#mindless writings

[illydiac]

Voldemort whipping Harry to tears — a simple, effortless wrist flick of the most powerful dark wizard creating torturous agony that licks across Harry’s spine, slits his skin open, brutalising his raw nerves for the crimson eyes of a monster to violate his way through the exposed flesh. Harry ties his tongue into knots, caging the screams in his lungs, letting the pain burn his insides; anything but giving the tyrant the pleasure of hearing him break into pieces.

Harry’s valiant attempts spark igniting flames in Voldemort’s chest — his wrist rotates in sharper, quicker motions, his eyes narrow. New wounds bloom on Harry’s back, blemishing with multiplied violence any area that dares to remain virginal. When there is no purity left to taint anymore, old wounds split even further, the skin layers pathetically giving in one after the other.

Then, Harry’s will shatters; his screams pierce the air, cries and sobs ripping their way through his darling throat. Voldemort’s lips curve, the sacred tongue of his chained fawn composing such an unearthly song, his vocal cords scraping themselves raw to bless Voldemort’s ears.

Voldemort rises from his throne, merrily slithering his way towards his chef-d'oeuvre. Harry has cried himself dry, youthful cheeks reddened and tear-stained. Voldemort embraces him from the behind, running his long-nailed fingers along the edges of the split skin, before digging them into the weeping wounds — Harry screams, louder than ever, limbs shaking uncontrollably. Voldemort shushes him, wrapping a leisure hand around his throat before lowering his head to lick at the succulent blood, enchanting taste satiating his barbarous needs. His fawn’s blood is the sweetest nectar, the rarest oasis for Voldemort to quench his thirst.

Harry’s whimpers only increase, inflicting the same effect upon Voldemort’s letches. With weightless, wordless magic, the Dark Lord tends to his wounds, stitching the mutilated skin back together, softly shushing Harry’s weeps.

He ought to prepare his canvas, before he paints another masterpiece on it again.

[illydiac]

Tomarry AU where Tom is as an older priest of an unknown, irrelevant village, warming the lonely hearts of its valueless inhabitants by devoting his time and wit to helping these poor souls. Proclaiming the Word of God and celebrating the Sacraments is the littlest thing he does — everyday, like a pledge engraved underneath his robes, he vows to provide his people with lovingly-made food, soft clothes, companionship for the elders and fun, meaningful lessons for the children. With years worth of devotion, wisdom, experience, this man ought to conquer the world and carve his name high, the villagers think, and yet here he is, melting the coldness of an irrelevant slum by stripping his own soul of its warmth. Tom only smiles and shakes his head at such words, promising to visit again the following day.

Behind closed doors, in the cold emptiness of the church where Tom resides, a metamorphosis occurs. Underneath such humanity, in the depths of a missing heart, lie years worth of rotting sins, demonic and infernal. Tom feels nothing but disgust and revulsion for these pathetic creatures; they ought to eliminate themselves from this world, to decay into nothing, their wretched screams the only thing one would remember of them. Tom spits in their food, crushes infected herbs in the soups, drenches the clothes in contaminated components, manipulates the illiterate children against their parents. Religion is a plague, God is a faithless fraud — what better way to dishonour the Celestial Being than committing sins in his name? Tom degrades his creations while wearing his sacred clothing.

But one day, like a gift from the divine, everything changes, when he finds the Holy Spirit in the 14 year old boy of the Potters — an unflawed angel, a virgin seraph, a lovely fawn. Young Harry is talented, energetic, polite, full of love and empathy; he looks up at Tom with his big, sinless emeralds as Tom performs his damned duties, and Tom unravels; the boy shall be his, in every mortal and spiritual way. Tom hugs him close everytime he sees him, fingers burning to feel the warmth of Harry’s naked skin as he imagines tainting him in the most profane ways, hearing his sweet moans and cries when Tom splits him open from the inside. He runs his knuckles across Harry’s cheek when upon his arrival at the Potters, Harry runs to embrace him; the image of Harry on his knees praying for him, submitting himself to his owner burning behind Tom’s eyelids. With great will and restless eros, Tom succeeds in imprisoning Harry in his bed, worshiping him with his mouth and cock until Harry chants Tom’s name like a mantra, vows to be Tom’s and Tom’s only. Tom doesn’t stop until he has blemished Harry for life, until he has reached his virgin soul.

"Yes, my beloved, you are mine." He'd whisper in Harry's ear as he'd bound Harry's arms behind his back, "But it does not appear as such. Others aim to take you from me."

