Category: Uncategorized

not a fanfic

It starts when they find a body with your face.

“It’s not genetic,” the doctor tells you, his electric blue eyes fixed on you. You can hear a faint ticking sound coming from somewhere nearby. “She wasn’t born with that face,” he says, as if that should comfort you. You slouch on an uncomfortable chair, feeling hollow and empty like your insides are nothing but grey dust and ash.

“Plastic surgery,” is what the doctor tells you next. “Whoever did this gave her your face first. Let her heal. I see she has your body shape too.”

“She looked like me when she was killed,” you say. You want to say more, but words evade you. You should be scared, but it’s hard for you to care. You think of home, of locking the door behind you and surrounding yourself in the silence you adore.

“The eyes are different,” the doctor continues, as if you want to know. “Maybe that’s what it is. That’s what killed her. Whoever killed her – the agents say it’s a man – wanted her to look like you, but the eyes gave her away.”

You remain silent. You don’t want to speak anymore. Opening your mouth and saying any of the fleeting thoughts inside your head seems like far too much trouble to be worth it. You just want this to be over.

“They’re worried, of course,” the doctor says, leaning back. His mechanic leg hits the corner of his chair with a loud clang, and he visibly cringes. “I don’t think you need to be worried, though,” he continued after a moment. “I mean, maybe if they find another body like this – that looks like you. Maybe then. But now? It could be someone getting rid of a fantasy.”

The word ‘violated’ flashes through your mind, but you don’t think the doctor would understand.

“The victim is of no relation to you,” the man assures. “We dug out your parents bodies and did some tests. So you just… go home, dear. Go on with your life. Forget this ever happened.”

You go, leaving the doctor and the ticking sound behind you.

***

Three weeks later there’s another body. This time he got the eyes right.

He’s a picky eater. Has been since that old bastard took him in and adopted him. Before that, before the flame and the scarf and the castle and the servants, food was something Xanxus got from wherever he could steal it. That bitch hadn’t been interested in feeding him. She was barely interested in feeding herself. Food wasn’t what she liked to put into her mouth.

Now, it’s different.

He doesn’t smoke, he hates the taste and the smell. He buys the best wines, drinks a glass or two and throws the bottle away. He still doesn’t eat much, but now there’s always food left on the plate when he’s done. Sometimes he orders a meal for the sake of a mouthful, and throws the rest away. Makes sure no one else can eat it either.

He wastes things. That’s something he can do now. One of the few small things that make him less angry.

Not happy. Just… just less angry. Because that’s what he is, was, is. He’s angry, and he knows that the others don’t really understand it. Even that shitty shark who thinks he knows Xanxus like the back of his fucking hand – yeah, the hand he cut off, maybe.

Xanxus is angry, and that makes him care for very little aside from himself. He resents people for reasons that never end, similar and different and all valid in his eyes. He hopes his mother died in some ditch after years of agony. He doesn’t want peace for anyone in the Vongola either. Sawada’s naivety only reminds him of how fucking sheltered the fucking scum has been. What right does he have—–

Xanxus is angry, and he doesn’t want to let go of that. Because angry means not sad. Angry means not weak. Angry means ready to tear someone’s fucking throat open.

Some days he sits in his chair, in his dark room, remembering the dirty pavements beneath his bare feet, the people who’d look at him and see nothing, and the constant hunger he used to feel. He rememers the taste of food so horrible he’d throw it up, remembers the sleepless nights where he’d listen to the shrieks and moans of his mother and whoever she dragged in with her. He remembers the thin mattress and how he could feel the floor through it, the crack in the window of his tiny room and the lamp that was taped together and barely worked.

He knows that very few in the Vongola had ever experienced that. Sawada would never understand how far people could go, because he had never been forced into a life where keeping your morals meant losing your life. Now Xanxus doesn’t bother with a solid concept of morals anymore, but sticks to a code only he knows fully. He burns what stands in his way and indulges in the things that make him less angry.

Xanxus wastes things, deliberately and without remorse, because it keeps him anchored to where he is today, and that’s something he needs. Because despite the ice and fire and betrayal, what he hates the most is the time before it all happened.

