#The Wrong Side Of History

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Nick Anderson, RA News

* * * *

The wrong side of history and the electorate.  March 30, 2023

Robert B. Hubbell

         Republicans effectively lost the 2022 midterm elections when they had every hope of achieving a landslide victory. Although it is impossible to pin the GOP’s failure on a single factor, the general lesson is that Republicans lost by adopting extreme positions and candidates. That lesson was lost on Republicans, who have doubled down on extreme positions in the six months following the midterms. Where Republicans have gerrymandered their way to supermajority control of state legislatures, they have wielded that power with vengeance as they force their minority agenda onto an unwilling and increasingly resentful majority.

         The GOP strategy is not a winning one over the long term. In the short term, however, it is dispiriting to be on the receiving end of legislation that is intentionally cruel and gleefully anti-democratic. But Republicans are violating the First Rule of Holes (“Stop digging”). As a result, their campaign of maliciousness is working to the benefit of Democrats in 2024. It is difficult to keep that hopeful fact in mind as we endure a seemingly endless stream of actions that simultaneously limit constitutional liberties, make us less safe, and attack the dignity of LGBTQ Americans.

         How can we know that Republicans are on the wrong side of history and the American electorate? The 2022 midterms are themselves prima facie evidence of that fact. Moreover, there were six ballot initiatives (including Kansas, Montana, and Kentucky) that involved the right to protect reproductive liberty. In all six elections, the voters chose reproductive liberty over state-sponsored interference in private decisions that belong to a woman and her doctor. When the people’s voices can be heard, they favor reproductive liberty. And yet, Republican politicians and legislatures are taking action this week to restrict reproductive liberty—including in Florida.

         This brings us to the “natural experiment” of Ron DeSantis’s effort to turn Florida into a religious dictatorship. DeSantis has staked his presidential hopes on channeling the right-wingiest ideas of right-wing extremism. If banning books and attacking LGBTQ people, and criminalizing abortion is the key to future success for the GOP, Ron DeSantis should be riding high. He is not. He is declining in the polls, despite running to the right of Trump on many social issues—including abortion. But in the last sixty days, Trump has widened his lead over DeSantis significantly.

         There are, of course, many factors that contributed to DeSantis’s stumbling in the polls. But his efforts to ban LGBTQ people, outlaw abortion, and erase Black history negatively correlate to his electoral prospects—as should be expected. Americans broadly support reproductive liberty, LGBTQ rights, banning assault weapons, and being “woke.” DeSantis is adopting extreme positions because he believes they will propel him to the presidency. To date, that calculus is demonstrably wrong.

         As we watch DeSantis deny rights to the citizens of Florida, we are also witnessing his likely demise. That does not ease the pain for the objects of discrimination and abrogation of rights in Florida, but it should give us hope that we will be able to reverse the damage inflicted during this period of GOP-gerrymandered illegitimacy. And that sentiment applies beyond DeSantis and Florida; it applies more broadly to large swaths of America where Republican politicians are badly out-of-step with their constituents.

         And now, for my point: Today’s news brought many disconcerting reports of Republican politicians and legislatures restricting reproductive freedom to the point of forced pregnancy, expanding gun rights to the point of anarchy, and discriminating against transgender people to the point of inhumanity. I list some of those actions below—but not to bemoan our fate. I list them to argue that Republicans are sowing the seeds of their defeat in 2024. Each of the actions is wildly out of step with the sentiments of the American people. So, take heart and remain strong. We are on the right side of history and the American electorate.

Senator Tommy Tuberville has blocked the promotions of dozens of senior military officers because the Department of Defense grants women in the military the ability to travel to a state that permits abortion if they are stationed in a state that prohibits it.

The Florida legislature will vote on Wednesday to impose a six-week abortion ban.

Idaho just passed a law making it a crime to provide travel assistance to a pregnant minor seeking an abortion.

North Carolina just removed the ability of sheriffs to deny gun permits based on criminal background checks, signs of mental illness, domestic abuse incidents, or other indications that a person could be a danger to themselves or others.

After refusing last month to restrict the ability of children to carry guns without a permit or supervision on public property, Missouri legislators are now considering a bill to allow the concealed carry of weapons into places of worship.

The GOP-controlled legislature in Kentucky overrode Democratic Governor Andy Beshear’s veto of a bill that would deny gender-affirming treatment to transgender people.

