Azmixe-tonka - Vulpecvla.c

𝕕𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕠 𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕗𝕠𝕪 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

ˢᵉʳⁱᵉˢ

ᵒⁿᵉ⁻ˢʰᵒᵗˢ

ᵇˡᵘʳᵇˢ

ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿⁿᵒⁿˢ

𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕣: 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕓𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

ˢᵒᵏᵏᵃ

ᵏᵃᵗᵃʳᵃ

ᶻᵘᵏᵒ

ᵗᵒᵖʰ

ᵃᶻᵘˡᵃ

i do not pity israel. never have, and never will.

each night that gaza experiences is deadlier than the last, as idf soldiers record propaganda tiktoks, make rave parties and grwms and fit checks, gloat over having food and water, and film themselves deriving sadistic pleasure from torturing their hostages and victims and desecrating the dead.

Palestinians have to display their martyred before the camera for you to believe the atrocities that the zionist entity has subjected them to. they cannot even mourn in private. the apartheid entity murders them in cold blood, and you deliver the killing blow by doubting them.

babies whose families have been killed will never get to know their own name.

i can't reshare a tenth of the videos and photos that cross my timeline. i have seen more dead children in the past month than i have known death my entire life.

israeli settlers burn olive trees, bomb bakeries and fishing boats, shower white phosphorus and earthquake bombs on the captive civilians of gaza. you already know about the disastrous effects of white phosphorus, but earthquake bombs were last used during ww2 to wipe out entire cities.

how holy is the land that seeks to be built over the mass graves of thousands of children? is it holier than the miracle of a child being born in this hypocritical world?

all 11 universities in gaza have been bombed. academics should be agitating right now, especially those who call themselves "decolonial thinkers." destruction of universities is a sinisterly deliberate act to sabotage the Palestinians who will survive this great catastrophe.

the act of cleansing your hands before prayer is extremely important to muslims. no part of us can remotely comprehend the grief of the mother who refused to wash her hands from the blood of her children after losing them in a zionist airstrike over gaza. "I swear I won't wash them, I won't wash my hands, how else am I supposed to sleep near my kids."

it is only both moral and right when one side defends itself. the other side are the price of war, no better than insects and cattle and sheep left to die within the four walls of the slaughterhouse.

this situation should not be up for debate, but let me finish with one final thing : do your research about Palestine. HOWEVER. you do not need a degree in middle east studies to object to an ongoing genocide. if someone outwits you in a debate about historical details and every nuance of a subject, you were and will remain entirely correct in objecting to a genocide.

may those martyred rest in peace and be reunited again with their loved ones in heaven's eternal vastness.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

glory to Palestinian resistance. from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.

𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖//𝕕.𝕞

Draco Malfoy

Soulmate one-shot where everyone gets their soulmate's first words to them branded on their skin on their fifteenth birthday.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: angst, fluff at the end

MASTERLIST

-Ⰶ

What the bloody fuck is wrong with your face?

That was what was written on your blemish-free forearm, available for the whole world to see.

You groaned for the tenth time that day, face flushing pink. No matter how many times you had tried to scribble over the newly formed words with a Spell-O-Pen, the black ink always seemed to vanish when you weren’t looking, seemingly absorbed into the flawless calligraphy taunting you.

What a brilliant start to your 15th birthday.

Your best friend, Ron Weasley, shared your birthday and received his soulmate mark. He started cackling when he saw yours, the wording sending him into stitches. Unimpressed, you pointed out that his tattoo wasn’t located anywhere to the common eye, like the usual forearm marks.

And naturally, Ron panicked, claiming that he would be alone forever. Until you spotted words, scrawled in neat print on his armpit, spelling, And, you are?

That was how you and Ron found yourselves in thick jumpers in the middle of summer, managing to almost pass out during Snape’s lecture because of the heat.

