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bluecollarmcandtf · 1 month

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Don't get possessed!

You'll end up like this...

Gassy air bubbled from deep inside my soft, pudgy stomach. The smell of semi-digested beer wafted into my nose as my lips flapped in the gust of a violent belch dragging itself out. God, this body was disgusting, but this is what I did to it; this is what I did to him...

I used his cellphone to snap a pic of the sweaty slab of meat I'd been wearing for the past three years. It was the disgraced body of a former jock. Jake's stomach rumbled like it always did when I filled it to the brim. Even after all this time, it still hasn't adapted to the crap I've constantly been stuffing it with.

Swallowing yet another beer, I toss the can into the corner of his dark living room, where it collided with discarded pizza boxes and half empty milk jugs. I'd let the entire apartment overflow with the garbage generated by this once-godly body, and there was a lot of it.

The place smelled like a dumpster in the sun.

You might think this is a disgusting way to live. Well, I did too. Everything about the situation was nasty; the damp basement apartment, the stacks of dirty dishes, the closet of unwashed clothes. The entire place had a permanent stench of body odor, and I know it followed this body around everywhere.

I had never in my life felt so absolutely disgusted by my surroundings.

But that was the exact fucking point.

To explain, we'll have to flash back to a few years ago. Let me show you a photo of Jake when I first possessed him. I took this right after jumping into his perfect body...

The athlete had just gotten back from the gym. It was another perfect workout for the perfect jock, and I could feel the grit and intensity swelling in every muscle. The college footballer would normally shower after any physical activity, but I was happy to crack open a beer and bask in his sweaty glory.

I don't know if you could tell, but I am not a fan of Jake.

He was a pretentious bully at my university, and he got away with anything. I tried my best to stay out of his way, but ultimately found myself staring into the headlights of his fancy Christmas present: a shiny black camaro. The asshole ended my life while driving back to campus after one of his famous parties!

I hate to be dramatic, but I was not ready to pass away, and I was not going to let an asshole like Jake get away with my murder. The police couldn't solve the crime any more than I could console my mourning family, so I took matters into my own ghostly hands.

Jake, beautiful Jake, didn't have a single iota of remorse. He continued to get belligerently drunk, and continued to shame and ridicule anyone shorter, weaker, or fatter than him, which was just about anyone. The worst part was people let him: they allowed it because he was the strongest, the most handsome, the prize quarterback with a winning smile!

I had to do something to stop the piece of trash lurking inside his god-like body.

So I possessed him. And I did this...

When I took over, it was like putting on a body suit. As a ghost, I was invisible, so I got right behind and slipped inside. First, I shoved a leg in, then an arm, and then the rest followed.

He struggled, flailing the few body parts he still had control over, but it was in vain!

My head was the last thing to get situated, but once I slid it into place, his yelling subsided. His thoughts evaporated, and I broke in his handsome face with a wicked smile. It felt different, grinning with someone else's mouth, but I was just glad to have a body again. His was definitely an upgrade compared to my old one. The height I stood at, the breadth of my shoulders, the weight of muscular pecs hanging off my chest; it all took some getting used to.

I enjoyed living inside the jock's body, but I was on a revenge mission. The first thing I wanted to screw up was his diet!

I started shoveling massive amounts of fast-food down his throat three times a day, packing on forty pounds in just a couple weeks. Obviously, I quit going to his football practice and even dropped out from his classes. I needed the time to bulk his body up.

His teammates and coaches all reached out, but I told them to get lost. He took everything from me, so I wanted to do the same to him...

This is a pic I took of Jake's body after almost a year of controlling him. I wanted him to look and smell as awful as possible in public, so I kept him as sweaty and hairy as I could. Despite my best efforts, his attractiveness was still shining through. If anything, he looked like a hot, hard-working bear on the way home from the job, and that was not what I wanted.

This made me realize that I could destroy more than just his looks.

In his body, I marched back to campus and begged the manager of the university gym for a job. A bunch of his old friends were there to see it, so I made sure to act as pathetic as possible in the six foot hunk, practically grovelling for any position. I even dropped to Jake's knees in front of the guy, giving a lot of the gym-goers second hand embarrassment.

Ultimately, the manager offered me a janitorial position if I would shut up. I accepted it gladly, kissing the guys shoes with Jake's lips like some kind of submissive idiot.

So even though Jake's body was still attractive with the extra weight and fur I'd given it, the dingey old uniform of a janitor made sure to mark him as the bottom of the food chain. I wore it like a badge of honor, even if I never washed the damn thing. Wearing a stained boilersuit labelled 'janitor' everywhere definitely told the world what Jake was worth!

By that point, people really only saw Jake as a walking mop, if they even looked his direction at all...

This last picture is one I took after about a year of working for the school. No one had spoken to me (Jake) in that entire time, unless they needed a toilet unclogged. The man had truly lost any respect people had for him.

The overalls hide the giant gut I'd managed to grow on his torso, but you can look at the top pic if you want to see how fat and hairy I ultimately got him. He looked nothing like the explosive athlete he'd been a couple years ago.

I took that photo right before I released Jake's to his body.

The jock probably wouldn't recognize himself. He'd wonder why he was suddenly so fat and hairy. He'd be terrified by the janitorial uniform on his back and even more horrified by the layers of dried sweat swamping his skin. It wouldn't be until he realized how much time had passed that he would fully understand the punishment I'd carved out for him. I wonder how he'll react when he finds out that he's spent the last three years scrubbing floors in the gym instead of working out in it.

I wonder if he'll clean himself up and learn a lesson? Or maybe he'll just accept his fate and give in to the habits I've made for his body. I don't know, and I don't care.

I'll be long gone by then.

Honestly, I have to admit that it's kind of fun living like this. Disgusting, sure, but there's something about reveling in the laziness, the degradation, the stink. I never allowed myself to be so laid back in life. Maybe, I learned something from this experience with Jake as well. I'm starting to think I'll find a new body to possess and live in. Someone I can take over and use for my own immediate pleasures.

Maybe you're the right candidate! You've got a nice body I could jump into. You won't mind if I hop in and drive for a few years, would you? You'll be disgusted by the state I leave you in, but hey it's not like it's my body I'm fucking up, right!

#degredation kink #humiliation kink #male possession

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salaimoi · 12 days

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i wave goodbye to the end of beginning ˚. ✦.˳· ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem reader sypnosis: he wasn’t what you desired anymore, but he couldn’t let you go. months passed since your bitter breakup, and yet, he didn’t stop loving you for a second. cw: slow burn. angst for the sake of angst. falling out of love for no reason fr. unrequited love. alcohol consumption (gojo only) no happy ending me thinks, or maybe somewhat. who knows word count: 3.1k

author's notes: i’m mourning gojo and so should you! so here’s a piece of an angsty fic that’s been rotting, unfinished, in my drafts since march 29. i was only gonna post a sneak peek of this and suddenly the holy spirit took over me and drove me to finally finish it??? IF U EVER READ ANYTHING OF MINE PLEASE LET IT BE THIS😭😭i’m so in love with the reader crying scene u don’t get it. the metaphors?! i outdid myself. i am so terrified of the deep ocean, and the fact that i find myself writing about it during angsty hours says a lot about me. i can’t emphasize how much i adore this fic. i just love angst sm idkidkidk

also, this is my first time attempting angst for the sake of angst as well as slow burn (?) so idk if i’ll ever come back to this. not beta read.

Time and again, this mahogany dining table was the scene of numerous heartwarming interactions – mementos Satoru wouldn’t be able to replicate a second time, even if he spent a thousand lifetimes trying to do so. Sure, it was more than easy to recreate the scene, but not the genuine warmth the two of you felt in that moment. He could go to great lengths, such as hand-crafting every single piece of furniture in the room that bore witness – carving and polishing wood until his palms became more splinters than skin. But even then, he wouldn’t come close to reliving any of those gratifying sentiments from so long ago.

All the shared laughter at his trivial attempts at comedy had caught up to you; your smiles were forced lately, and he could tell. He possessed that diamond-blue, six-eyed gaze which consistently made you feel as if he could undeniably read your thoughts, but that wasn’t the case. Even a blind person could discern the unforeseen shift in your comportment toward him, and due to this, Satoru questioned himself relentlessly.

What if he’d said something to offend you? What if he left the toilet seat up one too many times for your liking? What if he began snoring in bed but you were too considerate to say anything about it? What if he forgot a special date? What if he tried to offer you something you were allergic to?

What if he stopped being the love of your life...?

It seemed as if, in a fraction of a second, all the enjoyment you once felt had deserted you, and with it, your love for him. Had you forgotten how happy you were by his side all in the spawn of a few hours, or was this the universe’s twisted interpretation of a joke?

Even if it was, you weren’t laughing.

You told yourself it was fine, that it was a mere wave of sadness that would soon pass, but instead the harmless tide you paid no mind to had brutally swept your body into a sea of despair. Before you could process your predicament, the shoreline was well out of sight – blurring with the deep blue expanse of the oceanic abyss that enveloped your mind.

The longer you fought to stay afloat, the clearer the path became for the briny water to replace the oxygen in your lungs, giving you no choice but to drown as everything around you became a pitch-black, bottomless pit – devoid of any sense of worry for you.