Dark is Rising – The Soul Mate Timer – 000d 00h 00m 00s

methuselahsattemptatlife:

A flash of white hair through the trees. The tumble of fall leaves, loud and scratchy, echoed among the foliage. Bursts of oranges and yellows rained down on him as he stumbled and hit a thin sapling. In the rolling, lush, and misty hills of Wales, one boy was in a hurry to get into town. There, all the people would be coming in from England, at the train station. It called out to him. He knew that was where he would find them. The one. The clouds over head shifted and shook off their shadows, as if anticipating. All around him the still, cold air burned his lungs as he pushed clouds of steam passed his lips. The lush green field showed through the thick woods as his boots pounded the earth. He strove for it – it was the last obstacle between him and the edge of town. Pushing off the sapling, he took off at a run, his black scarf flying.
His timer was counting down. 000h 00d 15m 45s. Fifteen minutes. He turned his wrist to look at it through dark sunglasses and grinned. He was excited. Nervous. Whoever it was, he hoped they liked him. He was really sure he would really like them, no matter who it was. As he ran his heart pounded in his chest dangerously. It ached with anxiety, as well as being pushed. He’d never run so fast in his life.

Of course his father, a preacher, was skeptical about meeting his true love at thirteen. Everybody was. Bran had been the only one in his class with at least three years less on his timer than anyone. That made him an outsider, but he already was, with his moonlight-pale hair and skin.
What was so special about Bran Davies? No one really knew. His mother came down out of the woods thirteen years ago, with a baby in her arms, and met his father. The moment they met, both their timers synced. He took her in, cared for her, fell in love at once with both her and the baby she had brought. Him. But one day she vanished, and he was left with a baby and a broken heart. The villagers and farmers had to raise Bran until he was three, because his father was wandering the hills searching for her. But she was never found again.

Bran reached the edge of the trees and his long legs carried him across the even ground of the field. He laughed aloud, disturbing a flock of peasants, which took flight in fear and he was lost in a flurry of feathers. Nothing could stop him now. He was drawing closer and closer to the station. Who would they be? What would they look like? Their hair, their smile? Would they love to run? Would they want to build a life together, so young? He didn’t know. He was so excited. It bubbled up in him and he felt like he’d explode. As he sailed up the steps of the train station, the steam from the wheels filled the platform, and he panted, heart racing.
He checked his timer. 000d 00h 05min. 23s. Five minutes. Hastily he tucked his black turtleneck in. He pulled up his black jeans and kicked the mud off his black boots. His pale hands shook with nerves and adrenaline as he fixed his scarf.

000d 00h 03m 30s. The doors to the train opened and people poured out onto the platform. Friends and family sent to meet them flooded in as well, and Bran gasped as he was swept up in the current of bodies. Thick, old coats that smelled of mothballs and smoke-ridden passengers puffing on pipes covered him up. His timer was counting down, fast. He pushed through the people, wadding through them as if they were obstacles and he needed to reach a goal at the end. And he did. Clumps of people stopped and hugged and talked lovingly. Some rushed off. He glanced at his timer. 000d 00h 00m 14s. He could feel blood rushing in his ears.
Then, suddenly, he smacked into another figure his size and they collapsed together amidst the shifting bodies. “Ouch,” Bran groaned, his body finally catching up to him. It burned and ached with the damage pushing he had done to get down here so fast, and he could hardly sit up. His glasses had fallen off as well, so the world was painfully bright.

“Damn,” swore a boy’s voice with a softly Northern English lilt. “Sorry, sorry, I was shoved from behind. Didn’t mean to knock your block off.”
Bran rubbed his eyes until they began to focus and the boy knelt at his side, holding out his glasses. His timer had run out. Bran looked at his own. It was out as well, empty. He looked at the boy in shock. A curl of nut brown hair, like bark on a sapling. A pair of warm hazel eyes that reminded him of tea early in the morning before a sheep run, and the lush icing on the cakes Mrs. Stanton makes every Christmas. His heart soared.
Soft lips parted, surprise taking over this new face, and he tugged at his gray scarf. “Your eyes,” he said breathlessly, even though it was Bran who was panting. “They’re gold, just like pirate treasure.”
A disarming grin took over Bran’s face. “You think so?” He accepted the glasses and fiddled with them a bit, looking up at the boy. “You’re English.”

“And your hair is white.” The boy replied. “I thought we were exchanging obvious things.” Bran laughed, and the other boy held out his wrist. “Are… Are you it? The one?” Bran held out his own wrist, and they both studied the other’s empty timer.
“You got lucky,” Bran said. “I’m a handsome bloke.”
The boy burst out laughing, and wiped his eye. “You got lucky my ma is not a fairy hater!” He smiled warmly and held out his hand, the one with the timer on the wrist. “I’m William. Will Stanton.”
Bran clasped his hand with his timer arm and shook it firmly. “Bran. Bran Davies. I like your eyes.”
“Come off it!” Will laughed.
“No, really,” Bran insisted, grinning as they got to their feet, arms locked. “They’re lovely. I’ve never seen hair so soft, either. Everybody around here has black hair, coarse like steel wool.”
Will helped him up and supported him when he began to stumble. “Jeez, my legs,” the white-haired boy muttered. He slung his arm around the other boy’s shoulder, and felt an arm wrap around his waist.
“Don’t worry. I’m here.” Will said gently. “And I always will be.”

