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liliannadelaphinehartifelt · 3 months

Note

Helloo!

Idk if you take requests , but could you maybe write a fic with Human!Alastor and male!reader where reader exaggerates his whole personality to comply with everyone else and is easily exhausted from it and Alastor "relaxses" reader in that way ?

Thank you in advance and have a good day !

Alastor - [ MASQUERADE ]

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A/N: This request really made me brainstorm but I've decided to break it into 2 parts. I hope you'll enjoy it! As always kindly lmk the artist of the fanart so I can tag them and give proper credit! ❤️

WARNINGS: [ SLIGHT NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ SUGGESTIVE THEMES ] + [ MALE READER ] + [ FLUFF…if you squint ]

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“You're on air in ten minutes, Y/n. Pick it up before the host gets restless!”

Your so-called manager barked from the dressing room doorway, giving one last glare your way before strutting off, grumbling a string of curses you'd learned to ignore.

“Asshole…” you scoffed, turning back to the striped mirror of your vanity; the large bulbs that lit it gave enough light in the old stuffy backstage space, illuminating every detail of your appearance.

Not one thing could be out of place.

You wouldn't allow it, committed to your role as a rising preformer in the golden age of the stage, and conditioned to perfectionist standards from years of tribulations

Suffering behind a practiced smile won you your stardom. The ambiguous beauty you possessed helped immensely in your success on the silver screen, but the truest contributor to your fame was appeal.

Humourous, intellectual, but most crucial, sex appeal.

That's what kept your admires enthralled, permanently put you in the limelight from the start, and inevitably earned you considerable amounts of money.

You weren't opposed to being called a child of Dionysus himself, envied by those who wanted you. Still, the burden of putting on a show for everyone every day without giving them a glimpse of your faults was excruciating.

Yet, you chose the burden over sulking in the darkness, remaining among the ordinary when you so clearly had the makings of a star, and your status of high popularity among the masses was proof of it.

So be it if your cheeks ached from smiling at frivolous fans that your laugh sounded less like your own the more you forced it, that flirtations of others felt like empty praises, or that every project you agreed to felt less and less stimulating.

So fucking be it.

Fame is fickle; you knew this all too well, but your existence felt meaningless without it.

Empty.

All the world's riches, the undivided favor you garnered from the public, and the sparkling awards cluttered your penthouse display shelves…

Even with all that at your fingertips, you had yet to feel seen…

Seen and truly adored.

“Two fucking minutes! Get your ass in position. This interview is being broadcast live, remember?” your manager harped at you from the hall, causing you to grunt in frustration before yelling back, “Would you shut your trap?! Fucking hell…I'm coming!”

You set aside the whiskey glass in your left hand, ran your right through your recently styled hair, and checked your reflection one last time.

“It's only a radio show. One little interview and you can go home and get black-out drunk…” the idea of spending some much-deserved time alone after running around doing a press tour brought a sad smile to your face as you stood and exited the dim room.

This would be your last stop, an interview with Louisiana’s prided radio host, and the last person you'd need to put a show on for before returning home.

“Finally…” your manager grumbled as you stepped into the hall, giving you a once over as the two of you strolled down the hall towards the host recording area, “Don't fuck this up. People say this ones a real talker and can make or break ya..” he mumbled begrudgingly.

You paid his incessant pestering no mind, flashing him a suave smile as you both stopped before a heavy door, “Don't tell me you're starting to care about my reputation now? Thought you only saw me as a nice money grab…”

Your smile grew as laughter bubled in your chest, seeing the other slowly become agitated at your backhanded comments.

“Why, you little-”

“Oh, don't be rude, sir. You'll spoil my good mood, and god knows sour spirits bring bad luck,” you smirked, enjoying the scrunch of his nose as his expression reflected his true nature, but before he could snap, you pushed the door open and slipped into the soundproofed station room.

What a fucking pain he is…

You cursed the raging man outside, sighing softly as the sound of jazz lingered through the air and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with a distinct cologne engulfed you.

The space felt and looked inviting, relaxing even, but what caught your attention was the man who occupied it.

He sat in a desk chair across the small room, facing a table full of controls and a mic to match. His face was lowered from the device, glasses resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose as he stared at what you assumed was a script for your conversation with him, but the simmering amazement overtook your curiosity about the paper he held you felt hearing him hum along to the song he was airing.

You didn't dare move an inch closer, satisfied with watching and listening to him from afar, oddly entrapped by the silent allure he cast.

It was no mystery that people loved the sound of his voice. You'd be fooling yourself if you said you hadn't found his commentary enchanting, but looking at him in the flesh, you were sure he'd flourish on the silver screen like no other.

He could indeed win the eyes of many…

Yours especially, and to some degree, he had already, but you hesitated to admit it even as he turned to face you.

Oh…. he is a beauty, that's for sure…

That was the singular thought in your mind as he smiled, standing from his seat before approaching you with all the confidence you'd merely portrayed.

“Hello there. You must be Y/n L/n. I'm Alastor Hartifelt. It's a pleasure to meet you, my friend!”

His voice was as smooth, melting into the background melodies inexplicably, and your heart lightened immensely as he held out a hand for you to shake.

“The..the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hartifelt..” you inwardly scolded your delayed greeting, losing track of your practiced charm relatively quickly in his grasp. Still, in seconds, you recovered from the blunder while returning his smile.

Alastor took you in with a glance up and down your figure, cataloging every detail of your appearance out of habit, but when his gaze met yours, one thought crossed his perceptive mind.

Longing?

How curious…

You hid the familiar emotion well; seeing past the veil of contentment wasn't tricky, and though he was tempted to bring it forth.

You two shook hands briefly but firmly. Alastor stepped back, gliding his hand out to mention towards the recording station. “Come, have a seat, and please call me Alastor. We will be on air after all; formalities aren't necessary for an engaging broadcast.” His smile grew, emitting an unearthly kindness as you nodded in understanding before sitting in the chair opposite his.

“You make an excellent point, Alastor. I hope we enjoy each other's company.” You chuckle softly, feeling a tad nervous for a reason unknown but genuinely harboring a rise in excitement, hearing him respond promptly.

“I have no doubt we will…” Alastor muses more to himself, a delicate edge to his voice as he trailed behind you, and a certain twinge of intrigue rattled your spine at the implication.

For the first time in a long time, you weren't dreading the inclinations of your fame, gradually succumbing to the sparks of joy Alastor evoked with the most straightforward words and becoming surer of the fact as he took his seat next to you.

“Shall we begin?” he implies cheekily, and you reply in a quick, witty fashion, “We shall.”

————-

“Care for a drink, my friend? I believe we’ve earned ourselves a cold glass of whiskey… that is, If your evening is unreserved.” Alastor made the offer moments after switching your respective microphones off, quickly arranging the recording panel to a specific setting as he listened for your response.

Your mouth moved quicker than your mind; a distinct rush overtook at the thought of spending more time with the charismatic radio host, “I'd be delighted to join you. I must agree that our interview went quite well. It's rare to have an easy conversation with a stranger these days..”

Alastor raised a brow, sparing you a glance as he finished sliding keys and flicking switches into place to keep a calming stream of music lingering in his broadcast, “So, I'm still a stranger to you?… My, and I thought we were getting on so well…“

He spurs you casually, an air of hurt in his expression, and it stuns you, causing a red hue to rise on your cheeks, “Th-that's not at all what I meant, Alastor…” Your lower head twinges of embarrassment staining your consciousness, and for the third time that evening, Alastor had chipped away at your charm.

He enjoyed it….

Seeing you falter and conform to his standards, though you didn't need to, at any time, you could've remained indifferent to him and taken your leave the moment he shut your mic off, but you remained.

Solely because you'd grown attached to him or the defect he had on you.

Humbling, genuine understanding, but above all else, validation.

“My dear, I am only poking fun. I take no offense to your words, and I hope you'll grant me the same courtesy!” Alastor reached for you, thumb and forefinger slipping under your chin to lift it, and you obeyed his gesture with a soft smile. “Oh…I…”

You paused, swallowing thickly as he raised himself from the chair, head lowered toward yours as he stood above you.

Had he always been so tall?

So brooding?

You weren't entirely sure, but your heart raced, every nerve in your body tingled with anticipation as if you were a deer caught in his headlights, but you couldn't retreat or evade him.

“You what?..” Alastor cooed quietly, chocolate eyes on fire with an emotion you'd long forgotten but returned subconsciously.

Control.

You needed to be back in control, or the next breath between you two might lead to something…

Your mind played scenario after scenario, beginning to short circuit as he peered down at you, lips only inches from yours, and his other hand reaching to caress your cheek. His touch is searing, warmer than those you'd felt before, intentional, and your entire being buzzed in his grasp as if in a drunken stupor.

He was dangerous… able to tear through your facade easily, which was terrifying.

Polarizing.

Don't let him get any closer…

Keep him at a distance…

You've only just met him...

Warnings rang in your head, but your eyes lowered to his lips, and your voice remained quiet as you responded to his question.

