#the amount of red squigglies @_@

[a-purpled-world]

Original posted December 8, 2020 on Soundcloud for JD's 1st anniversary

About JD and voicebank download: jaevocalproject.weebly.com/jd.html

LYRICS

porita himas ekshira chita korpo korpo marun hita hita shmahun

emiyasu rore krashda mone i horushi

(humming)

da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da raho reina mi pichimas

porita himas ekshira chita koru koru friro koru koru ano

emiyasu rore krashda mone i horushi

hiri wa nima ragiha

porita himas ekshira chita wo korpu korpu marun hita hita shmahun wo koru koru friro rahore ipichina

koru koru anomie

[rosegoldrosieee]

The (Un)common Cold

(Tags: House/Wilson, domestic fluff, sexual/suggestive humor, sickfic, established relationship, clinic duty, references to wanting to get married)

Summary: It’s November, and hurricane season and flu season are in full swing. Afflicted with the commonest of colds, Wilson hasn’t been cuddling with House as much as he’d like. To remedy this distressing issue, House resorts to a method as unorthodox and selfish as his bedside manner.

(TL;DR: House turns off the heat in their condo. Set vaguely in the middle of S6, but Wilson has slightly longer hair?)

Read on AO3 (5k words)

It had only really started recently—House would wake up to Wilson facing away from him or his grumbling incoherently in the middle of the night and wriggling out of House’s grasp. Nothing as of recent could have annoyed Wilson to get the point of withdrawal, considering that being House's significant other required an inhuman amount of patience. House props himself onto his forearm.

Wilson stirs, curling in on himself, cheek pressed into the cool fabric of the pillow, facing House, hair mussed and features soft, unmarred by the usual array of worries he carried for two. He looks angelic, bathed in the scant moonlight filtered through the blinds—so much so that House merely lies there and observes, unwilling to ruin the lovely chiaroscuro sleeping beside him. 

He parsed his memory of the past few weeks: Wilson yelling at him to do the dishes (House ordered takeout for the next week to avoid it); Wilson complaining that House forgot to pick up their dry cleaning (which he promptly compensated for with good—no—incredible sex); Wilson preemptively buying an egregiously large pallet of Kleenex from Costco and creating a barricade at the foot of the bed. 

A wave of guilt threatens to wash over him. Yes, he was objectively a shitty boyfriend for losing sleep over some stranger’s nonsensical symptoms and not Wilson’s, however minor and trivial they were. No time like the present, then, to get on with it. The incentive was inherent — getting Wilson to snuggle with him again. 

House reaches out, gently sweeping Wilson’s tousled bangs aside, the back of his hand kissing his forehead. A feverish warmth inundates his skin, from his knuckles to the tips of his fingers. Wilson’s brows furrow, his face contorting imperceptibly into an expression of mild discomfort, before he quickly eases back into rest with a quiet sigh.

He etches LOW-GRADE FEVER onto his mental whiteboard in Expo chicken scratch. In his head, the marker’s a neon pink, fluorescent and glow-in-the-dark. Maybe he’d bother the fellows next week (or if they’d had enough, Wilson or Cuddy) to cover the expenses for a more colorful array of colors. He only had himself to parry with or throw insults at tonight, but it would have to suffice. 

Wilson’s nose is swollen; he’d find mottled red blooming at the apex, if he was cruel enough to turn on the lamp.SINUSITIS. He knows exactly what Wilson has, of course he does, but it’s more fun to gather all the constituent pieces of the jigsaw first. Maybe he’s just playing with his food. Either way, Wilson isn’t actively dying, so there’s no harm in placating his own boredom with a differential.

An unpleasant, scratchy hacking snaps House out of his reverie. Wilson settles again, sniffling and exhaling wearily through parted lips. He adds a messy, squiggly arrow underneath SINUSITIS: CONGESTION.

Poor thing.

House’s internal monologue uses two different inflections for those words. The first, a genuinely sympathetic lilt. Wilson was so infuriatingly pitiful when he was sick, blowing snot bubbles and flashing tired, pleading puppy-dog eyes to guilt trip House into doing his bidding. Even then, it couldn’t really be guilt tripping when it was merely giving House an impetus to stop evading his domestic responsibilities. 

The second, a mocking, derisive tone that was far more likely to come out of his mouth. In what sort of sick, perverted world does pretty privilege trump being a cripple in chronic pain? Still, House felt less sympathy for his terminal patients than he did for Wilson. 

“You’ve known me for how many years?” House murmurs softly, reaching over for a tissue and dabbing at Wilson’s nose. “Somehow, this is the first time you’ve managed to bore me. Congratulations. You have the most common of colds. Thank the aptly named rhinovirus.”

Wilson snuffles and squirms only briefly before his body relaxes again. 

“Must feel good to breathe through your nose for a few seconds again, I know, but I can’t do this all night for you. Blow it yourself,” House quips, pressing a chaste kiss to a flushed cheek before reclining back, tucking the sheets over them both. “And while you’re at it, blow me.” 

***

Wilson wakes to a dark tundra.

Okay, fine. That’s a dramatic exaggeration, even for him.

It is, however, a dreary autumn morning, and Mother Nature weeps, her tears flooding the streets. The place is devastatingly cold, from the outside layer of the duvet to the edges of the pillow that Wilson’s fever couldn’t penetrate. He shivers, burrowing himself in the layers up to his nose. It’s 9 a.m., and Wilson’s bedside is vacant, save for the noticeable imprint of House’s frame in the valleys of rumpled sheets. When he rubs the sleep from his eyes, he sees the tail end of a crinkled Shoprite receipt tucked under House’s pillow. 

For a second, he thinks the worst, lethargy eclipsed by dread. Squinting, Wilson slides the thin slip out and orients it sideways, to decipher the tiny scrawl in the negative space between transactions and along the borders: 

THE COLD IS A BITCH 

SO IS MY PATIENT TODAY

BACK SOON I ♡ YOU

Wilson’s eyes soften, thumb smearing the red ink on the last three words. The heart is messily filled in, the sides a bit lopsided. House is scarcely up this early, so it must have been urgent. Or he’s screwing with him. 

His stomach does a strange little flip as he reads it. Then rereads it. Five, seven, five. A haiku and an explicit “I love you”? This early? Now he was sure—House had to be fucking with him. Trying to appease him for some nefarious reason that would be made crystal-clear very soon. 

Wilson had already called yesterday to let Cuddy know he wouldn’t be in for at least the next day or so, but the guilt was overwhelming. His patients needed him, if not as a doctor, as a friend, and not just that, but his assistants, too, that he promised—

You’re not a doormat. So don’t lie down and capitulate. 

Paraphrased, most likely, but House was right. 

Unfortunately, the cold seems to kill the rest of his thoughts as they swim across his psyche, slowing first before they atrophy and rupture. 

With a defeated sigh, Wilson finally stumbles out of bed, limbs stiff and head heavy as he staggers to the kitchen, beelining for the medicine cabinet, dragging the sheets along like a bridal train. 

***

Clinic duty is stupid. 

And the sky is blue. 

“Google celebrated its eleventh birthday last month,” he remarks, leveraging himself against the nurses’ station. The nurses mill about, doing what they do best: ignoring him. “You’d think people might try to use some of this newfangled technology before they came here.” 

Cuddy’s heels clack across the linoleum in a tiresome staccato. He doesn’t bother looking behind him, fidgeting with his cane idly. He swears his midback tingles like a sort of Spider-sense, feeling the file hovering just shy of his back in her outstretched hand. 

“House.” 

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Another terrifying rhinovirus that infects millions of people every year?” Reluctantly, he swivels around. “Boring.”

“The nurse’s station,” she chastises him, shoving the patient chart into his chest, “is not your soapbox. You have ten more hours to make up this week. Go.” 

He takes it, hobbling toward an exam room indignantly. “I’ll make up the other nine-and-three-quarters next week,” he snarks, holding the door with his cane. “My boyfriend is sick, and you want me to be Mother Theresa for well-off, sheltered white middle-class families and their snotty kids.” 

The door shuts with a creak. 

A wide-eyed, sniffly kid knocking his knees together on the exam table and his mother offer him matching blank stares. 

“Dr. House, his nose has just been running nonstop since this morning, and—"

House limps over to the blinds and draws them up with a flourish of his wrist. “See that across the street? It’s a CVS.” He enunciates each letter, drawing out the syllable condescendingly. 

“But how will I know—” 

House hobbles over to the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket and waving it on his way out. “Magic brick. Use it, lady. Thank Steve Jobs.” 

“But—” 

Slam. 

