#its written for me

[disproportionatelysculpting]

I have many memories flooding in me, nostalgia has it's grip around my neck.

From that summer days lying on the floor with my cousin and falling asleep, to going to my favorite park, traffic park in Nagpur with dad and trying to reach the sky on swing to playing with a girl who became my bestie in a day or two who told me that when plane crosses from your house, don't go on roof or they will give you a rose and kidnap you and so many more insane lies, to visiting my neighbors house and watching om shanti om for first time on that bhaiya's pc to going to restaurant, Rasoighar, the name of the place, as a prize on getting good marks. I remember being enchanted by the lights there and the simple decoration that felt like wonderland to me back them. I remember feeling happy.

From sitting in train on summer vacation waiting to reach my nani's house, playing silly games with my sisters, sacrificing my eyebrows to be done with a rubber band because my sister learned that from her friend, to sharing lotte choco pie chopped into little quadrants in whole family because it was new to market and dad bought one pack with family of 9 kids and many more adults, to the time I slipped and wounded my pinky toe because me and my sister thought it would be nice idea to slip on soap floor while bathing and the cows my nani took care of, the garden was green for most times, my nana's hobby. I remember feeling home.

From watching the carpet of Parijat each morning of springs with dad while I waited to be picked up for school, to that embarrassing memory of me running in school during lunch because my parents visited school and I wanted to look cool, to all the didis and friends in my auto and that one time driver uncle treated us with popsticks, and I stained all of my shirt and skirt with it, to the colony where we waited for other students and the koyal's voices singing early morning, to the boy I danced with for school programs, to playing with all those forgotten faces and nameless humans with crayon shreds and sharpeners. But I remember I was smiling noticing things.

From chopping my hair and throwing out of balcony, front side of the apartment that too, to visiting the house beside ours that looked like a mansion to me back then, to that aunty putting mishri mala around me on Holi to stealing unripe mangoes from the trees from a neighbor's house, to going to my mausi's apartment and all those unfamiliar alleys and roads.

From the weird chaos on my birthdays to the times my dad fed me each day and how I threw a hand on dad and one on mum while sleeping to show I loved them equally while sleeping, to being recorded dancing by my dad while my mum singed the songs and I danced around and sitting on the walls watching Ganesh visharjan with nani and eating ice cream because I got my teeth removed that day from by a dentist and to the time I was left at my dad's friend house and all the fun I had with his daughters.

There are so many more I didn't wrote but those times were so nice, some were not, but most were, or they seemed. Because

From being beaten by my mother over something silly and told to sit out of house on stairs for hours until I said sorry, to my dad putting pencils in between my fingers each time I made mistake in maths, to getting scolded because I couldn't cycle properly when I was learning it to that friend's father death, I saw his dead body in coffin and people crying, I was crying in my room later, I didn't know why back then , I was a kid, death was a foreign concept, to the countless time I fell and broke my knees and lips and burnt my hand, to that night my dad was watching a robbery documentary and I had a nightmare of being kidnapped while I was sleeping in same way, to being told how house was more peaceful when I wasn't there, and that feeling of jealousy for my unborn sibling because I was scared I will lose the love I had. I remember feeling ridiculed by my mother over simple things I thought was love.

Now that I think everything seems made up, or just unreal. Do other people remember it all? was all of this only special to me? were the smiles other gave me real? because I remember it all, the happiness I felt as a kid in this little things, how life was just simply colored and some things have left such a deep memory in me, they resurface once in a while drowning me in memories I want to relive. Those 2 and a half year of my life seems the only happy period I had in constant, ever since then I have had happy moments but not a happy period of life. I wish it didn't lose it colors and every feeling stayed the same. But is that past even same as I remember? would it have been different if we never moved here, if I didn't turn out like this? If my family didn't got more problems added? would things be different if my life like the memories never changed? I am mourning the life I lives and grieving the lost potential, but is there any way that went back and stayed same?

[lemongogo]

life of regret

[mithrun-house-of-kerensil]

It made me so emotional the kindness the party treated Thistle with again and again throughout the story. Laios never wanted to hurt him even though he, in a way, took Laios's sister from him. Marcille wanted to talk to Thistle about magic even as he attacked them. Laios could have killed him but he chose to reason with him even as Thostle resisted. The party didn't abandon his body when he got eaten, they tucked him into bed like he was just sleeping. Yaad went back for his body so he wasn't left in the rumble. Laios, in the middle of the celebrations, went to check on him in hopes he would get his desires back the way Mithrun discovered he could. Oh the love in the world!!! The narrative that anyone can be taken advantage when alone and the only way to help is kindness and care!!!

To eat is to live but to eat together is to be loved.

[raisinchallah]

why isnt anybody properly repressed in modern fiction like repression has been a staple of human creativity since the dawn of time but tbh i think we have been seeing a steep decrease in severely repressed fictional characters since the 80s not sure what we are going to do about it are we suddenly all too good for repression or something personally i love repression

[papanowo]

i think dan should get to be a little weird too. as a treat

[aerequets]

Setting aside his food, Twilight slowly knelt on the floor, ignoring the pain of his injuries, and wrapped his arms around the large dog. Bond held still as his master buried his face in his fur, his heartbeat strong and steady in contrast with the sudden trembling that had overtaken the man’s form.

this is from chapter 4 of @cantareincminor 's amazing fic Orpheus! I feel like with autumn approaching (on my side of the world at least lol) the weather is getting perfect for reading, so you can tuck yourself in all nice and cozy and read this fic because it's nice and long >:) Thank you for the commission and happy belated birthday, Cantare!

[wild-flowerhoney]

jegulus might not be canon but have you considered that canon sucks

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

ITS THREE AM AND YOU KNOW WHAT THIS CANNOT KILL ME IN A WAY THAT MATTERS COMMISSION NEEDS????