         As I said, these bills are intentionally cruel and gleefully anti-democratic. Add to that description, “Badly out of step with the sentiments of the American people.” When statewide offices are on the ballot in 2024, Democrats can turn the tide against the GOP onslaught of hate and lawlessness. That trend was strong in 2022 but just missed sweeping Republicans out of national prominence. Let’s not miss our chance in 2024.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[adventism-atheism-orthodoxy-me]

Humanity has learned nothing.

‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ -- Matthew 25:40

Yepraksia Gevorgyan, 110

Armenian genocide: survivors recall events 100 years on

[uh-mxtx]

The presence of Potatoes in MDZS implies that some ballsy cultivator took a flying sword over the pacific to South America and brought them back and I would like to pose the idea that that particular potato loving dumbass was Wei Wuxian’s ancestor

(Edit: AND CHILIES!)

(EDIT 2: also watermelon except thats from africa. For reference, irl it’s Song dynasty for watermelon and Qing dynasty for potatoes and chilies)

[tadpolesonalgae]

On The Wrong Side of History: The Queen of Hybern

Azriel x Hybernian!Reader

synopsis: Reader is one of Hybern’s generals, fighting for her freedom after Prythian turned her back. Born with no magic, she was forced to cultivate a different kind of power, one that could prove deadly to the inhabitants of magic-blooded fae of Prythian. But when she’s captured and thrown into the scarred hands of the Spy-master, which side of history will prevail? Will Hybern’s story be told, or will it be covered up and concealed before the suffering of her people ever makes it to the light.

warnings: miscarriage at the end, war, general suffering and grimness, slight torture(?)

a/n: I had this idea yesterday and wanted to write something so fair warning it’s a little rushed! It also lightly brushes over miscarriage which might be a delicate subject for some so please take care of yourselves 🧡💛

word count: 3,810

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The war is coming, and not a single inhabitant of Hybern will stand by and let the chance for freedom pass. It’s been five-hundred years since you were confined to that island, cut-off from the mainland and left to rot and starve. Now is the time to reclaim the ground you were deprived of. War is coming, and she is starving for revenge. Starving like your people have for centuries, and nothing will stand between you and fighting for your right to life. Not even the baby you know is growing inside of you.

The air is fresh and damp, and you take the time to inhale its freshness before hot blood is spilled, turning the ground to a mushy, fleshy soup. The day is overcast, heavy grey clouds that look like the mould on bread swelling in the sky, ready to start leaking, dripping down into the open fields. Grass stomped into a muddy mush as feet frantically fight for ground, desperate to keep steady before they’re trodden down into the dirt, trampled and crushed beneath the weight of an army.

If you fall, you cannot rise. Not with a writhing mass of violence crowding the land, oozing bloodlust so thick it won’t matter which army you fight for. A body shouldn’t rise from the mud, any attempts to would be met with steel slicing down in a frantic jolt.

You turn from the entrance of your tent, making for the bed, moving slowly, peacefully, to the protective coatings you’ll be wearing in a couple of hours. The leather that will stick and slide over your skin, wet with blood and sweat, hopefully some rain, too. Heat gathers quickly in the midst of battle, and between the stink of gore and the sweltering sweat that greases any soldier’s grip, rain and wind are much appreciated for their gentle touches.

Your nose twitches as a breeze passes through the camp, quiet in the early hours of misty, grey dawn. Even beneath the cover of your tent, the smell of the battlefield can reach you—damp and bloody, contaminating the fresh air you’d been treating yourself to.

Something shifts inside of you, and you glance down at yourself, hesitantly raising your palm to your lower stomach. You only found out about your condition mere weeks ago, but even had you only found out this morning, you would still be here, preparing for your freedom.

The baby won’t survive, anyway. Not with what your body has turned into.

————

“You’re ready for today?”

A wry smile curves your lips, settling deeper into the chair that’s been set to one side of his room, the large bed in the centre already made despite him having risen as recently as yourself. Neither of you have ever particularly been ones for sleeping in, having so much to do at all times of day. “I’ve been ready for the past five hundred years,” you answer, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm.

The King of Hybern reflects your smile—the slightest twist of his lips. “Perhaps I made a mistake sending Amarantha to seize control of Prythian,” he muses, slipping the shirt over his head, pulling his dark, shoulder-length hair free of the collar once it’s on, making to tighten the laces that can be used to close the V of the hem. A note of dissatisfaction slides beneath your skin as his amulet is obscured—a hollow iron circle, his crest welded from the dark metal inset to its centre.

