#scroll of campaign documentation

[greasierscrolls]

Important update from camp: Lowri found Clive a friend. They are having a picnic. That is all.

[kuuhaiyu]

i really can't emphasize how heartbreaking it is that the recent harassment campaign against @/90-ghost (among others; see: 1, 2, 3) has led to well-meaning people telling others not to listen to him. he is one of the most visible survivors of the genocide here on tumblr. his entire journey of escape is so well documented! and yet, it only took a few people confidently pointing fingers to create an entire witch hunt accusing him and other palestinians of being disreputable scammers and liars.

i can't help but feel like the reason why people were SO eager to believe those accusations, is because it was uncomfortable to see posts from palestinians every day asking for our time, attention, money, and support; so when someone presented the perfect excuse to ignore all those posts and asks while also taking the high ground, people just LEAPED onto it. they wanted to believe it, because it would be more comfortable.

honestly, i understand feeling overwhelmed by bad news, by the number of asks and messages in your inbox, and so on and so forth. i understand needing to set boundaries for yourself so you don't get burned out. i think this is really when you have to have a set of principles to fall back on, even when you're tired, uncomfortable, angry, and/or sad. so here's the one i suggest, which has been working for me best: don't make your discomfort with this situation into someone else's problem, and for god's sake don't make it a public problem.

if you hate seeing fundraiser posts or news about gaza, i can't emphasize this enough, JUST MOVE ON. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND SCROLL PAST! all you have to do is absolutely nothing. which is what you were doing anyway, so it shouldn't be hard. if you don't have the heart to read, or reblog, or share, or donate, or support in other ways, at the very least, don't obstruct the efforts of people who ARE trying to make a difference. this is, quite literally, the least you can do.

[falesten-iw]

When I first joined Tumblr, I had no idea what I was walking into. There’s no manual for navigating this wild, untamed corner of the internet. My first moment here? I was greeted by an image completely naked, no warning, no explanation. It was just there, bold and unapologetic. That’s when I realized: Tumblr is a place where anything can happen.

But for all its chaos, Tumblr has become something far greater than I ever expected. For us Palestinians, this platform isn’t just a space to scroll through memes or vent about life. It’s a lifeline, a place where we’ve taken the raw, messy energy of this site and turned it into a battleground for survival. Here, we tell our stories, raise funds, and fight for our lives.

I’ve seen campaigns soar past their goals, bringing hope to families barely holding on. But I’ve also seen campaigns like mine, ones that fight tooth and nail for every single dollar, every reblog, every addition, and every ounce of hope. My family’s lives depend on this.

It hasn’t been easy. Zionists flood all Palestinian words with hate, twisting truths and spreading lies. They aim to discredit us, to make people doubt us. It’s exhausting. Some nights, I sit with my phone in my hands, wondering if this fight is too big for me. But then something beautiful happens: a donation comes through, a kind message appears, or someone I’ve never met reblogs my story with words that feel like a warm embrace.

And through it all, people are starting to see the truth. The hate doesn’t drown us; it sharpens our voices. Every day, more people step forward to stand with us, to say, “I see you, I hear you, and I’m with you.” It’s those moments that keep me going.

To everyone who has already helped, whether through verification, donating, wrting post , reblogging, or simply sharing a kind word: thank you. You’ve done more for my family than I could ever put into words. But the reality is, we’re not there yet. My family is still waiting for a chance to breathe, to live without fear, to fill their empty stomachs with warm food, and to wrap themselves in clothes thick enough to keep out the bitter cold. They’re hungry, they’re freezing, and I can’t do this alone.

This fight is hard, but it’s not hopeless. Strangers have become friends, and friends have become family. Some of you have shown up in ways I never imagined, treating my family’s survival as if it were your own. That kind of solidarity? It’s powerful.

Tumblr might be chaotic, unpredictable, and sometimes downright bizarre, but it’s also the place where we’ve built something extraordinary: a community that refuses to look away from injustice. With your help, we can take this fight all the way. My family’s lives are within reach, and together, I know we’ll get there.

This campaign isn’t just about me. It supports 26 people, including two orphaned children and an injured family member suffering from hemiplegia after being hit by shrapnel during a bombing. Surgery is desperately needed to replace the infected and failing plates. The needs are urgent, and the future of 26 lives depends on your support.

The video showing the injured family member is shared before in this post: Link.

Please help us ! Donate and reblog this post to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead. Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 100 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 200 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on.

Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

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@paper-mario-wiki @prisonhannibal @a-shade-of-blue @ramshackledtrickster @punkitt-is-here

[fading-event-608]

DO NOT LET THE SEED OF HOPE WITHER!

LINK TO THE FUNDRAISER

DONATE TO RESCUE FALASTIN'S FAMILY TO MAKE THIS OLIVE TREE GROW!

Listen, I'll try to make this as brief as possible for you. Falastin is a mother of three small children, desperately trying to rescue her 24 family members including their children who remain in Gaza. A part of her family's situation has even been documented by Al Jazeera News (scroll down for the video).

In November of 2023 she lost three of her cousins — some still buried under the rubble.

In March this year, she lost two more cousins at Al-Shifa hospital.

DEATH DOES NOT STOP IN GAZA! THERE ARE NO EXCEPTIONS! BOMBS DO NOT DISCRIMINATE BETWEEN CHILDREN AND ELDERS, WOMEN OR MEN!

Right now, her family is living in a tent made from plastic bags and torn clothing. They have been displaced more than 20 times. Each day is a battle for survival — unsure if they’ll have food to eat, clean water to drink, or a safe place to rest. Every day, they wait, uncertain of their future.

How you could help? DONATE & SHARE!

Just as a store profits from many customers buying small amounts, FUNDRAISERS ACHIEVE THEIR GOALS THROUGH MANY SMALL DONATIONS FROM MANY PEOPLE!

And even if you think the goal seems distant - THEY STILL NEED WATER, FOOD AND MEDICINE TO SURVIVE!

$25 (254 SEK) can provide a family with food for two days.

$50 (509 SEK) can ensure a family has enough food and water for an entire week.

$100 (1018 SEK) can provide emergency medical care for the injured.

$1,000 (10,182 SEK) can help rebuild their homes.

$10,000 (101,823 SEK) can cover the cost for one family member to leave Gaza.

Recently, there has been a decline in interactions with donation posts. Although I won’t delve into that now, it’s worth noting that Falastin started this fundraiser in late June and has barely received any contributions. So, let’s try something new.

DONATE TO MAKE THIS OLIVE TREE GROW!

Right now it might not even look like a tree, but every time I make an update of this fundraiser, I will update the tree to reflect the donations received.

If you donate more than $100 (1018 SEK) to this fundraiser, you can message me here to request a doodle of your choice (please be respectful and avoid suggesting anything inappropriate; also, don't expect it to be highly detailed).

I PLEAD YOU TO SHARE AND DONATE IF YOU CAN! EVERY BIT COUNTS!

LINK TO THE FUNDRAISER AGAIN

GOAL AS OF TIME OF POSTING:

9.812/2,000,000 SEK or 963/196,063 USD

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vetted by @90-ghost and shared HERE

Right now this campaign is number 282 in The Vetted Gaza Evacuation List

Shared with the permission of Falastin herself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[tf2playernames]

🛑pleas don't scroll ‼️Hi, I hope you are well. My name is Mohammed Atallah, I live with my parents, six sisters, a little girl named Malak and a little boy named Ameer in North Gaza. I created this link to fund a bone graft in my left hand which was shot by an explosive bullet, to rebuild our destroyed home and to evacuate my family from Gaza to a safe place.And donate any amount to safe life .. I will appreciate your help❤️ Can you please help as much as you can . Press all buttons on my wall , I beg you to visit my page, view it, and donate via the link in the bio💔The campaign has been documented @90-ghost Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 Every euros will make a difference 🙏I urge you to donate. Even the smallest amount can make the biggest difference. Not only he needs to evacuate with his family, but he is in dire need for surgery! The IDF has shot his arm with an explosive bullet. Not a regular one. AN EXPLOSIVE ONE. So he needs to get it treated right away! Otherwise, he will get an infection and it may lead to amputation. WE DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN, DO WE DO?So contribute! Make sure to reblog and share his story if you are unable to do so. Please share on Twitter and tumbler and Instagram

i double checked and yes this is a verified fundraiser, help out if you can

[axolotlsandabsolsarethebest]

🛑pleas don't scroll ‼️Hi, I hope you are well. My name is Mohammed Atallah, I live with my parents, six sisters, a little girl named Malak and a little boy named Ameer in North Gaza. I created this link to fund a bone graft in my left hand which was shot by an explosive bullet, to rebuild our destroyed home and to evacuate my family from Gaza to a safe place.And donate any amount to safe life .. I will appreciate your help❤️ Can you please help as much as you can . Press all buttons on my wall , I beg you to visit my page, view it, and donate via the link in the bio💔Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 Every euros will make a difference 🙏I urge you to donate. Even the smallest amount can make the biggest difference. Not only he needs to evacuate with his family, but he is in dire need for surgery! The IDF has shot his arm with an explosive bullet. Not a regular one. AN EXPLOSIVE ONE. So he needs to get it treated right away! Otherwise, he will get an infection and it may lead to amputation. WE DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN, DO WE DO?So contribute! Make sure to reblog and share his story if you are unable to do so.Help my family. War is devastating. There is nothing left to live. No schools, no universities, no home, and no dreams. All dreams have been shattered. I hope for help before it is too late Please share on Twitter and tumbler and Instagram The campaign has been documented @90-ghost

Hi! While I'm sadly unable to currently donate due to being a minor with no disposable income, I will gladly and happily share this so more people will be able to see this.

Link to gofundme:

🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

!!TO ANYONE THAT SEES THIS POST! PLEASE DONATE IF YOU ARE ABLE TO! AND IF YOU CAN'T THEN PLEASE REBLOG OR SHARE!!

🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT III

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 10.8k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

series masterlist | previous | next

🌸 ACT III – THE CROWN ASCENDS

THE CAPITAL OF THE IMPERIAL DISTRICT – MEMORIAL OF THE NORTHERN CAMPAIGN

The sun crests low over the capital, casting long, honey-colored shadows over the tiled rooftops and curved eaves of the imperial district. The sky is too still–washed in pale gold and streaked with threads of pink, like silk stretched too tight across a frame. It is beautiful in the way all things nearing dusk are: solemn, finite, heavy with meaning unspoken.

From where Nanami stands–just behind the palanquin, slightly to the left–the capital looks like a painting rendered in gold leaf and soft charcoal. Stunning. Precise. Unreal.

But nothing in the air feels still. The city is holding its breath.

The Emperor is dying.

