#so far so goode

[superblycaffeinated]

We're back and ready to share the new and re-written story! I hope those that were reading the original So Far, So Goode are still with me, and for those of you that are new, welcome 🧡 I can't wait to hear what people think and I hope you enjoy it! Head on over to the So Far, So Goode masterlist here for information on the story, general warnings, and last, but certainly not least - the music. I'll be posting here and on Ao3 (under superbcoffeedrinkersubparwriter) - but you need to be a registered user to read over there. CW: description of guns

Chapter One:

To be honest with you, I used to think I was the furthest a person could possibly be from lonely. 

Which, I suppose, is because I had never really been alone long enough to ponder the true depth of all that surrounds the word, feeling - state. The more I think about it, the more I start to doubt if I’ve even touched the surface of what it means to be alone. 

I’m a triplet, so I haven’t been physically alone even before birth, save for the one minute and forty seven seconds both my brothers were out in the world before I arrived. Also, not only am I a triplet, but one of five Goode kids. Plus, there are my two cousins, and all of the Goodes that aren’t Goodes, but hell, yell the name in a room and they’ll all be turning their heads (a phenomenon I’m told goes well into the past). Long story short, I have a lot of family, making it almost impossible to ever be alone. 

Since there are so many of us, I guess I should clarify which Goode I am for the official record or whatever? Believe it or not, I haven’t actually written a formal CoveOps report before this. Despite receiving a superior education in the field I wish to enter, I’ve never once encountered any training on how to write one of these things. My educators (and family) claim paperwork is the worst part of the job, so maybe they hold off until it’s too late and it just never gets taught? I don’t know. All this is to say, don’t judge me it’s not up to, like, professional standards, okay? 

My name is Joelene Macey Goode, but everyone calls me Joey or Jo. I know most people hate nicknames, but I honestly prefer it over my full one. Not that Joelene is a bad name, but you try living eighteen years with people singing terribly offkey at you while you stand there awkwardly. So, no offense to Dolly, but I can’t hear Jolene without wincing now (but if you read this Ms. Parton, from one Gallagher Girl to another - you rule!). 

And yup, that’s me. A Gallagher Girl. My identity, my cover, my school - all for the last five and half years of my life. 

Since you’re reading this, I’m sure you know exactly who we are and what we do at The Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, and you may be thinking you know all there is to know about us Gallagher Girls, but I am no ordinary one. 

I’m a legacy, a fourth generation one to be exact. Meaning, a lot of Goodes (in one form or another) have walked those hallowed halls. They slept in the same rooms, they took the same classes, they ate the same creme brulee and then crushed records or did impressive enough things to end up with their pictures in our hallways and their names in our history textbooks (the ones that tell the real history that is). And they did it all before graduating. 

It’d be one thing if it was just their accomplishments to live up to, but it’s the footsteps attached to the person attached to the name, that I’m truly scrambling behind. 

Because, yes, you’ve been reading that last name correctly. 

Goode. 

Maybe you’ve heard of us? The best family in the biz, as Grandpa likes to boast.

I don’t like to phrase it quite that way too often as Grandpa usually gets a look from Grandma and mom that could kill him. And I mean, literally kill him, if Peter and I hadn’t accidentally broken the specific pair of glasses meant for such a thing on our fourteenth birthday. 

Because, as I’m sure you’re very aware of, by the “biz”, Grandpa and I mean that martini shaking and pouring while dodging a bullet, running from the explosion in a suit hand in hand with a girl in heels, passionate kiss or dramatic monologue before jumping out of the moving train kind of stuff. 

Spy craft. 

Espionage. 

The cool shit. 

But don’t worry, I know that stuff doesn’t really happen and it’s all for the cinematic experience. 

Why my Grandpa gets the looks, is because saying that “we’re the best in the biz” goes against everything my parents have told me and my four siblings our entire lives. That the name doesn’t mean we carry and wield this magical power. Being a Goode doesn’t allow us to assume we’re the best without working towards anything. 

My parents weren’t wrong, and I’ve never, ever, once taken my last name to mean I could do what I wanted with zero consequences. In fact, it’s made me believe the exact opposite. It isn’t zero consequences when we mess up, it’s an astronomical amount. Because, when you’re a Goode, you’re not just messing up, all Goodes are too. 

