#I fucking love reblogs

[bare1ythere]

You know a character has really hit their gender out of the park when they're popularly hced as transmasc AND transfemme

[xumoonhao]

web badges inspired by this post <3 / second set / third set

[labbaik-ya-hussain-as]

1. Haifa Massacre 1937

2. Jerusalem Massacre 1937

3. Haifa Massacre 1938

4. Balad al-Sheikh Massacre 1939

5. Haifa Massacre 1939

6. Haifa Massacre 1947

7. Abbasiya Massacre 1947

8. Al-Khisas Massacre 1947

9. Bab al-Amud Massacre 1947

10. Jerusalem Massacre 1947

11. Sheikh Bureik Massacre 1947

12. Jaffa Massacre 1948

13. Deir Yassin Massacre 1948

14. Tantura Massacre 1948

15. Qibya Massacre 1953

16. Khan Yunis Massacre 1956

17. Jerusalem Massacre 1967

18. Sabra and Shatila Massacre 1982

19. Al-Aqsa Massacre 1990

20. Ibrahimi Mosque Massacre 1994

21. Jenin Refugee Camp April 2002

22.

23. Gaza Massacre 2012

24. Gaza Massacre 2014

25. Gaza Massacre 2018-19

26. Gaza Massacre 2021

27. Gaza Genocide 2023 is still ongoing.

28. DON'T LET ANYONE CONVINCE YOU THAT IT STARTED ON OCTOBER 7th***

[transgenbur]

dsmpblr now all we got is each other and the reblog button

[ghost-proofbaby]

too sweet (astarion ancunin x reader)

"you know, you're bright as the morning, as soft as the rain. pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape. [...] you're too sweet for me."

summary: astarion realizes you're too sweet for him, and he probably shouldn't let this go further than necessary. but, oh, he's going to. isn't he? (based on this request and the song 'too sweet' by hozier <3)

pairing: astarion ancunin x gn!reader

warnings: spoilers for games regarding camp dialogue with astarion, discussion of astarion's past trauma, talks of self-loathing/disgust with sex, vague mentions & allusions to sex having been had, manipulation at it's finest! minors dni.

wc: 2k+

a/n: i just wanted to get inside this man's mind when he drops that fucking line the second time he tries to sleep with us/tav. why does his face fall like that? why?

divider by @firefly-graphics <3

As Astarion observes the rise and fall of your chest in the soft morning light, he can only think one thing: shit. He fucked up. 

And he had spent most of the early hours trying to retrace his steps, trying to decipher exactly where his monumental mistake had begun, but it seemed useless. 

It could have been somewhere between the first and third bottle of wine shared with you last night during festivities, where he’d sweet-talked you to the high Hells until you’d agreed to return to his bedroll in the dead of night. Where he’d made the joke that wasn’t all that funny – the joke that he loved you. Three pretty words tried out on his tongue, and they hadn’t been nearly as light-hearted as he’d wanted them to be. More of an experiment, a quick sip to see if he liked the taste. And he had fucked up, because he did like the taste. He liked the sweetness that stuck to every corner of his mouth as he delivered the sugar-coated lie to you, his entire face falling as a new weight appeared in his chest. 

But perhaps it had been the first night he tasted you – well, your blood, that is. The night he’d awoken from a nightmare of Cazador and in his vulnerability, had chosen you as his victim of yet another experiment. A test to see if he was truly free. One drop of a thinking creature’s blood, that was all he needed. But you’d given more than he’d bargained for, and your cloy ichor had coated his taste buds so addictively, and he had just known that night was only the beginning. It was the first time, but certainly not the last. 

He thinks he could drink in whatever you offered him, and only that, for the rest of his days while still finding some sickly, twisted version of reprieve regardless. Not a drop more than he needed, always vying for more. 

He’d be okay with that type of hunger, that type of yearning, and that might have been his first real mistake. 

Or maybe, just possibly, it had been that very first meeting. Maybe he had doomed himself from the moment he’d pressed a blade to your neck, when he had dragged you to the ground with him and felt all that warmth, all that fear, radiating off of you. So frightful, and you still had offered your help to him when it was all said and done. Perhaps that was when he had well and truly screwed himself over. One simple introduction, void of his usual wine and flowers, and he’d locked himself in for pure trouble. 

Not even the fun kind, at that. What a shame. 

At the end of the day, or rather the beginning of the day as it is now, it doesn’t matter where his threads had started to unravel. All that matters is that they were – every carefully thought out line of his plans had all frayed, all detangled from the bigger picture, all because of you. 

Heart of gold, blood of honey. You were far too sweet for him, and he knew it. 

“Having fun, are you?” 

“I am, it’s hard not to with you.”

