#THIS IS MAGNIFICENT OKAY ?

[drama-glob]

Okay, this scene may be incredibly sad with Fizz having his panic attack and because of what happens next, but Ozzie getting stuck in the door is objectively funny. XD (It probably happens more times than he'd like to admit too ;) XD ).

Also:

Fizz used his full name! O_O Oh, that's definitely a sign that something is off/he's not happy. ;_; Also, it's sad too that Ozzie's trying to reach out for Fizz as his first instinct is to comfort him. ;_; ;_; ;_;

[rottenpumpkin13]

Inspired by this post

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[palaceoftears]

Love how Mahi came dressed as "Suleyman's spring rose" btw, maybe it actually makes sense that she never wore this iconic look again as she would never regain that position on Suleyman's heart

[huffle-dork]

NOBODY TOUCH ME I WILL NOT BE THINKING OR TALKING ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE IM GONNA BE SO ANNOYING ABOUT THIS LOOK AT MY SONS

[supermusicallee]

NO other show in existence understands sister dynamics better than fleabag. especially from the perspective of older sisters i believe. having the same character yell "...you're fine! you'll always be fine. you'll always be interesting, with your quirky cafe and your dead best friend. you just make me feel like i've failed," AND "the only person i'd run through an airport for is you" !!!!!!!!! it's insane and it's exactly how i feel

[redxluna]

"Of the several ways in which Nurbanu's career broke tradition, her burial in the tomb of Selim II had perhaps the greatest symbolic import. [...] By linking his mother with his father in this manner, Murad emphasized his mother's place within the dynastic family and suggested that his legitimacy was derived from her as well as from his father." —The Imperial Harem, by Leslie Peirce

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

Yeah, people like to think that (adult) Jason’s snarky, cutting, and unapologetic post crisis characterization and the (mostly) “watered down”, docile personality he’s had from N52/rebirth onwards are irreconcilable, and that the shift was just an editorial decision with the intent of marketing him as a “likeable” hero.

While that last part might be true, have they considered that textually it makes perfect sense that being consistently in contact with an abuser just does that to a person. Wears them down until they feel like nothing but a husk, without any discernible direction or opinions of their own. If it isn’t completely burnt out yet, they (consciously or unconsciously) suppress that part of themselves that thinks independently either for self-preservation or to keep the peace. Considering anyone, even “mentally strong” people could fall victim to mental abuse, it’s actually pretty realistic imo.

[fountainpenguin]

Favorite Season 10 running gags:

- Juandissimo delighted by physical contact every time Wanda hits him.

- Chloe's swears getting censored.

- Chloe's middle names change every time someone says them. One of them is Mother Goose and another is Sea Biscuit.

- Chloe calling Timmy to tell him everything's gone wrong, to which Timmy laughs and hangs up on her (or alternatively slams a door on her).

- Chloe and Timmy's Dad start out fond of each other and morph into just... hating each other. I've always headcanoned her as Dinkleberg's niece, so I think that's funny.

- In fact, Timmy hates Chloe's parents and Chloe hates Timmy's parents.

- Chloe got fawned over by many people (including Crocker) in the first half of Season 10, but when Crocker fawns over his nephew, Chloe goes bananas. She only hates the favoritism when it stops happening to her and we love her for it, sdklfsj...

- Kevin spends one episode pretending to be a puppet. In two others, people think he died. He only has 4 episodes. Impeccable.

- Crocker screaming in fury about his mother's love life. He has to watch his best friend (Dark Laser) flirt with her.

- Chloe breaking into buildings. Usually people's houses, but also exclusive clubs.

- Chloe starts out as a goody two-shoes, but her final scene of the series is nailing Crocker's bed to the ceiling.

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by the wonderfully sensational @cordiallyfuturedwight @cosmicdreamgirl @aprylynn and @raplinenthusiasts for the monthly diagnosis. and it's not looking good gang... bon iver and katie gavin?? call a code

tagging some favs if of course they feel so inclined @thvinyl @eoieopda @jihopesjoint @hoseeok @kimchokejin @monismochi @bisexualnamjoonie <33 breakdown in all senses of the word in the tags below 🫡

[catapparently]

A Particular Type of Happily Ever After

AO3 LINK • MASTERLIST

In which Evangeline thinks that Jacks killed a fox to make his fur coat, which leads him to gifting her one.

