#you can change people's lives just by sharing

[naserfamily21]

A Story of Loss, Resilience, and Hope ❤️

My name is Naser, and my life has been forever changed by war. I lost my beloved mother and sister in an attack that shattered my world. Our home—once a place of love, safety, and warmth—was completely destroyed, leaving us with nothing.

Since then, my three younger brothers and I have been forced to flee, displaced twice, constantly searching for safety and stability. War has taken so much from us, but I refuse to let it take away our dreams.

I dream of going to university, of getting an education, of standing on my own two feet and building a future where I can support my family. My brothers have dreams too—one wants to become a doctor, another an engineer, and the youngest just wants a normal childhood, something that war has stolen from him.

Right now, we are starting from nothing—no home, no resources, and an uncertain future. But what we do have is hope. Hope that there are kindhearted people in the world who will stand with us in our time of need.

🌍 How You Can Help Every donation, no matter how small, is a step toward a new beginning. A place to live. A chance to rebuild. An opportunity to pursue education instead of being trapped in despair.

Even if you can’t donate, please reblog our story. Every share helps more people hear our plea for help.

💙 Click the link to support us:

Thank you for believing in us. Thank you for giving us hope. ❤️

[adhdnojutsu]

"Oppressed minority of magic brown nature people" is a horrible, but PERFECT summary of what wokermelons think "indigenous" means.

And Jews used to be brown. Our Levantine DNA and phenotype getting diluted and erased in 2000 (TWO-FUCKING-THOUSAND) years of involuntary diaspora in whitepeopleville is not our fault and changes nothing. Our perceived "whiteness" means nothing. Black people in the US are also lighter on average than the people in their respective countries of origin, and they only spent a few hundred years in diaspora, now start with lighter (brown) people and make it 2000 years; of course they'll come out translucent with a blue sheen. It's what happens to POC in whitetown diaspora when we run out of fuckable cousins. Your obsession with white colonizers vs brown babies is colourist and thus invalid.

We didn't ask for exile, we just made the most of it by fucking tiny little bank-monopolizing, media-controlling, government-puppeteering Jews into your white great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmothers. BOOYA.

And I mean, most Israeli Jews are still visibly brown. But I'm also kinda disgusted that it needs to be said, because your phenotype shouldn't dictate your worth, your origins, or your right to exist somewhere, and usually, this is met with agreement from the left, hmmm.... The Bibas babies being "white" doesn't make their murders less unacceptable, and Palestinian children being brown doesn't make their deaths worse, so please get fucked with your "stop killing BROWN kids", THEIR COLOUR DOES NOT FUCKING MATTER. This isn't Black Lives Matter that arose from Black people being targeted for being black. Palestinians are "targeted" for attacking us since long before 1948. If they'd leave us the fuck alone, there would be no Gaza blockade (which happened after Hamas and other militants started firing missiles), there would not have been a Nakba. This is a deliberate, false spin of the conflict into a racial one. It never was, no matter how many racist Israelis there may be (most of whom brown because Mizrahim tend to be more conservative etc, by the way, so yeah, POC absolutely can be racist LMAO). Spot the white person in this Golani training oh wait there isn't one:

What the fuck makes you think brown Israelis bombing brown Palestinians is about race? Any racism is a by-product of getting attacked by Arabs, and only Arabs, since at least 1517. But the conflict was never about race. The West Bank mostly leaves us alone, and that's the reason why it's not in the same state as Gaza, not because West Bank Arabs are somehow whiter than Gazans.

Ask yourselves why "resistance" against Israel is 100% Muslim. Where are the Christians, Druze, Jews, Yezidi etc in this? No, foreign slacktivists don't count, I mean on-the-ground fighting. Here's the thing, Hamas would not have attacked a Muslim country that allegedly stole their land. Hamas calls their enemy "Jews" for a reason. It's always been about Jews taking back our indigenous homeland by force after a measly 1 million Muslims refused to share land big enough for 10 million people if a major portion of those people is non-Muslim (Hamas also slaughtered Gaza's Christians, y'know). The Nakba/"Kicking everyone out" happened because they attacked us BECAUSE THEY REFUSED TO SHARE MORE THAN THEY HAD USE FOR. Much of Israel (mandatory Palestine) was undeveloped, who gives a shit if a bunch of Jewish refugees takes that? Leftists want to disown landlords until it's about a tiny number of bRoWn land owners sitting on land big enough to house millions of allegedly-white refugees. Then they march for those land owners' right to outright murder the refugees, isn't that interesting? Because the only rights to land Palestinians, never having been a sovereign state, had, was individuals' right to privately owned pieces of property, so not the entire map. And much of which happily sold to the Zionists by the Arab land owners, like Petah Tikvah.

But back to genetics and Jewish indigeneity.

This is my DNA (autosomal). Levantine percentage is very small, but the striking position of Baghdad should tell you something. Iraq and especially Baghdad, is the area where the Judean Jews (=Jewville Jews) mostly settled after violent Babylonian exile. My family has no known history of conversion. My grandfather's original, pre-exile family name and time of settlement in Iraq following said exile, is documented. This means the low Levantine % is most likely residue of pre-exile Levantine ancestry, not a more recent contribution.

Re: "You're all converts" - and dogs smarter than you have been euthanized for less dumb shit coming out their mouths. Unlike Islam, which encourages aggressive proselytizing (how do you think "Palestine", the cradle of Judaism and Christianity, became overwhelmingly Muslim??) and is quickly converted to as demonstrated by those tentifada idiots praying unwashed in mixed gender rows of exposed ass cracks, Judaism is a closed faith. Conversion is not encouraged and proselytizing isn't either. We like being exclusive. We like it so much that we still have cousin fuckers in some places. Hell, I'd fuck my cousin, did you see him. Scrap that, I'd hate-fuck my whole half-brother, but I digress. WE DO NOT HAVE MASS CONVERSION EVENTS. Converting to Judaism can take a year or more. It's a pain in the ass involving lots of study and inconvenient performances like observing Shabbat when you really wanna be doing stuff - for seculars, observing Shabbat prohibitions is HELL because it includes cooking, operating electronics, driving somewhere, or spending money, you know, weekend stuff. A reform rabbi may wave you through faster, but that's a recent development. You know how trans folks in some places have to spend a year or more living openly as their gender before having treatment or ID changes approved? Yeah, conversion to Judaism is similar. Now imagine going through all that just to put a huge fat target on your back without the conviction to match the pain. Converting to Judaism is opting in to oppression. It takes a lot of conviction, or social pressure (like wanting to marry a Jewish person, or being a patrilineal Jew who wants full legal inclusion in the Jewish community), to take that on. There is no mass conspiracy of people converting to Judaism in order to bask in the alleged power of Zionism. I'm Jewish and Zionist, yet I'm broke, I'm chronically ill, my dad withheld child support, and my chosen party never wins. Where is that power you speak of? Man what a rewarding experience to be Jewish, imagine opting in to that. In droves no less. Absolutely fucking INSANE. And again, many converts are patrilineally Jewish already, meaning they HAVE indigenous Jewish ancestry, but religious law only recognizes matrilineal Jews for outdated reasons. So to be fully included in the Jewish community, you have to convert. It's idiotic, but it is what it is. One October 7 victim was in the middle of converting when Hamas murdered her. This means she cannot be buried with her family in a Jewish graveyard. That's horrible, and it's why some who are already Jewish, but not from their mother, convert. For religious laws. Ethnically, they are already Jewish.

Jewish indigeneity to the Levant is like. The one fact on Earth that is universally supported by all relevant scientific and religious evidence. It’s proven by historical records and archaeology and genetic studies, and it’s detailed in the Torah, the Christian Bible and the Quran.

