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#a lot happens
oh-bonerline · 15 days
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John’s thumb moved against the inside of Ross’ wrist and his eyes were on Ross’ face. “It’s okay if you’re not alright,” he said. “It’s okay if you’re—” He stopped, frowning and looking down at their hands on the table. “It’s okay if you’re struggling with whatever Matty’s struggling with. Do you know what I mean?”  Ross thought he did, but he also felt himself closing up. He drew his hand back and dropped it into his lap. “Can we talk about something else?” he asked.  “We can talk about anything you’d like,” John said, smiling at him and meaning it. Under the table, Ross’ knee knocked into John’s and John’s knee knocked back. 
we'll knock around and see - chapter eight on AO3
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mustangs-flames · 7 months
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Good Samaritan Ch. 3 snippet
(aka local Mandela County police officer adopts a scraggly alley dog of a kid)
Gripping the wheel hard enough his knuckles turned chalk white, he let out a breath, collected himself once more. Shoved away the thoughts of what could’ve been to face what currently was. Mark Heathcliff wasn’t dead. He was alive - alive and in the car next to him, just within arm’s reach. Shaken into muteness but there nonetheless.
“Mark, please,” He hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
It took a moment, straining to listen over the rumble of the car, but then he heard it - a reedy, low whine escaping from between clenched teeth and eyes now screwed shut in pain. Mark’s hands shook harder and he grabbed at his dirtied, blood encrusted sleeves as though that could somehow stop the tremors, scabbed fingers knotting into stained fabric. He had no tears left to cry, Thatcher could see that clearly, but it didn’t stop that awful keening, dry and yet still doused in sorrow. It sank in deep, vanishing into that black hole in Thatcher’s chest that insisted he had no one but himself to blame for all of this. Should’ve been better. Should’ve protected him when I had the chance. I should’ve said something - intervened sooner. Too late for all of them. And now the result of his own failure was collapsed in the seat next to him, crying out like a kicked cur, shaking like a newborn lamb. And Thatcher was responsible. He had to fix it. Somehow.
Because this- this was despair unlike any he’d heard before. Thatcher had grown up on a farm, had worked with animals for years, knew their sounds and screams of pain. But this, the noise coming from Mark curled up over himself in his seat, was indescribable. It tore itself out from his chest, clawed its way up his throat and out of his locked mouth, jaw tensed so hard Thatcher could see the tension lines raised in Mark’s cheek. A wordless, shapeless moaning, the likes of which Thatcher had heard Ruth describe in some of her case reports - the ones where people watched a loved one die right in front of them. A grief incomprehensible to him, and one he prayed to God that he’d never have to go through himself.
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streetlight-haver · 6 months
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COULD'VE done my english homework, sure sure. instead i came up with and wrote/explored the Ideal Way that Community's And A Movie should go. Truer to the spirit of english in my humble opinion, and much more enjoyable
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ronanception · 1 year
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Nancy Wheeler was a journalist and a researcher. When she went to a library, it wasn't just to pick up a popular fiction book from the shelf to read between classes - she was looking for facts and information. Even if Nancy was nervous as hell, she was going to square her shoulders and do her due diligence. This is precisely what she repeated to herself as she took a deep breath in front of the entrance of the city library and forged forward. It was in South End, a few stops and a jog from her campus, which meant Nancy might run into fellow students. However, it was also a satellite location, not the big historical library, so it should be less busy, and easier to navigate. Nevertheless, she had come to her point of no return, and she would risk bumping into a classmate if that meant she got her research materials. 
She didn't quite understand her incredibly visceral and physical reactions to this new crisis-of-ethics. She had, after all, always believed herself to be a reasonably progressive woman of the 80s. She had always been the only one who openly scowled and rolled her eyes at her father when he commented about the homosexuals on the nightly news. She had no problem with the gays. So why had her brain been rattling around in her head ever since she had caught Robin - Robin tipping her head back, moaning softly, the lips of a beautiful woman on her neck as she opened her eyes to meet Nancy's.
Stop it. Stop that immediately.
She leaned back against the cool wall of the library with her eyes squinched shut. Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop. Stop. STOP.
She exhaled, a dull thud knocking, sticky and wet, against the back of her eyes.
She proceeded to unpocket the little slip of paper on which she had written the index numbers, 159.973: sexual inversion... homosexuality, 132: Mental Derangements, 616: Neurological Disorders. Her fingers trembled slightly as she walked through the rows of books, looking for those damning numbers. After Nancy found them, she spent a ridiculous amount of time browsing innocuous shelves of literature surrounding the focus topic, nothing that she cared about or mattered. Her brain was spinning out of focus, chest heavy, throat tight, trying to work up the courage to finally get to the shelves that contained the books she was looking for.