“Perhaps,” you agree lightly, watching as his fingers tighten the ties of his trousers, noting the distinct lack of armour—he’ll be watching over the Cauldron today. “Though in that case she might still be alive,” you murmur quietly, a little smile dancing in your eyes.

“You disgrace her,” he chuckles lowly, pulling the thick coat from his bed, leather on its exterior to keep out the bite of wind or the lick of rain, while lined with a warm fleece. “You trained beside her for a good portion of your life, at least honour her memory.” The King of Hybern shucks on the coat, the hem of leather coming down past his knees, and he adjusts the cuffs before making for the large, wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

“There was little to honour,” you counter, straightening in the chair as you watch him decide on which daggers to hide beneath the coat. “She was brash and brazen at the best of times, too quick to grow comfortable on her throne. And I never liked her bedside manner. She was always too grabby and rough for my liking.”

“She was ambitious,” he counters, strapping a small blade to the interior of the coat, hidden away in a pocket on his left side. He pauses, briefly considering something, then glancing over you, how you’re lazily sprawled across his chair, “though her nails could have been a bit shorter. They were an unpleasant surprise, at times.”

Your lips curve at one corner, sharing a look with him, before he returns to selecting his daggers, settling on one with a jagged, serrated edge, a wicked hook to its tip.

It’s then he turns, blades concealed beneath his coat and he silently walks to you, charcoal eyes glittering as you sit straighter. “How long have you been serving me now?” He asks, pausing at your side, so you have to incline your chin to look at him, baring your throat. “Five centuries? Six?”

“Six and a half,” you reply, “if you’re counting foot soldier duties as serving.”

He smiles a strange smile, glittering teeth showing briefly beneath familiar lips. “Loyalties are rewarded,” he says cryptically, his palm settling beneath your jaw, inclining your chin—it would be easy for him to snap your neck with the slightest snap of his hands. “Have you thought about what you want?”

“It seems greedy to ask for something before I’ve even succeeded at winning this war,” you reply.

“Consider it a show of assurance,” he remarks, “I have no doubt you’ll prove instrumental to Prythian’s ruin. Now, what would you like, upon your victory?”

Your eyes gleam with hunger, and you wonder if it’s at all possible he might not already know what you desire, more than anything. And looking at the way those charcoal eyes of his are gleaming, as if goading you on, urging the words to spill like honey from your velvety tongue—you feel it’s impossible. He knows what your request will be. And he’s practically dragging the desire from your throat, with the grip he has on it.

“Make me your queen.”

———

Darkness pounds at your mind, eyes aching as if the blood vessels are bursting, hot pressure building, ready to splash out through your pupils. The air is cool…cold, skin hypersensitive to the slightest shift in temperature, telling you there’s a layer of sweat over your exterior, alerting you to each swish of air.

Your thigh stings, the laceration taking its time to heal, longer than others of your kind would. The small cuts you’d been given the day before—a few inches long—have scabbed over, no longer in danger of leaking blood, but there’s going to be a definite pucker around each cut. A shiver traces up your spine, an involuntary shudder passing through your lungs as coldness sweeps across your skin, like a winter’s breeze.

Slowly, keeping your breathing as even as possible, you crack an eye open, only to be met with darkness. Hesitantly, the other slides open, and you peek at your surroundings but the dark seems impenetrable, thick and absolutely solid. Your nostrils flare, and the faint smell of ammonia and iron waft up along with the sharp tang you associate with stomach acid, the air itself thick and damp, slightly humid. Fertile and rife, perfect for things to start growing.

Casting your gaze downward, you can spot the stitching that’s covering the split in your right thigh, jaggedly stitched up, and from the looks of it you’re quite glad you weren’t conscious for it. You also notice the grime that’s already begun settling on you, dirt and mud and gore still layering your skin, save for the small perimeter that’s been cleaned around your thigh. The thought of how you must smell is a grim one.

“You’re awake,” a voice observes from the darkness, making your ears twitch.

You keep your mouth tightly sealed, waiting to hear what the observer has to say. Let them speak their part first, before you start making your own moves. Already you can tell this one is different from the previous ones—yesterday’s one had a lighter voice, squeaky and dragging. This one sounds like the first roll of thunder before a storm breaks.

