#PURE UNADULTERATED JOY IN THIS HOUSE
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pacific-coast-hockey · 2 years ago
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just wanted to say i am having a WONDERFUL time watching you lb old man appreciation night, i'm glad you're having fun !!!
-ash <3
literally cannot process one single thing that happened tonight. i am actually abt to go put on my shoes and go for a walk before i ascend from this plane of existence. like. oh my god. sieloff refusing to say anything critical abt his teammates. sieloff getting surfer nolly lore out of nolly. sieloff saying nice things abt jmac including that he listens to veterans girl what!!! nolly and sieloff flirting incessantly through the third period, a period which sieloff did not even intend to stay for. nolly observing how good crisco and zino are together. sieloff saying nice things abt the robbie-ozzy-bordy line with a tone of faint exasperation but a lot of love. AND NICK CICEK FIRST GOAL OF THE SEASON/GWG OF THE FINAL GAME. old man appreciator night was an unexpected gift for me and i feel prepared to walk into the rest of my life a changed and better man!!!!!!
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my-castles-crumbling · 27 days ago
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help - October 31 - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 204 - TW: MCD
James's eyes are hazel. The type of hazel that has a million other colors mixed together- green and blue and brown and gold, all combined into one beautiful kaleidoscope.
Those eyes can show a hundred different emotions. Pure joy and entertainment when pulling a prank. Utter sadness after the death of his parents. Unadulterated adoration when looking at his son.
Sirius could recognize those eyes anywhere.
Lily's eyes are green. The type of green that is deeper and more vibrant than any foliage or blade of grass, more stunning than even the shiniest emerald.
Those eyes have shown a hundred different emotions. Fiery hatred when spitting admonishment from her lips, tearing into Sirius and James for their immaturity. Concentration and skill when casting an insanely difficult charm that only she can manage. Softness and love when gazing at her friends and family.
Sirius could recognize those eyes anywhere.
So when both pairs of eyes stare up at him, unseeing, from broken, crumpled bodies, their gazes faraway and emotionless and glazed-over, he crumples to the floor of the wrecked house. It feels like his soul is being pried from his chest with a rusty knife.
The screaming cry of a baby sounds near him as he whispers brokenly to nobody, "Help," knowing he is far too late.
They are gone.
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p0orbaby · 10 months ago
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For a Good Time, Call… (2)
summary: waking up groggy and confused in an unfamiliar house, you try to piece together the previous night's drunken events
warnings: alcohol consumption, suggestive themes
a/n: this took an age, i’m sorry
word count: 3k
part 1 | part 3 | part 4 | epilogue
-
There’s something so categorically degrading about waking up with a hangover.
Even on a basic level, it’s a pure, unadulterated betrayal. Your body, the very vessel you trust to carry you through life itself, turns into a traitor. You can almost hear it whispering, “Oh, you thought dancing on tables and singing karaoke off-key was a good idea? Well, here’s a headache and nausea combo for your troubles”.
Waking up is a gradual ascent from the fiery depths of hell. Satan himself has seemed to take a liking to pounding on the inside of your skull. You’re hot, you ache, and why is it so damn bright in here? You reach out a weak, shaky arm for the lamp, desperately craving the solace of darkness, only to be met with no lamp at all and curtains so wide open that the morning light shines an accusatory beam bright enough to burn your retinas.
Life is so cruel.
You drop your hand and groan at the effort of having moved for no reason. And you contemplate burying your face back into the pillows, but you opt against it when you feel how dry your mouth is. Water. You need water. So with the grace of a rudely awakened sloth, you peel your eyes open.
Well then, it appears you’ve been involuntarily thrust into a theatrical production of ‘Regret: The Morning After’. The decor around you doesn’t match your last memory of home, and unless your furniture recently acquired a taste for avant-garde minimalism, you must admit you are, in fact, not in your own flat.
The bed feels suddenly unfamiliar, and the sheets are the kind of thread count that screams someone else’s good decisions. You’d normally appreciate waking up in luxury, but the pounding in your head and the revelation that you’ve become an uninvited guest dampens the joy somewhat.
A quick survey reveals a room that’s both meticulously organised and lacking the warm chaos of your own living quarters. As your faculties slowly return from their hangover-induced sabbatical, some important questions arise: Whose residence are you dishonouring, and where exactly did you misplace your own good judgment last night?
Hesitantly you sit up, the sheets cascading down exposing not your anticipated nakedness but a fully clad form. The dignity you deemed lost and laying dead in a gutter now resurrects itself, a phoenix from the ashes, offering unexpected relief and a silent cheer for your redemption.
You don’t even care that you can’t find your phone. The contents of it will probably make you want to call your therapist anyway, and who needs that? Not you, that's for sure. You need water, asap. Because if you don’t get it soon you honestly think this random room in this random house will be the last thing you’ll ever see.
So, on legs as shaky as those of a newborn giraffe, you stand from the bed and stumble towards the door that’s keeping you safe from the rest of the house.
Your plan? Find the nearest water source, some footwear, and the exit. Preferably in that order. It should be simple enough, unless you’ve somehow made it all the way to Timbuktu throughout the course of the night. In that case getting home may be more of a struggle than originally anticipated. But at least Mali has water.
Dehydration is making you lose your marbles.
You open the door and three things happen in very quick succession. The smell first. Bacon. Your stomach rumbles automatically and you briefly wonder when the last time you ate was. Second, the sound of running water. And in your mind that only means one thing. But your brain is currently running at the same rate as Internet Explorer and has trouble realising that water doesn’t just run on its own accord within a household.
Revelation number three you ask? Hang in there, it's a kicker.
-
“What is wrong with you?”
“What? No, nothing. Nothing's wrong”
“You know you’re like, a super bad liar?”
“And you know you’re like, super weird following me into the toilet?”
Kyra just rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at you. She’s just like that. Immature, like a little sister, but way more annoying.
“So you’re the only one who’s allowed to piss now then?”. It was your turn to roll your eyes, locking your phone and tucking it back away into your bra. “You didn’t answer my question”
“I did. I said nothing’s wrong”
Kyra huffs, crossing her arms defiantly. “Well, your face says you’re constipated or something. Seriously, what’s up with the permanent frown”
You sighed, realising trying to get out of this was going to be more effort than it’s worth. “It’s just… life stuff, you know. Relationship problems”
“I didn’t think you were in a relationship” Kyra questions with a frown of her own.
“Exactly. It’s complicated”
Leah gave you the green light to reach out again, and yet, you find yourself stuck in a loop of doubt. The ball is in your court, and you’re juggling excuses instead of taking the shot.
She catches your eyes in training sometimes and shoots you a look as if to say, “come on, make a move already”, yet all you can do is stand and stare at her like a deer in headlights.
“Sounds it” by Kyra’s tone you can tell she’s not convinced by your answer, but she enters a cubicle and thankfully leaves it at that. “I think we should do shots,” she says through the door.
You sigh, because that’s the single best thing you’ve heard her say all evening.
-
“Laura”
Your breath catches when you see her emerge from the bathroom. At least you’ve laid eyes on someone you recognise.
“Hey! Good morning!”
Oh god, she was so nice. She wasn’t even out last night. How on earth have you dragged her into your mess?
“Hi- I. Do you-“
She looks you up and down and chuckles a little at your disheveled state. You don’t feel exposed or uncomfortable under her gaze, but you do feel disjointed. Untethered.
“Nice shorts”
“I-“ you choke on your words again and she stares at you expectantly. “I’ll wash them”
Her expression changes instantly. Her small smile makes way for a downward turn of her lips and a furrow of her brow.
“I’m sorry?”
“The shorts” you blurt out. “I’ll wash them for you. God knows what I’ve done to them”. She raises her eyebrows at your words and you panic. “Not that I’ve done anything bad, like piss in your bed or anything. I’ll wash that too. Your sheets, if I’ve pissed I mean. But the bed was dry when-“
“Jeepers, you did drink a lot last night didn’t you?”
“I’m so sorry”
You have no idea what you're apologising for. Everything perhaps. She’s not your mother, you don’t have to justify that you went out and had a good time.
“For what? It’s not my sheets you’ve ruined”
You blink at her in confusion. “You mean-. This isn’t your…”
“House? You think this is my place? Gosh, you must’ve drank the place dry”
Not for the first time this morning, you were completely lost. There were too many unanswered questions clunking around your throbbing head to even make sense of what was going on.
“Right, well I’m going to go. The bathroom is right there” she points dramatically at the room behind her, as if you couldn’t find your way five feet in front of you on your own. “I’d get yourself in front of a mirror before you head downstairs”
She gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze when she brushes past you. “Mirror, got it” you mumble as you shuffle towards the toilet with great effort.
Laura was spot on – a mirror was your morning lifeline before subjecting anyone else to the sight of you. You weren’t just rough around the edges; you were a walking exhibit on the brink of a hangover apocalypse. Death warmed up? More like the undead, straight out of a zombie flick.
Your hair. Well, it was doing its own thing. A rebellious, unruly dance that had nothing to do with your input. It screamed “I partied all night and regret nothing”
And your makeup? Let’s just say it was on a journey of crude self-discovery, smudging and migrating in stubborn ways around your eyes. Big, bold mascara smudges teaming up with the remnants of a night that involved more tossing and turning than beauty sleep.
“You’re a fucking mess” you tell your reflection. “Jesus Christ”
You run the tap, gather some water in your palms and sluse your face to try and salvage at least a smidge of self esteem. The water feels like heaven against your skin, and you almost cry when your tongue darts out to catch the drops running over your lips.
-
“We thought you fell in”. Katie says when the two of you find yourself back with the group. “We almost sent out a search party”
Without missing a beat, you shoot back, “We’re getting shots. They’ve got a deal on Sambuca”. A smirk plays on your lips when Caitlin’s eyes light up.
Katie folds her arms, giving you a look of disapproval. “No way. I don’t trust you. Not after last time”
Kyra, leaning against the side of the booth you’ve all acquired, chimes in, “come on. Y/N’s practically depressed. Shots are the only way she’ll stop moping into her phone”
“Yeah, Kyra’s right”. Sort of. “I need shots to cope with the existential crisis that is being caused by my tragic life”. You don't, but you need to play along if you’re going to get your way.
You want to get to that sweet spot of intoxication. Where everything feels like it’s in soft focus, and you’re floating through the night on a cloud of liquid courage. You've already had a cocktail, or three, so you’re certain a few doses of clear spirits will get you there.
Even in the dimmed light of the bar you could see Katie narrow her eyes. She was thinking about it. Weighing up the options. Last time you all did shots she, honestly you can’t quite remember what happened, but she turned up late to training with a bruise blooming over her left brow and limp.
“I’ll buy them! Please Katie, for me” you plead, pulling out your best puppy dog eyes.
You see her physically deflate when she comes to her decision. “Okay! Alright! But if I get another late fine, you’re paying it”
-
You followed the sound of music and the hiss of bacon hitting a hot pan. Unfamiliar territory, yet your feet led you to the kitchen, guided by a primal hunger for anything salty.
Confusion still lingered like a heavy fog in your hungover mind. Too many questions and not enough answers. Until you stepped into the morning glare of a sun beaming through patio doors, then a series of mental gears clicked steadily into place.
It started with the song. The one that floated through the house on the back of the crackle of bubbling fat. It’s one you’ve heard many times before. A pre match staple that you loathe due to it being horrifically overplayed by its lover. Country music was never a bandwagon you wanted to get on the back of.
Then the subtle recognition of the athletic back turned towards you. The way the muscles moved under the taut skin with each flip of food. A mental Rolodex of faces spun, landing on a particular blonde's distinctive silhouette.
“I can feel you staring”
Well, you were. It was hard no to when you're faced with a chiseled physique clad in only a sports bra and a pair of training shorts.
“Why am I here, Leah?” You croak out. Voice horse from its dryness despite the water you just guzzled from the bathroom tap.
“For breakfast, I presume. I made bacon”
You roll your eyes at the back of her head. She knows full well what you mean but she’s choosing to be aloof just because she could.
“Think about it” she says as she finally turns around.
And you would think, but your brain has short circuited.
Christ on a bike she’s hot. It’s nothing you hadn’t seen before, of course. Being teammates and sharing locker rooms and ice baths and physio slots. But that was a professional setting. The way your eyes lingered was for science. To improve yourself. A personal physical goal.
Abs
Biceps
Cleavage
Your eyes shoot to the ceiling in an attempt to be respectful.
“Why do you think you could be here, Y/N?”
You swallowed hard, you were torn. If she’s alluding to what you think she’s alluding to, then damn, you’re actually pretty annoyed at yourself for not remembering it.
Before you can say anything, she places a plate of steaming hot food on the kitchen island you're keeping yourself upright against. Maybe you were still a little drunk. Maybe your peanut brain was trying and failing to act composed around a pretty girl in her underwear.
“Eat up. Then I’ll drop you home”
-
Is it possible to miss your bed after just one night?
Yes. Yes it is.
Leaving the comfort of your own mattress, cozy blankets, and the reassuringly familiar creaks of your bed frame is a betrayal you wholeheartedly regret when you find yourself splayed against the duvet an hour or so later.
Suddenly, you’re grappling with the harsh reality that not all beds are created equal. No matter their feather count, there’s nothing like your own bed.
But you can’t help but let your mind wander to the one you woke up in. And whose house it was situated.
The car ride back felt charged. Lingering Stares at red lights and small touches when Leah changed gears, or grabbed something out of the glove box. Maybe she was just playing games. She didn’t actually say exclusively that you’d slept with each other. But why would she lie?
And why else would you be there?
Your mind was reeling, caught in the aftermath of a night that seemed to have shifted the dynamics of your relationship with Leah even further than before. But the ghost of something remained unanswered, and you don’t think you’ve got the energy to figure it out.
You’re about to resign yourself to ignoring the nagging feeling, ready to fall into a well deserved sleep when your phone finally flickers to life. It had been dead for god knows how long and charging it seemed like the responsible thing to do.
You regret it instantly when you reach for it and see the barrage of notifications and texts from your friends filling the screen.
-
Amidst the relentless beats and a dance floor resembling a disorganized chaos of limbs, your friends seemed to have vanished quicker than a magician’s assistant in a puff of smoke.
Fucking amateurs.
You supposed that's why your phone kept buzzing in its place within your bra. A customary ‘Lost in the crowd, where are you?’ Or ‘Wanted nuggets, get home safe’ text. Though unexpectedly, it was Leah’s name that illuminated the screen instead.
Brace yourself for a probable lecture about your irresponsible choice of extra curricular activities. Not everyone is as disciplined as you Williamson!
You unlocked your phone with liquor numb fingers, ready to clumsily type back a response about personal space. Yet what you laid your eyes upon was certainly not something you’d be writing a scathing review about.
To say you got an eyeful would be the understatement of the century. Not that you could complain, because you really couldn’t. Who would when a full frontal picture of an extremely hot woman in lingerie is gifted to them on a plate free of charge. Not you. Definitely not you.
You squinted at the screen, half-wondering if the club’s DJ had spiked your drink with a dash of hallucinogens. Especially when a written text follows.
‘My place?’
Oh, and a google maps pin to the address of her flat as well. How convenient.
Who would’ve guessed it? The England skipper herself, the picture of professionalism, delivering a bold invitation with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer through a window. Regardless, it had you weak in the damn knees.
As the relentless bass thumped around you, you found yourself pondering the options laid out before you like some bizarre choose-your-own-adventure. Should you head to Leah’s for a morning that could redefine interesting, or persist in your quest for the lost tribe of friends in the dark, clammy wilderness?
Fuck your friends, you wanted to get laid.
‘I’ll get an Uber, be there in 10’
Thank god for auto correct.
-
Your mouth goes dry and your stomach falls out of your ass.
It all starts to make sense now – the glances, the static atmosphere. You ditched your friends for a booty call, and the evidence is now uncomfortably displayed on your screen, a vivid reminder of the unexpected turn your night took.
Just as you’re contemplating each increasing level of chaos, a single fresh text lands itself serendipitously in your inbox.
One guess as to who it’s from.
You want to scream.
‘Afternoon slugger. If you’re reading this you’re probably having a panic attack whilst looking at my nipples. You’re welcome. I want to clear something up. Unfortunately for you, we didn’t sleep together. Necrophilia isn’t my thing. So, congrats on surviving the night with your dignity intact. Your move, baby. Impress me’
You stare at Leah’s message, your jaw threatening to set up a permanent residence on the floor.
She played you like a damn fiddle. She seized the opportunity to mess with your head while you were too fragile to navigate the situation yourself. A cunning move, you have to admit.
It sparked something in you. A realisation that not only did she reach out, but she thought about you enough to ask for a booty call. And she’s put the ball back in your court, probably out of impatience. The fire in your belly she left there the day in the gym gew even hotter.
You would play along. Maybe even bend the rules like she did.
There was nothing wrong with a little game of cat and mouse, after all.
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1111jenx · 2 years ago
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𖤓Synastry series: Sun in the Houses𖤓
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MASTERLIST — for more quality posts✨
💘Sun in the 1st House: Beneath the celestial canvas of this synastry placement, a tale as enchanting as a dream unfurls. The house person, akin to a night sky, emanates a radiant glow, echoing the Sun person's presence. To them, the Sun is their guiding star, the source of their joy, their radiant beacon in a universe otherwise cloaked in darkness. A profound contentment envelops them when bathed in the Sun's light, an authentic happiness as splendid as dawn's first light. The Sun, in return, basks in the house person's deep-rooted admiration, mirroring it back like a tranquil lake reflecting the midday sun. This tandem, like a pair of celestial bodies, graces the universe with laughter, an exquisite sonnet of shared joy. Together, they shimmer, illuminating the surrounding cosmos with their radiant togetherness, a spectacle of love that outshines the stars. Yet, within this symphony of love, a certain possessiveness persists, a gravitational pull that binds them irrevocably. They perceive the other as their celestial twin, their sole companion in the vast expanse of the universe. An echo of 'mine' resonates between them, an assertion of mutual ownership that is as potent as the heart's deepest longing. But as is the nature of celestial bodies, clashes may occur, ego battles akin to cosmic storms, threatening to disrupt their harmonious orbit. However, even these conflicts are silver-lined, offering pearls of wisdom and shaping their cosmic journey in profound ways. In the radiant presence of one another, they shimmer with unspoken brilliance. They ignite the best within each other, like distant galaxies awakening to their own magnificence. The house person swells with pride in the comforting glow of the Sun, who, in their unerring wisdom, whispers words that elicit pure, unadulterated joy. They orbit in their celestial dance, two bodies radiating love, learning, and laughter, a testament to the poetic resonance of their shared existence.
💘Sun in the 2nd House: In this bond, we find two souls who naturally stir each other's desires and comforts. Together, they revel in life's luxurious offerings, savoring the finest fruits of existence. The Sun person, like a guiding star, helps the House person grasp their true worth, understand their needs, and appreciate their resources. If the stars align favourably, their partnership blooms into something extraordinary, blessed by the gracious hand of Venus. They see worth in each other, a priceless treasure that enriches their shared journey. The Sun person recognizes the unique gifts the House person brings to the table. Yet, there's a shadow to the Sun's warm glow; a tendency to possess, to control, often without realizing. The House person, drawn in by the Sun's radiance, finds themselves doing more to please the Sun, adjusting to their needs, no matter what those might be. In this dance of connection, they move in harmony, a duet of love, desire, and mutual respect.
