope that you will be able to create the New York Loft of your dreams ;)

I hope you will like this collection, once again thank you so much for everything!!!

Lots of Love,

Felix xxx

[kcrossvine-art]

haiiii dungeon delvers! This is a quick one, gratefully both the materials and the dish-type are very close to their real life inspiration :D

As we speak, my favorite catgirl bestfolk is getting introduced to the anime and you haven no idea how much self control its taken to not immediately jump forward to be in sync with her, but theres SO many good recipes before we get there!!!

We will be making a Mandrake and Basilisk Omelet today!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes into a Mandrake and Basilisk Omelet?” YOU MIGHT ASKIts made from the egg of a basilisk, which isnt a large chicken egg but instead a large snake egg. Oblong shape, soft leather texture, and no eggwhites just yolk.

A large daikon

½ lbs fatty bacon

Shallots

Garlic

Chicken eggs

Salt

Pepper

Arugula (for garnishing)

OPTIONAL; ketchup/hot sauce :)

You could try cooking this using actual snake eggs, but theyre hard to come by and reportedly quite bland compared to chicken eggs. I tried getting my hands on an ostrich egg for the pizzaz of it all. The zoo lady was kind in her dismissal.

AND, “what does a Mandrake and Basilisk Omelet taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKOmelettes are standard fair but here we cook them like a french omelette and wrap it up like a burrito at the end.

Wetter eggs than im used to ( <- american)

Daikon and bacon r very tasty together

They end up having the same texture almost

Intensely savory. Heavy on the tummy

Chopped green onions would bring more levity to the filling

Ketchup pairs well

(but i prefer medium hot sauce)

Dark coffee pairs well

The acidity of the above 3 is what makes them work with this nutrient Dense dish

. In the show, decapitated mandrakes are more bitter than mandrakes left 'whole'. If you want that difference, using sweet/sour sauce on some of the daikon while it cooks will make the non-sauced daikon seem bitter by comparison. . Maybe ferment daikon too? . Adding a small amount of water with the bacon transfers the heat evenly, a small amount as to cook off before the fat/grease renders. Could also try cooking in the oven.

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

"Consisting of a fluffy Basilisk egg omelet filled with minced Basilisk bacon and mandrake.If the mandrake used was killed with its 'head' still attached, it will be less bitter and more mellow" This dish is important as it marks the beginning of Senshi and Marcilles bonding, and the lead-up gives us our first glance into the school Falin and Marcille met at. Objectively the recipe is basic but it was challenging to write out.

Omelette making is muscle-memory, so having to learn the french variation and slow down felt like trying to ride a bike side-saddled.

It took about an hour and a half from laying out the ingredients, to eating the finished thing. I had to take a break in the middle of cutting veggies as my wrists are flaring up, so you could probably go faster unimpeded.

What would you rate this recipe out of 10?(with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) Did you love it, did you hate it? What're your thoughts on what I could do different, and what would you have done instead?

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

1 large daikon, chopped

½ lbs fatty bacon, chopped

2 shallots

3 cloves of garlic

3 Eggs

Salt

Pepper

Some arugula (for garnishing)

OPTIONAL; ketchup/hot sauce :)

Method:

Chop your bacon into roughly ½ inch squares. Cut off the ends of your daikon and cube the rest. Thinly dice your shallots and crush your garlic cloves.

Bring a cast iron skillet to medium-high heat. Once at temp, carefully add your chopped bacon to the pan with a very small amount of water.

Add your chopped bacon and stir-fry until almost cooked.

Add your shallots and garlic. Cook for about a minute or until the shallots have softened.

Transfer the bacon, shallot, and garlic mix to a bowl. Set aside. Lower the cast iron skillet to medium heat.

Place your daikon cubes in the cast iron skillet, you should still have enough bacon grease. Add salt and cook until lightly browned on each side.

Add roughly 1 tablespoon of water. Lower heat and cover. Simmer for 2 minutes.

Once your daikon are softened, transfer to same bowl containing your bacon, shallots, and garlic.

Crack your eggs into a seperate bowl and whisk for 2 minutes until 'frothy' with no egg whites visible.

Bring the cast iron skillet back up to medium heat. There might not be enough bacon grease left, so feel free to add butter! If the butter browns you've gone too hot.

Pour your eggs into the skillet. Use a spatula to spread the eggs, scraping down the sides of the pan. Sprinkle salt and pepper in, to taste.

Once your eggs are mostly solid, pour the bacon, shallot, garlic, and daikon filling into the center. If it starts to separate- stop touching and let it rest. Gently fold the edges of the omelette overtop the filling.

Lay a few pieces of arugula on a plate, and flip your omelette onto it :) enjoy!

[eastend-if]

👥DEMO 👥 PLAYLIST 👥 PINTEREST 👥 COG FORUM

You keep having the same dreams over and over. It happened, years ago, before you left. You thought you had left Eastend behind for good.

It seems you can never truly escape your past. The Priest had warned you.

There's a girl you've never seen in your dreams. Yet, she seems so familiar - as a forgotten teddy bear you left in the attic of your home. She feels right, she looks wrong, she's wrong. Because she's not you, she says. And the two of you stand on the road...a bright light blinds you but the smell of iron reaches you. You do not need your eyes to deduce the ending of the nightmares.

Metaphorical dreams have never been your forte...except this is real. On the day you arrive, she's still alive. And smiling...laughing...walking with her friends. She looks like a normal girl of your age.

You black out - from the shock you think. The familiar iron smell being all too close, it makes you nauseous. At least, the earthen scent that lingers on your clothes counters it a little.

Why are you in the woods again?

....Why is there blood on your hands?

Welcome home, whispers the wind.

• Customize the vessel whether be it in looks, personality or identity.

• You are free to romance four of the cast. Maybe more, there are many eyes on you.

• Your choices will shape you as they shape the town. They will have consequences on the people around you and those who aren't anymore. Be careful you never know what effect the ripples may have.

• Explore your past to shape your future.

• Fight your nightmares should you be so inclined - or welcome them, there might be surprises in the deep dark part of your mind?

• Choose whether or not you'll doom your childhood town - although, that might not be left to you. Leaving is an option too, after all, you've already left once.

• Survive - or don't. You didn't think you were the only one who could save them, did you?

Eastend is rated 18+ for sexual themes, substance use, explicit language, explicit violence, death and more.

