MORCANT ELDRITCH NOTT — The Chain-breaker

ꕥ The Addams Family ꕥ ➛ 2.14 - "Morticia's Dilemma"

“Champagne and fur slow dancing at French parties. Money and affairs at cocktail dinners. Smoking cigarettes and laughing in vain cause kings and queens never hurt, they say. Pretty eyes and mouths full of regrets, drinking red wine since the age of 14, cause wine is thicker than blood, and gold coins are running through their veins. Parents travel to Monaco for the honeymoon, only to get a divorce. Poor friends with nothing but money and dope. Call your hot wealthy boyfriend; tell him that you’ve fallen in love with someone too vulgar for your demons to drink a glass of liquor with. Work, bitches work, you shout as if you’ve chew your own gold by yourself. Red dresses and black suits dancing with depression and dying for attention. Oh my baby, with all your money, you couldn’t even buy yourself a soul. And now you pay all the artists in the world to write you a soul. Here you go darling; this poem is your soul.”

— We Call Them The Elite by Royla Asghar (via poems-of-madness)

Jonah Hauer-King | Vanity Fair Awards Insider in Cannes, France | May 22, 2024 | 🎥 Glambygeorgiag

who: morcant and bryrony @bryonyparkinsons where: conservatory, nott manor

"You know my mother loves you, right? Lady Astrid Nott definitely would be here, if she could." Morcant commented to his friend, after both of them settled in the comfortable french Bergère chairs. Between them, a matching table completed the set, with a porcelain tea set and little appetizers. "Things could be better, I guess. Father is being stubborn and choleric, but that's not news to anyone that knows him. Yes, I'm still unmarried, as I'm constantly reminded." He snorted, in a rare showcase of ungentlemanly, and sipped his steaming cup of tea. "How about you?"

The Flatshare (2022).

MORCANT'S POV UNDER THE CUT -- (i'm considering it's his first fiancée, not bryrony!)

How pathetic was he, again? Morcant was supposed to be happy for Valerian. It was his best friend's engagement party, he was going to be the best man. The best man at his best friend's wedding.

The man Morcant had been in love with for years.

But the worst part? That wasn't even the reason why Morcant was sad about the whole thing, no. He already came to terms that he can't be in a relationship with Valerian, that his best friend didn't like him back and it was impossible. So no, he wasn't devastated for the whole unrequited love situation.

He was devastated because Valerian looked miserable.

Maybe he could try to fool someone else, but not Morcant. The way his eyes danced across the room, as if looking for a way out, somewhere to run. His hands resting on the abs Morcant knew he had, but not for any biblical reason, but because he was the best friend. It was like Valerian was trying his best not to puke.

It wasn't obvious, it was just... Morcant knew Valerian more than anyone else.

From his bed hair in the morning, to the way his bright eyes narrowed when he was sarcastic, to the shape of his lips when he said Morcant's name. He knew everything. Or so he thought.

He wasn't stupid, his best friend wasn't getting married for a burning love towards his wife. It was duty. But, still... Why was he looking that miserable? Did something else happened?

Morcant wanted to cradle the Parkinson's face in his hands, caress his cheekbone with his thumb and feel the warmth of his forehead against his lips. Oh Merlin, it felt like a punch in his gut.

"Of couse I'm going to be the best man, are you kidding? They look great together." Morcant replied to the other person, as if his gut wasn't tearing itself into shreds.

And he was good at it. Acting like his heart didn't belong to Valerian, like he didn't want to press him against the wall and show him the filthiest sounds a body could make.

Morcant was the best at lying through his teeth. He even lied to himself.

for valerian: what is something or someone you know you can't afford to lose? how far are you willing to go to make sure you don't lose it/them?

Valerian had drunk too much, but he didn't think he could be blamed for that. It was a party after all, his own engagement party. He was allowed to celebrate. It was definitely the alcohol that made him sick to his stomach, not the thought of marrying this woman. They'd been together for years, why would the thought of the engagement make him feel like he wanted to run, and then keep running, until no one could find him.