***

The door swings open at 3:48 p.m. 

A harsh draft whips at his skin as soon as he shuts it. He shakes his sneakers off and trudges toward the inert Wilson-shaped lump on their sofa, a patchwork nest of threadbare throw blankets, their bed’s duvet, and House’s heavy winter coat. 

He probes at the mound with the end of his cane as if it were a tumor, earning a disgruntled huff. “Stop it.” 

“Good to see you too, honey,” House says, eyes full of mirth. His cane topples to the ground as he drapes himself over the princess-and-the-pea-esque layers of fabric separating them, limbs akimbo. Wilson grumbles something unintelligible into the pillow in protest but doesn’t—can’t—move. “I clocked out early for you. Couldn’t you at least pretend to be happy to see me?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Wilson snaps, the force of his outburst blunted by his fatigue. “It’s just that it feels more like Siberia today than Jersey.” 

House raises his head briefly to sift through the layers, exposing Wilson’s turned head. “It still beats waking up to you soaking our sheets. Not in the good way.” 

Wilson doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, but he flushes.

“Anyways—our heat’s busted,” Wilson rasps nasally. “Call HVAC, or you’re a shitty boyfriend.” 

“Don’t pull that card on me,” House retorts, pinching his nose to mimic him. “It’s been raining and windy all day. We’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“House.” 

House rolls off him unceremoniously with a petulant groan. “Fine. I’ll call them later, if it so appeases you.” 

“Call them now.” He knows House’ll forget if he doesn’t enforce an ultimatum. 

House makes a show of it, taking out his phone and pointedly tapping the numbers on the keypad, letting the line ring as he fleetingly presses a kiss to Wilson’s exposed head and steps into the bedroom. He shuts the door, knowing that Wilson might construe it as a sweet, thoughtful gesture to give him some peace while he’s sick. 

His intentions are not at all that benevolent. “Hello, HVAC!” He says loudly, slouching against the door.

“House, you called me, it’s Ch—” 

“HVAC, when are you coming to fix my heat?” 

“I’m about to go into the O.R., can this wait?” Chase reminds him, as if it would make a difference. “Patient just coded.” 

“Not until next Monday? That’s a shame,” House laments. “Well, thanks anyway.” 

He hangs up quickly, appearing from the bedroom to bother Wilson again. “The HVAC guy said they’re backlogged until Monday.” 

Wilson is crestfallen when he breaks the news—eyes wet, thick brows knit in worry, the corners of those lovely, plush lips downturned—so much so House almost comes clean. Instead, he deflects. “You look like the poster child for a Victorian orphanage.”

“Go out and buy space heaters,” Wilson mumbles against the mountain of throws. “It’s for your own good, too.” 

“Or,” House looks up thoughtfully, as he digs Wilson out of the nest he’s swaddled in, only to better crush him under his weight, “you could hump my pant leg until you start a fire. They ripped that page out of your Boy Scout Handbook, didn’t they?” 

Wilson squirms, balling up to conserve heat, pulling whatever blankets he could scrabble at toward him. “No. You’ll get sick, and it’s already miserable taking care of you when you’re perfectly well. Go away.” 

“Just a suggestion.” House mutters, unable to resist kissing his cheeks. Wilson’s face scrunches up in irritation, eyes screwed shut, but the tips of his ears redden. A tell House had relied on for years. 

***

At night, it was far worse. 

It really was cold. And Wilson still swatted him away at some point, because his forearms were numb in the morning. He turns to his side, groaning, limbs struggling to resist rigor mortis. Covered with a few throw blankets that clearly weren’t doing much, Wilson is shivering in the fetal position, but his hair is matted with sweat, bangs plastered to his forehead. 

But his own legs are fine. Which is strange, because—oh. 

His legs are meticulously cocooned in their thickest comforter. Undoubtedly Wilson’s doing. 

House’s heart does a strange little swoop imagining Wilson, sick and trying not to drip snot all over their new premium down IKEA duvet, worrying about the state of his bad leg if left to rot in the cold for hours unattended.

Quietly, he unfurls his swaddled legs, tucking Wilson into the blanket. Like a plant to the sun, he folds into the warmth, the wretched shivering finally ceasing. House swipes the sweat off his skin with weathered hands. Wilson presses against his palm like a stray with a soft, sleepy whimper, lashes fluttering. 

On top of Wilson being his boyfriend (the word still soured in his mouth; he’d rather just start calling him his husband, anyhow), the years of venting to comatose patients had likely conditioned House to get all sappy in the moment. 

“You’re too sweet,” House whispers, an affirmation that he secretly hopes Wilson internalizes subliminally. The vulnerability frightens him. “I don’t deserve you.”

Don’t you? Wilson would say, if he were conscious, but House wouldn’t believe him. Or, at the very least, we deserve each other. We’re terrible for every woman we start a relationship with. 

Wow. He really did have to put a ring on it soon, if Wilson was supplanting the narration for House’s inner voice and hypothetical scenarios. He wanted to do it—after all, Wilson’s proposed four times but never proposed to. 

Soon, if he wasn’t such a coward about it. 

***

House returns from the hospital with Cuddy’s voice ringing in his ears like a bad case of tinnitus. Clinic hours, clinic hours, clinic-hours, clinichours… the syllables blurred together into a mess of haphazard phonics that had since lost their meaning. 

And it’s cold in the house, to make matters worse. Oh, and there’s a hurricane watch. 

Their latest case is a doozy: a 34-year-old man with schizophrenia who internally bleeds, but only when he’s sleeping. They can’t even piece together the borders of the puzzle yet. It doesn’t help that he’s uncooperative, or that the team has to painstakingly sift through his hallucinations to speculate about his other symptoms. 

He lets work drift into the darkest recesses of his mind as he saunters into the bedroom, shedding his jacket. Wilson is wearing their entire closet and then some. 

It also smells like someone sprayed every Bath and Body Works fragrance at once. Musk, jasmine, sandalwood, cherry blossom, and bergamot. It’s horrific. 

Breathing solely in and out of the mouth, House sidles up to him on the bed, gently knocking his knuckles against where he knows his ass is, by virtue of a well-used muscle memory. “Nice King Tut cosplay,” he deadpans, “I’d say the most realistic part is that his sarcophagus comprises a university sweatshirt and a dozen winter woolies.”

That earns a soft snort and coaxes Wilson to poke his head out. “Had to make do with all of those candles you impulse-bought at the mall.” 

“They’re not meaningfully contributing to the temperature,” House says, blowing them out with a short puff, shooing the tendrils of aromatic smoke away. “Now I’m cold and dizzy.” 

House limps over to the window, hand bracing his thigh, and pushes the window up with a quiet grunt. The wind whips at the curtains, rain pattering the windowsill and dampening House’s shirt. 

“House, there’s a hurricane!” Wilson shouts as best he can, scarcely louder than a croak. 

“Would it really kill Ida to enjoy some synthetic fragrances?” He yells louder. 

***

The candles are back where they should be, and House is lugging freshly washed and dried laundry back to the living room.

“Strip,” House orders, dropping the basket in front of the sofa. When Wilson doesn’t budge, glaring at him like he’d murdered his firstborn, he sighs, wearily, rolling his eyes. “C’mon. Humor me.”

Wilson reluctantly peels off each layer like a nested Russian doll, each article of clothing that dropped to the floor revealing a slightly less bulky item on his person. House watches him reverently, as if Wilson were giving a striptease in lingerie, arms slung over the back cushions of the sofa. 

“Stop it,” Wilson grits through his teeth, awkwardly angling away from House and the amused smirk he’s wearing, gesticulating wildly toward the flatscreen. “Just…watch the TV. There’s nothing remotely interesting about what I’m doing.” 

“Nothing remotely interesting,” House remarks dryly, cocking his head, “about you taking your clothes off?” 

Wilson shoots him a withering glare off-set by kind eyes, clothes strewn on the floor in a heap. “Remind me why I’m doing this, other than for your pleasure?” 

“Believe it or not, I am capable of altruism,” House pats the cushion beside him expectantly before digging for something in the laundry bin. Wilson beelines for the couch immediately, cursing his innate desire to please. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.” 

Head pounding from the sudden movement, Wilson slumps against House’s side with a defeated sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. Warmth and weight suddenly supplant pain, enveloping him head to toe. 

When he opens an eye to see what’s changed, he notices first that House’s boxers are tucked beneath his chin like a bib. All their laundry, in fact, is dumped on top of him like a landfill. 