Beverly Arevalo [F,23], your childhood friend. At least, one of you perceived it that way. She has always been difficult to read and understand, you were one of the few who could years back. Maybe you can rekindle your friendship - maybe it will grow into more. The only thing you know for certain is that there are many unknowns surrounding Beverly.

Aina Valen [F,26] is that stereotypical preppy girl, at least what you know of her. You were never quite close when you still lived in town, but things have changed and so have both of you. Surprisingly enough, she works at the library now, having taken over her brother. You're not aware of what happened between them, only that she seems overly bored whenever you pass by the vitrine. At least she insists on telling you you are the 'spice' of her days, whatever that may mean.

Benjamin Li [M,26] his preferred nickname, Benji has always shown kindness to you and this didn't change with your unexpected return. He somehow always has a nice word for you or others in his vicinity, it's refreshing quite frankly. There are always critters following him around but they say animals are good judges of characters so that's a good sign, right?

Hezekiah Lyncroft [M, 24] was always a pain in your ass, even younger. Always arguing with you over anything and nothing, he was the reason for many headaches. Back then, there were rumours about his home life, ones you remember well. At least, he seems to be in a better place nowadays, even though he's still a pain to be around. But not all pains are bad.

+ familiar faces and strangers you've yet to meet

Demo stands currently at 5.8k words. It is meant as short introduction to the setting and story. Hope you enjoy despite the length :)

[queerfables]

'Wilson' as an episode fucking slaps. I'm obsessed with Wilson's complete lack of boundaries and I'm obsessed with the way he acts out to express resentment while still being completely incapable of saying no. He gave a patient part of his liver!! The man is in no way hinged.

For all the emphasis that gets placed on Wilson's failed marriages and infidelity, we don't ever actually see it directly on screen. This is a narrative choice I love, for the record. We see Wilson's relationships through House's eyes and it allows us to understand Wilson as a deeply flawed person without ever making him unlikable, because Wilson's flaws and contradictions are what make him irresistible to House. It's so effective, the way these failed relationships say so much about Wilson's character while being constructed largely out of inference.

In this episode, though, we watch his inability to self advocate play out in real time, and I guarantee that this is what every one of his relationship meltdowns looked like from the inside. On some deep fundamental level, James Wilson doesn't believe "I don't want to" is a valid reason not to do something. You know the fantasy trope of an obedience curse, where the victim is inescapably compelled to obey other people's requests? Wilson casts that spell on his own damn self, and he'll hold true to it even to the point of violating his own bodily autonomy. When you lack boundaries like that, it becomes almost impossible to even know what you truly want, let alone to act on it. So Wilson says yes and yes and yes until it breaks him, and then he still can't say no.

When saying yes feels like surrendering to torture and saying no feels like committing murder, the only option left is escape. So Wilson goes out drinking to trash the liver he's going to donate. He gets dinner with the pretty nurse instead of going home to his wife. All of it is him scrabbling at the bars of his cage. And the irony is that the cage is unlocked, he just has to walk through the open door, and that's the last thing he could ever bring himself to do.

I'm pretty sure that when he went to Cuddy and told her his plan to donate, he wanted her to say no. She almost did! And I think she should have, because her first impulse was right, it is insane. Unfortunately this is the Insane Lack of Boundaries Hospital, and she can't actually be expected to guess when her employee's mouth is saying yes but his eyes are saying dear god no. By the rules of universe that House MD operates within, this doesn't even break a 7 on the "unhinged measures to save a patient" scale, and Wilson invoked the power of friendship. What was she supposed to do?

And through all of this, House is the person Wilson lashes out at. I love, love, love that House is the person Wilson lashes out at. Wilson can't even admit to himself that he's angry about the position he's in. How can he be angry when he's the reason the patient needs a new liver? But House sees right to the heart of everything going on with him, and he says all the things Wilson wants to be true and can't afford to believe. Because if he lets himself believe this wasn't his fault then he might not be able to say yes. And he's going to say yes. And he hates that he's going to say yes. And he hates that House knows he's going to say yes.

So he gets angry with House, because it's safe to get angry with House. He lashes out, because with House, he can. He tells House he's wrong about him, and demands House move out, and that's not at all what he really wants but he feels helpless and coerced and he desperately needs to exercise some kind of control over his own life. The fact that he can let go like this with House is in part about knowing House isn't ever going to leave him - the closeness of their relationship is always defined by what Wilson wants, House has never once pushed Wilson away and fights to reconcile when Wilson wants distance. But it's also about knowing that he can't hurt House by setting boundaries with him. Mostly this is because House will walk right over any boundaries he considers unacceptable, but in fairness, the fact that House is kind of a terrible person is part of his appeal. If Wilson had issues around other people violating his stated wishes, House would be the last person in the world that he should have anything to do with. But Wilson's issues lie in the fear that not being compulsively available and accommodating to everyone around him might permanently fuck up the life of someone he loves. House's fucked up life is never going to be Wilson's fault and even if it was House would still kind of deserve it, so Wilson's anxious people pleasing compulsion can chill the fuck out for five minutes at a time.

I don't want to idealise, there are times in their relationship when Wilson absolutely makes fucked up sacrifices for House. I don't think it's the case that he earnestly wanted to every time. But it's also true that House brings out authenticity in Wilson that few other people manage to. House knows him. House allows him to give in to his selfish impulses without guilt and consequences, and for all the people who love the best in him, House knows and loves his worst. While Wilson is caught up in trying to bend himself into whatever shape someone else needs him to be, what House wants more than anything is the truth. For Wilson, who is so out of touch with his own desires, being an object of fascination to someone obsessed with drives and motivations must be a rush. And if we accept the throughline of this episode, it might just be the case that House's boundary pushing and obsession is something Wilson needs.

[loveindefinitely]

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ PRINCESS TREATMENT — price + gaz x reader

01 — THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

featuring. kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. fem!reader, fmm, friends to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence, frequent mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, discussions of mental health

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

If you had to say when, exactly, everything changed, you’d put it down to a single monarch butterfly.

Walking down the tight alleyways of Las Almas, the sky a four o’clock black, a lone street light casts a gentle yellow over your frame. The air is stagnant, the warmth of late spring mixed with the type of humidity that only comes before a storm, your boots clicking against the stone beneath your feet.

With a leather jacket wrapped tight around you, you fall into the rhythm of it all. It’s just before five in the morning, and you know that you should be heading home any minute, but you find yourself rejecting the idea.