💘 Sun in the 3rd House: In their shared space, words intertwine like star-crossed lovers, ceaseless, captivating. Little disagreements dance on the edge of their tongues, only to be silenced by the tender symphony of make-up kisses. This placement weaves a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu, as if their souls have crossed paths in another life, another time. An unspoken comfort lingers between them, a tranquility that whispers of home. Conversations flow like rivers to the sea, their intellectual discourse as effortless as the wind caressing the leaves. The House person finds a certain charm in the Sun's words, hanging onto them like a melody that never grows old. The Sun, on the other hand, sees the House person as a precious gem, something to shield from the world's harsh edges. Their interaction is a feast for the mind, a stimulation that sings to those who crave deep, intellectual bonds. In this union, comfort abounds. Each word spoken, each secret shared, peels away another layer, revealing the essence of who they truly are. Their openness is as natural as a flower blooming under the spring sun, a testament to their profound connection. Intimate moments are shared in the small details - the clasp of their hands, a language written in the lines of their palms, a silent promise of enduring togetherness. Inside jokes punctuate their interactions, shared laughter blooming in their personal garden of camaraderie. A timeless dance of love and intellectual stimulation, their union weaves a tapestry of memories, each thread gleaming with their shared joy and affection.
💘 Sun in the 4th House: In the embrace of the House person, the Sun finds a home, an abode that whispers of permanence, a space it never yearns to desert. The sanctuary of their presence is a magnet to the Sun, a refuge radiant with solace. This cosmic alignment is intriguing, for it oscillates between providing profound comfort and eliciting the chill of fear, particularly if the Sun's chart is parched of the life-giving water element. There's an undeniable allure in the vulnerability this placement offers. The House person peers into the Sun, seeing its authentic self, acknowledging its limitless potential, and loving it unabashedly. They are the unwavering shield to the Sun, sometimes blindly so, standing in steadfast support irrespective of the circumstances. In response, the Sun flourishes. It blossoms with an ethereal beauty, basking in the adoration it receives, thriving on the nourishment of support. The presence of the House person is a soothing balm, a calming melody that seems to know the right notes to bring tranquility. The House person, in their turn, reveals a clear soft spot for the Sun, perhaps even forgiving their occasional bursts of tempestuous heat. It's a placement that prompts both introspection and reflection, a cosmic dance that sees them turning inward, mirroring each other's steps. Together, they discover a respite from their armor, a space where they can shed their toughness. They become a testament to the beauty of vulnerability, an echo of support and affection that resonates in the celestial symphony of their unity.
💘 Sun in the 5fth House: A placement I hold dear, is a dance of two cosmic entities feeling as though they've discovered their mirrored soul. It's not just a joyous union but one filled with exhilarating thrills and daring adventures. They revel in their shared laughter, their exchanges brimming with the innocence of child-like banter. Yet, beneath this playful veneer, there lies an infatuation, clear and profound, humming in the spaces between their words. The House person transforms into an eternal flame, a radiant beacon matching the Sun's relentless luminescence. The Sun, in turn, gazes upon the House with a sense of awe, often entranced by their seeming perfection. The House, in the Sun's eyes, feels like an equal partner, a reflection of their inner self. The fifth house is synonymous with romance. It's a fixed house, firmly rooted in its position, a steadfast testament to the House person's feelings towards the Sun. Regardless of their playful mind games, their seemingly flighty demeanor, their feelings towards the Sun person persist, burning with unwavering intensity. To the Sun, the House becomes an escape from the mundane, their daily dose of joy, their most ardent cheerleader. It's an alignment at times witnessed in tales of enemies turned lovers to bestfriends, an exciting dynamic where they continually challenge and dare each other to delve deeper into life's mysteries. It's a placement pulsating with positive energy, echoing with shared giggles, and resonating with playful touches. It's a cosmic dance of two entities, navigating the universe hand in hand, their hearts beating in a rhythm that speaks of love, laughter, and endless adventure.
💘 Sun in the 6th House: In this celestial arrangement, the Sun finds itself nestled in a house of pragmatism and routine, shedding its brilliant light upon the practicalities of daily life. These constellations spin tales not of grand careers or cosmic pursuits, but of everyday work, the quiet rhythm of health and wellness, the structure of routines and the serene act of service. In this dance of the stars, the Sun's light illuminates pathways to healthier eating, disciplined exercise, and even companionship with beloved pets. The Sun, in its radiant role, serves as a guiding beacon for the 6th house dweller, leading them towards the sanctity of a balanced lifestyle. It may inspire a shared commitment to physical exertion, perhaps in the form of joining a gym, or ignite conversations about nutritious diets and wellbeing. The Sun person may even act as a catalyst, helping the 6th house dweller establish routines that reinforce physical and mental health. Yet, the orbits of these celestial bodies might lead them down professional paths that intertwine, potentially finding one in the service of the other. However, with the Sun's position in the practical 6th house, a word of caution is warranted. The equilibrium of give and take must be carefully maintained to prevent the transformation of helpfulness into servitude. It's crucial that neither the Sun nor the 6th house dweller feels overburdened, their efforts unreciprocated.. It inspires a mutual journey towards better physical and mental health, encouraging each to uplift the other, illuminating their shared path with the light of practical wisdom and mutual care.
💘 Sun in the 7th House: In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, this placement is akin to a celestial masterpiece, an ideal constellation in the realm of astrology. The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts its golden light upon the 7th house, a house rich with the resonance of companionship, the solemnity of marriage, the intimacy of one-on-one relationships, the practicalities of business partnerships, the binding power of contracts, and the hidden faces of our alter-egos or shadow selves. In this dance of the stars, the Sun person stirs a longing within the 7th house dweller, a yearning for partnership, perhaps even a hankering for the sacred bond of marriage. The 7th house person may perceive the Sun person as the embodiment of their perfect mate, a mirror reflecting all the qualities they admire yet feel they lack. This celestial alignment weaves a balancing harmony in their relationship, as the Sun person displays characteristics and idiosyncrasies that the 7th house person cherishes but doesn't possess. As the 7th house is the celestial realm of marriage and contracts, the potential for wedded bliss, or perhaps a formal business partnership, is a tangible possibility should their relationship endure the test of time. However, as with any celestial arrangement, there are potential pitfalls to navigate. The two may become so entwined that they lose their individualities, their identities blurring until they cannot discern where one ends and the other begins. It is vital to remember that they are unique souls united, not a singular entity. Additionally, the mirage of the ideal mate may only be visible to the eyes of the 7th house person, with the Sun person potentially oblivious to this perception. The entirety of the synastry chart must be considered to gauge the mutual feelings of compatibility and the potential for enduring companionship. Thus, in this symphony of stars and planets, the dance of destiny unfolds, charting a course of love, partnership, and shared dreams.
💘 Sun in the 8th House: The placement of the Sun in the 8th house is a pas de deux that is not meant for those with faint hearts. It is a dance where the dancers—the Sun and the 8th house person—are likely to be pulled in one of two extreme directions. They may find themselves entwined in an intoxicating whirl of magnetic attraction, an intense passion that seizes them, or they may feel an unsettling disturbance, a disquiet that rattles their core, often swaying between these polar opposites. The Sun, in its radiant role, casts an unflinching light on the profound themes of the 8th house, illuminating the shadowy corners of sexuality, the cyclical dance of death and rebirth, the tumult of transformation and crisis, the journey of personal growth and evolution, the undercurrents of psychology and addiction, the intricacies of finance, and the hushed whispers of societal taboos. These subjects, often shrouded in mystery, may either captivate or unsettle the house person. They might either welcome the Sun person into their hidden depths or push them away. The house person might perceive the Sun as an enigmatic entity, while the Sun person uncovers the secrets that the 8th house person keeps hidden from the world. Should both individuals bear the mark of Pluto's dominance, or have a strong 8th house presence in their natal chart, this union may flourish in mutual fascination. However, if one or both harbor hidden trauma or suppressed shame, this intense connection could serve as a deterrent, overwhelming their senses. This celestial arrangement signifies the potential to unravel each other's hidden layers, maintaining a profound bond that might lead to mutual transformation. Yet, caution must be exercised to prevent power dynamics or manipulative tactics from seeping into their relationship. Ultimately, this celestial alignment can flourish if both are open to exploring the depths of each other's souls, embracing growth and transformation, and traversing the labyrinth of shared secrets.
💘 Sun in the 9th house: The Sun weaves golden threads into the 9th house tapestry, infusing wisdom's domain with the vibrancy of its radiance. This divine dance resonates with the seekers, the dreamers, those who chart the star-studded expanse of their fate, guided by an insatiable thirst for depth and meaning. The Sun, a luminary beacon, casts an ethereal glow on the winding paths of philosophy, spirituality, and the rich tapestry of global culture, sparking a flame in the 9th house soul, igniting the tinder of curiosity and wanderlust. In the sacred dance of their divergent or converging beliefs, they find a melody, a rhythm that binds them in an intricate ballet of understanding. Their shared intrigue transcends the constraints of culture, religion, and philosophy, knitting them closer in the vast expanse of human thought. Together, they traverse oceans, cross continents, and journey through the labyrinth of the mind and the world, venturing into territories unseen and unexplored. Yet caution must be heeded, for clashing perspectives may strike discordant notes, marring the celestial harmony. But through the crucible of understanding and growth, they shall rise, bound by a shared quest for enlightenment and truth. Soaring high, they ascend to the sublime realm of knowledge, guided by the radiant beacon of the Sun.
💘 Sun in the 10th house: The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts a shimmering glow upon the 10th house, bathing the lofty pinnacles of ambition, authority, and societal prestige in golden light. The 10th house individual beholds the Sun, seeing within its fiery aura the embodiment of a mentor, a guiding star, perhaps even a paternal figure. In this celestial dance, the Sun nurtures the dormant seeds of promise within the 10th house soul, kindling a fire that empowers them to scale the towering heights of professional achievement and public recognition. Unseen currents may churn, as the tides of power and authority ebb and flow, wrestling for harmonious balance. Should the rhythm of their hearts align, with the melody of guidance and humility ringing louder than the discordant notes of dominance, their shared journey shall carve a path to victory in the grand stage of career and societal prominence. Together, they'll ascend the mountain of success, guided by the Sun's resplendent glow.
💘 Sun in the 11th house: As the Sun anoints the 11th house with its golden kiss, souls intertwined in this celestial ballet discover a fellowship deeper than mere companionship. They merge as confidants, their dreams and aspirations entwining like tendrils of starlight, fueled by a shared devotion to the grand tapestry of humanity. Hand in hand, they champion noble crusades, threading their bond of friendship through a loom of diversity and acceptance. The Sun, a celestial minstrel, serenades the 11th house soul, inspiring them to dance in the unique rhythm of their being. In turn, the 11th house individual perceives the Sun as a lighthouse of acceptance, its unwavering beam illuminating their path in times of tumult. For hearts fluttering to the cadence of romance, seek reinforcement from other heavenly harmonies, for a profound friendship forms the bedrock of enduring love.This cosmic duet, a symphony of souls, signals unity, mutual respect, and a shared pledge to a future as radiant as the Sun. Their shared bond, an ethereal waltz, tells a tale of harmony, shared dreams, and a commitment to a collective dawn where every dream finds its home.
💘 Sun in the 12th house: As the Sun slips into the enigmatic embrace of the 12th house, its bright sovereignty is shrouded in gauzy veils of mystique, spirituality, and the unseen. To the house person, the Sun appears as an ethereal apparition, a spectral force oscillating between healing and bewildering, like a siren's call echoing through the vast and shadowy cosmos. Shrouded in the silken shadows of the subconscious, their connection pulses like a hidden heartbeat, a secret rhythm known only to them. This clandestine bond invites introspection and self-discovery, a voyage into the deep waters of their shared consciousness. For the Sun person, the depths of the 12th house may feel like a labyrinth of twilight, where their radiant essence is held in a silent waltz, yearning for the symphony of expression. When suspicion or paranoia creep into this celestial bond, trust must be kindled like a beacon in the deep, for their connection thrives on the revelation of buried truths and the unearthing of the divine spark within. With hearts aglow and an attuned awareness of their spiritual dance, they navigate the labyrinthine realms of the soul, transcending the mortal shackles, and ascending into an otherworldly romance. This sacred journey, a testament to their courage, becomes an intimate dance between two souls weaving their way through the cosmic tapestry, seeking the divine in each other.
Thank you for staying til the very end loves, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, let me know your thoughts in the comment🤍
love,
saint jenx🪐
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maxwell-grant · 20 days ago
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The Penguin Episode 7: "Top Hat" Breakdown
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There’s a constant referencing of stunted childhood about Mr. Cobblepot – a baby grown enormous, grotesque and as needy as he ever was. The Hugh Hefner of crime. But the Penguin’s sublimated the desire for the tit for a desire for cash, power and empire. And this is why he’s Gotham’s greatest – and most outlandish – gangboss - TheMindlessOnes
The Penguin is the greatest Batman villain for the simple reason that he's the meanest. What the Penguin has that no one else has is a simple abundance of pure, unadulterated spite. In Batman's world there's madness, obsession, will and strength - but ultimately it all comes back to crime, pure and simple. The Penguin's motivations are pure because he simply resents the whole damn world and will not rest until he gets his. The Penguin is a criminal, nothing more and nothing less, with avarice in his heart and hatred in his eye. - Tegan O'Neil
(Episode 1) (Episode 2) (Episode 3) (Episode 4) (Episode 5) (Episode 6) (Episode 8)
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VLADIMIR CVETKO: We wanted Francis to never allow Oz to use his disability as a crutch, and to always have him be strong and move past it and use it to his benefit. But it is isolating. Like, it is. And so he'll never be the same as his brothers. And so there's an inherent jealousy of just his situation that's there - The Penguin Podcast Episode 7
RYDER ALLEN: He loves his brothers, but he loves his mom way more.
COLIN FARRELL: I think he probably all his life feels a little bit broken, and so he's constantly, constantly, looking for his mother's approval and her love. I think he's seen very up close and personal how his mother has toiled to provide for him and his brothers, and wants to give her a better life - Inside Episode 7
Massive props to all the actors here but especially to Ryder Allen, who is absolutely incredible as young Oz. It would be so, so easy to let this take on Colin Farrell's Penguin slip into pantomine but he makes it work brilliantly without feeling at all like an impression. He is so believable he even makes the adult version more believable. Like, that is the same guy, give or take decades of grime and grit and scars, but that's still the same little turd, just before he was truly practiced in hiding his simmering resentment, but already fast learning.
"My big strong bull of a boy", words that in Episode 01 embody such a dark aspect to their relationship began all the way here with Francis simply encouraging her sad little kid with a bum leg. I said as much in prior entries that it's Francis who lights the fire under him, that she is the force that pushed him from mere self-preservation into city-conquering ambition for her sake, and we see the most innocent form of that motivation here. Just a disabled kid whose mom loved him and wanted him to love himself more.
So the previous episodes had already given us small glimpses of what Jack and Benny were like when they were still alive - that Jack was presumably the older sibling and a baseball player and the de-facto "man of the house", given how readily Francis accepted the idea that he had gone downtown on his own to get the power back, and that Benny was presumably younger and more innocent or sweet, given she mistakes Victor for Benny and asks him to dance with her. The opening scene very much confirms and expands on these traits and already raises up Ozzie having a resentment for them, and where does that come from. That cocktail of self-preservation and insecurity and spite and overcompensating that defines him.
Because it's not even just that his mom loves them and he wants her to love just him, it's not pure greed, it also comes back to how little he thinks of himself, and how he's hyper aware of every advantage others have over him - He can't be the upstanding man Jack is, and he can't be the pure innocent source of joy that Benny is. He can't be trusted to talk to Rex like Jack, and he can't successfully drag her away from work to have fun like Benny. He can't go out and be relied on to take care of his mom like good and strong old Jack, and he can't run around the house like sweet and happy little Benny, can't join the three of them when they play and instead has to sit there and stew in rejection over all this love and affection he can't have.
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I didn't think we'd get a glimpse of Rex, but the one we get is so fucking perfect. What we see so far shows he was basically just a piece of shit gangster, a cartoonishly evil Greaser extra with nothing special about him, he was just a guy Oz projected hardcore into because he got stuff done for Ma (and he wasn't even great for his mom, he underpaid her! Same shit Victor complained about with his own dad). Oswald stares at his money and his cigar and his attitude and already wants to be chummy with the guy while Rex doesn't even look at him, he talks to Jack only, and Francis doesn't want Oswald to be involved with him. But even so, he's the closest Ozzie has to an older male role model he looks up to.
And so it doesn't matter that Rex Calabrese's car wasn't actually made of gold,, because Oswald will grow up to tell his next little brother, the next Benny, about the gold cadillac of the man who blessed his block. It doesn't matter that Alberto Falcone was 100% right about Rex Calabrese being just a small-time asshole, because Oz elevated him into a post-mortem myth.
Really, he's doing the same thing Sofia does and that Bruce did, elevating paternal figures into personal saints and guiding lights on their great life missions, with Bruce shattered when he learned about Thomas' mistakes and how said failings shaped everything currently wrong with the city, and Sofia describing her abused scared but loving mother as "a force too great for the Falcones to handle")
I think, way more than the murder, this is the part that most speaks to me about this guy being fated to become The Penguin, that on some level beyond explanation this is just what he was going to be, that he can already think of nothing else but wanting to be this guy. Dude came out of the womb wanting to be a criminal.
Crucially important to where this is going is the fact that there was real love between these brothers. They play flashlight tag instead of regular tag so that Ozzie can be included. Jack is constantly trying to protect him, always shielding him from Rex, warning him that he's a bad guy, taking the two in the tunnels to protect them from the rain, telling them that Ma deserves way better than what Mr.Calabrese plays them. Benny wants to play zombies with Ozzie, wants them to go to the arcade and play Double Dragon forever, puts him up first at tag. And even if all Ozzie wants is to stay and help Ma, even if all his brothers do is get in the way of the only thing he wants, he also wants to play with them, he wants for Benny to think that Rex's car is cool, he is proud to tell Jack that he knows about Rex being a gangster, he wants them to like the things he likes and he wants to be involved when they play.
Just as important is the extent to which Oz was genuinely hurt by what they did at the tunnel - that to him, they pretended to include him in a fair game that was actively unfair, they broke the rules by leaving the area and then broke them further by hiding somewhere he couldn't physically get to and cheating at what they agreed to and laughed all the while, and that's why Ozzie angrily closes the door on them at first, to punish them for doing this to him.
Everything they do here, even Oz's decision to lock the door on them, is childish, because they're just kids playing around. Jack and Benny even apologize and say they'll start over, but then, what will become the pattern of his entire life begins. Naturally, we hear a rendition of his theme when this happens.