Wilson grimaces, gingerly pinching the seam of the boxers and tossing them toward House. “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. It’s clean!” House exclaims in thinly veiled yet barely-there exasperation, rolling his eyes as he throws the underwear back into the basket. “Don’t be such a prude. Your temperature rises by point-five and suddenly you forget all the times you’ve gotten my dick wet through these.” 

Wilson’s cheeks pink. If his temperature were point-five Fahrenheit lower, he’d have an equally snide comment to make.

Softer, unrecognizably so, House tucks the warm bedsheet around them both and murmurs, “Is that any better?” 

Wilson nods, forehead nudging against the crest of House’s ribs. 

I win, is all House thinks, his hand hanging loosely around the softness of Wilson’s shoulder. Sort of.

***

Wilson’s fever breaks, miraculously, overnight. Whether or not the cold played a part, Wilson would never admit to. 

He was still achy and groggy — getting older meant he didn’t bounce back quite as easily. Come Monday he’d be back and ready to go — he had to be. 

The heat also must have come back sometime overnight. Consequently, Wilson woke up in a puddle of his own sweat, his shirt unbuttoned and pants discarded. 

House is nowhere to be found. There’s no note, and it’s Friday, and more than that, sunny, so there’s no way he went into work this early unless his team gave him one hell of a reason to. 

A distant sneeze confirms his suspicions. 

Wilson staggers out of the bedroom, yawning. The door to one of their closets in the hallway is open and there’s a muted click-click.

“House?” 

The man in question swivels around on his heel, and despite the blank, unreadable expression gracing his face, Wilson knows something’s off, other than the nascent signs of an emerging cold. “You’re up early.” 

Without missing a beat, House replies, “HVAC called me and told me to troubleshoot before they come tomorrow.” 

Wilson’s brows knit in confusion, hands coming to his hips. “I thought you said HVAC couldn’t come until Monday. Tomorrow’s Saturday.” 

“Your addled brain must’ve heard me wrong in the throes of your illness,” House deadpans, voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re coming tomorrow, and—” 

“Wait,” Wilson puts up a hand to cease his rambling. House sniffles. “Okay, first of all—you’re trying to gaslight me, but that’s beside the point—what were you doing in our closet?! It’s seven-thirty in the morning!”

In response, House limps into the closet, shutting the door, then opens it with a dramatic flair, his delivery unwaveringly monotone: “I’m gay.” 

A wave of unwanted affection threatens to suffocate Wilson, who drags a hand down the length of his face to hide the minute upward curl of his lips. “I’m— I mean, well, that’s great, honey, but you didn’t answer my question.” 

House droops lazily against the door, feigning ignorance. “What was the question, again?” 

Wilson doesn’t entertain House’s antics any further, (gently) pushing House away from the closet door and going inside. There was nothing in it—just a few dust bunnies near the vent, and the circuit breaker. 

The circuit breaker. 

It suddenly clicks, like one of House’s epiphanies for all his seemingly impossible-to-crack cases. The prevaricating. The lack of urgency to fix the heat. The inexplicable sweetness that was otherwise unwarranted. The power trip alone is enough to sway Wilson toward switching departments. 

Wilson animatedly shoves his index finger against House’s chest, chuckling cockily as he shook his head in disbelief. “Oh-ho, you’re…you’re really—really something for doing this to me.” 

House’s poker face remains intact as he furrowed his brows in confusion. “Care to enlighten me?” 

Wilson gently nudges House aside, meeting little resistance, from the closed door to open it. The panel door to the circuit breaker was ajar, he notes, as he swings the panel 

His gaze pans to the labels they’d messily scrawled out to remind themselves which switch was which. All of them were toggled on, save for — wait for it — HVAC. 

Flicking it back on again with an incredulous scoff, Wilson turns around slowly to savor the look on House’s face, now that he’d got him cornered. How could he possibly defend such an action that—

Slam goes the closet door that shuts in Wilson’s face, the room dark apart from the thin slivers of sunlight seeping through the louvered door. He tries the doorknob; it holds fast, rattling uselessly. He opts to pound on the wood with his fists instead. 

“You’re an ass,” he shouts, the groan of the wood under his curled hand punctuating his words. “Why the hell would you turn off the heat when I was sick?!” 

House is strangely hesitant, his tone unfamiliar, and not because his voice was scratchy in the morning or because he was getting sick. The stint wasn’t even remotely close to the worst thing he’s done to Wilson. 

“I was trying to MacGyver it. Turning it off and on like IT does with our laptops after I give them all viruses.” 

Wilson’s incessant hammering ceases abruptly, as the gears turn in his head, which, as they both very well knew, was governed by the whims of his heart. He bends down, settling down on the floor to peek at House (more accurately, merely the latter half of his legs) through the slats. “You sound guilty, House. Why?”

A stagnant silence follows, barring the rickety hum of the heat kicking in again. House is rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, favoring his good leg. No quick jabs or acerbic ribbing. For years, Wilson nagged House for a few seconds of peace and quiet, but now that he has it, he’s not so sure he even prefers it. 

It’s so uncomfortable that Wilson breaks the quiet instantly. 

“I’m not mad at you, y’know that, right, House?” He murmurs, hoping that he’ll earn an offhanded insult by virtue of how tenderly he’s speaking to House, the same way he might coax a skittish stray to seek shelter.

He wants to see House’s face, those sharp, rugged features weathered by cynically furrowing his brows and wrinkling his forehead. Anything that would hint at a prevailing feeling threatening to break him down. 

The door unlocks with a quiet click as if somehow knew what he wanted, his eyes at once assaulted by bright daylight. He gets up, stumbling a bit, with a groan, leaning against the doorframe for support. 

House is staring at him, intensely and unwaveringly, but not in that menacing, derisive way that he reserved for, well, everyone else. Nor was it the lusty Kubrick stare that reconfigured the neurons in his brain to confuse fear for arousal. His eyes, rimmed red, lashes wet and eyes glossy. Wilson was reading into it too much—it could have been 

“Oh, Christ, House…” Wilson drawls, voice just as soft as the palm coming to rest on a stubbled cheek, thumb tracing the bone. His eyes crinkle faintly when House leans into it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve assumed you were screwing with it instead of trying to help—” 

“I wasn’t.” The syllables tumble out unevenly, blunt-edged, bypassing the whetstone that rendered all his words sharp enough to kill. 

Noting Wilson’s bewilderment, House says, voice clipped and averting his gaze, “I turned it off.” 

Wilson blinks, dumbly. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” 

Exasperated, he shrugs, searching House’s gaze. It wasn’t a prank—he knew that much because the lack of central heat was just as detrimental to House as it was to him. 

“Just—House, tell me.” 

An easy feat for the most emotionally constipated man that he knew. House’s gaze is distant, in the way it is when that brilliant mind of his pulverizes his emotions into cold, objective slop. Patience wasn’t a strong enough word for Wilson’s mental fortitude. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” House asks, trying so very hard to keep his voice level and unfeeling. 

“Other than you turning our condo into the Arctic, and potentially prolonging my symptoms?” Wilson inquires, tilting his head. “I have a laundry list of grievances, but none of them have bothered you until now.” 

“Not a good time to psychoanalyze me.” House hobbles over to the couch to sit, massaging his leg. Wilson follows like House has some sort of gravitational pull on him. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not enough to jeopardize my secret stash,” He shoots back, face contorting into that practiced sneer, masking a wince as he plants his bad leg onto a pillow. “I carved a little crater into the wall at crotch height for it. Doubles as a glory hole, y’know. Thought I could indulge both our vices.” 

Although House was impressively talented at maintaining that lackadaisical, devil-may-care attitude, he had a tell like anyone else. Remorse manifested as physical pain for House, suppressed emotions funneling down to the only place he’d admit could feel something on a regular basis. Well, not the only place, clearly.

Wilson doesn’t entertain House’s crude quips. He lets House nestle his head in his lap, eyes shut, breathing steady. Sooner or later House will find the silence unnerving and say something fleetingly introspective. 

“You keep pulling away from me.” House says. 

The clue House gives is infuriatingly vague and no better than a trace of footprints that tapers off halfway through the woods. 

“House, I need you to be more specific,” Wilson groans. “Emotionally? Physically? When? Where?” 

“It was you, in the bedroom, with the candlestick.” 

That earns a frustrated scoff from Wilson, who is painstakingly trying to corroborate House’s vague clues and motives by racking his own memory of the past few days, stringing bits and pieces together on an imaginary corkboard with red twine. 

“I wish I chose a different career right about now,” Wilson grumbles. “Seriously, help me out here.” 