S PI R A L S

[obsob]

oooooooooough i love you i love you i love you!!!! hand in loving hand !!!!!!

[pricetagged]

Idk how to label this. Wifehunter John?

The idea of possessive/obsessive John manipulating a situation and stealing a wife for himself struck me, so just coughing the idea up while I sneak away for a coffee before I actually have to start work in 20 mins 💖 entirely unedited, abrupt ending

________

For someone married to his job, he has put quite a bit of thought into what he is looking for in a wife. Namely, that she's already married.

His reasoning is threefold. He can admit to himself, firstly, that it satisfies his need for control. Competency. He's a busy man with a demanding job. Not quite retired yet, no time to build his own from scratch. With this, he gets a wife boxed up and ready-trained. Broken in.

Secondly, the need for control bleeds into his saviour complex. She'll need a shoulder to cry on, someone strong and capable to get her back on her feet. She'll be feeling a little fragile. Needy. Perfect.

And thirdly, it does something wild to his jealous, possessive streak. The idea of taking something precious, of breaking her bond to another man and tying it to him? Delicious. The idea that she used to be someone else's, that he has to imprint himself onto her knowing that in doing so he is erasing the imprint of another man? It has his teeth aching, grinding even as heat rises in his belly. Stirs at him.

The idea swirls lazily in the back of his mind, never quite finding the right time or right partner. He bats at it a few times, lazy cat playing with the notion, seeing how far it can stretch before it snaps. Eyes up pretty things everywhere he goes, glancing down at their left hands just to check, but nothing quite tugs on that string. Until one day it does when he's outfitting the security system at your house.

It's side work. Cash in hand, word of mouth. Something to keep him busy when on mandated leave. Something to keep in mind as his retirement from active duty creeps closer. And your husband is a real piece of work, all blustering braggadocio energy. Young buck, not knowing his place in the herd. Not knowing that he'd be better scratching his antlers off on a tree than going head-to-head with a gristled thing like John.

It's like John's energy, his presence in the house, sends alarm bells ringing in your husband's mind (Be the man. Don't back down. Puff up your chest and strut). And it plays so perfectly into John's hands because your young buck doesn't realise that what he's really doing is fawning. To John. (Look at me, be impressed by me!) He makes his biggest mistake in putting you down in front of him, trying to sidle up to John and create some kind of desperate camaraderie. Ordering you to bring tea to the men at work. Rolling his eyes at your attempts to talk, to ask questions about the work being done. Waving you off so he can stand and watch the proceedings. Like he could supervise. Like he has any clue what he's doing.

Only the promise of the long game keeps John from levelling him with a hard look, from calling him outblike he'd love to.

He hears you both in the in the other room, having swatted the young buck off like a particularly virulent pest. Noisy and bothersome. Not needed - or wanted- in this home. And entirely too stupid to realise that John wasn't being jocular in his dismissal.

You've been scribbling away for the past few days, something occupying your time, keeping you happy and hidden away in the kitchen.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well, yes," he hears the slight quaver in your voice before you find your footing. You've got at least a bit of spine. Good. "You said that I should find an occupation. Not just 'laze around the house playing housewife'. This is what I-"

"Oh come on, I didn't mean- You don't think that this is viable, do you?"

"Well... I love gardening. And I'm good at it. And there's no reason that it can't be more accessible for people, especially with the current economic-"

He cuts you off with a scoff. "Dear, just- I don't want you to be disappointed. I think you don't quite understand the time and effort this will take. And you know nothing of marketing, publishing. Why don't you put that away and start on dinner?"

And oh, isn't that delicious. He can taste it now, that idea that has been swirling. It's thick, almost tangible on his tongue. The tension in the house, the bitter lacryma of stifled tears. The slight acidity of words you left unsaid. It has his mouth watering, pupils dilating.

And when he's packing up that evening, tools and materials tucked in to the heavy workman's case, he swings by the kitchen on his way out. Catches the way something is jutting out slightly from the bin, lid slightly askew. When he pulls it out he realises it's some kind of notebook, carefully (lovingly) bound. Pictures pasted, mindmaps and notes and plans scribbled in the margins. Your gardening tips. Kitchen scraps, window boxes, rooftop plots. Urban gardening. It's deeply thoughtful, well researched.

A labour of love, lying in the rubbish.

Sweet, clever little thing. That just won't do.

He leaves your house with a little piece of you tucked away in his toolkit and a nice plan forming. He'll be back, of course, not quite finished with his work. He'd planted a few little links into the system he'd almost installed, projecting not just to the monitor in your home but also in his. Got to keep his eyes on you, keep you safe and cared for in ways that your useless husband can't.

Finding that book was a boon. He'd say it was divinely ordained if he believed in all that. It weighs heavy in his toolbox as he whistles out the door.

Now, how to get you alone and return it to you..

________________

This idea may have been done before? I'm not sure, sorry! I've seen a lot of possessive John floating around. Tagging @stellewriites because I said I would last time, and you've been so encouraging of my nonsense.

Anyway I've got like 4 long-form WIPs that I'm working on, so I may never actually write this one but thought I'd share since that image set I just reblogged made me feral 💖

[gncrezan]

sorry i can't actually stop thinking or posting about auggy they just have that effect (and also some twitter memes!)

[k1tty5]

another design for the au i’m working on (cough cough thinking about)

[ramblingguy54]

If there was any moment that made me cry most, it would be this one.

[morningsaidthemoon]

Excerpt from The Song of Roland, translated by Norma Lorre Goodrich (Medieval Myths)

[remcadll]

Wow crazy how it’s been two months since mha ended. what the hell was that btw

[orpheuslament]

isnt it amazing we live in a world where theres poetry. why is nobody else going insane about it