As Snape’s monotone droned on, you began to not only feel unaccomplished but also bored out of your mind, and it was difficult to feel anything other than the scorching heat of your Gryffindor jumper. A slow migraine was starting to develop, and Ron didn’t seem to be having any better luck, with a sopping wet brow line and his pale skin matching his flaming ginger hair.

Yeah, it probably wasn’t the greatest idea in the world.

As you sat there, counting the agonizingly slow minutes until release, an impatient finger tapped your shoulder. You knew it was Ron, but the unbearable amount of stress and heat on your shoulders caused you to ignore your best friend’s hand. You tried to focus on any little thing, the way Hermione’s curls bounced when she scratched on parchment with her quill, or how Harry’s eyebrow twitched when he sneezed as he carelessly sniffed the lacewing powder.

The finger was still discreetly tapping your knee at an incessant pace, and you began to get quite irritated. Couldn’t he get the hint? How was he so unfazed about it?

“[y/n]. I need to itch my belly button.” Oh for goodness sake!

“Hush up, Ronald! Just focus on your work or something.”

A pause. The constant tapping resumed, as if Ron didn’t realize he was doing it and was on autopilot, moving his smaller appendage like the beating of his heart. “I knew we shouldn’t have done something like this. This is all your fault, [y/n]!”

You look up at his strained face incredulously, forgetting about Snape’s lecture. Ron was tapping at your leg forcefully now, and you had quite enough. Pushing him away by his face, you sneered, “This was your idea, Ronald, and a bloody terrible one at that!” you were enraged, how could he blame you on something that was his fault? “Because of you, we are sitting here burning-” your voice was rising incrementally higher, anger at everything; your situation, your bloody soulmate mark, Ron’s impudence, was fueling your words.

Ron’s face was slack, and slowly morphed into a panicked expression. His impossibly red face turned redder still, until he looked like a ripe cherry from a muggle farmer’s market. The bucket load of sweat slipped onto his face from stress wasn’t helping his situation either, and he constantly reached up to swipe the runny liquid from his face with his damned jumper.

You weren’t finished, fists clenched and shaking at your sides. Your anger was completely unreasonable, but the embarrassment of receiving a soulmate mark such as that, of your soulmate berating your face, made you livid. “And I am so sick of-”

“[l/n]!”

Snape towered over the both of you, his beady black eyes searing into your skull. His disapproving frown was etched onto his face, and you gulped, previous anger forgotten. Ron released a barely perceptible sigh of relief that you didn’t hear. You must have not realized Snape was even there, your rage-filled rant attracting the unwanted attention of the other students in the class as they watched you in confusion.

A pregnant pause ensued. You held your breath, hoping the punishment wouldn’t be too painful.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor.” A collective sigh of annoyance arose from the scarlet-clad members of the potions class, as Snape snapped his hands across Ron’s head. If you weren’t put in such a position, you would have laughed. Now you just felt like crumbling to the floor in a heap and bawling your eyes out.

He looked at you again, in confusion this time. “And remove your jumpers, both of you. I don’t want your performance in this class hindered by distracting clothing.”

Your eyes widened. No. No you wouldn’t.

If you removed your accursed crimson jumper, everyone would see your mark. You clenched your fists. This was unreasonable in more ways than one. You’d be known, not as [y/n], the best Gryffindor keeper of your age, but [y/n] the girl unworthy of her own soulmate. A few tears sprang up from your eyes.

Before you knew what you were doing, you sprang up from your desk and stormed out the door, not wanting to spend another moment in the classroom. You ignored Hermione and Ron’s calls, charging into the nearest girls’ lavatories.

You finally let your tears flow, hiding from nobody in the corner of the damp room. You covered your face with your fully clothed arm, not daring to remove the offending cloth to relieve your own body temperature. You would do anything to not see your mark of shame gazing up at you, and you had the uncontrollably odd urge to rip your own skin off.

What kind of person were you, that your own soulmate hated you? You felt pathetic beyond belief, and the thought alone caused you to sob harder. You felt your sweat roll down your chest, a tiny feeling of relief. At least you were out of the sweltering room.