I tend to agree with people who believe scientific evidence over religious texts, and I can understand why some people agree with religious texts over scientific evidence. But if you outright dismiss both in favor of propaganda you found online then I really don’t know how you help you

[bialbovi]

I might not be your friendly neighbourhood blog today but I do not have the privilege to just ignore what's being done to the country that made me who I am. Without Ukraine there would be no me, there would be no fanarts from me, no original art, I wouldn't BE. I cannot look away. And Ukraine has support. Ukraine is being supported. But NOT ENOUGH to stop the invasion right now. God, I wish.

rUSSIANS MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE

Ukrainians NEED YOUR SUPPORT, rUSSIANS STEAL AND KILL UKRAINIAN CHILDREN, rUSSIANS MURDER UKRAINIANS DAILY, rUSSIANS EXECUTE UKRAINIAN PRISONERS OF WAR, rUSSIANS BOMB HOSPITALS AND MATERNITY WARDS, rUSSIA ALWAYS LIES, rUSSIANS MURDER AND TORTURE UKRAINIANS ON OCCUPIED TERRITORIES, rUSSIANS RAPE UKRAINIAN WOMEN, MEN, CHILDREN, AND ANIMALS, rUSSIA DELIBERATELY ERASES UKRAINIAN IDENTITY, rUSSIANS STEAL UKRAINIAN CULTURE, rUSSIANS LEVEL CITIES TO THE GROUND AND DESTROY NOT ONLY LIVELIHOODS BUT NATURE, rUSSIANS HAVE COMMITTED A FLOODING ECOCIDE, rUSSIANS TERRORIZE AND ATTEMPT TO EXHAUST UKRAINIAN PEOPLE WITH AS MANY AIR RAID ALERTS DAILY AS POSSIBLE, rUSSIANS AIM TO VIOLATE AS MANY CONVENTIONS, RULES, AND TREATIES AS POSSIBLE, rUSSIA IS IMPOSSIBLE TO NEGOTIATE WITH, rUSSIANS WILL NOT STOP AT UKRAINE IF WE DO NOT GET OUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER AND HELP UKRAINE NOW. rUSSIA . COMMITS . GENOCIDE

I am asking you to share Ukrainian links and btw, while we are here, to prioritize Ukrainian queer people because I have seen people defend a gay russian soldier before, while russians murder many queer Ukrainians every single day

LGBT Battalion

Come Back Alive

Prytula Foundation

Starenki (elderly support)

Everybody Can (more elderly and hospitals support, disabled children)

UAnimals

Hospitallers

World Central Kitchen (the only international org that has proved itself ❤️‍🩹)

Shouldn't be a surprise to anyone opening my blog that I am in fact Ukrainian and not only do I have Ukrainian roots but I also lived 17 years of my life there, my family moved at the end of 2020, so I dodged a deadly russian roulette, unlike all of my Ukrainian friends who have to endure daily drone air raids and bombs. I used to live in Kyiv, so I wasn't anywhere close to the frontlines when the war actually started in 2014, and in 2022 it exploded into a full-scale invasion. However, there was a change in the way everything felt, because the war was constantly on TV, the military topic was practically everywhere, there were consequences to it, children that were forced to relocate came to our school even, I think one of them was a classmate of mine.

The Revolution of Dignity did happen in my city, my parents were afraid for my wellbeing, I went to school. You never realize how historical the event is until it has passed and you have grown up.

My russian friends at the time never understood me. They argued with me about Holodomor (of course they would), they told me that I'M wrong in the way I ask them to not use certain words or pronounciations, when in actuality it's THEIR language that was ALWAYS historically threatening to erase Ukrainian. My russian friends never understood why I don't want to come to russia, they never understood why I'm so worried about some random "fightings in the east", even though I didn't understand the full picture back then, everything felt off. I was dumbfounded. I was too kind back then, though. I thought "wow aren't you at least worried about YOUR people if not MINE?". Before the full-scale invasion the person I considered to be my best friend from russia told me not to worry about the sheer amount of russian vehicles and weapons on the fucking border because they're doing their routine training or WHATEVER. Then my russian friend couldn't understand why I was suddenly angry that she was not going to even do anything. She told me I was too emotional during the first week of the invasion. Then I suddenly realized that everything made sense - we were so different. Yes she may be a civilian but her being in the war machine that is russian federation means her funds also go to bomb my people. I just couldn't keep talking to my russian friends. They always cracked up on any of the crucial questions that form your worldview, either about Crimea, about Holodomor, about culture or language, about Donetsk and Luhansk. Even if they were "good" or "your average russian" I understood that they would associate themselves with the country anyways, we would start arguing, and I do not owe them explanations or attempting to rid their brains of propaganda! They have full internet access, but they choose to believe what they believe and their so-called riots were not enough! Because if they would none of this would keep happening! but now we live in two different worlds and that's just how it was supposed to happen. The separation was destined in a way because russians have tried so many times to influence Ukraine, to change the language, assimilate people. It just keeps repeating.

Ukrainians were always too kind to russians, I was too kind, and now I'm broken because it was not my fault that I tried to reason with these people. It's not my fault that I want to scream at them to do at least something so that it could have an impact. I am not going to beg on my knees in front of the people being cogs in the war machine, and I'm shocked if you still prioritize civilian russians over Ukrainian civilians. russian citizens keep living their lives because they have just gotten used to it IN WHAT WORLD IS IT NORMAL. Someone they know probably launches missiles from THEIR city right into some Ukrainian neighbourhood that sets ablaze and the family can just be buried alive under the rubble with no warning prior, if the missile was faster than the air raid alert.

FUCKING GOD.

I wish the world understood. They must feel the consequences of the 11 year war (even though our history of enduring russian bloody actions go waaaay back), of all these invasions their country has waged, not only in Ukraine, but Sakartvelo (Georgia), Chechnya, the terror in Syria, OTHER COUNTRIES. I AM FUCKING TIRED! I'M TIRED OF RANDOM INTERNET USERS TRYING TO TELL UKRAINIANS THAT THEY SHOULDN'T BE ANGRY AT rUSSIANS AND THAT UKRAINIANS SHOULD BE MORE EMPATHETIC! SORRY WE HAVE SO MUCH ON OUR FUCKING PLATE BUT rUSSIANS SHOULD JUST DEAL WITH THEIR STUFF IN THEIR OWN WAY WITHOUT US. WE WANT THEM TO LEAVE US ALONE. WE WERE FORCED to be in one internet space with them we KNOW HOW THEY ARE 10 TIMES BETTER THAN ANY OF YOU WILL BECAUSE we felt their thinking firsthand, in chats, in videocalls, online, in person.

I'm tired of internet users telling Ukrainians how to react, what to do, to be KINDER. WE DID THAT FUCKING ALREADY IT DIDN'T WORK AS YOU CAN SEE. I'll take a look at how each and every one of you will try and survive an existential war and then I'm going to police your every move. KINDNESS DOESN'T UNDO THE MASS GRAVES AND DOESN'T UNDO THE TORTURE, IT DOESN'T FREE UKRAINIAN PRISONERS AND DOESN'T BRING CHILDREN HOME. KINDNESS DOESN'T UNDO THE RAPE TRAUMA AND DOESN'T BRING YOU YOUR TORN LIMB BACK. KINDNESS DOESN'T BRING YOUR MURDERED CHILD BACK TO LIFE, NOR FRIENDS, NOR SPOUSES, NOR LOVED ONES. TEACHERS, BROTHERS, FAMILY MEMBERS, ACQUAINTANCES. So many lives just. BRUTALLY CUT OFF. THEY'RE ALL DEAD.

And nothing will bring many Ukrainians back to life again. But you can help us prevent further attacks, Ukraine needs weapons because it is impossible to fight a murderer with kind words

Make of it what you desire

The consequences below minimum you are going to suffer as a russian account from my presence on tumblr is getting blocked by me because I am not making my content for you and I do not wish to educate you because it is not my responsibility

If this post harmed you then I'm not sorry to bother your thinking filled to the brim with imperialism, my words are NOTHING compared to what your people are doing TO MINE. Get out of my blog, do not interact with me, make an effort so that your people stop killing mine. BARE MINIMUM.

I do not believe in good russians because whether you believe in it or not they all contribute to the invasion willingly and unwillingly and they MUST do something with their fucking country it's in THEIR HANDS. They must feel the consequences from all the pain they are dealing to other people worldwide, even though I do not expect them to change anything. They are living behind a big black wall in my mind and I want to not think of them. I wish people understood how much it means when Ukrainian artists are being prioritized instead of russian artists, because the second ones will likely be FINE. OH DON'T WORRY ABOUT THEM. Donating to both is USELESS because one cancels out the other. Part of that money will eventually end up going to russia's murderous actions against Ukrainians. Sometimes I feel like you forget that day to day russians BOMB UKRAINIANS. THEY SEND HUGE SHAHED DRONES. AND FAST MISSILES.