“You’ll forgive me for the haphazard stitching. Healers are needed elsewhere.”

So this one’s to blame for the child’s-quilt on your thigh. It’s more than likely it was done intentionally carelessly, rather than simply poorly—poor stitching could lead to further infection, while careless stitching just might leave a trace of a scar. On a regularly healing body, at least.

Straightening in your chair, you try to pick out where the voice is coming from, but the darkness is so thick, and your eyes have barely had a chance to adjust, and with the faelight bobbing above your head there’s little chance they will anytime soon. Keeping them shut would be the quickest way, but it would be leaving yourself open. More open than you already are, that is, with your arms bound at your back. They haven’t bothered to shackle you to the chair itself today, the ties from yesterday are gone, and you can feel the weight of the stone around your wrists: Gorsian shackles—utterly useless on you.

“What do you want today?” You ask into the darkness, stretching your fingers to keep them awake and ready. It’s already been at least three days, and you suspect whoever has come to visit today isn’t just any old torturer. You can tell from the silence they keep, how undetectable they are despite your honed senses, sharper than most’s. They had to be, for you to survive.

“The same thing anyone might want from a prisoner of war,” the voice replies, ghosting through the room, bouncing about in the darkness so it’s impossible to tell its root. “And what is that?” You ask, following the script, familiar with the direction of the conversation—unaccustomed, however, to be on this side of it. “Information,” the voice replies, and there’s less than a second of detectable presence before your hair is wrapped around a fist and dragged back, your throat exposed as you’re positioned over the back of the chair, making it impossible to swallow. The faelight glares down at you, beaming into your adjusted eyes, and you’re forced to squint as your vision blurs from the sting of the light and the grip on your scalp. Cool steel settles just below your jaw, the tip of a blade spiking into the soft flesh just beneath the hollow of your mouth.

Your teeth grit together, hissing sharply at the roughness of the touch, thigh aching from the tension that shot through your body. A laugh forces its way from your chest, ragged and strained as you peer up into the faelight, pupils tightening to slits in the face of the brightness, “give me something in return. I can’t very well go back empty handed, can I?”

Your captor roughly tugs on your hair, your lip twitching a little from the pain but otherwise unruffled. “You might go back with no hands at all, unless you’re careful.”

“Threats already? You haven’t even told me what you’re after,” you bite out, voice heavy and grim.

A beat passes between you, then the steel is flipped away between deft fingers, removed from your throat in favour of pressing to your sternum—a warning before the cuts begin, gradually skinning you alive until they get what they want. Fury simmers quietly inside of you, but you keep it tucked away. That’ll only come in useful once the pain starts setting in. A fuel to fall back on when food would become a problem. But it’s high time you return to your king. You’ve spent long enough here, all because of a stupid, foolish…

“Would you like to hear something interesting, then? In the name of compromise?” The voice asks, low and rasping, and you sit silently, waiting for what they have to say.

“The one who visited you yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that…each one refused to come back the next day. Insisted there was something wrong with you.” The hand tightens on your hair then releases, the presence vanishing like a flame snuffed out, leaving your skin tingling with awareness. “Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence, but three…three’s a pattern.”

Something hisses past your ear, and you jerk in your seat, not foolish enough to stand. You glare into the darkness, peering deep from beneath your lowered brows, lips turned down in the corners as you try to pick out even the faintest shadow, but they all blend together so seamlessly, like one giant, blank wall. Not a single shape to be found.

Something whispers to your left, then cracks to your right, your pulse beginning to pick up involuntarily form the confusing stimulus, attention split between both directions.

A figure steps into the grey shift in light, silent and menacing as it prowls forward, one military-grade boot in front of the other, and you take in the towering silhouette, the great wings looming in deeper shadow. Your eyes follow the light as it glides up his frame, revealing long legs clad in Illyrian leathers, scarred hands within easy reach of visible weapons, a lean waist and broad chest, the Night Court insignia clear over his heart. Cold, cutting hazel eyes, with a glint you recognise. After having spent so many centuries gazing into eyes like that, it would be strange to not be able to place the intense glint of honed reproach, the look that desires utter eradication of the thing that’s causing suffering.

Calm and deadly, he is your exterminator.

“We’ll start with an easy question,” he says, gaze unfaltering as he meets your own.

“What is it that makes all kinds of magic recoil from you, General?”