“I" 'd like to have that drink before the night ends. Wouldn't you?"With a gentle nudge of your head and a soft laugh, you draw away from Alastor's touch. The space between you increases, and the ability to breathe becomes less strenuous as you stand to your feet, collecting your overcoat before slipping it on, "I'm not familiar with the city yet, so I'll leave it to you to show me around." The chipper in your tone amuses Alastor; you'd perfected the art of illusion so well that in the clutches of what some might consider an intimate moment, you balked and reclaimed sensibility like it never occurred, though you wished for it to carry on further.

He'd met and spoken to his fair share of actors, learned their ticks and telling habits, and used it against them when he saw benefit in toying with them.

However, being able to see right through you evoked another motive for the host, and he dared to think it was mutual.

"Well, I'd be honored to show you the ins and outs of this lively town I call home so long as you promise to keep up," Alastor retrieves his coat, a heavy jet black trench withered accents paired with matching hat, stylish in all the right ways -presumably warm to be in. Still, you were sure if he ventured into the night dressed like that, any stranger would fear him.

They had good reason to, but you didn't need to know why.

Not yet…

With a coy smile, you followed Alastor out of the station, matching his strides as he paved the way to a nearby speakeasy, "You'll find it quite entertaining, my friend. Few visit at this hour, but my dear Mimzy puts on a vine show regardless!" Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of Alastor being infatuated with another, for what reason you weren't sure, but your disappointment flashed clear in your eyes that he took it upon himself to clarify his remark.

"She is an old and loyal acquaintance. Nothing more. Nothing less."

You perked up at the explanation, face burning with a blush as you raised both hands to dissuade his interpretation of your expression, "I understand. You needn't explain anything to me-"

Alastor halted in his tracks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he peered at you curiously, "Hm, so you did assume we were something to begin with?..."

Shit, was I that obvious?...

"Not at all..." you lie, as calm as ever but internally conflicted.

How could he go about messing with you so boldly?..

And why did it excite you?..

"Your eyes say otherwise, my friend..." he counters your nervous reply with a smug smirk, beginning to walk off as if he wasn't toying with your head, "My eyes?..." you whisper in response.

"They are the doorway to the soul...I've learned to walk through said doors, and you, my dear, hide a lot of fears behind them." Alastor chuckles, ears tingling as you reclaim your spot at his upon reaching your destination. Still, you're less concerned with the dark alley lit with a singular neon sign situated above a heavy lead door and more worried about what he is implying regarding your emotions.

Who was he to know anything?

Sure, he was pleasant to be around, an avid intellectual with a knack for continuing conversation with you, and you had no reason to believe he'd been faking his friendliness to you from the start...

That still gave him no right analyzing you, prod at your exterior with more confidence than necessary, and you intended to let him know it.

A glare beset your expression, mouth open to speak, but you weren't allowed to do so as the lead door swung open.

Alastor guided you close to his side as a gaggle of patrons spilled from the doorway, ranting and raving about the time they had inside. Their rowdy behavior irked him, but you did not comment on the matter as he placed a hand on your back to lead you inside after their dysfunctional departure.

“Drunken idiots,” he mumbled begrudgingly, and for the first time you'd seen the radio host truly bothered. He'd been so composed during your interview, inviting and flirtatious on and off the air, so getting a glimpse of his annoyed state felt like a treat.

At least you knew he had flaws, insignificant but telling ones.

“Um. Alastor, you can..” you paused, unsure if you wanted to let him know he was still holding onto your waist as he led you inside the dim speakeasy. Alastor hummed, irritation gone, and his coy smile widening as you shuffled alongside him. “Y-you can let me go now.”

“Oh, nonsense, my dear! I wouldn't want you to run into unsavory characters like the ones that just passed..”

He quickly navigated the lingering crowd, clearly familiar with the club's layout, and you marbled at its unique atmosphere as he led you through it. “I can handle myself, Alastor,” you tried again to reason, but Alastor was quick to give a response as he ushered you to sit at an unoccupied lounge chair complete with a table and lamp.

“I'm sure you can but I'm rather fond of keeping you close.” He sat next to you after setting his coat and hat aside.

What did he mean by that?..

“How selfish of you,” you feigned disappointment as he shifted to face you with a soft chuckle leaving his lips, “Would you be so kind as to forgive my greed for your attention?” Alastor stares you down, noting how you bite your lip, another nervous tick you'd yet to disregard in his presence. “I'll consider it if you buy me a drink or two..”

The suggestion was meant to sound confident, unmothered by the mounting pressure in your chest, but it came out breathless. You were sure that you'd mastered the art of indiffenece, permanently established a mask of charm, but as much as you wished to maintain the certainty…

Alastair disproved it with little more than a gesture or equally compelling word.

It was unsettling, intoxicating too, but undeniably riveting.

“A small price to pay,” he mumbled, eyes lowering to your lips as you laughed softly and leaned back to admire the other patrons roaming or dancing around. “I never said I was cheap..” you taste him, gaze drifting to him as he shifted closer. You wanted to jump out of your skin as his arm came to rest behind you, head lulling to ward your cheek as he breathed into your ear. The resulting warmth made you shiver, quickening your breaths, and your body tingled with intrigue.

“No…” Alastor affirmed your jest, free hand raising your chin, tilting your head to face him as he continued, “…but you are desperate to be loved. One might say that's just as inappropriate, mon Cher..”

His tone dripped with condensation, a sensual purr loud enough to drown out the jazz and chatter surrounding you, and for a moment, he was all you could comprehend.

You should've felt angry, unsettled even, but his words struck a more profound emotion.

Comfort.

You weren't crazy, a constant wonder for the masses to marvel at and never care about.

Alastor could see you.

He wanted to…

“And so what if I am? Why would it concern you?..” there was no harsh undertone to your question, and it earned a sultry hum of amusement from him. “You've interested me, so I must not ignore your charade. I'm partial to the truth of a person, and you, my dear, abandon it in the hopes of success..”

Spot on.

It is shamelessly hurtful but direct nonetheless.

You clicked your tongue dismissively, attempting to turn your head away from his grasp, but Alastor held you tighter.

A glare crossed your face at the brushing grip he established, but a pool of excitement rushed to your crotch as well.

“I'm not one of your scripts to read, Alastor..” you scoff, rolling your eyes to make your point clear, but he isn't affected by the arrogant gesture.

“My apologies if it seems that way, but my intention to know you, inside and out, is purely innocent...”

“I find that hard to believe…” you retort, very aware of the minimal space between you two, and it became harder to focus on anything else but his soft lips that were stretched thin into a smile.

God, I was doomed from the beginning… you think to yourself as you laugh at your shameless line of sight. “Believe what you wish, my friend, but I enjoy being the object of affection..”

“That's inappropriate to suggest,” you mutter, face burning with blush and your hands raising to grip his wrist and collar. Alastor hummed, amused by your denial, “Mm, I suppose it is…would you like another apology?”

You shake your head, tugging him in by the collar of his shirt, eyes lifting to his, full of determination, “A kiss will do just fine…”

He holds your gaze, checking for mockery, but there is none. “That's the first honest thing you've said all night, mon cher,” Alastor points out in a hushed tone, lowering his head to place a slow kiss on your lips as they pull into a satisfied smile.

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I rewatched Heartstopper for this. Was it helpful? Yes. Did it make me cry harder than the first time I watched it? Also, yes. Will I forever love that show?… (yes). Again, this is just part 1! The second half is being drafted. Please look forward to it. I'm not sure it'll include smut…but I'll debate on that later.

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

He's so cheekyyyy but I love him for it hehe like he’s just the right amount of ‘cocky asshole’ ya know? ❤️ credit to creator!

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jjkyaoi · 8 months

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i love hot jon but specifically the part where he’s not appealing to anyone and yet he’s appealing to. everyone . like season one is the most put together he looks and even that’s a stretch because she’s prematurely graying and wears little grandma glasses and big sweaters that make him look stick skinny (he is). and then season two hits him like a bullet train and he s so stressed out of his mind that he doesn’t even comb his hair . veins popping in his eyes wearing the same cardigan that he wore three days ago because he’s been sleeping in his office carrying a tape recorder everywhere and he has this odd little creature magnetism about her. her brown eyes turn green in season three and nobody knows what to say to him about that. he grows out his hair to mad scientist unbrushed length most of her shirts have been stained three times over LIKE THIS IS NOT AN APPEALING LOOK. but by god is he wanted by the masses

#melanie: i thought jonathan sims was a gorgeous butch woman but turns out he’s that stupid TWINK from the magnus institute !!#martin was fighting for his life trying to defend his weird professor kink when it came to jon in the earlier seasons #s2 tim: well. turns out he wasn’t as put together as u thought he was. he’s actually pretty fucking insane. like the craziest person #s2 martin: he has this aura about him #s2 tim: the aura of an unhealthy work environment ?? PLEASE do not start this shit again .#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jmart #jonathan sims #the archivist #jontim #this is mostly me just trying to avoid tmagp spoilers LAWL

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workersolidarity · 21 days

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[ 📹 Injured children are pulled from the rubble and wreckage that remains of the Quran studies school inside the Fatima Al-Zahraa Mosque, in the Al-Daraj neighborhood of Gaza City, following an Israeli occupation airstrike that killed 10 civilians, mostly children, and wounded many others. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

230 DAYS OF GENOCIDE IN GAZA: RAFAH AND KARM ABU SALEM BORDER CROSSINGS REMAIN CLOSED, ONE HOSPITAL RAIDED BY IOF, SECOND HOSPITAL CLOSES, MASS MURDER CAMPAIGN CONTINUES AS OVER 115'000 CASUALTIES ARE RECORDED

On 230th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 9 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 91 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 21 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

For the 17th consecutive day, the Israeli occupation forces closed the Rafah and Karm Abu Salem border crossings, south of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, blocking thousands of humanitarian aid trucks from entering Gaza, and preventing hundreds of critically wounded and severely sick Palestinians from leaving the enclave for treatment abroad.