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KEVIN BRAY: I don't think that Oz had an intention of taking his brothers out in that moment. We've all known that child as a child. We've known the child that just strikes too hard or hits somebody with something and never thought the consequences would cut them open and they'd have to go get stitches. And he didn't have the impulse control, you know, to think this through. - The Penguin Podcast Episode 7
LAUREN LEFRANC: In his mind, they go down the ladder into a deeper part of the tunnel because they know it's hard for him to get down there. That's not true, but that's what he thinks, because he personalizes things. And this is reflective of what we see from Oz in 101 with Alberto. Alberto demeans him, and Oz impulsively shoots him. As the water begins to rise and he knows the rain is coming down and he has every opportunity to stop it, he lets that impulsive act become permanent. It's not that he actively kills his brothers. It's that he actively does nothing to stop it. - Inside Episode 7
Penguin with the Iceberg Lounge built atop the 44 Below where the fucked up shit he's covering up happens / Penguin with the Underground Railroad built atop the foundation of his original moiders he's covering up
Thinking about a description that stuck with me from the podcast, that Francis sent him like a stealth bomber into the world. So stealthy that he even bombed her life and she didn't notice
"They're your boys, and they're freezing" For the entire show this has haunted Francis again and again, even right in front of Oz
I kinda expected, given the Pain and Prejudice mention, that Oswald was going to be indirectly or directly responsible for killing his brothers, and that this was going to have a vastly better idea for that concept, and that it did. I've seen lots of people describe this as the show asserting he was ontologically evil from birth and that's, well that's just dumb, and that would be too easy, that attributes foresight and planning to Oz's decision that simply wasn't there, and wildly misunderstands much of the point of the show. Oswald is not beyond reason or empathy or humanity or feeling, precisely the opposite - he is all too painfully human, all too painfully real, in the atrocities he does and the ones he does nothing to stop.
He just is fearless, and I think it has to do with his empathy. You’re going to go, “God, I hate this guy, but I see where that comes from and that does not make it okay.” There’s a sense of tragedy within all of that. -Matt Reeves
Oswald's decision to lock his brothers in a fit of cruel and stupid spite after they insulted him (even if by accident) mirrors his decision to shoot Alberto after he's insulted and his decision to rat out Sofia after being insulted. Oswald walking home and deciding to do nothing while telling a different story, because it ultimately benefits him to do so, mirrors his decade of silence over Sofia's imprisonment and his complicity in Carmine Falcone's murders while telling Eve a different story. It is, indeed, the worst thing Oz has done yet, but nothing about it is fundamentally different than the patterns by which he's acted since Episode 1.
It wasn't that his brothers were mean, not intentionally anyway, or even Oswald was always planning to kill them, he very clearly wasn't. But A: They did something that really hurt and upset and offended him, and so were the first to find out what happens when you do that to Oz. And B: They were the first people to be in the way of something Oz wanted, the only thing he ever really wanted which is his mother's love, and so it's good they had to go. Not a premedidated crime, not even something he actively wanted, but it was a happy acident turned chance, and he wound up taking it and doubling down on it.
It's evil and fucked up to the degree I think works best for Penguin being evil and fucked up: Not sadistic and over-the-top cruel, not the Joker or any of that fetishistically elaborate revenge bullshit he's had since Joker's Asylum, but as someone who profoundly does not care about what he has to do or who gets crushed along the way for him to get what he needs. Does not go out of his way to murder for the sake of it, but will not blink at whatever body count happens to get him what he wants, more indifferent than actively malicious and that doesn't actually make it a lot better.
I believe Oz to this day still loves his brothers. I believe he means it when he says "I lost em too", it's just he doesn't think about the contradiction involved.
As someone who never liked the hypothermia/forced into always going out with an umbrella origin (always thought the latter one was real forced and dumb as far as justifications for the umbrella-theme went), it's cool they actually did incorporate that classic Penguin origin element so strongly here. In the broadest strokes possible, they managed to work in "Penguin's mother lost her family due to hypothermia and so her smothering concerns for Oswald pushed him into situations where he was frequently belittled and mistreated until he became more and more insecure and spiteful and twisted"
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That's the cornerstone around which everything is built, the rest of his life. And it certainly is the foundation, or the springboard upon which he is launched into the world, that decision that he makes as a child in that moment, and the reasons why he does it – so that he can have the isolation of his mother's love directed solely towards him." I think he washes his hands of it totally, and has convinced himself that it didn't happen the way it did. It's that grave. But it's in there somewhere – the darkness. - Colin Farrell
Something I should bring up is also the Portuguese title given to this episode: instead of translating Top Hat (which would be Cartola), they called it Manda-Chuva. Manda-chuva is a conjoined slang term for boss, big shot, head honcho, that kind of thing, but it translates more literally to "Rain sender/commander" (Manda = order/sender, Chuva = rain). Like you're the guy who makes it rain in the village, you command the rain and everything else. Fucking excellently horrible name choice here, like it better than the original title.
To quote @book--wyrm
the juxtaposition of the tapdancing and the raindrops and the slamming and the shooting and then the hum of the TV and the buzz of the streetlights (get back home when those go on) and the rushing of the water into the grillthat shot of the jar outside the window, all filled up with water, two toys floating in themthe highest point in his life. when his mom is still happy and whole and he doesnt' have to share her untainted love and he doesnt' have to think about the consequences of what he's done while his brothers are drowning in a sewer under the city
him literally turning away from the camera after the shot of his brothers screaming underwater, turning away from who he might have been—the steady, honest man, and the bright, innocent child as they drown horrifically, to stare at a glitzed and glamoured version of who he will eventually become
Oswald's first crime, the first time he learns he can get what he wants by skipping the line. That he actually can have everything if he just does things a certain way. It's the first time he won, the first time he managed to take out his enemies/competitors and won what he wanted for it, pushing his brothers out of the nest so he could hog mama all to himself.
Nobody has to know, nothing that could be done, they hurt me first, it didn't happen like that, I deserve this, I'm making her happy, I can take care of her.
"The city took them."
All he was doing was punishing them for playing a mean hurtful prank on him. And then he went home. And then at some point realized they were not going to come back, but he kept going. Isn't it warm here, with Ma? Isn't it everything he ever wanted? Look at the tv, the man with the top hat dancing away the night. Isn't it cool when he shoots down everyone in the back? Isn't it cool, this larger-than-life thing he will map his life around, showing him how much it rules to be like this? His very own Mask of Zorro, in Fred Astaire shooting his back-up dancers, The Gentleman Criminal taking form as he commits the most horrific despicable betrayal of his life. The fantasy he will spent the rest of his life grasping for and projecting on pieces of shit like Rex Calabrese and Carmine Falcone in the hopes of one day taking their place, while he at every turn works to destroy and undermine it.
It sprung from a very base animal selfishness, resulting from a perfectly understandable childish impulse, carried to unimaginably horrific proportions set to define the rest of his life. Ozzie Cobb never wanted to murder his brothers, but he got away with it, because The Penguin can get away with anything.
Oswald commits his first spiteful horrific childish self-serving murder, on the same day a sharp-dressed backstabbing criminal in a top hat dances before him and his adoring mother. He's seeing his future, the reward he gets for his first crime, and he likes it very much.
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LAUREN LEFRANC: Without it sounding cheesy, love matters to him, and that doing right by whatever the (mafia) family traditionally would do isn't the most important to him. And that there's a brazenness to it, that he can do what he wants, and he can be with who he wants, and he'll make his family a mixed family. And that there's strength in that as well. That makes him a different man than we may have seen in different iterations of Salvatore Maroni -The Penguin Podcast Episode 7
"Fuck your guilt, just bring me an army" - That singlemindedness that makes Oz such a piece of shit, while also making him someone that you can follow and even look up to, a guy who can plausibly sell himself as Da Good Boss. He doesn't give Victor shit for what happened to his Ma, won't hear excuses and he doesn't care for them, we gotta get this done now. Like at the grave scene in Ep3, he doesn't want Victor's apologies, he wants him to get his shit together if he's gonna stick around (by what he thinks is entirely Victor's choice). He has no time for guilt or second-guessing or a conscience, not his nor anyone else's.
"Gentleman" is a term that's only been brought up once in some episodes and in the most bitterly ironic tones possible, here turned against Oswald by Sal berating him for having betrayed his gentleman's promise and thus now he'll get the same deal, which helped put something in perspective: Sal Maroni is right, he is a gentleman. In fact, if anyone in the entire show, if anyone in Gotham, could be described as a "gentleman criminal" the way Oz so desperately aspires to be, it would be Salvatore. And not only does he fail partially because of that, but Oz has nothing but contempt for him, only sees him as a sentimental preening idiot (exactly the way Carmine did) and not only that, he will spend the remainder of the episode dragging him down to his level and causing him to die for it.
I love that Oz tries twice to turn Sal against Sofia and it never works, not even a little. Zero pretense that she's not in control and Sal is fine with it, he just wants Oz dead more than anything else.
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Definitely a good time to bring up that, the first time the name Oswald Cobblepot was ever introduced was in the Batman Sunday Classics newspaper strip, issue #119 in 1946, in a story about The Penguin's aunt who raised him, Miranda Cobblepot, coming to visit him after ten years, and him begging Batman to not reveal to her that he's a crook and hold off on arresting him until she's out of town. It's the first time we were also shown anything about Oswald's background and a maternal figure in his life, here seen as comically overbearing as well as completely oblivious to his criminal life, helping fight off mobsters and leaving while telling him to help his good friend Batman take these hoodlums to jail.
Miranda never really showed up again outside of this strip, but some of these ideas eventually carried over to mainline depictions of Penguin's mom, namely his dutifulness towards her and her control over him and her total obliviousness to his criminal deeds, which has always defined her. I bring this up because, while we've obviously seen before that Francis is his confidant and knows and encourages her son's brutality, dancing in giddyness when she hears about the Falcones being killed by him, it's a brutal contrast to her telling Sofia here that yes, she knows full well about the worst thing he had done up until the opening of this episode, she knows he burned alive a mother hugging her son, and she couldn't be prouder. Even now, she is the ultimate force in Oswald's life, the only authority he answers to and his guiding motivation, even as we learn now she was his greatest victim.
Francis burns with such eternal undying spite and hatred, the force that turned her boy from simple self-loathing self-preservation into city-conquering ambition, and she burns so strongly she trounces The Hangman in a verbal boxing match and cracks the façade that will be later shattered in the episode. Francis is tragic and sympathetic and loving only because she is interrupted with bouts of crushing despair and guilt and delude love brought on by her illness literally forcing these feelings on her, because otherwise she would be as good as, if not better, han her son at this. At steamrolling everything and everyone fueled by hatred, and hers still burns strongly at everything and everyone, except the person who most ruined her life.
Dr.Rush subtly but very clearly suggesting having Gia killed, lmao. I think it's good to have just one total pathosless bastard in the proceedings, when every other character has so much tragedy and history and whatnot. He has 100% wholly sublimated his guilt over the Arkham atrocities he was a part of into a drive to help his victim Sofia no matter what, and not actually improve as a person or rectify the problems he was a part of, thus becoming someone who can justify any atrocity because he's doing it in the name of someone else he must avenge and do right by.
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A thing that @davidmann95 brought up for last episode that became extremely relevant for this one
this ep also illuminated Oz's true power for me: he understands more than anyone else the power of This Fuckin' Guy, and thus builds all his rhetorical swerves and master plans around painting someone else as that
he can't make people stop hating him, but he can make anyone the person you hate slightly more
His power is hate and spite, as is true of the Penguin, as he gets from his Ma. The one that fuels him, and the one he can stoke on others. Every reason they gave on that meeting as to why he's the most hated crook in town was twisted into an additional reason why they should hate the people he's up against more. Here, Oz tries to turn Sal against Sofia, and it doesn't work, so he buys a distraction by reinforcing his status as That Fucking Guy. Sal has him dead to rights in every sense, and Oz stokes up so much hatred that the guy actually fucking dies from it.
Hey Vic, don't you hate that your parents died over nothing? Don't you hate that the Falcones get everything and you get nothing? Hey Sofia, don't you hate how these old bastards treat you? Don't you hate how our friend Alberto got killed? Hey Crown Point, don't you hate how you've been abandoned? Don't you wish there was someone helping you get back at the bastards that left you to rot? Hey Gangs of Gotham, don't you hate those bastards up town wiping you out even more than you hate me and each other? Hey Sal Maroni, don't you hate ME? Let me remind you of why you fucking hate me so badly your heart's gonna explode.
Brought this gentleman Salvatore down to his level so hard that he made classic Sal Maroni, the seething vengeful bastard who will burn your face off if it's the last thing he does, into existence.
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CLANCY BROWN: Oz is an American. He wants to win, and he wants to win on his terms, and he wants everybody to know it. That's why he throws the body out, you know. He throws the body out, for crying out loud. That couldn't have been easy. He throws the body out where everyone can see it.
LAUREN LEFRANC: No one is seeing this happen, so that then you sense Oz's delusion, right? He's talking to a dead man, and then he shoots him anyway, because he wanted to shoot him because he wanted to. And so, he got what he wanted, and he made it happen, even though it's not actually the way he imagined it. And then, what Clancy's saying, he throws the body out and then takes credit, like, "I killed him. I did it." And from that point on, in Oz's mind, he killed Sal Maroni. There is no other alternative. No one else is going to know that Sal died on his own. This is part of Oz's constructed narrative. - The Penguin Podcast Episode 7
I love how Clancy Brown put it, that Sal was all heart and passion and rage and so eventually it just had to go out. Perfect death. He is not the guy who can burn himself forever in the name of vengeance, he is not Oz and Sofia, he is not a Batman villain - he's the guy who dies to make way for them, and here, he dies denying Oz the satisfaction of taking him out. C'mahn man, twice already the big bad bosses of Gotham die before he gets to actually kill them, first Carmine and now this. Popping punk scrub bitch Alberto just wasn't that satisfying, and Sofia's just making everything too weird. With the Falcones gone, this was the guy he wanted to genuinely brag about killing to his mom, and now it's just gonna be another lie and delusion that Oz spins into reality.
Also further contextualizes why Oz is gonna be the guy who picks fights with Mr Vengeance. All he wants is to prove himself, but all his biggest opponents so far died on him before he could get satisfaction. He's happy to profit from the ring and from taking credit for killing Sal, and he may even rewrite his memory so as to delusionally believe he actually killed Sal, but the truth of that moment was personally wildly unsatisfying. He needs to be the big shot who clawed his way up there, he needs to be alone at the top, and he needs to push everyone out of the nest, like he did his brothers.
The station coin he pulls out of the car attached to his lie that the city took his brothers, and the ring he pulls out of the same car with the lie that he killed Sal Maroni
Just once in his life, he wants to say "I got you, I FUCKING GOT YOU!" to a big bastard who thinks they're better than him and died by his hand, and to actually mean it and have it stick, no asterisks attached.
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Rules that even before we can fully understand how deep in Batman Villain territory she is, Sofia is dressing up in wild hair and black furs and heavy eye to visit Gia. It is still visibly her covering up and dressing more conservatively than her past outfits, but she is so inseparable from her trademarks at this point that she goes to a children's mental hospital looking like she's hunting down the Baudelaire orphans for their inheritance money.
Sofia fully replicating the same attitude that was weaponized against her to cover up her mother's murder, and then when she sees the scars and realizes the degree to which she's created another Sofia, pivots instead to embracing her while telling her as openly as possible that yeah, I killed your mom and dad, you should be happy I did, they were scum, please be happy I murdered your family, you're free now like me. She won't accept becoming the same monster that they were to her, so instead she opts to become a different one.
As much as Eve was wrong about Sofia being the Hangman, she was right that she thinks in black and white: her worldview is based around compartmentalizing everyone between Victims and Victimizers. She very much placed Eve in the latter category at first and everything she was doing in that conversation at first, prodding her about performing for men, about her relationship with Oz, about her shallow lies to men, about being good at saying what people want to hear, seeing her as an extension of Oz, everything was to confirm and strengthen her already existing bias and intent to kill her, until The Hangman came and in part she realized that killing Eve would firmly make her a Victimizer.
Everyone she has killed up until this point? Victimizer. Alberto, who was very much complicit and aware of the fucked up shit Carmine did? Victim, because maybe he couldn't have known, he fought to keep her alive and get her out, she loved him, and he was killed by a Victimizer. The Crown Point followers of Oz she'll bomb later in the episode? Victimizers. Julian Rush? Victimizer, but he knows his place. Sal Maroni? Victimizer turned Victim. Oswald? Victim turned Victimizer a decade ago. Francis shook her up, but she can still justify doing horrific things to a mentally ill woman because she raised the monster who did all of this to her and is proud to have done so, ergo, Victimizer. But in Gia, her comic book view of morality shatters, because she's confronted with a Victim who is so because Sofia was her Victimizer and this is not fixable.
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And to her detriment, Sofia has enough of a conscience to be aware that she created another Sofia, and so she speedruns self-awareness and reverts to the old Sofia, which causes her to start dying on the spot under the weight of everything that has happened to her and she's become. And so it falls to Dr.Rush to actually do what he should have always done for her and save her, as well as put her back on tracks to do the most fucked up thing she has ever done, steering her back into the mindset she needs to survive this.
She wants two wildly contradictory things, she wants to be free from it all and she wants her eternal revenge on her nemesis and she will forsake the former in pursuit of the latter. Her most sincere desire is freedom and peace away from this fucked up world her dad created for her, but she will never make it if she stops, and the only way she will make it is if she buries the part of her father's legacy that is still actively around and ruining her life. All she wants is to be free and she never will be until she kills him, until she kills everything he embodies in her life, and in her quest to kill him, she will most likely throw it all away.
As @book--wyrm put it, "Oswald is pursuing his dreams, and Sofia is running away from a nightmare". Sofia dreams of Arkham, of the yellow wallpaper, of Magpie chanting Haaangman inside endless dark metal walls. She dreams of her mother's corpse, of being hanged and murdered in her place, of Alberto's murder, and everything that causes her to scratch and tear at herself until she wakes up. Oswald? He dreams of Fred Astaire tap dancing and shooting his back-up dancers, and to even think of anything else is unthinkable. Nothing else matters.
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But in spite of struggling with a conscience and an understanding of morality that Oz fundamentally lacks, I also like that Sofia is more imaginative in her cruelty than he is. She is sadistic to a careful, measured, elaborate extent Oz hasn't really learned to be yet. Even the burning of Nadia and Taj, as horrible and sadistic and premeditated as it is, was still rooted in self-preservation and a failsafe in case they backed out on the deal and petty revenge for stealing his shit and ruining his deal. But Sofia took the time to have Dr.Rush hypnotize Francis so they could learn the most thematically appropriate location to torture and kill the two and then engineered an outcome just to psychologically torture him before blowing him up, knowing he'd find a way to survive even that and setting this up just to flush him out of hiding.
For those keeping score at home, in this episode, Sofia Gigante attacked his sidekick with a crowbar, sicced her goons to beat him up and steal his shit, kidnapped his mom and had her sidekick, the Arkham doctor who begged to be her Harley Quinn, do hypnotic mental torture on her, baited Oz into a trap within a trap within a fake surrender and with an accompanying speech about how the old game is gone and she is playing new ones, bombed his Batcave and his loyal army, banked on him surviving that so she could send someone to pick him off as he escaped, and is now taking him and his mom to a showdown at a deeply and thematically important place for them, which is also a fucking theater by the way. I've been raving about her being the real Batman Villain of the show since Episode 03 but at this point, she is more Joker than the actual Joker in this saga. She's fully thrown herself into happily and merrily pulling a grand horrible caper on him and his entire life and everything he cares about with little practical consideration to her own criminal empire but extensive thought given into the panache and thematic meaning of what she's doing, it's amazing.