A slow smile breaks across your lips, delicately curving in a mocking grin. You should have known this would be his question, that they would have figured something was wrong with you by now—the slowed healing, the way their magic leans back from you, as if trying to scuttle away.

“And you?” You ask, a gleam in your eye. “What’s your title?”

His mask doesn’t shift, not even the slightest hint of emotion in his dark eyes. Just silence. Patient, grating, silence.

“Not even the name of my captor?” You push, smile slipping away, settling back into a wall of ice to match his own—you can play that game, too. “Or are you nobody? You don’t seem like you’re nobody, though.” You angle your chin, shifting in the chair slightly, re-flexing your fingers, testing the gorsian shackles. “You’re clearly important, if you were sent in to investigate after three turned away, and considering the insignia you’re wearing, with those wings…master torturer of the Night Court?”

He inclines his head, “Spymaster. Shadowsinger.”

“And how do your shadows like me, Spymaster?” You murmur, able to guess the answer.

His dark eyes narrow on you almost imperceptibly, then his right hand is wrapping around the hilt of one of his blades, inset with strange markings, as dark as obsidian. The hairs on the nape of your neck rise as he thumbs the blade free, a sharp glint in his eye being the last thing you see of him before he steps away into shadow, falling seamlessly back into the darkness.

“How long had you planned to let this war go on for?” He rasps from the darkness, the question bounding in and out, coming from different sides that make it impossible to track his position. All while he’s free to observe from the shadow. “You ask that like we have control over the nature of war,” you reply neutrally, keeping your gaze sharp, but all it looks the same. If you could find a way to put the faelight out, or to lure him to stand before you… Getting some information first would be preferable, though.

“But maybe we had an idea.”

The sound of steel slicing through air comes from your right, and you instinctively follow the familiar hiss of a blade, body tensing, as if expecting it to come flying out from the darkness.

“You’d have to be confident in a victory to have a timeframe in mind.” His rasp echoes throughout the room you’re kept in, whispering in varying volumes as it’s bounced off shadow. “We’ve had a long time to prepare,” you reply vaguely, features remaining blank, despite being unable to so much as feel the weight of his attention. If it wasn’t for the fact you’d seen him, and were having a conversation, you wound’t believe he was in here with you. You hate to admit it, but it’s impressive.

“And I suppose you believed you’d win?” He questions.

“I know we’ll win. Whether I’m in here or not.”

The steel tip of a blade grazes the top of your back, slowly tracing the length of your shoulders, occasionally pressing deep enough to disrupt the skin, but mostly remaining as a taunting reminder—he could choose to cut you at any moment, as deeply or as slowly as he pleases. “What made you believe that? Numbers? Experience? Speeches?”

“We have the cauldron,” you reply, keeping apprehension clear from your voice, the tip of the blade pressing a little too deeply into the back of your left shoulder. “What was it like, by the way? Seeing your soldiers wiped from existence in the blink of an eye?” The blade bites into your skin, probably pushed in to about an inch of flesh, and you grit your teeth as he twists the steel, opening the wound up. “I’m fairly certain we targeted your aerial armies on the first day,” you grit out, remembering the wings at his back. “I’m guessing you knew some of that scum?”

The blade retracts calmly, but he makes no further incisions, walking back around to stand in front of you. He’s strangely under control, considering how badly the war will be going for his side.

“Why are you so repulsive to fae magic?” He repeats. Unruffled by the comment. Good. “Why don’t you come closer and figure it out yourself?” You reply, noting the living shadows that are gliding down from his shoulders. “See if your shadows can answer that question.”

He regards you silently, then slides the blade back into its home at his hip, walking forward until he crowds your space, scarred fingers biting brutally into your cheeks, squeezing as he leans down. “I don’t think I need an answer. Not anymore.” You keep your mouth shut, confused by what he’s saying. “You see, despite your certainty, you were proved wrong. Two days ago. I would like to know what it is about you that makes magic react the way it does, but at the end of the day, it’s ultimately of no importance.”

You glare up at him, muscles tense from the grip he has on your cheeks, squeezing your jaw.

“You lost the war,” he says, quietly. “Your king was decapitated by one of the humans he used as a test subject. Felled by his own creation.”

There’s no falsity in his gaze, just ugly, unforgiving, truth.

And he’s in reach.

You twist your wrists in a snappy movement, harsh enough the already weakened gorsian stone crumbles away, allowing you to launch from the chair, hand seamlessly wrapping around the hilt of his blade, sliding it free with the familiar sing of steel.