(NOT) sorry for being political

[chomping-sicknasty]

Heinz's heritage and relationship to his home culture has always interested me. coming from an immigrant family who was really poor and rural, when my family got to the us there was an effort to "americanize" ourselves. we still keep ties to our culture of course but most of us havent visited the homeland since leaving. and theres been a noticable effort to distance ourselves from our poor and struggling past. (Im sure some previously poor kids will understand or see this in their own relatives. Trying to overcompensate financially, being more materialistic/consumeristic, marrying into rich families/pressure from relatives to "marry rich") This has been going on for some 30 odd years

Heinz's homeland was a bit different from ours, but the fact is theres a lot of negative association with Childhoods and "Home". In most of his backstories there is some reference to cultural customs that he couldnt fit into, abuse/abandonment/neglect, having to fend for himself. Theres so much fear tied to Drusselstein, i would imagine. I can barely remember any scenes of the show where he shares something from Drusselstein in a positive light. And considering him living in the usa for most of his life now, im sure his style, personality, likes and dislikes, and the social norms he practices, has changed dramatically compared to when he was a kid.

His homeland is a touchy subject but not one he ever strays from mentioning. He mentions Drusselstein a LOT. And even goes back to visit (to see his abusive father no less, and give him the garden gnome they lost- both a cultural staple AND point of trauma for heinz) (and another time he goes is to retake the driving test which he is TERRIFIED of).

What i find most interesting is the fact Heinz confronts his past and the culture he grew up in pretty often. He's definitely aware to how its influenced him and hurt him. But when it comes to americanization...well lets look at Roger

Roger, who could easily pass for american-born. He has made considerable effort to rid himself of his previous accent and replace it for an american one. He has successfully imbeded himself into american society- widely accepted and loved, holding office for a considerable amount of years, always dressed professionally, wealthy. Roger has grasped american customs and fit into them incredibly well. But, unlike Heinz, he also keeps positive ties with the family. In all of Heinz backstories, it seems Roger did just fine in Drusselstein.

We also dont get to see much of Roger or get an idea of him outside of Heinz's lens. I have no doubt Roger americanized himself for the same reason many others do- to survive. But when it comes to the pair of them, i would say Roger has an easier time understanding social power and wanted to aquire that in america- much like how he had social power back in their homeland by being the family favorite and performing his social roles well in childhood.

Despite the fact that Heinz's experiences in Drusselstien were more traumatic and negative than Roger's, it seems Heinz is the one that still has the strongest tie to their homeland. It is a central part of his character and his behaviors. He has grown into american culture like most people who immigrated young, but to him, Drusselstein was like Yesterday. I would like to speculate more into if theres any part of Drusselsteinian culture he cherishes. But i cant really remember if there were any foods or traditions or events that left a positive impact on him.

Not really a solid conclusion here but overall. I really am interested by the messy and complicated relationship Heinz has with his status as an immigrant and his hometown. Its such a wound in the way only a childhood home can wound you.

[itsrensfairygardenn]

ᝰ.ᐟ tashi duncan x her controversially young gf

‘cause I love it when my name slips out your mouth / love it when your eyes caress my body / right before you lace your kisses on me

tashi duncan has her life perfectly organized — her routine works like clockwork, schedules are always set weeks in advance; she can easily afford to stay home all year long, living off the enormous amount of money in her bank account and still earn even more without much efforts — because she is tashi duncan, and she’s worked her ass off through her entire career to be who she is now. she’s a living legend, household name in tennis, and her life didn’t become less busy even after her retirement; tashi is always either training to keep herself in shape, or working with her young athletes, that tremble as a bunch of leaves when she looks at them with that famous unimpressed look on her face.

she didn’t need romantic love, because in all honestly, it was the only thing she couldn’t afford; because it’s seemed uncontrollable, intense and untamable, like a wildfire that could destroy her perfect little world. how ironic — she built her kingdom only to treat it like a paper castle.

but when she met you, all her assumptions and concerns turned out to be wrong, because how could you, a little creature, ruin her life? the only thing that you’ve ever ruined was your sleep schedule (she started working on it as soon as you moved in her apartment)

as it often happens, your paths crossed by fortunate accident — as a young journalism student, you found yourself at some random tennis event with your fellow students only for the sake of getting some experience, maybe even finding useful contacts. but everything turned into a mess, and you found yourself being enamored with the view of this insanely hot woman talking about tennis for hours… these hours were absolutely worth the moment of approaching her to compliment her with a tiny sheepish smile on your lips. well, she got enamored by you too.

there is a stereotype that it’s hard to be on the same page with younger people, both because of generational differences, varying viewpoints and, of course, pace of living — good thing that it wasn’t your case. if anything, you’re the one who can’t keep up with tashi’s ‘busy woman’ lifestyle. it has never been a problem, though. you always help her to slow down, to take her time to calm herself down, to take proper rest; tashi, in turn, helps you to organize your life, to live healthier and always be able to keep up with your studies and social life.

you’ve changed each other in the best sense, but of course, some things stay the same — she’s a morning person, and you’re a terrible sleepyhead.

tashi wasn’t surprised when on her way home, driving through the lively streets of the city in its whole morning glory, after a productive gym workout, nail appointment and a small coffee break, she saw her phone screen lit up with a notification — of course you’d just woken up and noticed that she still hadn’t come back.

where’re u :(

you always make her smile when you text her immediately after waking up without her by your side — you can’t function properly without taking your sweet time to kiss her shoulder, neck or cheeks, sleepily reaching for any kind of physical touch. god, she loves you so much; you’re the only thing in this world that can make her be tempted to cancel her plans for the sake of sleeping longer.

as soon as tashi stopped at a stoplight, she grabbed her phone from the dashboard to text you back.

on my way home babe

got you breakfast

and you answered almost immediately

:)

your shared apartment is quiet when tashi enters, soundlessly closing the door behind her — she isn’t even sure that you haven’t fallen asleep again, waiting for her to come back. but once she steps in the bathroom to leave her sportswear in the laundry basket, she notices water droplets on the bottom of the bathtub, paired with the faint scent of your body wash lingering in the air and, of course, wet footprints on the tile, leading straight to the bedroom — she rolls her eyes at this sight.

she catches you in the act, laying in the white swirl of sheets in your unmade bed — you are fresh out of shower, with your wet hair sticking to the smooth expanse of your bare back; she left a lingering kiss there before leaving you in the morning, but now you’ve washed it off, and tashi only wanted to leave even more of these feather-like touches on your skin — to leave faint lipgloss marks on your skin and tickle your sides, only to hear your laughing. you put your book aside, leaving it open on the pillow, and immediately looks at tashi’s figure in the doorway — you’re the sweetest thing she’ve ever seen, still sleepy even after taking shower.

“what has taken you so long?” you murmur, turning over to your side to stretch your arm with a quiet, soundless yawn.

stepping closer to the bed, she holds her hand out to you, showing her freshly done manicure — there’s nothing new, and you can swear that she’s wearing the same nail color for the last ten years — but you still hum in a silent approval, jokingly kissing her hand; just barely touching her knuckles with your soft lips.

“how was your sleep?” tashi asks through a soft chuckle, briefly caressing your smooth cheek with the back of her hand; and you immediately lean into this touch, as if you’re starving for the warmth of her body.

“it would be better if you were here with me,” you are dramatic over her absence, every single day; she has to peel herself off your warm, pliable body, because despite being too deep in love with each other, you still have things to do — you have your morning classes, and she has her own responsibilities.

but today you have no classes, and tashi’s determined to spend the rest of the day with you; even if it means that she will stay in bed, doing nothing for hours.

she leans forward, pressing her knee against the edge of the mattress, and her hand finds its natural place on the small of your back — soon enough her fingers slip under the blanket, caressing the backs of your thighs, so soft to hold, to squeeze and rub with her thumb. tashi trails loving kisses along the length of your back, inhaling the sweet scent of salted caramel on your skin — you look, smell and feel like the sweetest pastry.