Fun thing to think about, whether Oz would have left Victor to die down there along with everyone else, or really just if he would have bothered to warn him before he bolted to the hole made just for him. We've already seen Oz quickly sell out one of Victor's friends out to die, someone who could have been Victor himself if he had gotten away. We've already seen in the burning of Taj and Nadia how monstrous Oz can be without Victor around. And now here we see how quickly and efficiently Oz can ditch all "the good people of Crown Point", the people who actively put themselves in danger to save him from Sal, to die at a moment's notice.
Credit to @book--wyrm for pointing how the bottom two rungs of the ladder he climbs are broken. The first two bodies he ever climbed over to get what he wants.
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And thus we see by their last scene together how Oswald and Francis's present relationship began. The moment he transformed into the amalgamate of everything she lost and needed in her life, when he needed to step and be everything that Jack and Benny and dad and Rex had to be for her, because it's just the two of them now and forever, Kids raised by financially struggling single mothers often very much have to pull double or triple duty and work to compensate for much of what a husband or uncle or support network are supposed to do (speaking from personal experience here), and so from an early age Oswald already had to transform into the character he'd play as an adult.
He has to be the replacement man of the house who leaves her to get shit done for her, and he has to be her sweet boy who tends to her emotional needs, and he has to be her big strong bull of a boy who survived and stuck around and now grounds her in reality so she won't lose herself, and he has to be the provider and caretaker that her husband failed to be, and he has to be her Rex Calabrese who won't take shit from anyone and make sure she gets what she asks for even if it's by illegal underhanded means, and it's too much. Following his first crime and his first victory, we thus get the first moment that Oz began to spin far too many plates to keep his life in one piece and avoid consequences for the shit he put himself and someone else in.
He broke her due to his need for her love, and she broke him due to her need for his love. He turned her selfish and cruel and broken like him, and she turned him into someone who would never, ever grow up and change past this. Oswald's maturity and Francis' hopes died with the two and now, as Oz said to Benny 2 back in Episode 3, "there is just this - survival".
So obviously the climax of the show / Oz's relationship with his mom is gonna happen in a theater club, of course. Of course it's the same place that he swore as a child his eternal mission to do right by her.
Though he lacks the money and the umbrella gadgets and bird armies and supervillain resources, they've managed to firmly establish what the Penguin has in extreme abundance, the superpowers in his soul that allowed him to make his way through the world and win.
Ozzie's failings are human failings, Ozzie's attitudes are human attitudes, everything done in the flashback, even the closing of the door, was fixable. But The Penguin is unmatched at getting away, with an almost preternatural ability to fuck people over to get ahead, to slip from a catastrophe and land right into another one. This is a guy who is, in his own way, every bit the absurd uncanny freak that any other version of Oswald Cobblepot has ever been, and if his lack of evening wear and verbosity makes him distinct from classically-flavored Penguins, everything that matters to the character is and always has been there.
This is a guy who is better than anyone at "the wiley schemes and the quick, last minute escapes, who always has a trap door, an unbrellachute, some other trick up his sleeve to thwart and evade his dark nemesis at the eleventh hour". This is a guy deep in unshakeable childish delusion and devotion to the hustle, who burns a bottomless black hole of ambition in his gut and who was born with cigarette ash for blood and a top hat instead of a heart. He may not have been born evil, but he was born ready. Ready to be the embodiment of Gotham's criminal element, to be a child's idea of a master criminal in much the same way Batman is a child's idea of crimefighter, born ready to do this shit forever and ever.
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rootspiral · 8 hours ago
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Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 5 part 2
(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])
(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2])
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I was so looking forward to brighten this particular scene, it's the darkest yet and it's such a beautiful one it's a pity to miss even one detail
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oh no lilia stop being so cute????
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have you ever seen jen with a bigger smile? and she's quiet as usual, it's almost like more than the ride she's enjoying how much fun her friends are having. especially lilia, those two have been forming a bond that is equal parts bickering and a growing respect
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I'm just glad alice had this moment of pure unadulterated joy before it came all crashing down
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agatha is very, very quiet. despite never letting herself feel anything freely, she takes a moment to close her eyes and enjoy the beauty of it all
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she looks back at rio, so sensual and confident
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how can kathryn hahn convey so much with so little time? her breath catches at her sight. and then worry and fear take hold and she gives the tiniest shake of her head, as if she's forbidding herself to entertain any kind of thought about rio. she looks away. the blood moon behind her spells disaster
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meanwhile billy is that kid who has the time of his life hanging out with the teachers during a field trip
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I want to personally thank aubrey plaza for every acting choice she made as rio, but ESPECIALLY for this witchy laugh
(I just brightened the salem seven witch vomiting bees and it's actually pretty impressive! but I don't want to trigger any insect haters around here) (I love insects though so please talk to me about spiders if you want)
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they couldn't get a good look at the cabin before rushing in and I couldn't either until now, do we know if it's something from Agatha's past? did she use to live there?
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I'm salty that alice had to die in these stupid clothes
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So. I think this trial is the most fucked up and humiliating yet. Billy knew nothing about jen except superficial facts, so he put her in a scenario that matched her work aesthetic, more of a personal insult than a wake up call (compare it with the broom lilia just made for her: roots and flowers, something that speaks about jen's work, beliefs and traditions.)
Alice's trial was entirely based on lorna, we know billy is a big fan so he ran with that concept creating something that really shook alice, and not in a good way. she was forced to sit in her dead mom's house and wear her clothes for god's sake. she took it as the Road wanting to teach her a lesson, when it was just a teenager with the grace and subtlety of a newborn puppy.
Now, agatha. billy doesn't know a thing about her because she's private to the point of paranoia. he has gathered that there's something in her past about a dead child and that's probably what makes her grumpy, so he... tried to make her talk to nicky. with a fuking oujia board. Despite having had his share of shock and trauma billy inevitably has a kid's point of view re: death, and even more so because he's functionally immortal. death is something that happens to other people, or far far away in the future. he thinks he's giving agatha much needed therapy, when he actually put a grown woman in child's clothes and made her relive her traumas for everyone to see.
btw I'm not in any way saying that the trials are bad writing. they are brilliant writing. they're just tragic and fucked up behind the funny exterior, just like agatha herself. sorry for the rant.
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I mean I wouldn't be opposed to that. we could put billy back in a closet for a little while and get down and dirty with it. and ooh there's a little leaf on rio's shirt, I hadn't noticed it!
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jen's retainer always SENDS me
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agatha's face when she realizes it's her trial
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agatha is irrevocably, eternally linked with death in all its forms
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looks like rio is playing along and setting the scene, but she's also doing something more subtle that only agatha understands: she's provoking her, and it's becoming more personal and hurtful. she's testing and punishing more than she used to. she is growing angrier.
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agatha wants to tell rio to fuck off but knows she deserves it. agatha is NOT happy to be in this trial for reasons that go beyond what everyone present (except rio) assumes, but she'll bite the inside of her cheeks until they bleed before she shows any of it
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the way he says it with a straight face too (again, NO PUN INTENDED. forgive me joe, I would never)
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oh great alice has only thirty minutes to live
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everyone looks worried and on their guard, rio has her whole knife out, playing along. agatha is STILL trying to look cool and casual, it's painful to watch. girl is panicking, hard
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meanwhile billy is always bringing a whole different energy, he's playing and having fun! think back to the second episode when they met lilia and then jen and alice for the first time. billy had no clue about the tension, the fear and hate between them and agatha. right now he's still more excited than scared. he's about to have a rude awakening.
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do not taunt the spirits, AGATHA.
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lmaooo. this motherfucker.
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another moment when billy sounds chillingly cruel. being jigsaw without realizing it
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I'm not pointing it out every time but whenever agatha does this with her arms she's really, really really nervous
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what does agatha do when she's scared or overwhelmed? she puts on a show. like clockwork. and rio has already guessed what's about to happen
I really want to continue this so there will be more later today, stay tuned!
go to episode 5 part 3
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imtrashraccoon · 3 months ago
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*cough* don’t imagine papyrus x reader please *cough*
Congrats on 200 btw! 🎈🎉📣
I ended up taking a few days off from these requests since I had run out of ideas but I'm back! Thank you! ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ
Don't imagine playing a few matches of your favourite online multiplayer game to wind down after work when you're matched with an interesting player. How he seems to have his microphone a bit too loud and how excited he is about mundane features in the game. How you can't help but cringe when he makes a joke that falls flat. How your other squadmates make a few snarky comments that he seems to ignore.
Don't imagine how he sounds a little unsure of himself when the match starts. How you feel a little bad since it's obvious that he's rather new to this game. How you finally turn on your own mic and give him a few suggestions. How you can practically hear the relief in his tone to hear a friendly voice.
Don't imagine hearing the utter surprise of your squadmates when he manages to take out half the enemy team on his own. How they compliment him and how ecstatic he sounds as he celebrates his accomplishment. How you feel so proud of him and how your squad wins thanks to his contributions.
Don't imagine sending him a friend request afterwards or how quick he is to accept. How you start playing together regularly and how his skill improves with each session. How you start to consider him as more than just a gaming buddy but a friend.
Don't imagine the day you ask if he'd like to try communicating outside of the game and how readily he agrees. How he sends you a friend request immediately after your gaming session ends. How you briefly wonder if this is a good idea before banishing that anxiety into the deepest corners of your mind.
Don't imagine messaging back and forth for hours on end. How on more than one occasion you end up laughing so hard that you can't breathe from something silly that he sent you. How you look forward to checking his timeline everyday just to see what he's up to. How you almost worry that your own life is boring by comparison.
Don't imagine the day you're carrying on a conversation with him when you suddenly realize that something's not right. How his punctuation and capitalization are non-existent. How he's frequently using abbreviations and typing in a much less formal way than he always does. How you quickly sus out that somebody has "borrowed" his phone and call them on it. How they fall silent for a suspicious amount of time before your friend abruptly calls you. How you can't help but laugh at his indignation as he explains that his brother stole his phone.
Don't imagine how you end up becoming friends with his brother too. How you both cook up a plan to surprise your friend. How you pretend that nothing is going on at all to his face and constantly lament that you live so far away.
Don't imagine making the journey across the country to meet your friend for the first time. How his brother picks you up from the airport and you have to force yourself to stay calm. Definitely don't imagine the shock and then pure unadulterated joy on his face when you arrive at their house. How he scoops you up and gives you a great big hug. How he nearly spins you around before apologizing for getting carried away. How you assure him that you really don't mind.
First, Previous, & Next Request
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xdaddysprincessxx · 7 months ago
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His Pretty Plaything
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Uncle Ezra x F reader
Warnings: p in v, unclecest (again not blood related!), uhh this took a soft/sweet turn lol so emotions, some angst, pussy slapping, light edging, fingering, not beta’d, lightly edited, all mistakes are mine
Wc: 2629
As the summer was coming to an end, you found yourself tremendously confused with a dash of desperation. It’s been a couple of weeks since your encounter with Uncle Ezra. You think about him and that quite often. Most times your hands are down your pants in a frantic rush to recreate even an ounce of the pure unadulterated ecstasy he made you feel. But it was never enough. Your own hands failed you as you wished for him to come swooping in to take advantage of you again. You craved his cock, his filthy words, the way he claimed you as his. You got a taste and now you wanted more.
Fortunately for you, your dad was planning his end of summer party that he always throws. And you already know who will be in attendance. A little plan hatched in your brain; you were going to seduce Uncle Ezra and get him to fuck you again. You picked out an extra skimpy bikini to wear with a cute light blue sleeveless cover up dress. Excited for the party but more importantly you were excited to be filled by Uncle Ezra again.
The sun had already set as you stomped up the stairs to your room. Tears threatened to fall as you grind your teeth together in frustration and hurt. He ignored you. He never once looked your way no matter what you did. How could he defile you and then just drop you like hot garbage?!
You close the door behind you as you dive face first on your bed, hugging your pillow to your face as you let yourself cry. Feeling so ugly, so unwanted. You knew it was wrong what he did but you liked it. At first, yea you didn’t want him touching you. Didn’t want his advances but the pleasure he bought you was so indescribably incredible. And now. Now he acts as if you don’t even exist. As if you aren’t even there! Fucking bastard!
You cried yourself to sleep that night. Waking up still in your bikini and coverup from yesterday. You felt so disgusted with yourself. Peeling off what little you had on, you grabbed a towel and went to the bathroom for a much needed hot shower.
The hot water felt so good on your skin. The suds running down your body to the drain as you stood under the water, letting it completely cleanse you. Literally and figuratively. In your mind you imagined every inch touched by him being washed away, down the drain, never to come back and soil your skin again.
You put on an old baggy tshirt and some black cotton shorts before heading downstairs to grab some breakfast. As you round the corner going into the kitchen you look up and see your dad and him sitting at the table. Both men stop talking and look up at you as you enter.
“Good morning sweetie, Uncle Ezra and I were just talking. He’s gonna come stay with us for a few months. He’s gonna take the guest room next to yours while his house is under renovations.”
You huffed, “Oh great. Another man who probably leaves his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and doesn’t clean up after himself. Joy.” You say dryly as you roll your eyes.
“Woah kiddo. That’s not very nice of you. Now I know damn well your daddy cleans up after himself as do I. No need to be a brat about this.”
“Whatever Ezra.” You say with venom in your voice as you grab a pop tart and walk back upstairs.
His eyes widen as his brows raise up in shock at your response.
“Eh don’t let her get to ya man. She’s just a little cranky in the mornings.”
A couple hours pass. . .
After seeing him in your kitchen and getting the lovely news that he’s gonna be staying with you for awhile really soured your whole day. You were laying in bed, scrolling Twitter when you came across a tweet that said ‘the best treatment for good girls’ with a video attached of a girl on her back getting face fucked by one guy and another fucking her pussy.
You bit your lip as you contemplated pressing play on the video.
‘Oh fuck it.’ You thought before hitting play.
The video itself was only nine seconds but it was more than enough to get you turned on. You exited out of Twitter and went to the internet browser hitting incognito mode and searched up your fave porn site.
Rolling on your back with your phone in one hand and the other softly squeezing a tit as you scrolled down the main page. You find a video of two women fucking each other. You decided to click on the video and start watching it.
Your can feel the tingles in your body as your pussy gets wetter. Pulling your shirt up, your tits fall out as you go to pinch your nipple.
You keep tugging and groping your tits before moving down to your cunt. You barely dip your finger in between your folds-
“What the hell is your problem girl?” Ezra demanded as he opened your door without knocking.
“Oh my god get out!” You shout as you jump up quickly removing your finger and trying to cover yourself.
It takes him a second to fully adjust to what he’s seeing before a smirk crosses his face. Reaching for the door behind him, he closes it before taking a couple steps closer to your bed. He places his hands on his hips as his smirk widens into a sinister smile.
“Ah now I get it. This why you were being a brat this morning kiddo? Huh? Poor little virgin got a taste of a real man and she needs more. Is that it baby? My pussy miss her daddy?”
“Oh fuck you Ezra! Me and my pussy do not miss you nor do we want you!”
That wiped the smile right off his face as he steps into your space, grabbing your face in his big hand, squishing your cheeks together.
“Don’t lie to me girl. You and I both know this cunt drools for me. You gone stop acting like a fucking brat or do I need to fuck it out of ya?”
As much as you want him to fuck you, the anger and betrayal from feeling unwanted at the party kept you from just saying yes. Your eyes start getting glassy as you swallow your spit ,
“Fuck. You.”
The sides of his mouth turn up into a smile as he lowers his face right in front of yours, “Oh kiddo. Acting like a brat is gonna get you punished. You don’t even have a clue what you’ve started.” He says in a low, gravelly voice. He turns his face slightly, nose touching your cheek as he slowly trails up to your temple.
An exaggerated moan comes from your phone and you both pause before looking down at the device.
You had completely forgot what you had been doing before you were interrupted.
“Now what’s this?”
Ezra is quicker than you to grab your phone and sees the video you were watching.
“This what you like kiddo? You get off watching pretty girls lick cunts?”
Shame and embarrassment heat up your face. You don’t know what to say,
“I - I It’s it-it’s not - wh- “ you stutter.
“Shh baby it’s okay.” He whispers as he leans forward, softly kissing your lips, “come here let Uncle Ezra help.”
He lets go of your face as he moves to sit behind you. Grabbing your hips, he pulls you in between his open legs, taking one of his legs and wrapping it over your leg and spreading you open.
“Hold the phone baby so we can watch together.”
You take the phone from him as he kisses the side of your neck. You can already feel his cock hard against your back.
“My hands don’t feel good Uncle Ezra. They don’t feel like yours.” You manage to get out in a whine.
“I know kiddo. I know.” His fingers interlock with yours as he pulls your hand up to his mouth. You watch as he puts two of your fingers in his mouth and sucks. Your mouth drops open as he stares deep into your eyes. Pulling your fingers from his mouth, he moves your hand towards your face as you take your freshly sucked fingers into your mouth, lips closing around the digits.
“There’s my good girl. I know you don’t wanna act like a brat. I know baby. Uncle Ezra’s gonna make his girl feel better.”
He pulls your fingers out of your mouth and places them on your covered mound. He uses his fingers to press yours into your clothed cunt and begin to rub circles right over where your clit is. You can’t help but throb from the friction it’s giving you.
“Watch the pretty girls baby. Watch them lick on each others pretty pussies.”
A soft moan is pulled from your throat as you follow his orders.
Ezra gets to work pulling your shorts down as you watch the porn playing on your phone. Throwing the shorts to the side, he pulls you back with him as he leans against your headboard. His legs wrap back around yours, holding you wide open. His fingers quickly making their way back to your pussy. Taking his time, dragging his thick digits from your entrance up to your little bundle of nerves and back again. You can’t help but buck your hips up, trying to get a little bit more. More touch, more friction, anything he’s willing to give.
The brush of his stubble on your neck, the feeling of his hot breath on your ear, he plunges two fingers in. You throw your head back in ecstasy as you finally get what you’ve been so desperate for. Ezra takes your ear lobe in between his teeth as he nibbles on it. Soft, sweet moans spilling from you as he massages your wet walls.
“Use those pretty fingers o’ yours baby. Rub on that sweet clit, make my pussy cum.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Your free hand quickly gets to work rubbing circles furiously on your bundle of nerves as he begins to finger fuck you harder.
You find yourself quickly on the edge, ready to spill over any second.
“U-un- uncle Ez- ‘mgonna cum”
Ezra pulls his fingers out as his other hand grabs your hand, holding it against your chest.
Using his free hand he slaps your pussy in rapid succession.
“No!!! What are you doing!?” You shout as you come back down from your almost high.
“Nuh uh baby you wanna act like a little brat I’m gonna treat you like a brat and brats don’t get to cum.”
You could feel your face heat up with anger and shame. You acted like that because of him. He lead you to this, to act like this.
“You’re my pretty little plaything baby. Mine. I control when this pussy cums. You wanna act like a bitch, I’m gonna treat you like one. You got that?”
Tears threaten to spill over as you bite your lip. Frustrated from not being able to cum, mad and upset from feeling rejected by him. You want to scream so bad.
“I hate you.” You manage to whisper. Scared to speak, knowing your voice would be shaky.
“You. . Ignored me. I- I tried so hard to get you to notice me. At the party,” you gulp in a deep breath, “You ruined me and threw me away.”