The court has not said it–not in words. But the truth clings to the palace like a thick fog. The servants carry it in their downcast eyes. The ministers huddle closer, their robes hissing conspiracies against the floor. The scribes write faster, and the scrolls disappear from shelves before dawn. Stewards dart between wings with sealed documents clutched tightly in hand. The guards’ rotations shift subtly, without being announced. Old alliances begin to tremble.

The center of power is sagging, and everything around it leans in, ready to collapse or consume.

And in the midst of it all–you are being paraded.

They called it a symbol. A comfort. A gesture of continuity.

“Let the people see the Emperor’s youngest daughter,” they had said, behind screens lacquered with dragons and storm clouds. “Let her remind them of the Empire’s elegance, its grace. Let her distract them from their fear.”

But symbols, once loosed, have a way of becoming something else.

You were meant to be ornamental. But the people, it seems, have taken to you.

Not because you offer charm or warmth. Not because you flatter them. Not because you wear beauty like a veil, though you could.

They admire you because you do not lie.

You do not promise bountiful harvests or victories already lost. You do not wrap the Empire’s pain between prose, in poetry. You speak in clean, pared words, like a blade drawn without flourish.

Nanami sees it in the way they look at you–being able to lay eyes on the enigmatic princess of the Empire, who they’ve only ever caught glimpses of during imperial events.

The way the farmers and soldiers listen when you speak. The way the merchants bow–not with fear, but with respect. The way mothers lift their children just slightly higher, as if to let them see you better.

They’ve begun to give you names, whispered between stalls and down quiet alleys.

The People’s Princess.

The Silent Flame.

The Daughter of the Still Winds.

He has heard them all, and he cannot decide whether it warms something inside him, or if it terrifies him.

Nanami shifts slightly, his boots creaking faintly against the cobblestones, a motion so subtle it would escape all but the most trained of eyes. His arms remain folded behind his back in the formal stance of an imperial guard, but his right thumb moves, brushing again and again over the edge of his left knuckle–his unthinking tell, one that betrays tension no matter how stoic his face remains.

They are at the eastern sanctuary today, standing before the towering memorial of the northern campaign. The limestone wall is carved with the names of soldiers lost, polished smooth by wind and time. Nanami can recognize some of them, men he’d stood beside as they fought together, steel against steel. 

The crowd has gathered at the foot of the steps. Some hold incense. Some kneel. Some merely watch.

You stand at the top of the platform, light striking you from behind, turning your figure into a silhouette framed in gold.

You speak. Your voice is clear and low, meant not for applause, but for remembrance.

“You are not forgotten,” you say. “We burn incense, but we remember your names.”

That is all.

No epithets. No praise of the Emperor. No tales of glory.

It is not the speech you were given–Nanami knows this, because he had read it with you. He had stood behind you in the study, watching your eyes flick down the length of the scroll, your face a mask of indifference as you folded it carefully and set it aside.

You had said nothing at the time, but now, here, beneath the open sky and the gaze of the people–your people–you rewrite your place in the empire.

And the people see you.

A woman in the crowd bows. A weathered man–an old soldier with whom Nanami had trained with–lifts his hand to his brow in a slow, deliberate salute. A palace attendant beside Nanami fidgets. The steward shifts on his feet.

Nanami does not move. His eyes remain fixed on you. Not as your shadow. Not even as your sworn guard. But as a man standing at the edge of something vast, wondering if it will collapse or crown you.

You descend the steps without looking back, your gait fluid, the sleeves of your robe brushing softly against your sides. Your face betrays no satisfaction. No triumph. Only resolve. Self-possession.

And beneath that, perhaps–weariness.

He joins you without a word, his footsteps matching yours precisely. He takes his place to your left as you move toward the open gates.

The rest of the guards fall in behind you, forming a protective ring–but the crowd does not surge. No one pushes. No one shouts. They watch. Not as subjects watch royalty.

But as people watch a future they did not know they could believe in.

You both walk for some time in silence.

The avenue beyond the plaza is long, lined with high walls and weeping trees. The leaves shift gently above. Shadows stretch across the path, wrapping you in shifting fragments of light and shade.

You speak first. Low, quiet, just enough for only him to hear.

“They like me.”

He glances at you. Your profile is as calm as ever–lips composed, gaze forward.

“Yes,” he says.

“They’re not meant to.”

He lets the silence elongate, unable to come up with anything productive to say. Nothing that wouldn’t betray where his heart lies. But his right hand flexes again behind his back, a slow curl of gloved fingers and thumb.

Once. Then again.

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t need to. Because you already know.

You were never meant to be seen.

You were meant to stand behind your father. Behind your brother. Behind the history carved in stone and steel.

But the people are not blind. They see you. And he does too.

Not as the Emperor’s daughter. Not as a risk to be monitored. Not even as a duty.

He sees you as something else entirely. Something he does not yet dare name, though his chest aches at the thought of speaking it.

EASTERN WING – BETWEEN THE HALLS AND CORRIDORS

The palace swallows the both of you whole.

You pass beneath the carved arch of the southern gate, its twin dragons coiling into the sky, their open jaws forever fixed in an expression of silent judgement. The sun no longer follows you. The world behind the wall–its warmth, its clarity, the people’s eyes and voices–is gone.

Inside, it is all shadow.

Your footsteps echo across the polished stone, smooth from centuries of tread. The corridors rise high around you both, vast and quiet, the ceilings stretching into darkened beams etched with gold. The air inside is cooler, but it carries its own weight: the scent of burning incense, old paper, and something deeper–the smell of secrets held too long.

You walk in silence. Not the comfortable kind. Not yet.

Nanami follows at the appointed distance. Three steps behind. Just close enough that if danger struck, he could intercept it. Just far enough that the space between you and him might still be called professional.

He no longer feels like a soldier, however. Not when you walk in front of him like this.

You move with composure, but there’s a tightness in your shoulders–a wire pulled taut beneath silk. Your robes ripple as you walk, the layered fabric swishing at your feet, across the dark stone. You do not look back. You do not ask if he is still there.

You don’t need to.

He always is.

You pass through a side corridor lined with paper screens. Painted cranes fly across the panels in delicate brushstrokes, their wings frozen mid-beat. Light filters in through latticed windows, carving golden patterns across the floor like the bars of a cage.

Your voice breaks the silence–quiet, even, but close enough to catch him.

“You’re silent.”

Nanami’s eyes flick toward you. He hesitates. Then answers, low and controlled. “Only listening, Princess.”

You turn slightly–not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to tilt your head in his direction. “To whom?”

He looks at you then. For a moment too long.

“To you,” he replies.

You don’t smile, but the air shifts between the both of you.

The silence that follows is thicker now. Denser. Like velvet held too tightly in the throat.

Your voice changes–drier, amused in that sharp, quiet way of yours. “Then you know I didn’t recite a word of their speech.”

“I noticed.”

“They’ll be furious.”

“Yes.”

That’s all he says. Not a word more. But the corners of your lips twitch–not in mockery. In approval.

You start walking, and for a while it is calm, but threaded with tension. You finally slow near a carved column, letting your fingers trail along the edge of the marble, tracing the grooves absentmindedly.

“And you?” you ask.

He pauses, startled by the question’s softness.

You don’t clarify–he knows what you mean.

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. His hand flexes behind his back–right thumb rubbing slowly over the knuckle of his left hand, once, twice, again–his oldest tell.

“I think,” he says finally, “they forgot the difference between a voice raised for applause and a voice that matters.”

You stop. Your hand stills against the column. Your eyes find his.

He sees it happen. The flicker. Recognition.

And something almost like warmth. Like water pooling just beneath ice.

The moment stretches–precarious, probing, delicate.

Then you blink, and the shutters fall back into place. Your gaze slips away, but not before he catches a glimpse–you heard him. And worse: you believed him.

He walks with you until you reach the corridor leading to your quarters, where few others walk, where the light fades faster and the hush feels sacred.

The air feels quieter here, as though sound has been asked to wait outside.

You slow, and so does he. Then you turn toward him. Fully now. Not with half-angled glances or oblique gestures. You face him–spine straight, hands folded at your front, your robes shimmering likes smoke. The lantern light catches on your cheekbones, on the subtle red that rims your eyes, a regal echo of fire. Your mouth is unreadable. Your eyes, far less so.

There is no softness in your gaze. No cruelty either. Just clarity. The kind that makes men confess. Or fall to their knees.

“Do you think I’m dangerous, General?”

You do not ask it gently, but with the edge of something sharper beneath–something forged, not fragile.

Once again, the question halts him. Not because he doesn’t have an answer. But because he has too many.

You watch him. Still. Patient. That patience is more unsettling than any of your demands could be.

He breathes once through his nose–an attempt to regain control.

“I think you are…” he begins, then stops. Adjusts. “Capable.”

Your eyes narrow.

“That’s a soldier’s answer,” you say flatly.

A pause. You don’t move, don’t blink. You keep your eyes pinned to him like a knife driven into flesh.

He softens his voice. Minor. “I think you see more than most,” he says. “You speak less. You feel deeper than you let them see.”

You say nothing, so he continues, voice lower. Intimate in its restraint.

“I think the men who call you dangerous are the ones who know you see them too clearly.”

This invokes a reaction.

Your breath catches–barely. A flutter in your throat. Your lips part slightly, then press together again. You do not look away.

Neither does he.

Something passes between you both then, yet again, unspoken and undeniable. But too tangible to ignore. It’s been building for too long to pretend otherwise. Not tension. Something deeper. Thicker. Like oil waiting for a flame.

Your next words are soft, but not gentle.

You step forward. It is not a misstep. Not an accident. You choose the space between you both, and narrow it.

He doesn’t retreat. Can’t.

“I wonder sometimes,” you murmur, your voice softer, not to soothe, but to strike more precisely, “if you’re here because they trust you…”

Your gaze drops–not coyly, not shyly–but like a hand checking the weight of a weapon. Your eyes flick over the broad line of his shoulders, drift down the slope of his chest, to his belt, to the curl of fingers at his side. One hand is clenched–the skin whitening beneath the pressure.

You see it. He knows you do.

Your eyes return to his.

“Or because they know I would.”

The words bloom in the space between, opening like a wound. It is devastating.

Nanami stops breathing completely. He stands so still that even the soft rustle of your sleeves feels louder than his pulse. The air presses in so hard that his lungs burn. But he does not move.

You don’t flinch. And for one impossible moment, it feels as though you’re seeing him fully–not as a soldier. Not even as a man. But as something in between. Something caught.

Because you don’t know the truth. Not yet. But you’re standing on its edge.

And the worst, most damning part of it is that you’re right.

They did choose him for this. He was sent because they knew you might look at him and not see the blade in his silence. Because you might trust him. Because you might lower your guard and speak and come to believe that he was yours.

And he let you.

His hands twitch at his sides. His knuckles tighten against the leather. There is a scream somewhere deep in his bones, muffled beneath years of command, but rising regardless.