“Must I spell out everything for you?” House chimes, turning his head to rest his cheek on the softness of Wilson’s thigh. “I’ll cut you some slack since you were probably unconscious. You refused to remain comfortably entangled in my arms until morn.” 

“Are you serious?” Wilson queries, staring down at him incredulously, hand still gently carding through House’s short, cropped graying hair even in his anger. “I was sick and didn’t want to snuggle up with you for a few days. Forgive me for pushing you away—in my sleep—when…when I was fighting an infection!” 

House’s eyes narrow. “So you admit it.” 

He brings Wilson’s free hand to rest atop his own over his chest.

“What?! House—” 

“You’re a shittier boyfriend than me.” 

Wilson’s thumb brushes the back of House’s hand. 

“You pretended our heat was busted for the past week!” 

House brings Wilson’s knuckles to his lips, brushing over them tenderly. 

“Oh, please. Neither the cold nor your cold was even remotely close to being fatal.” 

Wilson glares at House with a weary fondness usually reserved for old married couples. 

Christ.

In this moment, Wilson wants this misanthropic, selfish, grumpy, crippled old man pushing fifty to be his “better” half. It’d be his fourth marriage and the final entry on a long list of lovers, yes, but House would also be his first and only husband; Wilson would be the same in relation to House. He understood 13-year-old girls who planned their weddings at sleepovers with their friends now. 

Wilson conveys all this daydreaming in a very House-ian manner: “You’re an idiot.” 

His hand migrates from House’s hair to the persistent wrinkles across his forehead, tracing over them before his palm settles on the curve of his cheek. “I can’t believe you did all that just to get me to cuddle with you. I was sick. I didn’t want to get you sick.” 

And Wilson had clearly failed, no thanks to House’s clinginess, because he was already sniffling and slightly feverish as he had been a few days ago. 

“A lesser man than I would have impeccably communicated my frustrations and resolved all of this within the hour,” House murmurs as he presses into Wilson’s palm, ungracefully smushing a stubbled cheek against it. “But that’s boring.” 

“If you wanted a dopamine rush, we could have just…” 

“Fucked?” House finishes for him. Wilson’s cheeks flush. “The thought of you dripping both snot and semen all over me istitillating.”

Wilson clamps his hand over House’s mouth. ��Enough.”

But something warm and moist drags over the inside of his palm, and he jerks his hand back instinctively, wiping it on the side of House’s sweats. “What the hell?!”

House sits up with a grunt, orienting himself next to Wilson. “Works every time,” he says, nonchalantly. “Say, did you jerk off last night? This morning? I swear I can still taste–“

Wilson smothers him with a pillow, heat rushing to his face. “Shut up.”

He really hopes there’s a return policy on the ring.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

octavinelle + mostro lounge exterior

[The images in this post are credited to Turtle Soup Scans! Please support the team and the work they do~]

I was rereading the Episode of Octavinelle manga recently and!! I don’t know how I missed these detail before 😭 Time to comment on them now—

When the mirror expels Yuuta, Jack, and the other students into Octavinelle, each of them is encapsulated in a bubble which grants them air. This definitely helps to make the in-game moments when the students appear to be just fine despite being underwater less awkward.

Ah, and I notice the outermost entrance to the Mostro Lounge resembles the mouth of Ursula’s cave, of course!

This was actually always visible on the Octavinelle map, it was just hard to notice at first because there’s so much other stuff to stare at. Circled in red is where the Mostro Lounge is relative to everything else.

The Mostro Lounge seems to occupy a separate building in Octavinelle. It can be reached via a longish winding path, which is where I think the corridors with great glass walls where you can peer into the surrounding sea are. However, that's not visually indicated in the map (circled in green) so maybe I'm wrong on that.

The inner hall of the Mostro Lounge is decorated similarly to Ursula's lair too. All the… seawead?? Squiggly things dangling from the ceiling…

We also get to see the door that goes straight to the Mostro Lounge. The name and many tentacles preside over the entrance.

I love the amount of detail the manga's able to express. With the game alone, we had a much more limited scope of how locations like the Mostro Lounge are structured both inside and out. It's great that the manga can expand on that~

[mittykidi]

i like to think even if [insert any of the main fnf or picos school characters here in any order because i ship p much all of them] got into a poly, theyd each still have their separate rooms. its just nice to have your own space sometimes, surrounding yourself in your own comforts and allat, especially if youre goin through mental hell (which all of them do, undoubtedly at least the newgrounds trio).

its not like they cant all sleep together, like they can have sleep overs in each others rooms and even in the livingroom, and they can routinely sleep together if they wanted, but if they decide not to, then that option is so much easier and accessible.

that being said, i haven't really thought about what all their rooms would look like, id imagine most of them enjoy maximalism.

random room headcanons below the cut

DARNELL

- the walls are lavender, faint marijuana scent + gasoline

- he has at least two lava lamps, one is purple

- ungodly amounts of pillows (the good kind tho)

- neat wall display of vinyls and posters

- keepsake box under his bed he thinks nobody knows about (pico and nene will watch him pull it out sometimes while hiding behind the door)

- obvs he has a small setup for his music career (idk all the tools specifically n im lazy)

- a drawing desk at the foot of his bed for sketching out blueprints, album covers, etc.

- usually pretty clean if you can ignore the burn marks up and down the walls.. and the bed... and the

NENE

- walls are pink, well, if you can even see the wall; smells like rose water

- stickers everywhere, pink everything, posters everywhere

- animal shaped candles... well until darnell gets his hands on them

- curtains over the bed- the bed is circle + beloved giant seal plush as pillow

- she has a pin board where she pins up polaroid pictures and letters/ drawings she gets and loves enough

- you will be stepping on beads in her room. nail polish is embedded into the carpet also

-usually pretty clean but clothes are often strewn about

-she has one of those giant mirrors with the squiggly border- and she has cute retro lightswitch covers/ doorknobs

PICO

- green walls. smells like marijuana

- glowing star decal ceiling, accompanied by a bullet hole or two (covered poorly with the stars)

- he has little dinosaur figures on the windowsill

- also hangs up vinyls and posters

- mood lights, all around. he loves them (easy on the eyes)

- bed is basically a fortress of mismatched blankets and plushies. insisted his mattress be on the floor (darnell made sure it was thick enough to not hurt his back)

- black out curtains

- his mini fridge is his night stand (likes having control over food)

- he has a mental map of where every weapon he has hidden in his room is; hidden more weapons than youre probably thinking

BOYFRIEND

- walls are a light blue & red, room smells like old books (i mean that in the most comforting way possible i love the smell of old books)

- has a tv in his room + gaming setup (messy edition)

- adhd piles (not clean or organized looking but he knows where everything is)

- many marks on the walls from throwing things aside without 2nd thought like a cartoon character

- blacklights and LED lights

- idky but i feel like he would have a cool bedframe like a racecar or a shark bedframe- beloved plushies !!!!

- keeps a snack stash near his bed

- comic book collection galore !!!! + some figures and posters around the place

GIRLFRIEND

- walls are a deep purple, room smells like cherries

- rose shaped bed, weighted blanket, beloved plushies !!!

- fairy lights along the walls

- adhd piles (ditto)

- posters of games she likes + tv and gaming setup (she has a lot of gaming consoles)

im gonna b fr im struggling to imagine her room x_x but im making pinterest boards for all of them later so hopefully thatll give me some ideas lmao

thats it yea 💥

[amberinn]

Hi I had a dream the digital circus was like a place where Caine could track your every move, no matter what the contestants would do they couldn't get away from him and his employees.

One day Pomni figured out a way to fuck it up somehow, there was a vending machine and since they barely got any coins (złote polskie) (PLN, my inner Pole prevails in my dreams it seems) to buy shit she decided to rebel and that she'll use a lockpick to break into machine a supply the whole group with beer.

Long story short she only got about one break-in (she grabbed the cookies, because they were closer to falling out) before an employee of Caine found her, but they didn't clock in that she was stealing shit per say.

They just sort of praised her for buying those cookies.

Pomni went to the group, and shared it with them at which point the group started insulting Pomni saying that with this sort of behaviour she could get them ALL in trouble (and for what? for a pack of cookies?)

And told her to confess to what she's done, so Pomni did do that.

Which lead to a punishment being a competition.

It was episode 7.

Pomni had them all drewn on a piece of paper, with her being the biggest one (taking half a page) because of her giant ass owl wings.

She grew paper owl wings in the digital circus too honestly.

They sprouted during the competition, which was about travelling through the entire world, before reaching the final dead room where someone was supposed to die. (No that's not what it was called, it did not have a name)

Pomni travelled very quickly, with her owl wings giving her speed.