Ezra’s face falls. Eyes wide as he takes in your sad face as you reveal your truth. Your words are a sucker punch to his gut.
“Oh kiddo. No. No baby I noticed you. I always do. You made it so hard for me, all I wanted to do was take you, right there in front of everyone.”
With that, Ezra softy leaves a sweet kiss to your forehead before slowly trailing down to your nose.
“I’m so sorry I made you feel like that.”
His lips press a kiss to the top of your nose.
His lips just barely touching yours as you both look into each others eyes. It feels as though he is looking directly into your soul.
“You’re mine baby. Until I no longer walk this earth and even then, there will be no others ya hear me? Mine. And I’m yours honey. All yours. But we gotta keep this a secret. I know your smart kiddo, if someone found out about us your daddy would kill me. You don’t want that do you?”
You shake your head no ever so slightly. Tears now full on streaming down your face.
Ezra presses his lips on yours, seemingly taking your breath away with a soft, simple kiss.
He moves out from behind you, putting the forgotten phone down on your nightstand.
Pulling his own shorts down, his thick cock hitting his stomach. He lowers his body over yours as he takes both of your hands in one of his.
Lips finding yours again, your own tongue darting out to lick his lip, asking for permission to enter. He opened, allowing you inside. Eagerly you lick into his mouth as he tightens his lips around your tongue and sucks. A deep guttural moan pulled from the very depths of your body. Ezra takes his free hand to rub his cock through your folds before notching himself at your entrance and slowly pushing in.
The stretch making you moan more into his mouth as he continued to kiss you.
This was nothing like the first time he fucked you. Slow, deep strokes making you feel every inch of him. You grab onto the hand that’s holding your hands hostage, just trying to ground yourself. The immense pleasure making you feel as though your about to float away if you aren’t anchored to this earth. After each thrust in, Ezra grinds into you, bringing you back to your peak,
“Please don’t stop oh fuck pp- please!”
“Oh fuck I’m not baby I won’t stop. W- where do you want me kiddo? You want my cum in this tight little snatch honey? That what my little girl wants? Huh?” He starts thrusting into you faster.
Your eyes roll back as you moan like a bitch in heat.
“Yes! Yes Uncle Ezra oh fuck, please cum in me! Please!”
“There’s my good girl nngh oh oh fuck oh fuck”
Hearing his words and moans send you over the edge. Your cunt tightens around him as you cum making his thrusts stutter as he gets closer to his own finish.
The both of you stare deeply into each others eyes. Noses touching, chests heaving as you both come down from your high.
Ezra rolls off, laying down next you.
Holding his arm out to let you curl into his side.
He holds you close to him as he places a kiss on the top of your head,
“I really am sorry baby.”
Your so wore out, all you can do is wrap your arm around him and hold onto him as tight as you can as you squeeze your eyes shut.
No more words are exchanged, just the sound of your breathing as it starts to even out.
Drifting off to sleep you can’t help but wonder how you got here. The fact that this is your dads best friend. A guy you’ve always seen as an uncle. Who’s been a total creep since you’ve hit 18. Now here you are, craving him. Needing him. This isn’t gonna end well.
A/n: I just wanna apologize I know I suck at being consistent. It is what it is. Life’s been rough and I’ve been struggling with writing. But I hope you enjoy this, I love you! I love seeing everyone’s reactions! Please reblog, comment, send me asks, talk to me about my writing lol or about anything! I love to yap lol
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joshym · 1 year ago
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Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 1
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Paring: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader
Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.
You thought you were prepared for everything.
A new town, a new school, a new way of life,
but what you were not prepared for…
was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.
Word Count: 8.8k+
Warnings: (for this chapter) mentions of stress & anxiety, mentions of a broken home, mentions of an ill, disabled parent, mentions of an oxygen tank & medications, jake is an asshole, (if I missed anything, please let me know)
a/n: it's here! i can't begin to express how excited i am to share this with everyone. this story has been in the works for quite some time now, & it's been such a joy to write. i sincerely hope you all love it. please don't be afraid to let me know what you think. 🤍
also, huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor, & being my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for.
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As you walk up the stone steps of Angell Hall, you feel as though you’re walking into a book filled with ancient Greek Mythology. The pillars that resemble the Parthenon temple, the delicate stone work motifs that portray Athena's owl and Pegasus; you’ve truly never felt more at home than you do at this very moment as you take your first steps inside the building that houses the English Literature courses. The inside is rich with artwork personifying poetry and myth. The intricate neoclassical design of the ceilings, complete with gold leafing and imperial medallions. The most incredible building you’ve ever seen, and one of the many reasons you decided to make the transfer to the University of Michigan.
It’s been no easy feat to get here. In fact, it’s been damn near impossible. It’s by the skin of your teeth that you’re here today, walking the very halls of your dream school.
The road to get here has been hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. You’ve saved every last penny to afford the move here, while trying to take care of your mom and her declining health. It didn’t help that your dad decided it was all too much for him and left a year ago, leaving the two of you alone with hardly the means to afford even the bare necessities. With two full time jobs, online classes at some bullshit university, and tending to your mom’s every need for the last year, it’s a fucking miracle you’re standing here today. 
It’s only been a month since you received your acceptance letter in the mail. You worked your ass off the last two years maintaining a 4.0 gpa to be sure you’d be accepted. You’d applied back in January and waited six excruciating months to hear back, obsessively checking the mail at least three times a day. 
One day, you noticed a rather large, crumpled envelope stuffed in your tiny mailbox. It was wet from a rainstorm that had hit earlier that day, but you could still make out the sender information. 
The University of Michigan
515 East Jefferson St. 
1220 Student Activities Building
Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1316
You knew that the contents of this envelope would seal your fate for the next two years. You were hesitant at first to open, scared of rejection. You let it sit for a few hours before finally ripping it open as quickly as your fingers would allow.
You pulled out the sopping piece of cardstock, stamped with a golden “M” at the top left corner.
Congratulations, y/n! 
You’re in! We are pleased to inform you that you are admitted to the University of Michigan College of Literature, Science and the Arts Junior class entering fall of 2023.
Within two weeks of receiving the letter, you and your mom packed up what little you had and left the sleepy town of Cherry Tree, Oklahoma. 
Up until now, you’d lived in this tiny town your entire life. You’ve been so ready to leave, to find adventure elsewhere that would allow you to spread your wings. You’d been held back there for so long. You knew it was time, and as much as she could, your mother supported your choice to leave and she was eager herself to get away.
You managed to secure a low income apartment in Ann Arbor that has accommodations for those with disabilities. It’s a shithole. But it’s your shithole. 
You’re solely responsible for any and all bills as your mom isn’t fit to work. You’ve got enough saved up to last about a month, so one of your first priorities is to find a job that will sustain you. 
Right now, though, your current goal is to find your first class in this massive building. It’s intimidating. Everyone here is walking past you in a hurry to get where they need to go as you’re stuck, still trying to figure out where room 3182 is. There aren’t signs anywhere to help guide you through the utter maze that is Angell Hall. You haven’t the slightest clue of where to start.
You try asking a few people, only to be met with vague points in general directions, or people simply telling you ‘up stairs.’
Where are the damn stairs? 
You start trekking along in an attempt to find them, when you see a large wooden door that’s cracked open just enough to see, finally, a staircase. 
Some progress.
Making your way to the third floor, you assume you’ve finally found where your class will be when you look at a room number… and it says ‘2548.’ 
Dammit. 
You head back to the stairs to make your way up to the next floor, and to your relief, the class numbers all begin with a three. 
You head down the long, dimly lit hallway in frantic search for room 3182, to no avail. The hallway has so many twists and turns with no guidance for direction. There may as well be a scarecrow with arms pointing in all directions saying ‘this way!’
You’re stuck yet again, unsure of where to go. You assume everyone is in their respective classes as the hall is barren, so there’s not a soul to ask. With only two minutes until class begins, you’re nearing the point of giving up. 
Anything is better than waltzing into class late on your first day, no less your first day at a university where no one knows you. What a fantastic first impression to make.
Suddenly, a man comes barging down the hall towards you. He looks a bit unapproachable, wearing a large brimmed black hat on top of his shoulder length hair, sunglasses that mimic ones worn by John Lennon in the seventies and a matching all black ensemble of linen pants and a button up, with only the last few buttons actually secured. He jingles as he moves due to an obnoxious number of necklaces sitting on his bare chest.
You’re not sure you want to bother him but desperate times call for asking strange men for directions.
“Hi, excuse me. Could you tell me where room-”
Without even acknowledging your basic existence, he seems to be in a hurry as he slams into you, knocking your brown canvas bag off your shoulder and effectively dumping everything out of it. 
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he quickly turns the corner, not even bothering to help you pick up the mess he’s created.
“John Lennon wannabe motherfucker,” you mutter under your breath as you bend down to gather your belongings. 
You hear footsteps coming closer to you, thinking just maybe he's decided to come back and make amends.
“Sorry about him, girl.” 
You glance up just as she’s kneeling down, offering to help with your scattered books.
“Don’t pay him any mind. He thinks he walks on water,” she says as she helps you shove the last of them in your bag, now all disheveled and out of your perfect order. 
“God, thank you so much. Would you happen to know where room 3182 is? I haven’t the slightest clue where I’m going.” 
“Just keep going down the hall until you reach the bathroom, take a left and it’s the second room on the right,” she says, with a warm smile.
You thank her again and quickly head in that direction.
At last, you breathe a sigh of relief as you approach room 3182.
With a deep breath, you open the door to the massive lecture hall that appears more like an auditorium with its pitched floor.  
All eyes are on you, the room dead silent as the professor glares at you. 
“I’m so sorry I’m late, I had the worst time-”
“No matter. Just take your seat and do it quickly,” he cuts you off.
You scan the room in search of an empty seat as everyone continues to silently stare at you, eyes burning holes in your soul.
This is exactly what you wanted to avoid.
Finally you spot one on the far right corner of the room. Swiftly heading towards it, you make a horrid discovery.
Mr. John Lennon wannabe is in the seat right next to the empty one. 
Of fucking course.
Grudgingly, you take your seat next to him. He shifts his body slightly away from you as you situate yourself, letting out a long, dramatic sigh once you're settled.
You decide to try and humble him with your southern hospitality, asking his name with a kind smile, to which he only responds by cocking his head in your general direction and not bothering to answer you.
What an ass.
“Now that it seems we finally have everyone here, let’s get things started. Welcome to English 450, The Quest for King Arthur. My name is Dr. Movack and I will be your instructor throughout the semester.” 
You start pulling out all of your books on King Arthur, annoyed that some of them now have bent pages thanks to the mysterious man wearing all black sitting to your left.
“One of the requirements to be accepted in this class, aside from the prerequisite courses, is to have more than just the basic knowledge of Arthurian lore.” Dr. Movack continues, “Taking that into account, there is no need to waste time in starting from the beginning. However, I would like to take a moment to test your knowledge. Each person who answers correctly will receive a point towards extra credit.” 
Dr. Movack begins going around the room, asking everyone basic questions and facts about King Arthur when he finally gets to you.
“I would like you to tell me which text offers the earliest reference to Arthur.” 
With booming confidence, you answer, “I believe it’s around the 7th century when he is briefly mentioned in the poem titled Y Gododdin.”
The John Lennon look alike on your left lets out an obnoxiously loud chuckle while shaking his head.
“Dr. Movack, it’s a well known fact that Arthur isn’t specifically mentioned until Historia Brittonum in the 9th century. She’s clearly wrong,” he blurts out. 
You know your stuff when it comes to this lore. You’ve studied it for the better part of your life and you’ll be damned if you let this man who, for whatever reason has developed a vendetta against you, try to outwit you.
“No, you are wrong. You obviously haven’t read the poem or you’d know he’s named when referencing the bravery of Gwawrddur.”
He waves his palm in your face in an attempt to silence you, the gesture causing your lip to curl in frustration. “Tell her, Dr. Movack. Tell her she’s wrong and has no idea what she’s talking about.” He asserts.
Talking about you instead of to you is a great way to piss you off and he’s on the right path towards it. His refusal to even look at you has you nearly in flames with rage.
“What’s your name, miss?” Dr. Movack asks.
“Y/n,” you respond.
Your heart is thumping out of your chest as you await the professor's response.
“It seems there may be someone here who knows even more than you, Kiszka.” Lennon’s jaw nearly hits the desk beneath him. “Y/n is absolutely right. Y Gododdin does, in fact, mention Arthur. The introduction is so slight that it’s often missed, but scholars argue that this piece does indeed contain the first true reference.” 
Even through his obnoxious sunglasses, you can see the frustration painted on his face. Proving him wrong in front of the whole class serves him right. 
Poetic justice at its finest.
You laugh through your nose and give yourself a metaphorical pat on the back, anticipating more praise from Dr. Movack when he says “However, miss, you will not receive your point for being late to my class.”
Lennon cackles at this, of course, feeling he’s somehow won this educational battle.
He answers his question correctly, receiving his point and commendation from Dr. Movack. 
He sits back in his chair, arms crossed with a smug face, wearing a ‘kiss my ass’ grin on his lips.
You just roll your eyes and look the other direction, envisioning yourself ripping those ridiculous sunglasses off his face. 
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Something you’re not used to yet, and perhaps will never get used to, is the Detroit traffic. Stuck in your beat to hell ‘92 Firebird in bumper to bumper traffic, you’re at a near standstill as you’re desperate to get home after a long day of classes. What should only be a fifteen minute drive home has already lasted more than thirty, and you’ve hardly moved an inch.
You’re sitting in silence as you don’t even have the luxury of the radio to keep you company. You’re lucky enough that this car even runs with as much shit as it’s been through. A hand-me-down from a hand-me-down, losing parts and gusto after each set of hands it passes through. You figure you’ll be the last to drive it before it meets its timely end in the very near future.  
WIthout much else to preoccupy you at the moment, your mind is wandering with recollection of your first day at the school you’ve had your sights set on since your first comprehensible memory. Feeling like a fish out of water would be the most comfortable way to describe your day. It goes far beyond that. 
You know it’ll take some time to settle. But you’re afraid that time won’t fix the fact that you may not truly belong here. You’ve never really fit in anywhere, even in your tiny hometown that you’d lived in your whole life. You were never fully accepted there, so what makes you think you’d be accepted here? You’d always felt so isolated in Cherry Tree, too small of a town to feel such a way. Now, you have the intimidation of a rather large city to amplify your isolation.
Aside from the nightmare that was finding your first class and the man who made you late to it, your other classes went about as well as you could’ve hoped for. You’d still managed to get lost a fair amount, but on the brightside, you’d found the campus coffee shop so you had been able to stay there for a while this afternoon.
The man, who you can only refer to as Lennon given he so rudely refused to give you his first name, was also studying in the coffee shop today, much to your dismay. 
And the way he’d locked eyes with you for a brief moment before quickly looking away…
You were not sure why, but now, you can’t pry him from your ambulant mind. Something about him, aside from his insolent demeanor, is oddly enticing. He’s dark, almost mystifying. There are secrets in the air he breathes. Whether or not you want to know them, you can’t quite decide. Nonetheless, you’re intrigued.
Traffic finally begins to move at a steady pace, breaking your trance and causing your disoriented image of him to return to one filled with anger.  
Mystifying or not, he was an ass for absolutely no reason. You’ve made up your mind that you will never give him the time of day again. 
You pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex, your car sputtering its cry of exhaustion as you’ve put it to the ultimate test far too many times lately. 
“I need you to hang on just a little longer, old friend.” You say as you throw the gear shift in park. “Just a little longer, then we’ll lay your heaping metal bones to rest.” 
You trek up the stairs to your apartment, stopping at door 264. You smile as you look down to see “Don’t Knock Unless You Brought Wine” stitched on the doormat beneath your feet. Your mom insisted on it, and as ridiculous as you think it is, you’re grateful for the smile it’s brought to your tired face. 
You search through your disarranged canvas bag for your key, silently cursing the fact that it’s not in its designated spot.
Finally spotting the shining silver, you pull it out and twist it in the rusted bolt to open the door.
Your mom is sprawled out on the couch, her oxygen tank filling the quiet apartment with a subtle humming. The living room television is on some old sitcom she loves with the volume muted, as per usual for her.
You don’t want to wake her, as it’s imperative that she gets as much rest these days as she can. You keep as quiet as possible while heading to the kitchen to start dinner for the two of you.
You decide on something simple; bowtie pasta with alfredo and grilled chicken. 
Your mom always had a knack for all things culinary. Her skill remains unmatched, although it’s not as easy for her these days.
You sadly missed out on that trait from her. You’re lucky if you don’t burn the water. But, over the course of her illness becoming increasingly debilitating, you’ve taught yourself some easy and quick recipes to get by. 
You spoon a healthy amount of pasta on each of your plates, even garnishing them with a few basil leaves for a little aesthetic.
You pour yourself a much needed glass of merlot before taking your mom’s plate to her. 
You gently wake her by carefully nudging her hand. 
“Dinners ready, mom. I hope it’s okay.”
She slowly begins to stir awake, looking happy to see you as you sit next to her. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Thank you, sweetie.” You help her to sit up and get stabilized before handing her her plate. “How was your first day?” She tries not to wince as she takes her first bite. Her years of being a culinary expert have made her awfully picky when it comes to food, but she’s never once outwardly complained about your cooking. Although you can tell she’s less than impressed, she would never tell you that. She knows you’re trying your best and she’s so grateful for it, especially since your dad left.
“It was alright, I guess.” You take your first bite and instantly understand her initial aversion to it. Undercooked noodles and over cooked chicken. You’re glad it’s not the other way around this time.
“Just alright?” she asks.
You don’t have the heart to tell her how draining today truly was, so you just tell her that classes were a little stressful but that it really was a great day.
You switch the subject and talk about the beauty of the campus and how badly you wish she could see it. “Maybe someday,” she says.
You want nothing more than to get her out of this dingy apartment for a day and take her around, to show her the wonder of the city. It’s been incredibly difficult watching battle her illness. She seems to grow weaker with each passing day. Although she tries to conceal it from you, you know your mom, and you can see her deteriorate before your very eyes. It breaks your heart in a million pieces, but you still hold out  hope that she will get better someday. 
Hope is all you have.
Until then, you just try to enjoy each and every moment you share with her.
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You’re situated outside of room 3182 nearly thirty minutes early this morning, drinking your steaming coffee and reading House of Leaves that was assigned to you yesterday in your Classic Horror course. 
The real inescapable horror, however, would be sitting next to him again, so you’re here early to avoid the unnecessary cruelty you faced the other day. 
Taking advantage of your extra time, you allow yourself to become immersed in the daunting novel. 
You read of a man on a slow descent to insanity, discovering a manuscript that details a home that transforms on the inside, yet stays the same on the outside.
Unlit hallways that continue for ages, doors appearing where they hadn’t been before. An architectural conundrum, this house.
The words in the book appear in strange prints, some pages with them upside down, placed in strange patterns; some pages with no words at all.
The word “House” is always in the color blue, even on the cover. 
The novel both fascinates you and terrifies you all at once, having read it twice before. You’ve yet to make your own interpretations on this book as they seem to change with each read. A bit of a mindfuck, as it were.
Just as you’re diving head first into the maddening depths of Danielewski's story, you hear keys jingling followed by the door to the classroom opening. 