Everytime you leave for the night, just to breathe, to live for no one but yourself, it gets harder and harder to make your way back through your bedroom window. You know the guards are getting antsy, too, your payoffs for their silence on the issue becoming less and less worth it. Not when it’s becoming an ultimatum between some quick cash and a slow death.

You wish you were given that choice. Mightn’t even care which option you happened to receive.

It’s quiet, in these parts. No sign of the city that had been ruined by mercs, no sign of the destruction that had once lay beneath one man’s boots. 

Instead, this city now sits in the firm grip of El Sin Nombre – the way it had once been, and if your family has it how they want it, the way it shall forever be. 

Underneath your breath, you hum, a tune you’d picked up from the local radio. Every morning, you listen to the daily news reports, the weather, the latest celebrity gossip. Without fail, El Sin Nombre is never mentioned. Neither are the missing persons, the families torn apart by the woman you call boss.

The end of the alleyway is coming up, the main street ahead barren of people, except the odd homeless person or fitness nut getting their morning fix.

Just as you’re about to turn around and manually move your feet back to your home, the smallest of movements catches your eye, right by a potted plant sitting at the street corner. You’re not sure how, or why, it catches your attention – but it snags it, hook line and sinker.

Quickly looking both ways, you take a cautious step towards what appears to be a small aloe vera plant, stopping in your tracks when you realise what’s perched upon the tallest of the stems, its burnt orange wings fluttering with the small breeze.

A butterfly.

It hasn’t spooked – not yet, not with your careful movements – and it seems so insignificant. So small, with the family homes lining the streets, the independent stores setting up for the day.

With you, your massive life, your massive boots to fill.

And it just sits.

Flaps its wings.

A shot sounds.

Jumping back, your eyes catch the butterfly taking off into the sky, its sun-kissed wings taking it as far away from the horror as possible. Exactly as you should be doing.

Screams echo around you, another bullet sounding, and then another, and another – 

Hand resting at the gun sitting in your thigh hollister, you whip your head towards the sound, the yelling, the rushed Spanish leaving people’s mouths. Gringos. El Sin Nombre. Death. Stay down.

Taking a sharp right turn onto the main street’s footpath, another shot fires, this time much closer. Much more real, tangible. Hand fully fisting around the handle of your pistol, you take the corner to the sidestreet – the source of it all – with quiet ease.

Multiple cartel members – expendable pendejos, Valeria would say – have guns not unlike your own, aimed at two separate men hidden behind a parked car. They’re crouched behind it, peaking and launching their own retaliating shots, hitting either shoulders or necks. 

They fire off quick, dirty shots, one bursting through the car’s windows, shattering the glass, before lodging in one of the mens’ head. He falls, blood and brain matter splattering on the brick wall behind him. None of the others even spare him a look.

“Get ‘im!” A deep, rough voice calls – British, assertive, mature – the one furthest from you. He’s adorning a boonie hat, pulled down to cover the tops of his ears, facial hair decorating his jawline and upper lip.

They both seem to be exerting themselves, clearly having done a lot of activity and planning before the current scene. Nearly all of the civilians are out of the area, the two foreigners taking care to not harm any of the innocents.

Certainly a step up from the cartel.

There’s four left, all taking shots at the car, some bullets ricocheting off of the flat metal. Back to the opposite wall, you take out your pistol, switching off the safety with a single brush of your thumb. Keeping it extended in front of you, both hands holding it, you make your way silently closer to the confrontation, keeping behind them all.

The second foreigner – tall, all slim muscle, radiating warmth and self-assurance – takes a sweeping step away from the car, delivering final head shots to all but one.

Clawing against the ground, trying to gain his footing, pistol flung metres away from him, he lets out groans of agony. He’s been shot in the knee, it seems like – yeah, definitely been shot in the knee, by the way he screams when he tries to rise on it.

Doing quick head checks, the younger foreigner keeps his gun raised at a safe level, before walking over to the wounded member.

The lone soldier grunts when the lithe man smacks the butt of his gun against his temple, his head twisting with the force of it. You can tell he’s being kept alive.

“Fuck, Cap,” the younger man hisses, hooking his thumb in his vest, throwing his head back slightly. In the streetlight, from your close distance, you can see a droplet trail down his Adam’s apple. Collect at the hollow of his throat, glisten in the dim light.

The other, ‘Cap’, presses his hands against his knees, using the momentum to stand, wiping the back of his glove against his mouth. Quickly scanning his surroundings, you dart behind a small, abandoned street stall, crouching as you do so.

No shots are fired – you consider it a win.

“C’mon, we gotta get ‘im to exfil,” he grunts, and when you move back to watch them in full view, you see him jog over to stand next to his partner. Leaning down, he pulls his arm around the unconscious man, lifting him up with the younger’s help. They swing his arms around the necks of them both, their hands keeping him upright between the two.

“Ale and Rudy are gonna have our asses for the stray shots,” the black-haired one groans, but there’s a relieved smile stretching over his face. “Hopefully this guy has the intel they want.”

“If he doesn’t,” ‘Cap’ returns, a humoured look written all over his face, “We’ll have their asses.”

Intel. They want… intel. On the cartel, on El Sin Nombre. Something you have in spades. In fact, you were probably the closest thing to a gold mine when it came to information of the Las Almas cartel. Wouldn’t even need torture to get you to speak.

You’d heard of Alejandro and Rodolfo. They were considered legends by the townspeople, the men who nearly took down the cartel. The true face of the Mexican Military – not the paid off army. 

It was a shame, really, how much of their story wasn’t told.

Being shot if either name left anyone’s mouth made it a difficult one to retell. Especially to you – the Cartel’s Princess – a woman hated for nothing more than her last name.

Your step-father and ‘boss’ refused to speak of them, either. Your limited knowledge pertained to the fact that they were direct enemies of El Sin Nombre, and shared a complicated past with Valeria. You’d asked, once, what happened.

You’d never asked again.

The sun is rising, the hints of morning brushing over the deserted side street. They seem… ethereal, in this light, exhausted from work but cheerful from a job well done. At ease with each other, even with blood decorating their skin, boots covered in red.

You remember when you’d first tried to run away, fourteen and too naive to plan it beforehand,  before you knew to slide cash into the guards’ belt. It had been seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds before a bullet had grazed your thigh, and you were brought back to your house. You still have the scar – both physically, and mentally.

Having to learn that running away was never a truly feasible option was a hard reality at such a young age. Sheltered, too – you didn’t understand the true way of the world. What life was like without a bounty on your head and blood money decorating your neck in the form of a pearl necklace. Hands chained with bracelets of pure gold.