He’s caught off guard—it’s impossible to break out of those shackles—his moments of surprise allowing you to use his weight against him, pushing into the frame of muscle in the places you’re familiar with, tripping him up. His wings thrash as they’re caught beneath him, shadows vanishing at your proximity, shoved away to some godsforsaken pocket as you aim the blade for his throat, his own scarred hands wrapping around your wrists to loosen your hold. But fae are made of magic, their very strength dependant on it. Encountering a creature that nullifies any and all types…his muscles tremble beneath you, shaking with the force of keeping you from plunging the blade into his throat.

“I’ll kill you, and your High Lord,” you hiss, leveraging your own weight, so the blade sinks down toward the bare, unprotected part of flesh. “I’ll end every single one of you, and I’ll save that abomination for last,” you snarl, in regard to the human who he’d told you decapitated your king.

His strength is draining swiftly, and he knows you can sense it, can feel the tremble in his muscles, and the steel inches closer, spurred on by his weakness.

The Spymaster grits his teeth as he shifts suddenly beneath you, allowing you to gain precious inches so the steel scratches the swell in his male throat, but in turn allowing him to raise his leg from the ground, stomping his boot into your stomach, sending you flying back, crashing into the chair you’d been sat on, the faelight flickering above.

Your lips part, eyes going wide as nausea rises up swiftly, having only seconds before you’re vomiting onto the floor, heaving up chewed food and saliva, a dizzying feeling sweeping through your entire body.

You’re flipped over not even a second after you get the first clear breath down, the Spymaster over you, dark eyes cold as ice as the steel of that blade glints in the unnaturally pale faelight. The blade hisses down, aimed to slice up beneath your ribs, cutting into your heart, but his eyes have dropped to the hand you have over your abdomen. Nostrils flaring at the slight tang of blood.

His features slack. “You’re—”

You take the chance, knocking the blade from his hand, reaching to wrap your hands around his throat, but something impacts with your temple, a second figure coming from the darkness that you hadn’t noticed, and you feel as the hit registers.

A fresh wave of dizziness slams into you, the world tilting dramatically before you’re slumping, heading for the floor before hands catch you. Making sure you don’t land on your front.

The world goes silent.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[gilbirda]

hot take but we as a society need to be more comfortable about discussing "icky" parts of history, and even telling the side of the "bad guys"

hear me out

history is written by the victors, and will be heavily biased. The defeated will be painted as evil, deviants and/or like they have always been "the bad guys".

Reducing people to "the bad guys" does a huge disservice to the opportunity of learning from the past, because it creates a distance between the modern reader and the actual events, it creates the comfortable position of "I'm not like the bad guys, so i will never make their mistakes"

I think is important we understand how and why people believed in something, and where did things turn a certain way. Yes. Even "the wrong side". Even the nazis. Even those people you are thinking about, whoever they are.

Because you are not immune to propaganda and it's so so so so important to understand what happened and how did we get to those points before we fall to the same techniques again and again.

"Learning from the past" isn't deleting the ugly parts or cringing when someone brings up war. Thinking otherwise is a huge mistake and precisely what someone who wants to make the same mistakes wants you to think.

[phopollo]

This is not what I had in mind when I said I had something silly for the poke horizons fans, but I haven't had the chance to get on my computer again, but

Been thinking about them again

They're just so funny to me and also Raifort's introduction to the anime means the delusions about them are just a little less delusional

[poisonousquinzel]

what,, is it a requirement to play a woman who would never support the ethnic cleansing and genocide in Palestine to be a genocide supporting heartless Zionist in real life?

[cockroachesunite]

I liked my OG Fitzjames version of this so much I decided to do a Terror Fitzjames version too <3

[statementlou]

Tbh i am not surprised that a person who openly talked about having drinking problems since 1d days, because of how crazy 1d worked has been agressive. What surprises me is people being surprised (they never seriously saw drunk person?). But i am also confused about this whole book. Apparently Maya said that that book is not fully bout Liam but compilation about her exes and some of the worst parts are not about him. But recently she said that the book is “ofc about him” so what is true then? Or did she meant it that ofc some parts are about him or that whole book is about him?