Instead of skating by on the merit of the name, I’ve spent my entire adolescence feeling as if I need to rise and thensome to earn the name that was simply just given to me because of my blood. 

Oh you’re their daughter? So you can do this like that? Why yes, as a matter of fact I am the daughter of agents Morgan and Luke Goode, and while I can do it like that, I’ve been forbidden from doing it in the house, or from using it on my brothers, thanks for asking. 

Also, yeah, you read those names correctly too. The best agents (in my totally unbiased opinion of course) the CIA has ever seen, are my parents. 

So, you see, I’ve got Goode blood, and not just any. I have to do this. I have boots to fill and make my own impressive steps with -  a name I have to live up to. 

I’ll admit though, that the name, the legacy of it all, the movies I love, the training - none of it compares to the real reason I have to be a spy. 

It’s a word, pretty well known around these parts, maybe you’ve heard of it?

Classified. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone tells me I can’t know or that I can’t do something, I cannot rest until I know all the information or I do the thing. 

I’m told this lovely trait of mine comes from my mother, and a little bit of my dad, and potentially a whole lot from a great grandmother I’ll never know. So, I take breaks. I've learned when it’s time to take a step back - a breather - before I let the need to know or do swallow me whole. But I can’t let it go fully, not really, not until it’s done. 

Which is why I have to be a spy, and not only a spy, but the best. Because if I’m the best, then that word is never going to be in my way again. Knowledge is power, and power is privilege, and privilege is responsibility. 

So, when my mother was home for my entire Summer break, I knew it was my responsibility to -

Hold on. Let me backup. I don’t think that came out with the emphasis it requires to get my point across. 

My mother, current and working agent Morgan Goode, of The CIA was home, doing “nothing”. All. Summer. 

Something stunk, and it wasn’t just Andy and Peter’s disgusting socks that quite literally could have been radioactive. 

All summer, the feeling that my great grandpa - Grandpa Joe  - always tells me to never ignore, sat heavy in my gut. 

A spy’s gut is their number one weapon, Joelene, and the longer mine felt off, my nerves frayed and sparked until the slow, incessant heat of something wrong, finally caught fire and I couldn’t ignore the burn any longer. 

As mom took hushed phone calls and locked herself in the office of our safe house for hours, I felt the inside of that room and its contents calling to me like a flame does to a moth, or in my case, the opposite. I was the flame, engulfed, consumed by my need to know and that office and what was happening behind its closed door was the moth I was destined to devour. 

And that was all before she used that awful, horrible, no good for shit word. 

The classified of it all would have tipped me over the edge regardless, but it was the fact that it was my mom who said it that really sealed my fate. 

I can count, on my two hands, the total number of times my mother has said that something was classified to me, without my dad prompting her to do so. She’s always been a little…shall we say looser? with information. She is the one who always sort of half answers our questions until dad is stepping in. He’s constantly reminding her that her children are not supposed to know that she stopped a bomb in Brazil or saved an ambassador to France and that she’s, “making us think it’s okay for them to sneak out of their heavily guarded and safe schools and fly to foreign countries when it is absolutely not okay and don’t even think about it.”

I’ve heard dad’s speech so many times, that I promise you, even if I wasn’t trained to recall intimate details and information, I would still be able to tell you it verbatim.

That speech wasn’t gonna stop me because it never has, and, as I’ve previously stated, I have that trait that makes it so I can’t let things go. 

My dad shoved puzzles and code-breaking books at me all Summer. I beat Peter and Andy at Super Mario Brothers (the old one, from the 80’s, as Luigi - do you know how hard that is?). I beat Grandpa at Scrabble twice (which, okay, wasn’t that hard to do), and was forbidden from playing Monopoly with Peter inside the house ever again. I watched twenty-two spy movies, sixteen rom-coms, and five westerns. I learned the dance to Push It by Salt ‘n’ Pepa, mastered the Swift maneuver (that’s Taylor, by the way) and none of it worked. 

At my wit’s end is when mom caught me staring at a vent in the hallway between bites of Fruit Loops. Calculations and assumptions of what would stand between me and the other side seemingly apparent on my thinking face as my milk turned pink and the cereal turned squishy, because mom shook her head slowly without lifting her eyes from a newspaper. 