Nancy took an additional 10 minutes just casing the aisle, observing the people that passed it by, that stopped to look. Her brain felt like it was over a heater, another dull knock at the back of her eyes when she finally stepped foot in the aisle. Nancy looked nervously over her shoulders as she browsed, part of her imagining that everyone she had ever known(especially her parents) was turning down the narrow aisles, walking towards her, asking her what she was looking at. 
She had spent decades in that aisle, she was sure. She took her time, from reading spines and tracing their titles with her fingertips to slowly picking ones that seemed appropriate to read, to actually reading their forwards and indexes. The lending limit was 4 books, not nearly enough. She wondered briefly if she might just take some books out and read them at the reading tables but quickly squashed those thoughts, the heat in her head growing into a small blaze. Nancy would rather die than have someone try to talk to her while reading about this subject. Even a stranger. What if they thought she was… no, that wasn't an option. Disgusting. She couldn't even think about that.
She had finally decided on the four texts that she thought would be best for her research. She could come back when she was done with these. Nancy re-shelved the rejects and stacked the four books, holding them tightly across her chest with her arms crossed in front of their covers, her fingers splaying across the spines to obscure them as much as possible. She felt like her mind was genuinely inflamed as she walked carefully to the librarian's desk and settled into the checkout queue.
Peeking at the library members in front of her, she noticed that the librarian was an attractive young woman, early 30s perhaps, and the inferno in her brain roared with (shame)embarrassment. This isn't the school library, she thought to herself like a mantra; you'll never see her again. She's a stranger. She's a professional. It's 1987… it's Boston, for christs sake. All the same, when they called her up to the desk, it took everything she had not to drop the books and run. 
"Spending your Saturday at the library, huh? I bet you'd rather be out with your friends." the librarian said fondly as she pulled the stack of books towards her. "Oh wow! Big weekend. You must have put off your term paper until the last minute. So let's see here, today you're taking home… ah…" the librarian paused, her lips parted, eyes widened slightly before she resumed a neutral expression and began to unstack and open the front flaps, whisking out the cards inside. "Your name, dear?" She asked sweetly, seemingly unaffected beyond the momentary pause in the conversation. 
"Nancy Wheeler."
"A little louder, hon; I didn't catch that. "
"Nancy, wheELER." she repeated, her voice breaking and coming out loudly … excessively loud. She felt actual tears pushing at the bottom of her vision. The woman in front of her looked up from writing Nancy's name and smiled at her with saccharine sweetness, her eyes a little sad. 
"Heavy subjects here." She commented softly, maintaining eye contact. Nancy nodded in a short jerk, eyes downcast as she pulled on her left thumb as hard as possible. The librarian wrote Nancy's name on each slip, then stamped them with the due date before slipping a reminder slip into the pages of each book as a bookmark. She stacked the books on top of each other, then hesitated, "These are some pretty… intense interpretations of the subject, Miss. Wheeler. I'm not sure what your professor wants to hear in your paper," she confided quietly, winking quickly at Nancy and causing her to feel a small trickle of relief even if her heart began to beat faster, "but you might want to come back when you're done with these and look in our fiction section. It may be classified as fiction, but it comes from people who have first-hand experience." The librarian snatched up a due date reminder slip and flipped it onto its back, scribbling onto it. She then reached under the desk to pull out a smaller book, replacing the bookmark with the slip, and slid it on top of the pile. 
"Here, I was reading this, but it's my own copy, so why don't you just take it with you, alright? I can check out our library copy just fine, and you can have this one." She smiled, once again looking a bit forlorn as she pushed the stack of books back towards Nancy. "You can bring it back. Maybe we could talk about it... Not that you have to, of course. It's yours now, Nancy Wheeler." she said with finality. Nancy swallowed and nodded, hastily grabbing the books, hugging them to her chest. 
"Thank you…" she paused, looking at the woman's nameplate, "Cynthia. Thank you, Cynthia." She said quickly before turning on her heel and all but dashing for the exit. 
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rosemaryreaper · 5 months
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Minutemen Danse and Haylen? Sure, definitely.
But at what cost?
At what cost…
(Slightly spoilery WIP sneaky peak. Content warning for a panic attack and brief emetophobia.)
* * * *
That was all it took: the last metaphorical blow against the fractured wall of the dam. All at once, the weight of the world came crashing down.