–

“When the Dark comes rising six shall turn it back;
Three from the circle, three from the track;
Wood, bronze, iron; Water, fire, stone;
Five will return and one go alone.

Iron for the birthday; bronze carried long;
Wood from the burning; stone out of song;
Fire in the candle ring; water from the thaw;
Six signs the circle and the grail gone before.

Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold
Played to wake the sleepers, oldest of old.
Power from the Green Witch, lost beneath the sea.
All shall find the Light at last, silver on the tree.”

― Susan Cooper, The Dark is Rising Sequence

THIS IS SO FUCKING CUTE AAAAHHHH FUCK YOU HOW CAN I STOP SCREAMING NOW LOOK AT THIS, READ THIS, IT’S PERFECT AAAAHHHHHH

my fucking feelings

this is amazing and i’m going to read it a million times and memorize it by heart.

Why Marlow loves Voldemort

It’s so late and I’m so tired and a bit sick and very very emotional, which is a good time to start talking about Voldemort.

Like, ages ago I wrote a post on how I see Voldemort and how brilliant and great he is and how he’s definitely not misunderstood, just pretty much evil and how he’s basically angry at everything and that he has the most adorable sense of humour ever. I kid you not. He’s got this whole dry wit thing going on and omg cute why are you so cute shut the fuck up I can’t with you.

Okay so, why do I like Voldemort so much?

When he was younger, Tom Riddle had to charm and manipulate a whole lot of people for years and years without any pause in the middle. Do you know how exhausting that is? That boy took a look at the people around him, figured out how to manipulate them, and created a faux persona that would convince them to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. He learned and succeeded in all that despite the fact that he came from the Muggle world without any previous knowledge on what to do and how to act.

And like, all those summers spent at an orphanage, knowing you deserve so much more. All that anger and rage and hatred that just kept gathering inside his heart. Knowing that the people around him hated him and the people who were at school wouldn’t respect him if they knew about his background – it must have hurt his pride. And when you’re poor and orphan but very smart and ambitious, pride becomes your most precious possession.

He had nothing, seriously. He started from a point where people disliked him or downright hated him for one reason or another. Among muggles he was the weirdo, among his Slytherin house mates he was the Mudblood, and to the rest of Hogwarts he was just another Slytherin. But instead of accepting his lot he grabbed all those prejudices and fucking dealt with them. He left dem muggles in the dust, rose above his Slytherin housemates and made the rest of Hogwarts look up to him. Just by working hard and knowing how to manipulate people, how to read them, understanding what moves them and what motivates them.

 This is why I can’t accept the fics that portray Voldemort as someone who doesn’t understand feelings. He does, he understands them well enough to manipulate people’s feelings, to guess what they’re feeling and even if it’s acquired knowledge through observation, he was smart enough to figure out how people work. It’s like a puzzle – just because he doesn’t relate to it, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know how to figure it out, pull it apart and put it together the way he wants to.

I can’t accept fics where he’s portrayed as some kind of an idiot – he most certainly is not. And he’s not misunderstood either. What saved Harry the first time around was nothing short of a magical miracle, which means that it’s thanks to no one, and no one’s fault, that he survived. It is no indication of Harry’s strength (which I believe in because I love Harry *cries* ilu so much) or Tom’s weakness. Again this harrypotteristic miracle happened when Harry didn’t die in the Forbidden Forest. The two biggest events contributing to Harry’s victory and Tom’s loss were unpredictable and uncontrollable magical miracles.

Not that Tom doesn’t have flaws – hello, he does. I’m aware of them and I do not ignore them – I just don’t dislike his flaws, because I can relate to a lot of them.

One of the things I love about Voldemort is his ambitiousness. People are never anywhere near ambitious enough. Like, y’all are so fond of saying that one person cannot change the world, but y’all are quick to blame individuals for disasters. The moment you say you’re aiming for something more than what you have, you’re told to be realistic and how miracles don’t just happen. Tom didn’t ask for miracles – he worked hard and was ruthless. He didn’t waste his time crying over losses – he used them to his advantage.

He’s intelligent – and gosh, do I love his brain. Just to think of how academically gifted Tom is makes me smile. That Dark Lord was good at everything. He was ruthless, too, and I can respect that trait. Tom got far in his life and did things no other wizard thought possible.Tom achieved all that without anyone really to support him. Imagine how it feels to grow up knowing that there isn’t a single person who’d give a fuck about you if you died. Nobody you could ask for help when you were younger. Having to be so self-reliant from such an early age, especially in a hostile environment is something that shaped Tom’s personality greatly. I think it’s the root of his overconfidence – he relies so much on himself that everybody else just seems either incompetent, useless or expendable. Useful for a time but nothing he can’t survive without. Because if there’s something Tom learned how to do, it was how to fucking survive. His whole life is a story of survival.