“i’m here now, aren’t i?” she whispers against your skin, and you’re on the verge of purring like a well-fed cat. her hands move higher to massage your sides, sliding to your ribs to make you shiver and giggling, because it tickles, and because she’s already kissing your shoulder blades; you think that she’s smiling right now, and you’re so right about it.

you roll over on your back, letting her settle in between your legs to lay on top of you; she wraps her arms around your waist, finally kissing your flushed cheeks, leaving sweet kisses on your lips and quietly teasing you, because you never wear your pajamas, and you’re so drowsy right now — you’ll have to shut her up with your tongue caressing her glossy lips.

soon enough, you’ll forget about your breakfast and it’ll go completely cold — but it doesn’t matter, right? tashi will give you better things to taste.

please don’t take it too seriously, because i’m literally half asleep now, but i have a Bad craving for tashi duncan 🙏🏻 sorry for possible mistakes because my eyes are already closed !

also give the biggest thanks to @diyasgarden for being my partner in crime 🐈🐈‍⬛

[kick-a-long]

I don't disagree with this "don't burn the bridge that maga members need to run away from trump," mentality at all, but I do think there is some unspoken nuance about it. especially seeing what this mentality has done to the liberal wing of american politics.

basically, while there needs to be positives to leaving maga as well as possible coalition with them as a group with shared interests... i worry that when people embrace cult members who have left the group they don't interrogate how many of the cults ideas are still alive and well in an ex-cult member. there are ex conservative culture/extremist religion members who have "left" their high control group but have kept the exact same extreme ultimate good vs ultimate evil necessitating extreme rhetoric and in group punishment to achieve moral purity which is more important than pragmatic and compromises that everyone can live with mentality just with the names changed.

worse still that extremism is contagious and the last thing this country needs is more radicalization. maybe some good old shunning of extremeist political thought would do us some good. like... doesn't this all feel like an arms race for more fringe and crazier supporters? both right and left wings have been getting less picky about who they will try to appeal to and it's ended up with kamalah getting rat fucked by alienating the center to appeal to the far left and republicans dropping the dog whistles and lawful conduct for elon musk taking over and open praise for hitler.

maybe there is a line to be drawn and it's to say: hey! I get that anyone can fall for cult rhetoric, glad you were able to get away from such a fucked up mentality BUT you are still fucking NUTS and YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT COMING. YOU NEED TO STAY AWAY FROM POLITICS AND RELEARN HOW TO NOT BE A PEICE OF SHIT... which we will all try to be very kind about. if you try to engage with politics I will do everything in my power to isolate you and punish you."

Does that make sense? I guess what I'm saying is that there needs to be a way out of Maga that isn't so harsh a punishment that there is a doubling down or ppl in Maga never leave, BUT there also needs to be a publicly well known, thoughtful, consistent, and nuanced process for de-radicalization that includes rooting out the extremism and fetishization of fascist authority that underpins the Maga movement, and conservative american politics generally. i can't even begin to create that. i don't know who could.

This is an interesting thing. Looks like testimonies of people who left the MAGA movement- how they got into it and why.

Leaving a cult is really hard, so I really respect the people who are speaking from this place.

[anythinganythingelse]

First tumblr post ever, just to share this bg3 headcanon with no one in particular.

I read a lot of fanfics that characterize Astarion as being unwilling to talk about his past or get too close to the other companions, but when you play the game he’s the character with the most to say about himself and his trauma. He overshares, even.

I think Astarion has no idea how to be normal around people. He’ll tell you all about his trauma like it’s nothing because he’s used to that trauma being shared among everyone he knows. His true vulnerabilities are much harder to put into words anyway.

Astarion hasn’t ever been alone, as far as he can remember. He wasn’t Cazador’s first spawn, so even in the earliest days of his life (as he knows it), there was always someone there who shared his circumstances. He spent 200 years living in a dormitory with six other spawn who were also being tortured. They didn’t all like each other, but that didn’t matter.

Their continued association wasn’t dependent on any kind of social contract. They didn’t need to be nice, they could even be openly cruel, but they weren’t always openly hostile, either. That would be exhausting, and some degree of cooperation is required for six people to share a single bath, after all. They might backstab or torture each other, but after a particularly brutal day they could still take their rest in a dogpile of bodies, just for the comfort of gravity. Moments of kindness or cooperation aren’t more or less meaningful than moments of cruelty. They’re all just raw and naked around each other all the time.

Concepts like forgiveness were irrelevant. No one had the option of storming off or walking away. Nothing they did or said to each other would change the fact that they were the only people they knew—the only people who would ever be around long enough to feel real.

So when Astarion finds himself bound by circumstance to another group of people… that feels normal. What isn’t normal is the way they all hold themselves apart from each other. He needs to be careful about offending them, which is new to him. They’re all so precious, treating every transgression against their sensibilities like a wound. There’s a score being kept. Conflicts require resolutions because hurt feelings create permanent injuries to the relationship if left to fester. Needing to be near the prism means one person might not have the option of walking away, but the group has the option of leaving someone behind.

Until now, the only creatures in Astarion’s world who required such careful handling were either predators (Cazador and whoever he delegated authority to) or prey (the hapless victims being lured back to the palace every night). That makes being touched unexpectedly feel like a threat. These people feel like littermates and enemies and victims all at the same time and it’s confusing.

Astarion is too sharp with his companions, too callous, but he’s also open with them in a way that cultivates closeness. He’s used to being crowded in among other beings so closely that the edges overlap. He’s never had privacy, he’s never had anything that belongs to only him, so it makes him seem too familiar with the others (even if he hisses at anyone who gets too close). He flirts and fights and overshares with them and eventually it helps them all get closer.

This flows into another bit of headcanon that I have—namely the tadpoles and how it puts them all in each other’s heads all the time. There are no private conversations, there are no private moments (except for Gale, whose mind is a fortress). A psychic conversation might require conscious effort but raw emotions flow between them unbidden. Anxiety, anger, desire—they share it all.

How lonely it must be, then, when the tadpoles dissolve and they are left alone with their thoughts again. The silence must be devastating.

Edit: I was still thinking about this so I made a meme about it

[brainmaggotzzzz]

☆Little AK47☆ Hwang Inho x fem! reader

story masterlist:

part 9.

cw: trauma, death, squidgame stuff

For a while, you and Youngil just lay there, limbs and lips lazily intertwined. The drug slowly wore off, and the gnawing doom and hopelessness began to seep in, drop by drop, pooling in your gut. You felt like a part of you had died-an extension of yourself, possibly a limb, had been brutally torn from both your body and soul.

All the moments you and your brother had shared together. All the moments you were supposed to spend together. The plans the two of you had-taking a cheap seaside vacation, living together, working and complaining about life, maybe one day introducing your kids to each other, separating them from cousin fights-they were all gone.

He was gone.

There was no coming back from this.

And why?

Because of that man who had pushed him to his doom. Because of the existence of this twisted organization. Because of your greed. Because of you.

If he hadn't prioritized your safety, he'd still be here. Cracking stupid jokes amidst all the chaos.

"Y/N," Youngil murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his calloused fingers tracing soft, nonsensical patterns over your bloodied knuckles. The gesture felt so intimate, so comforting. Maybe it was just trauma bonding. Maybe you were latching onto him like a hurt puppy, desperate for solace. But you didn't care.

You just needed him. Right now. Right here.

You lifted your gaze, eyes still hazy from the drug that Thanos had so generously provided-or rather, the one you had snatched from his unsure grip.

"What's going through your mind?" Youngil asked, his voice low as his fingers massaged yours with quiet care.

"I will kill him," you murmured, your voice a whisper of steel. Your eyes locked onto his, dark with unspoken fury.

Youngil's expression remained unreadable. He sighed with understanding.

"The man who locked the door?" he inquired.

"Him too," you replied, jaw clenched.

"Too?"

"The person running this place. I'll kill him with my bare hands if I have to."

For a split second, Youngil's hands stilled against your knuckles before resuming their gentle movement.

"Is that so?" he murmured. "Do you think that's what your brother would want? Or is this a desire driven by your grief?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were searching, watching you carefully.

"All my brother ever wanted for me was to be healthy, happy, and safe," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

"And do you think that killing the person in charge will grant you that? Do you think he'd want you to become cold in the process?" Youngil's voice was softer now, like he was trying to anchor you to reason. "Grief can drive a person to... astonishing lengths," he added, a flicker of understanding passing through his dark eyes. Something in his gaze told you that he didn't want you to lose your innocence, your warmth, your belief in humanity. All the things he had already lost.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Jungbae sprinted toward your designated corner, panting for breath.

Youngil was quick to pull himself up, subtly putting distance between the two of you, ensuring that your teammates wouldn't catch you tangled up together.

"We have 44 people on our side," Jungbae gasped out, hands braced against his knees. "So we're outnumbered by 12."

"Are you sure?" Gihun asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I counted twice," Jungbae affirmed.

Youngil leaned in closer to the conversation. "It may seem like a big difference, but if six of them change their minds, it'll be 50/50-tied. If seven change their minds, we win."

You listened carefully, still lying on your bunk, staring at the ceiling.