He wants to tell you. That you’re right. That he was sent to watch you. To control you. That every conversation, every walk through the garden, every unspoken glance across silk and stone and dusk–was not allowed, not earned, but engineered.

That he was the leash.

Still is.

He wants to explain. To defend himself. To say that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That it began as a task. That it should have stayed a task. But that something inside him broke the day you asked if he would stop you from falling.

And yet–his voice does not come. The words turn to ash in his throat, and in his silence, you find the answer.

It cuts across your features with slow, surgical grace. Not anger. Not betrayal. Not yet.

Just understanding.

And behind that, something worse: disappointment. Hurt, in the way people do when they realize they were right to guard themselves all along.

You watch him a moment longer.

You step back. Smoothly. Without drama. Without scorn.

Just enough to remind him of what you’re retreating into–distance, decorum, walls.

The same walls you had started, slowly, painstakingly, to lower.

“I’m going to change,” you say. Your voice is neutral, lacking warmth now. Lacks invitation. Lacks everything that had been there seconds ago.

“Wait outside.”

Nanami bows his head. Stiffly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You turn, the sweep of your robes brushing across the polished floor, a rustle of silk and unspoken betrayal.

The carved doors ahead of you part easily. They do not slam. They close slowly, almost respectfully. But the click as they shut is deafening.

He remains, staring at the door long after it has closed.

He feels the hush return to the corridor like a pressure. The foxes painted on the nearby screen stare back at him through inked fire. The incense in the hall has long since burned away, but he smells it anyway–like memory, sharp and lingering.

His chest rises slowly. Then falls. He presses the pad of his thumb against the bone of his knuckle, harder now. The pain anchors him. The ache tells him he is still standing.

He closes his eyes.

He can’t stand here much longer. Not like this. Not in the shape of the lie you almost uncovered.

You are dangerous.

Not because you conspire. Not because you stir rebellion.

No, you are dangerous because he loves you.

And that is something he can neither name–

–nor survive.

NORTHERN WING – 断ち音の間 (THE CHAMBER OF SEVERED ECHOES)

The chamber is cold.

Not the cold of weather, but of something older–something institutional. The kind that lives in stone. In walls that have seen too much and learned never to speak of it.

The hearth, unlit. The air dry. The curtains drawn tightly closed. There is no draft, no breeze–yet the chill moves through the room like a presence, a quiet sentinel breathing down the back of Nanami’s neck as he kneels.

He is dressed for formality today, forgoing his uniform of sky blue–he is dressed in crimson and black, gold trim glinting faintly where the lantern light finds it. The folds of his cloak settle around him like blood that’s already dried.

He kneels with one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed low, spine straight, shoulders still.

Tension coils beneath the surface of him, belying his facade of calm.

He can feel it. His body is betraying him in small, silent ways.

The quiet shifting of his jaw. The flex and curl of his right thumb, pressing against the bone of his knuckle again and again beneath the concealment of his sash. The slow ache behind his eyes–not from pain, but from the weight of holding back everything he is not allowed to say.

The Emperor has not spoken yet. Nanami does not look up.

The silence stretches. It always does. That is part of the theatre. A blade is sharpened by waiting.

And then, at last, the old man speaks.

“She is drawing too much attention.”

Nanami still does not lift his head.

The words come not as command, not as curiosity–but as condemnation. Quiet and bitter. An accusation carved into the bones of the room.

The Emperor’s voice continues, thinner than before but no less sharp. “When we sent her to the people, it was to reassure them. Not to elevate her.”

His breath catches before he speaks. Not from uncertainty, but control.

“She speaks carefully,” Nanami says evenly. “She has never implied–”

“Don’t play the fool.”

It is the Crown Prince who interrupts.

His voice is smoother than his father’s–younger, silk instead of gravel–but it cuts just the same. Laced with a different kind of venom. Colder. More polished. The tone of a man used to hiding knives behind wine and ceremony.

“You’ve heard what they call her.”

Nanami does lift his head now–slightly. Just enough for his golden eyes to rise, to meet the Prince’s.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch as he meets the Prince’s eyes.

“They call her what they see.”

It is not defiance. It is the truth.

The Prince’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns away. The movement is fluid, but it’s a retreat, in miniature.

The Emperor breathes again. A shallow, wheezing inhale.

“She will not be adored,” he says. His voice is like ash now. Bitter, brittle. “It must stop.”

Nanami’s shoulders tense, barely visible–but it is enough to pull faintly at the fabric of his uniform. He can feel it: the sweat cooling at the back of his neck. The burn of restraint behind his ribs.

“She is not defiant,” he says again. “She speaks plainly. She comforts without flattery. That is not sedition.”

The Prince steps closer. His steps echo–slow, deliberate. He circles behind Nanami like a lion might circle a chained dog, watching to see if the beast will snap its leash.

“You will curtail her appearances,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with weight.

“She will not speak without approval. She will not visit the barracks. She will not walk the gardens unless summoned. She will not attend another ceremony unless instructed.”

Each command hits Nanami like a blow to the chest.

Not because it’s hard to carry out, but because it means he’ll have to look you in the eyes when he does.

“She will remember,” the Emperor says softly, “that she is not to be worshipped.”

Not to be worshipped.

The words reverberate, low and cruel, like a sneer wrapped in silk.

Nanami’s hand clenches beneath the folds of his sash. He can’t help it.

The phrase lands on his skin like poison. And what’s worse–he knows why it unsettles him.

Because he has seen the people bow lower to you than to their ministers. He has watched farmers press their fingers to their brows in silent salute when you speak. He has felt the stillness that falls across a square when your voice carries across it–not because it’s loud, but because it’s true.

You don’t speak to be heard.

You speak to mean something.

And the people have noticed.

So has he.

And now they fear you for it.

They want you silenced not because you rebel, but because you resonate.

“She is your daughter,” Nanami says quietly, unable to stop himself.

The Crown Prince halts behind him. The air stills. The Emperor does not move.

“She is not my heir,” he replies.

There is no fury in the words. Only finality.

The Crown Prince steps forward, closer now. “You were placed at her side for this reason,” he says. “We trusted you to keep her within bounds.”

His tone is calm, but Nanami can hear the underlying tension. The dormant threat in the word trusted.

He remembers your voice–cool and low, just days ago:

I wonder sometimes, if you’re here because they trust you, or because they know I would.

The words cut through him all over again. He remembers the look in your eyes–the first flicker of betrayal. The soft wariness behind the shield.

He remembers that you are starting to suspect. And he remembers, too, that he has no defense if you ask outright.

His is your shadow. And your spy.

The thought coils through his gut like iron heated too long in the fire.

“You will obey,” the Emperor says at last.

And then, after a beat:

“Or you will be removed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. It is only for half a second, but in that half second, he sees you. Not as the Princess. Not as his charge, but rather as you are, the last time he walked behind you through the garden, your voice soft as the wind:

They heard truth. That is all.

And beneath it: the ache in your shoulders. The way your fingers brushed the petals of a blossom you would not let fall. The quiet hunger in your eyes, not for power–but for agency.

He opens his eyes again.

The room is still cold. His thumb presses once more against the bone of his knuckle, hard enough now to leave a faint ache.

And he speaks. Level. Controlled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The orders still echo in his ears as he walks.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

She will not speak without approval.

She will remember she is not to be worshipped.

You will obey.

His body carries him through the palace corridors, but his mind lags somewhere behind–dragging through the dust of that cold chamber, where two men who share your blood plotted to silence you like you were nothing more than a flame grown too tall in the wind.

His heart pounds louder with every step.

He tells himself to breathe. It doesn’t work.

By the time he reaches the east wing, the last of the sunlight has fled the windows. Only lantern light remains, flickering low along the corridor walls, bathing the tapestries in uneven shades of copper and shadow.

Your door is already open. That in itself is strange.

You never leave it open–not without cause.

Nanami approaches slowly, his boots nearly silent on the polished floor.

And then he sees you.

You stand just inside, beside the low table, dressed not for court but for evening–the gray robes again, soft and plain, bound neatly at your waist. Your hair is pinned loosely tonight, a single silver ornament glinting where the light touches it.

You turn when you hear him. Carefully.

Your expression is calm. But it is a crafted calm. Deliberate. Distant. As if you already know what he’s come to say.

“General Kento,” you greet, voice steady.

He bows his head. “Your Highness.”

You study him, not for the first time. Your gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on his face, then on the tension in his shoulders, the slight curl of his gloved fingers. Your eyes flick to the door behind him.

Then, with a breath softer than silk:

“Escort me to the garden.”

The request is quiet, but it’s not tentative. You aren’t asking for his opinion. You’re telling him what you want.

And until today, he would have obeyed without hesitation.

His throat tightens. The orders return like iron pressed to the back of his neck.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

His silence stretches.

You lift an eyebrow–slightly, elegantly. “General?”

Nanami breathes in, and the words burn on their way out. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

You don’t blink. He can feel your stillness intensify.

“I wasn’t aware I required your permission,” you reply.

Your voice isn’t sharpened, but the temperature of the air seems to drop around you all the same.

Nanami straightens. “It’s not a matter of permission, Your Highness. I have been instructed…”

He trails off.

Coward. Say it.

Your eyes narrow. “By whom?”

He hesitates. “The Emperor. The Crown Prince.”

A beat. Then another.

He watches it happen. The exact moment your suspicion becomes certainty.

Your chin lifts slightly, not in pride, but in that particular kind of restraint you wear when you’re swallowing something bitter. Your fingers curl at your sides–not in anger, but in calculation.

“I see.”

You turn away from him, walking toward the window. Your movement is graceful, unhurried, but there’s a coldness in the sweep of your robes, in the silence you drag behind you like a shadow.

You do not speak for a long time. Neither does he.

He can feel the entire weight of the space between you both widening like a chasm. Not in distance. But in silence. In what isn’t being said.

When you finally speak, your back is still to him.

Your voice is quiet. Almost too quiet.

“You used to tell me when something changed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough for guilt to fill every hollow place inside him.

“This change wasn’t mine to share.”

You turn to face him again. The lantern light catches your eyes. They shine like glass held over embers.

“I trusted you,” you say.

Three words. Nothing more. Not even a tremble in your voice, but he feels them like a sword to the gut.

He takes a half step forward before he realizes what he’s doing. He stops himself. His hands clench.

“I still protect you,” he says. And it sounds pathetic. Even to him.

Your lips part. Then close again. You don’t answer. You don’t have to, because this–this betrayal–isn’t about protection. Not anymore.

It’s about containment. And you know it.

“Is there anywhere I can go?” you ask, not looking at him now, but past him, toward the shadowed corridor.

Your voice is cold. Not cruel. But cold in a way he’s never heard from you before. It feels like ice filling the space where something used to be warm.

“Only within the east wing,” he says quietly. “For now.”

A pause.