It was rather often that you were accused of abandoning the ship when things got bad, and yet, here you were – submerging along with it.

How ironic.

Even he couldn’t save you now. The solace his mere presence bestowed upon you when you needed it most wasn’t there anymore. There was no more capability of initiating conversations with him when you were the only other person in the room, causing the once-upbeat and soothing environment to give way to one of silence and uncertainty; it was as thick as syrup.

Syrup. The sugary taste of it from when you consumed it during breakfast was all but replaced by a repugnant, sour one in your mouth. A persistent echo of those homemade fluffy pancakes you had turned down remained, even though he had made them just for you — his precious girl.

You insisted you would eat later – an obvious white lie to mask your despondency and lack of appetite – but he spoon-fed you, because in his own words, “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I allow my girlfriend to starve? No, that won’t do. I’ll take care of you even after I've exhaled my last breath.”

“And how would you do that if you’re no longer breathing, genius?” you asked, a wilting smile on your face that you had put on display for him.

“Well, my dear," he retorts with a smug grin. "I've always believed that love has a way of transcending the boundaries of life and death. And as luck would have it, our love transcends the mortal realm. I will always be with you, in spirit if not in flesh.” he smiles, a twinkle of amusement behind his sapphire eyes before continuing.

“Once I've moved on to the afterlife, I'll find a way to send you sweet nothings and a box of chocolates from beyond the grave. Consider it an eternal gift.”

He declares in a complacent tone as he lounges back in his chair, head resting comfortably on the back of his hands.

"But in all seriousness," he then adds, his tone becoming more genuine, "I'll do everything in my power to ensure you're taken care of – even if it means making sure my eternal resting place has a Wi-Fi connection for you to receive my messages.”

Your thoughts were entirely silenced in that moment; white noise overtook the black space within your mind. How had he managed to say such heartfelt words as if they were second nature? This early in the morning, nonetheless.

Would he actually…?

You knew he would.

"But let’s not dwell on my demise just yet,” his words bring you back to the present conversation. “Until the day comes, I promise to make the most of our time together. Besides, knowing me, I’d probably haunt you just to ensure you have someone annoying to keep you company."

He finally remarked, going back to stuffing your face with the soggy pancakes that had been sitting in syrup for too long.

And you were cognizant of the fact that you alone were privy to this side of Satoru Gojo: the mushy, gentle one who tended to his companion as if it were a god-given mandate.

To the public, he was a stoic, impervious character who had no dread of others. To you, he was far more vulnerable than he would ever confess.

But that wasn’t nearly enough to deter you from taking the disheartening decision made later that day.

“I can’t stay here anymore.” austere words you didn’t wish to speak, but needed to, in order to provide some semblance of closure for the both of you. “I can’t love you anymore.”

A hushed supplication could be heard flying across the room at the speed of light once your hand reached out to turn the bitterly cold door knob, hitting against the back of your head – identical to an equally-cold shower.

“Please don’t leave me,” he immediately protested weakly.

He approached you with cautious strides, every step causing fragmentation in his all-too-frail emotional state. Even if it was ephemeral, the mutual love between the two of you had already left a blazing watermark on his soul. His feelings for you transcended the nagging rationality that bound his mind, defying all sensible objections he had on the matter of permitting you to depart from his life. Having failed to quell the ardor her felt, it persisted apodictically until he was an arm’s length from your frame.

And that was exactly it – the same frigid sensation your hand clinged onto emulated the one you felt in your wretched heart the moment he approached you. You’d already turned your back on him and expressed every afflicting anguish that tormented your soul, so why plead now? Now – when you already made the conscious decision to leave him behind.

Tears neither you nor he could hold back began flowing down your features. A familiar hand lifted towards your cheek soon after, wiping the salty residue off your delicate face with his thumb.

He never ceased to remind you how gorgeous you were when you cried, frankly because the manner in which your wispy eyelashes retained the saltine tears in your eyes resembled the delicate surface of a tranquil pond.

Every tear you shed would become the gentle water that tickled his skin as his body wafted about in your iris – an eternal reservoir he’d swim in without tiring if the heavens so permitted it.

However, this occasion differed from the rest; the once gentle waters he yearned to lay in became calamitous waves, which may lure him to the ocean’s most profound recesses in the blink of an eye – your blink of an eye. He would usually stay afloat among that innocent gaze of yours, but tonight it was ruthlessly drowning him with no lifeline in sight.

Even after he implored that your crying would come to a halt, more pungent teardrops bled onto his fingers. An eroding desperation flowed through you, aching to hold onto something, anything, in order to cease the mental decay within your subconscious.

Thus, your own hand extended to hold his against your cheek, a glacial embrace overpowering the warmth of his skin; an identical chill tickled his spine when he absorbed the crispness of your graze, but he paid it no mind.

“Not you too…anyone but you,” he pleaded in a low voice, causing more accursed tears of yours to cascade mercilessly as he embraced you in an endeavor to sway your decision. His voice was gentle and soothing, mimicking a caress you’d never experience a second time.

“I’m sorry.” you muttered.

Being unable to bring yourself to meet the sapphire eyes that imitated a midwinter sky so perfectly, your head lay low; the only thing visible to him was the top of it.

It was unclear what you were sorry about. Perhaps you were sorry that you had to leave him behind. Or perhaps you were apologizing to yourself that he was no longer what you thought you wanted with every fiber in your body.

You desired more in this life, and on your game board, he wasn’t a playing piece who could frolic alongside you. It wasn’t because you didn’t fancy his company, rather it was the fact that his own strategy of playing was one that did not catch your eye anymore; it had become a monotonous rehearsal. Every move came to be a discernible one to you – even before he picked up his pawn, causing you to lose interest in the entire game itself.

That realization alone shattered his entire world.

Satoru’s head lay low all throughout as he sat on a wooden stool amidst the empty bar. It was 2 a.m. and he needed to go home, but why should he?

You wouldn’t be there to greet him – or even scold him for that matter.

Colorless, almost lifeless, marbles stared vacantly at the picture of you on his lock screen; he consistently spoke to your picture as if he were having a conversation with it. At this point in time, it had become routine. Maybe one of these days the frozen-in-time frame would speak back to him for once?

Just once.

Where had that tender smile he’d fallen in love with gone?

Where had you gone?

On a nightly basis, the same detestable conversation from that night redounded from one end of Satoru’s mind to the other incessantly – akin to a religiously recited sermon.

It was impractical to disregard the harsh reality that sooner or later every cherished individual he held dear to his heart willingly departed from his life – Suguru, and now you.

If it entailed becoming a regular person, he’d give his life as a sorcerer to ensure the permanent presence of at least one individual in his life. Where was the value of possessing such prowess when one’s vulnerability in the realm of love was inescapable?

What twisted transaction was that?

He'd even willingly forsake his divinely bestowed talents for the purpose of altering the passage of time, thereby reverting to a period where your presence was far from being nothing more than a diminishing recollection.

Ijichi had been dealing with this side of his boss for months on end. Regardless of his efforts to encourage Gojo to put an end to this melancholic act of his, he never managed to convince him to do so. Ijichi attempted the compassionate approach, but to no avail. His optimism and patience were dwindling, fearing that this would continue on for eternity – and perhaps it would’ve if he hadn’t stepped in.

This had to end sooner or later, and for everyone involved’s sake, it had to be the former. So tonight, he opted for a sterner, and perhaps more unforgiving, path.

Your car was parked out front of the bar Ijichi had sent you the address to – forehead pressed against the steering wheel as an audible, exhausted sigh escaped your mouth. It was late and you knew this was nothing short of inane behavior. You weren’t doing this for you; you had to remind yourself that you were doing it for him, with the hope that he would ultimately find someone who would be there for him in a way that you were unable to.

Weary, almost weak, legs lead you to enter the desolate bar. A knife prods at your chest when your eyes dart over to where Gojo was. He kept his head lowered; the only part of him you could clearly see from this angle was his back.

An overwhelming sea of emotions plagued your mind when you witnessed him in such a state. You could feel the knives twist the longer you stared at the back of his fluffy white locks.

Months had passed since your split, and you realized Satoru’s grief and distress were indeed as dire as his assistant conveyed to you during the phone conversation.

A tap on his shoulder was accompanied by a sweet voice that had vanished into the depths of his consciousness a long time ago. Perhaps because he didn't wish to recall the agonizing memories that came with your voice, or perhaps because he needed to maintain a pristine, untouched image of you in his psyche.

As you occupy a vacant stool one seat away from him, your attention is drawn to the half empty vodka bottle in his grasp.

“You know, I talked to your therapist. He said you were getting sober.”

What you said held true, except you didn’t hear it from his therapist directly; Ijichi was the one who was initially informed about that, and being the caring person he was, he relayed the details to you. Mostly because he felt as if, deep down, you still wanted to know about Gojo’s well-being.

"What are you doing here drowning yourself in alcohol?" you added, seemingly concerned for your ex-boyfriend.

He looked up at you, his eyes red and bleary from the drink. His body froze. Blue pupils dilated in a mixture of shock and happiness. It really was you. Had you come back for him after all this time?

"What does it look like I’m doing?" he muttered, his voice bitter and angry.