The cool metal grows clammy with your own distraught, your index finger hooking around the trigger.

When you were younger, you wanted to become a journalist. You dreamt of the ability to make things known – uncover the dark secrets your family loved to hide. A servant to the public – in the most damning of ways, a true way of protecting without the need for blood on your hands. The only black metal in your hands would be that of a pen; considerably more deadly than a weapon could ever be.

You aim your pistol.

Oh, to be free. To not have to wake up every day, dreading, hating yourself for the sins of your family. Your livelihood. Freedom in not having to choose between being a bystander, or meeting the death of a traitor.

That butterfly, gods, that butterfly. It took itself wherever it wanted – got to experience the world at its own pace. Live for the sake of it, gifting the Earth for the pleasure of it all.

Grateful for just a week of substance. A week of survival.

What you’d do for just a week.

A shot fires, and you don’t move an inch from the drawback. You just stand, watching, as a body falls, and two guns are instantly aimed at you in turn.

Just a week.

Letting the gun slide from your hand and hit the floor, you raise your hands, palms facing the two. They don’t shoot – that’s all you could’ve hoped for. Being reckless was part of being in the cartel, and your very blood ran because of it.

“You want intel?” You ask, loud enough to carry to them, taking a bold step forward. With the sun not having risen, a chill settles into your bones, the tight, silk nightdress you adorn during sleep the only thing protecting you as the breeze brushes open your jacket. “I have it.”

The youngest moves to lower his gun, but a side eye from ‘Cap’ has him raising it again. The way they stare you down has your chest rising and falling in dramatic movements, and for the first time this night, you second guess yourself.

It’s the only chance you’ve ever gotten – you think, reminding yourself – and you will accept it with open arms. Just a week.

Taking careful, precise steps closer, you keep your palms facing them and face a stubborn neutral. You’d been trained in a lot of areas, sparsely, but there was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to take either of them in a real fight. Diego had spoiled you with riches and luxury, not sparring and gunslinging.

“Wait –” the younger stretches out his hand, looking to the other with an expression. Like he’d seen a ghost. “She’s…”

“I know,” the other breathes out, his tense stance easing slightly. 

As you stand, just a metre or two away from them, you look between them both. Calculating, watching, you slide off your leather jacket and drop it to the ground – showing that you have no other weapons, no bombs strapped to you. 

Just a silk, blood red nightdress, an empty hollister, and black leather boots.

“You guys were pretty loud when you said you needed intel,” you narrow your eyes, flitting between them both. They shroud you in their shadows; tall, muscular – military. But not… regiment. Different, more sinister, maybe, more important. “And I saw you kill my auntie’s men.”

They both lower their weapons. Partly stupid, partly an insult.  “You’re the Cartel Princess, aye?” The younger raises his brows, looking over you with studious brown. 

“I left my tiara at home,” you snark. The younger smirks, approving of your response. Maybe you wouldn’t have to be stepped all over, to be taken in by them.

Jerking his head to the dead body laying between the both of them, the older levels an unimpressed gaze your way. “Was that necessary?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest and righting his posture, looking down at you.

“He was a dick anyways,” you roll your eyes, finally lowering your own hands to rest at your hips. “He tried to offer up his daughter ‘cause he was in debt.”

Both of their jaws go slack.

You shrug.

“Where are you guys going anyways?” You ask, bouncing on the heels of your feet, hands held together behind your back. Looking around, your mouth pulls into a small frown at the shattered store windows. You’d try and leave some money for them when you got back.

The smaller one lets out an almost shocked chuckle. “This isn’t – you’re not hitchhiking.”

Rubbing at the roof of his nose, the one with the boonie hat looses a thick sigh, before giving you an exhausted look. “You’re lucky Alejandro has been after your arse for years. Gaz, get ‘er gun.”

“Yes, Sir,” he jokes, roughly saluting the man before grabbing your weapon. Sliding it into his own holster, he loops his elbow through yours, and starts dragging you down the street, the other walking a bit ahead of you both.

“This went way easier than I thought,” you mutter, realising just how… simple it had been to get them to take you. No cuffs, surprisingly, and no sedatives.

Gaz, as the other referred to him as, looks down to you with a friendly smile. “Most of us know your face. Alejandro and Rodolfo have been looking for you – something about you being ‘one of the good ones’.”

“I’ve never met them,” you admit, a small crease forming between your brows. “I’ve heard of them, but… why do they care about me?”

“Apparently,” the one up ahead darts his blue eyes back to you, “You do, in fact, have ‘intel’. And…” He trails off, before shaking his head. “You’ll see when we get back to base. I think he’ll be quite happy.”

Gaz groans with a laugh. “Hate when he’s giddy. They’re so loud.”

Falling back a little, ‘Cap’ hits his subordinate lightly up the back of his head. “You’re gross. Exfil’s just off to the right.”

“Reminds me of Amsterdam,” Gaz says wistfully, his elbow still linked around yours. This might just be the oddest way to be taken in by a supposed ‘enemy’ ever. Definitely up there.

Turning, you see a black SUV parked off to the side, the windows tinted to the nth degree. You can’t see anything within them except your own reflections, the winding streets behind you three. Looking to Gaz, you ask, “Where’s my carriage?”

He gives an incredulous look. “You’re serious?”

You and his partner answer at the exact same time, the same tone, “No.”

Opening the door to the back, Cap urges the two of you in, before getting into the passenger seat. The cushions are black, too, and comfortable as you situate yourself by the window, Gaz taking the middle seat. So much for space.

“John –” 

“Kate, they’ve been after her for years. We owe ‘em.”

A woman, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, looks at you through her rearview mirror. She seems… displeased about your presence.

“You’re making us a bigger target,” she hisses, shooting him an annoyed look. “If they aren’t already trying to gun us down, they’re about to go nuclear!”

“Auntie and daddy don’t like missiles. Said it’s cheap,” you chip in, folding your knee so your ankle rests on your opposite knee, folding your hands in your lap. Damn, you think, You chipped your nail polish. Only lasted a day.

Silence fills the vehicle.

You hum that radio’s tune once more, and Kate exhales a deep, calming breath. Like she’s one step away from whipping out her own gun and shooting you all dead. And then herself.

“Can you turn on the heater? It’s kinda cold,” you ask, hands rubbing at your bare arms. Should’ve put your leather jacket back on before they took you.