You nod. Once. As if memorizing a fact you intend to use later. “Then I’ll remain here.”

Nanami doesn’t move. “Do you need anything?” he asks.

You turn back to your window. “No.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bow. He only turns and leaves.

The door closes softly behind him. And he does not return to his post immediately.

He leans against the outer wall just beyond your chamber, on hand pressed flat to the cool stone again. His breathing is ragged. Controlled. But only just.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t accuse him. That’s what made it worse.

Because silence, from you, was never apathy. It was final.

He slides down to sit just beneath the window where you still stand, listening to nothing and everything. Light flickers faintly through the paper panes above his head.

He hears no sound from inside. Only the wind outside, curling around the courtyard. And his own thoughts, loud and merciless.

She trusted you.

And you kept her caged.

Not with walls.

But with silence.

He closes his eyes.

He loves you. He knows that now.

And when you find out what else he’s kept from you–when you realize what he was sent to do–

You will never forgive him.

And he will not deserve it if you do.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

For three days, they do not speak unless required. And even then, it is never more than necessary.

Your voice, when it comes, is precise and polite. “General Nanami, the scrolls, please.” “You may inform the kitchen I’m ready.” “Escort me only to the corridor.” Each word clipped clean. Not cold. Worse–distant. Formal. Detached.

You say his title as if it were a stranger’s name. He does not correct you. Because he has no right to.

You have not asked what you suspect. You do not confront him. You do not press.

But that is your way. You do not speak until the blade is already at the throat.

You are quieter than usual, and that silence hangs between you both like smoke in a closed room–thick, invisible, and impossible to breathe around.

He watches you with care. Too much care. The way you avoid his eyes when you speak. The way your footsteps echo sharper on the stone. The way your hands, always still, now twitch ever so slightly when you are left alone too long in thought.

You are unraveling.

And it is his fault.

Not because you know it yet, but because he can no longer lie to you without trembling.

He moves like a man condemned.

Each morning, he wakes knowing he is the blade they placed behind your ribs. And each night, he dreams of your eyes the moment you will finally see it.

Still, he stands outside your chambers. Still, he walks three paces behind. Still, he listens for your breath when you fall asleep, so low and slow that only someone who listens because he loves you would notice.

He watches you guard your heart again.

And this time, he is not the one protecting it. He is the one it is being protected from.

It begins, as these things always do, in silence.

Not absence of sound–but the weight of sound unspoken. Of words withheld too long, stretched too tightly between two people who have stopped pretending not to know what’s coming.

The sun has already slipped beneath the spires of the palace, casting its final haze across lacquered rooflines like blood fading into silk. The air hums faintly with the heat still clinging to the stone, but it’s cooler here in the east wind. The wind picks up now and then, tugging gently at the banners above the arched walkway, making the garden lanterns tremble in their hooks.

Nanami steps from the outer corridor into the courtyard, boots landing soft as breath on the polished stone.

He sees you instantly.

You stand near the far edge of the garden, half in shadow, your robes tied high and tight at the waist–not for ceremony, but for movement. Your arms are crossed, sleeves gathered, your silhouette etched sharply against the fading gold of the sky.

You don’t move when he enters. Don’t move. But you know he’s there.

Everyone knows when Nanami enters a room. Not because he draws attention, but because he pulls it away–silence gathering around him like gravity, steady and still. And yet now, here, in this particular silence, he feels incredibly exposed.

Like a blade drawn too long from its sheath.

You turn. Slowly.

Your eyes find him at once. No hesitation. No warmth. Just clarity, and something far more dangerous beneath it.

Not suspicion. Certainty.

“General,” you say.

The title should be a tether. It feels like a sword at his throat.

“I’d like to walk.”

Your voice is soft, but deliberate. Your tone is the kind that offers no room for interrogation.

He opens his mouth.

The words come unbidden–you’re not permitted, it’s against orders, please don’t ask me–but they die before they can even reach his tongue. Because the way you look at him–the stillness of your body, the sharp set of your shoulders, the pale flame burning behind your eyes–

You are not asking. You are daring. And he cannot deny you.

Not here. Not now. Not with the edge of your trust already bleeding.

“I’ll escort you,” he says quietly.

The words taste like ash.

You turn and begin walking before he finishes.

He follows. One pace behind. Always behind.

You walk with him through the Garden of Tranquility, and it has never felt less deserving of its name.

The gravel path crunches softly beneath his feet, lined with wind-swept pines and ancient plum trees, their heavy blossoms falling like snow. Lanterns sway in the breeze, their light scattered across the stones like the shimmer of broken glass.

Nanami’s steps are steady. Trained. But inside, his heart slams against his ribs like a fist trying to escape. He wants to speak. To say something–anything–that might pull you back from the cliff you’re standing on.

But he knows better. This is no moment for half-truths.

You will not be softened.

You walk ahead, your back straight, head high. You don’t look at him. Don’t speak. But your silence is louder than any scream.

She knows.

And still, he cannot speak. Because what would he say? That he never wanted to be your leash? That he followed orders because he didn’t know he would fall for you? That he lied to protect you and now it’s too late to untangle the truth from the betrayal?

You would see through it. Of course you would.

You reach the koi pond–the same place where you had once asked him to pluck a blossom for you. Where your fingers brushed his hand and he felt, for one fleeting breath, like he was more than steel and silence.

Now, the pond lies still. The water is dark. The blossoms have begun to fall.

You stop at its edge. Nanami halts behind you.

You do not speak at first.

The air stretches taut between you both.

Then, finally:

“Tell me something, General.”

Your voice is low, even, but it cuts straight through him.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. His hands flex at his sides. He can already feel the shape of your next words.

You turn your head slowly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“Were you always meant to be at my side?”

His breath catches.

There’s no way to lie gently. Not now. Not with the fury already behind your question. And still, he remains silent.

You face him fully now. Moonlight casts pale silver across your cheekbones, your mouth, the line of your brow. Your eyes shine–not with tears. But with heat.

With rage.

The kind of rage that simmers not from hate, but from heartbreak.

“A guard,” you say, voice trembling now–not with weakness, but with force held back, “does not keep secrets from the one they protect.”

Your gaze sharpens.

“A spy does.”

The words strike. He flinches. Just barely, but you see it, and your voice sharpens in turn.

“You knew,” you breathe, stepping forward, “when they sent me to speak in the square. When the people began to listen. When my brother smiled too much and the ministers whispered behind curtains. You knew I was being used.”

He opens his mouth again. Still nothing.

You step closer. The distance between you and him is but a breath now.

“And all that time, you stood beside me. Said nothing. Watched.”

The fury is rising now. Your composure is cracking. Your control slipping.

“You let me trust you.”

Your voice falters. Breaks.

Nanami’s throat clenches. He steps forward. You see it. You react like he’s drawn his sword, and step back. Quick, sharp, deliberate.

“Don’t.”

One word. It stops him dead.

“Don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not if you’re going to lie again.”

The tremble in your voice is no longer hidden.

“I asked you once,” you say, your tone like splintered glass. “If you would stop me from doing something reckless. If I ordered you to let me go.”

Your eyes meet his–and they burn.

“You didn’t say then,” you whisper, “that you already had.”

The silence afterward is too long. Too loud.

Nanami wants to speak. He has to. But nothing he says will change what’s already happened.

You stare at him. Fury twists your shoulders tight, chin high, fingers curled in the fabric of your robe like you’re holding yourself together by will alone.

“I want the truth,” you say. Steady. Devastating.

And then, slowly–coldly:

“Tell me what I was to you, General.”

Not who.

What.

The garden holds its breath.

The koi pond ripples faintly, the surface catching fragments of moonlight, warped and trembling. Lanterns sway, their dim flames reflected in your eyes.

You stand before him like a blade–poised, honed, and finally unsheathed.

“Tell me,” you repeat, “what I was to you, General.”

Your voice is sharp as silk torn cleanly down the middle. Not soft. Not cold. Fatal.

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know how. Because if he says what’s true–that you were supposed to be a risk assessment, a liability, a volatile variable to be watched and restrained–he will kill whatever thread remains between you both.

And if he says what he feels–

It will come too late. Too hollow. Too selfish.

You stare at him, your hands now tighter than ever at your sides. Your fingers are shaking. Just barely, but he notices. It’s the first sign of breakage. Not weakness, but impact.

“You stood there,” you say, voice rising, “every day. You watched me breathe. You watched me bleed. You–”

Your words catch. You close your mouth, swallow hard, and speak again. Louder. Faster.

“You stood beside me when they sent me to speak to crowds I didn’t want to face. You stood behind me when they dressed me up and pushed me forward like a puppet. And when I asked you–when I begged you for the truth behind their silence–”

You stop again. Your eyes close. Just for a second.

When they open, they burn like fire trapped in glass.

“You said nothing.”

Nanami’s voice finally comes. Low. Hoarse.

“I wanted to protect you.”

Your breath stutters. “Protect me?”

“I never meant–”

“Never meant what?” you snap. “To deceive me? To report on me behind closed doors? To be the hand that held the chain around my throat?”

He flinches like you struck him. And in a way, you have.

“I never wanted this,” he says again, softer now. “I never wanted to be a part of what they–”

“But you were,” you spit.

The sound of it hits like thunder in the still garden.

“You were, Kento.”

He flinches at the name. Not because you say it–but because you use it now.

Weaponized.

“You knew what they feared,” you say. “You knew what they planned. And you said nothing.”

“I tried to keep you safe.”

You laugh. A single, bitter exhale. No humor in it.

“You tried to keep me quiet.”

The words strike deep. Not because they’re cruel. Because they are true.

Nanami’s hands clench at his sides. His chest feels too tight. His throat aches with all the things he never said, never let himself feel.

He looks at you now–not as a Princess. Not as his charge.

But as the woman he loves.

Your face is pale in the moonlight. Your eyes are fierce and wounded, rimmed in tears that haven’t yet fallen. Your jaw is clenched, proud. Unyielding.

She is beautiful.

And she is breaking.

Because of me.

“I didn’t want to report on you,” he says, each word pulled from his lungs like wire. “I didn’t want to contain you. I–”

Your voice cuts through his yet again.

“But you did.” Then, quieter, “You still do.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

“I disobeyed them,” he says slowly. “Every day, after I began to understand who you were. I lied to the Emperor. To your brother. I told them you were passive. Obedient.”

“And that makes this better?” you snap.

“No,” he says.

The word hangs in the air. Simple. Final.

“It doesn’t.”

You look away, shaking your head slowly, your hands still clenched.

“I trusted you,” you murmur again.

“I know.”

“No–you don’t,” you say, your voice rising again. “You don’t know what that meant.”

The air between the two of you is thick and unbearable.

“Do you know how many people I’ve trusted in my life?”

You hold up your fingers.

“Two.”

A beat.

“My mother. And you.”