While, when she did lift her gaze, there was a distinct glint in her green eyes that could have you believing she was amused, her tone told me all I needed to know when she said, “Don’t even think about it if you love your eyebrows.” Which I really do (I have part of my namesake to thank for that - she never once let me take a tweezers to them no matter what the trends said) so, Operation Vent was out. 

But a threat such as this was an obstacle of child’s play proportions. Potential eyebrow removal standing between me and information? It was fuel to an already raging fire, a carrot in front of a bunny, a tailored suit and a shaken not stirred martini before the finest double o seven. 

So, on the morning of my mother’s birthday, the day before me and my brothers were to head off to school for our Senior year, I knew it was my last chance. 

I was careful to avoid the creak of the floorboard directly to the left of my bed as I semi-rolled off of it. 

Landing on socked feet, I held my breath as I glanced up at the bed across from mine. The eldest of all my siblings and us Goode kids, my sister Collins, was still asleep. Her chest rose and fell evenly under a buttercup yellow duvet and flat palms, her straight brown hair fanned over her pillow and framed her peaceful face. 

She looked like a goddamn Disney princess even in her sleep and I’ve hated her since we were kids for it. 

I hated her even more when my fingers had barely touched the cool metal of our door knob and her whisper sliced through the silence sharper than any knife my Grandpa had taught us to throw. 

“Whatever it is you’re about to do, it’s not a good idea and you should go back to sleep.”

“I’m just going pee,” I lied easily. 

She rolled her gorgeous eyes from her pillow, still laying on her side. 

Collins, of all my siblings, is the most made to be a pavement artist. She is a natural at blending, at becoming whoever she needs to be, but her eyes have always given her away. They’re a soft and warm brown most of the time, but depending on what she’s wearing or the lighting around her, touches of green and blue come out. But no matter what color they are, they’re far too expressive. 

Amusement and maybe a little pride shown in them then, her hands roamed under her cheek and her legs tucked up under the sheets as she spoke. “You have your lucky shirt on, and your lock picking set in your pocket. But sure, you’re going to the bathroom.”

“You never saw me,” I whispered, and practically somersaulted (to avoid the door hinges squeaking) out of the closest thing either of us had known to a childhood bedroom.

Spies aren’t totally devoid of feeling and emotion like the movies and novels would like you to think. They’re humans too, and crave and need a place to call home - they just need to be more careful about it, is all. 

Growing up, we moved around DC a lot, but I’m sure our actual address was in California or Idaho or something. Grandma and Grandpa took care of us quite a bit when we were really little. One of my earliest memories is Grandpa teaching me the signs for when grilled cheese is ready to flip while also teaching me the exact spot to press with a precise pressure that makes your enemy release without control (a method he so humbly calls The Zach Attack, by the way) at their ranch in the Midwest. 

There, and here, are the only two safe houses I’ve returned to. This one, close enough to school and DC, but not too close, is my childhood home if the life of a spy allowed such a thing. Sometimes, when I think about this place, I’m filled with an undeniable grief that makes my chest ache with something heavy. Because I know that one day, and maybe one not so far off, I’ll never return to it. 

This is not where, if I choose to have them, my kids will take their first steps. A boyfriend won’t show up on this doorstep with flowers and a handshake for my dad. There aren’t lines of mine and my siblings' heights tracked, there aren’t framed photos hung on the walls, there is no attic full of boxes of baby clothes or memories too fond to get rid of. 

Sure, there’s still little touches of our family here though. A dent in Andy and Peter’s room from where I flung open the door repeatedly hitting the knob into the wall. Peeling stickers of rock bands Peter and I plastered on the underside of the shelf in my closet. Scratches and scuffs on the hardwood from chairs being pushed away from the huge gathering table. A bright blue nail polish stain on the carpet in mom and dad’s room where Leia and I spilt it. We all give the fridge an extra bump with our hip to make sure it stays closed and we hit the top of the entrance to the living room as we pass underneath it. 

It’s my home. And like any girl in her home, and like any spy, I know its sounds, its tricks and secrets, its shadows. 