Satoru detested alcohol; it always interfered with his abilities, and being the strongest meant being ready whenever – no questions asked. After your departure, though, he grew fond of the bitter, burning feeling the liquid provided. That sweet poison was the sole substance capable of muffling the eternal pessimism plaguing his mind.

You approached him cautiously, taking the bottle from his hands and setting it aside. "Come on," you said firmly, "we need to get you home."

He wasted no time to speak what was really on his mind. Even if it was for a mere second, he had felt the sensation of your touch once more. That was more than he needed to vocalize the thoughts that tormented his sanity. Either that, or it was the alcohol he had consumed speaking.

“Why won’t you love me back?” His words slurred, being far too drunk to care, though.

“…You’re drunk, let’s get you home.”

“What home? The one I bought for us that YOU left me all alone in?” he deadpans, the silence following being as deafening as a scream.

Ouch.

“My room feels so empty if you’re not there. I see your precious face and I don't know what to do.” His expression dampens with anguish before he continues – somewhat unclearly, ”whatever I do, I cam’t fubking get you out of my head amd it’s ruining me.”

“I told you to move on a million times every time you drunk dialed me, Satoru.”

“If that’s what you wanted, why did you continue to pick up the call?” He retaliates, eyes glazed with forbidden tears on the verge of cascading against his pale skin.

You knew perfectly well why. He knew perfectly well why. Everyone Satoru vented to about you knew why, so why continue to deny it?

Attempting to keep your temper in check, you take a deep breath, eyes darting back and forth between the door and him. It was more than easy to run away from your problems, like you always did. But not this time.

You owed it to him to at least finally stick around long enough when things got tough. You wouldn’t put up an invisible wall between the two of you anymore, not today.

You sigh, taking the empty seat right next to him.

“We can’t go back to how things were. We broke up, remember?”

“I know,” he grumbles, taking a sip of his beverage. He shook his head, his drunken state making it almost impossible to focus his thoughts or his vision. “But maybe drinking will make me forget that we ever did. Maybe tonight I can pretend we’re still together,” his voice and face etched with sorrow.

His voice trailed off, followed by another long sip of his drink.

“You need to quit drinking yourself into a stupor, Satoru. This isn’t healthy,” you responded, voice softening out of concern.

His eyes still clouded with alcohol, he looks at you before speaking. “I don’t know how to move on.” He admitted, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to live without you. I loved you…and I still do.”

He silently weeps once and for all, crumbling before the love of his life. You didn’t know what else to say, so you settled on simply allowing his head to rest on your shoulder; you always were his favorite shoulder to cry on, after all. Wrapping an arm around him, you pet his head as you lull him. Instinctively, he envelops you into a warm embrace, face burying itself deeper into your chest.

As he continued to sob like a baby, the sorcerer allowed his emotions to flow freely – months of bottling them up into liquor bottles had finally caught up to him.

He was beyond ecstatic underneath all the melancholy; not only had you allowed him to get closer to you, but even went as far as hugging him too. He couldn't believe it. Just a few moments ago, you were talking about forcing him to move on, but now – you were actually back in his arms, where you belonged.

He felt relieved for a moment, almost to the point where he wasn't thinking properly anymore. You were finally back in his arms, where you needed to be; he refused to let go.

It felt like a fever dream, but this was all he needed. Even if you’re gone, morning come, he’ll live in this moment for the rest of eternity.

#✰ gojodagoat is online #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru angst #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satorugojo

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skyethel · 8 months

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What does Judith Butler know about loading her son’s corpse in a cab? What does she know about the horror of turning a taxi into a hearse?

im so mad. i've been in mourning and a state of constant rage for palestine for the past few years, and these past weeks have been especially devastating. while im not palestinian myself, i have friends and family that are, and i cant help but be on edge about the things they cant afford to think about right now.

i read their 'thought piece'. its nothing new on that front, and thats why it makes me so mad. im really struggling to connect with the blind, white-american privilege of calling for non-violence in the face of a genocidal apartheid regime. the fucking gall of these so-called western intellectuals to preach how rampant anti-intellectualism has become just to turn around and buy into some colonial playbook of peace shit is hilarious. people i thought were with me on this, not only on palestinian liberation but on liberation full stop, have been a constant disappointment. i cut off so many ppl i called friends over the absolute lack of grace and empathy they handled this with. when are white western 'activists' going to stop treating us like timed bombs of irrationality?

this part in particular kept coming up and made me feel like i was going insane:

"When, however, the Harvard Palestine Solidarity Committee issues a statement claiming that ‘the apartheid regime is the only one to blame’ for the deadly attacks by Hamas on Israeli targets, it makes an error. It is wrong to apportion responsibility in that way, and nothing should exonerate Hamas from responsibility for the hideous killings they have perpetrated...The necessity of separating an understanding of the pervasive and relentless violence of the Israeli state from any justification of violence is crucial if we are to consider what other ways there are to throw off colonial rule"

literally nobody is asking anyone to 'exonerate' hamas. hamas is a military organization fighting the US-backed israeli occupation with smuggled weapons that is active in 365 km² at best. hamas is not even in the orbit when it comes to comparisons to israel.

israel said it with its own mouth that hamas is a product of israeli occupation. this isnt a matter of opinion, right? or am i too far left to think that a brutal occupation will radicalize its victims? and they gave them the means to become a 'terrorist organization'? how are you claiming to care about palestinians if you don't bother unsubscribing from the very schools of thought that constructed the occupation in the first place?

some of you 'leftists' have been lying about what you've been reading because where are the frantz fanon quotes you like to throw around, huh? where's the malcolm x, the angela davis? where are your insta posts with chomsky's books?

holy shit WHAT OTHER WAYS?

keep our communities out of your mouth. we are not some thought experiment you can exercise your conscience on. we're watching an ethnic cleansing unfold, and instead of supporting palestinians so many of you are playing out your own little fantasies of the 'progressive' solidarity you fail to show. sometimes, you need to fucking stop and listen instead of consulting the higher morality police on whether you need to 'contextualize' your incompetence.

#palestine #rant #im no saint but holy fuck some people are getting on my nerves #the personal is political

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metalomagnetic · 3 months

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I was re-reading Dissonance and I wanted to ask if Abraxas ever kept the poison chandelier? Like is it a treasured family heirloom? Or does Lucius just inherit it when his dad dies with no clue why they have this dangerous, tacky piece of decor he can't get rid of because Lord Voldemort vaguely complimented(?) it one time?

It's hilarious that you sent me this ask, while I am still laughing myself to tears (I just read your comment 1 minute ago).

The 'homoerotic chandelier' (I am STILL laughing, thank you, truly) is, of course, gaudy; just horrid, really, there's a reason no one was buying it, even with Tom's outstanding sale talents.

Being an impulse purchase (a horny purchase), Abraxas didn't think it through- how on earth will he explain this monstrosity to his father?

He hides it in the dungeons, knowing his father doesn't go there (draft and all).

After Tom disappears, Abraxas might, or might not, visit the dungeons to have a look at it from time to time. He sent hundreds of letters to Tom, but they all returned unopened, so he's convinced his enemy-lover is dead. His cold, tiny heart, is broken.

Once his dad finally dies, Abraxas moves the chandelier to Gringotts, wrapped in a secure box, in the hopes he won't have to think about it (Tom) anymore, if it isn't in his house. At first, he wanted to destroy it, but he couldn't make himself. (It's lucky he didn't try, because that was one CURSED chandelier that would have reacted poorly to violence).

A decade or so later, Lord Voldemort shows up.

Abraxas is furious (happy)! How dare that mudblood be even more powerful than when he left? (how dare Tom just show up, as if Abraxas didn't mourn for him, thought him dead, and grew stupidly attached to an ugly chandelier as a stand in for Tom?)

Everyone is playing this silly game, pretending not to recognise this is Tom Riddle. Abraxas cannot wait to actually meet him face to face and spit 'Riddle' at him; he is a Malfoy, Riddle doesn't scare him! Alas, before he can meet him, he hears old classmates are dropping dead all over the place (the only thing they had in common was that they knew the name Riddle) and he reconsiders. It's not that he's afraid (he's terrified), but he's just cautious. Yes, cautious. He determines is better to avoid Riddle (even if his broken, even tinier and colder heart longs to see him again).

But then his stupid son comes back with a horrid brand on his arm (he remembers Riddle doodling it in his schoolboy silly journal) and Abraxas is horrified. Furthermore, Rodolphus keeps saying Voldemort is unnaturally close to Lucius, that they have many one on one meetings, and Abraxas has had ENOUGH. So he goes to face Riddle and tell him to stay away from his son (he has no idea that once, long ago, his own father went to tell Tom to stay away from Abraxas. Apparently it's a Malfoy tradition, now.)

Anyway, things don't go as planned, Abraxas freezes when he sees what Riddle had done to his previously perfect face. He freezes when he feels the *power* emanating from him. He ends up pretending he doesn't recognise him.

It's a long and complicated story (really, it is) but eventually Abraxas invites Voldemort to the Manor ( to discuss Lucius, of course, no other reason. Not like Abraxas had decade long fantasies of bringing Riddle to his Manor and fucking him in the master bedroom or anything like that). On a whim, he has the chandelier brought back from Gringotts and hangs it in the dining room.