Nanami sways. Just slightly, but he feels it. Like the ground has shifted underfoot.

You step forward again–not to close the distance, but to end it.

“You were supposed to be mine,” you say. “The one thing in that palace I didn’t have to question. The one person I could speak to without watching my own words.”

“I was,” he whispers.

“No.” You shake your head. “You were never mine. You were theirs. You were always theirs.”

Your voice is trembling now. Cracking. “I looked for you. When I didn’t trust the others. When I needed to feel like I wasn’t losing myself.”

“I saw you,” he says, desperate now. “I still do.”

You go still. “That’s what makes it worse.”

The silence that follows is absolute. No birds. No breeze. Only the soft plink of water at the koi pond behind.

He steps toward you. Very slowly. Your breath catches. You don’t move.

He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch you. He stops just short, because he knows–

If he touches you now, you will break in two.

And he might never forgive himself.

Instead, his voice drops, soft as crushed velvet. He says your name.

You close your eyes. When they open, they shine with unshed tears.

“I will never forgive you,” you whisper.

Your voice is soft. And final. And true.

Then you turn, and walk away.

Nanami doesn’t follow. He cannot. Not this time.

He stays in the garden long after you are gone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

The koi stir in the pond. The lanterns burn low. And behind his ribs, the ache blooms.

She trusted you.

And you destroyed her.

The part of him that was once only duty is gone.

Only love remains.

Too late. Too broken. Too silent.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

You do not summon him. Not that morning. Not the next. Not the one after.

And yet, he comes. Dressed as always in the azure-and-silver uniform of the Imperial Guard, his cape trimmed in gold, his sword polished, his gloves tight against his skin as if to contain everything he cannot.

He takes his place at your door at dawn, as he always has.

But this time, the light doesn’t reach him. He truly is a shadow.

The corridor outside your chambers is long and still. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and old parchment. Dust hangs unmoving in the sunbeams pouring through the high lattice windows. Servants pass him in silence, their eyes lowered. None dare to ask why the Princess has not stepped outside.

But they all feel it. That the air has changed. Not with noise. With tension. With silence sharpened into a deadly blade.

He does not knock. He does not ask to enter. He simply waits.

And behind the door, behind the carved lacquered panels, he knows–you are there. Awake. Alive. And keeping every breath from him like a secret.

It is the afternoon before the spring rains when you reappear in public.

You do not tell him you are going. The steward delivers the order in writing:

The Princess will make her appearance at the Temple of the Nine Banners to offer incense for the dying Emperor. She will wear silver, and she will not speak more than is required.

Nanami dresses for ceremony. He says nothing when he meets you at the gate.

You wear pearl-gray silk and a comb of white jade in your hair. Your sleeves trail like mist behind you as you walk, head high, eyes forward, a marble figure draped in the shape of poise.

And you never once look at him. Not as you walk the path lined with red-lacquered columns. Not as you kneel at the altar. Not as you rise, your offering made, the incense smoke curling like ghosts toward the temple eaves.

But he watches you.

Every step. Every twitch of your fingers. Every breath held just a moment too long.

You don’t falter. But he knows where to look now. He knows how to see you. And what he sees breaks him.

Not because you are angry. Because you are still. Because you have taken the pain he caused and locked it deep behind your ribs, behind a wall even he cannot scale. And you will carry it there, wordless and alone.

That night, the lanterns outside your quarters flicker in their brass hooks, dimming with the wind.

Nanami stands at his post, as he always has. But this time, he leans–just slightly–against the carved stone that frames the doorway. Not from fatigue, but from something heavier.

He cannot breathe the same way anymore.

Not here. Not knowing you are inside, one wall away, and will never ask for him again.

The old rhythm is broken. You used to step to the threshold before retiring, say his name low and quiet, ask some hypothetical question as if you weren’t speaking of yourself.

He used to wait for it. Used to watch you linger, your hand brushing the doorframe, as if considering something before retreating into the safety of silence.

But now? Now there is only distance.

The candlelight behind the paper screen is faint. He stares at it like he could will you into speaking. Into forgiving.

You do not come.

The silence that follows him is not empty. It is punishment.

Two days later, he escorts you to the Hall of Imperial Petitions for an audience.

Your steps are precise. Your hair is swept up in intricate coils held with ornate pins. The soldiers salute as you pass with him.

You return none of it.

You say nothing as you pass through the winding halls, past corridors lined with ancient murals, the tapestries whispering in the wind from the courtyard beyond.

Nanami walks behind you.

The space between you and him–always the same three paces–has never felt so far.

You do not falter, but your silence presses against his chest like a weight. Each step forward feels like an echo of the last time you turned your back to him–that final burning look in the garden.

He wonders if you will ever look at him again. Not with love. Just recognition. He wonders if you see him now the way you see the marble statues along the colonnade: unmoving. Unforgivable.

He returns to the barracks that night after midnight. The walls there are plain. Unadorned. The small oil lamp flickers in the corner.

He doesn’t remove his armor. He sits on the edge of his sleeping platform, still in full dress, the weight of it pressing into his spine.

He is not tired. Not even angry. He is–empty.

Like a blade that has snapped mid-swing.

His hands rest on his thighs. He stares at the floor for a long time. Then, finally, slowly, he pulls of his glove. His right hand. The one you touched first.

He stares at the creases in his palm, the slight ache in the knuckle from when he used to press it too hard out of habit.

It looks the same. He knows it’s not. Because you held it once. And now, he will never know if it could have meant something more.

He curls it into a fist. And bows his head.

He will not beg. He will not speak. But if you ever call for him again–just once–he will come.

Because the only thing left of the man they made him to be is the part of him that still kneels when you enter the room.

SOUTHERN WING – 昇旗の庭 (COURTYARD OF RISING BANNERS)

The bells do not ring when the Emperor dies.

There is no toll to mark the end of a reign. No voice raised in sorrow. No black banners descending like silk from the towers. No procession to march his body through the avenues he once claimed as arteries of divine rule.

Instead, the silence comes first. Not the reverent kind reserved for death. Not mourning.

The other kind. The kind that creeps. That folds into the stone.

The kind of silence Nanami knows from battlefields–when the wind dies before the arrows fall, when the enemy holds their breath just before they breach the walls.

He stands at the edge of the lower courtyard, beside the central plum tree, when he hears it.

Not an announcement. Not a whisper. Not even words. Just the absence of sound.

The servants that pass move too quickly. Too quietly. A steward drops a scroll and does not retrieve it. Two guards adjust their spears but avoid meeting each other’s eyes. The courtiers that were laughing in the shade an hour ago now speak in clusters, backs to the wind, heads bowed not in reverence but in calculation.

Something has ended, and no one dares be the first to name it.

The message finally reaches him by way of a junior officer from the western barracks. The boy is pale, breathing too fast.

“The Emperor,” he says, struggling to take a breath, “has passed.”

Passed. Not died. Not collapsed. Not gasped his final breath in the warmthless dark of his golden bed.

Passed. As if he drifted. As if power had not just been torn from the body of a dying god and given to something much colder.

Nanami nods once. There is nothing to say.

He watches the officer leave, vanishing into the turning tide of the court. Then, he looks upward, past the flowering trees and tiled roofs, to the upper balcony of the Tower of Jade, where he sees the Crown Prince–no, the new Emperor–draped in black and gold.

He is not weeping. He is not bowed in grief. He is standing at the edge of the railing, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the courtyards as if this had always been his palace, his court, his sky.

And perhaps it had.

Perhaps, Nanami thinks, this was always the ending the old Emperor was too proud to see.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE)

By the time Nanami returns to the eastern wing, the palace is no longer the one he knows. The very air feels heavier, like storm clouds pressing down, as if the palace itself senses the shift in power. The corridor–once echoing with laughter and the soft rustle of silk–now feel hollow, vast, and waiting.

He walks past columns carved with phoenixes, their eyes seeming to watch his every move. The scent of sandalwood is stronger here, laced with something bitter beneath it. Fear, perhaps. Or something like it.

The guards outside your chambers are no longer the same men. He notices immediately. Their stances are too sharp. Their gazes flick to him with veiled suspicion. He knows these are not your guards. They are not loyal to you. They are loyal to the new Emperor.

The lacquered doors are closed.

He does not knock. He waits, silent in the golden hush of evening, the lanterns painting the hallway in long strips of amber light. His heart beats slowly but heavily, like a drum sounded underwater. He doesn’t know what he wants from this moment. Not forgiveness. He does not deserve it. But perhaps acknowledgement. A glance. A word.

The hinges finally groan. The door eases open with quiet precision. You step out.

You wear ash-gray silk, unembellished and heavy. The fabric falls in clean lines, severe and cold, save for the single silver pin anchoring in your hair–a willow branch, delicate but unbending. Your eyes are lined not with kohl but with shadow. Your posture is flawless. Your presence, formidable.

To anyone else, you might look like a woman deep in mourning. But Nanami sees you clearly.

You are not broken. You are braced. You are a blade being unsheathed.

And still–god help him–he finds you beautiful.

Not the type of beauty spun from gold or draped in silk, but something truer. Elemental. Your silence is no longer passive. It is a choice. A weapon.

You meet his eyes. And he sees nothing there. No welcome. No fire. Not even anger. Only distance.

He bows low, lower than he has for anyone. He would only do it for you.

“Your Highness. The Emperor has summoned you to the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate.”

You step through the doorway, the scent of plum blossoms clinging faintly to your robes. Your movement is as fluid as always, but there is something much harder beneath it now–an edge that had not been there before.

“So he has,” you reply, your voice cool, each syllable shaped like glass.

He walks at your side, but every step feels like a widening chasm. The space between you is not physical. It is everything said and unsaid.

He wants to speak. God, he wants to say something. Anything to close the distance. To offer you a piece of the truth you can hold onto. Something to soften the shape of what he has become in your eyes.

But nothing comes. His mouth is full of ash.

He shakes his head slightly, not enough for you to notice. He must try.

“You should not be made to face him alone.”

You don’t look at him. “I am not alone. I am merely surrounded.”

The words strike deep. So precise. So sharp. You always knew where to aim.

Perhaps you do mean it. Perhaps you don’t. Either way, it lands the same.

You pass beneath the arch of the inner cloister, its painted dragons coiled in endless battle across the ceiling. The floor glows with the light of low lanterns, their flames flickering as you walk through, Nanami following, obedient.

You do not look up. You have seen these dragons all your life. You know exactly what they protect. And what they don’t.

Nanami’s voice is quieter now, heavy with the ache of words long held back. “If he speaks to you of marriage, or exile, or restriction–”

“He will,” you interrupt.

He stops walking. You don’t.

“Princess,” he pleads, the title feeling wrong on his tongue now, too formal, too far. His voice drops to something raw. “There are things I wish you would let me say.”