“John,” Kate grits out, “I am two seconds away from –”

A shot fires, then two, then three. In one movement, you grab a hold of your pistol from Gaz’s hollister, switching off the safety once more and holding it to your chest. Kate instantly switches on the ignition, accelerating hard enough to have your head hitting the back of your chair with a squeak.

Gaz unwinds the window to his left, furthest away from you, and starts firing at where a dozen or so members stand at the main street, firing off shots at the car. Bracing yourself against the back of the driver’s seat, you take aim.

True as the way the sun is set to rise, you land multiple shots through vital organs, some lucky ones blasting right through their heads. Your wrist aches from the strength of your hold around your weapon, a break from childhood coming back to haunt you. You don’t stop, however, not when you’re nowhere near your breaking point.

Within seconds, Kate drives the car out of their view, dodging potholes like a professional. 

It’s five minutes later, when you’re out of the main business streets of Las Almas, that your back hits your seat once more, eyes fluttering shut as you flick the safety back on.

Gaz does the same, his shoulder bumping yours with the width and sheer height of him. You feel small, between him and the door, but not unsafe. Quite the opposite, actually, with the way he sliced through those men with buttery gunmanship.

The silence, this time, is electric. A buzzing in the air, an excitement flowing through your veins.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh, shit,” you whine, dragging your hands over your face and sloping in your seat, lips forming a disgruntled pout.

“What – what happened? You good?” Gaz asks, leaning forward, placing his hand on the back of Kate’s headrest to look over you. His arm is corded with muscle, the sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his elbows, allowing a decent view of his military-grade skin. 

You sit your head against the window. 

“I left my favourite nail polish at home. And my favourite earrings,” you mumble, upset.

Gaz coughs, then sits back in his seat awkwardly. “...Right. Can’t you just. …Get more? If you’re cooperative, Ale–”

You punch him in his throat, and he wheezes, tears sprouting in his eyes as he coughs. “You don’t get it,” you glare at him, before patting his back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit so hard.”

It’s only then that you realise John and Kate are speaking quietly up the front, low enough to not be heard by the two of you. 

“Who do you guys work for, anyway?” You ask, when Gaz stops coughing, instead swallowing mouthfuls of water from the skin in his pack. He stops to stare at you.

“You ask this… now?” He questions, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

You shrug. “Even if you guys were mercs or something, I probably would’ve asked to be taken. Wait –” You pause, eyes going wide, mouth going slack, “You aren’t mercs, are you? Please say you aren’t.”

“We’re Special Ops. Dunno how much the old man wants me to say, so, there you go,” Gaz shrugs, pulling on his gloves. His gaze remains on yours as he does so – pulling them off by the tips of his fingers, revealing slender hands. They look oddly graceful, for a seasoned operator, and you can see the tendons pull when he takes off the other.

The sun is high enough to paint the sky in streaks of yellow and orange, swirling with the night’s dark blue. Clouds decorate the canvas like swipes of cotton, the beginnings of what looks to be a perfect Spring day. As you look out the window, watching as you pass the streets of your city, you feel an odd seed of doubt.

Not for what you’re doing – but for what you’re leaving. All of the bodies lining the streets under cartel cloths, never getting to do the very thing you’re experiencing. So many families torn apart without the option of freedom.

The glass is cool against your cheek as you drum your fingers over your lap, the tap tap tap of that song in your head looped.

“You don’t look like your pictures,” Gaz says, then, and when you turn, it’s to find him watching you studiously. He appears so relax, seated beside you, tall enough to have his head nearly hitting the roof of the car.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t realise this was a Tinder date.”

He laughs, the sound melting down your spine like the cocoa body butter you favourite. Maybe he was right about the cooperation thing – you could play nice if it meant you got to have your routine.

“I just mean,” he starts, before rolling over the words in his mouth, looking out the window before making eye contact once more. His eyes are so brown. “You’re a lot less… snobby-looking.”

You bite out a sharp laugh in shock. “Excuse me?”

He raises his hands, now, a direct copy of how you’d appeared when you first made eye contact. His smile is devastating as he says, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just meant you have a lot more personality than expected.”

“Thought I was the type to be docile and pretty?” You quip, pulling your hair to rest over your shoulder. “How typically… male of you.”

Placing a hand over his heart, he pretends like he’s been wounded, expression twisting into one of pain. “Ouch, Princess. Way to hit a man where it hurts.”

“I know of many other places that’ll hurt,” you mutter, side-eying him. “Don’t test me.”

“Wouldn��t dream of it, Your Majesty,” he returns.

The car starts increasing in speed, then, at a harshly quick rate – enough to have both you and Gaz sitting up straighter, checking out your windows and tightening your grips on your guns.

Price turns, twisting where he sits in the passenger seat, looking out the back window. He curses under his breath, before looking between the both of you.

“We have company.”

author's note. please leave a comment or quote reblog if you enjoyed!! i hope you all enjoy this journey with me :) xx

taglist. nothing to see here.

[rewrite-canon]

im going crazy with how people are starting to agree with snow that sejanus was really stupid and deserved what was coming to him. reading the books first should be a pre requisite to the movie idcccc if that takes away the wider audience, the wider audience all have smooth brains anyway.

“why was he colluding with rebels when he could’ve just thought about it pragmatically 🙄” i’m in your fucking walls. sejanus was never dumb, snow just kept pushing that perception of him through the book to deflect the fact that sejanus was an actual good person. snow thought himself the personification of good and benevolence, which was why everything he did had to have some half-assed excuse as to why he was justified in doing it. it was why he was actually tweaking in the woods when lucy gray left him, because he wanted to rid himself of her but he didn’t have an actual reason so he convinced himself of the most random scenario ever to justify trying to shoot at her. so we can establish that snow was an evil broke boy who clearly wasn’t good— then sejanus was a direct confrontation of snow’s own shortcomings towards that (i don’t think i have to detail how sejanus was genuine, it was obvious). coriolanus and sejanus are like the direct opposite characters of each other, and snow knew and took pride in this to an extent. which is why snow couldn’t admit that sejanus was good to himself, thus sejanus was deemed ‘stupid’ to protect his own deluded self actualisation (but this also includes other aspects like how the war made the plinths rich and the snows poor, leading to resentment and jealousy from snow).