You’d taken each of his tactics in stride, hadn’t you? Whereas his face had nearly crumbled beneath the weight of that beautiful lie, insides twisting uncomfortable as the humor had slipped through his fingers, your eyes had only glittered as you bit back a smirk. To so lightly tease him, to banter right back with him, instead of see the truth behind it all. He didn’t know if you were simply that naive or if you were another kindred soul – Perhaps you were finding just as much safety, just as much sanctuary, in whatever dance he’d dragged you into. An entanglement of lies, a blithe facade, a daring smile that whispers come now, play with me. 

And play with him, you had. 

You’d played with him, you’d drank with him, and you’d now slept with him. Twice. 

“You’re up early,” your voice murmurs, silken tone cutting through all his racing thoughts. 

He hadn’t even noticed you had stirred, rousing yourself out from underneath his stolen blankets to peer at him curiously as he perched on the edge of the bedroll. As far from you, and as far from your sweetness, as possible. 

“Oh, you know what they say, my dear,” he chirps, rolling his shoulders as the act wraps him back up. The charismatic charmer. The illusive rogue, trained impeccably to coax you in and secure his safety, “No rest for the wicked.” 

He’d awoken before you last time, too. Had watched the sun rise and enjoyed the warmth of it plastering across his skin long before you’d ever woken up. He half-hopes you’ll be less talkative this time; he half-hopes you’ll try to rope him into whatever discussion you can, if only for a few extra seconds of your attention. 

You were too sweet. Too sugary on his tongue, too soothing in his chest. He shouldn’t entertain you – he shouldn’t let this go further than necessary. 

You hum thoughtfully, the blanket slipping and exposing more of your chest. With the light flickering in from his tent’s entrance, he can easily spot those two scarring dots along your jugular where his fangs fit perfectly, “I don’t know if I’d describe you as wicked, lover.” 

“No?” Roped into discussion, it is. “How would you describe me then?” 

He’s not comfortable in this lighting. He feels feverish beneath your steady stare, the way your eyes take their time as you look over every inch of him. The languid observation has him convinced you’re seeing right through him – your glance can pierce right through all his armor and expose every flaw. You see him for the monster he is, you see him for the bitter soul he’s become, you see him as the unworthy spawn he believes himself to be. 

He almost swears that you even see right through his nice, simple plan at hand, not so easily fooled as he had believed you to be. 

“Charming, certainly,” you suddenly sigh, sitting up and keeping your body mostly covered still with that knitted blanket. He’d only snagged it because the shade of the wool nearly matched your eyes – not that he was paying attention to your eyes, of course, “But then again, you’d have to be to have bedded me twice now, wouldn’t you?” 

“We can always make it thrice,” he banters back, ignoring the bile that builds at the insinuation. But if that’s what it takes – laying on his back over and over again – to guarantee your protection, he’ll do it. He’d do it a thousand times over to keep himself as far away from Cazador’s chokehold as possible, “Does that entice you, love?”

When he turns his body fully, beginning a carefully and calculated crawl up the bed roll, ready to slot his body back between your thighs and encourage you to have his way with him, you stop him. The heel of your foot delicately presses against his chest, your head tilted curiously before you shake it. 

“Who’s the eager pup now, Astarion?” 

He likes the way his name drips off your tongue. Almost as if he might be made of the same sugar and spice as you, the same pure honey flowing through your veins also inhabiting his. You say it like a song, articulate it like the sweetest fruit. 

He shouldn’t like it. It shouldn’t be able to overpower his lingering disgust with himself so easily. 

“It’s hard not to be eager when it comes to you,” he says the line with good practice, beckoning a purr to his tone that had always won over the victims he’d entrap in dark taverns back in the city, “I said the Gods had made you just to ruin me, and I meant it.”

He’d meant it more than he’d realized. It wasn’t just your body that had been sculpted to draw him in – it was everything. Your entire aura, your entire glacé demeanor. All that innocence and all that geniality enticed him more than he could ever admit. You were certainly going to ruin him, so wholly and so entirely. You’d already started to, really. 

You don’t respond at first, and he swears he has you. You’re locked in on his distraction, caught up in his web, just as he needs you to be. One lithe hand lifts to your ankle, cool fingers wrapping around your warm skin as he begins to lower his lips, ready to pepper kisses up your leg. Prepared to offer you his mouth, his body, in return for the one thing he needs. Self-loathing be damned. 

Old habits die hard, right along with pride, and he’s not quite ready to bury either at your grave yet. 

But just as he presses the first chaste kiss to your skin, nearly taken back by how your sweetness still breaks through the salty surface, you’re pulling the limb away from him. Your knee draws back and a disarming smile has risen on your cheeks, eyes glittering at him just as they had the night before. 