Commenting on the closure, the United Nations World Food Programme (WFP) warned on Wednesday that "thousands of families still in Rafah need aid."

"WFP distributed food until it ran out. With little aid coming in from southern crossings and our warehouses still inaccessible, remaining food stocks have only supported 50'000 hot meals a day," the WFP said in a post to the social media platform X.

"We need safe and sustained access," the WFP added.

Due to the continued closure of Gaza's largest border crossings, not only are food, medicine and medical supplies in short supply, but also fuel for generators.

As a result of the fuel shortage, Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, said it would cease providing healthcare services "within two hours" due to running out of fuel.

Appeals were made by the hospital calling for more fuel to continue its operations, but to no avail.

Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital is one of the last remaining hospitals still functioning in the Gaza Strip, serving an inordinately large percentage of the Palestinian population in central Gaza, as the Israeli occupation's ongoing bombing and shelling, along with the raid of several hospitals and the closure of Gaza's border crossings, have put the vast majority of the enclave's hospitals and healthcare centers out of service.

Previously, the Israeli occupation army destroyed a multitude of healthcare facilities in Gaza, demolishing and bombing several medical centers, including the Al-Shifa medical complex in Gaza City, one of the largest hospitals in Gaza at the start of the genocide.

The occupation army also destroyed several other hospitals, leaving piles of rubble in place of the medical institutions that once operated in Gaza.

Local medical sources say Al-Awda and Kamal Adwan Hospitals remain the last two hospitals in operation in the northern Gaza Strip, which are barely functioning at the time of publishing, following 8 months of raids, blockade, siege and bombardment.

However, in an example of the Israeli occupation's ongoing assault on what remains of Gaza's healthcare system, on Wednesday, the occupation army stormed Al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia.

According to reporting in the local media, occupation forces stormed Al-Awda Hospital, forcing medical personnel and patients to leave the hospital towards the west of Gaza City following the arrest of at least one member of the hospital's staff.

“There remain 14 employees in the hospital, accompanied by 11 injured people and companions. They refused to evacuate unless ambulances were present to evacuate the wounded," a local medical source told the Palestinian media.

Beginning on Sunday, May 19th, the Israeli occupation forces began a massive assault on the city of Jabalia and the Refugee Camp of the same name, demanding local residents evacuate their homes and shelters and forcing them towards Gaza City.

Al-Awda Hospital is considered to be the only hospital to provide orthopedic, gynecological, and obstetrics services in the northern Gaza Strip, while also providing services for general surgery, emergency and trauma care, specialized clinics, radiology and also had a functioning lab.

At least 148 people were trapped in Al-Awda Hospital during the time of the siege, while their fates remain unknown since the time of the raid, though some medical staff were seen evacuating on foot.

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) continued massacreing entire families in the Gaza Strip, killing and wounding dozens of civilians, mostly children, over the last day, with massive bombing and shelling targeting residential areas of the Palestinian enclave.

In Gaza's north, in the latest occupation atrocity, Israeli reconnaissance aircraft bombed a gathering of civilians near a gas station in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, killing at least 10 civilians, including several children, and wounding more than 20 others.

Similarly, Zionist air forces bombed Palestinians as they evacuated a shelter for displaced civilians in the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip, martyring four citizens and wounding several others.

In yet another genocidal mass murder event, Israeli occupation forces bombed a residential home in the Al-Daraj neighborhood in central Gaza City, leading to the deaths of 16 civilians, including at least 10 children, while a number of others were wounded in the attack.

Another 10 civilians were killed, and many others wounded, mostly children, after IOF fighter jets bombed a Quran studies school inside the Fatima Al-Zahraa Mosque, in the Al-Daraj neighborhood of central Gaza City.

In yet another airstrike, occupation forces bombed the Shabat family home on Al-Ma'amel Street, also in the Al-Daraj neighborhood of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of 5 Palestinian civilians, while a further bombing targeted a residential apartment in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, south of Gaza City, killing one civilian and wounding several others.

The Israeli occupation army also pummeled the city of Jabalia, targeting several neighborhoods, including air assaults on Blocks 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5, along with Riad Al-Saliheen Square, also the Al-Qasaib neighborhood up to the Aisha Mosque, Ezbet Mallin, Al-Ajarma Street, Tal al-Zaatar, and the northern neighborhoods up to the Sheikh Zayed Towers, the Ezbet Abd Rabbo and Hay Al-Salem neighborhoods.

Bombings further targeted a gathering of civilians in front of the Abu Hussein School, leading to the deaths of four Palestinians, while five more civilians were killed when the IOF bombed a house belonging to the Alloun family in the Al-Jarn area of the Jabalia Camp.

The occupation army also burned down entire residential squares in the area of the Jabalia Camp's police station, along with neighborhoods in the eastern and northern areas of the Camp.

The mass bombing in Jabalia didn't end there, occupation forces also destroyed a five-story residential building belonging to the Al-Ajrami family, in the Al-Faluga neighborhood of the Jabalia Camp, while in nearby Beit Hanoun, occupation forces advanced towards the entrance of the town while laying siege to local schools operating as shelters for displaced Palestinian families.

The slaughter continued in central Gaza when IOF warplanes bombed a residential home behind the Al-Orouba School, north of the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, murdering 7 civilians and wounding a number of others.

Following that, the Israeli occupation army bombed a residential house belonging to the Shihab family in the Nuseirat Camp, resulting in the deaths of 8 Palestinians, the majority of which being children and women, while several others were wounded in the assault. The number of deaths is expected to rise due to the critical nature of the injuries sustained by the wounded.

Yet another bombing by the Zionist occupation army targeted a house belonging to the Al-Shami family, in neighborhoods west of the Nuseirat Camp, resulting in the martyredom of 8 civilians and injuring many others.

Yet another occupation airstrike targeted a house belonging to the Al-Shaer family near Lafat Badr, northwest of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, resulting in the death of a civilian.

Occupation Merkava tanks also entered Block 0 south of Rafah along the Egyptian border, west of the Salah al-Din Gate, razing the entire area and advancing further west, while Zionist artillery shelling targeted the Al-Awda roundabout.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the current death toll now exceeds 35'800 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and 10'000 women, while another 80'011 others were wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 23rd, 2024.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

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dduane · 8 months

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Judging books by their covers

Having spent the morning reading the notes on this post (and reading them, and reading them...), I realized I really needed to get to grips with a piece of work I'd been avoiding.

Some of you may remember me mentioning that the Young Wizards website's longtime ISP went out of business suddenly in July, necessitating the site's hasty relocation to a new home. In the process a lot of its internal URLs ceased to operate correctly, meaning that files weren't displaying. (As I was quickly reminded when looking for the original David Wiesner art for So You Want To Be A Wizard at 01:30 last night.)

Anyway, I just wound up spending the day rescanning book covers for the Young Wizards publication history page, and was reminded of some favorites while getting the work done. (And a note for the interested: if there's any particular cover from an English-language edition of the YW books that interests you, or you think the sight of one might jog your memory somehow, that page is where you'll find the images. Use the tabs under the header image to take you through the history of publishers and artists.)

Meanwhile, being reminded of what happened to the covers for So You Want To... alone is both funny and a bit sobering. Styles change, formats change, art directors change. Sometimes the covers get a lot better, and sometimes they, uh, don't. Look at the difference in styles alone among these, for example.

Most of the time the writer gets to take what they're given, and like it. Sometimes, though, they get to give advice.

Here, for example, is one time that happened.

This is for the UK hardcover of the first of the Feline Wizards books. The artist, Mick Posen, is a cat person... and he insisted on having pictures of the cats who inspired the NY worldgating team before he started painting. Just look at these three, especially Rhiow there in the foreground. Is this a hero, or what? :)

Here's one that caused a little controversy.

The question of the day: Is Nita wearing anything? And if so, what?

The art won Greg Swearingen a silver Spectrum Award for that Deep Wizardry painting. But he and my then-editor on the series, Michael Stearns, apparently got into it a little regarding a conflict between the text and the necessities of painting a YA cover. If I remember correctly, I think Greg was holding out for "She's not wearing anything in the text in this situation, she just turned human again after changing back from being a whale, she shouldn't be wearing anything here!" and Michael was saying "But the parents, what if we freak out the parents...!" ...Eventually it seems like some kind of compromise was achieved. Swirly light = magic, or something. (shrug) Not my problem. It's a lovely cover.

About this one I have, well, mixed feelings. At this end of time, the art looks clunky. Yet this is also my first bestseller. When the SF Book Club published this omnibus, Support Your Local Wizard quickly set records as their single most-requested item of all time for new members just signing up. Its print run ran to more than 250,000 copies, and it remained constantly in print until the Book Club itself ended.