You’d been so lost in your book you hadn’t even noticed that most of the students had joined you in the hall, waiting for class to begin.
You’re the first to head inside, much to Dr. Movack’s shock. You take your seat in the front row near the podium, the furthest one away from where you assume Lennon will sit.
The rest of the class piles in, taking their respective seats and gearing up for class. Here comes Lennon, clad in all black once again– sunglasses and all. He walks right past you, humoring you by ignoring your presence. 
Good. Keep walking. 
As more students pile in, you notice one mindlessly walking towards you before he abruptly stops and eyes you in your seat. You simply smile and nod as he stands there with a curious look about him. 
He slowly walks away, leaving you a bit puzzled but you choose to ignore it.
The hands on the antique brass wall clock strike 10:00 am, and you notice Dr. Movack is still out in the hall speaking with someone. Of whom, you can’t quite tell.
You and the rest of the class wait patiently, when finally Dr. Movack walks in, but he’s not alone. He’s with the student who glared strangely at you just moments ago. 
The student is standing near the professor, as if he has something to say, when Dr. Movack clears his throat and begins speaking. 
“I feel I needn't say this, but it’s clear some of you aren’t aware of how things are done around here, so I will say it this once so that we all understand. Once you choose your seat on the first day of class, that becomes your designated seat for the remainder of the semester. It is disruptive to your fellow classmates to decide to take the seat they specifically chose as their throne for learning.”
Your chest tightens and your face becomes flush with unease. 
You know instantly that he’s talking about you. 
“So, I will end this here: if you are not sitting in the spot you chose on the first day of class, I suggest you move to said spot immediately so we can get started with our business.”
Shit.
You’re utterly humiliated as you slowly stand up, you being the only one to stand up and making it abundantly clear to everyone in class that you were the cause of this.
You take your things and move to the spot you so desperately wanted to avoid, right next to Lennon who is covering his mouth with his hand, giggling at your shame.
The student standing by Dr. Movack takes his rightful seat as you take yours.
The class you had been most excited for this semester is quickly turning out to be the one you wished you had never signed up for.
You made a terrible impression on the first day by being late, and now on the second day of this class, you’ve broken an unspoken rule that you had no previous knowledge of. All of that topped off with the man sitting next to you who has made his distaste for you rather clear… the only thought tormenting your mind is how badly you wish you could crawl in a hole and never have to show your face in this class ever again.
“I have an important announcement,” declares Dr. Movack as he takes post behind his podium. “Through the entirety of this course, you will be working on a semester-long project relating to the appropriation of Arthurian legend. This project is fairly at your liberty, meaning there are very few stipulations for you to follow.”
Okay, this is something you can handle. Something to sink your teeth into, something you know you’ll excel at. 
“This will not be a solo project, however.”
Oh no.
“There are exactly fifty students in this class, so you will be paired in twos for a total of twenty five projects.”
Please no.
“As far as who you will be assigned with, that is very simple. The person seated next to you is who you will work with for the remainder of the semester.”
With Lennon being the very last seat in your row, and you being directly next to him, this means…he will  be your partner. For the entire semester. 
You were cursed from the first day you stepped foot in this room and had to sit next to him. Fate would have it so things would not work in your favor, it appears. 
“This project is not to be taken lightly as it is worth sixty percent of your final grade. Everything in this class will lead up to it, so I suggest you take your readings very seriously.”
He will ruin this for you, no fucking doubt. 
He won’t even give you the grace of telling you his first name, and now you have to work on a huge project with him for four months? A project worth more than half of your grade? 
That hole you debated on crawling in is sounding better and better by the minute.
“Well, guess that makes us partners.” To your disbelief, Lennon speaks his first words to you in lieu of his typical 'at you' approach. “The nice thing is that it guarantees me a good grade.” 
“Is that your way of admitting I know more about this than you do, Kiszka?” you snark. He cocks an eyebrow above his black lenses as you dare to utter his last name.  
“Not quite.” He snorts a condescending chuckle, “I can tell you’re the type to work towards the best grade possible, hence, ensuring my success in the process. Shall I thank you now or later?”
Lennon’s got you there.
You take projects like these rather seriously, and this one will be no exception. As much as you’d love to set him up for failure, that would warrant your failure right along with him. 
It’s the perfect scenario for him and a living nightmare for you.
Lovely.
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You walk through the open doors of the lecture hall for your next class, spotting yet another familiar face amongst the students, only this one much more kind and welcoming. 
You recognize her as the kind soul who helped you the other day when your bag was senselessly knocked off your shoulder by your favorite Lennon impersonator. 
“Hey!” she says as she notices you, “Come sit next to me!”
You’re nearly taken away by her beauty as you sit beside her, finally able to get a better look at her this time.
Her glowing caramel skin, her eyes light and honest with a sepia tone, her dark brown curls that are unruly yet flawlessly styled, held perfectly on top of her head with the most beautiful satin scarf. 
“Thank you again for helping me the other day. You’re a saint for that.” You hang your book bag on the back of your chair, pulling out its contents for class. “You’ll never believe this, but that guy that slammed into me with no remorse, he’s in my class. The one that he made me so late for. And because of that, we’re partnered together for a semester-long project.” 
“Ah yes, Jake,” she says under a giggle, adjusting her dark green, slouchy sweater off her toned shoulder. “He’s something else, that’s for sure. He’s got a good heart but he covers it with that mysterious, dark facade that he thinks makes him look so cool.” 
Alas, Lennon does have a first name after all. Although, you prefer the nickname you’ve given him. 
“Well, Jake has made it rather clear that I am not his favorite person and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I’m not sure how we’ll manage to make it through this semester together with his shitty attitude.”
She hums under her breath, slowly shaking her head as if to say ‘just you wait.’
“My name’s Natalia. Where’d you fly in from?”
The way her name rolls off her tongue with her slight accent is nothing short of beautiful.
“Just a miniscule town in Oklahoma. Is it really that obvious that I’m not from here?” you answer in a hushed tone, half embarrassed to admit such a thing.
She grins as she sings a few words from the title track from the beloved Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, showcasing her stark white teeth that compliment her glowing, tanned skin perfectly.
“I hate to tell you Ms. Oklahoma, but you do kind of stick out like a sore thumb,” she quips. 
Having gone from a small, southern town to the outskirts of Detroit, you’re bound to look like an outsider until the culture shock wears off, much to your discontent. 
As much as you wish you could quickly adapt and easily blend in, it’s just not possible. Your face twinges as you remember your first day, specifically that one class you’d care to not mention any further. 
“Welcome, students, to Women in Literature. My name is Dr. Lacey and I’ll be your instructor through the duration of this course.” 
Class begins and you both submerge yourself in a study that’s particularly important to each of you.
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“I can’t call you Ms. Oklahoma forever, you know.” 
You and Natalia have the rest of the day free from classes, so you decided to walk with her to the Central Campus library to do some studying.
“I guess you’re right,” you say through a laugh. “My name is y/n.”
You walk across the large courtyard full of lush green grass, intricate steel benches and the most lovely hydrangeas colored a deep purple. 
The Michigan landscape is a far cry from anything you had ever seen in Oklahoma. Everything's so green and flourished, so full of life. Vibrant colors paint the scenery in the most beautiful vision. 
The weather is nearly perfect, with the temperatures never exceeding the mid seventies and the humidity far below the excruciating levels of the southern states. 
You’re in awe as you go day to day with the sheer beauty of the nature that surrounds you. 
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, your curiosity begins to take over your every thought. Jake Kiszka. Your semester-long partner. You need to know more about him, as much as you attempt to relinquish the desire.
You finally build up the courage to ask. “So, how do you know him?”
She looks at you upon your inquiry, squinting her eyes as she studies your face. “Who, Jake?” She says with a sinister grin about her. 
“Yes, Jake. What is it about him that he feels the need to treat people like they’re beneath him?”
“Ah, Sir Jacob,” she says. “He’s a bit of an enigma, I guess you could say. And yes, he is single.” She throws you a wink as you stare at her with utter disgust at her wisecrack.
“I do not care if he’s single,” you respond, causing her to snort a chuckle. 
“I’ve known the guy for years. We go all the way back to the golden days of our youth. He and his twin brother graduated high school a year before me, and their younger brother was a year below me.” A twin? There’s two of him? “I’ve known their family for the better part of my life. Good people, truly. I can’t begin to tell you how much they’ve helped my family and me.”
You’ve only just met him, but the words ‘good’ and ‘Jake’ don’t seem to belong in the same sentence. 
“Incidentally enough, his twin, Josh, and my brother, Malachi, have been partners since they graduated together. So, they’re kind of my family, too.” You walk up the steps to the library as she holds the large wooden door open for you.“I promise you, y/n. He’s not all bad. You’ve just seen what he projects to people he doesn’t know. Like I said, he thinks it makes him look cool.”
Your thoughts momentarily stop as you take your first steps into the library. You’re in shock. Though, you shouldn’t be. Every single building you’ve stepped foot into on this campus is absolutely immaculate, and the library is no exception.
It’s almost bewitching, with thousands of books lining the walls, reaching chandeliers that seem to hang from the clouds at their height. 
The alluring musty scent of aged novels fill your senses and take you back to a time long since forgotten. 
It’ll be far too tempting to spend all of your time here, getting lost in the pages that fill the space of grandeur.
You’ve been stuck in a near trance by the beauty surrounding you, you hadn’t even noticed that Natalia moved behind the circulation desk.
“It’s also his way of keeping his guard up. It’s rare that anyone gets to discover the true Jacob,” she says as she types away at the computer sitting at the desk.
“Um, Natalia?” You quietly ask. “Should you be back there?”
She laughs as she takes in your slightly terrified expression, “Well I would say so, ya know, since it’s the start of my shift.”
“You work here?” How could anyone be so lucky as to work in such an immaculate setting?
“It’s a pretty sweet gig. It’s not the most thrilling job but it’s nice and quiet. I get to spend my days among books, and the tuition break is a pretty nice incentive.” She secures her gold plated magnetic name badge to sweater, making her look rather official.
A job on campus would be utter perfection for you. You’ll be spending a vast majority of your time here anyways, and the tuition break would be a significant help in your situation. 
“Do you happen to know of any other jobs on campus that are hiring?” you ask, almost embarrassed, but you have a feeling you can trust her. “I’m kind of in a pinch to find something soon. Desperate, actually.”
She rests her chin between her index finger and thumb, seeming to ponder your question. “I know of a few,” she says. “One that just so happens to be in this very library, if you’re interested.” Her voice carries an almost sarcastic tone, she knows you’re interested. 
“Oh my god, are you serious? I would love to work here!” you say.
“I figured you would.” She rummages through the credenza and pulls out a sheet of paper entitled ‘Employment Application’ and sets it on the desk in front of you. 
“Go ahead and fill this out, and I’ll consider putting in a good word for you.” She winks at you as she hands you a pen. 
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Classes have become increasingly difficult. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but you find it hard to make time for much of anything outside of work and school. 
You started your new job at the library one week ago today. You pick up as many shifts as possible, mostly evenings and nights as your days are taken up with your classes. The library stays open until ten o’clock, so most nights you don’t get home until at least ten thirty. 
You set aside a little time after class everyday to run home and take care of your mom before work, making her dinner and being sure her nightly medications are set out before you head back to campus.
As busy as you are, you truly love your job and you’re immensely excited about your studies.
Your friendship with Natalia has bloomed beautifully over the last week. 
You’re so grateful for her. She has been your saving grace lately as this last week has been a bit treacherous. Her companionship has been a major help in your adjustment to this new way of life and your somewhat rigorous schedule.
Jake, on the other hand–well, things are about the same. You’ve set aside your pride a few times this week in an attempt to get along with him for the sake of your project, but he just brushed you off, every single time. 
This project is massive, and not having it started yet, or even having a single idea about what you’ll do with it, is giving you serious anxiety. 
The tension with him seems to grow by the day and you’re almost at the end of your rope with it. You don’t know how to fix it, but you need to figure out something soon so you can bury this unnecessary hatchet and focus on your shared assignment.
After running home to make dinner for your mom and tend to a few chores, you make it back to campus just in time to begin your shift.
Tonight, you’re in charge of contacting students with missing books and tacking on late fees to their accounts if necessary. 
You’re sitting at the computer, scrolling through the seemingly endless list of students and calling them to let them know of the fees they’ve accrued. 
Most of them are rather displeased with you upon your notice, some of them even giving you a small piece of their mind before abruptly hanging up on you. 
You make phone call after phone call, trekking through the list organized alphabetically by last name.
At last, you’ve made it to the end of the J’s. Your task for the evening was to make it halfway through the list, and you’re nearly there as you begin contacting students whose last names begin with K. 
Upon reading the name of the next student, your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach.
Kiszka, Jacob T (1): Le Morte d’Arthur (Norton Critical Edition) - Mallory
“You can’t be serious,” you mumble.
You debate on ‘accidentally’ skipping him, but you don’t want anything to jeopardize your brand new job.
You have to call him, and you’re not looking forward to it.
You suddenly hear the voice of your boss in the back of your mind, “It’s proper etiquette to always state your name when calling students, so be sure to introduce yourself with each call you make.” 
You quickly make up your mind that you will not mention your name during your call to him. The last thing you need is any more awkward air between you two.
You dial his number and wait, listening to the ominous ringing from the other end. 
Your eyes are pinched shut, your palms sticky with sweat as you secretly hope he doesn’t answer. 
Then, the ringing comes to a stop, “Hello?”
Shit. 
“Is this Jacob?” You use your best professional tone, hoping to disguise your voice as much as you can.
“This is he,” he responds, the statement ending in more of a question.
“Hi, Jacob. This is y/n with the Central Campus Library.”
Fuck.
You throw your head in your hand, mentally cursing yourself for letting your name slip through. Maybe he didn’t notice, you think to yourself.
There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment before you clear your throat and continue speaking.
“I’m calling about your overdue copy of Le Morte d’Arthur.”
“Y/n? Aren’t you in my class?” he asks.
So much for him not noticing. 
Ignoring his question, you proceed “It looks like you checked it out over the summer and it’s now twenty eight days overdue. Per policy, there has been a fee of seven dollars and fifty cents added to your account. If it is not returned by the thirty one day mark, you will receive anoth-” 
He patronizingly cuts you off before you can finish, “You’re in Movack’s class, huh? You sit right next to me.” 
With a sigh of frustration, you finish telling him that he must return it within three days or he’ll receive a much heftier fee.
“Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that,” he says before hanging up on you. His short tone has infuriated you beyond belief.
“Asshole,” you exclaim as you slam the phone down on the receiver causing a booming echo to erupt throughout the building. Luckily, the only other person here with you is Natalia. She’s been in the back sorting books while you’ve been dealing with overdue rentals.
Her boisterous laughter adds to the echoing bouncing off the walls. “I heard that,” she yells.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
You’re especially dreading Dr. Movacks class today after your phone call with Jake last night. You know for a fact that things will be even more tense with him today, and you’re just not in the mood to deal with it.
The exhaustion from everything piled on your plate has really begun to set in. Jake is the last thing you want to worry about. With each unpleasant interaction with him, your impatience grows to new levels.
With the support of your large cold brew in hand, you gather the nerve to walk into class. 
“So you work at the library, huh?” Jake says as you take your seat. 
“Yep,” you say in response. You pull out your phone and scroll mindlessly, giving him the hint that you’re less than interested in talking with him.
Class begins, and Dr. Movack starts his lecture on Arthurian timelines. You’re trying to pay close attention, but you find yourself becoming increasingly distracted– by Jake. 
He smells so good– a mix of sandalwood and vanilla. You’ve noticed it before, but for some reason it’s particularly exhilarating today. 
You chalk it up to delusion from fatigue and force yourself to pay attention to the lecture. 
But fuck if it isn’t hard has hell to ignore. 
You reach for your coffee, glancing Jake's way when you make yet another intrusive realization.
The way he grips his pen so tightly– the veins in his hand and forearm protrude in the most captivating way. 
Your eyes slowly follow a trail to his pecks, the curve of them seen just beneath his partially open, black—of course—button down. You watch them tense slightly with each word he writes. 
Dr. Movack ends the lecture and you suddenly realize you’ve been staring far too long.  
“Can I help you?”  
You’re instantly mortified at him catching your stare. Desperate to find any excuse, you happen to see his copy of Le Morte d’Arthur sitting underneath his notebook. Thank god. 
“Your book,” you point to the novel. “You need to return it.” 
He huffs a laugh as he takes his sunglasses off, leaving you stunned. This is the first time you’ve seen his face without their obstruction—and the first time you’ve ever seen his eyes. 
His eyes are kind and warm. They glow amber brown like a glass of whiskey on the rocks, intoxicating you just as the smooth drink would.
“I still have two days, right?”
You saw his lips move, but the sound that came from them was muffled in your head as you’re entirely mesmerized by his eyes.
“Right?” he asserts, breaking you from your trance.
You blink your eyes a few times to bring yourself back to earth as your brain registers what he had said.
“What? Y– yes, you still have two days,” you say. “You know it’s not a required reading until later on in the semester, right? Why do you need it right now?”
“Maybe I wanted to get a head start,” he says while tossing it in his black leather satchel. “Maybe it’s not any of your business.” He swiftly gets up and walks away, leaving you completely frustrated yet again. 
Your journey to your next class feels more like a rigorous trudge. You’re walking fast and hard, stomping your feet with each step as your anger towards Jake exudes through your body. 
Not only are you pissed at his stupid fucking attitude, you’re pissed that you find him so damn attractive. 
How could you possibly find someone like him appealing? Appealing to the eye, yes, but that’s where it stops. He’s a walking rain cloud hovering over you, stealing all the sunshine from your day in only a matter of a single class period. 
You’re impatiently counting the days until this class– until this project– is over and done with so you can move on and live a peaceful existence. 
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
It’s just about time to close the library and you could not be more ready. The last few days have been incredibly draining. With homework piling up in heaps, multiple tests to study for and working nearly every night, your stress is at an all time high. 
Thankfully, tomorrow is Saturday. This will be your first day off all week and you’re beyond ready for some much needed relaxation. You just need to get through these next five, excruciating minutes.
It’s been awfully quiet tonight and you’re grateful for it since you’re the only one working, but the lack of students has made the shift feel much longer than usual. 
You glance up at the clock that says it’s two minutes until ten. Given you haven’t seen any signs of a student in hours, you figure it would be okay to go ahead and lock up a few minutes early.
Just as you're about to twist the lock on the bolt, someone from the other end hastily turns the knob and pushes open the door with great force, causing you to stumble backwards.
Standing before you with their overdue book in hand, and to your utter disgust, is Jake. 
“We’re closed, Jake.”
He takes a few steps inside as he points behind you at the clock. “According to that, you’re still open for one more minute and I need to return my book.”
Of fucking course he waited until the literal last minute. 
You want nothing more than to turn him away and tell him he’s shit out of luck, but technically, he’s right. He’s entered the building before closing and according to policy, you have to serve him.
Son of a bitch. 
You bring your hand up to rub your forehead, trying to relieve some tension before you begin this process with him. “Follow me,” you say as you head back to the desk.
There’s an awkward silence lingering between you two as you sign into the computer, the only sound being his fingers tapping away at the desk as he impatiently waits for you.
“You could’ve just put it in the drop box outside, you know. They would’ve gotten it on Monday morning,” you tell him.