"But the ones who pressed X might change their minds, too," you said flatly.

"They wanted to quit even when the prize was smaller. Now, they can leave with even more money. They wouldn't risk their lives playing another game," Gihun argued, his gaze shifting to you, Youngil noticed his gaze directed at you. His eyes darkened.

"Some of us have nothing to lose now" you replied, your voice devoid of emotion.

Your teammates exchanged looks, their expressions hardening.

"Y/N."

Gihun walked up to you, his hand landing gently on your shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

"I know what you're going through. I also lost people here. You can't let your pain cloud your logic."

You let out a bitter chuckle, finally shifting your gaze to meet his.

"You don't know what I'm going through, uncle."

His face tensed at the nickname.

You shrugged off his hand.

"Don't look at me like that," you added. You hated the pity in their collective gazes.

Taking a deep breath, you continued, voice calmer but no less firm.

"Out of respect, I'm not going to press O. If that's what you're worried about."

A blaring alarm sounded through the dormitory, followed by the clunk of steel doors unlocking. A group of masked figures entered, their boots echoing against the cold floor. Some of them wore triangular masks. One had a square mask.

A triangle.

You remembered the way a triangle-masked guard had gunned down your brother without hesitation.

Maybe one of those cockroaches was the one who pulled the trigger.

Fury boiled in your veins, the grief that had suffocated you moments ago replaced by something hotter, something dangerous.

You were about to push yourself off the bunk, to move toward the platform where the guards stood.

But a firm grip stopped you.

Youngil.

His hand clamped around your wrist, his dark eyes meeting yours. Your pupils were still slightly dilated, hazy from the drug. Slowly, he shook his head. A silent warning.

Stay in place. Don't cause a scene. Don't get yourself killed.

A voice crackled through the speakers.

"Congratulations to all of you for making it through the third game. Now, here are the results."

The masked manager lifted a remote and clicked a button.

On the massive digital screen, the number of eliminated players appeared. The prize money increased.

The word "Congratulations" felt like a slap to the face.

Suddenly, Player 100 shot to his feet.

"Only that many died?! Recount it!" he screamed, his face red with fury.

Something inside you snapped.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you were moving. You wrenched yourself free from Youngil's grasp and strode toward Player 100, the dormitory and its occupants melting away around you.

The anger that had been simmering in your gut found a target.

The man who kept urging everyone to continue playing. The greedy, disgusting excuse for a human being.

Before he could register your presence, you swung your fist, landing a devastating punch squarely on his nose.

A sickening crunch.

He stumbled back, clutching his bloodied face, eyes wide with shock. "Do you want to die?! Huh?!" he screeched. "Circles! Did you see that?! That X just attacked me!"

The O players circled around you, tension crackling in the air.

You didn't care.

You swung again. This time, your fist collided with his eye.

You were winding up for another blow when-

A sharp yank.

Pain shot through your scalp as someone grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. A moment later, a hand smacked across your face, hard enough to make your ears ring. What you didn't know, Youngil gave a look to the guards.

"Pacify"

Before you could react, a gunshot cracked through the air.

Then another.

Then another.

The guards fired into the ceiling.

Silence fell.

Youngil pushed his way through the crowd, grabbing you and pulling you away from the chaos.

"Please remember," the square-masked guard droned, "any disobedience during announcements will not be tolerated." The square guard says.

"The vote will once again be conducted in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456, please cast your vote."

Gi-hun walked briskly to the station and quickly, decisively, pressed X.

"To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind,"

The votes came in quickly. Your team had a good shot at winning. But honestly? You didn't care anymore. Whether you won or lost, it made no difference. It wasn't like you had something to go back to-nothing to look forward to. You might just die here, anyway.

"Player 111," the guard called.

You made your way to the station lazily, your body screaming in pain with every step. Limping slightly, you wiped your bloodied hands on your tracksuit and stood in front of the two buttons, staring at them blankly. X and O.

"That's that crazy bitch!" someone yelled.

You turned your head, scanning the sea of faces. Your eyes locked onto Young-il's briefly before another player shouted.

"Just press it already, you stupid bitch!"

Your jaw tensed. Your gaze dropped back down to the buttons. X. O. You lingered, your team watching you intently, their silent pleas weighing on your shoulders.

With a sharp inhale, you slammed your fist onto X.

Screams erupted-some in celebration, others in rage. You barely registered any of it as you walked over to the X zone.

"Well done, Y/N. Well done," Gi-hun patted your back, his face visibly relieved.

The O voters still had a small advantage, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The atmosphere in the dormitory was thick with tension, anger, and exhaustion. You just stood there, shoulders slumped, detached from everything happening around you.

"Player 001," the manager announced.

You watched as Young-il made his way to the station, his steps slow but deliberate, his expression unreadable. He was the deciding vote-again-balancing on the edge of continuation and escape.

He pressed X.

Cheers erupted. Some players jumped in celebration, others cursed in frustration. But you? You just stood there. Empty.

"Let's go home!" the X voters cheered.

"Wait, it's a tie. What happens now?" a player asked.

"In the case of a tie, players will vote again," the voice responded.

"So when are we going to vote again?"

"To give you some time to think, the vote will be conducted tomorrow. Until then, please think carefully about your future."

◇

You sat with your team in your designated spot, their voices buzzing around you. They were thanking Young-il and you, expressing how worried they were that you might have chosen O again. Young-il, ever the humble man, downplayed every word of gratitude.

As they talked and picked at their dry gimbap, you sat in silence, tracing your fingers along the metal of the fork in your hand. Something felt off. Gimbap isn't usually eaten with a fork. And we didn't get a glass bottle before.

The realization hit.

"They want us to kill each other," you said bluntly, your analytical gaze still focused on the utensil.

Jung-bae furrowed his brows. "Well, isn't that a little far-fetched? Y/N, you should get some rest. You've been through a lot."

"She's correct," Gi-hun said, his voice grave. "The fork and the glass bottle aren't a coincidence." His expression darkened. "Last time I was here, those bastards did the same thing."

◇

"Are you sure you can stay here alone?" Young-il asked. Gi-hun and Jung-bae stood nearby, watching you with thinly veiled concern.

You hated that look. That pity.

The group was heading to the bathroom, leaving you behind for a moment. You forced a tight smile and nodded.

"You made enemies here," Gi-hun warned. "Someone should stay with you to protect you."

Dae-ho grinned, stepping in. "I'll protect you, miss. You gentlemen go ahead," he said with a polite yet genuine smile.

Young-il's gaze darkened for just a second, but to avoid suspicion, he remained silent and nodded. The group finally disappeared from view.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Ewan, Y/N," Dae-ho said. He didn't reach out to comfort you, didn't try to force anything. He just let you be.

"Me too," you whispered, your voice strained.

"He would've been proud seeing you punch Player 100 like that! Seriously! Are you some kind of secret ninja or something? That was impressive!"

A genuine chuckle left your cracked lips.

"I think ninjas are more subtle and precise. Like a scalpel." You smirked faintly. "I'm more of a hammer. No bullshit, just bah!"

The warmth in Dae-ho's eyes didn't go unnoticed-not by you, and definitely not by Young-il when the group returned. Young-il took his usual spot next to you, but this time, he subtly draped an arm around your lower back, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your clothes.

The robotic voice echoed through the dormitory, followed by the sound of coins pouring into the piggy bank above.

"Following players have been eliminated. Players 230, 268, 299, 331, and 401. End of the list."

Your eyes widened.

A fight. There must have been a fight in the bathroom.

A group of bloodied players staggered back into the dormitory, their voices raised in fury. Your team stayed silent, watching as the chaos unfolded.

"Listen, Team O! When we were in the bathroom, those fucking bastards tried to kill us! They killed some of us-including my friend..." The speaker was a familiar O player-Thanos's friend. The one who laughed when the purple-haired idiot made that disgusting bee joke about you. The memory alone made disgust curl in your stomach.

"Bullshit," an X player snapped. "You started it! You threatened one of our guys, then attacked us to tip the second vote!"

◇

"Those bastards are acting suspicious," Gi-hun muttered, his sharp gaze fixed on the O players gathered on the other side of the dormitory.

Jung-bae scoffed. "Whatever they do, once we win tomorrow, it'll all be over."

"But will we be okay?" Dae-ho asked hesitantly. His eyes lingered on the O players. "People say things got really crazy in the bathroom earlier."