Sorry, just confused

I also am not surprised- we've learned so much more about the real stories of things and about the guys' actual lives over the last years, and the story that has unfolded around Liam has been totally consistent throughout if you've been following it, and so the information Maya is telling us is shocking and upsetting but not difficult to believe. I got an anon yesterday saying they were worried about getting similar revelations about the other boys, like "if Liam could be doing this we just don't know, any of them could", and while in a way that's always true I guess, anyone could be doing anything in private like... that doesn't really concern me. Because none of these Liam revelations are coming out of nowhere, there have been many MANY steps along the way leading us here if you've been watching, and he has talked openly about both his mental health struggles and his addiction issues. So to answer that anon... to find out something similar about Louis would in contrast contradict everything we know about him and no I'm not worried about it. Is he probably very irritating, absolutely, but an abuser or a loose cannon, well that news would shock me. But anyway as for the book I don't find it strange that she was nervous when it came out and treading lightly and later decided, fuck it. In the absolutely on point tiktok she dropped today (YES👏GIRL👏FUCKING TELL THEM👏) she even mentions attempts to keep her from publishing the book, presumably by Liam's team, that I am riveted by and cannot WAIT to hear more details about actually- like I said I don't find it at all strange that she was nervous and downplayed it a bit then. But if she says now that it's just about Liam, well, I would say it's been clear from the beginning that the book is their story. Maya herself brought up the parallel of songs being written about stuff and I think it's the same thing; it's true (she was in an abusive relationship that involved certain kinds of events) but maybe not 100% literal (I'm sure details were changed to make the story work, it's not like a word for word timeline of their interactions or whatever).

[aubrittigan]

New era is here: I get way grumpier

[k-wame]

aight bigups for the choice

[horangslay]

are you guys fucking for real? are you SERIOUS?

antis have bullied Seunghan in quitting literally 2 days after they announced he would be returning...& FOR WHAT??? WHAT DO THEY GAIN BY BEING EVIL TO A 20 YEAR OLD??? the only crime he's committed is being a living breathing person who has a life outside of his JOB.

I'm actually SO PISSED off.

as a pre debut briize, for these 10 months I have found it difficult to support riize, because in my heart I couldn't stop thinking about that poor kid who was suffering for no reason. I told myself to support the other members, that if Seunghan wasn't immediately kicked out he would return. I thought about how much happier riize & briize would be once we were all reunited. I was so hopeful seeing the outpouring of love & support for him throughout social media. I was SO HAPPY when Seunghan announced his return in November.

riize is 7.

riize was always meant to BE 7.

anyone who is ot6, anyone who participated in the hate, anyone who wasn't ecstatic when Seunghan's return was announced: YOU ARE NOT A BRIIZE & pls block me 🙏

[gsirvitor]

It's not over, they're really dragging their feet to not call areas with like 90% counted, but you can see, there's no literal way the Democrats could claim the house.

It's a fucking landslide.

Trump won the popular vote, the majority of electors, the Senate, the House and the most governors.

He is the legitimate victor, elected by the people and for the people, now all you need to do is ask yourself, "am I out of touch?"

Regardless of your conclusion, know this.

🇺🇸YOU ARE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF HISTORY. 🇺🇸

[news4dzhozhar]

So a handful of Republicans literally sent a letter to the ICC Prosecutor threatening the entire office AND their families if they (International Criminal Court) move forward with issuing arrest warrants for any member of Israel's government for war crimes. You know, cuz the US is the mafia now 🙄🤦 Considering the US and Israel are 2 countries who aren't members of the ICC (if that doesn't speak volumes) the warrants wouldn't be enforceable regardless but yah, let's make the US look like an even bigger pile of shit than they already do. If you dare try to prosecute war crimes...you've been warned (literally how the letter is worded). So embarrassed of this country that I'm at a loss for words. Just think for a minute what any sane, rational person would take from such a letter.

[is-the-owl-video-cute]

Iran is bombing Israel apparently, FAFO moment truly.

Both Biden and Trump are vowing to defend Israel with harsh military force against Iran.

If they follow through with it and the US moves against Iran, this will actually become a war.

Do not stop pressuring politicians to support Palestine. Do not stop advocating for Palestine. Do not stop protesting Israel. Do not stop protesting genocide.

From the river to the sea.

[faaun]

lost like 15 followers very soon after rbing the gaza post. if u support Israel, block me! if you think this situation is too complicated to take a stance on, block me!! if you're neutral, block me! if you do not support Palestinians through the atrocities they are facing, block me!