PART 1: Evangeline Fox

                Evangeline Fox had always had a particular penchant for little foxes. Perhaps she had a special connection to them because of her last name, or perhaps she simply wasn’t cruel enough to not be head over heels for the adorable fluffy creatures. How could one possibly see a fox all snug and sleepy in its little den and NOT want to cuddle it close and bring it home with them?

On an unusually stormy evening, Evangeline heard the distinct creak of the front door opening. The familiar aroma of sweet apples and newly healed heartbreaks instantly wafted through the air, overwhelming her senses. Jacks. Had she not loved the man so dearly, she would have long since boiled him into a bottle of the perfect perfume for her to use.

She quickly sprang up from her comfortable, sprawled out position on the new soft rug they’d gotten and rushed down to see the not-quite-human boy. He’d been gone all day doing who knows what shenanigans with Castor. Castor, who Jacks still refused to let anywhere near his “precious Little Fox”.

Evangeline came to an abrupt halt the moment she laid her eyes on Jacks. He had gotten, through unknown means (and frankly, she didn’t want to know how), a brand new winter coat. The coat was a pretty shade of blue, an uncommon color for him to wear. He was ever so insistent on wearing red, white, and gold. Then again, his preference around her was rather to wear nothing at all.

It wasn’t the color that surprised her, no. It was the fur lining on the collar. It didn’t look like it came with the coat, rather that it was stitched on separately. The cut of the lining wasn’t quite the same as the collar underneath them. The fine strands of the said fur lining were of a beautiful beige-orange color. Too beautiful, actually. No synthetic fur could be dyed to imitate such a unique and extravagant coloring. In fact, the fur on Jacks’s collar looked exactly like that of a fox. Suspiciously so.

“Jacks… what did you do to that poor fox?!”

He twirled the apple in his hand, sparing a glance back and forth between it and Evangeline’s lips, and finally set it down on a nearby tabletop with an exaggerated flourish. He stepped towards her, a certain freely expressed fondness that Evangeline had yet to get used to gracing the usual playful smile on his flawless face. Despite him becoming somewhat human, he still had an ethereal glow on his skin. Not quite human.

“What, don’t you find it pretty? I thought you’d finally stop berating me for not wearing enough layers in the winter.”

Evangeline touched his collar, inspecting it from every angle, desperately hoping that it wasn’t what she thought it was. Sure, she loved Jacks more than everything, but she knew first-hand how cruel he could be sometimes.

Her heart sank to the lowest pit in her stomach. This had to be real fox fur. There was no other way.

“Jacks, how could you? How could you do that to the poor fox?!” Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, tempted to shake him back and forth like a plum tree until some sense was finally knocked into his thick skull.

Jacks cupped her face with his hands, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. “Relax, love, it’s not real fox fur.”

“I don’t believe you.” “It’s fake fur.” “I really don’t believe you.” “I swear on the Hollow that it’s not real.”

She paused, looking at him. “Then what is it?” she demanded. If it was indeed fox fur as she’d thought, she wouldn’t talk to him ever again unless he figured out a way to bring the heartlessly slaughtered fox back to life.

Jacks’s chest heaved with a heavy sigh as he lazily ran a hand through his messy blond hair. It had grown longer ever since he’d finally given up on the blue dye, but Evangeline didn’t let him cut it. No way in hell. It was just the perfect length for her to play with when he was fast asleep with his head resting on her chest, curled up into her like a clingy cat. Sometimes he’d wake up with little braids and ribbons in his hair.

“When we were kids, Aurora taught me and Castor how to change anything’s appearance with certain combinations of her weird ingredients, so I tried to alter some fake fur I conveniently found on an old coat. Then I had LaLa stitch it on for me.”

She exhaled in relief. She’d already been planning the many ways to make Jacks deeply regret his existence had he actually killed an innocent fox. Her favorite that she’d come up with had been to lock him inside the Hollow with a bunch of foxes she’d lure in so that he could see what cuteness he’d dared slaughter.

 “You promise?” she tilted her head up to look at him right in the eye. “Promise. Besides, I like having a constant reminder of you or your hands around my neck, Little Fox.”