I've always been fond of this one for Deep Wizardry, and also of the one the artist, Neal McPheeters, did for the Dell Yearling and Dell mass market paperback editions of So You Want To... . There's a solid quality to both of them, but the second one in particular, that appeals to me.

(For those in the notes on that other post who reacted immediately to Kit's antenna: This is one of the reasons why it features—along with one of Nita's wands from the rowan tree Liused—on all the covers of the revised/updated Young Wizards New Millennium Editions. I've seen a lot of memories jogged by its appearance.)

...Do I have a favorite favorite one of all these covers? As usual, it's hard to pick. But I have to admit that I smile, at the moment, when looking at this one—Greg Swearingen’s art again—since in a couple of weeks it'll be the fortieth anniversary of So You Want To Be A Wizard's publication.

We'll see what the publisher does for the fiftieth. :)

#Young Wizards #Young Wizards series #covers

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da-ill-spot · 7 months

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New Music: DJ Shadow - Action Adventure LP

#DJ Shadow #experimental #bass #beats #instrumentals #Mass Appeal Records #new music #hiphop #trip hop #electronic #groovy #footwork #juke #west coast #Bay Area

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ohnococo · 4 months

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Fight Night | CHAPTER 8 | MMA Fighter!Sukuna x Reader

Aoi Todo calls Sukuna out publicly, and it leads to a very uncomfortable discussion between you and Sukuna.

Warnings: Uncomfortable conversations, reader is slightly upset, kissing, fingering, biting, (light) pussy slapping

FIRST CHAPTER

LAST CHAPTER

From time to time, curiosity gets the better of you. It’s happened before with Sukuna, when you went without talking for months, and again when he alluded to his previous opponent being a bit of a wildcard. You could just ask him about these things now, of course, but sometimes you wanted to see how he was viewed through the eyes of others. You wanted to compare what the world thought of him to what you were coming to know of him.

As for this particular subject, Aoi Todo, you really just felt like it might be too awkward to bring it up. Not right now, at least, when things seemed to be going so well. Sukuna hadn’t brought him up since the video you’d watched together, only occasionally making vague references to training or “the fight.” So you look for information on him yourself to satisfy your curiosity, making the choice to try and avoid anything that might mention Sukuna’s brother, if they really were still training together like Sukuna had suspected. That was something you’d rather hear from the man himself.

It turns out it’s easy, with nearly no mention of the boy save for a site with an article about the Todo, where he briefly mentions training with his best friend. You see a picture of them together among many pictures of Todo and his coaches in a gym and wonder just how two siblings could seem so different, even just from a photo. The way he smiles brightly, looking hopeful, makes you wonder if Sukuna had ever smiled like that.

As you back out of the site, your search refreshes as hot news repopulates the top results. Articles referencing a recent interview with Todo, topped with pictures of the young man smiling and looking victorious next to pictures of Sukuna looking as terrifying as he always did in these promo pictures. It makes you cringe, but you know Sukuna is a sort of villain to a lot of these people with the way he broadcasts that he has no respect for those he perceives as weak, ready to be a winner at all costs - even if those costs are unnecessarily serious injury to his opponents.

He appeals to the masses in his own way - not a kind but strong hero with a flawless record of good sportsmanship, but someone to split the crowd into a dissonance of boos and cheers as he walks out and towards the ring. Someone to make fans nervous for even the best of the best when they faced him. And apparently, someone with whom Aoi Todo has quite personal beef.

You read through one of the articles, seeing his sentiments translated. Seeing that he’s promised to beat Sukuna to a pulp, for his best friend, his brother, whom Sukuna abandoned as a teen when he had no one else. He proclaims that the boy’s hope could not be crushed, and that he will one day join him in the same organisation. Big words from a newcomer. Big words about a man who, according to the article, has apparently gone through his lengthy and illustrious career without bringing any of his personal life into it. Until now.

It turns your stomach, it confuses you, it makes you want to ask Sukuna a million questions, but you know this little media frenzy over a blurb like that is only one of many sides to a story. You know you don’t feel comfortable bringing up a subject like this either, so you sit there regretting having looked it up in the first place, not liking this information festering in your mind. Not liking that you’d have to push it aside for dinner at Sukuna’s house in only a few hours.

When you arrive at his house he seems to be in his usual spirits, and you wonder if maybe he hasn’t seen the news. Then, as he takes you to his dining room after giving you your usual praise over what was becoming your typical (and much more comfortable) attire around him, you find that you’re grateful for Uraume’s momentary presence. It gives you something to focus on other than what you’re choosing to pretend you don’t know.

It also gives you something to focus on other than how Sukuna’s eyes narrow at whatever was different enough about your behaviour over just a few minutes to clue him in to you being off.

“Wow, Uraume, you actually can cook.”

Uraume is setting dishes down in front of you both, hair pulled back in a low ponytail, shorter locks kept from their face by a thin elastic headband. They shoot you a look, apparently unimpressed by the sass in your compliment.

“Of course I can, I’m not taking Sukuna’s money for nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent, having meant the remark to be targeted at Sukuna’s eating habits rather than Uraume’s skills, “it smells delicious.”

Braised short rib, a healthy portion of roasted vegetables, coconut rice - you were starting to feel bad for your little running joke about Sukuna’s gym food.

“Thank you.” Uraume takes the compliment, hard feelings quick to dissipate as they now knew what to expect from your humour as much as you knew what to expect from their chilly demeanour.

They look to Sukuna, apparently waiting for his approval as well, but his eyes are locked on you, suspicious. Instead of waiting further, they clear their throat, “Will you need anything else?”

Sukuna finally completes his lengthy appraisal of you, focusing on Uraume with a little more warmth, “No, thank you Uraume, have a good night.”

They nod, dismissing themselves to clean up the kitchen, intending to leave shortly afterwards.

You grab your wine, lifting your glass in an invitation to cheers, hoping the food and conversation would steer your mind from the comment you were trying not to think of. Sukuna lifts his own glass of water, clinking it against yours before you make your toast to the only thing you can think Sukuna would feel was worth celebrating.

“To beating this Todo guy’s ass.”

He lets out a little laugh at that, just the smallest huff of air through his nose, and his shoulders drop a little. Though you still see the remnants of that suspicion there, you’re happy to get on with the evening as you both take a sip of your respective drinks.

Once you’re forced into silence by eating, other than you giving your praise to Uraume yet again even in their absence, you find yourself confronted with that look on Sukuna’s face.

He chews his bites slowly, looking you over, and it’s been some time since you’d felt like he was peering into your mind like that.

“You’ve seen what he said.”

Your cheeks are hot, like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, like it’s a crime to look up a public figure. Although it was perhaps a grey area to search for so much surrounding a public figure you happened to be dating.

“I just got curious…”

He leans back in his chair, eyes still on you as he takes a long drink of his water, unrelenting even as you get increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze. Then, he shrugs, as if dismissing the tension outright, “It’s fine.”

His words are one thing, but you’ve come to know him well enough to see that his broad shoulders still don’t fully relax as he brings his fork to his mouth again, speaking before he takes his bite, “Although I don’t care for my business being out there like this.”

You understand how it could be invasive, then worry that he thinks you’ve been invasive too, finishing your own mouthful of food in a rush before you clarify. “That’s all I saw, I didn’t search for anything else.”

His brow quirks, lips falling into a line as he looks displeased that you’re lying to him. “I know you’ve looked me up more than once.”

If you looked a little embarrassed before, now it must be even more obvious, wondering just how he knew. He catches that surprise easily.

“You’ve let it slip before.”

His words have you wracking your brain for when you’d played it much less cool than you’d thought, and something in your face makes his expression soften. A small smile has his eyes crinkling as he takes another drink, apparently enjoying some part of revealing his hand, even if all that hand contained was the knowledge that you thought about him much more often than you let on.

You shake your head, pushing aside the several tangents he’d inadvertently sent your mind on before returning to your original point.

“No, I mean I didn’t look anything else up about your brother.”

Sukuna’s smile freezes, just for a moment, before his face returns to that uncomfortable brand of neutral that seemed to be conjured up when this subject came up. He looks through you as he speaks, “You wouldn’t find anything anyway.”

“I… that’s-“ you push food around on your plate, “well I’m glad not all of your business is out there.”

“Don’t mince words with me.” His tone is stern, broadcasting that it’s an expectation he’s set for you that’s much closer to a demand than a suggestion. Like he expects better.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” this isn’t how you want him to open up, with venom in his voice, “one question.”

Your brow furrows and you wait for this one question of his, then he sighs and clarifies.

“You get to ask me one question about it, then I don’t want it brought up again.”

The clang of metal against glass is louder than you’d like it to be in this room, as you set your utensils down on your plate, sitting back in your chair as you look everywhere but at Sukuna. “I don’t want to pry…”

“Yes you do.”

He can read you far too well now for you to tiptoe around anything, so you just ask your question. “Why don’t you talk to your brother anymore?”

There’s another silence, another step further back into Sukuna’s mind, then he answers. “I started fighting because I had to. And I was good at it. He started fighting just because I did. I wouldn’t support it.” He flicks his hand, in a ‘there it is’ gesture, as if he had really answered much of anything.