Riddle's new waxy, harsh face does something funny, shows some emotion for once, when he sees it. Abraxas is suddenly hot all over, but they attempt to talk normally until Lucius comes home, bows to Riddle ( the indignity! Lucius should only bow to Abraxas) and then, with a sneer, asks if Abraxas has lost his mind, what is that ugly chandelier doing in their lovely home?

The chandelier apparently doesn't take the insult in stride, and , with a thunder like noise, starts raining poison down on Lucius.

It's fine, in the end. Riddle was always good with spells of all kind, the arrogant mudblood, so he fixes Lucius up, and then sends him to get some rest.

The next morning, when Lucius stumbles out of his room, with a headache from the remaining after effects of the poison, he witnesses his lord getting out of his father's room.

He blinks. Once, twice. He rubs his eyes, frozen.

"You're hallucinating," Lord Voldemort tells him. "From the poison. Go back to bed."

Lucius decides that yes, he must be hallucinating (he dearly hopes so, because why else would he see the dark lord, robe not entirely buttoned up, leaving his father's room at dawn?), and he retreats to the safety of his room.

Another decade later, when his father dies, Lucius decides to leave the chandelier in place ( in his father's room, where it was moved after it assaulted Lucius). He thinks it's wiser not to mess with the thing. Besides, it seemed to matter quite a lot to his old man; Lucius swears his father loved that ugly monstrosity more than he ever loved Lucius.

Thank you so much for your comment, and you're at fault for this lengthy, cracky answer! I hope you enjoy it! ❤️

#tombrax #crack #my fics #this is all because of a wonderful comment I got

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meichenxi · 1 month

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languages, travel, identity, grief

Maybe some of you have heard of Xu Zhimo's Second Farewell to Cambridge (徐志摩再別康橋 Translation: Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, by Xu Zhimo | East Asia Student). It's an achingly lovely poem about a Chinese scholar who studied in the UK, and how he left so gently, taking nothing with him as he went. It brought me solace over the last year.

I thought for a very long time about how I felt about having to leave China, and what it felt like to mourn for a future that was never going to mine. I cried. How am I supposed to explain why? I'm not Chinese. I've got no family there, or a childhood to look back on. I couldn't explain it even to myself.

That pain was coupled with a type of uncertainty, a discomfort at myself for feeling so strongly. This feeling was not allowed. It meant - what? Something awful, probably. I was a racist, probably. I should hate myself, probably. Fetishization is the word that gets thrown around for white people and their time spent in East Asia at one end of the spectrum - at the other end it's just seen as embarrassing and deeply, you know, cringe. It's a self-interrogation - why do I feel so sad? Why do I feel this pull so strongly anyway, to a country that's not even mine? Why should it matter so much when I leave? I didn't feel like this grief has any sort of legitimacy. But it has taken from September - eight months after leaving - for me to pick up Chinese again.

I felt, for months, hollow and unsettled and drifting from place to place. I opened my textbook, and closed it again. The memories there were too painful. I'm not going to write about why I had to leave, but it wasn't by choice. I had loved the people in the school, even if it was for a short time. When you have no internet and are training eight hours a day, the days are coloured more sharply: bright and hurtful and wonderful all at once. We had no running water. It was in an abandoned hotel. I miss the monk at the temple door opposite the school, always on time at 6am to open it for our classes. I miss the folk at the local shop who invited me to watch films on their projector; once they killed a chicken for us. I miss the woman in the woods who gave me the chestnuts she had picked. I gave the chestnuts to the cook, and we steamed them and ate them by the lake. He wanted me to marry his son; he wanted it so strongly that he brought me pork, and desserts, and gave me paper, and promised me I could have a jade bracelet, that he would buy me a house. I miss the oldest martial arts teacher, who spoke in such strong dialect I could barely understand him. When I was sad and missing home one night, he told me that I should stay after dinner. In the silence and against the cicadas, he started to play the erhu for me. Later, my friend told me that he hadn't know what to say, how to comfort me; I was a foreigner and a young woman, after all. We had very little in common. But nobody has ever played a piece of music for me like that before.

And I miss X, my best friend there and partner in snack-smuggling crime. She is 19 years old, and a janitor's daughter, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. (She also rides an excellent motorbike, and lent me her hanfu, and we sped through the city giddy with our own daring and trying not to be caught.) We got matching haircuts; she had always wanted to cut her hair like a boy, and was too scared to do it alone. When I left, I told her to stay in touch: she shook her head. She said that some people were meant to know each other for some time, and no more. I think the death of friendship by attrition, by - as Elrond said! - the slow decay of time, is one of the saddest things of all. I deleted Wechat. I don't want to read over the old messages. By having this place - her, and the chestnuts, and the cicadas - as a memory, I can tuck it away it. I can keep it close.

I wrote a poem myself on the plane. That was the last I thought about China, the last thought I let myself have, in eight months. I kept myself away from it. It felt like a wound. And against that hollowness, there was constantly the question: Why should I have any right to miss this place? Who I am there? Why does it matter? We are all different people, wherever we go, and whoever we are with; we wear different skins, large or small. In China I was [...]. She was who I was. That name, that I introduced myself to people with - she was bright and friendly and tried to translate things just so. Everybody who goes as the only foreigner to a place - or the only foreigner that speaks the language - is a little bit self-obsessed. It happens. It's unfortunate, and something to guard against. But it also gives you its own kind of identity in a way: your identity is Foreigner. Your identity is a cultural bridge. Everyone you meet, in a country as friendly and curious as China, has questions about you. You stand with your feet in both worlds, and are not really part of either of them. That identity is easy to slip into, like cool water, like trying on new clothes. It's easier that thinking: who am I outside of that? Where am I going? I don't really know. I don't think anyone really does.

And then the second thing happens. I speak Chinese well, by this point. My accent is there, but it's slight. I am short, and have dark hair, and a generally similar build to many East Asians - so the questions I have got in the last few years have changed. Sometimes people think I have been raised here. Sometimes they think I am ethnically Russian, and nationally Chinese. Sometimes I get asked if I am half Chinese. Usually they know I am a Foreigner, 100% white - but not always. There is a peculiar rush that comes from that acceptance; from feeling the relief, just for fifteen minutes, that you belong. It's not about 'passing', or race-bending, or anything twisted - it's nothing so unnerving as that. It's just the human need to belong. Everyone gets tired of being stared at, after a while. And after a while, you start to think - I wish I understood. I wish they understood. I wish this were easy.

But then the conversation keeps going. You don't know a local word, or you misunderstand. You say something in a strange way, or you make a strange gesture, and the glass shatters, and - there you are again, naked again, exhausted again, explaining yourself again. That's the other half of it. There's solace in the Foreigner identity, because that means that's all you are. You don't have to think about your parents, or whether they worry about you so far from home; of course they do. The Foreigner is good and filial and a wonderful daughter. You can craft her into any shape you like. But it also marks you out again and again, endlessly and again, as Other.

There was a paper published a while ago that showed measures of acceptance of non-natives in native-speaking communities. It highlights a strange, but familiar experience to those who have lived abroad - the people who spoke the language to a medium level felt more accepted and less lonely than those that spoke the language to a high degree. It makes sense, and mirrors what I have found with both Chinese and German. When you speak a little Chinese, you are a wonder - a curiousity! Look at the Western girl go! People are kind, and curious, and will slow down to include you in conversations. You are thrilled with what you can access - all this knowledge, that other people don't have! Look how special you are!

And then you get better. And then you realise, cut by cut, that you will never be one of them. You don't want to be Chinese, per se; but you do want to be accepted. You are happy to be British; but you miss China like a wound, an old one, festering, even when it was never yours. How do you tell your family that you are not grieving a lost romance, a beautiful girl, but a language and a life? That there are words of majesty, of playfulness, that will never be yours? You speak well enough that people no longer bother to dumb things down, or explain them; you sit with your discomfort, smile painted on, because - you know. It's not bad. You understand most of it. And on the edge of that circle, smiling uncertainly, following the vast majority of what is being said, you are not clever enough and not witty enough to keep up with the chengyu, the cultural references, the slang, and the raucous laughter around you erupts, and you don't know what you've missed, and everybody says - she's quiet, that one. Maybe all the foreigners are? And all you are doing is sitting and feeling the distance between You and Them as heavy and as stifled in your chest as an ocean of dark.

So you go back. Back to your people. But when you sit with the other foreigners, you are apart. They laugh; what are these nutters doing? The Chinese don't make any sense. The Chinese do this - they do that. You sit there, and then there is a pressure building in your chest too, a discomfort, the desire to stand up and say - well, actually.

You are responsible for everything the Chinese teachers do, and have to explain things in a way that the students understand - Confucian thought, and Buddhist philosophy, translated in pithy bite-size adages for the West. You have no qualifications for this; everything you assert, you feel unsure. Uncertain. Someone else could explain it better, more nuanced, and you need to do more reading anyway - but here you are, and here they are, and you're the only one. And you do know. Not enough, but enough that their jokes, their pains, make you uncomfortable. You feel the need to defend both parties; to be a diplomat, every second of every day. In turn, when the students come to the teachers with problems, you have to translate their grievances in a way that the Chinese teachers will be sympathetic towards. Once I got asked: why do you never join us after class? Why are you always so quiet when you're not working? As a translator, you are always working. Every time you speak, you are working; what you choose to say, and what you choose to not say, and where you choose to intervene. You are building relationships, and disappearing, and you are becoming invisible, and you're a nothing, and you're everyone and you're nobody and nobody realises you are doing anything more than translating at all.