People say that love is a strong motivator, and sure, it can be. But love can make you let go of things and forgive. Hate doesn’t. When we’re talking about fury that’s bone-deep, it doesn’t let go. It doesn’t forgive or forget. That’s why to Tom hate is a good, solid motivator. He believes in hate. He knows how deeply love can affect people and how people in love can be manipulated, but if hatred towards everyone else is the only constant thing in his life. it’ll also be a source of strength and stability to him. 

And then of course, power. I’m not gonna lie. I’m am so fucking attracted to power and money it’s bordering on criminal. Voldemort created a otherfucking army that he ruled through fear – and yeah, he did make mistakes in how he governed that army. But even if those mistakes were partially responsible for his failure in the last battle, it doesn’t make him any less attractive to me. *sigh*

So there goes. I don’t agree with him on an ideological level, but I adore him anyway.

Also I could go on forever with this topic but I feel like I’ve written plenty already. Until next time!

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Let’s talk about Voldemort

Because it’s quarter past 5 am once again and that’s apparently my Voldemort time. I get emotional about Voldemort and the adorable way he hates everyone.

I dislike (downright hate) how some authors portray Voldemort as a “stupid hypocrite” because of his anti-muggle campaign and how he promotes blood purity. Not mentioning any fics or authors because I’m not saying this to start wars, but in some fics Death Eaters desert the Dark Lord because of Harry pointing out that “hey the dude is a half-blood”.

I don’t think the Death Eaters would believe Harry, tbh. But I digress. My main issue is with the keywords “stupid” and “hypocrite”.

As I see it, Voldemort doesn’t give a fuck about purebloods OR muggleborns. He’s just a fuckign smart man who knows what to say to make the powerful and rich people (most of whom just happen to be purebloods) side with him. He chose to glorify the plood purity issue because by doing so he would gain valuable followers.

He doesn’t believe in the cause, and not just because he’s the best example of how wrong it is. He believes in magic, admits the superiority of bloodline-bound magical abilities (like Parseltongue), but he does not believe that an average pureblood wizard is more capable than an average halfblood/muggleborn wizard.

Voldemort is brilliant and brutal and sharp. I once said that if Grindelwald is a bored sociopath, then Voldemort is an angry psychopath. That’s the thing: Voldemort is angry. He was treated unfairly as a kid and if you have an inflated sense of self-importance, the anger you feel then will stick with you for a long time. Even more so if you’re obsessive about being superior to everyone else.

When Tom started studying at Hogwarts he realized that magic or no magic, he was STILL superior to everyone else. And yet yo can bet yo ass that he was treated with prejudice in Slytherin. He was subjected to the kind of prejudice he ended up using to his advantage. He saw how things worked there and learned what to do or say to get which kinda reaction out of the other people. He learned to manipulate.

To me, Voldemort is the most real character in the HP world. He’s also the most misunderstood because so many don’t seem to understand that at the core, the whole agenda of blood supermacy and causing all those wars and battles within the Wizarding World was just a ruse to give him what he wanted. Voldemort didn’t seek to reform the world, like he made his followers believe. He wanted to destroy it as much as he could. He wanted people to be miserable and sad and in pain. He just wanted to punish everyone else for existing.

(ITTR SPOILER, SKIP THE PARAGRAPH TO AVOID IT)

There are a lot of fics where Harry travels back in time to prevent Voldemort from happening, and a lot of those fics portray the young Tom Riddle as an innocent child. Someone who can love. A child who needs guidance. But people, there’s so much more than murder in being a psychopath. Most psychopaths don’t even ever get around to killing anyone. You can prevent a psychopath from killing people, but you can’t prevent a psychopath from being a psychopath. And personally I think that if Harry would try to make Tom “good”, the best thing he can do is simply redirect Tom’s focus into something like politics or business where he can be a calculating, manipulative asshole who kills just a few individuals rather than the massmurders he ended up ordering.

Like, you can’t completely neutralize someone like Tom, but you can do damage control.

Also I love Voldemort’s sense of humour. His dry wit and him just being a sarcastic asshole.

OK I’M DONE FOR NOW. But it’s just… this is the Voldemor that I see. He doesn’t love in the way other people understand love. He gets obsessed and fixated, AND I SAID I’M DONE FOR NOW. Yep. I’m done. For now.