#but what if—what if that reason was simply pride

[spencersmopbucket]

Pureblood Kissing | Draco Malfoy

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader Summary: After years of nagging from his parents, Draco finally finds the perfect girl for him. Warnings & Themes: Fluff, normalizing rude behavior kinda, the reader is a lot like Draco

There weren't many, if any girls, that met the standards of the pureblooded Draco Malfoy.

He had been taught from a young age the importance of family, lineage, and blood status. Those expectations had shaped every aspect of his life. He learned to be picky — no, meticulous — about everything, especially when it came to something as important as a future partner.

"She must be of clean blood and she absolutely must take her future seriously, Draco," his father had drilled into his ears, time and time again. It was a rule that had shaped his outlook on relationships, or lack thereof.

His mother had said a variation of the same thing.

"Self-respect, pureblood, and intelligence are non-negotiable, Draco," she would say, her voice laced with both pride and expectation. "You are not just a Malfoy by name. You represent a legacy, a family that has stood the test of time."

And so, growing up in the shadow of such expectations, Draco had been conditioned to see girls through a lens of perfection — perfect lineage, perfect demeanor, perfect future. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice other girls, but none of them ever quite fit the mold. They either came from questionable bloodlines or were more interested in the next party than their future prospects.

He'd been asked to balls, invited to Hogsmeade, told that he was fancied. But because of the way he was raised, because of how he was conditioned, he curled his lip with disgust and told every approaching girl to 'piss off, foul mudblood' or 'go brush up on your arithmetic first, love'.

It was easier that way, keeping people at arm’s length, not allowing anyone to slip past the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. His family had always made it clear: he didn’t need to worry about emotions, about connections. They were a distraction from what truly mattered — family, power, and blood status.

But then, you came along.

It was unexpected, really. Draco had been attending yet another extravagant dinner in the Great Hall, surrounded by the usual group of admirers and people vying for his attention. The same conversations about future plans and bloodlines swirled around him, but his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sudden presence of someone who didn’t fit the mold at all.

You sat at the other end of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a group of girls Draco had never taken a moment to acknowledge. He had never even looked at you before, let alone your friends.

He wasn't quite sure how. You were exquisite.

Long, sleek and perfectly brushed h/c locks, falling down your back and pinned neatly by a headband. Clear skin, neat makeup, and a charming smile stretching your lips. You talked quietly and politely, sometimes letting a small giggle slip.

There was an effortless elegance about you, Draco couldn’t deny that. You weren’t loud or demanding attention like some of the other girls at the table. No, you simply existed in a way that was almost more captivating than any of the others. It wasn’t that you tried to fit the mold of what a Slytherin girl should be — you weren’t cold and calculating like Pansy, nor were you loud like Millicent. You had your own quiet grace, and for reasons Draco couldn’t explain, he found himself drawn to you.

His gaze lingered for longer than usual as you laughed softly at something one of your friends said, the sound light and airy, drawing attention in a way that wasn’t at all obnoxious. Your eyes twinkled with amusement, and he wondered what it would be like to hear that laugh up close, to be the one who caused that smile.

You were effortlessly beautiful, but it wasn’t just your looks that caught his attention. It was the way you carried yourself — with quiet confidence, like you weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. It was as though you had already determined your worth, and didn’t need to shout it from the rooftops.

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to force himself to look away, but something about you lingered in his thoughts. He had to admit, even to himself, that he had never noticed anyone quite like you before. No one had ever made him feel the way he did in that moment.

He quietly observed you for months, cursing himself for being too much of a coward to speak up. His throat itched with the urge to speak to you, even to say hello. It was an unknown feeling for Draco — especially when he was used to either being cruel or silent.

Christmas break came. He was relieved, eager for a break from the feeling. The tiny bit of urgency he felt in the back of his mind to approach you.

The usual party happened at the Malfoy Manor.

The grand hall of the Malfoy Manor was bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, casting warm light on the polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of evergreen and the faint trace of expensive perfume. Snow fell silently outside, but within, the atmosphere was warm, decorated with garlands of greenery, holly, and red ribbons. It was the epitome of luxury, a celebration that embodied everything the Malfoy family stood for — old money, pure bloodlines, and traditions that spanned centuries.

Guests milled about, their voices low and refined, carrying the faint undercurrent of whispered conversations about blood status, alliances, and future marriages. The women were dressed in shimmering gowns, each one carefully chosen to emphasize their status, while the men sported impeccable suits and crisp, tailored robes. The atmosphere was both regal and suffocating, the weight of expectation hanging in the air like a thick fog.

Draco stood by the grand fireplace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black dress robes, watching as his parents conversed with various guests. His mother, Narcissa, was the picture of composure, her blonde hair styled perfectly, a delicate glass of champagne resting elegantly in her hand as she discussed matters of family lineage with a woman Draco barely recognized.

"Draco," his father, Lucius, said from behind him, his voice smooth but commanding. "Make yourself useful. Go mingle. There's someone I want you to meet."

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes imperceptibly before turning to face his father. "I’m fine here, Father. Just enjoying the festivities."

Lucius shot him a look that brooked no argument. "It’s not about enjoyment. It’s about opportunity. You’ll do well to remember that."

Draco nodded stiffly, though his mind wasn’t in it. He didn’t care for the endless charades of these gatherings, nor the constant pressure to prove himself. He just wanted some peace, a few moments of solitude. But he had learned long ago that there were few things his father hated more than a son who appeared uninterested in furthering the family’s agenda.

"Very well," Draco muttered, forcing a smile as he walked toward a group of familiar faces near the center of the room. His gaze flickered over to his mother, who was speaking animatedly with the Rosier family.

“Ah, Draco,” his father’s voice interrupted his thoughts. "This is Mr. Travers. His family has a long history with ours, and I think you’d find his daughter a most suitable match for you."

Draco turned to face the older man who had approached, giving a polite but distant nod. Mr. Travers was tall, with graying hair and a face lined with age and experience. His sharp eyes gleamed with the same superiority that most purebloods wore like a second skin. But Draco wasn’t interested. Not in this match, not in these traditions. He was more concerned about the feeling in his chest — the one that came whenever he caught sight of you, even in the midst of his usual social mask.

Mr. Travers continued, oblivious to Draco’s distraction. "I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself at Hogwarts, Draco. Quite the head-turner, eh?"

Draco forced a smile, nodding politely. "I do my best."

Across the room, Narcissa glanced at Draco, catching his gaze for a brief moment before returning to her conversation. Her expression was unreadable, but Draco knew exactly what she was thinking. This was all part of the plan. Mingle, make an impression, and begin securing alliances for the future. His future.

The door to the Manor opened, a slight whoosh of winter air spreading through the room. Another family walked in — one Draco had never seen here before.

A tall man in a dark suit, teeth glinting in a polite smile. He looked rich, important, and exactly like the type to attend one of these parties. His wife stood with her arm intertwined with his, hair curled perfectly and body fitted into a winter gown, fur at each sleeve and at the neckline. Her neck was decorated with glittering jewels.

Finally, you walked in behind them. Their daughter, he assumed. His jaw dropped.

The moment Draco laid eyes on you, his world seemed to slow. You walked into the room with a quiet grace, completely unaware of the way his gaze followed you like a magnetic pull. The air in the room shifted, and for a fleeting moment, Draco felt like he was standing on the edge of something unknown, something exciting — yet terrifying.

Your presence was like a breath of fresh air, an unexpected breeze that cut through the usual stale conversations about family and bloodlines. You were dressed in a simple yet stunning gown — deep blue silk that shimmered under the candlelight, contrasting beautifully with your hair. The slight curve of your smile as you entered the room seemed genuine, as if you were simply happy to be there, not weighed down by the heaviness of expectations like so many others.

You were radiant, effortlessly so. Draco blinked and looked away for a moment, trying to gather himself. He’d been conditioned his whole life to only notice the ‘right’ girls, the ones who fit the mold of purity and perfection. And the way you carried yourself was perfect.

You laughed softly at something your father said, the sound sweet and melodic, and Draco felt the strangest urge to move toward you. He watched as his mother hurried towards you all, a thrilled smile on her face.

"The L/N's! How lovely to have you all!"

Your parents smiled politely, returning Narcissa’s warm greeting. Your father offered a firm handshake while your mother leaned in for the kind of elegant cheek kiss that only pureblood society seemed to perfect.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” your mother beamed. “It’s been far too long.”

Draco stood stiffly beside his father, watching from a distance as his mother welcomed you all with the kind of rare warmth she reserved for guests she genuinely approved of. That in itself startled him. Narcissa Malfoy didn’t smile like that often, and certainly not at people she wasn’t absolutely enchanted by.

Then her gaze flickered toward him.

“Draco,” she called gently, beckoning him over. “Come greet our guests properly.”

His heart gave a traitorous little jump, but he smoothed down his blazer, lifted his chin, and walked over like nothing in the world was bothering him. Like he hadn’t been watching you since the moment you walked in. Like he hadn’t already memorized the shade of your lipstick.

You turned to face him, eyes wide and curious, lips parted in subtle surprise. And then, you smiled.