His eyes drifted, not for the first time, to the other end of the room. He had never been good at keeping his eyes off his best friend. They sought him out against his will. It was easy between them, with a look he would know, know if both of them were engaged in mind numbing, banal conversation, or if one needed rescuing from an overbearing relative. The worst times were when he didn't look back. When Valerian was left to wonder what the person had said to capture his attention, if this would be the one to steal him away. It was so easy, in those moments, to imagine pulling the other into a side room. Whispering all the unspoken things, demanding his attention and more. But then more images followed, of rejection, of things going horribly wrong, of Valerian left alone, without the only person who knew how to care about. Those images terrified him far more than simply allowing things to remain as they were. Someone approached Valerian from behind, evidently having noticed his mood. "Everything ok?" They asked, a hand settling on his shoulder. "Yeah man, I'm fine."

morc: how would you metaphorically describe your life and the journey(s) you've been on?

Barty Crouch Jr. was a small gift life dropped on his lap when things got hard. Not that Morcant was particularly deserving of it, he wasn't. And he knew that. Morcant was selfish, arrogant, greedy, evil, truly individualistic and filled with hubris. He was a liar, and he thought he was better than most people. He was the byproduct of centuries of sludge and madness, and that was fine with him, because at least he didn't appear to be as insane as he felt inside. If his life was a journey, Morcant was getting the shortcut with a smile and a picnic basket. Not because he deserved, but because he was the best kind of cheater there was. And it was okay, because Barty didn't really mind that about him. They were one and the same. Two fucking bastards in a single bastard picnic basket. It happed on a friday night, during one of the underground masked parties Alecto hosted at Delirium. Mouths touched, bodies hotly against each other and suppressed moans so nobody would hear. Things escaled to a level Morcant couldn't believe, and now, three weeks later, they lied together in Barty's flat. In Barty's bed.

"It's like you showed up in the right time, you know. Teeth baring, bright eyed and a fuck everybody attitude." Morcant whispered, fingers threading Barty's hair, short strands tickling his hand and giving him chills. "You deserve the world, Barty. I know you don't believe me, and that's okay, I don't believe I deserve anything good either. But I need you to know." Morcant got lost in Barty's sad eyes, his dark eyebags drawing him closer in a way that two magnets didn't normally attract each other. He could see himself in the way Barty screamed about his father, all the anger and resentment building up inside. When the Crouch boy appeared vulnerable with Morcant, unlike the invulnerable wall of attitude he gave most people... It drove Morcant to start petty fights with Crouch Sr. for no reason, feeding the enmity between the aurors and the unspeakables. "Everything is shit right now, so at least we're together here. Whatever you need, I'll be there, no questions asked." If Morcant ended up dying, he would send Barty a letter telling him to be happy, because that would make his father miserable. @bcrtiesjr

OOC MESSAGE —

tiny hiatus from today (jan 30) to saturday (feb 1) hi folks! in the specific dates, im doing a course that is gonna take the entire day. it’s about finances, so it’s gonna be very demanding. hence, i won’t be as active and won’t be able to do my replies or reply on my dms. i’ll be back to my normal shenanigans on monday (since i’ll probably sleep the entire day on sunday). that said, you’re getting rid of me for the weekend 😝 but i’ll miss u all!!

is there anyone in your life you wish you had a better relationship with? if so, how come? what makes this person important to you?