“Yeah, but then it would’ve been late. I’m not letting you all charge yet another absurd late fee,” he retorts.
“You should’ve turned it in on time, then.” 
You seem to have struck a nerve with him given the way his jaw clenched at your statement. You just can’t bring yourself to care– he’s the one forcing you to stay late when all you want to do is go home and go to bed. 
You go through the return process as quickly as you can. You finish, giving him his copy of the document that states he brought the book back. 
“Thanks,” he says. “Now I would like to check it back out, please.” 
Are you fucking kidding.
You know he’s doing this just to spite you.
You throw your hands down on the keyboard, “Seriously? Why can’t you just come back on Monday?” 
��Because I need it this weekend,” he claims.
“What could you possibly need it for?” Any semblance of patience you may have had left has officially walked out the door.
“Didn’t I tell you it was none of your business?” 
You take a deep breath and push it back out in a long sigh. You just don’t have it in you to argue anymore, so you accept defeat and begin checking it back out to him. 
You don’t say anything as you hand him a pen and the checkout slip for him to sign. He grabs the pen, looking at you with a slight guilt-ridden expression before giving his signature. 
“I’m working on a film with my brother, and I need the book to help him write the script.” This is the first time you’ve ever noted a hint of sincerity in his voice. The features of his face have softened– you can tell this is important to him. 
You flip delicately through the tattered and stained pages of the book. “I have my own copy of this out in my car,” you say. “I’ll just let you borrow mine. It’s in much better condition than this one, anyways.”
He agrees as you take the slip from under his fingers and crumple it, throwing it in the trash can under the desk. He waits a few minutes, letting you lock up. 
Then, he follows closely behind you to your car to retrieve the book.
You bend at the waist to dig for the book in the mess of your backseat. When you do so, you hear him take a deep inhale, and then blow it out in an exhale.
Is he annoyed with you having to dig? Because he can get the fuck over it. 
Just as you hear him clear his throat in impatience, you’ve found the book. You stand and hand him the book, annoyed with him and ready to leave. He thanks you, and you nod, bidding him a hasty ‘good night’… you’re just ready to get home. 
He begins to walk away, but stops and turns back around to face you.
Fuck. You’d been so close to being in the car, on your way home. Dammit.
“This film my brother’s doing,” he says. “Its focus surrounds the adultery of Arthur and Guinevere. He asked me to help him, and I was thinking…” You nod your head to let him know to keep going. “Well, if we both helped him, we could use it for our project.” 
Your interest is certainly piqued. “Yeah, that could work. I’ve written a few scripts and designed theoretical sets for a couple film electives before… so I could definitely do that.”
“He could use more help with all of that for sure, but what he really needs are actors, specifically ones to play Arthur and Guinevere. He’s been begging me to play Arthur and I agreed, but now he’s on my case about finding someone to play Guinevere and, well...” He gestures his arms towards you, signaling that he thinks you should play her. 
“Um…,” you take a minute to figure out how to politely turn him down as you feel a blush rise to your cheeks. You’d never admit it, but just the mere thought of interacting with him so intimately in those roles has your stomach doing weird flips. “Jake… I– I don’t know about that. I’m much better behind the camera, acting just isn’t really my thing.” 
“Just give it a try,” he insists. Why does he seem so adamant? Geez. “And if you hate it, you can do something else. But I think you’d be great at it, really.” He smiles at you, the first time you’ve seen a true, genuine smile from him.
Well, fuck.
You want to say no, you should say no. With how he’s treated you thus far, you don’t owe him anything. But– you can’t deny how it would help your project. And this project in Movack’s class… It's important to you. It would be fantastic to have it to back up your own project… 
And, aside from that, his smile is making it awfully hard to turn him down right now. 
If you were alone, you would have slapped your forehead at the utter chaos in your head, leading to your ultimate decision.
With a little hesitancy, you speak up, “I guess I could stop by. Feel out the role…”
His features seem to lift more at that. You pay it hardly any mind. 
And with his final reply, his velvet-toned voice has a brand new, excited, air to it. “It’ll be really amazing, I promise.” Then, he chuckles, almost to himself. “It’ll definitely be interesting,” he shakes his head, a grin still lifting his cheek. “But really… I think it’ll be great. I know my brother and you will get along. He’s also one hell of a director.” 
Minutes later, as you’re climbing into your driver's seat, you take a few minutes to sit in the silence of your car. 
Trying your damnedest to block out the obnoxious fluorescent lighting of the parking lot, you stare through your windshield into the black night sky. 
And when normally, the blanket of black would bring you a sense of peace and comfort, tonight it’s different. Tonight, you can’t help but feel a burgeoning sense of timidness as you fail to find answers to your new predicament in the night sky.
What in the hell had you just agreed to?
taglist:
@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @iffypanic @sinarainbows @klarxtr @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @gvfmelbourne @sinsofstardust @literal-dead-leaf @livkiszka @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface
a/n: let me know if you'd like to be tagged, or follow this link to be added. 🤍
love you all SO MUCH
Le Morte d’Arthur Masterlist
Masterlist
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thegreengnome · 1 year ago
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Can you please write a fic where a lord tries to win over Aemond’s betrothed because he thinks nobody would want someone like Aemond but she immediately rejects him and tells him that she owes Aemond which he overhears.
Fandom – House of the Dragon
Word Count - 626
Pairing – Aemond Targaryen X Reader
Warnings – Very oc Aemond Targaryen
NOTE- I hope this is okay! I'm sorry if Aemond is very occ but i do think given the chance of 'love' he would act very different then we have previous seen from him.
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Aemond is a Targaryen prince, a member of the royal family, and a dragon rider. He knew he was better than most in this room yet he could not help but twitch in agitation at the sight Infront of him.
Y/N L/N glided beautifully around the grand hall. Her hair floated after her in an almost halo effect. She truly looked ethereal. The man Infront of her on the other hand looked like he could be Vhagar's next meal.
Aemond's betrothed had only been at court for two moons but Aemond already knew she was his, and his alone.
During their first meeting his lady did not flinch nor gasp at the sight of his face as most ladies of the court had done. No, she had curtsied and smiled prettily up at him. Earnest in her chance to get to know her future husband.
He often found her waiting for him in the great library. The maester acting as a chaperone to the unmarried pair. Y/N would bring her recommendations to him expressing her interest in her latest find while he quietly observed her.
The way her fingers would follow along with the words, gently touching the pages so not to damage them. Her mouth quirking ever so slightly at an amusing or befuddling line, turning the page towards him to share in her merriment.
He had truly never felt so content before. His entire life had been built around duty and honour and this marriage was just another part of his duty. At least at first. He had known what it felt to be feared, loathed, and even hated but never loved. Perhaps he should feel love from his family – his mother at least but he knew all she felt for him was guilt. Guilt at the loss of his eye, at the lack of a loving father. He was the result of duty, much like he assumed his own children would be.
But with Y/N he felt seen. Nothing scandalous had happened between the two. Every interaction perfectly innocent.
“I’m surprised brother” the strong scent of ale and wine hit him as his older brother Aegon leaned his head down “if my women danced with another then that person that dared touch her would no longer have hands”
Aegon rarely said anything of interest to Aemond. He preferred to pretend his brother was not around, it was easier than dealing with him. But for once in his life Aegon made a point.
Ignoring the satisfied smirk on his brother’s face Aemond excused himself from the table. Approaching the dancing pair, the conversation between them became clear.
“I could give you everything he cannot” The man was lucky they were in polite company, or Infront of his mother.
Y/N abruptly stopped her movement. Her partner stumbling awkwardly to keep up. Muttering apologises to the remaining couples.
Removing herself from the embrace, Y/N moves back a polite smile on her lips. “I very much doubt that my lord” curtsying slightly Y/N leaves the startled man behind as he splutters in indignation.
Aemond had never felt like this before. This pure unadulterated joy. He started the man down as he passes. Making his way to his betrothed who had found a nearby servant no doubt to notify the royal family of her departure.
“My lady” said lady spun quickly, a hand clutched to her chest.
“My prince. You startled me” Giving the lady an apologetic smile he takes her hand in his own. Bringing it up to his lips, he gives it a quick kiss amusing himself with the blush spreading across her face.
“Would you like to dance?”
The smile he was given in response would remain in his head for some time “Of course my prince”
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hocuspocusbabyy · 6 months ago
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Together: Eloise x Cressida. 🦢🕊️
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Warnings: None? Just mad fluff?
Description: Cressida and Eloise share a private moment at home.
Paring: Eloise Bridgerton x Cressida Cowper
"Sweetheart?" Eloise called as she ascended the stairwell. Her shoes removed and in hand, the navy silk of her skirts creased and displaced beneath her loose corset. "Cressida?" The brunette tried again gracing her hand along the bannister at the bottom of the stairs.
Cressida's house was always so quiet compared to her own, there were no siblings, nieces, nephews causing fuss or throwing tantrums, no annoying cheery music musing from within the drawing room nor her sister's bashful interpretation of said music ; just pure unadulterated peace.
Edging further down the familiar hall Eloise entered the master bedroom, classical music faded towards her from the en-suite bathroom; smirking slightly she removed her shirt placing it carelessly on the bed aside a pile of another's previously discarded clothes.
Her bare feet graced the bathroom tile as the sight of the blonde came into view, arms spread to either side of the bathtub, hair tied on top of her head and water just meeting her collar bone. Eloise stared silently for longer than she'd like to admit, longer than 5 years of dating would suggest; but sometimes she found it hard to believe her own luck.
"Are you just going to stand there and watch me all night?" The other woman rasped, eyes still closed as she faced away from the brunette, there was no way for her to have known that Eloise was there other than blind presence.
Smiling Eloise bent beside the tub, stroking Cressida's hair. "How was your day?"
"Tedious, not as remotely interesting as my morning with you" she mused, shifting slightly to press her face against the palm of Eloise's hand.
"I see" the brunette murmured back as Cressida kissed her hand. Following across the lines of her cheek with the backs of her fingers, the bone smooth, sharp and sturdy beneath her touch.
"How's your mother?"
"As boastful as ever, ranting on and on about the impending arrival of Colin and Penelope’s third child.”
“I was sorry to have missed them.” Cressida mused basking in the joy of her lover's nose grazing against her own. A hand reaching round to support the other woman’s head, teasing gently at the hair at the back of her neck.
“They understood, you had work. Mother did however send me away with some of those apple tarts you love.” the brunette replied idly, pacing her hand down Cressida's arm in a soothing manner. Her mouth finds purchase upon her flesh, not moving yet, merely speaking against her. Breathing in the familiar scent of gardenia, which always did wonders to sooth her heart after a long day.
"Ah and you wonder why she is my favourite Bridgerton" Eloise rolled her eyes and pinched the other woman’s arm "Ouch stop that you beast" Cressida moaned withdrawing her arm into the water. Ripples of soap foaming around her, Eloise refusing to allow the space, her lips now pressed a path of kisses from temple to the corner of her mouth.
"Enough of that ''Eloise ordered resting on her heels and drawing Cressida to turn towards her, "I seem to recall you telling me I was your favourite Bridgerton" pouting slightly as Cressida sat sideways within the bath to face her lover.
"You're my favourite person, there's a difference" Eloise smiled slightly as Cressida's wet hand touched her cheek, "now are you getting in or are you going to just sit there sulking?"
Eloise scoffed, rising from the floor to remove her clothing, familiar wet hands raising to idly untie her corset, "I don't sulk" she argued before climbing into the bath beside Cressida. Resting against the blondes chest as they hummed along to the music that for a time had been forgotten, Eloise became at ease. Cressida's finger tangled within her hair and the heat of the water consumed her body.
"You know I don't have to be a Bridgerton" The brunette whispered, sinking further into the water in fear of her own words, wanting nothing more than to forget them the moment they left her mouth. However the blonde wouldn't allow it as the grip on her waist tightened and raised Eloise from the water and onto her chest.
"But I want to be," the blonde whispered, pressing her face against the other woman’s neck "so that is what we will be together, do you understand?"
"Bridgertons?" Eloise quizzed slightly as Cressida's lips feathered against the shell of her ear.
"I think Mrs Cressida Bridgerton, has quite a ring to it; don't you?"
Eloise turned to face Cressida and smiled brightly "I think it sounds perfect" kissing Cressida gently, their tongues seeking refuge together. The most precious movement and expression of their affection for one another. Eloise could no longer count how many times they had done that, nor predict how many times they would. Though neither of them could imagine a moment where they’d stop.
Cressida would never grow tired of having Eloise so close. Each freckle, indentation and expression etched into her face perfectly transparent as Cressida kissed her chin. The small groove of a scar, aged and delicious beneath her lips.
Eloise meticulously worked at mapping the palms of Cressida’s hands as the blonde menstruations continued across her neck.
“I love you.” The brunette whispered gently against the flesh, her tongue sticking out to swipe at the skin between Cressida’s ring and index finger. Her lips finally settled to suck at the place a ring would soon be placed.
They may not be married in the eyes of the church, accepted by the ton nor openly within society. However they’d wear the rings as a commitment to one another, just as any man and woman would. They’d know, their chosen family would know and they’d be together.
Cressida smiled gently, it wasn’t often Eloise uttered such things even in private moments between them. The brunette had voiced on many occasions that she found the sentiment tedious. How could such words ever hold meaning if people insisted on using them as frequently as possible? The blonde however knew, there was no moment of her day, or plaques in memory which Cressida Cowper had ever felt anything less than enamoured, consumed, seen and beloved by Miss Eloise Bridgerton.
“I cannot wait to be your wife.” Cressida grinned, her hold suddenly tightened as if to savour the moment a second longer.
The blondes hand soon reached to guide her future wife from the the increasingly cold bath water, each taking turns drying the other in admiration as their content smiles continued to grow; they failed to find an issue in that moment as they fell asleep in each other's arms with the peaceful reminder that one day they would be Bridgertons together.
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therealdisneyfan2319 · 2 years ago
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I Know So | Wanda Maximoff
Summary: Pregnancy is a dream come true for a woman who’s lost her children twice...or is it?
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Male Reader
Warnings: Pregnancy, miscarriage, blood, hospitals, medical procedures
Word Count: 2.5K
Masterlist
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Joy.  Pure unadulterated joy.  That’s the first thing you felt when you opened the small bag Wanda left on the kitchen table for you.  
“Really?” you asked as you cradled the tiny yellow booties in your hands.
“Mmhmm,” Wanda nodded, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.  She yelped as you picked her up and spun her around.
“You’re pregnant!” The feeling was indescribable.  After all the months of trying, all the hoping  and praying and negative tests, Wanda was getting her boys back.  Never again would she dream about traveling back into the multiverse to find them. They finally existed in your world.  
******
You were the one who found her hiding out in that cave in the mountains of Sokovia.  She convinced herself she was a burden to society, a being undeserving of love and affection.  It was the punishment she deserved for all the pain she caused.  No matter how many times she told you that, you refused to listen.  You loved Wanda with all your heart.  She deserved the world and so much more.  There’s nothing you wouldn’t do to make her happy.
She had told you all about them.  How they miraculously grew up in the blink of an eye in Westview.  How Billy was sweet and sensitive, his mother’s child through and through.  How Tommy was daring and adventurous, reminding her so much of her brother.  Losing them almost destroyed her.  You held her as she recounted her descent into the Darkhold.  The countless lives she tore apart as she scrambled to find her boys.  She never forgot the way they looked at her as they begged for their lives.  It broke her.  
When you first talked about children, Wanda was apprehensive.  Motherhood was something she craved desperately, but feelings of inadequacy and doubt plagued her.  Did she even deserve the chance to be a mother again?  She didn’t seem to think so.  What if something happened to them?  She’d lost them twice, she couldn’t lose them again.
“Wanda, you’re not going to lose them again.  Every other you has her boys, right?  It’s your turn to be happy.” She smiled as you thumbed away the tear rolling down her cheek.
“You think so?” she sniffled.
“I know so.”
******
“Okay, that one is definitely Tommy.  That’s his nose.”  Wanda mumbled as she shoved the other half of the jelly donut into her mouth.
“Wanda, they’re both half an inch long. They look like beans.  How on earth can you tell which one is which?”
“This isn’t my first time being pregnant with them, Y/N.  I know my boys.  Plus, look at the other one.  Billy always held his hands like that when he was napping.”
“That’s a strange sentence, but given the circumstance I’ll allow it,” you chuckled as you gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“Are you gonna eat that?”  Wanda didn’t even wait for your response as she snatched your donut out of the bag.
“Go ahead,” you sighed.  Wanda’s pregnancy cravings were keeping all the local bakeries in business and your wallet that much thinner.  It would be a long seven months before you could have a donut to yourself again.
“Mmm, so I think we should do a jungle theme for the nursery?”
“Jungle?  Why jungle?” “Sweetheart, it was 1970 the last time I had them.  Themed nurseries weren’t really a thing back then,” she explained, her mouth full of donut.
“I guess I could go along with that,” you shrugged.  “I was thinking blue because, y’know, they’re boys, but jungle works too.”
She shot you a knowing look.  “I can’t wait for you to meet them.  You’re going to be the perfect father.”
“You think so?” 
“I know so.”
******
The first trimester was horrible.  Morning sickness plagued Wanda all hours of the day.  She felt tired all the time.  You frequently found her passed out in odd places around the house, curled up with a pillow and blanket in the very spot where fatigue overtook her.  She complained about having to go up a bra size and feeling like she had to pee more.  Yet through the profound misery, you’d never seen her happier: she was glowing.  Each day crossed off on the calendar was another day closer to reuniting with her sons.
“What if I’m not good enough?” Wanda asked you one night as you snuggled in bed.  These sort of questions were a common recurrence: she was haunted by thoughts of inadequacy.  
“Of course you’ll be good enough, Wanda.  Don’t even think you won’t.”  You squeezed her close and planted a kiss on her head.
“But what if I mess up?”
“We’re gonna mess up.  All parents do.  But we’ll deal with it and we’ll grow and make sure that we do better the next time.”
Wanda seemed to shrink as she clung to you.  Clinginess had been another hallmark of her pregnancy.  She needed to be around you constantly, which you didn’t mind.  All Wanda wanted was to feel safe and protected.  You were her knight in shining armor, the one who vowed to keep her safe always.  Her stunning green eyes, full of fear and doubt, stared up at you as you wrapped your arm around hers.
“What if I hurt them?” she whispered.
“Wanda, you won’t.”
“But I could’ve, back-”
“No.  That wasn’t you, remember?  That was the Darkhold.  That was the Scarlet Witch.  That wasn’t you.  You’ll never hurt them.”  You gazed down at her with concern.  If only there was a way to take away all her doubts and insecurities.  Wanda was going to be a wonderful mother.  She was so kind, so caring, full of love, and fiercely protective.  Six months to go and she would already go to the ends of the multiverse and back for her sons.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
******
Fear.  Unspeakable fear.  That’s the first thing you felt when Wanda’s shrill scream woke you out of a deep sleep.  Strewn pillows and tangled blankets stalled your efforts to fly right out of bed.  As soon as you flipped the light on, your heart sank: blood.  Blood all over your crisp linen sheets.
Wanda was curled on the floor.  The pain dropped her to her knees.  She was screaming, strangled sobs wracking the room as she hugged herself tight.  