Then Haylen was on her knees, dry heaving into the grass. Something touched her back, and she took a swing at it. But then the world wobbled—or maybe just her—and she made a noise like a dying animal and threw up for real. Her body spasmed, the bile hot in her throat and bitter on her tongue. The something grabbed her again and pulled her onto her backside and dragged a cloth against her mouth, all while she was saying, “No, no, no, no,” but her mouth wasn’t quite making those sounds, so she kicked and thrashed and punched until the something released her and she flopped onto her back on the ground.
A million miles underwater, a voice was saying, “Breathe. Haylen, sweetheart, breathe,” which was stupid because her chest was constricting tight enough to squeeze all her organs up into her head and out her ears. Or maybe she would vomit them up as one big bloody mess. She didn’t care which happened as long as one of them made it stop.
Which was also stupid because she knew what was happening. She’d seen it in the knights who woke up screaming, the initiates whose hands shook too hard to hold their guns, the paladins who begged her through tears not to tell—not to fill out that damn report. She’d stayed with them all—talked down the ones she could, sedated the ones she couldn’t. She’d held their hand if they’d needed it. And she’d filled out that damn report: unfit for duty. Usually temporarily. Sometimes permanently. It had been a kindness.
Like a bullet between the eyes of a wounded doe.
She was sobbing. It took her a while to recognize the sound. Even longer to recognize it as coming from her. Still a million miles away, Delaney kept repeating, “You’re okay. You’re okay,” which was so untrue Haylen wanted to take a swing at her again. She was not okay. She was not okay.
Something cold and wet snuffled against her hand. She flinched when the sensation turned slimy, dragging along her skin.
A warm weight settled over Haylen’s pathetic shuddering, sobbing body, draping from her thighs across to her shoulder. It put a pressure on her tight chest that made it harder to shudder and sob. A different heart beat over her own. A different breath heaved at a different time. She wrapped her arms around the weight; ran her fingers through its fur. Dogmeat’s heavy sigh brushed her cheek as he wiggled comfortably into place.
She didn’t know how much time passed before she came back to herself—before she felt the prickle of the grass beneath her head or the chill of the breeze on her wet face. She didn’t know when her body returned to a form vaguely reminiscent of solid, no longer in danger of unraveling like the entrails of some poor gutted creature. It was around the same time her ears came up from the water to hear Delaney’s attempts at soft, soothing sounds, which embarrassed Haylen as much as they helped. However much time had passed, it couldn’t have been quick.
The change must’ve been visible, because Delaney eventually concluded Haylen was coherent enough to speak—or at least listen without throwing a punch. As gently as possible, the General said, “I’m going to get Danse.”
Haylen made a noise in her throat that threatened the immediate return of hysterics. “Danse hates me.”
“No. No, honey, he would never.”
“He does. You didn’t hear him. I destroyed everything.” She resumed crying. Or maybe she had never stopped. It didn’t particularly matter.
“No,” Delaney said. “He was upset. He doesn’t hate you. He loves you too much to even consider it.”
“No, no.”
“Yes. You’re practically his little sister. Nick had to hold him back from charging before the firing squad himself to save you. The worst you did was scare him half to death, and that wasn’t your fault.”
Haylen was too busy sniffling to reply. Dogmeat licked her cheek, which was gross. She hugged him tighter.
Delaney continued, “Danse has a lot going on. Not all of it has to do with you. I’d wager most of it doesn’t. He’s been alone in that bunker two years now. We’ve given him time, we’ve given him space. He’s had more than enough. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, I swear I’ll march in there and drag him out—by the crotch of his power armor if I have to. I’m his friend, but you’re his team. There’s a lot both of you need to process, and you’ll do it better together.”
Haylen took a shaky breath. She was afraid to move. Afraid to close her eyes. Afraid to sleep. But most of all— “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” Delaney said. “I’m going to make sure of it. As soon as you feel well enough to stand, we’re going to see Curie, all right? She’ll look after you while I get Danse—same as she looks after me or Ros or Cait. All right?”
The implication was almost more terrifying than the predicament. But it was the “almost” that made Haylen whisper, “All right.”
Delaney exhaled in relief, and Haylen knew she had noticed the “almost” too. “We’ll make this better, honey. I know I can’t fix it. I know I owe you more than I can ever repay, and I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. We’re going to make this better, I promise.”
Haylen didn’t have a response to this, since she very much wanted to stop crying now. So, she held Dogmeat and breathed until she felt brave enough to sit up without falling right back down. With time, sitting led to standing. Standing, eventually, led to walking, if unsteadily. Delaney wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her up. Dogmeat stayed glued to her leg.