Her cheeks turned bright red, matching the shiny crystal heart on her ring, identical to the one on Jacks’s ring finger.

Delighted at the adorable reaction, Jacks wrapped his arms around his chosen true love, burying his face in her soft hair. He was always making sure that it was really her, alive and in his arms.

“You really like foxes, don’t you, Little Fox?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Jacks could not argue against that.

PART 2: Jacks of the Hollow

            Jacks of the Hollow found himself in a rather peculiar situation. He was in the middle of a very foggy forest, hiding behind a tree. He’d placed a fresh piece of raw meat a few feet away, near a tree. It had been carefully and strategically placed near a poorly concealed hole in the ground that he hoped was indeed a fox hole. He’d roamed around the Cursed Forest for days, looking for foxes like an Archer and his Fox. Now that he’d finally found the spot, he was determined to stay there as long as he had to. Nothing in the world –except maybe his own Fox- could distract him from his mission.

As he waited patiently, he started preparing the cardboard box he had brought with him. Jacks neatly smoothed and rearranged the small pile of his clothes that he’d placed in it to create some sort of animal bed.

 He looked back at the piece of meat. Was the lure not working? He’d made sure that it was the juiciest, tastiest, and most expensive meat that he’d found. What a picky, pretentious little fox this was. Jacks had chosen to catch this exact one because it was still a small kit, and it had no family, so it would be starving and lonely. Then why was it not coming to the meat?

 It was getting late, and Jacks was growing restless. Finally, as the sun was setting, he spotted a tiny pair of ears peeking out from behind a snow-covered bush. Jacks held his breath as the cutest baby fox in the North came out and began nibbling on a corner of the red meat. Poor little guy must be freezing; its stubby little legs were shaking.

Before the cute creature could react, Jacks stepped over to it and swiftly picked it up, his large hands carefully wrapping around its shivering body and holding it close to his chest. The fox squirmed and trashed a bit, but quickly calmed down, too weak to protest. It curled up in Jacks’s arms and dozed off, content with the warmth emanating from the boy.

Jacks’s heart melted. He didn’t even want to put it down in the comfy box he’d so carefully prepared, so he left it there. He didn’t like those clothes anyway.

He pressed a soft kiss between the loveable animal’s ears. “Eva is absolutely going to love you,” he whispered to it. Jacks walked home, making sure to protect his newest family member from the harsh, icy winds. As he stepped inside their room in the Hollow, he was greeted with silence. Hmm. Evangeline must still be out with LaLa.

 While waiting for her to come home, he set the now-awake fox on his shoulder, rummaging through the cupboards to feed it some bread.

 As if on cue, he heard the front door open, and, soon after, a certain pink-haired girl bounced over into the kitchen to him, stopping short when she saw what was on his shoulder.

“Jacks… Is that what I think it is?” she exclaimed, the pitch of her voice reaching new heights.

Jacks finally turned and held out the little fox, now warm and fed to her. “Meet your wedding gift. A little fox for my Little Fox.”

She took the creature from him, looking at it with adoration in her eyes as it licked her cheeks.

“He’s so so so cute! Where did you find it?” she smiled, petting its soft fur and rubbing its ears.

Jacks sighed dramatically, collapsing on top of the couch in mock-exhaustion. “I stood day and night in the freezing cold, shivering and slowly dying, waiting for the little guy to one day decide to come out of his hiding place.”

 “Well it’s your fault for not having a coat,” she retorted as she sat beside him, the fox curling up on her lap. “What are we going to name it?”

“Red.”

“No.”

“Orange.”

“We’re not naming him a color, Jacks.”

“Foxy.” 

Evangeline stared down at the still nameless kit, petting it lovingly as it made a catlike purring noise in her lap. She tried to think of a fitting name since Jacks clearly wouldn’t be of any help.

“Let’s name it… uh, Maximilian? Maximilian of the Hollow. Max for short.”

Jacks stared at her blankly. Maximilian? It worked, but he couldn’t tell where it came from. Why Maximilian?

He must have accidentally talked in her mind, because she soon answered.

“Maximilian was my father’s name. Maximillian Fox.”

“…Oh.”