"Never, I-I'd never leave you." Harry would reply.

"I know, dearest, I know." Tom would grind his cock deeper, "But those who have power, legal power over you, have vowed to separate us. God informed me of such."

"M-my parents?"

"Yes, beloved. You shall take action, before they place eternity between us."

The knife in the bedside table whispers Harry’s name. With a valorous fire in his eyes, Harry declares to be Tom’s forever.

[illydiac]

AU where Voldemort has won, the Wizarding world undividedly his to shape, and, ultimately, he clutches at the centre of his palm the hearthstone of his soul — Harry Potter. Voldemort keeps him like a porcelain doll inside a showcase, nowhere to go and nobody to run to, besides his Lord.

Voldemort remains Harry’s only company through the days that seem to stretch into infinity, indistinguishable from one another. With the fire from the war finally abating, the terrifying realisation of his new life is as gruesome as Voldemort’s monstrous face — his scarlet eyes violate Harry’s soul as they stare at his across the darkened room, on those nights where they sit across each other and listen to the clock ticking its way towards midnight. It’s sepulchral, to know that no matter how much physical distance he can put between himself and the Dark Lord, they are bound together by a supreme ligature, one that Harry could never run from, neither in life or death.

He resists, as much as he can, with an iron will — but his bones ache, and his mind succumbs to years of strained determination. He’s burnt-out, nothing but a shell with no purpose, not anymore.

He asks Voldemort to kill him, crumbles down and begs for release from this torment and misery — his skin has been bleeding for years from his doomed fate clawing at him, he is empty, nothing but a cadaver. He yearns for quietude, a harmless hand to lull him into a state of nothingness.

Voldemort pets his hair, tenderly nuzzles his nape with his serpentine cold fingers — he shields Harry’s face with his open palm, the smell of his skin carrying horror and death. Harry only realises he’s crying when Voldemort shushes him, the sound of it settling deep in Harry’s bones, making them rattle. He trembles, pouring years worth of despair and sorrow into the hands of his tyrant.

Voldemort holds him with the hands of a monster, and whispers sweet nothings and ‘My boy, my soul’ into the gloom of the night, his voice Harry’s only light.

Harry knows he’s not going anywhere.

[illydiac]

Imagine Harry who never got the chance to bask in the motility of being a child — to recklessly run around, to cause harmless disorder with the intention of having fun, to explore and enjoy without dwelling.

Harry, who never felt the weight of a parent’s praise settle over him like a warm blanket, never got lulled to sleep from gentle fingers fondling his head instead of rancorous words spat into glacial, cupboard-smelling air. Harry, who’d smile at the tender love dancing between the Weasley’s while his insides twisted with envy that hit his deleterious heart. What could a child possibly crave more, than a protective, familiar nest? Harry doesn’t have that, and he never will — he’ll never get to be a kid, the years have long passed by.

The only one who has never made an attempt at abandoning him is Voldemort — his prophesied enemy, his demise, his persecutor, the real culprit behind his lack of self. Voldemort has stolen everything from him, a baleful kleptomaniac, and has taken their place in Harry’s soul. There’s nothing but Voldemort — his past, present and future.

He succumbs to Voldemort’s hands, because he has nothing to fight for, nothing that is truly his to cherish. There’s only one place he feels he belongs, as petrifying, infernal and fallacious that land might be.

That’s right by Voldemort’s side, connected physically as close as they’re connected celestially.

[illydiac]

Voldemort calling Harry ‘My soul’ with a warmth so mystic radiating from it that it bewilders Harry — the Dark Lord emanates nothing but glacial terror, his gaze as stone hard as to unsparingly petrify Medusa, too. To be the subject of such scarce devotion — the warmth settles in Harry’s marrow, spreading and coiling around his being.

In reality, its true source isn’t Harry — Voldemort has annihilated and abased the boy’s presence for a long time now, in his mind. It’s his own fragment of himself that calls to him, that makes Voldemort long for the boy’s presence just so he could be closer to the only thing he could ever truly desire — himself. He looks at the green eyes staring up at him and he indulges in the dream of tearing them out just so he could replace them with his own ox blood ones — the fantasy sweetens Voldemort’s senses, making the act of looking at the boy more tolerable.

It’s his own self that could ever hold Voldemort’s attention, he’d only bloodlessly tend to another if it was his anima he saw reflected in their eyes.

The boy is merely a vessel.

[amarieekills]

she.

sits uneasy her stomach cringes

yells FUCK YOU, and goes back to writing.

its her only escape.