You slow, your profile cut in the flickering light. Then you turn your head, just enough to let your words slip free without the courtesy of a glance.

“Then you should have said them before.”

And you walk ahead, your silhouette stretching long and thin across the stone, haloed by the warmth of flame and the bite of silence.

He follows. He always does. But every step is agony now, each footfall echoing like the toll of a bell that marks the death of something too quiet to be given a name.

Ahead, the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate towers over you both, its gilded doors carved with phoenixes in flight, its high eaves braced against the sky.

It does not feel like a place of judgement. It feels like a place of endings. And the throne behind those doors–the one that once belonged to a dying man–is no longer empty.

The Hall of Heaven’s Mandate yawns open before you, vast and echoing, it’s gilded doors parting like a mouth preparing to swallow you both whole. Light streams through the high windows, stained crimson and gold, casting warped patterns across the polished floor like fire crawling up from the underworld.

Everything is still. Not reverent. Not quiet. Expectant.

Nanami steps in behind you, his boots soundless against the marble. You walk forward with the poise of a woman born to walk through fire. Each step is deliberate. The silk of your robes hisses with the movement, sharp as blade being drawn.

The new Emperor sits upon the throne. He is dressed in mourning black trimmed with imperial gold, a polished circlet resting on his brow like a cage. He lounges as though born to the seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest–not with impatience, but with calculation.

There are ministers arrayed along the sides of the hall. Silent. Watching.

You stop at the prescribed distance, and bow–just enough to be correct. Nothing more.

“Your Majesty,” you say.

Nanami remains a step behind you. His hands are folded behind his back, his gaze forward. But his focus is on you. Always you.

The Emperor smiles. It is a thin thing, lacking charm. “Sister. You are pale. Does grief weigh heavy upon you at last?”

“Grief,” you say, “is not a cloak I wear for display.”

The room does not move. Rather, it tightens.

The Emperor leans forward slightly. “Then let us speak plainly. The old world is gone. I am its successor. And you, sister, must now serve it.”

Your chin lifts. Barely. “Have I not always served the Empire?”

“You have served yourself,” he replies, a hiss. “And it has been tolerated. Because our father–for all his flaws–was patient. I am not.”

The words land like stones. Nanami does not move. But his jaw tenses. His thumb presses against the inside of his glove.

“You will be married,” the Emperor says. “The northern alliance demands it. The agreement has already been written. The envoy arrives within the next two weeks.”

You do not flinch. “To whom,” you ask, “am I being sacrificed?”

The Emperor smiles again. “To a man of title. Of strength. And of hunger. He will put a son in you by winter. And he will keep your tongue where it belongs.”

The room holds its breath. Nanami’s hand curls into a fist behind his back. Every instinct in him screams to move. To speak. To act.

But he cannot.

You do not look back at him. Your voice is steady.

“You will not live long enough to see that son born.”

A silence deeper than death spills over the hall. The Emperor’s gaze sharpens, but he says nothing. And Nanami, beside you, breathes in deeply–because in that moment, he realizes that you will never submit. Not to the Empire. Not to fear. Not even to him. And god help him, he loves you for it.

The Emperor does not rise. His hands–adorned with the fresh symbols of coronation, rings of authority pressed too tightly onto aging fingers–grip the lion-carved armrest of the throne with the weight of performance. The flick of his fingers is casual. Dismissive. Dripping with the confidence of a man who now believes himself untouchable and his sister nothing more than a broodmare.

“You may go,” he says, his voice calm. Too calm. As though you have already ceased to matter. As if you didn’t just tell him he would meet his undoing soon.

You incline your head, your composure absolute. There is no tremble in your hands, no flicker in your gaze. You are every inch the daughter of an emperor–even one now gone to ash. But beneath that veil of restraint, Nanami sees it. The steel. The fire carefully banked. The blade kept sheathed, for now.

You do not turn to him. Instead, your gaze shifts–sideways.

And then he sees the other guard. Not your attendant. Not your man. A stranger in imperial black, trimmed in gold. A Crown loyalist. One of the Emperor’s chosen shadows.

Nanami’s replacement.

“He will escort you back,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with the sound of metal drawn across cold marble.

Nanami doesn’t move, but something inside him fractures. Not with a sound, but with a certainty.

You offer no protest. You don’t question the command. Your silence, as always, is a deadly thing. You simply turn. Walk.

Past Nanami. Without a glance.

Each step is flawless. Fluid. This shimmer of your robe is like wind across frost. You walk like you have already buried every illusion you once held. And you do not look back. Not once.

The guard followed you like a shadow born from a different sun.

The doors close. Their great weight echoes through the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate, reverberating through stone and silence like a slow heartbeat.

Nanami stands alone, the ministers having filed out after the princess.

The quiet that follows is profound. It is not peace. It is aftermath.

The room is too bright. Too polished. Every gilded edge shines like a lie.

The new Emperor does not rise immediately. He watches Nanami with the faint smile of a man who believes himself already victorious. When he finally stands, he descends the dais slowly, like a man descending from divinity to offer wisdom to a lesser being.

“You care for her,” he says. Not a question.

Nanami remains motionless, staring straight ahead. He does not speak. He does not need to. The absence of a response says everything.

The Emperor circles him now, like a wolf circling a tethered beast. “You were placed at her side to report, to restrain, to remind her of her limits. Not to fall under her spell.”

His voice lowers, dripping with distaste. “Not to watch her like she was something sacred.”

Nanami breathes in. The air tastes wrong.

The Emperor stops before him, just shy of confrontation.

“You disobey in silence, General. In stillness. In all the little ways you think go unnoticed. But I notice.”

Nanami’s fists curl behind his back, beneath his cape. His shoulders are tight, rigid with effort. The fabric of his gloves strains against the pressure of his grip. He holds every breath in his chest like a dam.

“She will be married,” the Emperor says, more softly now, but no less threatening. “To a man with teeth. A man who will make her pliable. Who will teach her the humility our father failed to instill.”

The words are meant to provoke. They succeed. Nanami’s jaw tenses. His eyes narrow, fractionally.

But he does not speak. Because if he speaks now, it will not be words. It will be war.

The Emperor leans in. “And if you interfere–if I catch even a whisper of hesitation in you again–I will have you executed. Quietly. Without spectacle. You will vanish like smoke. And she will never even hear your name again.”

Nanami does not flinch. He bows. But it is not submission. It is ritual. It is armor. It is the final breath before battle.

He turns and leaves.

Each step is deliberate. Controlled. Every footfall echoes louder than the last, because something in him is shattering.

No. Not shattering–changing.

The oath he took to the Emperor died with the man now buried in a sealed crypt. He does not serve this new tyrant. He does not serve this court of jackals and parasites.

He serves the Empire. And you–

You are the Empire.

In your silence, there is vision. In your poise, there is power. In your defiance, there is a future worth bleeding for.

He will not let you be dragged away, married off, shackled like livestock sent to secure borders.

You are not a pawn. You are the blade. And he is no longer the leash. He is the shield.

Even if it costs him his life.

A/N: we love a yearner in this house (art by ykRRR23 on X)

[stil-lindigo]

You'r eunder no obligation to reply but I'd like to ask, how do you keep your head up these days considering the genocide? It's been nearly five months now, my entire family is giving up the stirke and falling into propoganda, and every time i think "surely this is the end, no way the us will keep supporting this, israel is on limited time" i keep seeing no end in my twitter feed to the countless losses, i keep seeing gore and childrens butchered on my tiktok. i dont wanna lose hope or faith but ive started feeling so depressed these days that i dont even wanna open my social media because i know what ill see. it might sound selfish but i hope i can open up my tiktok and see silly little people doing trends again instead of seeing one between 6 posts asking to use filters so that they can donate and detailing the necessities that israel banned from palestine and it just feels so soul crushing and hopeless. it makes me feel worse because if im tired of it then how do palestanians cope being in it? if you have any tips or good news id be grateful

hi anon. A lot of what Palestinians report first-hand is graphic, and horrifying, and would contribute to that soul-crushing feeling. But they are so tenacious, they have so much love for their people, their country. Often, Bisan or Motaz or Plestia when she was still in Gaza will share little slices of joy from displaced Palestinians. It reinvigorates me, and I'll often return to watch them when things seem dire.

A baby in Gaza, blessedly unaware of the horrors. Look at that smile!

A Palestinian mother makes donuts for her children, and offers Bisan one as she prepares for an interview. She (the mother) talks about how she makes treats like this to try to cheer up her children, how she keeps herself busy like this so she can't feel the grief of the situation. It is expensive to buy firewood these days, and flour. At her side, her children chip away at a block of wood to help her.

if you'd like to support people like this family, donate to CareforGaza, which directly distributes supplies and money to families in need. They have stopped donations to their Gofundme campaign due to overwhelming support, but you can still donate via the paypal link in their bio.

Young Palestinians parkour in the ruins of Gaza, to show that Israeli bombing will not kill their spirits.

Mo, a Palestinian man, buys cat food after searching for two days straight, and feeds the stray cats in Gaza.

Palestinian children at a refugee camp filming a cute video.

Although they've lost their home, a Palestinian family gather to celebrate their youngest child's birthday, complete with a small cake and a birthday hat.

Bisan makes bread in Khan Younis.

Palestinians celebrate the birthday of an injured girl in hospital, with a small cake. One of them has dressed up as a clown.

After losing 22 members of his family and being injured in a bombardment, a Palestinian man named Mohammed Al Ghandour marries his fiance in a tent.

A Palestinian journalist plays with a baby who survived an airstrike.

@/nisreendiary on TikTok documents the process of making fresh bread in a tent in a calming video.

I got most of these off twitter, from this thread. Twitter is a hellscape at the best of times, but the easy communication it provides is a blessing. I'll try to share more of the good news here, as they pop up. In the future, I recommend you follow Eye on Palestine, or Al Jazeera if you'd like to stay informed on the situation in Gaza with minimal scrolling.