“He wanted to be like you?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, and you know you’re bordering on stomping over, rather than tiptoeing around the subject as you had been before, but the question is out there and he’s answering it.

“He’s nothing like me.”

“Why don’t you-“

“Enough.” He’s far from shouting, but there’s a power behind his voice that has your hairs standing on end immediately, heart racing as you feel a small chill on the back of your neck. “You’re overstepping.”

It’s cold, bordering on angry. A tone you’d heard him use many times with others on your nights out, but never ever with you. You know you’ve pushed your luck, and now you know feel both wrong for that and wronged for the sharpness of his words. Your tells are showing again, something you only realise when Sukuna’s face moves from forcibly neutral to surprised.

He says your name then, low and even, and it’s like you’ve had cold water poured on you. “I haven’t dealt with this. So I certainly won’t deal with it with you.”

It’s as if he means it as a platitude, but it only hurts more that he won’t let you help, even if it was just to listen. But you nod as if accepting it as an end to the conversation, and so does he.

For the first time since he’d suspected something was up, he looks away from you, and it makes you feel like you can breathe again. His shoulders relax, and he closes his eyes and sighs heavily, looking suddenly tired.

“I didn’t invite you here to talk about this, I invited you here to enjoy a meal and to ask you to watch my fight.”

“Oh.” This time the change in subject is welcome, otherwise the tension in the room alone might just suffocate you. You’d already planned to watch it, of course. “I mean, yeah, there’s a few bars by my place that show the fights live.”

“No, I mean do you want to come to watch me fight.”

“Oh… yes.”

He tilts his head down slightly while looking up at you, as if he’s trying to appear as non-threatening as a man like him could. “I’d like that.”

You’d be outright giddy if this had come prior to the conversation you’d just had, but your excitement isn’t too stifled to stop you smiling at him, “Me too.”

It helps put a salve over the tension of what had just happened, though you still feel uneasy for the rest of the dinner. When you bring your eyes up to watch Sukuna across the table you can’t help assessing, and reassessing his demeanour. He seems fine, like that uncomfortable conversation had been buried, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said it had been for you as well.

He catches this of course, sliding his hand next to yours on the table, placing one finger on top of the back of your hand and tracing along your knuckles. He keeps the conversation light for the evening. Your life this week, your plans for the next, when those plans could align with his increasingly rigorous schedule. You eat, you talk, and youdo happily make those plans, telling yourself that you just needed to sleep the unpleasantness of tonight off.

When it’s time to leave you’re grateful for the night being cut short for different reasons than you’d thought you would be. Initially, dinner on a work night when you had to get up early seemed like a good idea if only because you wouldn’t be able to linger in his home and do things you didn’t need to be doing. Instead, you were happy to leave just to have a chance to clear your head.

It doesn’t stop you kissing him at his door before you go, arms around his neck and clinging to his shoulders gently. With how high you were on your tiptoes, and how far you were leaning back to accommodate his kisses, you’d be in danger of falling backwards if he weren’t holding you in place by your hips. He keeps a distance between your bodies despite the firm grip and thumbs rubbing circles into your hips, though you do think of pressing yourself to him once or twice, wanting the confirmation that your lips on his affected him just as much as it affected you.

When you pull back, lips swollen and a little dizzy, you don’t need to feel it, when you can see it in his face - eyes sparkling with want even through his heavy lids and thick lashes.

You take his face in like this for some time, using it as a weight to tip the scales away from your previous discomfort, then finally blink the haze of lust from your eyes as he breaks the silence.

“Text me to let me know you’ve gotten home safely.”

“I will.”

Once you arrive home you start to do just as he’s asked, even typing out the words, “I’m home.” But leaving things with this pit in your stomach and the unsettled tension has you thinking back to the only other time you’d felt like this since you’d known Sukuna: when you thought you’d never see him again. So you delete the words in the unsent text, instead sending:

call me please

He does. Right away. You answer and he speaks first.

“Is everything okay?”

It catches you off guard, hearing him sound concerned. “Yeah, I’m home now.”

“Ah.”

“About tonight…” you trail off, half expecting some interjection but when there is none you continue, “I don’t want you to speak to me like that again.”

This time you let the silence hang longer, until he has to meet you where you are and respond. “Fair enough.”

“I hated how that made me feel. I felt like I was just some lackey-“

“You’re not-“

You cut him off, having to get everything into words before it eats you up from the inside, “Like you were telling me to know my place or like you were just going to throw me away if I didn’t.”

It feels like a lot, like too much, but it was just how you felt.

Sukuna is silent again, before speaking slowly, emphasising each word and making sure you really hear him. “You are not some lackey. I would not throw this away.”

Then he sighs, and you can hear his heavy footsteps as he moves through his home. “You could have told me this while you were here.”

He’s annoyed, but there’s an affected calmness in his voice that lets you know he meant it as a way to lighten the mood. Then, you hear the jingle of keys and sit up a little straighter.

“Now I have to drive over there.”

You barely have your door open, just the handle turned and an inch of space revealing Sukuna before he’s pushing the door all the way open and coming in, leading with his lips on yours. Your arms are around his neck and once he’s swung your door closed behind you he’s lifting you up and into his arms.

His tongue is hot on yours, and his cock is already straining in its confines as he wraps your legs around his hips, walking you through your home. He takes a wrong turn, heading towards the kitchen, before you manage to separate your lips from his long enough to gesture the opposite way and towards your bedroom.

He doesn’t get the chance to meet your lips again as you lean away, having a moment of clarity in the excitement of him needing to see you so badly after your talk, “Wait, what are we doing?”

“We aren’t doing anything. I’m showing you just how I’ll put you in your place. Properly.”

You don’t know exactly what that means, but from the joy peeking through his smile you do know it’s got a heat blooming within your body.

Then, you find that his proper way of putting you in your place involves stripping you down, something you allow him to do as you’re pulled and pushed along with your clothes coming off, before he’s pushing you down onto your bed. You lean on your elbows, watching him kick off his shoes and waiting for him to unveil his body to you, but he doesn’t. He tugs at your ankles just enough to have you flat on your back again, and climbs on top of you, kissing you, hands groping at your body, pinching at your nipples and groaning into your mouth as you whine and gasp for him.

He props himself up on one arm as he settles next to you, eclipsing the light above as he pushes his hand between your legs. You spread them, accepting his rough fingers sliding through your folds with a moan and a laugh bordering on manic.

“So eager…” He chuckles wickedly at your enthusiasm, circling your entrance as he licks at your open mouth. “Just because I’m not fucking you doesn’t mean you can’t fuck this pretty cunt yourself.”

His touch drives you mad as always, as he dips his fingers for just a moment before pulling them back out to smear your wetness over your pussy. Though it hasn’t left you so far gone you can’t bite back, “I’ve taken care of myself plenty.”

Skilled fingers find their way back inside you, delving deeper, hooking and stirring you up already as he lets the sounds of your pussy speak for themselves. Not for long as he can’t help feigning pity as he looks down on you with your fluttering lashes and wet, moaning mouth.

“Not like I can, hm?”

There’s no opportunity for you to respond, save for with a squeal of delight as he moves fast, fucking you with his fingers, palm slapping at your clit until you’re bringing your knees up as he tugs your orgasm out of what felt like nowhere.

Then, he pulls his fingers out, rubbing at your pussy, just enough firm pressure on your clit to have you clenching for him.

“Fuck,” you want more and you want it quickly, rubbing up against his hand and chasing your high one way or another, “well it’s easy for you.”

You give him that as you lean your head up to capture his lips again. Appealing to his ego, appealing to your need to have him at least keep kissing you if he wasn’t going to make you cum just yet. He kisses back with a force that leaves your body weak as you sink back down, mouth wet and tongue hot before he’s separating from your lips enough to kiss a path down your face and to your neck where he sucks and bites harshly.

You know he’s leaving little love marks, and you don’t care, shivering when he whispers low against your skin, “You don’t make this easy for me.”

He buries his face between your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to leave you yelping as he slides his fingers back inside you, working you up more slowly this time, groaning out a low, “but I try.”

Sukuna’s movements speed up then, and you’re tangling your hands in his hair - petting his undercut as he gets you closer, then sliding your hands up to tug at the roots as his palm slaps against your clit and you see stars.

“If you ask me to fuck you I will.”

It takes you a moment to even process that he’d spoken, with you dangling so close to the edge. You have to think on it, licking your lips, trying not to let your pussy do the thinking for you. It’s hard, your mind is scrambled already, and you put your hand on his wrist to stop him so you can try and form a coherent thought, even if it rips another orgasm away from you for the moment.

It doesn’t deter him at all, movements steady, though he does place a wet kiss to your neck before speaking low in your ear, “Either way you’re going to cum for me.”

You can accept that much, releasing his hand, pussy clenching his fingers lightly as you feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. He looks down, watching your pussy swallowing his fingers again and again, watching the way your thighs jiggle and twitch with the intensity of an end you hadn’t even met yet.

You don’t want him to look away right now, even if it’s to admire your body and the things he can do to it, so you hold his face in both hands, kissing his forehead. He looks at you then, slightly taken aback, like you’ve put his mind on ice. His arm is far from frozen though, as he keeps pumping his fingers into you, maybe even faster than before.

“Kiss me.”