“I suppose I’ll have to come find you when everyone is asleep, then.” 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

What exactly had he been waiting for? You, of course. But had he been waiting for you to find him solely for what had transpired? To explore your portfolios of talents once more, as he had put it? Or had it been for something more… precarious? 

Was he nothing more than a prey, waiting for you to be his demise? 

Had he actually been waiting for this? 

The challenging look in your eyes as they reflected back stars, the warmth of your skin so close to him he nearly melts into you. The upturn of the corners of your mouth, outlining the way you certainly know something that he doesn’t. A look you wear well, a look that shakes his foundations and rattles his bones. 

“As tempting as you are, I’ll have to decline. Duty calls, as they say.” 

Can you see right through him? 

He should be more deflated when you start going through the motions; he should be pouting or overthinking it all as he watches you gather your clothes once more, covering up the few bite marks of his that litter your skin. Every moment you prepare to leave his tent should be one spent overthinking where he’d gone wrong – why didn’t you want him? Was his plan even going to work? 

Were you truly too sweet for him? Would he have been better off trying to romance the likes of Gale for the safety just shy of his grasp now?

He doesn’t, though. For once, his mind is quiet as he watches you patter about. The bile retreats, the disgust fades. For the first time in a very long time, Astarion is leaving this interaction not feeling used. 

Maybe it’s in the way you cheekily snatch one of his shirts as you both pretend he doesn’t notice it, or maybe it’s in the gentle caress of your fingers through his hair as you pass him to pick back up your discarded weapon. Maybe it’s in every shy glance you offer him, or maybe it’s in your ever present grin. 

Watching you leave should worry him, but it only feels like a breath of fresh air. A wind that comes sweeping in with the promise of next time just as you pull back the flap to his tent. 

And he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting patiently for you to turn back to him until you do just this, offering him one final glance that sets him aflame, “Oh, and before I forget – you can feed on me tonight, if you need to.” 

Heart of gold, blood of honey. He couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.

“Then I’ll see your delicious self tonight,” he takes a pause, one big and unnecessary breath filling his chest alongside that warmth you bring to him. The fearless leader, the kindest soul. His most apt nickname for you yet falls off his lips in a content sigh, “My sweet.”

He shouldn’t entertain you – he shouldn’t let this go further than necessary. 

But he’s going to. Gods, he is going to. 

After all, the sweetest fruits always fall from the most forbidden branches, do they not?

[miwtual]

im so fucking tired of the disrespect gifmakers get on the gifmaker website

[sewer-swan]

on a discord where a guy named 'the conqueror' has been punished (for ordering too many people to watch porn while arguing with them) by being forcibly renamed 'the coomer'. It's absolutely medieval here. Newly-christened 'the coomer' debated his recent ban, arguing mainly he's a funny guy and everyone here is a bitch.

His ban was for @ing his rival Enoch unprovoked, which he was unrepentant of. He quickly devolved into saying things like "kick rocks, you fucktard" to everyone present. I posted a nice artwork of a cow and lettuce, then advised him on the futility of grudges, and recommended he soothe his soul a bit. We made some progress, which was lost about 5 minutes later when a guy called "gooey" began baiting him with baby memes.

I asked gooey what his stake in this was, and he replied that he's Enoch. I would later learn gooey is just some random guy who pretends to be Enoch. Everyone knows but keeps the secret, because they think it's funny to see 'the coomer' rage at the wrong guy.

[mouseshift]

marble hornets more like idk gay joke

[moritashie]

Peter: If I were Peralta, would that make you Holt?

Tony: I'm not gay.

Peter: Wait you're not?

Cue cut scenes from the past few weeks, sitcom style, showing Rhodes and Tony acting very homoerotically

[felsicveins]

His heart belongs to another

And no other heart will do

[queer-asinfuckyou]

Time loops bring up interesting questions because like, where is the line on everything resetting? And how does that affect the way the time loop affects you? You can't make progress on projects (or start new ones) because they'll just reset the next day. If your hair isn't growing, your nails aren't getting longer, than your body isn't changing either. Which means that what you can do in the time loop becomes incredibly limited. You can't increase your physical health. Can't gain muscle mass, improve your heart, increase your lung capacity, anything. You also can't learn new hobbies because you can't develop the muscle memory for them. You'll always be just as slow and shaky as the first time you picked it up.

There's not NOTHING to do, you can always learn languages or educate yourself on a variety of topics, but it's all mental. It has to be, because that's the torture of the time loop. That the only think you retain are your memories. You can't be changing from day to day because then you would be changing from the day before and that's noticeable to someone else. No one else notices. You're trapped in here, alone.