Not a coy smile. Not a forced one. A warm, genuine smile that knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

“This is our son, Draco,” Narcissa said, placing a gentle hand on his back. “Draco, this is Mr. and Mrs. L/N, and their daughter—”

“Y/N,” you said sweetly, offering your hand to him.

He took it carefully, noting the softness of your skin and the confidence of your grip. He forced his voice to remain steady. “Pleasure to meet you.”

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling, and said, “We’ve never spoken before. But I’ve seen you around Hogwarts.”

He swallowed hard, unsure how to read your tone — not flirty, not indifferent. Just honest. Kind. Direct. You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t trying to be anything other than yourself.

And it completely threw him off his axis.

Lucius spoke up next to him, ever the composed patriarch. “Your family’s reputation precedes you, Miss L/N. Your grades, too, if I recall correctly. A very promising future.”

Draco’s stomach twisted. Was this what his father had been waiting for? The perfect introduction? The subtle test of compatibility? He could already feel the weight of it — the expectation, the scrutiny, the legacy being silently passed like a torch between families.

But you didn’t seem burdened by any of it.

“I suppose I try to keep my priorities straight,” you replied, polite and poised, but there was a quiet edge of humor in your voice. You weren’t afraid to be honest — even in a room full of people pretending.

Draco found himself smiling. For real.

For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about bloodlines or arranged futures. He was thinking about you.

And the way snowflakes clung to your lashes from your walk inside.

"Let's leave the children to talk, hm? There are refreshments over here.." Narcissa silently lead your parents away. She probably read the situation immediately, noting the look on Draco's face.

His mother was always fantastic at reading people.

Draco barely registered his parents and yours drifting away, their voices fading into the background as though the entire Manor had gone quiet just for this moment. His eyes were on you — the way you glanced around the room with polite curiosity, the way you smoothed the fabric of your gown, unbothered by the pressure that would’ve made most people buckle.

He cleared his throat gently, stepping a bit closer to you.

“You look…” He paused. Compliments weren’t his strong suit. Especially not when they were sincere. “You look… nice.”

You raised an amused brow, lips twitching. “Nice?”

He winced slightly. “I meant… lovely. You look lovely.”

There was a beat of silence before you laughed — not mockingly, but genuinely. It was a soft, musical sound that made his chest tighten.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, voice warm. “You clean up well too.”

He smirked faintly, the tension easing just enough for him to feel like himself again — or, at least, a version of himself he wasn’t used to showing. “I try.”

The room felt warmer than it should have for a winter night. Or maybe it was just the way you were looking at him — like you were trying to figure him out, like you weren’t afraid of what you might find.

After a few moments, you tilted your head toward the tall, frost-covered windows lining the ballroom. Snow was still falling gently outside, blanketing the gardens in silver. The moonlight made it all glitter like magic.

You returned your pretty eyes to Draco, again smiling.

"I'm surprised we had never talked before this. We have a lot in common."

Draco’s lips twitched again, not quite a smile — more like the ghost of one. “Are you implying you know enough about me to say that?”

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I know you’re clever, take things seriously, and you don’t suffer fools. And your family restricts you to only interact with purebloods.”

Draco’s expression flickered — not with offense, but with something far more fragile: surprise, maybe even admiration. You’d struck a chord, clean and sharp. Not many dared to speak plainly to him, let alone about the restrictions he lived under.

He let out a short, dry breath, his voice low. “You say that like you disapprove.”

You shrugged, your gaze never leaving his. “I say it like I understand.”

That stilled him.

For a moment, all the polished chatter and clinking crystal of the ballroom faded into nothing. All he could focus on was the way you looked at him — not like a Malfoy, not like a name, not like a symbol. Just him.

“You’re different,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

You smiled — a real one, soft and curious. “So are you.”

There was silence again, but this time it was comfortable. Outside, snowflakes kissed the glass like whispers, and behind you both, the party blurred into a distant hum.

“Have you ever been out in the gardens during a snowfall?” you asked suddenly.

Draco blinked. “Not when there’s a party going on.”

You shrugged slightly, a playful gleam in your eye. “Seems like the perfect time to sneak away, don’t you think?”

He hesitated for half a second — long enough for the weight of his name and expectations to press down on his shoulders. Then, without another word, he offered you his arm politely.

Your fingers slipped around his bicep with the kind of effortless trust that made his heart race.

Together, you slipped out through one of the French doors at the edge of the ballroom, stepping into the soft crunch of snow beneath your shoes. The cold nipped at your skin immediately, but it only made the moment feel sharper, more alive.

Snowflakes clung to your hair again. You were incredible.

That night, Draco tossed and turned, failing to sleep. He climbed out of bed, silently sneaking down the stairs to get a glass of water — he wasn't sure if it would help, but he just needed to try.

He wasn't sure how long it took someone to fall in love. He wasn't sure about anything. Besides the fact that you were perfect. You were exactly what he'd been looking for for years. Someone he could fall into while not disappointing his parents.

When he got to the kitchen, he reached into the cabinet for a glass, his fingers moving on autopilot. His mind wasn’t in the room — it was still outside, in the snow-dusted garden, with you. The way your cheeks had been flushed from the cold, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t a Malfoy at all, but just... Draco.

He filled the glass from the decanter and took a sip, leaning against the counter in the dark, trying to calm the flutter in his chest. It was maddening — this feeling. Foreign and far too fast. But not unwelcome.

A soft sound startled him.

He turned quickly.

His mother stood there, her hands on her hips. A knowing smile twitched at her lips.

She raised a delicate brow, gliding into the kitchen with her usual poise, robe trailing behind her like a queen in slippers. Her blonde hair was pinned back neatly, not a strand out of place despite the late hour.

“I figured I’d find you here,” she said smoothly, her voice low but tinged with amusement. “You always wander when something — or someone — unsettles you.”

Draco scoffed softly, setting his glass down with a small clink. “I’m not unsettled.”

Narcissa gave him a look that could wither even Lucius. “Please. You’ve been distracted all evening. I saw the way you looked at her.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped closer, her tone gentler now. “Draco. You’ve always been cautious with your heart. Maybe too cautious. But I saw the girl. She's exactly the kind of woman I hoped you’d one day notice — and not just because of her bloodline.”

He met her eyes, surprised.

“She’s poised. Smart. Not swayed by status. And she looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky.”

Draco stared at the marble countertop, fighting the rare emotion bubbling in his chest. “You don’t think Father would…”

“Your father,” Narcissa interrupted, “approves greatly. He did this on purpose, most likely. And you, Draco —” she reached out, brushing his shoulder affectionately “— you’re stronger when you let yourself feel.”

That was enough for Draco. It was enough.

When you returned from break, he allowed himself to feel. Just as his mother recommended.

The castle was still dusted in snow, its towers capped in white like a postcard. Students were flooding the Great Hall again, reunited, buzzing about holiday gossip and new gifts from home. But Draco didn’t care for any of it.

He saw you almost instantly.

You were seated at the Slytherin table again, your hair brushed neatly and tucked behind your ear, fingers lightly wrapped around a warm mug of tea. You looked content, unaware of how utterly captivating you were to him. It steadied something inside him. And stirred something else.

This time, he didn’t look away.

He waited until the morning rush slowed and you stood, excusing yourself politely from your friends.

Then, with a deep breath and his shoulders squared, he approached — calm, composed, and very much his father's son.

“Good morning,” he said evenly, his tone polite but purposeful.

You looked at him, blinking in surprise, then smiling softly. “Morning, Malfoy.”

He offered a slight bow of his head. “Draco, if you don’t mind.”

Your friends' eyes widened, and they immediately began a hushed giggling.

There was a small pause. Then he continued, "I realize this may seem abrupt, but I was wondering if you might accompany me on a walk this evening — through the courtyard, if the snow doesn’t bother you. I find conversation is often more pleasant away from the noise of the castle.”

You raised a brow, your interest visibly piqued.

“Just a walk?” you asked, teasing.

He gave a faint, amused smile. “To start with, yes. I thought it only proper to ask respectfully, rather than loiter about in corridors hoping you’d notice me.”

Your lips curved, clearly impressed.

“I’d be delighted, Draco.”

He nodded once, solemn but clearly pleased. “Very well. I’ll meet you just after supper, near the eastern arch.”

He left it at that. No lingering glances, no crude flirtation — just the dignity of a boy raised to court with intent, not chase out of impulse.

It began that way. Draco was respectful, not pushing too hard or too fast, just simply giving you a steady presence and a wholesome reminder that he was interested. You were the same way — at arms length at first, but slowly opening up.

You'd been on multiple dates to Hogsmeade, multiple evening walks, multiple study dates. You'd worn his extra jersey and his scarf to his Quidditch games. You'd been gifted flowers, chocolate, jewelry — anything you could want. This was the Malfoy fashion, the pureblood fashion.

You'd been through all of this before Draco even dared kiss you.

Draco’s slow, careful courtship had worked wonders. There was something remarkably genuine about it — an old-fashioned charm that made your heart flutter with each new gesture. He wasn’t one to rush, to demand, or even to push for anything more than what felt right. He gave you space, allowed you to make decisions on your own, and that, in turn, made everything feel so much more intimate.