And sure, Collins caught me before I even left the bedroom, but that didn’t matter. If I avoided certain floor boards, if I kept low, and I worked slowly, I was convinced I could break into the office without anyone, particularly my mother, ever knowing. 

I had managed to slip down the entire hallway without a hitch, and was knelt in front of the office door with my compact lock picking set (an actual compact with the ability to unlock anything, thanks to my Aunt Macey) when I heard something. 

Hearing something, in the early hours of the morning, before the sky has really even transitioned from black to indigo, isn’t out of the ordinary. 

But hearing something, at a remote safe house, when your entire family should be asleep, is out of the ordinary. 

While I noticed the noise outside, I had failed to notice things, plural - my family’s number one rule. 

Because I failed to notice the lack of a competing snore with Peter’s and the smell of cinnamon, I’m not proud to admit I jumped when my mother’s figure slipped around the corner from the kitchen and her voice calmly and quietly asked me, “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately, because I knew if my mother was clarifying if she wasn’t alone in hearing something, it was serious. There would be time to discuss how I was literally caught in the act of breaking and entering later. 

My mother stood at the end of the hallway, a steaming cup of coffee nestled between her hands. I snort and roll my eyes whenever anyone tells me I look like her. My mother is gorgeous, undeniably so, and while I may have her dark brown curls and green eyes, there’s no way I look like her.

Especially then, when she looked so much like a regular mom. My dad’s old SIX sweatshirt hung from tense shoulders. Worn navy fabric engulfed her frame, slightly covering rumpled pajama pants covered in penguins. Her brown curls were piled high on top of her head, loose pieces falling free and erratic.

But I knew about the scars under the sleeves, and the prosthetic beneath the penguins, and the look behind the green eyes. She was the furthest thing from a regular mom, especially when a louder thunk happened outside in what could be considered our driveway. 

Mom knelt slowly, her gaze on the front of the house that I couldn’t see, as the door knob in front of me started to twist. Before I could even tell her, she calmly and quietly just said, “Dad.”

I’ve always known my parents were good spies, but I never thought I’d see it in action, like this. 

The office door slowly opened, and dad barely looked at me, completely unphased as he called, “Morgan?”

He was equally fresh from sleep. A Blackthorne shirt pulled tight across his chest where letters faded and his plaid pajama pants wrinkled, looking so exceptionally dad, except for the black pistol in his hand. 

I was suddenly and acutely aware of a real threat. This was not CoveOps. This wasn’t P & E. This wasn’t a fun field trip Grandma had taken us on to Roseville with Uncle Matt. The gun without a safety ready to shoot in my father’s hand spoke the words I’d been fearing for years - this is real, and you’re not prepared, are you Joelene?

“Here, I’m fi-”

Two doors at the end of the hallway opened, cutting her off. 

My brothers blinked, heavy lids opening and closing sleepily but awake enough to assess the severity of the situation. Shirtless torsos tense as they both stared at the gun in my father’s hand and then at me with matching hard frowns. Their expressions were the beginning and end of their similarities. Peter’s brown hair was disheveled, curls flattened in some spots and sticking straight out in others. Andy’s blond was slightly less askew, if only because it was shorter. His green eyes landed exactly two inches taller than Peter’s brown, but his shoulders took up far less space in the doorway than Peter’s broad frame. One made to slip in and out of places he wasn’t supposed to and the other to barrel into anything that got in his way in the process. 

Collins, who must have determined I’d need the assist, was dressed for the occasion in all black and glaring at me from her spot crouched in our doorway. 

“I told you it was a bad-”

The front door knob rattled and my father was pushing me behind him as he stepped out of the office fully. He quickly made his way down the hallway, and I felt more than heard the steps of three of my siblings backing me up. 

Dad made to grab for my mother until she held her hand up, all of us freezing at her silent command.  

I’m convinced my parents have two different bodies. 

There’s the mom and dad bodies. The soft spot on my dad’s chest that’s perfect for a cheek to rest while listening to him read Shakespeare. The hands my mom gently runs over our heads, carefully detangling my curls. Arms and hands that twirl bodies around the kitchen in time with old music, heads that throw back in laughter with ease. 

Then, there are their highly trained take no shit I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine spy bodies. 