The rest of the group did poorly, with Ragatha being the lead or so in how quickly they moved.

There were intervals, they went like

Pomni -> Ragatha -> Jax -> Gangle -> Kinger -> Zooble

Ragatha travelled through Egypt.

Pomni travelled through the entire world.

I can't remember where everyone else was, but basically everyone was always struggling in one location, while Pomni always made it to the next one.

At the end of it was Pomni's pov where she was in Egypt and she entered the final dead room first, Ragatha who also was there followed.

Soon enough everyone else started showing up.

There was an announcement one person had to die there, and then a wall opened to reveal a huge pit of lava.

Ragatha pushed Pomni into it.

Pomni was hanging on by a hand grasp onto the wall.

They've had a talk about something, a heartfelt one.

Pomni grabbed Ragatha and yoinked her with her into the lava pit (because she pushed her there)

They were both falling, but Ragatha punched/kicked some sort----- something physical Pomni off of her, and broke her glasses (red) and used them as a rope or so, somehow? to sort of grab onto the edge and then she yoinked herself onto the safe ground with their help. (Man, Ragatha should be at smash brothers frfr)

Pomni fucking dies.

They all make it out.

When they're back at their dormitories they talk about how fucking stupid it all was.

For Pomni to have to die for a pack of cookies.

Ragatha mentions over how Pomni is the bravest person she knows, and tears up with her red glasses being cracked n all, and having a bottom right piece straight up missing (small amounts of broken for saving her from the lava lowkey)

Zooble mentions to Kinger over how he could use the squiggly worm he's gotten, because the employees can't eat/handle things with cockroaches/cockroach particles

to write down valuable information or so.

because that is a form of rebellion in itself---

just a way more smart one?

Jax gives Ragatha a talk over how "Pomni's so brave, and nice, and ??? gorgeous, and Kaufmo's so fun, and nice and smart" and sort of makes her realise that she's had a crush on both of the dead participants.

It was a nice talk, Jax was nice.

Understanding sort of, you could say.

Like he knows they're all dying.

Like it's something he could expect, get.

(Ragatha's bi frfr, my dreams know what's up)

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 72 - outdoors fashion in 1925

Cora is here to rescue me from the depths of grey fashion, and then Rosamund kicks it out of the park with her bohemian styles. Finally something nice to look at!

Starting with this brown beauty in damask with a leaf motif. Cora borrowed a page from Mary’s book with the asymmetrical collar, but sticks to her roots when she brings back the pheasant feathers, with the pretty brooch adding a touch of gold and orange to the outfit. No further notes; this outfit is killer and this coat lovely.

Different pheasant subspecies, but a pheasant-feathered hat nonetheless, and we go from brown to my beloathed beige. The piping adds a little interest to the sleeves and lapels, so it’s not really this coat’s fault, but I’m overfed on beige this season and would really rather look at something else.

Chestnut velvet for the wedding of Carson and Mrs Hughes; I find this piece pretty interesting because, if memory serves, this is the first time Cora decidedly puts on a jacket as outerwear instead of a coat, as in, a thing that does not reach beyond her hips. She adds a fur stola to it so it doesn’t look proletarian, and a hat with a purple ribbon that we’ll see from its prettier side in a later post.

The Crawleys embrace some serious golden lamé this season, and since Cora has to write off the dress she’s wearing as pretty thoroughly blood-mottled, she can at least have a sweet coat with some swirly pattern in brown lines. And more lamé as either the lapels or a matching scarf; I’m not sure. So shiny. Is this tiara damaged? One of the prongs is lopsided.

Listen, I like this outfit. It’s one of the best looks Cora delivers all season. Only, since when do they not get new outfits for weddings anymore? She just repeats this when Mary and Henry get hitched. Which is probably a blessing – I mean, look at what she’s wearing under it the day of the wedding. A white shirt with a little lace that doesn’t pop at all on a beige skirt. Thank heaven for the dusty purple coat with the squiggly checker; otherwise, the nice flower hat would have to do all the work. I like her outfit at the race better when she pairs the coat with a beaded coral shirt, and we also see that, like the cuffs, the entire back has this wild print, done up in knife pleats. The hat is less flattering than the one for the wedding though.

Hey, the pretty lace trim hat from last season is back! And we’re ending on a dress that Cora wouldn’t wear on its own when going out, but the coat she wears to this is a repeat while the dress never comes up again, so let’s take a moment for this relentless amount of print and the embroidered flowers practically fusing into it. Once again, I could’ve done with a little more color, but this is a nice dress.

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

I’m not entirely sure if Mrs Pelham stepped into the footsteps of Rosamund in regards to wearing other people’s old clothes, but I couldn’t really identify this coat in my archives. It’s black with a lot of squiggly brown piping, and it has one of those fugly standing fur collars that make the wearer look like a turtle. Oh well, at least she didn’t try to outshine the bride at her son’s wedding. I do like the hat; both the velvet wrap and the flowers are quite nice. Fun fact: The two ladies behind her are the same extras who ate with Mary at the Criterion earlier the same season. One of them has a sweet print, but they still don’t get more to do than smiling placidly.

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

Speaking of sweet prints, here’s Rosamund! Although her first coat of the season may actually be a damask rather than a print; I’m not sure. In any case, it’s black and golden and wild, and because Rosamund is my fashion queen, she pairs it with red bead jewelry. I do appreciate the look, darling.

I appreciate this one even more. Rosamund’s coats, man. Yellow and brown and spirals and zigzag and checker ornaments; give me your all, it looks fantastic. Some black fur for the cuffs and collar, but what really gives this outfit the extra bit is the hat imo. Do you see how these feathers were cropped into yet more zigzag? I’m in love.

Rosamund, nooo! Don’t give in to the beige curse! This is by far her most boring coat. Did she borrow one from Isobel? The dress is okay for a beige one; it is working with several prints and a kind of wild patch look which is nice, and the hat we’ll see again in a moment in better quality.

It is a nice hat; love the pleating of the ribbon. And Rosamund returns to form pairing a cream coat with a lovely contrasting red shirt. Also, the coat? Beautiful print. It starts with these floral elements in light brown, and then the trim band just goes wild with the colors.

Only now, it’s dawning on me that for all her fashion affinity I have never seen Rosamund wear an actual cloche. Huh. Probably for the best; her usual hats compliment her face better. But I’m here to talk about the coat she wore for Edith’s wedding. This coat? Honestly deserves more screen time, a shot of its full length, better light. This is funky, and glorious. This print is a whole amphetamine trip.

[ceilidhtransing]

My life changed so much for the better when I discovered you can actually turn off the red-underlining spellcheck and the green-underlining grammar checker in Microsoft Word.

The amount of time I used to spend manually right-clicking underlined words and going "Add to dictionary" or "Ignore rule", oh my god. (Especially given that Word's judgement for what apparently constitutes incorrect grammar is horrendously oversensitive.)

But it turns out it's possible to just! Turn it off! And then you'll never see those ugly red and green squiggly lines ever again! You can type in peace and leave it up to yourself to check for spelling or grammar issues rather than having Word throw danger signals at you every four sentences.

[thatmoththoth]

A fanfic for this Jon!distortion AU inspired by @jimsandfruit . This is just the prologue and I plan on adding more too this. Feedback and questions are greatly appreciated.

(Seriously tho this concept has so much potential)

Trigger Warning: the following story contains derealisation, dissasociation and a whole bunch of mental fuckery

Spoiler warning: potential spoilers for season 1-3 of the magnus archives. (And a lot of speculation and headcannons concerning the contents of the stated seasons)

Prologue

Jonathan Sims had just finished taking the poor disoriented Helen’s statement, and she was about to leave. Jon noticed that the door she was about to leave through was not always there. It was painted an ivory colour with a round purple doorknob which contrasted starkly with the dark stained wooden doors with silver handle knobs of the archive. “W-wait Helen!” he cried out, but it was too late, she had already gone through the door, and with hesitation, she turned her head to look at him thick with dread before the door slammed shut with a thud. For a long moment all he could do was stare at the door in disbelief. He needed to save her.

He stood up out of his chair and ran through the door to try and save her. Suddenly there was a strange headache inducing laughter echoing behind him before the door shut behind him.

He didn’t look back to see if the door was still there. Knowing what he knew from Helen’s statement about this place he was sure that he needn’t bother. Besides, he had to find her and couldn’t afford to waste any time. He ran through the hallways looking for her, seeking any trace of her, trying to get to her before this “micheal ” got to her first. There was no sign of her anywhere. He hadn’t run into a single other person in these halls despite having been here searching for hours. Still, like the stubborn fool he was, he pushed forwards.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye. Was it Helen, had he finally found her? He whipped around to look behind him but was instead greeted by that awful laughter.