“but that still didn’t mean he wasn’t doing dumb things throughout the book” was it really that dumb? a rebellion will always include some level of risk but i don’t hear anyone calling heavensbee stupid because it actually worked out for him. plus sejanus is district, so if we use our common sense of who he is as a character and emotional intelligence of his situation, it’s pretty easy to see why he would get in touch with rebels. he’s literally always yearned for the districts, he never once cared about his money or safety, which isn’t stupid, it’s sad. this was his way of dealing with the guilt of profiting from his people’s suffering— again, not stupid. you could argue he was reckless, especially when he went into the arena, but most people who simply cast him as a ‘dumb character’ ignore how troubled he is and fall into the very filtered lens of snow who was just concentrating on his stupidity.

sejanus’ growing radical actions had nothing to do with stupidity and everything to do with feeling helpless and like nothing was changing. he tried minor/low-risk things such as attempting to change the perception of the districts in the capitol, advocating against the hunger games etc etc. of course it didn’t work, so his options grew limited to more radical courses of action. its a natural line of thought— activists literally do it in real life when they feel as if their cause isn’t getting enough attention (eg. setting themselves on fire). sejanus is a desperate character who is so selfless in light of snow’s constant self-preservation. snow will always put himself first and be paranoid that he will be betrayed like he’s betrayed others, so he never understands sejanus’ disposition to help and trust people, so he labels him dumb. omg. like. sejanus is so not-stupid i’m actually gonna start freaking out!! this is defamatory leave my boo alone!! plz go read a book and work on media literacy i am begging!!!

[hurts2think]

HERE WITH SOME IDEAS FOR YOU!! Red x Chloe x reader w some sleepover shenanigans? W maybe some nice conversations and cuddling n such w read being slightly sleep deprived and suuuper affectionate <33 Hehe thank you 💞

♥️Red Hearts x Chloe Charming x Reader⚔️

Reader pronouns: She/her

Pairing: Red Hearts x Chloe Charming x Fem!Reader

Plot: It's officially summer vacation and what better way to spend the first night with your two amazing girlfriends? You three are disgustingly adorable, even just trying to pick a movie to watch leads to piling ontop of each other and sweet kisses.

Word Count: 1.6k

Extra: Hi I wrote this at 1 am because I forgot to write sooner. So this is very bad and I'm VERY tired. But this is all pure fluff, hardly any real plot :)

The last day of school was always better than the first day of summer. It was the one day of year where everyone was happy for a mutual reason. The one day you didn't have to tolerate stupid lectures and no one argued. No one was caught up in any of their issues because only one thing was on their mind—waiting for the clocks to strike 2:30 pm.

While you were excited for school to end and summer begin, you were more excited for what tonight held.

It wasn't very often you and your two girlfriends got to hangout all together. Usually at least one of you were busy so dates between all three of you got difficult to plan. But tonight was different. You all cleared your schedules for the first night of summer vacation and prepare for a sleepover in Chloe's and Red's dorm.

You were always a little jealous they got to have a dorm together while you were stuck with someone else. But you didn't mind too much, sometimes it was nice to not be around them 24/7.

But once that bell rang, everyone ran out of their classes. The halls had never been filled with so much laughter and chatter about summer plans, it was nice. Nice to see everyone getting along and no stupid drama.

As you walked down the hall, you scan the area for Chloe or Red but can't seem to find either. Luckily for you, they always seem to have a knack for finding you.

A pair of arms suddenly wrap around you from behind, making you jump a little before realizing who it was.

"Helloooo. Happy last day of school!" A girl with big curly blue hair grinned. Your girlfriend, Chloe.

She was always the type to surprise hug or kiss you and Red. Usually it startled you at first but it was always pleasantly surprising.

You smile back as she unwraps her arms and starts to walk beside you, "Hey, Chloe. Is Red not with you?" You ask. Usually Red and Chloe had last period together so they met up with you after but Red wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Chloe sighed and shrugged, "Well, you know her. She skipped last period since it's the last day. So she's probably already at the dorm." Chloe smiled brightly. Her smile always felt bright, almost blinding. It was the kind of smile that you'd only see once or twice in your life, the kind of smile that told you everything would be okay.

"Let's not waste anytime then, yeah?" You grin, taking Chloe's hand into yours. She gives a firm nod and the two of you head off the the dorms.

----

The once room that was kept neat and clean, mostly on Chloe's behalf, had looked like it got hit with a tornado in the matter of a couple hours.

Blankets and pillows everywhere, CDs of possible movie choices scattered in front of the TV, snacks and wrappers trailed around anywhere in the room you guys sat. It was a wreck to say the least, but you were having the time of your life.

The lights were out, a small nightlight that casted lights of the moon and little stars all over the wall was the only thing that lit the room.

The clock ticked to 1 am. You were sitting on the bed with Red, leaning your head on her shoulder as the two of you watched Chloe rant about her top two movie options.

"Because The Princess Bride is so good but I don't know if you guys will like it as much, but also it's such a classic! And Mamma Mia is good too, because obviously, it's a musical. But if you guys don't know all of the songs, what's the point if I'm the only one singing?" She crossed her arms, looking to you and Red as if wanting you to give her the right answer.

Red looked like she stopped listening 10 minutes ago and you really didn't care what you guys watched. In the end, none of you would be paying attention to the movie and would all just get wrapped up in the blankets while cuddling and giggling. You were also way too tired to make a real decision

"Let's just watch Mean Girls again."

Chloe groaned and flopped onto the bed with you and Red, clearly not satisfied with the answer.

"Just pick something. It's not like we're really going to watch it." Red pointed out. She was always the one who said the things you guys were thinking but you and Chloe wouldn't actually say.

Chloe huffed and decided to make herself comfortable, sitting next to you so you were in-between them.

Now you really felt like you were about to fall asleep with how comfortable you were, but you really wanted to stay up longer.

"Maybe we just don't need a movie." You suggest, letting out a yawn.

Red nodded in agreement, "Yeah, we can totally just hangout without doing something." She stated, shifting to her side and rested an arm over your torso.

Chloe frowned at this conclusion. She was the kind of girl who always had to be doing something. She got all antsy when she wasn't doing something, even if she was totally ignoring whatever that something was. Like a movie.

"I guess so."

Being so sleep deprived and stuck in between your two girlfriends was starting to make you a little giddy. So with a sudden topic switch, you announce, "Ya know, you two really are so wonderful and beautiful." With a grin slowly making it's way on your face.

Red smirked slightly, looking at you skeptically from the sudden compliment.

Chloe on the other hand smiled sweetly, shifting to face you and taking her hand into yours, "And you're just as wonderful and beautiful." She says in return.