Phone.  Where was the phone?  Call someone, anyone.  Close the windows?  The neighbors might hear.  What if they hear?  What will they think?  Wanda.  Help Wanda.  Anyone, someone, please help.  There’s so much blood.  How do you clean blood?  Wanda.  The boys.  No.  Not the boys.  Not her boys.  Not your boys.
The next hour was a complete blur.  You frantically called 911 as Wanda sobbed on the bathroom floor.  You didn’t know what was going on.  All you could do was hold her hand and pray that everything would be okay as the paramedics raced into the bathroom.  
“She-she’s pregnant.  Twins.  We’re having twins.”  The words felt like they came from someone else's mouth.  
“How far along?”
“Three months.”  The paramedic looked at you pitifully.  She didn’t say anything.  She didn’t have to.  Her eyes told you everything you already knew.
“It’s okay, Wanda.  You’re going to be okay.  I’ll be right behind you.”  You kissed her hand as they loaded her into the ambulance.
“You think so?” she asked as she reached out to touch your cheek.
You gulped down the lump in your throat as you nodded.  “I know so.”
******
Neither of you really heard a word the doctor said.  It was all one sound.  Wanda’s eyes glazed over as she stared at the bright lights overhead.  All you could do was stare at the ring on her finger.  Her grip on your hand tightened as the doctor said the words the two of you had been dreading.
“Since her bleeding has been so heavy over the past few hours, I’m going to advise that we deal with this surgically.  Normally I’d suggest watching and waiting, but given the circumstances-”
“Okay,” Wanda whispered.
“Someone will be down to get you shortly, okay?”  The doctor turned to leave, but paused as he opened the door.  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
You watched the door slam shut as the doctor left your small room.  ‘Sorry for your loss.’  The words lingered in the air, permeating the uncomfortable silence that fell over the room.  You sighed, rubbing your thumb over the palm of Wanda’s hand.  Much to your surprise, she pulled away.
“Wands-”
“Don’t touch me.” 
Your heart shattered as she turned away from you.  The pain she was feeling, both physical and emotional, was unfathomable.  So you pulled away, crossing your arms as you sank back into the soft-backed chair.  It was all you could do to not throw it across the room.  As close as you were to a breakdown, the most important thing was holding it together for Wanda.  You weren’t losing your sons for a third time.  No one else in the entire universe had ever felt the earth-shattering pain she was experiencing in that sterile room.
“Do you want me to come with you?” you asked hesitantly.
“No.”  Her response was terse as she sniffled.  You couldn’t see her face, but you could almost picture the tears streaming down her face.
You stood and watched as someone came to wheel Wanda away.  Something about how she would be awake for the entire procedure and that you could be there with her if you wanted.
“She doesn’t want me there,” you mumbled.
“Miscarriages are hard.  One minute you’re planning what the nursery should look like and looking at strollers, the next minute it feels like your entire world is ending.  I’ve been there,” the nurse sighed, tenderly placing a hand on your shoulder.  “She’ll be okay, I know she will.  Just give her some time.” 
Hospitals scared you. You didn’t want to stay in that claustrophobic room without her.  So you left.  You had to get out of there.  Every moment you spent there was another gut wrenching reminder of what you’d lost.  As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, the world clouded over.  It was if this was a lucid dream gone wrong.  There was nothing you could do to make any of it better.  
There was a bench off to the side of the building.  It was quietly nestled under a willow tree in the memorial garden surrounded by flora and fauna of all types.  The garden was quiet, peaceful, and private.  You noticed all the memorial signs and stones that littered the dirt path to the bench: ‘In Loving Memory.’  ‘Always in Our Hearts.’  ‘We Love You.’  ‘With Love, Mommy and Daddy.’  Mommy and Daddy.  The titles that would remain unspoken in your house tore the breath from your lungs.  So right there, in the privacy of the memories of those loved and lost with the thought of your sons in the forefront of your mind, you finally let yourself break down.     
******
Three days later and Wanda still hadn’t spoken.  She shuttered herself away in the unfinished nursery.  Her waking hours were spent in the rocking chair staring into nothing.  You decided to give her space, but as the meals you left for her remained uneaten your worries increased tenfold.  Try as you might to talk to her, she never answered.  She didn’t even look at you as you spoke.  If you inserted yourself into her sightline, she simply looked the other way.  Your heart had never been so heavy.
As you came down to the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning on that fourth day, you were surprised to see an opened box on the table.  It was addressed to Wanda, a gift from the Bartons.  
Congratulations!  We’re so excited to meet your boys!  Love, Clint and Laura.
Strewn on the table were the tags of two stuffies: a hippo and a whale.  You swallowed the lump in your throat as you felt Clint and Laura’s excitement radiating from the card.  How you dreaded having to tell everyone about the loss.  But where were the toys?
Quietly, you crept towards the nursery.  Illuminated by the soft orange glow of the Noah’s ark night light, Wanda sat in the rocking chair, clutching the hippo and the whale to her chest.  The scene silently devastated you.  You heard small sniffles and whimpers as she squeezed the stuffies as tightly as she could.  Sighing, you walked over to the rocking footrest and sat in front of her.  Wanda averted her eyes from you.  Even in the dim glow of the room you could see the tears glistening from the corners of her eyes.
“I guess we should tell everyone,” she sniffled.  “No sense in them wasting their money anymore.”
“Wanda…”  Upon hearing her name, she instantly stood and walked over toward the window, stuffies still held close.  
“We should get rid of all of this, too.  No sense in keeping it around if…if there aren’t going…t-to be any…”  She couldn’t finish her sentence.  The emotions flooded her and suddenly there was no keeping them in anymore.  Her forehead rested against the window as she let out an anguished cry that only inhabits those who have lost their children.  It was absolutely bone-chilling, devastating you to the very depths of your core.  
You walked up behind her, gingerly wrapping your arms around her midsection as you attempted to hug her close.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed.
“Wanda, please let-”
“You said I’d be good enough!  You said I wouldn’t hurt them!  YOU SAID I WOULDN’T LOSE THEM AGAIN!  WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?!”  Balled fists pounded on your chest as she took out all of her frustrations on your body.  You simply stood there, taking every hit as it came.  “WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?”
“I didn’t know this would happen,” you whispered as her green eyes, full of frustration and sorrow, bore into your soul.  
“MY BOYS ARE GONE, Y/N.  THEY’RE DEAD!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT FEELS LIKE?”  She looked at the stuffies in her hands before throwing them to the ground.  “I just wanted to be a mom,” she whispered as they bounced off the carpet.
“And I just wanted to be a dad,” you choked out in a strangled whisper.  As Wanda suddenly looked up at you, a horrified expression on her face, you completely broke down.  “I wanted them, too.  I wanted them, too.”  
Your chest heaved as sobs wracked your body.  Burying your face in your hands, you felt a tiny pair of arms wrap themselves around your middle.  Wanda buried her head in the crook of your neck.  Her body shook as she cried into you.  You removed your hands from your face and wrapped them around her.  So there in that nursery, surrounded by reminders of what would never be, the two of you finally acknowledged the reality of such a terrible loss.   
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ladamedusoif · 1 year ago
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Ornaments (Din Djarin)
A Merry Fic-Mas - December 15
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Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.
Follow @ladameecrit for my writing updates!
Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu (can be read as part of the ‘Joy’ world)
Warnings: None; set after the end of S3 of The Mandalorian; we’re using Life Day and I don’t care what anyone thinks; reference to Star Wars alcohol; pure unadulterated fluff
Rating: Teen
Word count: 1100
Summary: It’s Din and Grogu’s first Life Day in their new home - but how do you even prepare for that, when you've never celebrated before?
Dividers by @dreamland-gallery
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Peli’s droids scurry in fear as soon as they feel Din’s heavy footprints hit the ground after he climbs out of the fighter, and Grogu squeals with delight. Freaked-out droids mean one thing: dad’s back.
He picks up his son and greets Peli. “I hope he was no trouble.”
She leans forward to pat Grogu’s head, throwing in a few ear scritches for good measure. “When has he ever been trouble? Sweet little thing like that, never been trouble to anyone, ain’t that right?”
Grogu coos in agreement as his father sighs. 
“Mind you, he’s all hepped up about Life Day. Never shut up about it the whole time. He’s really coming on with the vocabulary, it’s impressive.”
Din tilts his head and looks into the little boy’s enormous eyes. He had never really been the kind of person to celebrate Life Day - who would he have celebrated it with, for a start? - but Grogu had become a little obsessed with the holiday since learning about it at school. 
“I hope you’ve got something planned for him, Mando.”
Din shrugs. “I’ll pull something together. Got plenty of time.”
He makes a mental note to find out from Karga what exactly a Life Day celebration should look like.
***
As so often happens, life got in the way of Life Day. A few unexpected jobs, some repairs necessary around the house, and Din’s plans to mark the holiday disappeared into thin air. 
But there was still time, right? It was the eve of Life Day, Din finally had a spare day, and surely a quick trip to the market and stores in town would do the trick. Pick up a few nice things to eat, a few ornaments and decorations, maybe a gift for the little guy. Perfect. Then home, prepare, and rest.
Din was not prepared for the chaos that greeted them in the city. It felt like the entire population of Nevarro had descended and decided to engage in something that looked half-festival, half-riot: smiling and laughing in some quarters, and running around with stressed expressions while managing large piles of carefully-wrapped goods in others. 
Din sighs. So much for the quick trip to the city.
They meet Karga along the main thoroughfare, beaming at the citizens hurrying to and fro on the eve of the holiday, making sure to acknowledge as many as he can to remind them of the bond between the High Magistrate and the people he serves. He opens his arms widely and greets the clan of two warmly.
“Well! Here to soak up the atmosphere, are we? I’m guessing you’re all set at home, this being your first Life Day in the new place.” 
Grogu looks from his father to Karga and makes a mournful little coo. The magistrate raises an eyebrow and stares at the Mandalorian.
“Uh…it was a busy time. Anyway, I just came to get a few things to decorate the cabin and things to eat, and then we’ll get out of here.”
Karga tries not to look too concerned, for Grogu’s sake. He leans closer to Din. “You might get some food, if you try some of the quieter stalls, but by this stage there isn’t a single blue orb ornament left on the planet. I’ll send you a reminder next year, hmmm?”
Din pats Grogu’s head, unsure how he can break it to him that he won’t be decorating his house with the special ornaments like all the other children. He settles on food as a distraction, promising cookies and blue milk as they set off towards some of the less popular stores in the back streets of the city.
***
The cabin is quiet later that night as Din pads around in his long-sleeved undershirt and dark pants, putting away the food and treats purchased for the holiday. He managed to find a little toy bantha as a gift for his son, secreting it in his bag when Grogu got momentarily distracted by a nearby fried food stall. 
But he can’t shake the guilt. This Life Day thing is clearly a bigger deal than he realised, his little boy tried to convey that to him, and he just…forgot. Or assumed it didn’t require preparation. And now Grogu was going to be disappointed. 
“Dank farrik.” 
He pours a little glass of spotchka and takes the toy out of his satchel, placing it on their dining table before wrapping it in a length of red Life Day fabric he’d snagged at the last minute. 
Wrapping is not Din’s forte. As he surveys the lumpy little parcel and drains his glass, he swears to Maker that he’ll make it up to Grogu next Life day.
In his dreams, he hears his son laughing and chattering.
***
Din rises as usual and slides back the door to the main living area of the cabin, preparing to wake Grogu, when he is slapped in the face by - well, he’s not quite sure by what.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes and scratches his head as he looks at the strange, flat object that’s hanging down over the door to his bedroom. Circular. Lightweight.
“Is that…paper?”
He moves around the paper circle to enter the main room and realises that it has been haphazardly coloured blue, the crayon lines making up in enthusiasm what they lack in finesse. 
To his astonishment, there are more blue paper circles in the cabin: on the walls, on the floor, on the table, even inside the fresher. 
Din sits at the table. What was in that spotchka?
The door that leads to Grogu’s room slides open, its tiny occupant invisible as he enters the living area, giggling and cooing, before leaping to the main table where he points excitedly at the mysterious festive decor. 
His father puts two and two together when he spots the telltale bright blue crayon wax still stuck in his little boy’s nails. And on his robe. And, for some reason, on the back of his head.
“Wait - you made these? For us? When?”
Grogu babbles back in the language only he and his father can truly understand.
“Last night? They’re - what are they?” His heart melts when he realises. “They’re Life Day orbs, aren’t they?”
Grogu pulls himself up to his full height, proud as punch, before moving in for a hug. Din blinks hard, bursting with pride at the kindness and determination of this strange little boy.
He reaches down and hands Grogu the red-wrapped gift. “Happy Life Day, buddy.” 
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lulublack90 · 11 months ago
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Prompt 11 - Always
@wolfstarmicrofic January 11, word count 327
Opposite - Never
The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black of course had a motto. All the old families did. Toujours Pur. Sirius hated it. He thought it was dumb. He was sick of all the pureblood rubbish his and other old families spouted. Magic is magic. It doesn’t matter where it comes from. 
Remus was looking at some items that Sirius had brought with him from home that had the Black family crest on them. 
“Always pure what?” He asked, looking puzzled. 
“What do you mean?” Sirius answered, looking just as puzzled. 
“Always pure what? Orange juice? 100% pure cotton? Pure, unadulterated joy? Pure what?” Sirius couldn’t help snorting at Remus’s words.
“I just assumed it was about blood purity, you know, with how obsessed they are with it all.” Sirius shrugged, looking away from the crest, not wanting to be reminded of his parents at the minute. 
“Well, it doesn’t specify, so it’s open to interpretation. It can mean whatever you want it to mean.” Remus smiled at Sirius, hoping to take away some of the sadness Sirius’s family brought him. Sirius pondered on it for a while.
“Love.” He said, “Always pure love. Something neither of my parents is capable of.” He declared, stomping his foot. 
“That’s very—er, sweet of you, Sirius,” Remus said, trying to hide his grin by biting his lips. 
“Well, it was either that or always pure shagging, but I think love is better.” Sirius started explaining his reasoning.
“I knew that bad boy persona was all a front. You’re just a big marshmallow inside, aren’t you?” Remus joked at Sirius, prodding him gently in the ribs. 
“Oh, shut up, Moony. You love it.” Sirius screwed up his face in a way that Remus found very endearing.
“Ok, so, Always Pure Love,” Remus repeated. Sirius looked up at him, something shining deep in his eyes. 
“Always,” He said so quietly, Remus almost didn’t hear him. He nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, always.”  
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storiesbyjes2g · 10 months ago
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3.75 Happy, happy, joy, joy
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Sophia and I were only a few blocks from Dad's house, and it was only fitting that he be the first to hear our news. I wouldn't have gotten engaged if not for his guidance. We hurried there, half walking, half running, fueled by unbridled glee. Kooper didn't appreciate the accelerated pace, but Rosie was totally here for it and ran in front of us as if to lead the way. When we arrived at the house, I knocked once to alert him, announced myself so he wouldn't get up, and let myself in. That's how I dealt with the weirdness of going back home. I still had keys and a room. I felt that knocking and waiting to be let in was kind of pointless. But I didn't live there anymore, and my parents deserved privacy, I guess.
"Two days in a row?" he said. "Must be my lucky week."
"I asked Sophia to marry me!"
I think the shocked faces were my favorite part of sharing news this big. Seeing their eyes grow as large as saucers and mouths drop to the floor filled me with such joy. And the best part about it was I knew they felt it, too.
"You did it?? Wait...she said yes, right?"
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I laughed. "Of course she did!"
Dad's face turned red, like he was about to cry, but then he laughed. But it wasn't a laugh. It was more like...a holler? However you'd classify that utterance, it was most definitely pure, unadulterated joy.
"Congrats, son! Oh, I'm so happy! And proud! That's such great news! When did this happen?"
"Just now! We were at the marina. There's a house right across the street that I want. That's where I did it."
"What a great idea. So you're moving back, huh? It'll be nice to be neighbors. Say...where is she?"
"Oh, she's outside watching the dogs. She always watches them so carefully, like she's afraid they'll hurt each other or something."
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"That's just her motherly instincts. Speaking of...let's sit..."
He lowered himself onto the sofa, slowly and carefully. Watching him and my mother get older was a fascinating process. Before, when I saw an older sim, I always thought they'd been old for a while and were used to it. But going through it with my parents, and listening to them complain about new ailments and struggling to do common things, I realized we were all on the same journey. They, like me, were experiencing everything for the first time. They struggled to see themselves as old, just like I did. Maybe one day, when they're even older, they'll find acceptance and live with their new normal.
"At the risk of sounding like your mother, how do you feel about children? And what about Sophia?"
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"Heh, well, she wants children yesterday."
He chuckled. "Sounds about right."
"I'm actually looking forward to it, too."
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"Your mother will be thrilled to hear that, ha ha. I'm glad too. Having children is such a rewarding experience. I always wanted that for you."
"I think I always wanted kids. At least I always assumed they'd be in my future, despite not knowing how I'd actually have them."
"Well, you certainly have a worthy partner now. I wish you two all the best. I'm so very proud of you, Luca."
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"Thanks, Dad. I mean...thanks for all your advice and stuff. I don't think I would be here without it."
He shrugged.
"That's the job. When your children come, I'll have all new material for you."
"Ha! Good."
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exhaustedcatte · 1 year ago
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Name one hero who was happy.
James loved easily. James Potter knew love like he knew Magic, both omnipresent in his house. He loved with everything he had, bright and sharp. Love to him was mundane. It was in knowing exactly what teas Remus took throughout the day, knowing how to help Peter with his confidence, knowing how to make Sirius laugh after a rough time. It was the incorrigible simplicity of his actions that should drive you mad, but it really couldn’t. Love to him was easy.
Sirius loved fiercely. Sirius Black didn’t know love as well as he knew Magic. He was proficient at blocking his mind from invasive magic, but he knew naught about accepting a genuine compliment, despite all the (facetious) bragging he did. He loved severely, his love was magnanimous as it was dangerous. It was a target on your back, to belong to him. Love was a challenge he took on, a fuck you to everyone that told him love was not his to take, keep or nurture. His love was fierce.
Remus loved carefully. Remus Lupin knew love out of guilt. He knew, from the tender age of 5, that love could be guilt disguised to ease the pain – his or not, he wasn’t sure. He chose to love those that he knew wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of a wolf’s affection. He loved with intention, a strong kind. One would not expect it from someone whose M.O.M classification was XXXXX, but Remus bent rules like plastic, his love was a craft built by gentle hands. His love was careful.
Peter loved tentatively. Peter Pettigrew loved like he was afraid he’d be nothing without something to love. He loved out of fear.
As Marauders, they melded together perfectly. James found kith and kin to cocoon with his Love that was like a warm blanket. Sirius found the family he wanted to fight to be with, the Love he needed to protect. Remus found the friends he could be something more than just a secret to, the Love he had to experience. And Peter, of course, found the love he could worship (although, that can be put up for debate).
It was Love.
Unadulterated and pure, as it is amongst friends – blood of the covenant thicker than the water of the womb and all that.
It was exhilaration and joy; it was not distance that made the heart grow fonder, no. It’s the pain that beat the heart to tenderness. The Love that bleeds crimson when cleaved. The kind of Love that remains, in the depths of the person that refuses to acknowledge its existence. Because to love is to hurt.
It was Love, until it wasn’t.
You can’t.
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