This Is Lama, A 9 Year Old From Gaza Who's Dream Is To Become A Journalist. She Wants To Hit 100k On

Never again

never again, they said in 1945

Never again, they said

Never again will people be denied of human rights

Never again will people be slaughtered

Never again will there be a genocide

Never again will there be supporters of genocide

Never again will there be facist Nazis

And yet again, history repeats itself,

Yet again, people die

Yet again, people are staved,

Denied of rights

And yet again, hope in humanity dies

But most importantly,

Importantly to me,

My family dies,

My flesh

My blood.

Mon Mothma shares her dreams with ghosts too.

She looks into the mirror and sees Padme, the one that manged to convince her to do this whole thing to begin with. Everyone says she died during childbirth, but Mon Mothma knows better, and she knows Bail knows better too.

Sometimes she confuses the stormtrooper helmets for clones’ but after she hears their near robotic voices she snaps out of it.

After Luthen dies, she hears his voice nagging her to start the war, to not hold back anymore. She fights that voice every day for the months/days leading up to Scariff.

Then Saw dies. She never agreed with his methods, but as two people who had survived the Clone Wars and now were nearing another war, she couldn’t help but have some respect for him and feel sad at his passing. A true fighter until the very end.

Then Cassian dies. She knew Cassian for a while personally, mostly through Luthen, but she remembers their small, late-night talks, pondering what would happen if the Empire fell, she remembers her sending him on the most classified missions because he was the most loyal, trustworthy rebel she knew, she remembers the anger, hatred, and fear that created wrinkles on his young face but the kindness and light behind his eyes. That light is now gone from the galaxy.

Then Bail dies. Bail Organa was the closest thing the senator had to a brother, the man who would give his life to make sure the sun rose on a better galaxy for his daughter, the man that was the mastermind behind the entire alliance. Everything that was here, the galaxy wouldn’t have without him.

After Endor, Mon Mothma looks back at it, back at everything, back at all the people and places she had to sacrifice for this sun to rise again, and she asks herself: “was it worth it?”

And every voice, in unison, answers:

Yes.

All that pain and misery. And loneliness. And it just made him kind.

there's just some things that come with dating izuku. he'd kiss your moles. whenever you're both sleeping on the same bed, he'd hog the blankets. but he'll make up for it by squeezing you into an embrace every night. in the counter, he's holding your pinky as he pays for the stuff. sometimes, he forgets what color his toothbrush is, and it changes every single week! once, he comes home marred with dust and grimes, and the one thought he got when he walked through that door was seeing you on the couch, watching a documentary or writing.

or maybe, a long time ago, when you were both still in school; he'd never let you get away with copying his math homework, he'd even tell on you, dating or not. it's okay though, he'll be there in countless of tutor sessions that turn out into sleepovers—

the fact that Luther, Allison, Klaus, AND Viktor ALL found their soulmates in different timelines/time periods through their time traveling is just SO juicy and could’ve been such a point of emotional conflict in this last season??? If all the timelines need to be destroyed but that would mean erasing the people they fell in love with?? erasing Sloane and Ray and Dave and Sissy?? Characters who actually were important to the seasons they appeared in, and who were so crucial to the Umbrellas’ character development?? Why not honor them and those incredible relationships in the swan song??

Instead, they did … that.

more domestic!din because im a slut for domesticity

𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; din djarin

Pairing; Din Djarin x gn!Reader

outline —; Peaceful times with Din Djarin were rare. You relish it.

word count —; 1.1k

WARNINGS —; none.

tags / themes —; reader and din are married, grogu (sweetly) interrupting a moment.

A/N —; *comes back with a massive stars wars obsession* hey, i write for them now. it's been a stressful couple months and i wanted to get something out for my birthday. this isn't beta-read, i just wanted to write. please be kind, thanks.

This galaxy raised warriors, heroes, and peace-keepers. Those who fought in the name of their planet, for the safety of the future, and the love they carry for their family. Those who were victims of war survived… or trained to survive, fight, and endure. 

This galaxy isn’t raised for writers, painters, and performers. Those who coped in whomever’s name, for the sanity of themselves, and possibly for the love they carried for their crafts. Of course, artists don’t only do it for themselves. They create in order to escape; and luckily enough, they don’t press themselves into the cruel hands of the galaxy. Because it isn’t built for them. 

For you, the galaxy seemed to test the waters. Warriors and Artists? Maybe those two weren’t so different, after all. Oh, how history would have written it; when the stars collide, an artist with no place in this galaxy meets a warrior who can’t find a home. Those three long years, what an adventure it has been. 

Din Djarin is a victim of war. Like yourself. There truly is a place for people like you. But whilst Din grew up with the Way, you grew up tracing the sky, seeing shapes in every landscape, and memorising the curve of someone’s face. Often asking yourself questions like; Where does the shadow fall? In which direction does the light come from? If you were simplified, which shapes best describe you? 

Din Djarin is a Mandalorian. Not like yourself. A Mandalorian. A warrior. He trained and connived his way till he stood in this solid home. He grew up hidden, so he stayed that way for a while in his life; often a mystery to the Guild. 