"Once the lights go out, they'll attack us," Gi-hun said grimly. "If they kill enough of us, they'll win the vote-and the prize pool will increase."

"So what do we do?" Jung-bae asked.

You turned to look at them. "We should attack first."

Young-il nodded. "That's right." "We have more women and elderly on our side. If we get attacked, we'll be at a disadvantage. Attacking first gives us a better chance."

"We can't do that," Gi-hun countered.

"But we have to get out of here," Jung-bae pressed.

"That doesn't mean we should kill each other. That's exactly what they want," Gi-hun said firmly.

"They?" you echoed.

"The ones controlling this game. The ones watching. If we're going to fight someone, it should be them."

Do we... stand a chance?" Dae-ho asked hesitantly.

Gi-hun nodded. "We do. If we catch them off guard."

"Lights out in five minutes," the voice announced.

Before you knew it, you were hiding under the bunk beds, gripping Young-il's sleeve. The dormitory descended into chaos. Screams of fury. The sickening crunch of bones. The scent of blood flooding the air.

A woman from your side collapsed onto the floor in front of you, her attacker on top of her, beating her mercilessly.

Your eyes locked.

She mouthed something-help me-before the light in her eyes faded. You tried to move. Young-il's grip tightened, pressing you against him. He slowly tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him instead.

◇

comments, reblogs and votes are appreciated ♥️ I wanna know what you think about this story!

[flayedintheusa]

Steve Harrington is fucking confusing.

When he found out they were going to the same college, he didn’t think anything would really change. Not about either of them. They’d interact less, the campus was big. See you around in the most literal sense. Maybe once every couple weeks, maybe more if they had the same gen ed course. Maybe.

But he does see Harrington around. More than he thought he would. Like their paths crossing was integral to the fabric of the universe, he just kept seeing him. But it’s confusing. It’s hard to make sense of the things he’s seeing.

After locking eyes headed different directions at the opening orientation event, him on one sidewalk and Billy on the other, thirty feet away, Harrington smiled at him. That smile you share with people you know in a place you don’t. Fancy seeing you here. Billy watched. Waited for the other shoe to drop.

Something dropped, but not the other shoe. Something deep in the pit of his stomach when he went to the welcome meeting, first of the semester, for the new LGBT club on campus. He was pushing boundaries with himself; letting himself slowly crack his protective casing. Find himself now that he’s somewhere he can. He’s allowed. There’s no one here who will shove him down, knock him over, berate and assault him. He repeats it on his brain, a steady and small and pitiful 45 record, move the needle back, repeat, accept, it’s ok. And Harrington was there. There was that smile. Fancy seeing you here. Soft on the edges. Someone you know in a place you don’t. Acceptance is new ground for the both of them.

It should have been his sign, that Steve Harrington would only get more confusing.

Next time he sees Harrington, he’s at a party. Last night of orientation. Big bash to break into syllabus week with a bang. First hurrah. Steve’s rushing through the main room of the party and up the stairs tugging a girl by the hand. He’s pretty sure he remembers her from Hawkins, too. Her hair is longer and she seems to have broken out of the semi-style she’d had, here in college where one often establishes themself free of hometown ties and familial contingencies. Even back home, Billy can remember them being close. Notably. And Steve drags her across the cluttered floor, dodging flailing appendages and winding around bodies, fingers linked together and pulling her up the stairs. Which doesn’t really mean anything, but we all know what that insinuates.

Billy doesn’t see him for the rest of the night.

Almost.

He caches him on his way out the back, shotgunning a joint on the back porch not even an hour later with some socialite over-sharer with the base of his skull buzzed, talking astrology and You need a Leo. Someone to pamper. with a lackadaisical smile and far away eyes.

Harrington’s eyes are far away, too. They slowly tread the air like water until they reach Billy. Billy’s a Leo. He smiles slowly. Fancy seeing you here.

They haven’t talked. There’s no need. Or it felt like there wasn’t.

He’s just getting more and more confused with every almost-interaction. He can’t pin Harrington down. He has before, literally, and part of him grasps at straws to reckon that King Steve with this new one. This new one, that actually seems to live up to the title. The King of himself, not carefully cracking his casing, just immediately unfurling his wings. Billy’s still stretching them out, getting a feel. Freedom is sipped warily from his cup; Harrington downs the whole thing like Bacchus.

Second Monday of the semester, he’s lying on the library green beside the back-lot entrance with his head in a girl’s lap, air of flirtation as he draws on her ankle. Pretty, small, blonde. Giggling and flipping through a thin array of notes. It’s only the second week, after all. It’s easier to see. That’s the Harrington he knows, flirting with pretty girls and cocky about it. That feels normal.

What’s not normal is finding him that Friday at the bar caddy-corner to campus. It’s not easy, finding Harrington dancing on a table, looking downright androgynously slutty. He’s not the only one up there, but he’s the only one Billy can see. Glittering in low light. Lips heavy, parted. Lids heavy, cracked. Lashes heavy, shaded with coal and shadowing sharp cheeks contoured carefully. His eyes find Billy, chin a steady line following his body. His teeth peek out on his sly smile, just a small quirk. Fancy seeing you here. Much lighter and with much more weight at the same time.

It’s easier to justify he’s still the same Steve Harrington when he’s backwards-capped and sinking celebrity beer pong shots and hollering like a high school dropout. When he’s fratty and polo-cuffed with daddy’s money and laughing loudly at an Alpha Chi party.

It’s harder to remember that Steve Harrington when he walks in on him getting his lips glossed by some guy in the English building. Pretty, pink, plump lip thinning only very slightly as he smiles at Billy, glinting a perfect bright white block from the bathroom ceiling light right back at him.

Always smiling at him. Always looking like he doesn’t mind being seen by Billy. Billy, who’s slowly accepting his wings, can only stare at Steve’s. They don’t make sense. He’s a walking conundrum. A sick, metal as hell steampunk-owl-clock-eyes tattoo fresh and damaging right on his thigh when his shorts stretch too far in the caf. Duality of man; a watercolor-smudged crack up the length of his outer forearm that looks like pink and purple and rose-tinted ink just leaks right out of him.

Bloody knuckles and a blackened eye, lip split.

Painted nails and winged eyeliner, highlight glittering on his cheek.

His brain can’t figure him out anymore. Steve Harrington found himself and Billy can’t for the life of him make it make sense.

Not until midterms.

It makes a bit more sense, when Harrington’s coming up behind him at the stadium entrance for the Saturday game. When he nudges his shoulder against Billy’s, smiling at his semi-startled look. The girl from the first hurrah is setting her eyes to the sky on his other side, like finally.

He’s wearing a university sweatshirt, pulled up to his elbows. Fabric shorts cut off at the knee and rolling up at the frayed edges. His hair’s a mess in the wind, and he doesn’t try to fix it.

He doesn’t look confusing. He doesn’t look normal. He looks happy.

It feels like it locks in. Feels like the other shoe’s finally dropped, and wedges into his brain. The difference between finding yourself and being yourself. He might be trying too hard to fit into his own skin, and Steve might just be showing him how easy it is.

He’s still smiling at him, as if the fact that they haven’t actually talked the whole eight weeks they’ve seen each other— as if they haven’t even been close enough to— means very little.

The girl slaps his shoulder, shakes her head when Billy looks at her and rolls her eyes as if Steve’s being an idiot.

“Next!” the lady at the ticket stand shouts.

His eyes rake quickly over Billy’s thin college tee, his ripped up jeans and scuffed tennis shoes. “Fancy seeing you here.”

And it’s not. Not really.

But it sure suddenly feels like it.

[siri-ike]

Mama crieo didn't have a spare bed for Álaug, so Nadia had offered to share hers.

Nadias bed was odd to Álaug, her thin princess blanket seemed more decorative than functional, her silky pillowcase was slippery, and Nadia was... not exactly clingy. More just attached. Is this what friends are like? Álaug moved her hand down to where Nadias' arms wrapped around her waist and held on. This is what friends are.

Nadia woke up to footsteps in the hallway as always. But this time, to her utter delight, her friend is still there. She didn't leave, and it wasn't a dream. Double score. She brushed a long curly lock out of her face as she sat up and shook Álaug awake.

"{Im not in the morning classes}" She grunted. It didn't sound like the language she had spoken before.