I hadn’t really seen these versions of my parents until then. Sure, I’d seen them fight, we all have dad to thank for our own stances. But this was different. These were shoulders and hips that stood with purpose, strong, planted, but ready to move. Arms that held a gun steady and sure. Eyes that communicated with each other without mouths saying a word. Bodies that were inherently made to protect, to fight. 

To kill. 

It was in less time than it took me to blink that their bodies transformed back into their mom and dad versions. 

The gun dropped to my dad’s side, their shoulders fell, tears quickly made my mom’s eyes glassy and both of them breathed out a name in the way only parents can. 

“Leia.”

I’d never seen my dad move so quickly, disappearing around the corner before my mom could. 

A quiet and familiar giggle burst out from the entryway, thick with tears as she whispered, “Hi, daddy.”

The four of us barreled down the hallway, tripping over each other and shoving, not believing it was her without seeing it for ourselves. 

Mom disappeared next, accompanied by the voice that couldn’t possibly be there, louder, and happier than her first words, “Happy Birthday!”

“What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you tell us? Your dad could have -”

“Because it was a surprise,” my other sister interrupted my mother in a way I’ve never been brave enough to do so and I knew it was really her. Here. Especially when she said, “Where are the idiots?”

If Collins was made to blend, Leia was born to stand out. Even in an olive green t-shirt and camo government issued pants, Leia Goode sparkled, she glowed. Her blonde curls were pulled into a uniform low bun, and I had never seen her so tan, or her muscles so defined. Her green eyes practically glittered when the four of us rounded the corner, and her dimple poked out on her cheek and her freckled covered nose scrunched as she smiled. 

Collins managed to reach her first, but we all slammed into her, tripping over the two large green duffles at her feet as we all fell to the ground in a laughing and crying heap of chaos - our speciality. 

Leia winced under all of us, quick and quiet enough that if we weren’t who we all were, if we weren’t all still a little on edge, we wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Are you hurt?” Collins pushed all of us out of the way, gaze roaming over Leia protectively. Nurse Collins activated and assessing. 

“No,” Leia shrugged. But not the kind of shrug that admits you’re lying, the kind that, delivered properly, and with the right expression she currently wore, made you think you were crazy for asking. Of course she wasn’t hurt, why would you think such a thing? 

Normally, this expert lie delivery could win awards, and I’m sure Leia thought she was in the clear, on her way to The Academy to collect hers. But, the thing is, our parents are not normal parents. And while many parents seem to have this, like, engrained skill to suss out a lie, spy parents are worse. 

Way worse.

Each of them took a step closer, crossing their arms as they stared down at Leia like they weren’t thrilled to have her home. 

It was a shared look we’d all come to know extremely well. Without moving or saying anything, they seemed to circle you, pulling out your lie with only their eyes, making you spill your guts easily. 

They were good and highly trained, and we were no match for them. We all knew it was easier to fold - don’t lie when you’ve already been caught, don’t lie to the people who know your tells better than you do. 

But Leia stood with ease, and smiled. She shrugged again and looked at my parents without wavering. 

“I’m fin-”

“Don’t,” my mom narrowed her eyes with the word. She sucked in a breath, and I knew a speech was coming, but Leia threw her hands up in the air with a groan. 

“Alright! There was a tiny incident. It’s already healing.”

Andy’s fist clenched at his side, his jaw pulsing as he asked, “What happened?”

Leia pinched the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb, closing her eyes in the process so she couldn’t see how my mom’s lips twitched in the fight of a smile or how her gaze made pointed contact with my dad’s. 

It was something we’d all seen him do a hundred times at least and before Leia could answer, Peter snorted, hands covering his mouth as his shoulder shook. 

Collins bit her lip, unable to hide her grin. Andy shivered, muttering “That’s scary.” I sucked in a breath, fighting a wheeze and Peter fell against me, laughing harder. 

Leia’s eyes flew open, looking around with a frown. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” my mom shook her head, tucking one of Leia’s stray curls back behind her ear, “What happened?”

Leia frowned, placed her hands on her hips and huffed. 

“It’s classified.”

Mom snorted and we all lost it. Dad grinned and kissed Leia’s forehead right above where her eyebrows knit together as she whined about how she didn’t get it and that someone needed to tell her what was so funny right now. 