The first kiss came in the middle of a quiet evening, long after your study date had ended. You had been walking through the moonlit grounds near the Black Lake, the leaves crunching beneath your feet, both of you wrapped in your cloaks, a peaceful silence between you.

The world felt suspended in that moment. Draco’s eyes were locked on yours, his hand hovering near your own but never touching unless you made the first move. His presence was magnetic, but it was the way he made you feel safe — unhurried — that pulled you closer.

You inched your fingers towards his, warm skin grazing his cold skin. With a little encouragement, Draco interlaced his fingers with yours, blue eyes flicking over to meet yours.

"We never really touch. I crave it." You admitted to him, a sheepish smile on your face.

Draco’s breath hitched slightly at your words. The vulnerability in your confession was unexpected, and it stirred something deep within him. He had always been cautious with physical affection, especially with someone who held his attention as you did. But in that moment, hearing you say that you craved it made something shift between you, something gentle but undeniable.

His gaze softened, and he gave your hand a subtle, comforting squeeze. “I crave it too,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, laden with sincerity.

He took a slow step closer, the tension between you growing, but still gentle, never hurried. His other hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek with the lightest touch.

You were holding your breath without even knowing it, your eyes studying his face.

Draco was gorgeous, to put it lightly.

You couldn’t help but let your gaze linger on his features — the sharpness of his jawline, the delicate curve of his lips, the way the moonlight caught the strands of his platinum hair. Everything about him was perfect, but it wasn’t just his looks that captivated you. It was the way he was with you, the way he made you feel as though time itself had paused just for this moment.

He seemed to sense your gaze on him, his blue eyes locking with yours as he took another step closer. There was an intensity in his stare, but it was soft, like he was allowing you to see a part of him that no one else had ever seen before.

"You're.. pretty." You allowed it to slip. You fought a facepalm.

Draco’s expression softened the moment the words left your mouth, and a flicker of something almost shy passed through his eyes. He took a small step closer, his voice steady but tinged with a slight surprise. “Pretty?” he repeated, as if testing the word on his lips. “I’ll have to admit, that’s not quite what I expected, but I’ll take it.”

You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, realizing how awkward you must have sounded. “I didn’t mean—”

But Draco cut you off, his lips curling into a subtle, playful smile. “No need to explain. I find it refreshing, actually.”

You let your hand hesitantly come up, tracing his jawline. You couldn't help it. To see something so exquisite was wonderful, but to touch it?

Draco’s breath caught at the gentle touch of your fingers tracing his jawline. His eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, the weight of your soft touch sending a shiver down his spine. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the space between you — the moonlight, the crisp air, and the undeniable pull that had been building between you both for so long.

When his eyes opened again, they were filled with a tenderness you hadn’t quite expected from him. He swallowed, as if gathering his thoughts, and his voice was quieter this time, almost reverent. “You’re not making this any easier, you know.” His words hung between you like a delicate promise.

The way your fingers lingered on his skin made his pulse race, yet there was no rush, no pressure. It was as if the moment itself was sacred, allowing you to savor each fleeting second.

He took a deep breath and moved slightly closer, his own hand coming to rest just beside yours, his fingers brushing against your wrist with a barely-there touch. "You're everything I could've hoped for. You make it hard not to fall straight in," he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

It wasn’t just the way he looked at you anymore — it was the way he spoke, the way he stood, like he was learning a new side of himself with every step. With you.

The air between you both seemed to thicken, charged with something deeper than mere attraction. The honesty in his words hung in the space around you, and for a moment, you felt weightless, suspended in the beauty of it all. Draco Malfoy — the boy who had always been so controlled, so poised — was unraveling in front of you, and you couldn’t help but let yourself fall into it.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked quietly, his cold breath fanning across your face.

Your breath caught at the question, the raw sincerity in his voice making your heart race. For a moment, you couldn’t find the words — only the steady rhythm of your pulse and the warmth of his gaze locking with yours.

The air felt charged, each passing second stretching out in the most exquisite way. His presence was all-consuming, but it wasn’t the kind of forceful pull you had anticipated from someone like Draco. No, this was different. This was careful.

You found yourself nodding, the small gesture enough to invite him in, to let him know you were ready. But your voice was soft when it came — almost as if you were sharing a secret.

“Yes,” you whispered, your heart fluttering at the simplicity of it, the way his sincerity matched your own.

Draco’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, a mix of relief and hope, and with a tenderness that completely surprised you, he closed the space between you. His lips, cool against the warmth of your skin, were gentle at first, as though testing the waters, waiting for you to meet him halfway.

You inched forward, increasing the contact, increasing the pressure. The kiss was electric, creating a current between the two of you. You were enveloped by his scent, his careful hands on either side of your face.

The kiss deepened, a slow and deliberate merging of two souls who had been circling around one another for so long. Draco’s hands cupped your face, his touch grounding yet tender, as though he was cherishing the moment — savoring it as much as you were. His lips moved against yours with a kind of reverence, a quiet understanding that this was more than just a kiss. It was a promise, an acknowledgment of everything that had led to this point.

The cold night air mingled with the warmth of your bodies, creating a delicate contrast. You could feel the heat of Draco’s breath against your skin, his heart racing beneath the fabric of his cloak. Every second felt timeless, the world outside, with its snow and moonlight, fading into the background. It was just you and him.

When the kiss finally broke, leaving you both breathless, you couldn’t help but smile, a soft, almost shy curve of your lips. Draco, too, seemed to be struggling to catch his breath, his eyes wide and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before.

He searched your eyes for a moment, as if waiting for some sign, some confirmation. "Was that... alright?" His voice was low, hesitant, as though he feared pushing too far, too fast.

You reached out, your hand resting gently on his chest. "More than alright," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Draco let out a small, relieved chuckle, and for the first time, he allowed himself to fully relax, the guarded walls he’d always kept up around himself momentarily slipping away. He was open, vulnerable, and it felt like you were both on the cusp of something beautiful.

The days that followed were absolutely blissful.

The kiss sealed the deal, officialized your relationship. You walked through the halls, your hand wrapped around Draco's bicep as he walked you to and from classes. You giggled at things he said, unearthing Draco's true smile.

As you and Draco made your way through the crowded corridors of Hogwarts, the usual mix of chatter and laughter surrounded you. You felt the warmth of Draco's presence beside you, his hand gently brushing against yours. It was becoming more natural, this — the way he would casually touch you, how you fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

But as you passed a group of Gryffindors, you overheard a snide remark.

"Look at them," a voice sneered from behind, barely concealed but sharp. "The perfect pureblood couple, too good for the rest of us. What’s next? A bloodline superiority contest?"

It was none other than Ron Weasley, his freckled face twisted with distaste. He was trying to make his voice loud enough for you to hear, his words dripping with sarcasm.

You felt your stomach tighten, the familiar sting of his words rising, but before you could say anything, Draco’s posture stiffened. His eyes flashed with the familiar Malfoy fire — directed entirely toward Weasley.

Draco turned slowly, his voice low but cold. “You’ve got something to say, Weasel?” His tone was biting, devoid of any warmth, the kind of tone that demanded respect — something Ron would never give him willingly. "Or are you just jealous of what you’ll never have? A girlfriend?"

Ron’s eyes widened in disbelief, his face turning redder by the second. He opened his mouth to retort, but Draco didn’t give him the chance.

“Really, Weasley,” Draco continued, his voice dripping with venom, “the only thing you’re good at is making a fool of yourself.” He took a step closer to Ron, his presence intimidating in a way only Draco Malfoy could manage. “Do you really think I’d let someone like you speak about her? Your opinion doesn’t matter. You wouldn't even know what to do with a girl like this.”

Ron’s fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white with frustration. “You’re a pompous prat, Malfoy. You really think you’re better than me?” he spat, taking a step forward, but the glint in Draco’s eyes made him hesitate.

You finally spoke up, a cool, calm expression on your face.

"You know, Ronald," you hummed, crossing your arms. "You embarrassed yourself by even opening your mouth. Do you really think your opinion on Draco or me holds any weight?"

Ron’s face reddened even further.

"Go back to stitching up your hand-me-downs. You could never measure up to Draco if you tried. You were right. We are too good for the likes of you or your meddling friends," you continued.

Draco stood silently by your side, watching with an almost surprised expression as you effortlessly tore into Ron’s pride. It was clear now — he wasn’t the only one with a sharp tongue. Yours, however, was just the type that only appeared when provoked.

“Every time something unfortunate happens at this school, it’s you and your posse behind it. It’s truly remarkable,” you finished, your voice filled with a calm, poised certainty that matched Draco's own demeanor.

Ron had no response, his mouth working without producing any words. The usual Weasley bravado was gone, replaced by a mixture of disbelief and humiliation.

"To make a long story short, shut your pathetic mouth before I hex it." You finished, glaring at him.

Draco finally lead you away.

Draco couldn't help but look at you with an expression that was a mix of pride and admiration. The way you'd handled Ron—completely dismantling him with ease—was both effortless and terrifying in the best way possible. You'd taken control of the situation without even breaking a sweat.