The words are barely out of your lips before he’s complying, lips on yours, this time only the tip of his tongue brushes against yours and it’s the final straw that sends you over the edge. You raise your hips into his movements, moaning, panting, making a mess of his fingers and the sheets below.

Once the intensity ebbs, he pulls his fingers out, tapping your pussy firmly enough to leave you gasping as you clench your thighs around his hand to at least steady it. His lips are still on yours the whole time, drinking in your sounds, smiling against you as you whine and laugh when he goes back to rubbing at you firmly but gently.

He gives you a final peck, then another, then another before he leans back, resting his head on his hand as he peers down at you. He makes no effort to extract his hand from your still clenched thighs, and once he slides two fingers back inside of you, keeping them nestled and smiling at the odd twitch of your spent walls, you relax your legs and let them fall open on the bed.

“Feel better?”

You stare at the ceiling thinking, then look back at him incredulous. “Did you really just bust in here to finger it better?”

He sighs, pursed lips barely hiding amusement at your choice of words, ignoring your questions in favour of reiterating his own. “I’ll make you cum til you’re crying and calling in sick to work if you want?”

You did want, just a little, but you know you have things to do in the morning, and so does he. So you just laugh and slap his arm lightly, “Yeah I feel a lot better.”

He smiles, proud, happy, maybe even beaming. “Good.”

CHAPTER 9

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #my writing #sukuna #mma fighter!sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #reader insert #self insert #mma!au #jjk fanfic #jjk smut

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orpheusdrinkinga40inadeathbasket · 9 months

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The Beatles invigorated the role of the fan because they were the first cultural product to engage holistically with the figure of the teenage girl. They emerged onto ground broken by Elvis and then outpaced their predecessor creatively and commercially. Elvis supplied an avatar for the forbidden promise of sex, but his appeal rested in how easy he was to objectify, his obviousness. Cartoonishly handsome, he was a body onto which the teenage girl could project unspoken and illicit desire. He inspired adoration, but it could not compare to the ferocious awe frothed up among Beatles girls. There is no Elvis equivalent to the term "Beatlemaniac." "To younger teenagers, the Beatles' cheerful, faintly androgynous sexuality was more approachable than Elvis's alpha-male heat," wrote Lynskey. The Beatles offered something more complex than an empty sexual template. They presented an opportunity for identification. A girl could invest her desire in the band, but she could also discover herself there. The gaze cast on the Beatles was a queer one from the start. Before American women looked at the Beatles, they had been seen by Brian Epstein, the closeted gay record clerk who discovered and ferociously advocated for the band when record executives failed to give them a second glance. Watching them play a lunch hour show at a grimy club in Liverpool, Epstein picked up on the magnetic potential of the four young men. In Vivek Tiwary's graphic novel The Fifth Beatle: The Brian Epstein Story, artist Andrew Robinson closes the frame around the future manager's stunned face as he beholds the Beatles for the first time, as if he could sense his life pivoting around that one rapturous moment. "There was some indefinable charm there," he wrote in his 1964 memoir A Cellarful of Noise. "They were extremely amusing and in a rough 'take it or leave [it] way' very attractive." Upon becoming their manager, Epstein was tasked with convincing the world to see the Beatles the way he saw them: via a gaze that desired its objects without othering them. Heterosexual desire spans a chasm, coveting difference. Queer desire pulls together like elements, finding attraction in affinity. That teen girls could even feel the kind of active, demanding sexual desire evinced by their screams was still a novel concept in the early '60s, which carried vestiges of the prior decade's postwar conservatism. "In a highly sexualized society (one sociologist found that the number of explicitly sexual references in the mass media had doubled between 1950 and 1960), teen and preteen girls were expected to be not only 'good' and 'pure' but to be the enforcers of purity within their teen society—drawing the line for overeager boys and ostracizing girls who failed in this responsibility," wrote Barbara Ehrenreich in a 1986 essay. "To abandon control—to scream, faint, dash about in mobs—was, in form if not in conscious intent, to protest the sexual repressiveness, the rigid double standard of female teen culture. It was the first and most dramatic uprising of women's sexual revolution." Befuddled by the Beatlemaniacs' exuberance, interviewers and critics (who were more often than not men) pinned the scream to a desire, of all things, to mother the band. "It has been said that you appeal to the maternal instinct in these girls," began an interviewer in 1964. John cut him off: "That's a dirty lie." Joking or not, he was right. The dynamic at hand did not correspond to a mother/son model. Beatles girls wanted the way men were expected to want: unabashedly and directly, as active agents in the exchange of desire. There was nothing coy about their hunger.

Sasha Geffen, Glitter Up the Dark: How Pop Music Broke the Binary

#sasha geffen #glitter up the dark #the beatles

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notmyneighbor · 28 days

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here is the news | doppel! izaack gauss x female reader

words | 4k

cw | explicit sexual content, fluff and smut

ao3 link

Everyone in the city knows who Izaack Gauss is.

The famed news reporter for the local tv station has won countless awards for the journalism considered brave, gritty, unflinching and detailed. Always on the cusp of a breaking story, it was uncanny how often the man seemed to be at exactly the right place at exactly the right time. He was a household name, a favorite with a variety of age groups. Handsome and compelling. A face you couldn’t stop staring at, a voice you couldn’t stop listening to. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t gotten off to the sight and sound of him on more than one occasion. A girl has needs, right? And it’s not like guys don’t do the same thing all the time. You’re just…evening the score a little.

Now, that man you’d daydreamed about and climaxed to was in your booth inside the apartment building you both lived in, about to conduct an interview with you, the guard, responsible for screening for sneaky doppelgangers trying to trick their way into the building to harm the residents.

There is a lot of preparation that goes into the event. There are multiple cameras you’re constantly told to turn to. Pauses midway while hair and makeup is touched up. The attention is overwhelming, but at your young age, you’ve got a flawless track record for correctly identifying the doppels and it’s caught the attention of many, including your intrepid journalist neighbor.

Once the dust has settled, once there are no more set lights shined in your eyes or powder applied to your nose or Izaack’s rich voice bidding you to smile again for the camera, the sudden quiet is a relief. The crew has gone home. Everyone has left, save you and the news reporter.

You’re not quite done for the day, though. The segments you’d just filmed would be edited down. In truth, probably very little of the footage would even be used. But you guessed that’s just how the magic of television really works behind the scenes. The last chore for you today is to do a dry run through the interview you’ll be participating in live on air tomorrow night. You’re still seated in the swivel chair behind the desk inside your security booth, leaving the reporter to perch on the corner of the desk, one hip cocked over the edge, the lifted leg so long it still nearly touches the floor. Izaack is six foot four, and broad shouldered, an intimidatingly large figure. It’s no wonder, considering he’d played football in highschool and college.

He hasn’t lost any muscle mass in spite of his cessation of playing sports, the considerable physique still apparent even within the confines of the charcoal suit he’s wearing. You’re willing to bet he exercises to keep that appearance, to maintain his appeal with his adoring fans. His skin is smooth and unblemished, his raven hair always styled in neat waves. He’s got a strong jaw with a cleft chin just below a pair of full lips so generous they’d make any woman envious. They part often to flash brilliantly white, even teeth.

Those teeth are dazzling you right now. Trying to make you feel less nervous, no doubt, but you find the gesture intimidating instead. He might not be a Hollywood movie star, but he was still a local celebrity, and the source of more than one successful late night round of self pleasure. You squirm nervously in your seat and it squeaks, making your cheeks flush.

“You can relax, you know. I’m not going to ask anything you don’t know the answers to.” His voice is rich, deep, velvety. You nod and swallow thickly, waiting for him to begin.

He doesn’t even look down at the pad of paper clutched in one hand, nor the ballpoint pen seated in the other. His azure eyes are locked on your face and the color reminds you of the tropical ocean you’d seen on a poster in a travel agency’s window once, some exotic destination that you’ll likely never get the opportunity to visit.

“Why don’t we begin by you telling our viewers what you do each day.”

You clear your throat. “Well, the shift begins with a list of expected visitors to the building handed to me by an official DDD staff member, which I keep posted on this wall here,” you say, gesturing to a now blank spot to the left of the window. “I have a checklist of things I should be expecting from each person. This includes their appearance, their identification card, their entry request form, and, as I’ve just mentioned, the listing on the day’s expected visitors.”

Gauss nods. So far, so good. “What are some of the things that are a tip off about the identification card being incorrect?”

“One of the first things I look at is the serial number. We have a complete record of all the inhabitants of the building, complete with their photographs, their distinguishing facial characteristics, their addresses, professions, and relatives.

The next step is to compare the image on the card with the image we have on file, paying close attention to those unique appearance details. For example, someone may have a mole on one cheek, or have freckles spread across their nose.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“The DDD logo must be present. This is something that gets missed quite often. It is required on both the ID card and the entry request form. The expiration date on the ID is the last thing that needs to be verified. Seems simple, but you’d be surprised how many doppelgangers ignore the importance of a valid date that hasn’t expired yet.” You point to the calendar tacked to the wall.

Izaack taps his pen against the pad of paper thoughtfully. “What about the entry request?”