A new anger settled itself in your heart. Something full of self loathing, self hate. Grappling with your tie, you managed to yank it off from underneath your jumper. Throwing it to the ground, you sat dejectedly on the linoleum tiles and cupped your face in your hands.

You were angry at yourself. How could you be so… so ugly that the person you were meant to spend your life with hated your fucking face? The urge grew stronger, and you had the morbid curiosity to claw your face off. At least your soulmate would have a reason to question your appearance then.

Peering up, you looked into the mirror. Mascara tracks slithered down your face like an eroded waterfall, and your hair stuck together, sweat clumping it up. Rubbing your face tiredly, you managed to smudge your eyeliner and strawberry lip gloss. You looked deranged, like you had broken out of an asylum you were imprisoned in for two decades.

The flash or rage came again as you let out a roar of frustration, hands slamming into the sink. The force of your upper body cracked the ceramic, slightly but still noticeable. The sink was crumbling, its old age not doing anything to help its mortality. Splinters of the white material were stuck in your hand, but you didn’t notice. All you saw was your face, and how the reflection of yourself glared into the mirror, as if you could wipe the pain and imperfections from your face.

And it wasn’t even your time of the month.

A squeak of a door from behind you shocked you out of your stupor. Whirling around, you saw a boy with straight platinum blond hair and startling blue-gray eyes. He was about a foot taller than you, and he looked annoyed, eyebrows furrowed as he gazed at your small profile shaking beside the sink.

It was Draco Malfoy.

The boy who had tormented your other three friends, who warned you to stay away from him. He was exactly as they described him, pale, aristocratic, his dark robes contrasting perfectly with his complexion. The green Slytherin emblem was stitched on his robes, and you felt confused by the mere sight of him.

He started forward, pushing past the door. There seemed to be nobody from behind him. He completely disregarded the girl’s bathroom sign and strode towards you, causing you to stumble back in fright.

“What the bloody fuck is wrong with your face?”

Pure white-hot anger shot into your system, making you forget your situation. Rude. “I could say the same about you, you albino mongoose!” You shrieked, moving to shove him away.

As you lunged forward, Malfoy caught your wrists. You gave a startled gasp, the momentum of your shove having thrown you into him. As he steadied you, you looked at your hands.

They were bloody, the pieces of ceramic from the sink having been lodged painfully in your joints. You winced as he scooped up your hands again with a tenderness that you hadn’t felt in a while, not even from Ron.

His long, pale fingers were almost translucent, and you found yourself frowning at them in curiosity. They seemed to be ghostlike, ethereal, a glowing undertone of mother-of-pearl under the masterfully-placed veins. His grip was gentle, as he slipped his grip from your wrists to your tiny fingers.

“No, I meant,” he stroked your palms with his thumb, a strangely intimate move for someone he just met. Besides being fascinated by the boy in front of you, you were weirded out immensely. “Why are you crying?”

You stared up into his stormy eyes. They softened, and he led you towards where your tie was laying, thrown to the ground by your antics. Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, he picked it up with his nimble fingers before sitting you down.

Pressing a thumb to his soft lips, his pink tongue darted out to lubricate it. You watched in fascination as he near painlessly removed the shards from your mangled hands. He was skilled, you could tell, his hands dancing across yours to relieve you of your pain. You briefly wondered why a boy as rich as him learned how to heal.

Reaching out with his finger coated in saliva, you winced loudly as he smeared it over the biggest wound on your thumb web. You hissed in a breath, watching as his eyes flicked up to meet yours for a dreadfully long second. His handsome face was set, as he seemed to ask for permission from you.

You gave him a barely perceptible nod. He smiled back. A lovely, caring smile that made your heart thump painfully in your chest.

He then pulled out his wand, a beautifully polished hawthorn one with two rings encircling the bottom. Running it over the wounds, he whispered, “Episkey.” You watched, mesmerized, as the skin seemed to see itself up painlessly, stitching itself together until the aching in your hand disappeared. You were stunned.