Micheal.

“Oh Archivist… you really shouldn’t have come here.” that stupid grin was plastered on his stupid face.

“Where is she, Micheal!” he yelled with frustration, gritting his teeth as Micheals name was ushered from his lips. Jon didn’t have time for Micheals games.

“She is somewhere. Archivist, she's already long gone as far as it concerns you or I” laughter echoed through the twisted hallways. “It's already quite impossible for you two to ever reach, I’ve made quite sure of that.'' The contorted, twisting movements of Micheals body gave Jon a splitting headache.

“I wouldn't be too sure of that.” Jon responded with a spiteful tone, and Micheal laughed like it was some sort of joke. The laughter faded, and just like that he was gone. With much frustration Jon slammed his fist against the blue wallpaper, which was yellow before but was now red. His eye caught a piece of paper on the floor. It was yellow with age and had clearly seen quite a large amount of abuse. He walked to it and picked it up. He smoothed out the scrunched up paper and looked at the squiggly nonsensical lines that made perfect sense within these halls. It was a map. He had to follow it. Even if he wasn't sure where it led, there was still a certain air of importance in following it. It was the only sliver of hope he had left in finding Helen.

His eyes had a glint of hope as he began to follow the map. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that it was taking him to some final destination, or that it was supposed to take him anywhere at all, but in these contorted and twisted halls it seemed to be the only tangible thing he had. He hoped the destination it led to was Helen, but deep inside his heart he knew that wasn’t true.

How long had he been here now? His mouth felt dry, from not drinking anything for who knows how long. Even so, something inside him knew this place wouldn’t let him die of natural causes. Fuzz began to creep into the corners of his mind.

To distract himself he started to say the directions out loud to no one in particular. For how long he did this he did not know.

“Left, left, Left, straight, through the window, break the mirror, down the stairs, right, right right……” the words were beginning to melt together as he spoke. He came to a realisation that he didn’t fully have the energy to comprehend the weight of. He couldn’t for the life of him remember his own name. Was it Charles? Wait no it started with J. James? Jack? Jonathan? Jim? They all seemed completely foreign to him. He couldn’t remember.

His eyes were zoned out, no longer frantically looking for answers like they almost always did. He was lost in his own head. He looked back at the map, it didn’t feel real as he held it in his hands. It was his only anchor in this messed up place, and even that couldn’t keep him grounded against the strong currents of the Sea of Dissociation, where each wave brought foreign things from another beyond onto his ship.

—-- He had aimlessly followed the map without thought for what felt like weeks. Finally it seemed he had reached his destination, the path had ended. All that lay in front of him was a mirror, he picked it up off the wall and looked into it. He recognised the face, it was supposed to be him, Jon. That was his name, right? But it wasn’t him. It was an eerie feeling looking into that mirror. Like looking at a doppelganger. He looked at where the mirror once was. There was a hole that stretched on for what felt like forever. He looked into the tunnel and saw something at the end. It was too far away to make out.

So he, like one did before, crawled through that tunnel. With each passing moment as he made it through that tunnel he could feel himself moving back further and further into his own head. Time faded away and became all but an illusion. As he got closer a sound got louder. It was like that of a beating heart. When he was almost to the end the sound was almost deafening, but still he pushed through. It was far too late to turn back now. When the end was finally reached he saw it in all its clarity.

It was the beating heart of the distortion. It sang to him, it called for him. He reached out and held it. It was a strange feeling to be holding such an impossible object. It was like every paradox was solved within it with yet another paradox. It didn’t look like a heart, not really, but he just knew in that dream-like manner of knowing, that it was the heart, the centre of it all.

He felt a tearing sense of agony go through him as his who was torn completely from his what. It was like he was torn apart and reassembled over and over again. He let out a pained cry of sheer and utter pain despite having no physical ability to scream as his body was forcefully twisted and contorted. His scream, and one other, could be heard all throughout the hallways. The distortion became Jon, and Jonanthan Sims became the distortion.

It was then that he remembered something he had all but forgotten. Helen. He needed to save helen. He ran through a door that was not there before. Jon called out for Helen and he heard her call back. He let out a sigh of relief. When he turned a corner he felt something run into him. It was Helen.

“Oh good heavens! Are you alright Helen?” Jon said worriedly..

“M-Michael? Get away from me!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with fright, not seeming to register the distortion's new identity.

“I’m not Micheal. It’s me, Jon” the mention of his own name felt wrong on his tongue.

Helen’s eyes cleared enough for her to fully take in what she was seeing. “J-Jon? But how? Why are you that… thing…?” her breathing slowly began to steady.

“I’ll explain when we get out here. This place isn’t good for you Helen.“ A door appeared next to them, and Jon picked Helen up with an ease he was not used to. When they were out of the room and back into Jon’s office he set her down. His office looked different from when he was here last. Dust had thickly layered on every surface it could, and everything had been put neatly away.

“... so are you going to tell me what happened Jon?” Helen’s tone was confused yet stern.

“Well, I went in after you, and I uh… ended up taking a shift in identity. Micheal is gone. permanently. I was him, but now I’m Jon, The Distortion.” Helen gave him a confused glare. “I’m not making sense am I?” Helen shook her head. “Well it makes perfect sense to me.” he mumbled, folding his arms and looking to the side with mild defiance. He couldn’t seem to explain it in words people could understand. “I’m sorry it took so long to save you.” He let out a exhausted sigh. -”I-I just don’t know where to go from here.” he sat in his chair, struggling to fit in it comfortably. “You should just go home and try to forget this all ever happened Helen. One more thing, please don’t tell anyone about what happened to me, or mention that I was ever in there. It’ll be what’s best for both of us.”

“Ok… Goodbye Jon…” Helen said, very confused but feeling as if she now owed something to Jon for saving her. Helen left the room and Jon was left to ponder.

What was he going to do now? He couldn’t just continue work as normal, no not when he’s been missing for who knows how long and and especially not when he looked like this. How were Tim, Sasha, and Martin going to react? Sasha… he remembered something, something from before he was Jon and from when he was Micheal. The real Sasha was dead. His friend was gone. Did the others know that she had been replaced? A pang of sadness washed over him. She had died and he hadn’t even noticed. He began to feel sorry for Tim for putting him at the top of his suspect list.

Suddenly his phone rang. He debated on whether or not to answer it, before eventually hitting the answer button and holding it to his ear with long fingers.. “Hello?”

“Jon, we need to talk.” It was Elias. He didn’t sound too pleased.

“Hello Elias…” he paused, remembering from michaels past what his boss was. “You want to talk to me about my recent… changes… yes?” there was a slight shakiness to his voice

Elias let out a sigh. “Come to my office. Now.” there was a certain finality to his voice. Jon thought for a moment.

“Why should I?”

“I had a feeling you would be difficult. Let me phrase it differently. Come to my office, or I kill Tim.” that shut Jon up very quickly. There was a beep as he hung up the phone. The time was long after hours. He put his phone in his pocket before he cautiously made his way to Elias’s office. Jon took a deep breath before going through the door of his boss’s office.

“So, what do you want from me Elias?”

“You have no idea how much your little show of heroics has cost me, Jon. I can’t get a new Archivist because you're still alive… and still the Archivist.”

“So what do you want from me then?” Even though he could now easily overpower Elias if it came down to it, at least physically, he was still terrified of the man, even more so now that he remembers what he did to Gertrude.

“I want you to keep working in the archive as normal. I told everyone you had gone missing and were presumed dead, assuming you wouldn’t end up returning. I’ll tell them you had a bad encounter with the paranormal, and that they shouldn’t pester you about it. Please just try your best to act relatively normal or so help me.”

“I suppose I could do that.” he didn’t want to, but it wasn’t like Elias was giving him much choice in the matter.

“Great, now please leave my office. you're giving me a headache.” He said in annoyed tone as he gestured towards the door

“Gladly.” Jon responded spitefully, before leaving, and heading back to his house.

Elias’s plans had been shattered, leaving him to put the pieces back together as best he could.

[texasdreamer01]

Anyone - particularly outside of Germany - that hasn't seen the voting results map yet would probably benefit from doing so. I pulled this from the tagesschau website (link here), and although it's in German, you can either have the site auto-translated or just click around the map for more information because it's interactive:

The black section is the CDU (Christian Democratic Union of Germany) and the dark blue is the CSU (Christian Social Union in Bavaria). These two form a coalition (Wikipedia), so they more or less act in lockstep in the federal government - the reasons for this have a lot to do with the history of Bavaria, but that's a subject for another post.