“Impressive,” Draco murmured under his breath, his eyes scanning your face as you walked side by side down the corridor, your steps in sync. There was something about the way you carried yourself, something that resonated with him more than anything had in a long time. You were a force, no doubt about it.

“I couldn't allow the disrespect. Especially towards you, Dray,” you said with a smirk.

Draco’s lips curled into a proud smile, his eyes gleaming with something deeper than usual. "I knew you had it in you," he said, his voice low and laced with admiration. "You handled that better than I could’ve imagined."

You glanced up at him, your smirk still lingering. "I learned from the best," you teased, nudging him playfully with your shoulder.

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking down at you in amusement. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he replied, his tone amused yet sincere. There was something undeniably magnetic between the two of you — a connection that everyone could sense but no one could truly understand.

As you continued walking, you noticed students quietly watching as you passed, whispers spreading like wildfire. The two of you were no longer just a couple; you were a force to be reckoned with. It was clear now that Draco’s reputation and yours had fused together, creating something that couldn’t be easily ignored.

"Careful," Draco said, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Soon, they'll start thinking we run the place."

You gave him a mischievous smile. "Maybe we do."

He chuckled, his arm wrapped into yours, the tension from the earlier confrontation now replaced by a comfortable quiet. It was as if the world had shifted, and for the first time, you felt as though you truly belonged — not just by his side, but in your own skin, confident and unyielding.

"Shall we take this somewhere more private?" Draco murmured, a playful edge in his voice, though the heat in his gaze said there was more to the suggestion than just teasing. "Your show has me in a rather.. intriguing mood."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a heat rising in your chest. "Lead the way, Draco."

[asoftsighh]

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ joel miller x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

joel handcrafts you a gift

1.3k words

You’d like to pride yourself with the fact that you know Joel Miller pretty well. You’d hope, after years of fighting and bleeding side by side. 

So you immediately notice his change in mood, how he’s quieter than usual. Where dry jokes would’ve been made, or compliments whispered, he’s silent. You don’t say anything though; Joel is like a stray dog, in this sense. One who’s been hurt, over and over, and it’s best when they come to you first. So you don’t say anything. Don’t push him, waiting and hoping that he’ll come to you if there’s something seriously wrong. 

It’s early afternoon now, a cold and rainy day. One of those days where you don’t feel like leaving the house, staying wrapped up in a blanket and in the arms of the man you love. That’s where you were right now, actually; the dimmed lights of your living room casting an orange hue to the room.

Joel’s heartbeat is slow and steady beneath your ear, where you’re half dozing on his chest. It had started with reading your separate books (yours a fantasy, his about space,) until his hand started rubbing your calf in the way you like. And now, here you are, half asleep and completely in love. 

“You tired?” He murmurs, his breath against your ear. His fingers rest on top of your head; not necessarily petting, but rather holding. Like he wants to keep you all to himself. 

You shake your head against his chest, listening to the fire crack across the room. You run your hand up his arm to his bicep, feeling the muscle flex beneath your touch involuntarily. 

His laugh is warm and low, and rustles the little hairs across your forehead. He pushes them back with a warm palm. “Are you lyin’ to me, baby?” 

You smile against his flannel before you can help yourself. You stretch out, legs straightening where they lay atop his. “No.”

He doesn’t believe you, this you know. You bet that he can feel your muscles relaxing, your body sinking into his and the couch at the same time. His hand slides down the slope of your back, squeezing your hip. “I have something to show you.”

You perk up slightly. Joel has never been the biggest gift giver, something you never really minded. Occasionally, he’d come back from patrol with a book that had survived or wildflowers that he picked. Whenever you asked why, he’d simply say “was thinking of you” and kiss your cheek. 

Now, you put it together, this might be the reason for his quietness. Who knew that this man, who has seen and experienced true horrors in the past couple of decades, could get this shy?

“What is it?” Your voice is groggy from your dozing as you pick your head up to look at him. There’s a softness in his eyes, the one that he saves for you, like the rest of the world doesn’t deserve to see him this open. His hand slides down from your head to your cheek, his thumb brushing against the highest part of your cheekbone, giving it a loving pinch. 

He hesitates now, eyes flickering between you and the stairs that lead upstairs. He shifts under you, giving your butt a squeeze through your jeans, ushering you up. When you move off him, he’s off and up the stairs before you can say anything. Less than a minute later, he’s back, holding something behind him. 

You smile, somewhat flustered and confused. “What are you hiding, Miller?”

His grin is even more flustered. If you look closely, beneath the scruff, you’d be able to see more hints of his rosy face. He stands in front of the couch now, shifting from foot to foot. You’ve seen him blood and bruised, enraged and dejected. But this, the shyness, is more vulnerable than any other emotion you’ve seen him express. 

“Was gonna wait, but I ain’t good at that.” He takes a seat on the coffee table, which groans under his weight, his knees knocking yours. 

You hold your hand out, less demanding and more impatient. “What is it?”

What he places in your hand is not at all what you expect. It’s a jewelry box, one that opens to show a small compartment. The inside is even squared off into sections, like he knows that you keep your earrings and necklaces separate. The outside is a dark, polished wood. Right before you’re about to look up, you notice something engraved on the top. Your initials. 

“Joel,” you breathe out through a sigh. Meeting his eyes, he looks like he’s bracing himself for the worst. As if you would hate his gift. “Did you make this?”

He shrugs but the tips of his ears are red. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, a little uneven in places like it’s been carved and sanded by hand. His hands. The same hands that hold you every night, that make you breakfast and pinch your cheeks. And now they’ve made something for you. 

“The top corner is chipped,” He says suddenly, running his hand over his too-long beard. “And the polish is too dark on the bottom. It was-”

You cut him off when you reach over to hold both of his hands in yours, the jewelry box on the couch cushion beside you. “Can’t believe you,” you say against his knuckles, pressing kisses to the tops of his hands. “It’s perfect, Joel. Thank you.”

He huffs out a laugh, just a gust of air. “I’m glad you like it.” He’s quiet for a few moments, watching you with that same look he always has when it’s just you two. “I've never been.. good at talkin. Figure I do something else for you.” 

“It’s perfect,” you repeat, tugging at his hands until he sits on your other side. You curl into him like you are magnets, coming together with a pull neither of you could resist. Not that you would ever want to. Your legs drape over his thighs, his arm coming around your shoulders to pull you against him. You both sit like that for a few soft moments, listening to the light drizzle outside and the crackling of the fire. 

“Was scared you weren’t gonna like it,” he murmurs. His lips brush against your temple in an almost kiss. “That you’d think it was dumb.”

You tilt your head to look at him. From this close, you can see the light gray hairs spattering his temples, his beard. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling. 

“Are you kidding? I love it,” you say, your voice thick with adoration for this grumpy but kind man that you somehow ended up with. “I love you.”

Joel’s eyes flicker over your face; your eyes, your mouth, your eyes again. He looks like he's searching your face for something, a lie maybe; not that he’ll ever find one. He deserves to be loved like this, to be appreciated. 

He swallows, jaw twitching like there’s a dozen things that he wants to say. He threads your fingers together on top of his lap, his thumb slowly brushing over your knuckles, like he’s trying to memorize you. “I love you,” he finally whispers back, his voice low but earnest. 

You’re both quiet for the next couple minutes, soaking up everything around. His arm around you, his hand in yours, his breath by your ear. Joel shifts eventually, kissing the crown of your head because he can. 

“You hungry?” he mumbles. “Can make you somethin.”

You smile into his shoulder, his soft flannel tickling your cheek. “Only if  you make those weird egg things.”

“They ain’t weird. Anway, you seem to like them just fine.”

You kiss his scruffy jaw. “I like you just fine,” you tease, in the way you know drives him crazy.

He huffs, flustered; but he’s smiling. And that’s enough. That’s all you need. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[cosmerelists]

Mistborn Era 1 Protagonists as the Seven Deadly Sins

[Spoilers for Mistborn Era 1 & Secret History!]

Because turning VILLAINS into the Seven Deadly Sins feels too easy, too unsatisfying. But which protagonists embody each of the Seven Deadly Sins? Now, that feels like an interesting question...

1. Wrath: Vin...but also Kelsier

Vin did eventually learn to set aside her wrath, but I'm thinking specifically of the Vin who went to Keep Hasting and simply slaughtered everyone there, the Vin who cut Straff (and his horse) in half with a giant sword. That's some wrath, baby.

But of course, if there's one person who has a surplus rage, it's Kelsier. He's the one who wanted to simply murder as many nobles as possible in revenge for all the suffering they had caused--and anyone who chose to work for them too.

2. Lust: Allrianne

I know, I know. The optics of having a woman as the embodiment of lust are not great. But Allrianne is the character who used her Rioting abilities to make the man she wanted fall in love with her, so... Of any of them, she's the embodiment of lust, I think, of doing anything to get the object of her desire.

3. Greed: Preservation...but also Kelsier

Preservation wanted to hold on to everything he had, to prevent anything and everything from changing or going away. That's a type of greed, I think, to hold on so tightly to what you have.