Part 3: Maximilian of the Hollow

            Maximilian of the Hollow was a particularly happy little fox. Once upon a time, he’d been cold and weak and starving, until, one day, a strange not-quite-human boy smelling of apples and healed, forgotten heartbreak came along, saving him and bringing him home.

Max was now healthy, warm, and well-fed. He was rather spoiled by the pretty once princess with the golden-pink hair. He was the happiest of foxes, snugly tucked into his soft bed near his owners, who were all tangled up and asleep in their own bed.

Max had yet to understand who the strange little dragon creature who snuck in when nobody was looking was and why it was here, though.

[malachitezmeyka]

I'm sorry I know it's not funny but I can't help but crack up at the face this one guy makes when Hürrem starts traumadumping 😅😂

[rottenpumpkin13]

Both you and the anon from that ask are going to be paying for my therapy 😭😭

[palaceoftears]

Something about these two scenes being in the same episode makes me feral

[lanternlightss]

wish i had coherent thoughts but the only thing that’s been on my mind on repeat is. what if ,,,, what if. nameless bard groomed venti’s wings ,,,,,,,,,,,,,

[fruitycasket]

Pot Roast! (Sunspell)

I don't know how to write people being happy... So I made a compromise with myself and had Marvin be sick, so then Moira (first) and Sunday (second) can come to his aid and make him a bit happier. Also Higgins is there being (un)helpful.

Also. I made myself hungry. Pot roast is good (and it cooks itself!). :>

(Also up on Ao3 under RottenFruitz)

“You should've called me, you're burning up!” Moira shook her head at the unseen but undoubtedly high number displayed on her thermometer.

Wow, I had no idea. Had it been anyone else, Marvin would have said that aloud. For Moira, he mumbled, "You didn't have to come over."

To that, she snorted. "Not like it's my job or anything. Can you stand?"

No. No he could not. "I'm a man, I can get m'own medicine."

"And end up crawling back to your bed?"

"Ah… well…" That was an accurate assessment of how Marvin handled debilitating sickness. Grumbling half-legible rebuttals, he sank further into bed. Perched on his chest as he had been since daylight broke, Higgins purred, the noise going steady like the hum of a generator. The cat seemed to think he was helping but the extra body heat was the last thing Marvin wanted.

He was scalding hot, sweaty, and mouthbreathing as he lay on top of his duvet. Every now and then be broke into a fit of wet, choking coughs or was seized by several sneezes in a row. What had been the sniffles yesterday was now a full-blown, disabling flu. Or something like that. Maybe Moira had told him otherwise and he hadn't heard or forgotten.

“You need is rest,” Moira chided him, "Which means you stay in this bed until you're feeling better."

"All day? I'll go mad."

"You will be if I find out you've not listened to me."

Marvin hesitated. "Yeah, I will be."

He'd only told Sunday he was ill, and had only meant for Sunday and his friends to know, but he must have sounded seconds from keeling over if the news had gotten to Moira anyway. Did one of them have her phone number? That was a little disconcerting for a reason he couldn't place. That, or they'd just gone to his mum's house, and he didn't feel better about that, either.

Moira said something about getting him medicine and water. Marvin wasn't really listening. His brain, currently cooking in its own immune response, was struggling to keep up its usual activities, and he had all but used up its computing space with that single conversation and the following bit of thinking. Moira left and she could have been gone for a minute or an hour, but when she returned, she spooned Marvin two different medicines, set a glass of cool water on his nightstand, and kissed him on the forehead.

(Then, at the cat's insistence, she gave Higgins a kiss, too.)

“You should feel less shitty in a little while,” Moira stood, "I'll be on my way, now. You get some rest like I said."

“M'kay…” Marvin said. “Thanks.”

“That’s what parents are for." She squeezed his hand, stood, and left him with one more message: "A friend is coming over to check on you later, so if you've been getting out of bed"—she narrowed her eyes—"I'll know."

Marvin sighed, then all but coughed up a lung. When he was finished, he whispered through a sore throat, "Yes ma'am."

Whatever Moira had given him, it knocked him out within the hour. With Higgins as his mildly weighted blanket, he drifted in and out of sleep for all the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon. Once or twice a noise roused him, but he was never cognizant enough to register that he was awake, or that someone might be pressing a hand against his forehead and asking him how we was doing, or that he was answering in deeply slurred words. It all felt like one long, lurid dream where his bedroom sometimes spontaneously appeared.