Nadia wouldn't let that stop her. She simply climbed over Álaug and over to the vanity with three other girls. There's Amelia, the second youngest at 12, Isla 15, and Haley is the oldest of the kids at 17. There are other girls, too, in the other rooms, but they're all for the regular clients because they're over 18. Haley was the only one still awake when Nadia came home yesterday. She was nice and even complamented her new outfit. She always helped her put her hair in a bun before breakfast so it wouldn't go in her food. Sometimes, she pretends to be 18 to get enough clients. For some reason, her usuals started losing interest in her. Isla was almost the opposite of Haley. She liked sports and dressed, knowing she would get messy. Rumor has it that a lot of the regular clients have booked time with her in 3 years. That guy who likes to be tied up especially likes her, Mama Crieo says it's the "biceps and legs like the roots of a tree" that they like. Amelia used to be a dancer before this, not like a stripper, a regular dancer, with a troop and everything. They competed. But when she got her first period, her mom suddenly changed, and she started losing to the younger "cuter" troops. Her team moved on to the older competitions, but Amelia's mom kept entering her in the same age group. The more she lost, the less her mom seemed to like her. Eventually, she just didn't want her anymore. Nadia didn't know how the others got here, but Amelia was the newest, so it was still an open wound.

Álaug still wasn't waking up, so Nadia left her a note and went downstairs with the others. The four of them were the only ones at breakfast. No one else has to get up early for tutoring. Lucky grown-ups, living and working in the same building. On the bright side, Nadias' first lesson today is finance. She can finally turn in everything she's stolen (that they didn't already spend). A bunch of banknotes, some jewelry, a bag full of some kind of organic spice? (Amongst the powder was a thorny stem, had to be some hipster herb) That one didn't seem like it was worth anything, but it smelled nice, and the dead guy sure wasn't gonna use it. The tutor even had it tested. It wasn't drugs, so she got to keep it. Apparently, it's the dried up petals of some rare flower. It'll go great with her dad's free style soup.

Natalie's dad's free style soup recipe

First, boil whatever veggies you can get your hands on.

Second, add whatever you feel like adding

Eat

He was a great chef.

And who doesn't love soup with rasins, ketchup chips, sweet potatoes, cauliflower, gummy worms, an entire bag of frozen shrimp, so much cheese, several eggs (and a bit of eggshell thanks to Islas "freestyle egg cracking techniques"), marshmallows, and mystery spice.

OK, so maybe a few people gave up after just a taste, but Álaug ate multiple bowlfulls out of pure friendship. Which inspired Nadia to at least finish her bowl to not get shown up. Honestly, that mystery spice was better on its own than it was in the soup. And it was not too bad on its way back up.

That was pretty much how their days went from then on. Nadia typically only got one or two clients per month (Mama Crieo turned a lot of them away), so they had most of their days to themselves... five days, to be exact.

It was so odd when they disappeared. They just went out one day as usual and didn't come back. Didn't even take any of their stuff.

No one escapes the League.

The words rung in Álaugs head as she and Nadia were ripped apart. It's all her fault. She never should have gotten someone else involved. She should have left alone. She should have disappeared. She should have kept running. Her best friend must have been scared out of her mind. How could she have been so stupid!?

No amount of nine year old kicking and punching could have freed her from this masked woman's grip. Nadia personally checked. A lot. Right until she was thrown in some windowless room alone. Honestly? She'd had worse. She didn't even panic. Until she realized there was no keyhole to use her bobbypin on.

There's no point in resisting the escort, Álaug is going to be taken wherever they want her to go. The only thing she has any power over is whether she'll make it there dead or alive.

"Wherever" turned out to be the grand hall, overlooking the Lazarus Pit. Face to face with the daughter of the demon.

"《Where is my daughter, blue?》" Talia sneered.

"《Who one you daughter?》" Álaug didn't know where either of them were.

The remark erned her a knee to the face, but it's not like she'd be leaving anyway.

No. She can't think that way. If she dies, what'll happen to Nadia? No, they have to get out. Álaug ran her finger along her friendship bracelet. It was made of the stem from their "mystery spice" bag and some string. It should be dead, but somehow, it had managed to grow a little black bud.

"《Kill target, I. Dangerous, have weapon. Many together.》" It was a big risk lying to trained assassins.

What in the world was this child trying to say? "《Which languages do you speak?》" Talia spat.

"Íslenska, English, Dansk."

"What happened on your assignment?"

Kinda felt like any of them could have done this from the beginning, but sure, more than two months in is the best time to reveal you speak a common language. "We split up, and each infiltrated a hockey team. I haven't seen the other two since. My team was staying in the room below the target. I climbed up the outside, broke in, and killed him. He was already expecting to find a girl my age in his room and thought I was her. I never discovered the reason."

Talias expression shifted from total disgust at Álaugs existence to slightly confused and judging.

"Afterward, we were both covered in blood, so we had to sneak away. Then I just stayed disappeared, like I was told."

"Who told you to dissappear?"

"The demons head. The assignment was kill Gord and dissappear."

"The assignment was kill Gord and leave no trace." Talia hissed. Her expression faded from anger to understanding. "《Leave no trace, dissappear》" Both words sound similar. Come here, child."

Child? Álaug is 8. That's well beyond "child" age in the league.

She hesitantly walks up to Talia. The glow of the pit gets brighter with each step she nears. She reached the edge, but Talia gestured her over.

With her back to the pit, she prayed not to be victim to the demons' known ruthlessness. And from the corner of her eye, she saw a shape in the shadows.

Nadia.

She didn't have time to relish the sight of her friend. The moment she took her eyes off the demon, she kicked her over the edge. Failing to grab the ledge, her hand only reached the bracelet.

The thorns dug into her palm, causing her to bleed, but she refused to loosen her grip. This is it. Álaug thought as gravity brought her closer and closer to her inevitable end. Well, actually, she thought, "Í víti finn ég loksins frið" but, she's about to die, she's allowed to be a litte edge lord right now. The closer she got, the brighter she could see the glow of the Lazarus water from behind her. She kurled in on herself around the black rose as the pit swallowed her whole.

Throughout the two months that she had lived there, she had had a lot of time to imagine what the pit felt like. Was it hot or cold? Would the pain be like touching fire or knives? How deep is it?

The water was cold, but it burned anyway. It was watery at the top, but as she sank, it became somewhat gelatinous and then thick. Soon, it felt like she was swimming through a tub of skyr that was trying to eat her. She held her bracelet to her chest and... it didn't hurt as much. Wasn't she supposed to die? Is she dead? She didn't feel dead. Amma always said dead people don't feel pain, and she sure as shit was feeling pain.

She opened her eyes and the water, ew, it looked like skyr, thick, wiggly, and the toxic green had become nothing more than a tint.

__________(ending 1)__________

She didn't have much time to think about it before Nadia came diving after her. It was a bitter sweet sight. She was happy to be together, but now they would both die. Or whatever is happening here. It didn't take long for the two of them to embrace each other. If afterlives are real, she hoped they could go to the same one.

They closed their eyes and held each other as close as they could. For the rest of their time.

________(true ending)________

Nadia ran as fast as she could but was easily picked up by the tall woman who pushed Álaug into the radioactive? Water they had there for some, definitely bad, reason. She held her still as she watched the water change from sickly green juice to thick, curdly green milk. She kicked and screamed, but the woman held her still. Her yells of frustration quickly turned to tears. Her outburst fizzled out until she was on her knees. Mourning the best friend she had ever had.

If the Lazarus Pits are ectoplasm, what happens if someone throws blood blossoms in one?

[omnificent-orion]

In order to raise funds for G@za, @/nemo-in-slumberland is running a "100 Xigbar Challenge" here: https://www.tumblr.com/nemo-in-slumberland/757083986361237504

I've drawn a picture of Xigbar for when they reach $100 this month, so here's a preview. Please share that post even if you can't contribute. Thank you.

[shorthaltsjester]

the mighty nein - critical role

this is a place where i don't feel alone. this is a place where i feel at home.

[shadowinthetreesbutcooler]

red team are FULLY going feral im so here for it, cellbit vouching for cannibalism and getting excited, baghera wanting to build a dirt shack and everyone wanting to crawl into a cave and chase people through the woods

[weaselishmcdiesel]

.