And speaking of holding on...Kelsier refused to give up his life even when he died. I remember the moment when he tried to get Vin to stay with him, but Vin understood what it meant to let go in a way Kelsier never could. Kelsier and Preservation are both a little bit like dragons hoarding their gold.

4. Gluttony: Spook

I'm thinking here about the Spook who ate so much tin that he became a tin savant and had to wear bandages around his face because everything was too bright and loud all the time. That's not food gluttony, but I think it is a type of allomancy gluttony.

5. Envy: Marsh

Marsh was jealous of his brother. He was in love with Mare, who was his brother's wife (which is pretty much classic envy), and I think he envied his brother for getting to be more free, while he tried to hold it together and do things the right way.

6. Sloth: Elend

I'm thinking here about how Elend knew things were fucked up and wanted the government and society to change...but mostly he met up with his friends to discuss philosophy and drink and didn't DO anything for a very long time. Obviously, that changed once he was with Vin and got his powers, but I think original Elend could be seen as the embodiment of sloth for reasons of wanting change but not being able to move forward to enact it.

7. Pride: Breeze...but also Kelsier

Yes, Breeze likes to wear nice clothes and drink wine, but that's not entirely the pride I'm thinking about. I'm thinking more about how Breeze pretended to be above it all, that he was chill and unaffected and didn't really care...until a certain death made him break at the end. I think it's a form of pride to want to pretend to be so much above the base emotions that everyone else is feeling. And there's the nice clothes and the wine too.

But, I mean...there is one character who deliberately set himself up as a god and formed a whole-ass religion around himself, and that's Kelsier. I think that takes pride. A lot of pride.

[testyqwcde]

Talking about Sauron behaving like a teenager inspired by @love-and-doom post and at times showing off his power and wit, I can’t stop thinking about that moment when he’s visibly hurt while trying to mention Galadriel to Celebrimbor.

When Celebrimbor tells him to leave, Sauron tries to stop him by bringing up Galadriel but he hesitates being unsure how to refer to her. He finally just says "She said you'd say that" and when Celebrimbor asks "Galadriel?" Sauron simply nods.

It’s both funny and sad because it reveals how deeply hurt he is. When someone in love feels offended or emotionally wounded, they might avoid saying their loved one’s name, it is kind a way of showing distance, hurt or disappointment.

A question is why Sauron is uncomfortable saying her name in front of Celebrimbor when he has no issue doing so with Adar or Mirdania?

With Mirdania, his expression is sad, full of longing as if painful memories are being stirred. With Adar, we don’t see his face but I’m willing to bet his expression is bitter, very bitter lol. So what makes Celebrimbor different? Why the hesitation? What does Celebrimbor know that Adar and Mirdania don’t?

Maybe Celebrimbor witnessed their relationship developing behind the scenes. Perhaps he even caught them kissing in the forge. Now, with that knowledge hanging in the air, Sauron feels exposed and uncomfortable. His pride is wounded because clearly it was Galadriel how broke up with him and Celebrimbor knows it lol

And Elrond does know the details of their relationship too. Perhaps this is one of the main reasons he is so pissed off with her and we have these iconic lines

+1 point to 'Romance in Eregion' theory.

[freebooter4ever]

on a more serious note i started drawing this during that four nations tournament precisely because i was thinking less about hockey and more about nationalism and sports and politics and how world leaders have always used any and all forms of competition to prove the secular version of ordained rule.

and how frustrated i was not at the nhl's decision to exclude russia, but for the reasons they did it and how they did it. instead of making it a point - instead of utilizing the league's small bit of power over world events - and turning 'No country currently at war against the UNs terms can participate in international sports' into a repeated talking point, the league ignored it. the announcers, the official press releases all glossed over the russian players absences. they acted as if the russian players weren't among the 'best of the best' so could be skipped in this all star game. we got creepy talks of turning this into a us vs canada trial for dominance and chanting in the us locker room pro military, pro trump, pro imperialism.

the league could have made "No More War" the theme of the tournament. Everything could have been about that. the players who rarely have anything original or interesting to say in interviews anyway could have repeated this sentiment. that they missed their fellow russian players and wished they were here at the tournament competing beside them. but symbolic support of the war ending was more important than including the combatant country.

but no. instead what the fans got was a league that didnt seem to mind war at all, in fact encouraged aggressive talk against peaceful allies. instead we saw a league that seemed to simply be embarrassed about knowing that including russia would be a PR crisis in... pretty much all countries except russia. And the league made it clear that they cared more about the PR crisis and losing viewers than actually pushing to end the war and get russia to rejoin international competition. and they could care even less about hurt feelings or egos of the athletes.

and in the middle of all this are these athletes who are intensely proud of the countries and land they were born in, and want to be able to wear that ancestry with pride and show off for their country's people. and they only have a limited span of time their bodies will be able to do this. and what luck to be born in an era where the entire world seems thirsty for self destruction and greed again.

its just something to think about.

i started this during the four nations thing

[luxiomahariel]

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Whats the flag in your profile picture?

currently its the aroallo (aromantic allosexual) flag

Q: What does mtm mean?

mtm is a term for transgender men who consider themselves transitioning from male to male, as they have always been male, just not in the way being male is traditionally defined as

i have always been male and will always be male regardless of whatever genital, hormonal, or chromosomal arrangements i was born with, and whether i choose to make changes to my body or not

ftm implies that someone was female at some point, then transitioned to male, which does not accurately describe how some trans men view their gender. its rooted in the concept of binary sex distinctions and assuming gender based on sex, which many trans people want to do away with entirely

it can be considered an agab-punk identity, agab-punk meaning someone who does not wish to disclose their agab for any reason, or simply doesn’t find the concept of agab to be important or relevant

it can also be used by intersex people who are close-to-male or ‘almost wolffian’ but aren’t actually wolffian (wolffian meaning someone who has a penis and testes, the capacity to produce sperm unless if sterile, and has testosterone as ones natural primary sex hormone) and who transitions to a male gender identity

these people can also choose to call themselves ctmtm (close-to-male to male)

Q: What does müllerian/wolffian mean?

müllerian is a descriptor for when people have this set of sex traits:

a vulva and vagina

a uterus and ovaries

the capacity for ovogenesis / the ability to give birth unless if sterile

having estrogen as ones primary sex hormone

generally having breasts as secondary sex traits

wolffian is a descriptor for when people have this set of sex traits:

a penis and testes

the capacity for spermatogenesis unless if sterile

having testosterone as ones primary sex hormone

Q: Can I use your pixel pride flags for my pronouns.page / pronouns.cc / pronouny.xyz / pluralkit / carrd / strawpage / rentry profile? Should I credit you?

yep, you can use my pixel flags for those! credit is appreciated though not required, just dont claim you made them and link to my itch.io if asked lol

Q: What is Shinigami Eyes?

shinigami eyes is a browser extension that was developed in order to tell trans and nonbinary people using it what websites/people are and arent safe. it was inspired by the anime death note where, in the series, shinigami eyes are a gift that shinigami are able to give to owners of the death note that grant them the ability to see peoples names and lifespans just by looking at their face, that way death note owners are able to kill people easier since they need a name and a face in order for the death note to work. in a similar way, the extension is supposed to give you all the information you need to know about a website/person by how theyre marked:

websites/people that are anti-trans would be marked in red and websites/people that are trans-friendly would be marked in green

that was how it was supposed to work anyway

Q: Are you aware that youre flagged as anti-trans on Shinigami Eyes?

yes, i am aware

shinigami eyes has become increasingly transphobic against trans men/mascs that speak out about our oppression, against trans women/fems that support us, against nonbinary people by not taking the pejorative 'theyfab' as a serious issue that targets nonbinary people, against intersex trans women/fems afab and intersex men/mascs amab by claiming their identities arent valid, and against trans and nonbinary people of color speaking out about racism in the queer community. it may have been useful at one point but there have been far too many people marked as "trans-friendly" who want trans men/mascs to be killed or get cancer or are comparing trans men/mascs to nazis/hitler that it has become useless and i encourage you to uninstall it and leave a review about how useless this extension is now.