It didn’t matter why she was home, or that she hadn’t answered the question, not really. It didn’t matter that I still didn't know what was going on in the office all summer. It didn’t matter that my dad had a gun and had been ready to use it. 

All that mattered was that we were laughing, and safe, and together for the first time in a long time. 

[dirtytransmasc]

the men and boys are innocent too.

we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.

I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.

I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.

I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.

I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.

the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.

[marzipanandminutiae]

"hey why are all the barrier garments like linen shirts or chemises or combinations going away?"

"oh we have more washable fabrics now! you don't need to worry about sweat reaching your outer clothing when you can just chuck it in the washing machine!"

"cool!"

[100 years later]

"so uh all of those new washable fabrics are leaching microplastics into our water, and the constant machine-washing wears garments out faster. they're also not really sturdy enough to be mended, so we keep having to throw them out and now the planet is covered in plastic fabric waste that will never break down. also it turns out that the new washable fabrics hold odor-causing bacteria VERY well. so could we get those barrier garments back please?"

"sorry babe linen now costs $100000/yard and since it's been so long without them, nobody knows how to adapt barrier garments to the current styles anyway"

"..."

"maybe try this new $50 undershirt made of Special Sweat-Wicking Plastic Fabric! :) :) :)"

[verflares]

just how long is forever? // not long enough, with you

pssst. check this out on inprnt :]

[vamprisms]

science fiction was invented so lesbians would have something to talk about with their fathers

[avarkriss]

listen. listen to me so carefully right now. (if you're in the eclipse path/planning on viewing). please don't stare directly at the sun tomorrow. i am begging you - do not stare at it. if you got eclipse glasses off of amazon/other, please put them on in your house and make sure you can't see anything; if you can still see like regular sun glasses, they are not safe for eclipse viewing, you will burn your retinas, and we cannot fix that. eclipse glasses should be iso/ce certified, and aas (american astronomical society) approved. please make smart choices and protect your eyes. please.

[octarineblues]

supporting communities & people impacted by the Southport attack and the far-right riots in the UK

here is a list of community fundraisers I found, starting with those aiming to support the Southport community after the appalling attack at a children dance party, to the fundraisers helping those affected by the subsequent racist and Islamophobic far-right/nazi riots

Edited on 5 August to include Middlesbrough fundraisers. Edited on 6 August to correct the link on the Books for Spellow Lane fundraiser, to adjust the name change for the Belfast fundraiser, and to adjust the wording in the second last paragraph.

Southport:

Southport Strong Together Appeal - organised by the community foundation for Merseyside, for those affected by the Southport knife attack

United for Southport families - the funds will be distributed among the nine families of the children who were at the party

Swifties for Southport - a fundraiser for the Alder Hey Children's charity, which supports the victims and the affected families, as well as first responders and clinicians. Extra funds will also support the wider Southport community

Fundraiser for the Southport Mosque - a fundraiser to aid rebuilding or possibly re-locating the Southport Mosque after the damages it suffered during the riots

Rebuilding Windsor Mini Mart - fundraiser to rebuild the locally-owned grocery store that was targeted during the attacks, broken into, and looted

Liverpool:

Fundraiser for the Spellow Hub - the Spellow Hub was broken into, looted and set on fire at night during the riots. The Spellow Hub is a newly created one-of-a-kind (in the UK) institution, which consists of a library as well as a community centre with a mission to help people get education and pathways to work

Books for Spellow Lane - another fundraiser for the library in the Spellow Hub, to replace the books and rebuild the library there edit: included the correct link

Hartlepool:

Fundraiser for the Nasir Mosque - the Nasir Mosque was attacked following Southport riots; this fundraiser is organised by Hartlepool citizens to help the mosque deal with the damages as well as to show appreciation for the role of the mosque in the community. edit: the funds will be also distributed to the local community!

Rebuilding the Farm Shop - the shop was targeted during the riots, and when the owner and his son tried to protect it, they were also violently attacked. The fundraiser is to help fix the damages to the store.

Sunderland:

help rebuild Citizens Advice Sunderland offices after arson - two of the Citizens Advice Sunderland offices were set on fire during the riots, and one of them is completely destroyed.