(It would take hindsight for him to realize it wasn't all a dream, and to realize who some of those dreams were about.)

It wasn't until mid-afternoon when his medicine wore off that Marvin started staying up for more than a few minutes at a time.

By the time he was wide awake, able to push himself up in bed, Higgins was gone.

Coughing and wheezing, he fumbled for the bottles Moira had left for him beside his bed and gave himself what seemed like an appropriate dose from both. The bitter taste was washed down with a cup of water. With that done, he tried to follow his orders—don't get up, except to take a piss or eat—but he was stir crazy and wanted to get away from the cocoon of sweat he'd made for himself. He had to move around, wander, cast a spell, something. It was one thing to be curled up with a book, snug in his bed of his own free will, but the second someone or something forced stillness upon him he got twitchy.

So, when he got sick, he usually slept as much as he could get away with, but his oppressive body heat and inflamed nose yet to be quelled by his second medicine dose. That wasn't an option.

Well, the thermostat wasn't in his bedroom, that was a good enough excuse to get up. And he could top off Higgins' food and water while he was at it.

It took a while for Marvin to peel himself off his bed. Once he was up, he meandered out to his living room. He opened his mouth to call for Higgins, and instead ended up sputtering: “Sunday?”

Sunday was in his kitchen. A pot of beef stew was boiling strong, an electric kettle was just beginning to heat up, and he was rifling through the cabinets. Higgins was up on the counter, curled into a loaf and watching the pot with hungry eyes. Sometimes the cat gave Sunday a quick glance, like he was weighing up how likely it was that he could get the lid off, steal a bite, and dart under the couch before he was caught.

Upon hearing his name, Sunday stopped his search to give Marvin a disapproving frown. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Oh, so you were—I just—I expected you'd check in and leave.”

“I have been, but I thought you'd want dinner, and…" Sunday gestured at Higgins, "…he was hungry. I can leave now, though. Stew beef basically cooks itself and it's almost done."

Marvin considered that. "No I'm—I'm fine. With you staying, I mean."

“Alright. Well, sorry if I woke you up coming through the front door,” Sunday continued speaking, “Your spice cabinet didn't have what I needed, for one thing. Had to pop out and get some things.”

“I don't have a spice cabinet.” What he had was salt and pepper.

Sunday grimaced. “Exactly.” He paused. "You headed for the living room?”

"Yeah." It was only then Marvin realized he was winded. Ugh. He'd rather not have Moira coming around and spooning him medicine like he was five years old, but she'd at least seen (almost) all the rough edges he had to offer. It was different with Sunday.

"Figured as much. Let me get you before you keel over." Sunday came closer, and rather than offer a shoulder to lean on like Marvin expected he would, put on hand on his back. "Hold on to me."

"Why?" Marvin realized what was happening too late. Not that he could have done anything about it anyway, he'd had the build and muscle mass of a stickbug before this, now he must be even lighter from sweating all his water weight into his bed. It was an (embarassingly) proven fact that, whether with magic or by physical force, he was not a hard man to lift clear off the floor. “Don’t you dare”��

“Too late!” Sunday swept Marvin's feet out from under him, lifted him up bridal style.

Marvin, foreseeing himself plummet to the floor and break a bone, clung on to Sunday as he'd been asked. “Put me down!”

“And let you fall? That'd only embarrass you more.”

Marvin prayed his face wasn't as red as it felt. “The second I get better Sunday, I”—

“As long as you wait until you’re better first.” Sunday set him down on the couch and grinned. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Marvin harrumphed at him.

Someone had anticipated Marvin would go nuts in his room, because there were pillows and a blanket arranged neatly on the couch already. As Marvin set about ruining it (i.e. getting comfortable), Higgins jumped onto his lap the moment the space was available, crushing his stomach beneath his soft paws in a quest to get comfortable. With Higgins help, the blankets became a cushion-y, wrinkled pile hanging halfway off the couch.

Should I say thanks? He didn't feel particularly thankful. But he also didn't feel horrible, even though he was warmer than before and also no closer to his thermostat.

“When’s lunch done?” he asked instead.