Q: Do you know why theres been so much transandrophobia lately?

its not just lately, trans men/mascs have been trying for over a decade now to coin a term in order to describe the ways in which sexism and transphobia intersect that primarily target trans men/mascs but every time these terms have been shot down and nitpicked to hell and back

well recently an indigenous trans man coined the term transandrophobia to use in order to discuss our oppression and transandrophobes think that the term is inherently transmisogynistic so theyve ramped up the “jokes” about wanting trans men/mascs dead

since transandrophobia has gone so unchecked for so long in the queer community, trans men/mascs are digging our heels in with the term transandrophobia because we know that continuing to hop from one term to another to appease transandrophobes will result in no progress being made to address the actual issues that we're bringing up when we talk about societal transandrophobia

Q: What does tme/tma mean?

tma stands for transmisogyny applicable tme stand for transmisogyny exempt

the terms are intersexist and transmisogynistic because people keep defining tme to include every single person that was assigned female at birth even though intersex people have pointed out time and time again that gender assignment is an event that happens to you at birth and is not representative of a persons sex traits nor is it indicative of what gender a person was raised as or if that person experienced the puberty aligned with their assigned gender. people using tma/tme constantly categorize trans women/fems afab as "tme trans women/fems" and are openly hostile towards everyone they deem as "tme", especially trans men/mascs

even though tme is meant to include cis people, it is most often used to attack trans men/mascs without outright stating that they are attacking specifically trans men/mascs

you can see how tme/tma are actually being used here

Q: What are bæddels?

around 2012-2016, there was a group of trans women/fems that co-opted the intersexist slur which they believed had actually targeted trans women/fems and started calling themselves baeddels (even putting the word baeddel in their url or bio). they believed that the root of all bigotry was actually transmisogyny, much like how radical feminists believe that the root of all bigotry is actually misogyny. this group of trans women/fems repeatedly targeted and harassed trans men/mascs and also nonbinary people (mainly nonbinary people afab but the group also held general transmed beliefs and thought nonbinary people amab were just transfem eggs) on the assumption that they were not oppressed and actually benefited from the patriarchy in order to oppress trans women/fems.

the main perpetrators of this toxic rhetoric ended up living together and eventually it came out that one of them had raped another trans women at knifepoint. through a lot of gaslighting and manipulation, the rapist had convinced the other trans women/fems in the group to harass and shun the victim when, painting the victim as being transmisogynistic. eventually the group had learned what had actually happened to the victim and disbanded due to guilt.

do not trust anyone who self identifies as a baeddel because this is the shit they are defending when they attempt to "reclaim" it. and do not call anyone who doesnt self identify as one a baeddel because it is still am intersexist slur.

you can find evidence of everything that the baeddels said and did documented on this blog: https://www.tumblr.com/baeddel-txt

Q: What does cafab/camab mean?

it stands for coercively assigned [gender] at birth and those terms are used to refer to intersex people who were medically abused at birth and forcibly assigned their gender

they are intersex exclusive and people who are not intersex should not be using these terms to describe themselves

[clairdelunetarot]

After so many years, i've come to you with a new pac! This one was chosen through a poll last year. In this pack, we’ll explore what your person of interest thinks about you. It doesn’t apply to family, friends, etc.

ABOUT ME   ˗ˏˋ   ★   ˎˊ˗   MASTERLIST OF READINGS   ˗ˏˋ   ★   ˎˊ˗ 

DISCLAIMER: This is a general reading so take only what resonates.

PILE ONE

Energy check to see if this reading is meant for you:

If you’ve been intuiting things that you can’t quite confirm, but there’s a voice in your head telling you it is true. It also applies if you’ve had difficulty letting go of this connection, or if you’ve suddenly felt a disconnection or blockage with this person.

What do they think of you?

In short, when they think of you, they think of a missed opportunity. As if things didn’t play out in their favor. There was a good opportunity for something beautiful, that simply couldn’t happen because of external reasons. It’s possible that there was bad timing. This person left me with a feeling of resignation in the air. Maybe you felt capable of offering something reciprocal and even committing, but apparently it was only on your part. This person didn’t know how to give back to you in the right way, and that resignation I mentioned earlier comes filled with passivity on their end. This person seems like they didn’t have the will to fight for the connection the way they should have.

Signs: This person seems like someone who rationalizes a lot before acting, so it made me think of Libra and Aquarius. They tend to emotional protection and stay silent when they feel they’re losing control. A troubled Moon in Scorpio or Virgo. Oh, and they have a hard time closing chapters. It makes me think of a Moon or Venus in fixed signs: Taurus or Scorpio. I’d put Leo but there’s too much passivity on their end.

PILE TWO

Energy check to see if this reading is meant for you:

This reading applies to people who, after experiencing this connection, have become more grounded. If you have worked on setting healthy boundaries and are now approaching the situation more mature.

What do they think of you:

This person feels both clarity and shame. They’ve realized they didn’t act in the best way with you. They may have acted evasively, lied to you, or been very dishonest. That’s where the shame comes from. Even regret. They know they played a role in making things between you unstable or even difficult. They wish things had been different with you. But that shame is camouflaged in denial and doesn’t let them fully process that clarity. They’re not ready to face it openly and have a hard time being completely honest with themselves to know how to fix it.

Signs: Definitely Virgo or Capricorn badly aspected in their birth chart because of fear of not being enough. Pisces and Cancer in sun or mercury, or even Venus. Some air in there, because of the tendency to overthink. Definitely no fire in their chart due to the lack of initiative, and if there is, it must be very weak lmao.

PILE THREE

Energy check to see if this reading is meant for you:

If you felt that this person at first showed interest but then their actions weren’t consistent over time and you noticed them as empty or even manipulative, this pile is for you. It also applies if you’ve noticed that this person isn’t as honest or self confident as they seem. If you’ve picked up on insecurity, immaturity, etc. If you’ve recently snapped out of the confusion they left you in and now feel more disappointment than anything over how they treated you.

What do they think of you:

This person knows things didn’t end well: they’re fully aware of it. Maybe it was pride, misunderstandings, or even a clash of temperaments. Whatever the case, it left you both distant. They won’t say it, but they know they lost a chance with you because deep down, they admire you. It’s a bit complicated to explain, but they admire how strong, reserved, or even hard to read you are. Maybe they’re one of those masochists who feel a weird admiration when someone finally sets a strong, clear boundary and slams the door on them when they’re not used to it lmao. To this person, you were important or even different from the rest, and they think you’re the one who came out better from this situation.

Signs: There’s an internal struggle to keep the peace, but not as strong as Libra’s diplomacy, sounds like Sagittarius to me. Very weakened Sagittarius with some 12th house placements. They might have some Scorpio. But since there’s so much avoidance, most likely they have Pisces or Cancer (or both), misaligned/weakened. There are chances they have a Mars in Libra or something Libra-related in there. Venus in Aquarius sounds very fitting to me.

[maxdibert]

I mean, the trio can't be faulted much for despising Snape (Hermione also didn’t, she probably just judged him), they were children, and he did kind of target Harry. They were just being his best friends and standing up for him, plus I doubt Severus cared for the opinions of children. (Except for Harry's maybe?) But Sirius and Remus are the ones I will never understand. Snape is a very strong and brave man for risking his life for them despite the burden of hatred and being constantly judged, knowing he had no ally or friend, especially after Dumbledore died. And even Dumbledore used him. I would not be able to handle that. He must have felt so lonely and depressed.

I think his main mission was to protect Harry and defeat Voldemort, but he helped others in the process too.

Well, basically Sirius was a loyal dog and never stopped being one, and his hatred toward Snape was completely irrational. James hated Snape because he was friends with Lily, and as a heteronormative toxic guy, he couldn’t conceive that the girl he liked could have male friends, and even less so a low-class Slytherin, obviously. But Sirius’ grudge was always irrational. Maybe out of loyalty to James, maybe simply because Sirius was a Black and that elitist arrogance had to come out somewhere, and being sadistic to a Slytherin who hung out with his brother’s friends probably felt justifiable to him. Maybe it was a mix of all of it, but it was resentment without a real reason, just for the sheer pleasure of being abusive.

And Sirius was also a proud man, someone who in his youth had it all: extreme good looks, money, popularity, a group of friends where he felt like the king of his own little ecosystem at school. On top of that, Sirius was very self-satisfied with his role as the rebellious one who opposed his family’s values, which made him feel morally superior, a heroic figure.

And suddenly, he gets out of prison and that kid he bullied, abused, even tried to kill — the one he always saw as a loser and dehumanized to the point of stripping him of any humanity — turns out not only to be a member of the Order but basically its most important one: Dumbledore’s right hand, the one who knows everything before anyone else, and takes on all the dangerous, secret missions. Meanwhile, Sirius is a broken man stuck in his parents’ house, good for nothing except offering up his property as a headquarters, literally unable to contribute to anything. And that must’ve eaten him alive, wrecked his ego and his masculinity to the core. And of course, he was never going to admit that Severus was more than efficient and talented, because doing so would mean admitting he’d been wrong all his life, that he’d misjudged and targeted the wrong person, and his pride was never going to let him do that. Gryffindor pride, they call it.

Remus comes from a different place. He’s a guy who loves playing the victim. I mean, he is a victim, and he’s suffered a lot because of his condition, sure. But in this life, you can either be resilient and rise above the crap (which, ironically, is something Severus actually does) or turn yourself into a martyr and go around pitying yourself, which is exactly what Remus Lupin does his whole adult life. And I don’t think he was too emotionally prepared to face the fact that maybe he wasn’t the biggest victim in his own story, because he’d been a participant in the abuse and bullying of someone else. Admitting that would mean seeing himself as a perpetrator, and well, a bit too much for his warped self-image.

In the end, it all comes down to not wanting to own up to their own mess or be held accountable. That’s the biggest difference between Severus and them: Severus screwed up, realized it, owned it, and dedicated his life to seeking forgiveness. The Marauders, on the other hand, kept selling the narrative that they were the real heroes. It takes a hell of a lot of guts to admit your mistakes and make amends. I guess they were either born gutless or simply weren’t as brave as the Sorting Hat claimed they were.