Morcant was pathetic. Sobbing like that, just because his daddy sent him a letter in his birthday, telling he was a disappointment and that he didn't need to come back for the holidays. It was his fourteen year old birthday, he would never forget it. How Elowen hugged him as he sobbed, hidden from everyone else between Hogwart's endless bookshelves. "I hate him so much, El. I hate him, why did he have to do this? I hate him. Why can't he love us? What did we do wrong? Why am I such a disappointment?" Nobody would understand but his sister, the bittersweet feeling. Satisfaction for screaming at his father, resentment for never quite getting over it. Glad about his mother's interference so things didn't escalate, miserable because she didn't move a finger to make things better. "Merlin, I hate him so much. Someday I'm gonna be so much better than him, and he's gonna choke. He won't be able to handle it and anger will consume him. Merlin, I hope he dies. I'm not sorry, I'm not. I know it makes me a bad person, but I don't care." Morcant has always been the best kind of liar. He even lies to himself. @nobelandloved

𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑭-𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨 𝑰. the aftermath is secondary (but it always comes)

All you do is scream inside, boy. Where's your goddamn courage?

"You are nothing more than a senile old man, dragging the family name through the mud." You sneer, handsome features become scarlet, because that vein in your neck pumps blood that is trying to escape and stain your hands, and you're desperate to be anything but your father.

"Our lineage? It's cursed, almost as bad as the Black family." You judge, like entitlement isn't also a curse or a language that you speak fluently, like your high horse couldn't topple you and all your little machineries.

"We are the byproduct of centuries of inbreeding, father. If you think we cannot get much worse than that, you have another thing coming." You rage, self-hatred running rampant in your veins like your hounds from hell race through the Nott Grounds at night, desperate to rip off arms of intruders.

Nobody but your mother and sister know about the screaming matches you have with your father. Acting like two savages, vocal chords echoing through corridors silenced by Perpetual Vows for thousands of years. It's not about what he's doing, it's the fact that you could do better.

You could do better, and that kills you inside. Because you just can't wait, can you? You cannot wait for your time to shine and get your grubby little hands on the family crown. Your thirst for power seeping from each pore, glinting in your green eyes and hiding in the shadows of your boyish face. You're too young to be the leader, and you're too old to be dismissed as unthreatening, so now you're left to your own resources.

And your argument is based on a fragile foundation, made of cracked stone that is being kept together by hardened gold. It's not a lie, no. But that's not entirely the truth either. You've never been too good at those anyway.

Well, you're made of mead, boy.

The drink of the gods: a result of fermented honey, and fermenting is just another word for rotting. You're rotten honey. Sweet, but acid. You get drunk on your own hubris.

If you need to tell yourself that your father is supporting an outsider, forgetting about your traditions... So, be it. Tell yourself that.

You can be a drunk, yes, not stupid. There's a thought snaking through the crevices of your brain, balancing doubt in the tiny point of a sharp knife.

Should you support? Or should you not?

It's a growing obsession that's been corrupting your fragile ego for years. Should you support the opposite side just to antagonize? Or should you join and prove yourself to be a much better follower than your own old man?

It's not about what's right, of course not. Why would it be? The thought doesn't even cross your mind, yet.

But you don't want to be made of a fool either, so you ask yourself who is even this Voldemort fellow. After all, if he were from a pureblood family, you would have heard about his folks sooner.

Every pureblood can trace their lineage, registered on family trees and parchments with Dark Magic older than most houses. You would have seen him in any of the dusty tapestries, would have seen portraits of his grandparents painted and showcased on oppulent walls of your friend's manors.

You ask yourself who are his parents, his ancestors. They are so worried about pureblood supremacy, but are they even making the right questions? Or any question at all?

Are you the fool? Are you the only one who can't see it? Are you making the right choice? You couldn't be. For that, you would have to make a choice, and your choice was not even choosing at all.

The aftermath of the festival prodded the knife into your skin, balancing a fragile position. You know you will have to make a decision soon. Avoiding can only be done to a certain point, and the aftermath can be secondary, but it always comes. It's a snake blackening your skin or a stain blackening your face in the tapestry.

Voldemort is just means to an end for the pureblood society. A leader and a scapegoat. He is merely saying what other people have thought for years, making waves and decisions for those who are too coward.

People like you. Who are greedy, and ambitious, and too comfortable in their thrones like a god licks drops of ambrosia running between their fingers.

All you do is scream inside, boy. What is your choice?