“Soon. Sooner if you don't mind tough beef. I can make you a little hot cocoa while you wait, if you’re hungry, though.”

“Sure,” Marvin said. He shrank into the couch, suddenly aware of how sore he was.

A deep ache wormed through his muscles, down to his bones, and trying to hobble into the kitchen hadn’t helped matters. Half of him wanted to pace to distract himself from it, the other half said to sink into the couch and never resurface. At least his medicine was slowly working its way through him. (Or he'd placebo-effected himself into thinking that was the case.)

Every time he recovered from an illness he was quick to forget how miserable being sick was.

It felt like this would be his life now.

Forever.

“Oi. I see you wallowing over there,” Sunday chided him as he set down a steaming cup of chocolate milk on the couchside table.

“M'not wallowing,” Marvin said.

“Suuure.” Sunday gestured towards the drink. “Drink up.”

The heat of the cup eased his soreness a little. He sat with it in his hands, relishing its warmth for a while before taking a sip. “It’s good,” he said, “And I… I was wallowing. A little.”

“Only a little?” Sunday asked as he retreated into the kitchen.

Marvin didn’t reply to that. “How long have you been here? Coming in and out, I mean?”

“Only been in a few times.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The sound of the pot lid being removed drifted from the kitchen alongside a mouthwatering smell. "Yeah this is almost good. Let me know if you need anything else."

Marvin asked for the heat to be turned down, and with that finished, silence settled over them, filled only by Higgins purring, then by the TV after Marvin couldn’t bear the quiet. Marvin wondered whether Sunday found it uncomfortable.

Should he have asked him to stay? Surely he had better things to do than keeping Marvin from going stir crazy. And, as it stood, Marvin was a health hazard. There had to be reasons Sunday had spent most of his time coming and going instead of here, and it felt odd to override those. Higgins had needed to be fed though and Marvin definitely couldn't have done that as he was.

One episode of some crime drama passed by surprisingly fast, and dinner was done.

Higgins knew it before Marvin did. He'd been watching Sunday every time he got up for signs he was going to the kitchen, and once he started taking out bowls for the stew, the cat darted across the floor to circle the man's ankles, begging for food as he came out of the kitchen with two bowls. Successfully charmed by his fuzzy round face, Sunday flung him a strip of beef after setting the food down on little couchside table.

Marvin shook his head. “You're spoiling him. Now he'll be insufferable."

Higgins inhaled the entire chunk of stew beef, tenderized by six hours of boiling in soup. When he was done, he licked his chops and sat by Sunday again, this time looking up at him with dinner plate-sized, I would die for you (so please feed me again!) eyes.

Marvin took a bite of his stew.

Damn, and so would I.

“Good, right?” Sunday was back on the armchair, attention split between Marvin and Higgins, who was poised to jump into his lap.

“It’s great, yeah.” Marvin paused. It went on for too long, and a little embarrassed that he didn’t say it before, hurried to add, “Thanks.”

"Of course it is, that's my mum's recipe."

They returned to silence, and Marvin alternated between being convinced it was awkward and thinking it was companionable. Sometimes they burst into fits of vibrant conversation for however long that lasted before drifting into quiet. Together, they burned through one third of a TV show they'd been meaning to watch, a few video essays, and a few bowls of stew beef, at which point it was getting dark, and Sunday wanted to go home. It was one of the first times Marvin had blown through a sick day so fast without the use of sleep.

It was nice.

A sick day—nice. What an oxymoron.

"Well…" Sunday stood and made a show of stretching, "It's about time I take my leave. Will you be alright here?"

I will be if you can carry me back to bed.

Marvin opened his mouth and hesitated. "I can get to bed on my own. But, yeah, I appreciate you for feeding the cat and all that."

Sunday grinned at him. "That's what friends are for. I'll see you around."

He watched Marvin head to his room, then started leaving when it seemed like he'd make it safely.

Marvin was left to crawl into bed, top off his medicine, and get as cozy as he could manage as he listened for the sound of Sunday leaving and locking the door behind him.

Once the other magician was gone, some little thrill that'd wormed into his heart died, and left behind a ghost—a notion that he'd messed something up.

Hm.

Being sick wouldn't be so bad if Sunday came over every time.