[wintersovereign]

Elsa arrived just after sunrise. The morning light filtered through the narrow windows of the holding wing, pale and cold, casting long shadows across the stone corridor. Elsa moved quietly, her guards at a respectful distance behind her. She didn’t need an escort. Hans wasn’t a threat —not in chains, not now. And yet, something about this visit made her pulse move a little faster. The guards didn’t need to announce her presence. They simply stepped aside, and she moved past them without a word, her steps quiet against the worn stone. She paused outside his cell, fingers brushing the iron bars before she spoke. No frost bloomed under her touch, though it easily could have. Her magic hummed beneath the surface, sensitive to her thoughts, restless and curious.

Hans was asleep. She hadn’t expected that. His head had bowed forward in the night, chin resting lightly against his chest, arms still crossed in a way that looked more defensive than relaxed. It wasn’t peaceful sleep, she could see that immediately. There was tension in his posture, even in stillness. A man trying to stay composed even while unconscious. He looked… smaller, somehow. Stripped of all the things that had once made him seem large. The polish was gone. The tailored arrogance. The ever-ready smirk. What was left was just a man in borrowed clothes, curled awkwardly on a narrow mattress in a cell that didn’t quite fit either of them, him or her memory of him.

Elsa felt a flicker of guilt rise again. It had come in waves since she'd ordered his arrest but this morning it had sharper edges. She had spent half the night convincing herself that justice required distance. That mercy could not be mistaken for sentiment. But seeing him like this, unguarded and unaware, cut through that neatly ordered reasoning like a crack through ice. He didn’t know she was watching and that, strangely, made it easier to see him. Not the would-be usurper. Not the threat. Just Hans. A man who looked utterly out of place in a cell but not because he was undeserving. It was because he didn’t belong anywhere anymore, and perhaps hadn’t for some time.

She swallowed, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. She should have turned away. Should have reminded herself that justice had already been served. But instead, she lingered, gaze tracing the lines of weariness on his face, the faint bruise of sleep deprivation under his eyes.

Elsa hadn’t meant to care. She told herself she didn’t. That this was about fairness. That a queen could regret and still be firm and yet… her breath caught, just faintly, at the thought that he had fallen asleep like that. That for all his pride, he had sat alone in silence until exhaustion overcame him. It unsettled her how much that affected her. How much of her had begun to wonder not what he deserved, but what he needed. She had come here this morning to feel sure again but looking at him now, she only felt the quiet ache of uncertainty.

Thankfully, his holding cell was not as awful as Hans had pictured. It wasn't as dreary as the one he had locked Elsa in, but it certainly was no vacation spot either. Hans wouldn't be caught dead resting there in his normal attire, but given his more modest clothes, provided by the people in Harmon, he wasn't upset about getting dirty.

Though, it was the first time in a while since he had been ... observed. The bars of the cage he now found himself in did nothing for privacy. Hans hated feeling the guards' eyes upon him. How was he supposed to sleep? He found himself longing for his small room at the Harmon inn.

Despite this, Hans took a seat on the old mattress sitting in the corner. The springs squeaked in protest as he leaned back against the wall. He faced the bars, eyes sharp as daggers as he observed the sudden stark difference between the world out there, and the world in here.

I'll never fall asleep like this, he thought as he crossed his arms over his chest. As the evening turned to night, and the night stretched on, Hans' eyes grew heavy. Eventually, his chin tucked into his chest, and he nodded off into a light sleep.

[allthatmay]

So, today my husband said, "Some people think Shanks is a radial leftist, but I think he's the most centrist character in the show. Dragon fills the role of the radial leftist/anarchist that people often attribute to Shanks."

And, huh, yeah. People do often talk about Shanks like he's an anarchist, but he's really not. I've always said that Shanks is a mediator, keeping a tentative peace between the pirate tribes and the government until the time comes wherein the One Piece can be claimed and the mysterious consequences can happen, but that means he is effectively playing the part of a centrist—straddling the fence, as it were. The key difference, I think, is that Shanks knows for certain that change is coming in the form of a rubber deity, and he is trying to guide it into place. All his work is done behind the scenes with very little violence if he can help it.

Now, it's easy to assume that Shanks' plans involve the complete dissolution of the government as it presently stands; that he is simply using his power & influence to mitigate harm for the many until the "real fight" can begin (and, with him having recently decided to chase the One Piece, now it has), but that might not be the case (and, even if it is the case, a lot of centrists use "mitigating harm for the many" as a reason not to take action against some truly heinous acts). The reality may be that Shanks doesn't see the need for the total collapse of the government, or perhaps he knows something about it that we don't (i.e. because he might be of Celestial Dragon blood). I don't really believe this is the case because, as far as I'm aware, Shanks hasn't ever shown any real support for the World Gov but he has shown, time and time again, that he believes in dreams, in people's personal willpower, and in the ability of anyone to become strong and change the future. But the truth is that we can't know his intentions for certain without Oda giving us more information, so my husband's assertion that Shanks is a centrist makes some sense.

In particular, Luffy is what makes this theory interesting: slap him in between Dragon and Shanks, and there's a very real dichotomy between the two "fathers" in his life. See, Luffy idolises Shanks and thinks of him similarly to a father, but he might realise as time goes on that he can't be like Shanks; he might realise that Shanks' ideals will only carry him so far. After all, what good is it to be a pacifistic when your enemy is a powerful government that is comfortable with mass murder?

(My rebuttal is that Luffy is the only one who can be like Shanks. He is effectively Shanks' dream: Shanks wants to be strong enough to do all the work himself, to suffer all the pain himself, and while he is one of the strongest men in the world, he simply can't do that; what he can do is only achievable through the support he has at his side. Meanwhile, Luffy has close support in his crew, and he has the Gum-Gum Fruit! He can literally become a godlike figure and shape the world around him! He can do everything that Shanks wants and needs and, as sure as I am that Shanks wishes he could have done it himself—I'm thinking back to his days with Roger here—he knows that it was never meant to be him.)

This is where Dragon comes in. Dragon, in direct contrast to Shanks, uses violence as a tool whenever he can. He's all about the greater good, for lack of a better term. His thinking is along the lines of, "People are suffering now and we can help, and we have no qualms in forcibly dismantling a government that uses slavery, genocide, and imprisonment to control its populace. We don't wait for the right time to act, we simply act." Do I think Shanks would approve of Dragon's goals? Yes. Do I think he would approve of Dragon's means in achieving those goals? No, but mostly because Shanks is very self-sacrificial and tries to take whatever suffering is necessary for change onto himself, relying only on his small, personal crew, whereas Dragon is happy to let other people martyr themselves for the rebel cause. He lets a small, amnesiac child join them, for crying out loud—something Shanks would never do, not even if the child proved very capable.

If anything is to come from this difference of ideals, I think it's that Luffy will learn from both of them and find his own way to the One Piece and into the world waiting beyond. Why? Well, because Luffy is all about freedom, and no one on the side of Dragon or Shanks is truly free. As for the world itself, it's hard to predict what will happen after Luffy's done with it because it's pretty dependent on Oda's philosophy. For instance, Oda seems to approve of monarchies, which is not something I would personally imagine remaining in a world without a governing body—but, hey, what do I know?

Of course, we all know that the true centrist in the show is undeniably Garp. He will let real, undeniable harm befall those he cares about in order to maintain the status quo, or to stop the government from toppling because [gasp] that would be the worst thing ever! He's a man who believes the government is essential and joins up in order to change it from the inside, only to fall short of his own expectations because he won't stand up when it matters most. Not even for the sake of his beloved grandson.

[melverie]

Love how there are four main reasons why Lucifer is as avid a Demonus Connoisseur™ as we know him to be, and how all of them hurt to think about

There's the obvious, of course. All the seraphs go out drinking together. It's a little keepsake to his time as an angel, in a way. So Lucifer sits in his moonlit study down in the Devildom, only the shadows of leaves gently swaying in the wind keeping him company, pouring himself half a horn of the finest Demonus in his collection. All to honor those he once called his brothers and sisters as they fill up each other's cups and bask in the warm sunlight of the Celestial Realm

Ah, but he's not just drinking to mourn days lost to the past! He also has reason to celebrate every once in a while! Any small improvement to his and Satan's relationship is deserving of a generous reward, don't you think? See? That's a perfectly normal reason to treat yourself to a few more horns!

A couple of bottles into his system, and all the things that usually plague his mind seem so distant all of a sudden. It all turns into nothing but hazy fragments, and it's hard to piece it all back together. Although it's not like Lucifer would even want to in the first place, not when it finally makes all the things he craves to forget about slip from his mind. About the sister he failed to save. About the brothers he damned alongside him. And the crushing guilt that accompanies his every waking moment...