This made you smile wider, "No. Not nearly as wonderful as you two." You rebut.

Red rolled her eyes playfully, "You guys are so cheesy, it's disgusting."

"Shut up, you love it." Chloe smirked at Red.

With a sigh, Red leaned further against you, "Yeah, I totally love how much you guys tell each other how much you love one another and how amazing you are." She sarcastically says.

You giggle and kiss Red on the cheek, "Don't be jealous. I said you were both wonderful."

Red narrows her eyes, trying to look serious but only ended up smiling again, "I am not jealous."

Chloe laughs, "Really? Because you sound kiiinnd of jealous to me." She grins, looking between you and Red. The look in Chloe's eyes were full of admiration and absolutely love struck by her two perfect girlfriends.

Red rolled her eyes again, "Whatever, losers. You can go cuddle in the corner. I'm going to sleep." She said, rolling over away from the two of you.

You and Chloe gave each other a knowing look. It wasn't that Red was actually jealous, she just really loved attention from you guys. And she found out this was the best way to get it.

"Aww, don't be like that." You grin, wrapping your arms around Red from behind, pushing her long red strand of hair aside and kissing the back of her neck.

You couldn't see, probably because she didn't want you to see, but you could tell Red was smiling. "Nope. Gross, get off of me." She joked, trying to push you off and giggled in the process. But you were stubborn and just latched right back onto your princess.

Chloe came from the other side, now trapping Red in the middle instead, "Come on, you're so sweet, don't turn away." She teasingly poked at Red's cheek before trailing down her arm and taking her hand.

Red's face started to heat up, getting flustered by the attention from her two beautiful girlfriends, "You two are so gross."

"Nah, you love it." You say with a grin.

All three of you were practically piled on top of each other now, limbs all tangled and arms wrapped around each other. It was like being crushed but in a good way...? It was comfortable and safe. It felt like you could really just be you and love.

"Fine. Maybe I do. Just a little bit." Red admitted, leaning over and kissing you on the lips.

You didn't hesitate to kiss her back. Red's kisses were always much softer than you'd expect, but they were so sweet like candy.

Red then turned over and kissed Chloe on the lips too, smiling into the kiss.

After all of you were comfortable and quite honestly, about to fall asleep, Chloe suddenly sat up, "I'm hungry. We should make cookies."

Red seemed fond of the idea, but you were so so tired, "Oh my gosh, it is so late. Let's just go to sleep."

But Red and Chloe both give you the look they know you could never resist. So reluctantly, "...Fine..." The two girls cheer and hop out of the bed.

The three of you sneak your way down to the dormitory kitchen and get all the ingredients you need.

You put on your playlist and get to baking. None of you were necessarily the greatest bakers, so it was definitely an interesting experience.

Lots of giggling and throwing ingredients at each other while Girls Just Wanna Have Fun played.

By the end of it you were all covered in flour and ate most of the chocolate chips before when putting them in the dough. But it was still the most fun you'd had in awhile.

Even though the cookies did not turn out super great, being able to be with your two favorite people in the whole world was the only thing you ever needed.

Singing and dancing while making cookies, jumping around, laughing, it was something you wanted to last forever. And you were quite hopeful that it would always be this way. It was the first time you had felt truly content with your life.

[handsomeamoeba]

WRONG.

Try again.

Actually let's get into this. As someone who loves a great many fantasy RPGs including BG3, Skyrim, and Dragon Age, let me explain what BG3 gets that Skyrim misses, in my opinion.

And this is the big one: the characters in BG3 feel like real fucking people. They have backstories, demonstrable feelings about the events and the other characters, they react to the things you do and they develop as people as you further your relationships. Even minor NPCs often feel fleshed out with distinct personalities and opinions. Hell, going out of my way to cast Speak to Animals is usually rewarded with at least one charming remark. I have never given even a little bit of a shit about 99% of Bethesda NPCs. I usually choose to travel without a companion rather than with unless I need a pack mule to carry my stuff, because their primary function seems to be to get in my way, set off traps, or attract aggro. I can't remember most characters' names unless I'm actively playing. I'm more likely to casually murder people in Skyrim than I am in BG3 or DA because Bethesda hasn't really made any of their NPCs feel like real people, and consequentially I feel no guilt. By comparison I tried to do an evil run of DA:O and gave up the instant I had to kill Wynne (the grandmotherly spirit healer) when she refused to let me go through with my plans, because I hated doing it. Lydia will watch me gut an innocent man and do NOTHING because she has no life, existence, or personality outside of me, the player. This extends to romances, obviously. While optional in all the games, most people will pursue a romance path in BG3 or DA for the additional character arcs it brings to the characters, the emotional nuances they unlock. In Skyrim romance is a box you tick of tasks to complete. In fact, once you marry them, most marriage candidates personalities change *completely* because all spouses have the same few stock dialog lines. That is, if they had a personality to begin with (again, see Lydia). You know how everyone wants to romance unromanceable characters in Bethesda games? Like Brynjolf in Skyrim, or Nick Valentine in FO4? It's because Bethesda actually bothered to give them stories and opinions.

Honestly, this extends to the player character themselves. To a certain extent every player character is a blank slate, but in BG3 and DA it at least feels possible to develop a feeling about who that character is and what they would or would not say or do. I've tried to do that with the Dragonborn and rarely feel strong feelings about them or have strong opinions about what kind of person they are. The only one I've made who I have much of an idea about is my wood elf Parafina, who is Chaotic Evil. Which again is an option I only pick because no one in Skyrim feels real.

The stakes also feel more real in BG3, more personal. Obviously there's the central quest involving the tadpoles, but more than that, it is about a credible threat to your world and the people and communities in it and the people you love. There are tons of reasons to invest yourself emotionally in the narrative. I have never, ever completed the main storyline in Skyrim nor picked a side in Skyrim's civil war. Why would it? Basically nothing happens if I choose not to. Furthermore, if you're not playing as a Nord (which I usually don't), why would you care about Skyrim as a place? You are a faceless, voiceless (pun intended) outsider who gets microaggressed at every turn being asked to choose between two different flavors of fascist. Also dragons are back but like... listen, I don't care? They get pretty easy to pick off at a certain point, it's like swatting flies, they're just a nuisance on the way to my daily errands. And isn't that such a common story? Don't you know so many people who don't really bother with the main storylines of Skyrim? Yeah it's one of the bestselling games of all time but I feel like the fact that most people don't really care about its narrative should be a sign of failure. We all know it's mostly maintained its popularity due to the modding community.