“Well, that’s similar in some ways, and different in others. It, like the ID card, needs to have the DDD logo. It also features a photograph of the resident, along with their name and address. These names can be misspelled or the apartment numbers incorrectly labeled. The final piece of the puzzle is the reason for travel. It can be very obvious when a doppel is using a forgery. Some are more astute than others, but a lot of them lack the knowledge of a plausible reason to explain their absence. I once saw one state they were going out to do ‘human things’” you say with a little chuckle, and the dark haired reporter smiles indulgently.

“It certainly seems like you’re quite the expert. No wonder the residents of the building feel safer with you around. A perfect safety record thus far, I understand.”

You lower your eyes, blushing, feeling a little blossom of pride blooming inside of you. “I try my best.”

Izaack slides from his perch, straightening, the pad of paper and pen disappearing back into a deep pocket of the trench coat he’d left draped beside him. “That’s basically how the interview will go. You’re a natural. Just replicate that same confidence and you’ll do fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, there is one more thing,” he says as you stand. “If you wouldn’t mind indulging just one more question. Off the record, as it were.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What if the paperwork looks correct, and the doppel’s appearance is a perfect match?”

“Oh, that reminds me. I forgot to mention it. I call the residence to verify the identity, either by a family member, or—”

“—But supposing there was no one home to answer. The visitor is on the day’s list. They’re expected to be out and returning home. They live alone. There is no one to vouch for them one way or the other. And every other detail seems correct. What do you do?”

You draw in a deep breath. “Well, thankfully, my instincts have helped me in those rare situations when they occur.”

“I see.”

You step forward, thinking the older man will be exiting the office, but he remains where he is, blocking the doorway.

“Um, Mr. Gauss, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be getting home now.”

“Oh, I do mind. I mind very much. You see, my dear, your so called instincts, those ones you’re so proud of, have failed you.”

Your blood runs cold. You’d been tricked by a doppelganger. You back away now, your hand reaching for the alarm. It’s too late to worry about shuttering the office, but it will still alert the residents that something is amiss.

“Don’t even think of touching that button. Or the phone, either. Your DDD pals won’t be coming to your rescue tonight.” The tall mimic smiles, gesturing towards the chair beside you. “Why don’t you sit down, get comfortable.”

“Why? You’re just going to kill me. Eat me, or whatever.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be killing you. Eating you though, now that is an idea.” His teeth flash again, and this time they are no longer the perfect pearl white specimens you’re accustomed to, but pointed, slightly yellowed teeth. The turquoise eyes are now black, the white orbs bloodshot. “Sit down,” he says again, “before I change my mind about the not murdering you part.”

You sink back into the swivel chair, your heart pounding. How had you not known? How long has he been pretending to be Izaack for? Where was the real version?

As if reading your mind, the creature elaborates about the fate of the male human he’s pretending to be. “He’s not dead. Someone like that is too valuable to waste. Let’s just say we’re keeping him tucked away safely for now.”

You wonder if the new reporter’s capture is truly a better fate than a swift passing. “Don’t hurt him, please.”

“Why? Isn’t he a virtual stranger to you?”

“He’s my neighbor.”

The wide shoulders lift and drop in a shrug. “You have plenty of others. Or was there some other reason making you so concerned about this particular individual? Something a little more personal? A touch more…intimate, shall we say?”

It’s disconcerting how transparent your thoughts and feelings seem to be. The invader’s hands, now tipped in dark claws and studded with jagged veins that look ready to burst through the skin, curl around the armrests and tug you closer, the wheels bringing you right up to the doppel. “I can guarantee you if I was the real Gauss right now, he wouldn’t have spared you a second glance. He’d never have gotten this close. He’s arrogant and obnoxious, so nauseatingly self absorbed that I wager you wouldn’t be nearly so taken with him if you got to know him as well as I have. I’ve done you a favor, trust me.” The irony of that last utterance is not lost on you. A master of deceit imploring you to believe his word. Insanity.

The replicant’s mood shifts and his voice softens, drawing you out of your reverie. “I bet if I were to just peel this off of you, I’d find something very sweet and tasty beneath it.” The sharp tip of one digit sinks midway through the fabric of your skirt, dangerously close to your thighs, and splits it wide open. He grabs each flap and tugs, tearing the material further until it’s completely separated. You wince when you feel his hand seat on one leg, the claws scratching but not piercing the skin. It doesn’t take them long to shred your panties, leaving your lower half bare save for your shoes and stockings. “Spread your legs for me.”

You resist, shaking your head and clamping your lower extremities close together.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

A choked sound escapes you as your legs spread open.

“My, my. That does look delicious. So pink and pretty. Just a perfect little pussy to snack on.”

You hate that your body responds to his words, your sex throbbing from the attention, from being bare in your work space. The fake reporter kneels down, but his presence is still no less initimidating even at this reduced height.

“A lot of people would be glad to trade places with you right now, you know. So many of you humans lust for this face, this body. Are you one of them?” The claws have vanished, the only bit of relief you find, gasping when those human looking fingers stroke right over your damp sex. Your clit pulses needily and the movement is not lost on the doppel. “I think the answer to that question is a resounding yes.” His thumb massages that sensitive pearl while his middle finger spears your drooling entrance. You are soaked. You can hardly believe your body is betraying you like this.

“Oh, look how wet you are. Tight, too. It’s a good thing I have the right tool for the job to pry you open properly.” A tongue emerges from between the rows of sharp teeth, a dark maroon colored tentacle looking object with a pointed tip that flicks your bud and has your hips involuntarily lurching, seeking more contact with the foreign muscle. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “Best fucking thing I’ve had to eat so far on this miserable planet.” Then his mouth crushes against your pussy.

You need something to hold onto, and that something becomes the carefully coiffed hair of the news anchor, instantly sending the coal dark tresses into disarray. He sucks so hard you think your clit is going to be pulled right away from your body. He adds a second finger and, at times, that wicked, alien tongue into your channel and you no longer care that you’re getting your cunt eaten out by a doppel. Your throat burns from how rapidly you’ve been searching for air. You feel like you’re going to cum, but that something else is about to happen, too. There’s a pressure inside, similar to needing to void, but slightly different. That bizarre, wonderfully obscene tongue of his keeps touching your g spot and it’s doing things. Things you can’t control.

His eyes lift and they’re that pretty teal color again, the hair you’ve mussed tumbling across his ivory forehead, and you fall apart against that Adonis face, the orgasm so intense you find yourself squirting, splashing fluids into the waiting mouth that sucks and swallows and laps every stray droplet, seeking more.

Your legs are shaking violently and you’re embarrassed and you’re afraid, too, but the lust is doing a nice job of muting that last feeling somewhat.

“Absolutely fucking delectable. That was a pleasant surprise, dear.”

“I didn’t know…I…”

“First time for everything, isn’t that how the expression you humans use goes?” He licks his lips—fully back to the human features again, normal tongue, teeth, eyes—and rises to his feet. “Perhaps you’d like to continue this elsewhere? Somewhere a little more comfortable?”

“Um…” You’re still coming down off your post orgasmic high, the nerves in your legs firing and tingling. You’d just squirted in a doppelganger’s mouth. Had a mind blowing climax, the best of your life. With an imitation copy of famed news reporter Izaack Gauss. Fuck.

“Or I can bend you over the desk and fuck you right here. Your choice, dear. But make up your mind quickly, or I’ll choose for you.”

The brazen declaration strikes you iron hot in your core. Either offer sounded tempting. “Um…” You repeat helplessly.

The replicant clucks his tongue softly. “Cock dumb already, are we? And you haven’t even seen it yet, let alone felt it.”

“Upstairs,” you manage to blurt your decision.

“Fine. My place or yours?”

“You mean Izaack’s?”

“I mean mine. He’s hardly in a position to use it at present.”

“Oh. Yours, then.” You suddenly realize you’re naked from the waist down and you no longer have any intact garments to cover your nudity. “My clothes…”

“Use this.” He lifts his coat from the desk and tosses it at you. It’s absurdly long but it does the trick, shielding your naked body from view.

The doppel says nothing to you on the elevator, seemingly unconcerned if anyone were to run into you now, or if you had any thoughts of trying to escape. There’s a slight delay when he realizes his apartment key is still tucked into his coat pocket, shoving his hand into the outerwear he’s loaned you, the sudden warm press of him inviting, in spite of everything, and then you’re ushered inside.

The reporter’s living space is modernly furnished, and neat as a pin. You’re guided to the bedroom, a large portion of which is occupied by an enormous closet full of clothes—necessary for the job, you suppose, although to your eye one suit is much the same as the next—and a king sized bed covered in a steel gray sheet set and comforter.

“It’s, um…your place is nice,” you say, feeling a need to fill the sudden silence.

The doppelganger grunts at the compliment, thumbing open the button of his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair in front of the desk placed before the window. He tugs on his tie, a silk item that’s a few shades lighter than his eye color, and this joins the blazer. His fingers move briskly over the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, then unfasten the row of buttons draped over his torso. He sheds the shirt and the undershirt unceremoniously and you have your first glimpse of the body the copycat has adopted.

There were a few paparazzi photos snapped here and there that had circulated the tabloids, so it’s not as if you’ve never seen the man on one of those glorious resort beaches you know you’ll never experience in your lifetime, but seeing those muscles in person is much, much different. You can’t help but appreciate the beauty of the figure in front of you, even if it is a phony.