And then finally, there's this one glaring issue that everyone always seems to overlook when it comes to Lucifer—"his" Pride. That awful, wretched little sin, everpresent as it dictates his tone of voice, his every gesture, every word he utters, every single little facet of his personality. Lucifer—"Avatar" of Pride and the morning star himself—is nothing but a prisoner of his own mind, a mere puppet for "his" Pride to control

And so, he drinks. Drinks until even the cheapest bottles in his collection are empty. Not that it matters much to him, at least he can finally free himself from the constant pain and heartbreak that is looming over him, even if it's just for a handful of insignificant hours in this sheer endless torture that is his immortal life. After all, he can't drown in his sorrows as long as he keeps the Demonus flowing

By the time only one last bottle is left, Lucifer stares straight into the darkness of his study, his hair completely disheveled and tears cling to his face. He has long since collapsed on the ground as he brings the very last bottle of Demonus to his lips, not stopping until he has gulped down every last drop

Right now, the Avatar of Pride is nothing but a shadow of his former glory. But oh, is there a better escape from drowning in his sorrows than to keep this sweet, sweet Demonus flowing?

[bumpscosity]

Vince I will always love you….. (she/he/they/it)

[spookyc]

Having watched Nimona recently, I feel it's important for me, as a trans person, to discuss a certain criticism I've seen regarding the movie. A criticism I take great issue with, and one that I think needs to be addressed. And that is the supposed issue of Nimona being "too blatant" about its queerness, that its message is "ham-fisted" in nature. And that bothers me. It bothers me that people think that something that is blatant is inherently bad. It bothers me that people think its message is ham-fisted simply because you don't have to go searching for it. Something being obvious isn't inherently negative and I'm tired of that sentiment being thrown around like it's fact. Because subtlety isn't an inherent good either, neither are good or bad entirely. And frankly, when it comes to queerness in media, the only way it will have an impact is if it's blatant. Especially regarding transness.

Because, if you'll allow me to be completely blunt and candid, we don't live in a society where subtle queerness can be appreciated. We live in a society that wants people like me eradicated for simply existing. Laws are being passed continously that discriminate against us and prevent us from living comfortably. We live in a world rn where we either have to suffer in silence or fucking die. That is the reality trans people live in. So if those that hate us are given any indication that they can disregard us, ignore us, pretend we don't exist, they will take that opportunity everytime. We've seen this with Across the Spiderverse, where even trans flags and trans colors splashed across Gwen will still lead to people denying her transness.

Because at the end of the day, Spiderverse is still about Miles Morales, and it's still about Spiderman, and Spiderman's story isn't inherently queer. So they'll make every excuse to ignore Gwen's transness, or they'll simply ignore her story to focus on the rest of what ATSV has to offer. Ultimately, it can still be overlooked and enjoyed without acknowledging that aspect. But that isn't the case for Nimona. Nimona is a queer story with queer themes and queer characters, queerness is baked into the very core of what Nimona is. To not acknowledge those aspects is to blatantly misinterpret the movie, you cannot divorce Nimona from being gay, and trans, and nonbinary, and genderfluid and everything that falls in between. It is blatant, and really, I think that's what we need rn. We need something so unapolegetically queer that people can't ignore it, they can't disregard it, and they can't look away from it. Because then that means they have to acknowledge us, that they can't wipe us out, that we are here and we are loud and we WILL make our voices known. Being quiet helps no one, but being loud is what inspires change, it's what makes people uncomfortable, and I say we make them as uncomfortable as possible.

For every bigot that wants us dead, that thinks we're monsters and unfit for society, you will have the bigots who understand that they're wrong. You will have the bigots who change the way they see us, and might even recognize how harmful they were being. You don't get that by keeping your head down and hinting towards a vague metaphor that a character might be trans, because with how things are right now, it won't be enough to make an impact. You do that by making a metaphor so obvious it bypasses subtext and becomes the text, you do that by having characters like Nimona, who simply wish to exist without everyone pestering her about who she is, she's Nimona, and that's the only answer she or anyone should have to give. You do that by intiating a rallying cry, to inspire trans people, kids or otherwise, and to state plain and clearly that we see you, and that you aren't alone.

So yeah Nimona is very blatant in its queerness, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

[unkownknowledge]

I love people claiming to represent me saying my identity is a kink

[yanderenightmare]

Yandere Seven Deadly Sins

♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk

♡ FEM reader

Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.

You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.

And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.

He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.

And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.

Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time. 

It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.

But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.

“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?

“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”

You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers. 

“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”

There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.

You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”

You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason. 

“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.

This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.

He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.

After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.

You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.

“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.

You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.

His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.

Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.

It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.

You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”

And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”

Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—

“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.

“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”

You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.

Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.

You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.

Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.

“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”

He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.

“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.

And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Touya, Hawks, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Baro ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Muzan, Sanemi

Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.

Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less. 

He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…

You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.

He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone. 

He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.

You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.

But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.

And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.

And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…

You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.

But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.

“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”

He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there. 

And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.

That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?” 

He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.

And so, you hadn’t answered him.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”

That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring. 

And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles. 

He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.

You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?

What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…

The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self. 

Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.

Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.

You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.

The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say. 

Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.

It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.

You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”

He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.

You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.” 

You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair. 

He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.

He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”

He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face. 

He’s forgetting who his opponent is.

“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”

“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.

He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”

This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”

“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”

This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”

That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.

And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”

"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.

Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.” 

And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again. 

“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.

“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”

It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.

“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.

And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”

And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.

Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ HxH – Uvogin

Sloth is a street urchin.

You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.

This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.

So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.

You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.

This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.

And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion. 

You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.

He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.

You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.

You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.

He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.

“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”

You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.

He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.” 

All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands. 

You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”

When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool. 

He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses. 

Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Togame

Gluttony is a five-star chef. 

You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table. 

He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.

He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.

And taste you, he most certainly does. 

For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.

“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.

Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”

You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”

Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.

“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”

He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”

Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.

Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”

You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”

Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.

When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready. 

He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”

You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”

He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”

You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”

He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.

He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off. 

“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”

You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”

Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.” 

He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.

“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Todo ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Uvogin ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.

Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…

He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for. 

“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.

“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”

Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage. 

But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?

Must be madness.

“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.

“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”

You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”

"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"

"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"

That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”

He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.

Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...

You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.

“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?” 

You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.

Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.

“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”

He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.

“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.” 

He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.

And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”

The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”

He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”

Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”

He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”

After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.

Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Reo, Shido, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

Envy is your enemy. 

Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy. 

You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are. 

But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.

You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.

Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.

It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?

Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together. 

It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!

Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it. 

“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”

You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”

“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”

“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”

His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”

But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?

“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...” 

Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached. 

“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him. 

Baffled, he accepts without thinking.

“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.

And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…

What did you just say? 

Like? Him?

Did he mishear you, or did you just confess? 

No way—that can’t be it, right? 

But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?

"What the fuck did I just do?"

You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.

You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor. 

You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.

A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.” 

You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.

No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.

“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”

You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”

You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?

He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.

You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.

“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.

He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”

That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.

He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.

“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.

It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”

He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.

A lunchbox. 

“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”

He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.

“For me?”

“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”

You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.

His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.

It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.

He didn’t actually expect you to try them.

But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”

He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.” 

Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.

That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Shinso ♡ JJK – virgin Sukuna, Megumi ♡ HQ – Tsukishima ♡ BLLK – Rin, Sae ♡ DS – Genya

Greed is your clingy childhood friend. 

He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.

He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.

Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.

And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.

But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.

He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.

Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his. 

Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?

“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”

“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.

“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”

He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.

“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”

Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”

“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.

Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.

“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”

You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.

“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.

You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”

He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.

“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”

He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.

“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”

You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.

He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”

It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.

You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.

He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.

“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”

That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.

“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”

One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.

“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”

The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.

“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.” 

He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.

And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.

“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”

♡ BNHA – Deku ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Tendou ♡ BLLK – Bachira ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I think a lot of what's currently informing my fellow white people curdling like milk and shitting their pants when asked to interrogate their relationship with rap is the way many people (especially well-meaning white people) still can't help but think of racism as something that you get accused of rather than something that influences the entire world in pernicious ways.

like, I think a lot of people currently posting the most cringe takes about rap right now would very much agree that Racism Is Bad and probably even acknowledge that rap has been and is still widely maligned and devalues for racist reasons.

but that last step, acknowledging that your personal tastes and interests are also influenced by systemic racism, is where a LOT of people stumble. it's very easy to assume that because you consider yourself against racism, then your tastes and interests cannot possibly be at all informed by racist. if you're a white American, that's simply extremely unlikely to be true.

speaking from personal experience, I had to Work to decenter whiteness in my media tastes. when I was like 19 I listened to a podcast where a white Jewish man talked about keeping a spreadsheet of the books he read to make sure he was reading a roughly equal number of men and women, and I started doing the same thing to track how many authors of color I was reading. at the time I took pride in my belief that I was reading diversely, but when the year ended I was shocked to discover that people of color had written barely a quarter of the books I'd read. I had been giving myself way too much credit while still unintentionally prioritizing white authors, because white authors were the ones I knew best. so I started making an extremely conscious effort to seek out books by authors of color, both fiction and nonfiction, that sounded like my kind of shit.

music was extremely similar. I grew up a little white girl in a very white city in a very white state; nobody was offering me an education in rap or r&b or soul or hip hop. as an young adult there were definitely some Black artists I liked, like Janelle Monáe, but I had to take the initiative of seeking out more artists to find out who I fuck with. you're not going to like everybody, which is fine, but are you even giving anyone a chance? are you even looking?

racism has roots everywhere, bro. it's not enough to just acknowledge it, you have to actively get digging.