I wanted to stay. I couldn't have stayed. I wanted to be accepted as one of them. I wanted to be accepted for who I was. That means a foreigner. I wanted to be true to myself, which means that I would always be the Foreigner, which means I would always be apart from them. It is that contrast and juxtaposition which causes the grief. And there was never an ending to it, a resolution, a chance to reconcile myself (in China) with myself (in the UK), because all at once I had to leave. The grief comes most from the second arrow - not the pain of leaving, but the bewilderment of not knowing why I was in pain at all.

It's been eight months. Slowly, as spring comes, I feel like I am on surer ground. I can look at my old books, those painstaking notes, and I could look at new ones too and I'm starting to think, because this is what I tell my students, and maybe there's some truth in it - it's okay if you're not perfect. It's okay if you didn't achieve what you wanted to, and that the language - in its wholeness, and who can ever know that? - will never, not quite, be yours. It's the struggle and the process that means that I will know and understand Chinese in a different way, in my own way, in a slanted-to-reality sort of way, that is a treasure in and of itself. There is beauty in its brokenness too.

And there is sorrow, too. The sorrow that comes with easing yourself into a different life, and it holding you gently for a while. I sat there - I spoke to them. It's not only missing a place; it's missing a person you were, a stage of your life, for a time. It's knowing that a place has reached inside your ribs and taken root there - even if you don't return, you can never fully get rid of that again. You are two people now, with feet straddling two oceans. There are parts of you that loved and suffered and hated and grew in Chinese, not English. You can't explain that. You can't even begin. Sometimes - not often - you are a stranger in your own land. The poets spoke of that. In the age of fast travel, of the weekend break, we have forgotten the ways a place can burrow itself inside you, and find its own home.

It's not the same as the grief that someone Chinese will face. But it's still grief. I have put my life into Chinese. Maybe that is all it takes to grow love.

Now, I turn back to Chinese - as a foreigner, as Melissa, as myself. It's a bittersweet thing. I know that I cannot hold all of it. It will spill out, like the sun, and there is no way I can be that without losing myself and my history and my own green woods. But I think I am ready now. I am surer, and a little steadier on my feet.

#langblr #chinese #languages #culture #china #:(((((((((((

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nebulablakemurphy · 10 months

Text

Twenty Questions (Part 4)

Summary: For Y/N’s 20th birthday Haymitch gifts her 20 questions, that he has to answer honestly, no matter what. Mentions of sex/forced pregnancy. Moves & Countermoves companion piece.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“How many…do you think?”

“Hmm?” Haymitch hums, eyeing his wife.

“Kids.” Y/N clears her throat, “how many kids do you think Snow will make us have?”

“I’d say one of each. A boy and a girl will keep the people entertained. If the next one is a boy, I think we’ll have to try again for a girl. Assuming we stay in his good graces, we’ll probably be done after that.” Haymitch shrugs a shoulder.

“I don’t know what else we can do.” Y/N rubs her hands together anxiously.

“There’s nothing else, Angel.” Haymitch sighs, “we just have to ride this out.”

Y/N nods, rubbing the swell of her belly. She’s five months along, over half way.

“Did you want,” Haymitch stumbles over the words. “How many do you want?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder. “I think being an only child might be lonely for him.” Him. Their baby. Because it isn’t about them anymore, it never will be again. “Two would be good.”

“Two would be good,” Haymitch agrees.

————————————————————————

Haymitch drinks more than he ever has.

Y/N’s belly grows. She’s tired all the time. She snaps at Haymitch and then chases after him with tears in her eyes, begging for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, I’m… I know I’m awful. I’m trying to do better.”

“You’re not awful,” Haymitch grumbles. “I’m trying too.”

“But you are! You are doing better and I’m…I feel like everyday I get worse. That’s the difference and I’m frustrated with myself. I’m frustrated at the situation and I don’t know what to do. You’re the only person here with me all the time, so you get the brunt of everything. And I know it’s not fair to you. I know you hate me for it.” How could you not?

“I need you to know that I do not hate you. I could never hate you. I see how hard this pregnancy and marriage has been for you. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart, if I could change it for you, I would. But I can’t.” Haymitch admits, “I can’t and it kills me.”

“It’s not hard being married to you,” she breaks off. “I’d never given a lot of thought to marriage. I didn’t necessarily want to be married. But doing it with you is easy, being with you is easy and I feel safe when I’m with you.”

“Tell me what’s wrong then, Angel. Tell me what I can do to help you. Anything you need. You just gotta give me some fucking direction here, because I am drowning in this.”

“I don’t know what I need. I feel restless all the time. I can’t sleep. I’m-”

“You’re afraid.” Haymitch gets it.

“Just…just tell me that everything’s gonna be ok.”

“It is gonna be ok. I promise.”

She closes the distance between them, relaxing into the feel of his arms around her. Holding her close, making everything ok.

————————————————————————

Things are better after that.

“Everything’s gonna be ok.”

He tells her every morning and again at night.

They decorate the nursery, they give him a name. Everest. Everest Abernathy.

By the time they mentor the games that year, Y/N is eight months along. They’ve agreed to stay in the Capitol, until the baby is born.

“You’ll have access to the best medicine known to man in our hospitals, Y/N. The same cannot be said for District Twelve.” President Snow makes her an offer that sounds more like a threat. In any event, she can’t refuse.

Their chances for a victor this year are slim to none. The female tribute is fifteen, but Y/N can spot every bone in her body. The boy isn’t much better, and only twelve.

Y/N weeps for them until she vomits. Only when she is alone, jotting notes in her tablet. She remains strong in their presence, focused. Knowing Haymitch won’t offer much help. He stopped trying and she doesn’t blame him.

She might give up too, if it didn’t mean leaving the poor tributes to fend for themselves.

It makes no difference though, both go down in the initial bloodbath. She mourns them alone, while Haymitch drowns his sorrows down at the bar.

And time passes, the same way it always has. Too fast or too slow.

Part 5

#moves & countermoves #haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #haymitch abernathy fanfiction #thg haymitch #twenty questions #the hunger games

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ettelenethelien · 3 months

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Beleriand Dashboard Simulator • part 3

Part one, part two

🔆 hador-lomin following

1 722 notes

♟️narrond following

wait, are @turin-deactivated4841207 and @outlaw-neithan-deactivated4880911 the same person as @mormegil?

⚔️ adanedhel

Not really my business to say, seeing as I'm neither of these, but people have reasons for changing blogs/names/URLs. If this was true and if I was that person I would be very annoyed at whoever posted such a thing for everyone to see.

#please take it down for general safety of people who might need it

4 notes

⚓ nenil-noriel

I am sick and tired of Gondolindhrim complaining they're bored. How about you try living here and fighting orcs for a while? I'd be glad to switch.

👤 house-of-the-mole following

I'll let you know we fought alongside everyone in the Nirnaeth.

⚓ nenil-noriel

Sure, do pat yourself on the back for doing the bare minimum.

17 089 notes

👰🏼‍♀️ celebrin following

Guess who got engaged today?!!! 💕💍🥰

#no one even got ordered to bring a Silmaril lol #so I dare say it went perfectly #!!! #can you tell I'm excited?

31 notes

🎼noldolanteyy following

thinking of changing my url (for pretty obvious reasons)

#doriath kinslaying

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🎼musiquendil-former-noldolanteyy following

No, really, this is the worst time ever to be a musician. I'm not pretending that the way he let us down is in any way worse than everything else Maglor Feanorion has done, but...

Can we separate art from the artist when the art itself is so interwined with the artist's deeds? Can we appreciate the noldolante itself ignoring that it was entirely a lie, regrets that apparently didn't stop him from committing the same evil over again?

But it is impossible to cut oneself away from all influence Maglor Feanorion has had on our music. And even keeping to the apolitical pieces, should we ignore the person of the artist? Does it help anything?

It's like the famous Fëanorian lamps debate all over again. Do we change the name since we're uncomfortable using it? Do we try to forget who was their creator - but is that even ethical, no matter what evil he wrought? Or is that maybe wrong? Maybe, if we use the lamps, we should be discomforted?

#I really don't know how to approach this

101 notes

👰🏼‍♀️celebrin following

So, we've arrived at the havens. I thank you all for the condolences, thoughts and prayers... I still don't know what to do from now on, but I guess maybe I can finally rest a bit. And mourn.

To all the people asking, yes, my husband and son are thankfully okay; this is the one silver lining. My son seems to have made a friend already...

#personal #gondolin

32 notes

🕊️queenelwing-unofficial

putting this under cut so I can delete this later, but please have a passionate rant about how a girl actually feels about receiving missives from the people who killed her parents.