[somesmartsmarties]

Oooooh I wanna make a comic about Morro discovering his true potential so bad

But brain small and smooth and can’t think of what his obstacle to overcome could be

Like yeah obviously, it would be learning that he wasn’t meant to be the green ninja and he won’t be able to get that title, and that’s okay! But it’s very similar to what Kai’s potential was (which btw side note, after seeing other people share their interpretation and thoughts on Kai, I too like to believe that the true meaning behind his potential is “I am enough, and I won’t be seen as any less if I don’t become the green ninja”), and I really want to tie in to how he could’ve still had a good life if only he hadn’t been so hellbent on finding the realm crystal

So maybe it could be something like “I am imperfect, I am broken, I have been hurt by others and I too have hurt others, but longing for something that I cannot achieve will not fix me or anything else; I took for granted what I had, I left the one person who truly cared about me, I sought out what I thought would fill the cracks that have formed throughout the years, but it only broke me further. I cannot change my past, I cannot go back to what I had, nor can I go back to who I was. But I can try and build a better future for myself. Despite all the pain, anger, fear and loss, I can still rebuild myself, and perhaps someday, these old scars will fade, and I will feel a little more human. Despite it all, I can still heal.”

Maybe idk, I’d love to hear what everyone else has to say <3

[evil-fact-checker]

Psychologeek, you make some valid points about the evolution of national identity—no one can deny that modern nationalism is a product of relatively recent historical processes. However, here's where the nuance lies:

Modern National Identity vs. Ancient Presence: It’s true that the term “Palestinian” in its modern political sense emerged only in the 20th century, much like “Italian” or “American” identities developed after their respective unifications. But the absence of a modern label in earlier records doesn’t erase the longstanding presence and cultural continuity of the peoples living in the region. Just as ancient inhabitants of the Americas didn’t call themselves “Americans” before European contact, the peoples of historic Palestine maintained a distinct cultural and social identity without a modern nationalist label.

Cultural Continuity and Indigenous Claims: National identity isn’t solely defined by the name people use for themselves—it’s also about historical, cultural, and genealogical ties to a place. Arab communities, tribes, and Bedouins have lived in the region for centuries and developed shared cultural practices and social structures. Ottoman and British records, among others, document these communities extensively. Their collective history forms the basis of modern Palestinian identity, even if the label itself is recent.

The Evolution of Symbols and Identity: You argue that the modern concept of Palestinians as a people is an “invention.” But remember: every national identity is, to some extent, a modern construct. The process of self-identification evolves with political, economic, and cultural changes. Claiming that Palestinians are “invented” because they didn’t exist under that exact name in ancient texts is akin to saying Italians or Germans are invented because the term “Italian” or “German” wasn’t used in the same way in antiquity.

Jewish Identity and the Land: You also point out that Jewish identity is tied to ancient Judea, and indeed, ancient expressions of longing for Zion—like Shirey Zion—demonstrate deep historical roots. This shows that modern identities (whether Jewish or Palestinian) build upon a long legacy of cultural and territorial ties. Both modern Jews and Palestinians claim continuity with ancient populations, even though the modern political forms of their identities are products of later historical developments.

In short, while modern Palestinian nationalism is a product of the 20th century, this doesn’t negate the deep historical and cultural presence of the people in that region. National identities evolve, and the absence of a specific modern label in ancient sources doesn’t equate to an absence of indigenous culture or historical continuity.

by Peter Baum

Several months ago, I wrote an article in Blitz debunking the Palestinian narrative relating to their claims of being indigenous to the geography that is Israel, biblical Judea and Samaria. These named areas are all according to international law within Israel’s sovereignty. The League of Nations Mandate 1922 endorsed by the United Nations Charter 1945, Article 80, and the international legally binding principles of Acquired Rights, Estoppel and Uti Possidetis Juris confirm, ratify and endorse Israel’s territory inclusive of these areas.

In that previous article I cited the numerous historical invasions – Persian, Babylonian, Greek, Roman, Crusader and Saracen and discovered no Palestinian opposition to that colonization to reclaim their indigenous lands.  Of course, the paradox has to be explained to the pro Palestinians, the Dreyfus mob as I now refer to them.

Despite repeated requests via my articles, social media confrontation, debates, in halls on radio and TV, not one of the Dreyfus mob could enlighten us on historical Palestinian efforts nor name any indigenous Palestinian leaders who fought militarily or politically against any foreign invasion.  Needless to say, the Dreyfus mob could not identify any Palestinian flag nor emblem nor currency the indigenous Palestinians used during their habitation of the geography. There must be some burial sites then surely? None. Okay, okay I ask, what about any historical constructions, either destroyed or still standing built by persons who identified themselves as Palestinian. Of course not.

So, did anyone see these people, this race, tribe, nation or culture who have created fact from mythology. According to my research they must have been invisible as no itinerant scribe ever documented their existence.

It is worth reposting selected paragraphs from my previous post to establish the simple facts that numerous travelers to the geography who diarized their journeys, travels and experiences all seemed to have missed the indigenous habitants we call now the Palestinians.

Abbot Richard of Saint – Vanne, 970 -1046 in his 11th century Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, made no reference to the Palestinians. Jews, Muslims yes, but no collective known as Palestinian.

The 13th century Arab biographer, Yakut wrote:

“Mecca is holy to Muslims and Jerusalem is holy to Jews”. Never in his writings referring to the Palestinians.

Ibn Khaldun, Arab historian and philosopher who died in 1406, wrote in 1377:

“Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel, extended over 1400 years and it was the Jews who implanted the culture and customs of the permanent settlement”. Again, not one note alluding to the Palestinians.

Siebald Rieter, 1426 – 1488 penned a series of essays including Maps to Jerusalem (1426 – 1428) describing his journeys throughout the area and naturally no reference to the Palestinians.

Similarly, Bernard Von Breydenbach, 1440 – 1497 in his Pilgrimage, A Travel Report (Peregrinatio in Terram Sanctam) and Sir Richard Guylforde 1450 – 1506 Pilgrimage, during their extensive travels and detailed diaries also seemed to have missed the Palestinian population.

Maybe Felix Fabri, died 1502 in his Pilgrim and Preacher, Peter Fassbender 1450 – 1518 in his Pilgrim Libraries or Martin Kabatnik, died 1503, From Jerusalem to Cairo discovered the Palestinian people. Absolutely not.

Kabatnik wrote, “The heathens (non-Jews) oppose the Jews at their pleasure, in spite of all the tribulations and the agonies they suffer at the hands of the heathen, the Jews refuse to leave the Holy Land that has been promised to them”. The heathens were the itinerant Bedouins.

Let’s now refer to John Mandeville in his Travels published between 1357 and 1371; Paul Walther Guglingen, in his Jerusalem Travels, 1482/3, describes in detail the inhabitants of the area and Arnold Van Hoff ‘s 1471 – 1505 journals , Pilgrimage , surprise surprise – not one reference to a people, race, tribe or culture identifying as Palestinian.

Father Michael Naud, a Jesuit Priest, in his works The Jerusalem Connection, 1674 penned:

“The Jews of Jerusalem were resigned to paying a heavy price to the Turk for their divine right to stay there”.

Just for good measure the following diarists also managed to ignore, forget or missed the Palestinian people during their travels.

Sir George Adam Smith, died 1790, Jerusalem; Edward Robinson, died 1863, Biblical Researches; Alphonse de Lamartine, died 1869, From Marseilles to Jerusalem; and Sir George Gawler, died 1869, Syria and its New Prospects.

The above are just some examples of historical, documented works, diaries and journals of respected travelers to the geography known since time immemorial as Israel and during colonial invasions temporarily called Palestine. None of these written documents alludes to a human collective we know today as Palestinians who claim with the support of many that they are the indigenous people to the geography.

Indeed, no traveler noted the language of the Palestinian nor what any mythical Palestinian called themselves in their mother tongue and in conclusion this requires explanation and elaboration.

The evidence is that Arab militant, political organizations dedicated to the elimination of the Jewish State of Israel were created in the 1960’s through the 1980’s. Their charters are written in Arabic. However, there is no sound for the letter P in Arabic so what therefore did the old, (nonexistent?) Palestinians or do the newly formed Palestinians call themselves in their mother tongue? The letter P in Arabic is pronounced with either a B or F sound, thus they would be calling themselves Balestinians or Felastinians. Well once again history is lacking any such people although the word Felastinian does exist in Arabic and the definition only mocks the Palestinian claims to being indigenous to the geography. You see, Felastinian is the pronunciation for Philistine – an extinct race of people originating from the Greek Islands. The more recent definition of Philistine is uncouth, uncultured heathens. Which definition do you think today’s Palestinians would prefer?

Like silicone breast implants the Palestinians were invented in the 1960’s.