STAR WARS: THE Mandalorian No.8 Cover Art By David Nakayama

LUPITA NYONG'O presenting DA'VINE JOY RANDOLPH's nomination for Best Supporting Actress for The Holdovers at the 96th Academy Awards

As season two of Percy Jackson is approaching, I just wanna make a PSA to fans:

Avoid shipping the actors with each other, even if their characters are shipped, or at least just don’t ship them to the point of discomfort. Whether it’s Walker and Leah or any other set of actors, please refrain from making the actors uncomfortable.

1. They are not adults

2. They are not their characters, they are their own people with their own choices.

Let’s keep this fandom a safe and fun place for the fans and the actors both!

you ppl love villains/morally grey characters UNTIL they're a woman, then all of a sudden they are annoying, evil and irredeemable

These aren't the things children should watch or experience.

A Thief's Only Enemy

(BASED ON OPLA!Nami) cross-posted on ao3 !!

Nami, the trees whisper. Its tangerine drops against the soil like a ripple in the sea. She remembers the wind passing by the orchard, the dots of tangerines in the horizon, the smell of citrus making every air she breathed worthed and sour. 

Her tongue catches the taste. Her words become citrus. 

Once and now, the trees would whisper her name. Nami, Nami, Nami— our daughter, look at the curiosity—She doesn’t know what that means. Quite frankly, Nami doesn’t recall a memory that whispered her name the way the tangerine trees would. She couldn’t remember what it had meant, what it had sounded like. She couldn’t remember the significance of names. Of course, the significance of names other than Mom, and Nojiko. 

Nojiko, who is her sister, (who isn’t her sister), whose skin reaches more than a tree’s roots, underneath the soil, nurturing and caring. Who had held her, who squeezed her tighter, closer, protectively when Belle-Mere had found them. 

Then, there was her mother, oh, sweet mother. Who had said “I just knew” undoubtedly, who had been the first one to answer her questions truthfully, who had left her knowing that she and Nojiko were loved. 

(This is what life first stole: her name. It is buried until Nojiko and Belle-Mere latches themselves in her heart. They make a home there. They pump her blood and provide for her. This is what life first stole: when the home is in flames and the trees rots—when her mother fell with her skull-cracked, blood spilling between the gaps of wood, the soil carries her sacrifice. The village carries her body, they dig beside a wide tree of tangerines, they place her there. She is buried there. With a piece of Nami and Nojiko ever-beating love for each other.)

You are my daughters, I will not deny that. Nami remembers, she remembers many things. She remembers Arlong’s stupid gun, his stupid smile. She remembers Nojiko’s spiteful look when she left with Arlong. She remembers the way her sister’s blue hair reflected the emotions she felt. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: the tranquillity and war of sisterhood. She thought of the consequences because her mother had told them to be as strong as boys, and that, if they survived, good times will come. Nami knew—you see, she was a thief, then and now, thievery is mixed up with trickery—that her village would not survive Arlong’s grasp. He is a fishmen, no human in their village could deny that they were scarred with his ever-growing laughter the moment he claimed them. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she would take back: sisterhood.)

Nojiko’s hair never went past its original length, she still looks like her sister: Nami’s sister. 

Arlong’s tattoo says otherwise. She would breathe in, her hands were bruised from labour. She used to love the lines that curve to make the islands, cartography offered newness other than the mundane shackles around her once soil-covered ankles. Nesh tears pickled her citrus-covered face, her hair would be dried. She would hug her chest, carry the weight of the knowledge she possessed. 

(This is what life stole from her: freedom. The ability to breathe the citrus air, or the raw wind against her skin. Of course, Nami would grow out those shackles, she knew, her mother had told her and Nojiko that their bodies were not meant to stay in this shape. She had known that she would not stay in this vessel of a tiny girl. Yet, she could not bring herself to hope. To hope that she would live one. This is what life stole from her: freedom. The freedom to make friends. The freedom to have ridiculous hope). 

Nami grew. She had to. For Coco Village. For Nojiko. For her mother. She had to. She learned how to keep her hair the same shape, she learned to observe the sky while slipping berries out of a stranger’s pockets. She learned the meaning of her name from a stolen book, how reflecting her eyes could be in the ocean. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: a life surrounded with fishmen that would go after her, wherever she went. And she had all but herself to blame, the moment her foot made contact with the wooden floor, the moment she had blurted out that she wanted to join. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she thinks she would never get back: a life she calls her own.) 

(my thoughts are always on the tags!!) ♡ PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG TO SUPPORT ME.

When I separated myself from my brother, I left my kindness for bitterness. And my gratitude was traded for ambition.

When I split myself in the womb, my brother inherited my sanity. And I, his sarcasm.

I know it’s not much in the face of everything but I have been finding hope & resilience in palestinian poetry these past few weeks and I created a google drive file of poetry collections by palestinian poets that I will keep updating as I keep on reading. I also recommend checking out @fiercynn’s palestinian poets series for more poets + poetry available online

not arguing with a woman covered in blood . whatever you say beautiful