#honestly why do they presume I might want to actually meet with them #though tbh now that the anger's worn of I'm mostly afraid #and of course my husband *has* to be gone right now... #I'll probably delete all this tomorrow but I couldn't help myself

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#a lot of personal stuff in this one...#//#my post #great tales #idril #fall of gondolin #elwing #maglor #noldolante #peoples of Beleriand #Tolkien #Silmarillion #unreality #in-universe texts #in-universe documents

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synthetickitsune · 1 year

Text

Vanishing Act ✧ y.jh

Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x gn!reader Genre: angst Summary: He's a coward. Knowing he's doing the right thing means little when he's doing it in the worst way possible - but it's the only way that Jeonghan's able to do it. Word count: 2.3k Warnings: abandonment, running away before the wedding A/N: On today's episode of why am i doing this to myself... ♫ Prásknu Bičem - Štěpán Kozub, Jiří Kohut ♫ What Could Have Been - Sting, Ray Chen

The morning mocks him.

Since when is it this bright this early?

Must be the ending spring. The season is slowly coming to an end and the blossoms fall, the colors step back to make room for the lively green. The animals will raise their young now.

He feels his heart in his throat. No, not his heart. More like a lump of something that's long since died and went cold. On a second thought, though, isn’t that what his heart is? Isn’t that what it feels like? Perhaps not entirely, but things would be easier if that was how it is.

His palms are sweaty, he's all sticky and disgusting with cold sweat. His own heartbeat is rushing in his ears. He can't hear anything. Everything he sees is a blur. Then again, that one is his own fault as he madly, almost hysterically keeps shaking his head and frantically looks around the room for anything that he could grab. Just one thing would be good enough.

He’d do anything to avoid looking at you but you’re all he can see.

The car will be here in about ten minutes.

He needs to get a move on, but then he would need to focus and all he can focus on is you - still fast asleep and unaware. Right up to the last moment.

He went to great lengths to ensure it would stay that way.

He knows it’s cruel. He hopes it will make you hate him enough to forget everything.

He spots the note on your bedside table. The pieces of paper torn from his journal; the couple pages that he wanted to fill with words but that ended up empty, safe for a pathetic i'm sorry.

His hand still itches to reach for the papers, for pen, to write and to explain. He doesn't let himself give in. He knows the words would continue to evade him even if he tried. It’d be impossible to write anything that would justify the annihilation he's about to cause if he was the greatest poet to ever live.

Asking for forgiveness would be pointless and the greatest sin.

He doesn’t want you to hate him. He truly doesn’t. But he sees no other way this could end, and he understands. He’s not stupid. So he doesn’t ask for you to forgive him, yet even just those three lonely words seem like cowardice.

Because he is a coward.

A pathetic, no good coward that can't even look at you.

He knows if he did he wouldn't see you - not only you.

He would see the venue.

The beautiful flowers you've spent weeks picking come to mind first. You’ve never fought, it was always you two having conversations and discussions that he wouldn't hesitate to call downright study sessions. It felt like going back in time to when you were students as you've set over books upon books on flower language. You both wanted the blossoms to be meaningful.

Going through the final list in his head now, he has to bite down on his own fist to avoid screaming, to muffle the choked and broken sob tearing itself from his throat.

There are so many eternities, confessions of the purest forms of love, hopes and promises - all of them now empty. Or that's how you will see them, and maybe that's for the best.

Looking at you, he would also see the simple yet elegant white decor of the venue. The white that will turn into the color of sadness that it is. He will never get to see it filled with guests. And you will never get to wear the beautiful surprise he has to see - that he won't get to see for he’s not a masochist enough to look into the other room where it lies hidden. He won’t do that to himself. Though he supposes if it’s white you’ve decided to wear, it still might, appropriately, serve function as a mourning gown.

Will you choose to hurt yourself more? Not on purpose. He knows you won’t be able to help your curiosity. You won’t resist the dread. There, of course, will be no reason to trust him anymore, or he might’ve added to the poor imitation of a goodbye letter to not look for him, to stay away from the venue altogether.

Why would you try to search for him, though? Isn’t his i’m sorry telling enough? Will you think he’s only teasing? He hopes not. He would never be so cruel as to joke about this. Even if he supposes it will look like this - your relationship, the next step you were supposed to take - was all a joke to him.

It wasn’t.

He wants you to know that, but he knows even if he tried telling you, you wouldn’t believe him. Not after what he’ll have done.

Every new thought feels like a punch to the gut and it makes him nearly double over. Will you walk down the aisle? Will you be crying? Of course you will, and it makes his heart shrivel up thinking about you looking for him, uselessly, with tears streaming down your cheeks. Will your parents be there? Will they hold you so you don't fall apart instead of guiding you forward to entrust you to him?

What will they think? Will they curse the man who hurt their baby? They should. They should curse him. Burn all the memories of him - the photos, gifts, all that he’s bound to forget or simply leave behind because he physically can't remove everything that’s his or that will remind you of him but oh, he would if he only could.

Your parents should finish the job if he can't. For once, they should ignore your cries and just do it.

Let him burn and turn to ashes for breaking your heart, for causing hurt so deep and irreparable that he knows you’ll never fully recover from it.

Jeonghan will carry the scar too, deep on his heart and soul.

How can he do this to you?

He can't think about it. He can't. He will lose his mind.

His fingers are pulling on the roots of his hair and he barely feels a thing even as some give way.

He’ll hurt you so bad.

He knows.

He wishes he didn't but he knows. He knows how much it will hurt. He’s suffering too, he’s hurting too.

But he has no right to hope for relief or to complain.

Knowing he's doing the right thing brings no comfort when he's doing it in the worst way possible. It's the only way he can do it, though.

He's been living in despair, he's driven himself crazy thinking about how to do this - how to hurt you as little as possible. There's no such way; nothing he can do to make this anything but destructive. And there's no other way to do it that he could pull off either. No other way he could go through with this without backing out.

How pathetic is he?

Sitting, collapsed, in the corner with both hands covering his mouth so that he doesn't wake you up, choking on his own sobs. He can't see through tears, and he has no right to, yet all he wants is to see you one final time.

He wants to see you so much. His heart can’t break any more.

He needs to see you.

Even though it means seeing all that will never come to be, all that he will regret not being able to give you.

Jeonghan knows what everyone is going to say about him - that he’s heartless, a sadist, and an asshole the world would be better off without.

He knows.

And they will all be right.

Then again, however, wouldn't the alternative be equally as cruel?

Because Jeonghan also knows that he could go through with the wedding. He could stay, he could live with you, could spend the rest of his life with you - and he’s helpless because he wants it so much it hurts.

He wants to keep waking up with you, he wants to keep coming home to you, wants to keep holding you, wants to feel your fingers in his hair.

He wants all of that, forever.

And perhaps that’s the problem.

No matter how much he wants it, he doesn’t feel it. Perhaps he just wants to be able to stay complacent in the life that seems like it’s been all laid out for him. The one route he could take and never have to worry again.

He wants it - for heaven’s sake he wants it so much, he wants it but it’s like he’s forcing himself to walk on burning embers. And that’s not what he wants. He wants it to be like before, for everything to flow naturally, not like he’s forcing it down his own throat only to satisfy everyone but himself.

He can do it for long enough, but he can’t do that for the rest of his life.

His heart breaks, and he breaks, and his damn tears won't stop so he could look at you.

He wants so much.

But Jeonghan is anything but selfish.

As cold as the nights without you will be, they won't be as bad as the dread and the sinking feeling in his stomach that he got every time you’d talk about the future.

He doesn’t know where it came from, nor is he sure when it started.

All he knows is that he can't give you what you want.

Maybe it's just that the concept of marriage, all that it’s supposed to mean and be, is putting too much pressure on him. Maybe he's just not ready.

He doesn't know - he wishes he did, he wants to know what's wrong so bad that it’s killing him. Because if he knew, then he could solve it. He could ask for more time to work it out but while he wants you, imagining the married life makes his heartbeat race in a way that makes him nauseous and his throat closes up. He panics so bad that he can’t feel his limbs and gets paralyzed. All he can think of is running away somewhere; somewhere home where he will be isolated from time and the world.

Perhaps it's just that he only loves the idea of ‘you’. Someone familiar, loving, safe.

When did it all go wrong?

He wants to go back to when his love for you was bright and warm, not anxiety- and nausea-inducing.

He tried to change how he feels but he is only a flawed, imperfect human and some things are just beyond his control. If he thought about it deeply enough, he could figure out the pieces and recreate the bigger picture of how it all came to this. He could, it’d be so easy - but he's not strong enough.

He can't do anything but swallow whimper after whimper because his vision finally focused for long enough to see you.

You, who’s still sleeping so peacefully, relaxed and happy and satisfied. You’re almost glowing. Will you be able to ever lit up like that again? In your dreams, you must be married to him already. He must avoid robbing you of that as well.

He’s already taken, taking, so much.

Watching you, the list gets longer and his eyes overflow again.

You've always talked about having a family.

Who's going to give it to you now?

It's nonsense but his eyes that are barely able to make out shapes through tears drift to the empty spot between your chest and your arm. A baby, a cat, a puppy - you’ve never decided properly - would fit there so nicely and snuggly. It would feel your warmth and the reassuring safety your embrace provides. He’d know.

It's just another thing he can't give you.

Another reason he needs to leave. To disappear.

You need to move on and forget him.

You need to hate him so much that you will make your life the best one out of pure spite.

He knows that's not how it works but he needs to pretend.

As the final act of self-preservation he needs to persuade himself you can be fine without him even if it will take a while.

And he truly wants to believe that.

He can’t live in a world where he broke you without any hope of you ever getting better.