The red is the SPD (Social Democratic Party of Germany), and the green is Die Grüne (Alliance 90/The Greens).

The light blue, that you see in the upper right half of Germany, is the AfD (Alternative for Germany).

Now, for a bit of history:

That squiggly bit within the light blue? That would be Berlin (which was, post WWII, divided up among the Allies and Russia for long-winded reasons that boil down to mirroring how Germany was split up amongst foreign governments), and some surrounding areas.

The AfD was founded in 2013 (Wikipedia) by Alexander Gauland (Wikipedia), Bernd Lucke (Wikipedia), and a bunch of people from the CDU (yes, the bit of the map that's in black, that party). This was done because of opposition to some policies of the CDU. They officially started out marketing themselves as more liberal, but shortly thereafter slid into extremely conservative political stances.

Effectively speaking, the CDU, CSU, and AfD are all conservative parties, to an American understanding of political stances. This is not necessarily the metric by which German political parties judge themselves, because a significant part of German politics is their participation in the European Union.

Imagine, for a moment, if American political parties formed themselves and their stances based upon the North American Free Trade Agreement (AKA NAFTA, Wikipedia), and the identity of their political party was based upon how American they were in contrast to overall North American culture. (Now multiply the amount of member nations until a total of 27, and you might begin to understand the chaos that is defining a unified "European culture".)

If you click around on the map linked up at the top, you can see how each place voted by percentage. Not always, but typically, the CDU/CSU votes also had a significant amount of votes for the AfD.

Why does any of this matter? Well, several reasons, but something to consider is why there was a Bundestagwahl (federal election) in the first place.

The incumbent coalition, nicknamed the Ampelkoalition (Street light coalition, Wikipedia) because of the colours of the political parties, fell apart because - to put it reductively - of Christian Lindner (political party is FDP, aka Free Democratic Party of Germany). You can read more about that on its accompanying Wikipedia page (link here).

Then, the chancellor, Olaf Scholz, called for a motion of confidence (Wikipedia). For anyone unfamiliar what this is, that Star Wars: The Phantom Menace scene with Padmé should illustrate that well enough for an overview (YouTube).

The vote of confidence failed, and the election was called very early. Typically speaking, the vote for a new federal government - and all 630 of its seats - must take place no more than 48 months and no earlier than 46 months.

Between the government crisis breaking of the Ampelkoalition, and the firing of Christian Linder (all three of this occuring on 6 November 2024) and the Bundestagwahl (23 February 2025), was 109 days.

46 months would be, assuming 30 days, 1,380 days. That is the minimum between a vote of no confidence and a new federal election.

The maximum, 48 months, assuming 30 days, would be 1,440 days.

This was a snap election, with political parties scrambling to advertise themselves - and something to note, this occurred also over Christmas, which for Germans is a month-long activity (as one does), and during the gearing up for Fasching, which is another major religious holiday with a similar duration of being on the public consciousness.

Notably, the party of Christian Lindner, who is not only a member of the FDP but was also dismissed from his position as the Federal Minister of Finance (Wikipedia), achieved only 4.3% of the vote in this election, which did not meet the minimum of 5% of votes in order to maintain a minimum of one seat. In this, the Germans voted rather clearly. In the previous election, the FDP has 11.4% of the votes.

Below is Wikipedia's version of the Bundestagwahl election results (link here):

hey so i've read so many posts saying good for germany but like, my friends, no, no nothing's good for germany. stop saying that. stop projecting your us-americanist election view onto us. we don't have a two party system. just because you think afd "didn't win" doesn't mean they lost. they gained so so so many votes it's really concerning, and frightening. we had the highest voter turnout since unification, and 20.8% of those people voted a fascist party. nothing about this is a win.

[limoteesjr]

Peace Love Boise State Broncos Shirt

Peace Love Boise State Broncos Shirt

This Keeling Curve shows the Peace Love Boise State Broncos Shirt in CO2 over Time. The black line shows the average throughout the year, but how about the red line? Why is it squiggly? Well if the X-axis was more descriptive, you would find that the peaks align with the Northern Hemisphere Summer and the low points align with the Northern Hemisphere Winter. Because the Southern Hemisphere has so much less land mass than the Northern Hemisphere, it also has less surface vegetation and thus its impact is less apparent than the Northern Hemisphere. The cyclical nature of the red line shows the annual dieoff and regrowth of vegetation on the surface. In affect, it can be thought of as the planet breathing, with plants taking up CO2 during warm months, and giving off CO2 when the annuals die and the perannials “hibernate” in the cold months. It also shows us something else. It shows how, even with CO2 increases, plants are nowhere near enough to counteract the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere. You would need many orders of magnitude increases in plant cover on the planet to counteract the rate of CO2 accumulation in the atmosphere-more plant growth than the planet has space for.

[strawberryclothing]

Official Medium Build In Detroit, MI On June 28, 2024 Tour Poster shirt

Official Medium Build In Detroit, MI On June 28, 2024 Tour Poster shirt

This Keeling Curve shows the Official Medium Build In Detroit, MI On June 28, 2024 Tour Poster shirt in CO2 over Time. The black line shows the average throughout the year, but how about the red line? Why is it squiggly? Well if the X-axis was more descriptive, you would find that the peaks align with the Northern Hemisphere Summer and the low points align with the Northern Hemisphere Winter. Because the Southern Hemisphere has so much less land mass than the Northern Hemisphere, it also has less surface vegetation and thus its impact is less apparent than the Northern Hemisphere. The cyclical nature of the red line shows the annual dieoff and regrowth of vegetation on the surface. In affect, it can be thought of as the planet breathing, with plants taking up CO2 during warm months, and giving off CO2 when the annuals die and the perannials “hibernate” in the cold months. It also shows us something else. It shows how, even with CO2 increases, plants are nowhere near enough to counteract the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere. You would need many orders of magnitude increases in plant cover on the planet to counteract the rate of CO2 accumulation in the atmosphere-more plant growth than the planet has space for.

[paletalegear]

Bluey fun in the car with New York Giants foot

This Keeling Curve shows the Bluey fun in the car with New York Giants football shirt in CO2 over Time. The black line shows the average throughout the year, but how about the red line? Why is it squiggly? Well if the X-axis was more descriptive, you would find that the peaks align with the Northern Hemisphere Summer and the low points align with the Northern Hemisphere Winter. Because the Southern Hemisphere has so much less land mass than the Northern Hemisphere, it also has less surface vegetation and thus its impact is less apparent than the Northern Hemisphere. The cyclical nature of the red line shows the annual dieoff and regrowth of vegetation on the surface. In affect, it can be thought of as the planet breathing, with plants taking up CO2 during warm months, and giving off CO2 when the annuals die and the perannials “hibernate” in the cold months. It also shows us something else. It shows how, even with CO2 increases, plants are nowhere near enough to counteract the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere. You would need many orders of magnitude increases in plant cover on the planet to counteract the rate of CO2 accumulation in the atmosphere-more plant growth than the planet has space for.

ball shirt

[jackzimmer]

Photo 1: The red background is a common theme across all the packaging but the green banner over top really draws your eyes to that portion of the design.

Photo 2: The red yellow and orange analogous colors provide comfort to your eyes. It also looks visually pleasing and calming.

Photo 3: The use of cool colors (blue grey white) gives the implication that the product will cool you down and prevent you from sweating.

Photo 4: The red and gold of the warm colors acts as an additional bravado for the product. Making the product seem more masculine and effective.

Photo 5: The different shades of the purple gears with the yellow text overtop provide you with a sense of the amount of work that can be done at the gym.

Photo 6: The logo in the Blender bottle looks like a squiggly line, but through the gestalt principle of closure, you can make it out to be a ball (even though it is not a rounded figure)

Photo 7: The space force logo uses an active foreground to draw your eye to the upward arrow, to signify reaching higher & going to space. The background is the star Polaris, which is more readily seen after looking closely at the image

Photo 8: This bread logo uses serif fonts, and very few colors to make a portrayal of being very old fashioned. This could give the buyer a sense of trust, as they have been around for a while

[a-fantastic-time]

Harley's eyes crossed and her mouth turned into a squiggly line as she felt the two red head's begin worshiping her cock and balls. "Oh my~ I have been with a few red heads in my life, but none of them were as eager to work me over than you two are." She said already feeling like she was in heaven. She let go of Jessica's ass, and Bellum's while the two kneeled before her. Now reaching down to slowly push their tops down, and let those beautiful sweaty breasts air out.