[mangocheesecakes]

it's always either of 2 extremes: either we can't risk ever boosting and donating to individual fundraisers because whaf if it's a scam OR we can't risk not boosting or donating to a random fundraiser because what if it's not a scam?

why can't it be the happy medium (learning to recognize genuine Palestinian fundraisers vs fake ones by actually reading and getting to know even just a little the people behind the campaigns you are sharing, following Palestinian users who are doing the work of vetting new fundraisers, making the bare-minimum effort of looking up a url and scrolling through the tag documenting their scam activites, looking out for each other)

[greasierscrolls]

Fucking hate how I've specced my entire party, actually

[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐RESEARCH

summary — in which a research day takes place in the comfort of the home she shares with her boyfriend. he has a debate with his former podcast cohost to prepare notes for, and she has a federal election to cover.

pairings — hasan piker x politicalcorrespondent!girlfriend

pronouns — she/her

word count — 1470

note — not really an x reader bc she covers australian politics but lives in america with him, and therefore i didn't wanna make it too reader-specific. anyway, the election just ended here in australia and it was on the same day as the hasan v e debate so i decided to get back into writing :)

THE HOUSE HAD NOT been this silent in a long time.

for the past week and a half, her and her boyfriend had been locking themselves in different rooms during their free time to get together as much research as they possibly could on two very different political situations. hasan, who had an upcoming debate with the man who was a former friend and podcast cohost, and her, who had little time to prepare for the upcoming australian election before she had to fly there to cover the lead up to the count.

hasan's family hadn't been around as much since the start of last week because of it. she loved his family but there was something incredibly peaceful about the atmosphere being so silent that every shift in the air could be heard. especially when she had twenty tabs lagging out her laptop and could feel another blue screen threatening to interrupt her once again.

it was late afternoon, the sun mellowing outside the window as she lounged on her stomach across the floor of the open-space living room. the loudest thing that greeted her ears was the sudden heavy footsteps on the hardwood flooring. lost in thought as she scrolled endlessly through an article to ensure it withhold as much bias as possible, she didn't look up at hasan, not even when he stepped over her, bending slightly to scratch the top of her head in a silent greeting before sitting down next to her on the comfortable rug.

he waited for her to speak first, not wanting to break her out of her train of thought. he watched the time tick to two minutes at the top of his phone as he retweeted a post before she spoke. "hey," she lifted her head to look up at him, a warm smile bubbling to life. "how was stream?"

"same old," he said simply, tilting her chin up a little more to press a kiss to her lips. "i tried to finish as early as possible for you." he'd explained at the start of the stream that it wasn't going to be super long one because he had other commitments, namely his girlfriend, and so once he covered everything he needed to plus a few extra things, he was queueing up the outro song and turning off his camera.

"aw," she hummed, turning back to glance at her laptop again. she glanced at the time down in the corner of her screen. "did you want me to make us something to eat or . . .?"

shaking his head, hasan reached over to the coffee table that she had pushed closer to the couch earlier to grab his laptop. "ordered us your favourite already." he knew she was busy and didn't want to interrupt her, so he took the initiative to order from her favourite cafe to treat her. he had walked past her multiple times within the past couple of hours to go get food or a water refill because she didn't come in to drop off any when she got her own like she normally did due to the amount of research she was stuck under.

it meant that he knew she had not eaten much either, and they were going to be on the floor for a while until they called it quits . . . he was getting ready for it to be a long night.

"ugh," she groaned in delight, "you're a lifesaver. this is doing my fucking head in."

with each day of campaigning changing the narrative, there was so much constant work she had to do to keep up until her flight out to australia in a few days time.

"talk to me," hasan hummed, opening the lid of his laptop and typing in the password. the document that already had links and bullet point lists under subheadings already took up two pages and it wasn't even in full detail yet.

"they want me to talk about literally every party, basically," she tried not to sound like she was complaining too hard, but she was genuinely just frustrated. not at the workload — at the fact that the country was slowly turning to shit and people were genuinely falling for the lies of all the conservative parties that got far more votes than they realistically should. "there are people genuinely considering voting in the next trump and elon because they listen to the australian equivalent of fox news and do no further research, like they're straight up just ignoring the fact that peter dutton and gina rinehart are gonna fuck things up so bad, and people believe their nuclear power being cheaper bullshit." she spoke so fast she was quickly out of breath.

hasan did not know as much about australian politics so a lot of it did not stick out to him, but he gladly listened to her every time she spoke about it. the information got stored into a compartment in his brain that was labelled 'aus politics for when i need it' and it got added to every time his girlfriend mentioned anything about it. he didn't have to understand her to be attentive.

"and there's this dickhead who makes a new right-wing party every election 'cause he has too much money," she rambled on, melting under the sudden feeling of his hand tracing patterns on the skin that was exposed on her back from her shirt riding up. "guess what it's called this year."

"uh . . . trump part two?" hasan answered unsurely, partially kidding. his jaw dropped when she didn't immediately say he was wrong.

"basically," she admitted, "it's called trumpet of patriots. it sounds like a super bad meme."

that was news to him. "you're . . . not joking?"

"nope."

laughter tumbled out of him, his hand stilling on her back for a moment. "that's so unserious."

"it's basically the unserious version of the us election," she shrugged, switching to a different tab. this time, an article about how cost of living is swaying younger voters. "anyway . . . how's yours going?"

the words on the document he had open were staring holes through him. "i'm definitely mentally preparing for this shit way more than preparing notes, that's for sure." he didn't do debates because they showcase as more of an entertainment thing than an actual way to get your point across to the other party involved. he was willing to have a conversation with his former cohost and friend, but he knew how it would unfold. everyone did. it would hardly be productive, and so all mental preparation would go towards harbouring extreme levels of restraint and calamity.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, pausing. hasan maneuvered so that he was laying stomach-down on the floor, his laptop beside hers as he got comfortable. "we both know how its gonna go down."

"uh huh."

"he's gonna talk over you, mock your stuttering, and be a child about literally everything," she easily listed off, annoyance simmering underneath at the thought of it. sometimes she sat in the armchair in the corner of the room while he streamed when she wanted to be in his presence without being on camera. she, however, would absolutely not be sitting in on that debate because she could already picture how much of a mess it would be. she planned to watch it from afar, but even then it was going to be a hard watch.

there was no denying it. hasan could only sigh. they lapsed into a comforting silence, basking in the warmth of the late afternoon sun shining through the windows. the peaceful levels of quiet were only broken by the repetitive pattern of keyboard keys echoing clicks and when kaya dug her wet nose into hasan's arm to try get attention before doing it to her other owner.

a brief cuddle session break that was lengthened when the food arrived lasted a little longer than it perhaps should have, but then it was back to scrolling through videos, social media posts and articles to compile as much as they could. hasan was interrupt her train of thought to ask "does this sound okay?" whenever necessary, and she did similar, instead asking, "is this okay enough?" because all she really needed were unbiased facts to at least try combat the problem of political presenters sharing their opinion when they shouldn't be.

it only lasted until the sun was pretty much gone and they were bathed in darkness when she shut the lid of her laptop and rolled onto him until she was laying directly on top of his back. "wanna play stardew valley?" was all she had to ask and he was closing his laptop lid and trying to stand up without her falling to the floor, research long forgotten as they booted up the xbox to play their split-screen farm.

[xxx-sparkydemon-xxx]

🛑pleas don't scroll ‼️Hi, I hope you are well. My name is Mohammed Atallah, I live with my parents, six sisters, a little girl named Malak and a little boy named Ameer in North Gaza. I created this link to fund a bone graft in my left hand which was shot by an explosive bullet, to rebuild our destroyed home and to evacuate my family from Gaza to a safe place.And donate any amount to safe life .. I will appreciate your help❤️ Can you please help as much as you can . Press all buttons on my wall , I beg you to visit my page, view it, and donate via the link in the bio💔Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 Every euros will make a difference 🙏I urge you to donate. Even the smallest amount can make the biggest difference. Not only he needs to evacuate with his family, but he is in dire need for surgery! The IDF has shot his arm with an explosive bullet. Not a regular one. AN EXPLOSIVE ONE. So he needs to get it treated right away! Otherwise, he will get an infection and it may lead to amputation. WE DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN, DO WE DO?So contribute! Make sure to reblog and share his story if you are unable to do so.Help my family. War is devastating. There is nothing left to live. No schools, no universities, no home, and no dreams. All dreams have been shattered. I hope for help before it is too late Please share on Twitter and tumbler and Instagram The campaign has been documented @90-ghost

VERIFIED BY @/90-ghost (PROOF)

PLEASE SHARE THIS FUNDRAISER AND DONATE IF YOU HAVE AT LEAST $5 TO SPARE. EVERY DOLLAR COUNTS TOWARDS SAVING LIVES!

€17,523 raised of €82,000

[buckybarnesss]

the amount of pro-baldoni reels i've seen in just the past few hours while i've been idly scrolling while at work is disgusting. the complete and utter disregard for the full claims lively has leveled at baldoni is disheartening. professional level darvo at it's finest. a man saying there's no smear campaign as he runs a smear campaign to paint her as a liar in spite of documentation of his shitty behaviors.

claims, which by the way, he hasn't refuted. he's filed suit against the nyt saying the text conversations with pr were out of context and that there wasn't a smear campaign orchestrated by his pr. he hasn't denied he sexually harassed blake because there's a paper trail on the meetings and complaints against him and his buddy. people don't care about that though. he doesn't have to do much at all because people are already primed to hate blake and blame her, call her power hungry and ready to say she did this to herself.

there are no perfect victims. it's always "believe women" until it's a woman that's considered unlikeable or difficult. no one should have to qualify they're not a blake fan and bring up all her past transgressions to justify believing her claims.

if blake lively -- a wealthy, successful white woman in hollywood with connections that has a rich, successful white husband with his own connections -- cannot be believed that what chance do the rest of us have?

[rheas-chaos-anthology]

BY NOT SCROLLING YOU COULD SAVE A LIFE

If you can't donate, reblog, so we can reach more people that can!

Asmaa has a family of 8. She is a lawyer and a graduate from Palestine University. She worked hard to climb the ladder and build the life she had, but everything was destroyed because of the war.

This is their story:

"On October 7th, our lives changed forever. My family and I left our home for southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but that was not to be. Our home was besieged and then completely destroyed. Our home, once a bastion of hope, now lies in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we set off south was terrifying. The sounds of bombing were everywhere, making a great noise that was so great that it ripped through our souls. Every explosion shook the ground like earthquakes, sending intense air strikes of fear through our trembling bodies. Making us terrified. It was so great, and the blood was in the air, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we looked around us, and realized that our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us."

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to their my family - her parents, her siblings, and her - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is their only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time.