[verdantmeadows]

To me the joy and beauty of vocal synthesizers has always been that they don't sound real and exploring that to create artistic expression that can't be achieved by human voices, so seeing them become more and more realistic is disheartening, almost? Especially since a lot of artists make the same voice banks sound so different and have their own personal charm. I'm glad that people will be able to make things that sound realistic, but I'm worried that songs that intentionally play out of sounding as realistic as possible will be sidelined, discouraged, no longer created, impossible to find, or unsupported by fans of vocal synthesizers. I don't want things to just push towards being as realistic as possible. There is beauty in how everyone's usage of the same voice banks sound different. There is beauty in the lack of realistic sounding vocals in vocal synthesizers.

[plulp]

IM NOT A DOCTOR BUT I THINK I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP

[crayycrayon]

john watching arthur face life threatening injuries for the second time in a week

[fuwaprince]

🌟 Calling ALL Compassionate Souls! 🌟

PLEASE READ CAREFULLY

In the heart of my local community lies a sanctuary of hope. A haven where lives are transformed and futures are rebuilt. My dear friend's family home, which has been a beacon of kindness and generosity for many (myself included), is in jeopardy. As in it could be lost FOREVER in 1 week! For good! Countless souls of every background have found solace within its walls and were guided back to stability and success. Now it all faces an uncertain fate... unless, we come together to make a difference!

This is not just about saving a house; it's about preserving a legacy of compassion and support. Every dollar donated, every share, every act of kindness WILL make a monumental difference.

We positivity bloggers/tumblrinas know not to underestimate the power of a supportive community!! 😤 We have made literal fucking miracles happen in the past through our unwavering camaraderie and solidarity. I know we can do it again, collectively. Let's band together, once again, virtual hand in virtual hand, to ensure that this sanctuary of hope continues to shine brightly for those in need. Please! People deserve safe spaces... that aren't just virtual.

Please lend your support and spread the word, and together we can make a difference and ensure that this sacred space remains for generations to come.

Mr. Leonard is a talented man. He is a proud native and the modest master of a few trades. He is a carpenter, a painter, a jeweler, an arborist, a plumber and more... He never charges anybody for his work and, you know, if he did- which he wouldn't, then his contributions to local and overarching communities would have earned him a mansion by now. Seriously, maybe two.

He built this home alongside his grandads. His handprints are on the ceiling still. It's a token of his love and the labor he's willing to put into this home. He is a father, a survivor of many things. When his babygirl passed, he gave all her stuffed animals away to people who needed them. He's the kind of man who feeds his dog and neighbor before his skinny self. This man is such a light and I cry so hard typing this, realizing that nobody rly supports him. He doesn't get the support he deserves. He starves to keep the lights on for everybody here and, only if he's lucky, a friend might bring him fast food so that he has more than cereal to work on. Many people take full advantage of a generous soul like his. He knows this, accepts it and that never stops him from doing what's right and needs to be done. He has saved my life and making this post is the least I could do. He's a grown ass adult but even grown ass adults (like me and all my friends still here) need help along the way.

The oldest resident here is a senior transient with no family and no place to go. Just like Mr. Leonard. And I've met young men as young as 18 with no families come to his home for much needed guidance, for protection from the streets. Mr. Leonard has empowered women to escape abusive marriages through the process of divorce. He helped me escape my tormentors. He has my admiration and respect. He has my support.

Please help my friend. I have known him for a few years now, talking nearly daily, minus the times I go on hiatus. Now he's desperately reaching out for our support. Please don't ignore him. He is the type who never asks for anything. Even when he needs to. I... don't even think he's asking for himself... He's probably asking for all the people that he knows depend on this home to still exist. I rly want him to be able to exist in this home for the rest of his life. To him it's still "grandma's home" but to me it is truly all his. He's the one taking care of it. Please believe me, he is worth the time it took for you to read up to this point.

He is human. Worthy of unconditional compassion, respect and support... worthy of a home- like you and I. And he's happily willing to share his gifts with those who need it, which makes him a hero in this community. 🏡💖

ANYTHING HELPS. REBLOG + DONATE.

SPREAD THIS ACROSS PLATFORMS LIKE WILDFIRE. PLEASE.

IT'S FOR A VERY SPECIAL AND VERY IMPORTANT FRIEND! 🫂💕 PLEASE SHOW YOUR SUPPORT. I AM BEGGING PEOPLE TO CARE. MR. LEONARD NEEDS HUMANITY BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

THANK YOU. STAY SAFE, AND IF YOU CAN'T, BE CAREFUL 🫂

or as Mr. Leonard would always say: "Whatever you do today, do it well. Don't forget to eat today. You're awesome, stay awesome."