“Din Djarin, do not move.” You warned, tilting your head as the heat of Nevarro’s sun hit your face. The chair, in which you sat, rocked back slightly at your movements. With arms outstretched, thumb against the pencil, you held it feebly upwards, trying to calculate the proportions of the Mandalorian’s body. 

If you could see his face out in the open right now, you would’ve caught on with the fact that your husband — your riduur — was smirking. And decided to tilt his head in the opposite direction for the fun of it. You clicked your tongue in annoyance but a smile adorned your face. “I’ve been in this position for fifteen minutes, ner runi.” Din sighed softly, tapping his ungloved fingers against his forearm. 

“Fifteen minutes more.” You looked at him over the rim of your notebook, sketching away. A light fire went on above your head, face lighting up as the same smile adorned your features. “I’ll entertain you, what’s our son doing?” You asked, raising your notebook down to tilt your head at him again. 

Din chuckled at your demeanour or was it your question? You couldn’t tell, though he answered anyway. “Eating frogs.” 

“Again?” You turned to look at the side to see your son doing so; eating frogs. Entirely, it was your fault for looking away. At the time your eyes left your riduur, Din got up, breaking your focus. “Din!” You laughed as you looked back at him.

Your Mandalorian called your name with the same energy. His next words were spoken in a gentle manner, enough to capture your attention. “I’m tired,” He merely said, extending his hand to you. “Let’s be tired together.” 

You let a relieved breath. Has it always been there? You weren’t sure, though, at this moment, you let it go. You released it when settling your supplies down the chair in which you sat. You released it when you found yourself melting into Din’s hands. 

With the armour off, the world is all but noisy. The only sound prominent are frogs croaking and the gentle breeze of Nevarro’s ambience. He pulled you into his chest and laid his back against the frame of the metal door. 

Music. You could hear music, with your cheeks pressed against the warmth of his chest, and with his arms wrapped around you (and yours around Din’s waist). The world stopped, for a few moments it stopped, and you breathed. Inhale and exhale. The exhaustion left your body through that breath, and you could feel that Din breathed too. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. You could hear his gentle heart, if you listen close enough, you could practically hear his soul. What would it sound like? 

Move. Your body screamed to move, but a part of you wanted to stay like this forever. Though, the feeling caved into you, forcing your head to look at your husband’s visor. Your chin rested on his chest as you asked warily. “Can I kiss you?” 

Modulate. The Mandolorian’s helmet modulated his voice, if he answered in a chuckle, the other might receive it the wrong way. He didn’t want to move. The embrace held a significant peace, one that physically pained him when he moved a muscle. But Din didn’t speak with his brain at the moment, so he removed his helmet, and the beskar fell onto the floor beside them. 

They were in the middle of nowhere, what would you say? — All is well. — That sentence proved its point when Din held your cheeks beneath his hands, and his lips were on yours. He could feel you kiss back, he could feel your cheeks against his, he could feel the lazy smile that tugged your lips. Truly, Din wanted to open his eyes, to get a better look of you without his visor, yet somehow, he couldn’t. 

Din is tired. So tired. His shoulder gave in and melted between your arms; he didn’t know how it got there; your elbows above his shoulder, as your fingers explored his hair. But Din didn’t care, he just melted into your kiss, laughing, nearly crying over the unexpected bliss and peacefulness the day had to offer. 

His desires of staying like this with you continued to grow within each second— 

“Patu!” And then, the moment was sweetly broken. 

Your lips disconnected with a sound, pulling away the moment the sound was in ear-shot. Din’s eyes landed first on the green baby, doe eyed, ears high, and head tilted innocently. 

You saw him slurp a frog. “Grogu,” A waning smile reached your son’s lips when his name was mentioned, without warning, he jumped into your arms. Thankfully, you caught him. “That’s not nice of you. What if the frogs had parents?” You teased. 

Din chuckled beside you, kissing your temple lightly, before opening the door. “Let’s head inside.” He said while bending to get his fallen helmet. The gesture, so simple, caught you off guard. A soft, green hand held the base of your cheek and Grogu joyfully yelled with ‘‘Iek!’

Stepping inside, you looked around, almost nostalgically. This is your home. Reminded by Grogu and Din’s presence, a smile painted your lips. They are your home. “I’ll kiss you once more when he’s asleep.” He muttered before taking Grogu from your grip. 

Maybe there is a place for artists in this galaxy.

TRANSLATION(S);

riduur; spouse, husband, wife ner runi; my soul (*ner; my) (*runi; soul)

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there’s a girl in there

natalie portman behind the scenes of the phantom menace (1999) / angelita mallows

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"are you implying you want israel to not exist" im not implying im demanding. pleading with God and everybody. explicitly stating. i dont want any fascist state to exist i dont want any ever settler colonial scar on the face of our beautiful earth to exist i dont want that genocidal left hand extension of a hideous sinister empire to greet another dawn israel is not subtle at all about its child killing and innocents killing palestinian killing it hasnt been subtle about its fascism in seventy and more years and im not subtle about wanting it to end and wanting it to never have a chance to spring back up again