Ultimately both games have rich worlds which reward exploration with little secrets and environmental storytelling. But BG3 feels more "meaningful" because they give me reasons to care about what happens. The writers worked hard to give the game emotional resonance. So I come to the two games for different experiences. I go to BG3 to engage with an interesting story. I go to Skyrim for the quick serotonin hit of completing tasks and hoarding items.

[tanoraqui]

Trick or treat!

obviously all disabilities are totally underrepresented in mainstream and non-mainstream fiction, but I’ve been thinking recently that one I’d really like to see, which you could easily write in offhandedly or as a compelling character-building plot point, and have no trouble casting for in live action, is simply: anything that requires continuous, consistently timed medication.

According to CDC surveys circa 2017-19, roughly 1 out of every 7 women in the USA use birth control pills, which usually need to be taken at a very regular daily time in a very regular monthly pattern.

According to my personal experience, it’s extremely possible to live a basically normal life with low but functional vision and also half a dozen other petty ongoing problems, while also having every single day of your life—and, god knows, any travel you want to do—organized around the fact that you need to take multiple eye drops roughly every 12 hours, one of which needs to stay refrigerated at all times.

If you need regular medication, a portal fantasy adventure presents a real problem. An unexpected urban fantasy adventure that prevents you from going home for more than a day is a problem. Excuse me, aliens who have abducted me? If I list the drugs I regularly take, and tell you very roughly what each does, can you synthesize them perfectly? No, I don’t know any of the active ingredients, sorry. Hell, as a romance novel protagonist, an impulsive overnight stay with a hot stranger I met at a bar isn’t an option!

I think this would be a fun challenge for writers to work around while constructing plots, a good source of characterization as they examine how scrupulous a character is about their schedule (or how anxious once off-schedule), and, seriously, so easy to slide into the background if not a focus of the story. Do you know how often I wander into my kitchen half-asleep and take an eye drop? Roughly twice a day! The sitcom au of my life would just have this as background in a wide variety of scenes! AND it’s not something you need to do a lot of research in order to depict—just note “character must take macguffinex every 6-18 hours or they’ll start to get worried about the long-term health of their [insert organ here]” and use that as a background parameter for your story.

[genshin-side-piece]

Sorry for yet another Neuvillette thirst but I keep thinking about kinda accepting him as your captor caretaker and that you can never get away from him, but now you don’t know how to act around him

The awkwardness between the two of you before was because, well, you didn’t like being kept in his house and having no autonomy, but now that you tolerate him (and dare I say, like him) the dynamic is changed and you don’t know what to do

You used to runaway or push him away when he was near but now the two of you are sitting amicably on the couch and you’re heart is fluttering and your face is on fire because he’s so close (and, you begrudgingly admit, quite attractive)

I love the idea of a once defiant darling developing a crush on their yandere and not knowing how to deal with it because suddenly everything is so awkward 🫣

Keep em coming! I love to talk about this kind of stuff. :) Hopefully I don't burst your bubble.

There's a bunch of different things going on here, so I'm going to break it down into pieces.

Let me start with the scenario itself. Is it possible, yes. Do I think a bunch of other stuff has to happen to make it possible? Also yes.

To me, when it comes to fictional yandere scenarios, there are two types of acceptance that can occur. There is acceptance of the situation and the reality of which darling finds themselves and then there is acceptance of the yandere themselves as anything more than a captor or keeper.

The way I view Neuvillette and his darling is that ultimately darling has accepted the life he has provided them, because there is no other option for them. If they manage to escape or if he casts them out, they will in theory have nothing. More so, if they try to explain where they've been or the situation to anyone, it's doubtful many would view the circumstances as truly horrible. Darling had a good home, provided for by the Iudex himself. Regardless of his "quirks", they're insane to leave it. I've said this in another post, but to me Neuvillette carries some built in immunity due to his position and reputation. Darling also lacks one crucial thing when it comes to all of this and that's evidence of mistreatment or wrong doing. Without it, people may view Neuvillette's over all actions as a kindness and darling as ungrateful for seeking outside assistance.

In the series, darling chooses to stay when Neuvillette sends them away during the crisis and they choose to accept their fate when it comes to him. What they don't do is choose him. Neuvillette remains as he always was. He is still their captor/keeper. The change is that protector is added to that list and darling feels/shows gratitude for him keeping them safe during the crisis. That gratitude takes the form of tolerance, specifically of Neuvillette and his need to be by darling's side. Tolerance is not equal to friendship or love. Acceptance is not the same as forgiveness.

Let's not beat around the bush. What Neuvillette has done is wrong. It can be classified as illegal. In order for things to progress between the two of them, Neuvillette would have to offer recompense to Darling for his misgivings, as well as extend a fair amount of trust when it comes to darling's movements. He would have to allow them their full liberty with the understanding that they will come back to him AND not try to turn him in. In turn, Darling would have to fully forgive Neuvillette for his actions and demonstrate that same level of trust by fully allowing him into their life, with the understanding that he will not try to control it. If that doesn't happen, then both subjects become an awkward sticking point between the two and the relationship goes into a weird territory. I don't think it's impossible for darling to develop feelings for Neuvillette without forgiveness. They've been locked in the house with him for a year, with varying levels of contact. The way I see them in my mind, is that they chalk the crush up to convenience or captive audience and not real feelings. I think it would go as far as them having their stupid sexy Flanders moment with Neuvilette and that would be it. Also hopefully I'm not aging myself with that reference. :)

That being said, IF both sides can come together, then I think they can safely move into crushes and butterflies in the stomach over how Neuvillette's whole face lights up when he smiles or how good his arms feel around them at night. I can't say for sure how Neuvillette would respond to the crush, but I think he would find their awkwardness fascinating and that's if he finds it awkward at all. The idea that they want to be near him, that they want to touch him? He's over the moon about that. He'll happily drink up every moment he can with darling, if for no other reason than he doesn't know if their mood will change and they'll begin avoiding him again. He just sort of goes with it, planning or in certain instances plotting different ways to keep them close. Him hiding all the throw blankets except for the ones big enough for two come to mind. He picks up the latest detective novel or the latest gossip rag and reads it to them as he encourages them to take their afternoon nap in his lap. They both go for walks in the country or he tells awful jokes that he picks up from the gestionnaires in the Palais, all in the hope that he can make them smile or laugh. The sky is really the limit in terms of how hard he tries. The question is, how much do you want to encourage him?