"I normally would put it under my credentials, but I wanted to make sure you took me seriously. Its kind of a resume killer in most places." She said as if it came from experience. Not that she always had this monster. Thankfully Ivy's chemical that made her immune to her poison, had a splendid growth effect over the years.

"Oh no need to worry laides, momma comes prepared." She giggled pulling out her bag, and revealed a lovely bottle lube. It was an expensive brand, that used aphrodisiac in its formula.

"I always splurge on the funniest things" She smiled widely, before applying a small amount of the pink tinted gel onto her shaft, along with squirting a bit in between both busty sets of cleavage on "accident".

Open RP Starter: Caught in the Act

There were certain expectations you had when you were hired on to be Miss Bellum’s new personal assistant—paperwork, boring meetings, giant monster attacks, the usual for Townsville—but certainly the last thing to expect was walking into the new mayor’s office to find her and the illustrious Miss Rabbit tangled in a clearly torrid and passionate affair.

That…and the two of them wearing each others clothes…which certainly awakened a whole new dreamscape of fantasies….

“Oh dear, Jessica~” Sarah Bellum purred, the beautiful mayor purred as she pulled her lips from her lover’s to shoot her assistant a playful smirk. “It seems like we’ve been found out~ haven’t I told you to knock first~?”

“Mmm, looks like it~” the dusky nightclub singer replied, eyeing you up and down with an almost predatory gaze. “But perhaps they’ll keep it quiet…if we let them join~ won’t you, sweetheart~?”

[f1nalboys]

ur all so insanely brave for following me and interacting when i spell the way i do im sorry i have fat fingers and type quick and just dont care 

[x-chubby-reader]

Oh MY GOD what about Bakugou, kirishima, and sero who get hit by a quirk who turns them into a lil toddler or whatever and they’ve got the biggest crush on their chubby/plus size classmate 🥺🥺

A/N - I literally love this idea so much, thanks to @fandom-fander for helping out with this headcannon.

Not Prof Read

Lowercase Intentional

Cursing

Toddler!Bakugo, Kirishima, and Sero x Plus size reader

Bakugo

aizawa sure as hell didn't feel like dealing with the angry pomeranian in minature form

he decided to leave the boy with the class and let them decide among themselves on who should watch the little firecracker for the day

extra credit anyone?

everyone immediately pinned the responsibility on you

kirishima, he didn't feel like getting screeched at by a small bakugo and needed to apparently go study

he also knew that bakugo had a fondness for you in his teenage form, so why not see if he still has it

fr little bakugo pretends to hate your guts

somehow this little toddler has the most hurtful insults

“you can't even get a boyfriend? that's pretty sad.”

suddenly choking out a child is okay

do it… no one has to know how it happened

even though he had pretended to hate you, he still kept trying to show off to you 

you decided to take him out on a little bike/tricycle ride? homeboy flipped it trying to show off how fast he could go and then proceeded to complain about scraping his knee

hey at least he got your attention

he is a literal leash kid fight me oh my god

bakugo will simply run away

you expected him to listen? oh you're in for a surprise

the only option that you give him is to either wear the embarrassing monkey pack or to hold your hand

he immediately grabs your hand and is literally so giddy and its adorable my lord-

smiles for days my heart i can’t-

he may seem all happy and nice, but that can flip in a minute

he’s the biggest brat sometimes and you are literally this close to punting him across the room

you don't get him something that he wants? little pomeranian boy will turn into a velociraptor child in an instant

the decimals that that kids voice can reach up to is kind of impressive not going to lie

“no bakugo, you can't have that right now maybe later-”

screech

thankfully he tires himself out quick enough to set him down for a nap

but nothing is ever simple, is it?

he wont go to sleep without you though, claiming that there are monsters and he needs to know where you are so he can protect you

no matter how many times you had explained to him that there weren't any monsters around, you slowly succumbed to his pleas

almost feeling bad for him, he just looked so serious about how you could get hurt that it made you feel bad

you didn't notice how much taking care of a kid took out of you until now

you had made a mental note to apologize to your mom for having to deal with you when you were younger later

As soon as you settled down on the couch with the toddler laying on top of you, you almost instantaneously passed out

oh boy were you in for a surprise when you woke up to a teen bakugo, still curled into your torso

he looked up to you after feeling you stir, he almost had a smirk on his face before burying his head back  into you 

mostly to hide the redness spreading over his face, he wasn’t going to admit that he was blushing

no way in hell

he just mumbled a “later” before his breaths softened into a steady pace

yeah, you may be stuck here for a bit

Kirishima 

you were there for the whole thing

red-top had pushed you out of the way of an incoming quirk blast and suffered the consequences

he became young again, almost too young

you felt bad

and who wouldn’t

so of course you took it upon yourself to watch him until the effects wore off

the thing you learned about him was that he was an even touchy-er child

homeboy just wanted to be held all the time

just climbing up and latching himself onto your calf

it was adorable but hard to walk with

If you pick him up, you’ve basically sworn an oath with the devil himself

you cannot put him down 

ever 

he gives the most pitiful looks when you do and drags his feet when you walk

he also wont leave you alone

so curious in whatever your doing at that exact moment

and he is impressed by everything you do

“what are you doing?”

“reading”

“wow so cool!”

a bug came in through the window and he screamed

you walked in all nonchalant, grabbed your shoe, and smacked that some of a bitch into a next dimension

he lit up omfg

“wow y/n, that was so manly!”

you brought him in to class since it had been a school day and were too afraid to tell aizawa about the incident

the girls were literally all over him

i mean, who wouldn’t be all over an adorable and friendly (looking at you bakugo) kid?

and the pebble boy was lapping up the attention like a thirsty dog on a hot day

you never expected him to act like this

shy maybe, but then again he was pretty outgoing in his teenage form

he was grinning from ear to ear

literally posing like a mini body builder and making little huffing noises

even you couldn’t help it, letting a little aww out like most of the other girls

this had been causing a slight disturbance to the class

so the whole going to school thing was pointless as aizawa sent the two of you home anyways

he is already a tired dad, he dosen’t need to be dealing with a toddler right now

putting the little strongman on your back you began to walk

you had been hoping that the effects would wear off in a few more hours 

but nothing ever goes to plan dose it?

while you had been walking, you noticed a significant weight increase, but just decided to ignore it

hey you were more sturdy and thicc, you wern’t no pussy, why stop all of a sudden because of the extra weight?

the only single thing that had alerted you to kiri being fully back was the whisper in your ear

instead of a sqeaky and mousy voice, you heart a more smooth and even comment

“hey stranger”

girl you dropped him and ran, him having to catch up to you

he has the audacity to give you a heart attack, he better suck it up

Sero

this was the same situation as bakugo, aizawa just didn’t want to deal with the kid

and especially a kid who kept mixing up two languages

he really was just so one

aizawa gave him the option to go to anyone

of course he ran straight to you, clinging onto your calf, as that was as high as he could reach

hey you looked the most inviting and least scary

he was literally terrified of bakugo and almost started to bawl is eyes out when he went near him

though he calm down slightly when he went down to get to a similar height as him. 

why wouldn’t you take the opportunity to watch a cute little kid and skip class

hey, aizawa said whoever watched him got extra credit

but there soon was a slight problem that you noticed

well not really a problem, but more of a hurdle

with sero being raised in a household that spoke both english and spanish, he started to mix the two, not knowing any better

he would be asking for “leche” and you would just stand there trying to understand with your limited vocab

just the loading circle above your head whenever he started to talk

but you managed with google translate and going off of the vast amount of spanish soap operas you watched at 3 am once a week

surprisingly, he was a very artistic kid

at least every ten minutes he would walk over to you and hand you a squiggly picture of a flower, you, or him and you holding hands

and he would just giggle before running away to make another

bro heart go melt 

being pre occupied with some papers that the father teacher had sent home with you, sero couldn’t get your attention

he might of forgotten your name and got stuck in a predicament

then the most rational thing popped into his head

well his dad called his mom “mi amor” and you and his mom were both pretty ladies

it made total sense to him so he went with it

“hey...”

nothing

“hey...”

nothing again

“hey... mi amor~”

your head shot up immediately

since he noticed that the name had gotten your attention, he just started using it

when he had shifted to being a teen again, the two of you never mentioned the name again

until a few days later when he was back to normal in class

homeboy was trying to get your attention and the multiple taps on the shoulder weren't cutting it

he got an idea

“hey... mi amor~”

yep that got you immediately

and he still uses that nickname for you