Hull:

Hull Help for Refugees - a local fundraiser to support the Hull Help for Refugees charity, the donated money will be re-distributed to community members affected by the riots

Fundraiser for Hull Help for Refugees and Welcome House in Hull - collected money will be donated to the two charities

Belfast:

help fix racially motivated damages - originally the fundraiser for the Sahara Shisha Cafe which was targeted by the far right in Belfast during the riots, now a fundraiser for all affected businesses in the area. edited to reflect the change of the name of the fundraiser to avoid any confusion

Middlesbrough:

Supporting residents after the riots - Middlesbrough has suffered so much during the riots, lots of businesses as well as just regular family homes were vandalised, had their windows smashed or even were broken into. This fundraiser wants to distribute the funds between affected people to help them fix the damages, and to generally support the local community. the newest fundraiser, imo potentially the most urgent one

Fundraiser for a Care worker's car which was set on fire - a car belonging to an employee of a care agency was set on fire during the riots while he was on shift at a care home.

If you want to donate locally but there is no fundraiser to support where you live, consider donating to your local charities oriented towards Muslim or PoC communities, or towards anti-racist and refugee organizations! And go support your local Muslim/Arab/Black/Asian/Refugee owned businesses!

If you have any information about other local fundraisers, feel free to add to the post or don't hesitate to let me know and I will add them here! We have seen so much hate in the past few days, we have to stay strong and keep supporting each other!

Stay safe everyone 💛

[hinamie]

quick itfs sketch page

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[mebis-art-dump]

She is so cool

[carbonatedeverclear]

purity culture ruins people’s ability to engage with works that deal with serious issues and it’s disheartening to see people entirely miss the point of a work because they are guided by a knee jerk reaction towards disgust and I need to ramble

so, I’m reading a book called Jawbone by Monica Ojeda and it’s a very interesting horror novel that centers around puberty and teen girls and their relationships to their mothers. One of the bigger themes in the book is the idea of shame revolving around sexual development. One of the main characters is a young lesbian who is developing feelings for her best friend and has a mother who is incredibly homophobic and disapproving and in part of the book there’s a scene where this character talks about her mother catching her masturbating and the way that she is disgusted by her daughter and kind of this horror around being viewed as having lost your innocence from experiencing something that is common and should be mundane. sexual development is seen as a horrific and sinful action and that causes this character trauma through the rest of the book surrounding the way that her mother looks at her and how her mother is going to react when she finds out that she’s gay it’s a book that deals with a lot of topics around sexual shame. For example, another character is so terrified of the sin of masturbation that she keeps herself from masturbating by imagining being raped by men in her family who she cares about because it disgusts her and keeps her from achieving sexual arousal. the book itself shows that the action of the character masturbating when she’s six years old is an innocent action. It’s one that comes from curiousity and just what happens when you have a body. The book is very clear that the act is being sexualized by the adults around her and their reactions feel violating.

So it is infuriating to then go from reading this book to trying to read reviews of this book and finding that the first review on Goodreads is a one star review that just says “in this book a six-year-old masturbates 🤮” participating in the same disgust with the natural sexual development of young girls that the book itself tries to depict as a horrifying and violating way to view children and puberty 

[superblycaffeinated]

these stories contain mega spoilers for both Gallagher Girls and The Listen Series

stories from the POV of and about my OC next next generation kids introduced in the series "Goode Intentions" (Joelene, Peter, Anderson, Leia, Collins, and more)

"First Day" - the one where Leia Goode starts at Gallagher Academy

Collins Charlotte Goode - the one who breaks tradition

Leia Scout Goode - the one who arrives when she wants to

Trouble Makers - the one with Collins & Leia as toddlers

Surprise! - the one where Collins & Leia become big sisters

Anderson Matthew Goode - the quiet one

Peter Zachary Goode - the annoying little brother and protective older brother

Joelene Macey Goode - the baby

[tea-earl-grey]

The Pantheon of Discord

[latepivi]

happy april

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF Mikes and Vanessas talk about money struggles,,

[nyerusnova]

yeah... things are pretty yikes right now in the current batfam storyline,

but at least Tim is rocking those thigh-high boots and I just wanted to appreciate that for a sec