His phone starts buzzing in his back pocket and he wipes his face furiously before grabbing his backpack and the couple bags he’s packed and bolting out the door without looking back. If he turns back to steal one last look, he knows he will stay and doom both of you.

He only allows himself a second to close the front door gingerly, leaning his forehead against the wood for another second.

He will miss the home you've had.

It was a good one - the best one he’s had, actually.

He doesn't meet Seungcheol’s or Joshua's eyes once he gets into the car.

It's obvious from the tense silence that greets him that they want to yell at him some more, try to make him talk to you about it like the one extra scolding would make a difference.

And to be perfectly honest Jeonghan isn't sure he could stand his ground in his current state - but that's precisely the reason why his friends keep their mouth shut.

They only share a concerned look.

For as tough and determined as Jeonghan seemed telling them about it and asking for their help - because he couldn't trust anyone with his life like he could these two - he is a mess now it all came to a head.

Seungcheol turns the key and starts the car without a word.

The engine roars to life and as they drive away, Jeonghan can see the window to your bedroom getting smaller and smaller, the sun reflected in it dying with each meter.

But that's okay.

Something inside him is dying too.

#seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen angst #jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan angst #svt scenarios #svt reactions #svt angst #fanfic #angst

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crescencestudio · 2 months

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๋࣭⭑ Devlog #39 | 3.27.24 ๋࣭⭑

Happy March!!

This devlog is going to be a bit shorter, but...... it's for Exciting Reasons that I will share later in the post. heh.....heh.....HEH.....

Let's jump in ^^

This month, writing was mostly dedicated to Etza's route! We have officially entered the Developmental Editing part of Etza's route, which is super exciting!!!

There were parts of Etza's route I wasn't completely satisfied with, so I spent a lot of this month tinkering, adding, fleshing out, editing, etc. for their route. I'm happier with it now compared to where it was when we entered this month, and especially with Wudgey's help, I'm excited for Etza to get the love they deserve!

I had a small, optional goal for myself to start Kuna'a's route, but honestly, I felt like between work with the Enhanced Demo, Etza's edits, and just generally feeling a bit tired after being Super Productive in January and February, I decided to give myself a break. That being said, I'm relatively confident I'll be getting started with Kuna'a's route next month, and I'm excited to dive into their route (and the Fae routes in general, teehee!).

Vui is on the very last of the BGs I need from him..... So I am in mourning.......

Kidding but not kidding. Vui has done an amazing job of putting the backgrounds for Alaris together! They're absolutely stunning, and by the time we get to the next devlog, he will have finished ALL of the BGs for Alaris! It's been about a year and a half in the making, which is kinda crazy to think we have been together for this long (and working on the full game for this long), but it's definitely A Moment.

In celebration of him reaching this milestone, I wanted to highlight some of the BGs he's made for the game! The theme is early morning; some of these BGs are in the demo, and some are in the full game hehe. You'll have to guess the context of the mysterious full game BGs :')

Sneak Peek: BG Showcase, morning strolls around the world of Alaris

I also thought it's been a while since I showcased a CG here. While I don't play on showcasing many of the full game CGs on public devlogs (I do show them on my Patreon!), I wanted to show a little snippet of this specific CG.

Why, you ask? Well, for the OGs, you might remember I showed a sketch of the CG during the Alaris Kickstarter---whenever the hell THAT THING happened.

I finished rendering it now that I got the BG for it, so I wanted to show a peek of that sketch that I showed oh-so-many-years ago.

Sneak Peek: Kayn Full Route CG I want to lick him

Generally for art progress, I've been working on CGs as well as some promotional materials, which I'll be getting to in the next section \o/

Now for the Exciting News!!!!

I have two bits of exciting news. The first is...

Sneak Peek: Selection Screen for Alpha/Beta Access (OUUUUGGGGGHHHHH)

I STARTED CODING KAYN'S ROUTE!!!! The first act is already "done" and ready for beta access. And I'm hoping to finish the other two acts within the next couple of weeks. It is crazy to finally be able to code some of the full game routes. Even if they're not at the "final version" or early access stage, it is Extremely Rewarding to finally experience the scripts I've been writing in the game!!! With the CGs.... Extended Screens..... Just seeing the script with visual assets and not just a Google Doc is SOOOOO FSEIKLFJSEILE

Sneak Peek: Chapter Character Cards (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

The second piece of Exciting News is that I have a release date for the Enhanced Demo. YEEEEAAAAAA. It's finally happening!!! Please stay tuned over the next couple of days...... An Exciting Announcement is on its way...................................

I didn't do much market research this month. If I'm being honest, I actually struggled a little bit this month with like...... burnout and workaholism guilt. I wanted to take a break after getting the demo ready for public release, but I just couldn't bring myself to fully rest. It felt like there was so much to do (not just with Alaris, but also with real world/work obligations) and all these looming deadlines was starting to get to me.

I'm hoping next month because I'll actually be Releasing the demo (oops, sneak peek of general release date teehee!), I'll be able to feel like I can take a break. But it also sucks a bit that I feel like I have to Earn It. I think with Alaris being a Kickstarter project, I want to get the game in your hands as soon as possible, but of course it's not to anyone's benefit if I burn myself out in the process and end up with either a worser project or taking even longer to finish it.

I did...... start Stardew Valley again since it is the ultimate dissociation/break game for me. So far it's been working! But we'll see how it continues <3

LOOK AT MY FARM!!!

Should I marry Sebastian or Elliot.

Anyways, hope you all have a great rest of your month, and I'll talk to you Very Soon with an Exciting Announcement! <3

#alaris #devlog

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zeephyre · 7 months

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CR3 EPISODE 78 SPOILERS

god. i love this fucking campaign. this one's gonna be long as shit.

despite how genuinely depressing this episode was, it also made me really giddy because i love hurt/comfort and there's no point of that if there's no hurt or angst.

im probably gonna go down the line with each member of bells hells, discussing what i can remember off the top of my head, i hope i don't forget anything in my rambles cause this was one of my FAVORITE episodes of the whole campaign and that's saying something.

i love ashton. i have loved ashton the most since the very beginning and for a lot of it i was really worried that ashton was deliberating running from opening up with bells hells while also going out of their way to have one-to-one convos with different members that were deep and insightful but never went as far as they needed to.

i am projecting a bit with analysis of ashton but taliesin does it best when rp'ing for ash and generally talking abt him in interviews. ashton reminds me of myself, which is not a compliment and is actually really terrible. ironically enough, ashton said the same thing abt fcg. i have spent a lot of time hurting myself by sabotaging the things i love, or embracing the worse parts of myself simply because it's become habit. there's always going to be a piece of you that finds the sadness, anger, guilt, emptiness, whatever -- comforting because it's all you've known.

ashton mourns a life that he never lived. i find myself mourning versions of myself that i would hate but still...yearn for them like an itch or an ache that comes from hurt. ashton wanted their family back, in whatever desperate, corrupted way he felt he should have done it, and hearing how he described feeling like he looked past the cautionary tale simply because he thought the pain they caused him should have meant something else made me think of imogen.

beautiful, sweet, powerful, dangerous, sad imogen temult. i won't comment on how everyone berated ashton because that's not really surprising nor was anything imogen said or did pertaining to ash shocking whatsoever. but... there's smth abt the destruction that ashton did to feel close to the idea of a family that doesn't really exist that just parallels so well with the fight that imogen has been undergoing since childhood. against the red storm, now against the call of ruidus, and the temptation and attachment she felt and still feels to her mother, despite everything liliana has done that jeopardizes everything imogen is fighting for.

abandoned by her mother, shunned by her own town, ignored and feared by her father.

going back to ashton again, there's smth to be said abt the guilt and shame that comes from making horrible choices that put yourself and the ppl you love in danger that forever changes the way they perceive you. I've done it. i had to fight to make things better. it can't be enough to love someone enough that would die for them, you have to fight to stay alive. if not even for yourself, for THEM.

i know it can be unhealthy to rely on others so much, but it's certainly not easy to fight for yourself when the foundation isn't there. learning how to love without throwing yourself on a blade is more important than self sufficiency. that comes afterwards.

i...don't like laudna's reliance on delilah briarwood this episode. i... there's smth very ironic about laudna being worried abt ashton's betrayal and the way he hurt her and the others with his deception and selfishness, coupled with my understanding of the absolute fucking insane, borderline stupid danger of even SPEAKING to delilah briarwood, let alone working WITH her.

i think it's hypocritical, but i don't feel any animosity towards laudna. just..sadness. delilah is a parasite. a disgusting, cruel, evil bitch who wants laudna to be... that weak little girl easily crushed under her thumb. she may preach abt laudna's latent power and potential, but laudna won't serve her purpose if she TRULY gains the strength to cast delilah aside forever. i don't think delilah was telling the truth abt their fates last episode, and that's why i so deeply want laudna to toss aside that defeatist mindset that has only gotten worse since episode one. maybe im wrong, maybe delilah was actually being genuine.

i kept watching imogens/laura's face during laudna's moments speaking with delilah alone, and it just made me sad because she didn't need to be alone. she had imogen, but she still felt the need to run and hide away. god i just want her to be happy.