With more time, they stumbled their way to the clinic. Too focused on moving one heavy foot in front of the other, Haylen lost track of the minutes again. She didn’t care to pay attention to much of anything until walking and standing led back to sitting, and suddenly there was a hospital bed beneath her. She blinked at Delaney, who had somehow let go of her, and at Curie, who had somehow materialized to wipe her face with a cloth. The phrase “panic attack” got said. Haylen tuned the rest out. It wasn’t that she was underwater anymore; she was just too damn tired to translate the sounds into comprehension. More accurately, the “almost” made her too scared to.
A pill capsule got placed in her palm. She accepted the accompanying water automatically. She knew this part. She was used to being on the other side of it.
She downed the pill with the water. Fingers traced the hair alongside her ear. Arms lowered her onto the bed. She still didn’t want to close her eyes.
She didn’t have a choice. Down she went, like a bullet to the head.
It was a kindness.
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aduckwithears · 8 months
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Aziraphale was really living his best life that one evening in 1941:
Be a spy! Be rescued by Crowley! Realize it's love not just love! Be a magician! Perform an elaborate trust ritual with Crowley! Boa! Actually succeed at a magic trick! Wine! With Crowley! <3
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eddywoww · 10 months
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Will bby Steve be shown love in the updates 🥹 he’s so desperate for love and attention
Yes! Eddie is actually so whipped, despite how annoying he finds steve at times
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fiction-is-god · 2 years
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Sometimes I just want to copy paste the plot of sablier and pre-sablier and blaze it and see what happens
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nie7027 · 2 years
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WHAT DO YOU MEAN BEE IS A FUCKING ROBOT?
AAAAAAAH
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rainbow-arrow · 2 years
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y’all chapter 63 is already 7.6k words and it’s uhhhhhhh not done yet.
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jortsbian · 4 months
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the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again
#yeehaw#1k#5k#10k#posts that got cursed. blasted. im making these tag updates after... 19 hours?#also i have been told it should say speech loss bc nonverbal specifically refers to the permanent state. did not know that!#unfortunately i fear it is so far past containment that even if i edited it now it would do very little. but noted for future reference#edit 2: nvm enough ppl have come to rb it from me directly that i changed the wording a bit. hopefully this makes sense#also. in case anyone is curious. though i doubt anyone who is commenting these things will check the original tags#1) my friend did not do this on purpose in any way. it was not intended to distract me or to hit on me. im a lesbian hes a gay man. cmon now#he felt very bad about it afterwards. i thought it was hilarious but it was very embarrassed and apologetic#2) “why didn't he use 🫵🏼?” didn't exist yet. “why didn't he use 🆗?” dunno! we'd been using a lot of hand emojis. 👌🏼 is an ok sign#like it makes sense. it was just a silly mixup. also No i did not invent 👉🏼👌🏼 as a gesture meaning sex. do you live under a rock#3) nonspeaking episodes are a recurring thing in my life and have been since i was born. this is not a quirky one-time thing#it is a pervasive issue that is very frustrating to both myself and the people i am trying to communicate with. in which trying to speak is#extremely distressing and causes very genuine anguish. this post is not me making light of it it's just a funny thing that happened once#it's no different than if i post about a funny thing that happened in conjunction w a physical disability. it's just me talking abt my life#i don't mind character tags tho. those can be entertaining. i don't know what any of you are talking about#Except the ppl who have said this is pego/ryu or wang/xian. those people i understand and respect#if you use it as a writing prompt that's fine but send it to me. i want to see it#aaaand i think that's it. everyday im tempted to turn off rbs on it. it hasn't even been a week
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wolfythewitch · 3 months
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i have so much rage in me one day i think i will explode. i dont think i know how to forgive as much as i know how to forget
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seveneyesoup · 17 days
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vorbisx · 9 months
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Replacing physical buttons and controls with touchscreens also means removing accessibility features. Physical buttons can be textured or have Braille and can be located by touch and don't need to be pressed with a bare finger. Touchscreens usually require precise taps and hand-eye coordination for the same task.
Many point-of-sale machines now are essentially just a smartphone with a card reader attached and the interface. The control layout can change at a moment's notice and there are no physical boundaries between buttons. With a keypad-style machine, the buttons are always in the same place and can be located by touch, especially since the middle button has a raised ridge on it.
Buttons can also be located by touch without activating them, which enables a "locate then press" style of interaction which is not possible on touchscreens, where even light touches will register as presses and the buttons must be located visually rather than by touch.
When elevator or door controls are replaced by touch screens, will existing accessibility features be preserved, or will some people no longer be able to use those controls?
Who is allowed to control the physical world, and who is making that decision?
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ronanception · 1 year
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😏
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tearlessrain · 8 days
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please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!
gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.
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SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:
diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.
non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.
the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.
now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.
if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.
if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.
this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.
it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.
but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.
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