“How...” You mumbled, your eyes cautiously scanning your hands for other spots. Malfoy’s spit had vanished too, numbing your thumb web.

“I’m training to be a healer at St. Mungo’s.” You looked up to see Malfoy watching you carefully, kneading out your expression with a soft gaze. Why was everything pertaining to you soft?

“I...see. Thank you.” You seemed to have gained control of your voice. Malfoy smiled.

Then leaned closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Your breathing seemed to have halted in your chest. His breaths were shallow, smelling of apples and mint, a strangely pleasing combination. Instead of the expected pungency of cologne, you were struck with the soft smell of teakwood and pine, an earthy aroma that made you backtrack a bit.

He seemed to hesitate. Then reaching down, he tugged at the end of your jumper, pulling it up.

Oh. Oh no.

“No!” You exclaimed, snapping your newly healed hands to his, halting his movements. You involuntarily ran her fingers over his veins, and shivered. You were reminded of the entire situation in the first place, how you ran out of Snape’s class, had a bawling fest, and…

Met him. You met him.

Of all the days in your life, you had never met someone who struck a chord in you so profoundly after minutes of meeting them. Your body had seemed to memorize him, a strange connection like moths to flames ignited within you.

You looked back up at him shamefully, and found him smiling in amusement. His fingers slipped from yours and pressed against your hot forehead, startling you. Everything he did startled you. His touch was like static on metal to you, his presence was like hot chocolate and warm blankets on a winter day.

And you had just met him. This boy was affecting you like nobody had ever affected you before. Your emotions ran high, and you started trembling when his hands held either side of your face. As if both of you had done this before. Thousand times before. Like it was rehearsed.

He tilted your head, so your eyes met his. A blizzard, a tundra, swirled through his greys. While most saw bleak blue, you saw a paradise in his eyes. The color of steel, reminding you of so much stability. His euphoric eyes gazed at you with something you could only describe as adoration.

“I’m not ashamed, so don’t be.” His words were soft, gentle, like the breeze on a pleasantly chilly day. It took a moment for you to realize he said something, so you tilted your head.

“What?”

“Don’t be ashamed.”

Tilting his head to the left, your breath caught when messy handwriting- your handwriting- was scrawled onto his pale neck. Lifting a shaky hand, you placed it on his sculpted cheek. He released a soft sigh of relaxation, turning his neck further for you to see the tattoo.

I could say the same about you, you albino mongoose!

Wait.

Without wasting another minute, you seized the ends of your jumper and pulled it over your head. The fresh air welcomed you, as you sighed in bliss, throwing your jumper to the side to join your tie. Holding your tattooed arm out for your soulmate- it was so strange to say, soulmate- and watched as his eyes widened impossibly, pure happiness filling his oceans.

He cupped your face, hurriedly pressing his lips to your forehead, cheeks, and nose, peppering sweet packages of love to you, his quest to find his other half complete. His lips felt so right, as if you two had done this a million times. Both your laughters filled the small lavatory, your small arms wrapping around his waist as he nuzzled his face into your soft locks.

“[y/n]...” he whispered, your foreheads pressed together, and your heart almost burst, because nobody in the whole wide world could say your name as beautifully as him, and he was sure he felt the same when you replied, “Draco.” A confirmation. And you could stay with your Draco forever, you knew that, you wouldn’t leave for anything, because you love him, you love him, you love hi-

“[y/n]! My belly button still needs itching!”

You groaned. It would be a long day.

Iiii feel so highschool

Every timeee, I look at youuu...

My headcanon is Leon has bunny teeth and he doesn't like it, but he isn't afraid to show 'em when he's with youuu.

“Dude. Don’t call us plucky. We don’t know what it means. We’re optimistic, yes. I like your plan, except, it sucks, so let ME do the plan, so that way it might be really good!”

- Peter Quill, to Tony Stark