“Like what you see, do you?” There’s a little smirk on the imposter’s lips now as he begins working open his pants.

You stare open mouthed, gaping like a fish out of water as he continues shedding clothing. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his cock size. At all. If anything, he’d been too conservative. He was going to break you in two. You’d be slain after all.

His gaze sharpens, piercing you after he finishes undressing. “You’re not going to clam up like this during the interview tomorrow night, are you?”

“I…what? We’re still doing the interview?”

“Of course.”

“But…but I thought…” You can’t stop staring at the massive erection saluting you.

“It’s a hassle changing faces sometimes. I’ve got a good thing going here. Good job, nice place to live. Appreciative viewers,” he murmurs, his fingers tucking under your chin. “So I'm not keen to do anything to draw attention to myself. You keep my secret and I’ll make sure you’re…compensated. Deal?”

You nod, unable to form words. If you declined, you feel certain the consequences would be dire.

“Good. Now get out of that coat—mind you place it nicely on the chair there until I can hang it up later, I do like this human’s wardrobe—and I’ll see about making some more of those fantasies come true, hmm?”

You’re blushing again. He’s already seen your pussy up close; is removing the rest of your clothes after the borrowed coat such a hardship? You let the blouse and brassiere fall to the floor, about to peel the stockings off but he bids you to keep them on, pushing you gently back onto the bed after he drags the comforter off. “In case you have another…episode.”

He’s talking about the squirting. You glance away hurriedly.

“Look at me,” he says, drawing your gaze back to his features. His knee sinks into the mattress, joined soon after by the other. He climbs over you and you’re struck again by how large the creature is in every single way. His face dips to yours and he kisses you for the first time and you forget all of your earlier misgivings in an instant. Those plump lips were made for this, for stroking and brushing against another’s. Your own part and his tongue slides between them, nudging yours, trying a little sample of the taste of your mouth. Ink smudged fingers caress your breasts and smooth over your ribs. Everywhere your own hands touch meets firm, muscular flesh. Everything is toned, lean. You knead his shoulders and stroke his chest and squeeze his biceps, marveling at how massive his arms are, far more than your fingers can stretch around. You’re still not brave enough to explore further south on your own.

“Touch me,” he whispers beside your ear before nibbling on it, and your hands collide with something scalding. You’ve found his cock. Wet at the tip. He groans a little, his hips pushing that erect organ through the circle of your fingers, effectively fucking them. “Good girl,” he praises, and you feel a fresh flood leaking from your sex. “Let’s get you nice and filled.” His hand wedges between your thighs and you instantly spread them open. He strokes the head of his prick over the moist petals and then pushes at your opening and oh, it burns, it’s too much, too much but not enough, you want more, rolling your hips up to help him sink in further. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you? Just like a doppel.”

At the utterance of this final word his face changes again, his true form once again asserting dominance, revealing itself. You can’t kiss him like you had earlier, not with those razor teeth, but his tongue reaches your mouth easily, twining around inside, poking and prodding. His hands brace against your thighs and fold you over and he goes in even deeper, sinking into your wet cunt that sucks at him, throbbing, already trying to milk seed from the alien.

You can feel him burrowing inside—feel him from the outside, even, the bulge palpable through the exterior wall of your abdomen—and the ache starts to become more pleasurable. Your body wants this. It wants to mate with this imposter.

The gentle introduction completed, Gauss’ replica starts pumping faster. You’ve still got one orgasm up on him and he wants his now. “Fuck, you feel so good. Are you going to cum on my cock this time? I’d love to feel that hot, wet cunt of yours spasming around me.” He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking your clit again.

“Mmmm…Izaack….” You realize you’d just addressed the clone by his human name and your tongue freezes against his, your rocking hips halting.

“You can call me that.” Softer mouth again. Human lips. Wet against your throat. “Let me hear how much pleasure I’m giving you.”

The permission relaxes you, draping you in warm comfort. You card through his hair—now a tangled licorice shaded mess—and gaze into aqua eyes, moaning his name over and over. His hips slam into yours roughly, at odds with the gentle circles he’s still tracing along your nub, and it pushes you over the brink. The smirk is back, that satisfied curve of lips followed by a Cheshire Cat grin that fades as his own release builds.

“Here it comes, get ready for it…fuck, it’s so good…”

A series of jets of hot liquid fill your womb and you shudder as the invader fills you with his cum. His teeth sink into your shoulder—human ones, but biting hard enough to leave temporary dents—and then he collapses beside you.

“That was, um…”

“Good?” He supplies, still sounding a little breathless.

“Yeah. Really good.”

“Mmmm.” He folds his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling while he recovers. You shift on your side and he glances over at you. “You’re sure you’re good for the interview tomorrow? Remember what you’re going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to rehearse it again?”

Ah. A concealed invitation. “Maybe we should. Just to be sure we have all the details just right.”

“My thoughts exactly.” The doppelganger pulls you into his arms.

#izaack gauss #izaack tnmn #tnmn izaack #thats not my neighbor #that’s not my neighbor #izaack gauss x reader #izaack gauss x you #tnmn smut #doppelganger izaack gauss #doppel izaack #divider @saradikagraphics #divider @cafekitsune

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matan4il · 6 months

Text

I was going to refer to this Newsweek op ed, written by Doctor Qanta Ahmed, in my daily update post, but when I was looking for which part to quote, I found that it was ALL too important to leave out. So here is all of it:

I was in scrubs from the wet morgue at Abu Kabir when I learned Queen Rania of Jordan questioned whether Israeli children had verifiably been killed by Hamas on October 7. Hugely appealing to the West, ranked among Forbes's 100 most powerful women, among the top ten most followed international leaders on Instagram, dressed routinely by Valentino, Schiaparelli and Dior, and of Palestinian origin (her family is from the West Bank's Nablus), Queen Rania is undeniably a global icon. And her powerful voice became the opening salvo to a chorus of innumerable deniers, a further barbarism dehumanizing the victims of Hamas' atrocities targeting women and girls.

Hearing her strident tone, even as I was surrounded by Israeli Jews, Israeli Christians, and Israeli Muslims still reeling with shock, cut to my core.

Days after the attacks, as a Muslim woman committed to combating Islamism and a physician, I traveled at my own expense to the Gaza envelope to view the aftermath of Hamas' butchery. I examined the cadavers of the murdered and defiled; the corpses of the decapitated and immolated. I spoke with the victims of Hamas, including a former hostage—a Muslim physician—and numerous witnesses to Hamas' express barbarity against women, children, girls, and infants, brutally violated in life, in utero and in death.

I inspected bodies that had been repeatedly stabbed, shot, and crushed. I examined mutilated bodies, restrained with cables, electrical cords, and zipties, still in place post-mortem, and those that had been decapitated and incinerated at temperatures approaching 3,000 degrees Celsius.

Back in New York City, Israeli criminal prosecutor Ayelet Razin Bet Or shared with me evidence compiled in Israel's ongoing investigation into Hamas' crimes. Michal Yaniv, Head of Foreign Affairs on Israel's National Security Council, provided me testimonies recorded by Israeli security officials.

One account, far from unusual, is especially harrowing: A woman who survived the Nova music festival in Re'im witnessed a young woman encircled by Hamas, stripped naked, violated, and manhandled by multiple Hamas terrorists as they gang raped her, repositioning her by the waist and hips, moving from one rapist to the other.

Shuddering at the memory, covering her face, with difficulty, the eyewitness continued: One terrorist pulled the woman's long hair, forcibly arching her neck backwards, fully exposing her naked torso, only to sever both her breasts from her chest with his commando knife. Her entire torso fell backwards, slackened in agony. She may have fainted, though she lived through the mutilation. The disembodied breasts fell to the ground, where terrorists casually played with them.

Sergeant Major Natah Katz from the IDF Rabbinical Unit at the Shura base near Ramle described to me cadavers he received with breasts and genitals hacked off, one with a knife impaled directly into the vagina. The mutilation of sexual organs and breasts, "seemed to be an obsession," he recalled. Dr. Chen Kugel, head of Israel's National Forensic Center has confirmed to me the same.

Indeed, Hamas arrived with orders to mass rape: Phrasebooks belonging to Hamas found in the Re'im area listed phonetic Hebrew commands in Arabic "Take your clothes off!"; " Spread your legs!'; "Get down!" Terabytes of their own video data confirm Hamas raped, amputated breasts, mutilated women's genitals, and committed systematic sexual crimes on both the living and the dead. Necrophilia has been explicitly reported.

Despite all of this, almost two months would pass before the U.N. denounced the October 7 sexual violence during hearings. Congressional and Senate Hearings must urgently follow.

Silence ensures Islamist antisemitism overrides human morality. Silence also grants open season for Hamas to continue these obscene crimes with impunity, as they likely still do this hour upon the remaining 129 hostages in captivity.

Genocidal rape has no context. Contextualization is contemptibly antisemitic and pure misogyny, if not open Islamist sympathy.

Repudiation must reverberate globally. In the meantime, I will not rest until Congress, the Senate, and the U.N. speak in unison on the international humanitarian values protecting women, for only then can the decapitated screams of the tiny girl in Abu Kabir can at last be granted silence.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #israelunderattack #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish

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