i really liked the doll she made for ashton, even though delilah made it really creepy for no reason, the dramatic cunt she is. her assessment of ashton as being a child may seem rude or even a projection but to me it's the truth. ashton has not grown past his childhood. past abandonment and pain and mistrust and love that never lasts and always hurts. that shit followed them to adulthood and anyone who has any number of mental illnesses and childhood trauma will tell you that it's so easy to feel yourself stuck as a reactive, stubborn, bitter little kid trapped in a shitty cycle of pain. both ashton and laudna this episode felt like they were both broken, sad children interacting. laudna clinging to comfort from delilah, hiding away, mentally reverting to the person she was the last time she was in whitestone. ashton, clinging to his lost childhood and the acceptance of laudna's doll, the admittance that they'd never had a doll before. god... they're so sad, im gonna scream.

fcg apologizing for forcing faith down ashtons throat was sweet and so was ashton apologizing for being so bitter abt fcg's faith. now i just need fcg to apologize for the multiple instances where he put laudna in danger by casting turn undead with no acknowledgement of laudna afterwards.

fcg saying that ashton didn't love anyone or care about anyone hurt me a bit, because while i understood why they were saying those things, it was so... obviously untrue. before all of this, ashton has shown again and again and again how much he loves bells hells, and especially fcg. i know that ashton almost dying over smth so arrogant, desperate and foolish would make anyone question what someone's idea of "love" is, but still. it stung. maybe because i have been there. i know what it's like to be doubted and mistrusted because you ruined smth good callously and carelessly.

chetney... chetney really loves fearne. i don't care if y'all don't get it or if y'all still think chet is some joke character with no substance, I never understood that shit and i simply never will. chet and fearne probably have the best relationship in all of bells' hells -- and yes, that includes imogen and laudna because god knows those two have shit brewing under the surface that needs to be HANDLED, i.e: laudna being defeatist abt their relationship even tho it's barely begun.

chetney's a good man. him going after fearne was the best choice and im glad he gave her a couple laughs before she went off to wander. he cares about her so much, and he BELIEVES in her so much, and i love them. i LOVED the way he went in on ashton. hurting fearne by making a shitty decision and letting her bear the burden of watching ashton die right in front of her was... bad. it is very complicated but, that's pretty cut and dry.

i like him testing ashton again and again. telling him to leave but also being glad they chose to be brave and stay, and face the consequences of their actions. attacking ashton to see what all of any of that shit was even for. (im a little bummed that the shard didn't fully wake up yet but...i love the suspense im just impatient).

FEARNE. CALLOWAY. i love fearne, and i love the breakdown during the first part of the episode. it was such a raw moment and it established the tone of the episode so quickly. im glad that fearne knows that while ashton fucked up royally, her rejecting of the shard and complacence in ashton's plans was also royally stupid. i don't think her being terrified of taking the shard is bad or stupid, it's actually one of my favorite fearne character choices. no one ever actually asked her WHY she didn't want it, and when she said she didn't want it, it was still decided by the hells that the shard would go to fearne. (they're very shit at communication, poor babies). im happy that she specifically clarified that ashton did not threaten or manipulate her (plus he gave her many opportunities to not be involved with his bullshit if it made her uncomfy so im hoping the insane critters who keep treating ashton like some evil, predatory person finally stfu).

fearne being so scared of a version of herself that was sad, lonely, and "evil" to the point that she chose to believe that it was ashton's destiny to take in both shards is so... so rich. i hope she talks about that more in the next episode because i don't think she's EVER brought it up since exu. i don't think the shard would change fearne's personality but god the fact that SHE is so afraid of herself and what she's capable of.... AHHHH. love this damn party.

i hope liam knows that expect really painful roleplaying from him when he comes back cause i really do need ashton and orym interactions like i need air.

the choice to go to the fey realm was brilliant and i missed nana morri so it's a win for me. bells hells COULD have done what they've been doing for a while now, which is ignoring the pain they're all feeling and pushing forward, but ashton doing what they did was the straw that broke the camel's back and im GLAD because i have been begging them all to have real conversations with each other that don't get cut short prematurely for whatever reason.

i do hope that they do really lean into the self care aspect involving therapy and talking through their issues with ALL of the members present or even in groups, and it isn't just fun and games. they're prone to distraction. i love my little guys.

:( two weeks without bells hells. is it thursday, yet???

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midnightanxietytm · 4 days

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Magnum Opus

a/n: Baaah... Anyways. I've been chewing on the idea of a swap au too, would yall like that?

Summary: In which Narinder is a prodigy from a family of artists, famous for his marble sculptures portraying death, but he decides to try something new...

word count: 981

“There’s something so mournful about his recent pieces…”

“Well of course, they are all about death.”

“I know that, silly, but the previous ones felt more like an exploration of violence, like a scream of rage. This one, for example, just feels like…Like silent tears, like visiting a grave.”

“Hm… I think I see it…”

He tunes out the conversation, for his own good, after that.

Narinder knows something has changed about his art, and it infuriates him. A few months ago he had his worst artist block so far, something so devastating he even considered trying his youngest brother Leshy’s erratic approach and simply hit his marble as hard as he could like Leshy did with his canvases.

But before he did, he had a breakthrough; he woke up in the middle of the night, ran to his studio like a madman and feverishly started to sketch a new piece, then another, and another, until he drew half an exposition in under a week, bareilly eating, drinking or sleeping in between each sketch and another, just to make sure it would all be perfect before he even laid a mallet on the stone.

Then he worked tirelessly for almost two years, and alas, he made his new exhibition…

But it still wasn’t perfect.

The critics were right, something had changed in his tone. He always had a preference for putting a focus on death, his first ever exposition had been an installation in which red stained glass was arranged so when the lights came on, the viewer would look like they were splotched with blood. Looking back on it, it was too pretentious for his current taste, but it was a good first, something that set him apart in the scene; it screamed; I am here, I am death, I am violent. It was his branding.

That’s why his current viewers spotted the difference so quickly. Marble had been his medium for years now, death had been his main theme for even longer, yet he never managed to sculpt such sorrowful expressions; he had made pain before, agony, anger, but he never managed to convey such emptiness before. It should be a feat, should be an accomplishment to be celebrated with one of Heket’s famous dinners.

But it’s not what he wanted.

Shamura always told him that his need for perfection could be his downfall, bold talk from someone whose style of choice was photorealism. He had ignored their advice, but now Narinder could feel another block coming.

“I told you so…” It’s what Shamura says when he goes to them for a debrief of the exposition. They pour him some tea anyway, and Narinder sits down at the neat table of their studio.

“I know…” He rolls his eyes. “Can you say something else at least?”

“I think you should rest from the pressure. Don’t make an exposition this year, nor the next one, only make something if it’s for you, and you only.” They say to him with a smile, and Narinder sighed again.

“Something for myself…” He mutters, staring at his sketchbook. Narinder had been born in art, by the time he was ten, Shamura was already a big name and Kallamar was well on his way too, and he had always been a creative child, especially encouraged by Shamura.

But his first piece was put out when he was just eighteen, and he had been putting on expositions since then, so how long was it since he did something that was just his? The page in front of him is dreadfully empty.

Maybe he would make something peaceful, this time…

A lamb, so unlike him…

Closed eyes, tender smile…

No, no not that, scratch it, throw it away.

Open eyes, dilated pupils, yes, that’s better…

Mouth starting to curl up, but they aren’t smiling yet.

Laid down on their side, arm under their head, nude-

No, not nude… Light robes, almost sheer ones, fit for mid-spring, fit for basking under the sun.

A sketch is born. And from there, Narinder knows he can rest, he closes his sketchbook and goes to sleep. This one is his, there’s no need to rush.

Narinder starts with a bust, before he starts on the final piece.

He wants to get the face right, wants to capture that lovely face in just the right expression… People say the mind can’t come up with faces it hasn’t seen before, and Narinder wonders as he carefully carves their beautiful visage, where he had ever seen such features, he wondered if he would even manage to capture it; they had such a complexity to their expressions; a softness that covers such mysteries, such loving eyes, yet filled with both rage and sadness, were they a mirror of his own? Or were they a better version of him? Maybe they were nothing like him at all, but instead what he desired most.

The bust is made during a month and a half of almost meditative work; he works slowly, he struggles to get the texture of their wool right, takes him almost a week, but he managed to come up with something, and he’s satisfied with it as it frames that beautiful face, curling in the softest way.

But finally, he goes to sleep that night knowing he’s one step closer to perfection.

And he dreams.

“My my!” Exclaims the melodious voice in his head, sounding delighted. “It’s been so long…” A figure steps out of the fog in his mind, Narinder still feels incorporeal, floating, but he still feels himself purr as The Lamb looks at him with loving eyes. “I was right to bless you, all those years ago, you probably don’t even remember…” They chuckle, and Narinder doesn’t even really care for remembering, just now is perfect, they are perfect. “Oh! You’re already waking up?! Don’t worry, I’ll visit you soon…”

a/n: I was planning to make this longer but i didn't really know how to take it further. Nari is just whipped and he's an artist. Couldn't be me lmao

edit b4 I sleep: just realized thats just about godspousal lol. I sneaked witchcraft in my fic and didn't even notice till it was posted

#midnight writes #cult of the lamb #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #narilamb #taking requests #asks open #cotl shamura #mentioned bishops #might crosspost #H O T T O G O #you can take me hot to go #baaah #sorry its well past midnight

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