Fundraiser for Maram Rafat by Asma Ayyad : Help me and my family escape the war in Gaza (gofundme.com)

@asmaayyad

[rds-passerine]

🇵🇸 🛑pleas don't scroll ‼️Hi, I hope you are well. My name is Mohammed Atallah, I live with my parents, six sisters, a little girl named Malak and a little boy named Ameer in North Gaza. I created this link to fund a bone graft in my left hand which was shot by an explosive bullet, to rebuild our destroyed home and to evacuate my family from Gaza to a safe place.And donate any amount to safe life .. I will appreciate your help❤️ Can you please help as much as you can . Press all buttons on my wall , I beg you to visit my page, view it, and donate via the link in the bio💔Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 Every euros will make a difference 🙏I urge you to donate. Even the smallest amount can make the biggest difference. Not only he needs to evacuate with his family, but he is in dire need for surgery! The IDF has shot his arm with an explosive bullet. Not a regular one. AN EXPLOSIVE ONE. So he needs to get it treated right away! Otherwise, he will get an infection and it may lead to amputation. WE DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN, DO WE DO?So contribute! Make sure to reblog and share his story if you are unable to do so.Help my family. War is devastating. There is nothing left to live. No schools, no universities, no home, and no dreams. All dreams have been shattered. I hope for help before it is too late Please share on Twitter and tumbler and Instagram The campaign has been documented @90-ghost 🍉

I don't know what to say, but I will pray and share awareness— If any of you guys have some extra money, please consider donating!! And if you don't, please reblog

[berrystrawbs]

🚨 FUNDRAISER MASTERLIST 🚨

not currently being updated -- still accepting/replying to asks, but they won't be added to this list. percentages will not change.

list updated: 23/07/24, 19:28 EST / percentages updated: 23/07/24, 19:28 EST

all from my asks | if you have information that i've missed (goal/vetting/scam updates, etc) use my askbox or dms | organized by order received

🍉 please continue to donate, reblog, and share! 🍉

@mohammed-atallah | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost

€5,229 raised of €82,000 goal (6.4%)

"🛑 don't scroll ‼️Hi, I hope you are well. My name is Mohammed Atallah, I live with my parents, six sisters, a little girl named Malak and a little boy named Ameer in North Gaza. I created this link to fund a bone graft in my left hand which was shot by an explosive bullet, to rebuild our destroyed home and to evacuate my family from Gaza to a safe place.And donate any amount to safe life .. I will appreciate your help❤️ Can you please help as much as you can . Press all buttons on my wall , I beg you to visit my page, view it, and donate via the link in the bio💔The campaign has been documented @/90-ghost Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 Every euros will make a difference 🙏"

@emanzaqout | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost

$6,731 CAD raised of $40,000 goal (17%)

"I know for sure that you can't help all families from Gaza that want to be evacuated from here but at least you can help those who come across your life. You have no idea how mentally and emotionally tiring this is. Asking for help is not easy. But when thinking that the price is my family's life and getting out of here safely, it just pushes me more and more to do this until i reach my goal, be able to attend my university abroad and achieve my doctoral degree dream after awarding prestigious PhD fellowship. Please donate and share to support us standing at this hard time."

@wafaaresh | donate (gfm) | vetted by ana-bananya

€3,903 raised of €100,000 goal (3.9%)

"Heloo Im wafaa from Gaza ..i need your help if you can Please donate to save my life and my family 🍉🇵🇸 Asking for help is not easy, I ask for a small donation of only 20€ from each person, 20€ will save my family from death in Gaza 💔 Donate through the link in bio (gofundme) Together, we can achieve our goal within a day and provide crucial support to me and my family in Gaza. Your contribution means everything to us and in these difficult times your kindness is our greatest hope. We are very grateful for any assistance you can provide and thank you for your kindness and generosity in our time of need"

@aymanayyad82 | donate (gfm) | vetted by nabulsi

$27,885 raised of $35,000 goal (80%)

"Hello dear friends ! ❤🤍💚🖤🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸 All positive words can't show how generous you are, especially on the side of sharing my posts to let other donors know about the people of Gaza who are still suffering the horrible circumstances resulting from the injust war on Gaza! 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸❤🤍💚🖤 Thank you from the deepest bottom of my heart for the support you are showing to help Palestinian families stay safe and alive.🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸 Despite the various colours of sufferings and tortures we are undergoing at the moment, your brave stances and support greatly ease and relieve us . Your loud voices and your heroic acts make a great difference to our Palestinian cause. 🖤💚🤍❤🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸 We are fundraising such donations to have the least basic needs of life and to help find safety and peace for the little kids who don't deserve to lead such horrific situations. Thanks to your contribution, my family is on its halfway to reach the goal. All forms of your help make a difference to free the people who have been struggling and paying much for almost 300 hard days. ✌✌✌🖤💚🤍❤🇵🇸🇵🇸 Please keep supporting the fairest cause of the world either by directly donating or sharing the link to let others know. Don't hesitate to help people in tough and dire times till the black days end. https://gofund.me/4eee3d76" NOTE: nabulsi's post vetting this fundraiser tags @/aymanayyad81, which has since been terminated. explanation: "Hello my friend ! Sorry for interrupting but I want to let you know I changed my blog into aymanayyad82 instead of aymanayyad81 because it has been unfairly terminated. Such unjust action affects my campaign badly whole I am in bad need to have a larger audience. Thank you so much for your brave stand with the people of Gaza." (via an ask from their reblogs)

@alhabil | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost , el-shab-hussein

���15,316 raised of €50,000 goal (31%)

"Hello My Freind 🌹 I want your support My house was destroyed and I am currently living in a tent with my children 😞 My Mom and Dad who suffer from chronic diseases, They need urgent medical care and medications that are not available 💔 Please help my family by donating or reblog my campaign is going very slowly 🙏🍉 ."

@tameraldeeb | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost , nabulsi , ibtisams , el-shab-hussein , fairuzfan

€22,213 raised of €40,000 goal (56%)

"Hello there, 👋 I am Tamer Aldeeb, a dentist from Gaza. We have suffered greatly from fear, displacement, and the destruction of our home and my clinic, and everything we literally own... We want to save ourselves from what seems like an inevitable death. I hope you can take a look at our campaign on the pinned post on my profile ,and help us by donating or sharing our campaign to reach the largest number of supporters.🌹🌹 Our campaign is verified by @/90-ghost , @/ibtisams , @/el-shab-hussein , @/nabulsi and @/fairuzfan 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸 Thanks a lot in advance ❤️❤️❤️"

@islamgazaaccount2 | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost and riding-with-the-wild-hunt

€420 raised of €30,000 goal (1.4%)

"Hello there 👋 Islam, a 27-year-old from Gaza, is currently sleeping on the streets without any form of shelter or safety for himself and his family. Their home was demolished by a bombing from the Israeli occupation. While shelter is crucial, they also urgently need food and water. All of their necessities were taken away. Islam tried sharing a donation link, but with limited followers, it wasn't reaching enough people. Thankfully, he created a GoFundMe account, making it easier for those who want to help. Please consider sharing Islam's story and donating to his GoFundMe. Even a small contribution can make a big difference in their time of need. 🙏❤️ https://gofund.me/08ed0b8c This fundraiser is on the following list of vetted ones and has been verified by @/90-ghost and @/riding-with-the-wild-hunt"

@ahmed4palestine | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost

$12,140 raised of $20,000 goal (61%)

"Hello, I am Ahmed. The war destroyed my life. Can you help me? I need 3 things from you: Share, repost, and donate if you are able to donate. Thank you for listening to me My post link 👇💕 https://www.tumblr.com/ahmed4palestine/756439898525974528/urgent My GFM link 👇🔗 https://gofund.me/1d8bb3df" NOTE: his fundraiser was vetted under his previous account (ahmedtaban22), which has now been terminated. the gfm is the same.

@save-hijazi-family | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost

€3,484 raised of €20,000 goal (17%)

"URGENT CALL FOR HELP 🍉🚨🚨🚨 Hi everyone I'm Mohammed Hijazi from Gaza 🍉 and I'm displaced from home with my sick father and with my family. I'm verified by 90ghost and northgazaupdate My father needs an urgent surgery and urgent help. And we live in a very hard life conditions in a tent. Please 🥺 stand with us and support us as much as you can Donate 🙏 🙏 Share , reblog my pined post, Do as much as you can to save our life. My family Depends on you 😞🙏" NOTE: mohammed's fundraiser was vetted under the account @/savemohammedfamily. i'm unsure why the accounts are different, but the gfm links direct to the same fundraiser.

@684599 | donate (gfm) | verified by 90-ghost

€975 raised of €100,000 goal (0.9%)

"welcome everybody I am Muhammad Imad Abdel Latif Sharab First, after an aggressive war on Gaza City and its revival, we were displaced from our 3-storey house in which I and my family of 3 members live. My father's family consists of 8 members My grandfather, may God have mercy on him, was martyred by occupation aircraft on 12/14/2023. The one who was martyred while he was leaving the house to check on our house next to him, which could not be reached due to a brutal enemy who does not differentiate between anyone in death, went out to check on our house, which we were not in because of my displacement to Rafah, me, my father, and our families due to the intensity of the fighting in Khan Yunis, and after that A few days ago, our store in which my father and brothers work was bombed by occupation aircraft. He was working to gather his strength from it and meet the needs of our house, which no longer exists due to the bombing. We ask you to help and contribute, even if just a little, by donating to us so that we can compensate for a little of what we lost. Many thanks to you 😢 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 If you do not understand the words well, because I am not very good at English, but I ask you to help me with money so that I can compensate for even a little of what I lost, and I am very grateful to you, my dears😢🥺😢🥺😢🥺🥺😢" NOTE: this fundraiser has been verified by 90-ghost but not yet vetted.

@siiraj2024 | donate (gfm) | vetted by nabulsi

$10,856 CAD raised of $82,000 goal (13%)

"My dear friend, Welcome, I hope you are well *Subject/Invitation to support me in rebuilding the house* When the hope of returning home evaporates, and you become displaced and homeless without housing, for an open period, you feel that all your energy has been exhausted, and terrifying nightmares begin to dominate your mind. I worked long hours and borrowed a lot to complete the house, and I am not happy with it yet. Now all I have is the tent, in which I will stay until an unknown date. My children are living in a state of despair and loss, and how difficult it is to stand in front of them when you are unable to provide them with food, drink, and housing. My goal now is to rebuild the house, and I am very far from the goal that is a dream for us, so how difficult it is to become homeless indefinitely. You can help in the following ways: 1. Provide support and share the last 5 posts on my page. 2. Writing a post about my campaign. 3. Send the campaign link to your friends and family via mail or other social networking sites. 4. Post the question on your page as it is. The campaign is documented by Nabulsi✅ Accept my greetings🌹 Note: Please contact me via messages if necessary https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-sirajs-family-in-rebuilding-their-home"

@momen-alostaz | donate (gfm) | vetted by el-shab-hussein (#125)

€14,408 raised of €70,000 goal (21%)

"momen alostaz, my old account (@/momenalostaz) has been blocked because I am from the Gaza Strip. I hope that this post will spread to the largest number of friends and that the new account will be published to you, with many thanks and gratitude." (from a different ask)

@abdelmutei | donate (gfm) | vetted by 90-ghost

€1,152 raised of €50,000 goal (2.3%)

"Hello, I am Abdel Muti, I am 27 years old. I live in Palestine, Gaza, and I am displaced in southern Gaza. I am married. My wife is 23 years old, and my daughter, Juri, is 2 years old. We are displaced in southern Gaza, and our situation is very, very difficult, and we wish death from the few, because there is nothing for the necessities of life, especially hygiene, and the spread of dangerous diseases, and I am afraid. To my family, and I hope you will help us collect donations so that we can go out of Gazahttps://gofund.me/f285fe86"