If Regret Were A Fine Wine, That’s What This Chapter Tastes Like. Or A Sinful Treat.

I adore these head cannons! What a delightful little deviant this version of Rocket is. Love that he canonically fucks.

eidos-rocket headcanons

nonnie asked: Do you have any head canons for Eidos Rocket with an S/O?

sweet chickadee, do i ever. sfw & nsfw headcanons for eidos-rocket behind the cut. my headcanons are too long tho so thursday i will post the lil minific that i wrote you. gn reader & it's just a tiny bit spicy (i'll link it here once it's posted). i hope you enjoy! ♡♡

also please bear with me if there are any major inconsistencies with game canon. unlike the movies, i couldn't really rewatch a million times, nor is it quite as easy to do research to fill in the gaps as it is with the movies.

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sfw headcanons

eidos-rocket dates a LOT. he's a big fan of the idea that two (or more) people can enjoy themselves and each other without any strings attached. unfortunately for you (and himself), the only people he's ever felt (or allowed himself to feel) committed to were lylla and tella, and to be honest, he's got a lot of hang-ups about both of 'em. one sacrificed herself so he could be free of the kree and he still feels like he owes her; the other stole the ship he hacked for her and left him to the wolves. if he's had any scrap of personal affection or optimism for biologicals left after rak-mar, it had evaporated then, and had only been resurrected by groot.

nevertheless, he'll get along with you as well as he could be expected to get along with any new person in his life. maybe you're a newbie on the guardians team, or maybe you're a stranger he picks up at a contraxian bar. hell, maybe you're a dancer at that place he likes so much on knowhere. he'll put up with you the same way he puts up with mantis: a little baffled at what he perceives as your weirdness, and surprisingly receptive to whatever endearments you accidentally levy against him. but whether your presence in his life begins with a sexual proposition, a date, or a job on the milano, once he starts developing more intense feelings for you, he'll shut down. even having a crush will feel like a betrayal of the otter who gave her life for him to escape the kree. he'll spend way too much time hating himself and trying to push you away - usually by blaming you for petty slights that he knows he's either made up or exaggerated. of course, every time he does, he'll feel like scut about it. he'll have a powerful urge to grovel, but he won't let himself - at least not till he finally believes that he's got enough love to give you while still cherishing his memories of lylla. luckily for him, he's got you to help him get there.

remember how protective eidos-rocket is of groot? now that he trusts you and realizes how much he wants you in his life, he's starting to feel the same way toward you. well, not exactly the same way, obviously - but though it's taken him a while to come around on it, he now realizes you're just as sweet as his big best friend, and just as in-need of someone to look out for you and make sure you're not taken advantage of by all the scut n' chogs out here. you think it's just impatience at first - when he starts towing you around knowhere with your wrist clamped in his hand - but it's more about wanting to make sure he can keep track of you, and plant himself safely in front of you if any weirdos show up.

like his counterparts, eidos-rocket doesn't sleep much. if he stops thinking for long enough to rest, his mind immediately rotates wartime memories and flashbacks from the kree labs. he'll spiral out, thinking of the brain-numbingly repetitive tasks he'd been forced to do, growing more and more panicked rather than actually resting. plus, something about sleep makes his subconscious call up memories of the sensory deprivation tanks. sure, they weren't as painful or agonizing as his other memories of conditioning, torture, experimentation, and battle, but they're what he most often has nightmares of: being nothing, floating in nothing. the epitome of alone-ness. which is why he's such a sap for being touched. the first time you'd reached out instinctively to ruffle the too-soft-looking fur at the base of his thickly-velveted ears, he'd swatted at you with both hands like you were a goddamn bug. flarkin' infantilizing, he'd growled. but at some point, you'd done it again (on accidental impulse, of course; all things considered, you're probably the least invasive person he knows, so he should really cut you some slack). it had still given him a bit of panic, but no-one had been around, so he'd settled for glaring at you. fortunately for you both, it hadn't been too long before he'd admitted to himselfthat he wants you to touch him all the time.

now that eidos-rocket trusts you enough, he’s particularly partial to you grooming him. the feel of your fingers stroking through the ruff along his cheeks, running through the surprisingly-silky texture of his little beard? he loves when you braid it for him. it feels so good that he can’t help but close his eyes and tilt up his face, like a cat getting chin-scratches. if he’s in a good mood, he’ll even let you pick the beads. that’s a gesture of true intimacy, by the way. you think he’d trust just anyone to honor his aesthetic?

since we're talking about his goatee and his aesthetic, let's admit that eidos-rocket is by far the most vain of all his current incarnations. the manicured neatness of that little beard and its embellishments? the obscene fluffiness of his tail? this guy uses a high-quality oil to keep his fur and skin in good condition. it started when he stole some fancy beard-oil from some spartoi jerk for scut n' giggles, but then he'd learned the luxury was actually pretty nice. he'd eventually found a knowhere vendor he can buy some good stuff from, and for pretty cheap. he gets it custom-made, and it's mostly scentless, with undertones of something like black pepper and cedar.

speaking of fur: bury your nose in eidos-rocket's fluffy neck-scruff and you'll find that in addition to the faint cedar-and-pepper scent, he smells like iron, engine fuel, and something reminiscent of gunpowder. and maybe some kind of booze he probably didn't pay for at mantlo's - like a spicy, caramelly kind of rum. plus, he for sure smokes, so he probably smells at least a little like burnt everbloom, which gives him an additional sort of smoky, gingery scent.

nsfw headcanons

let me be real clear that rocket in almost all universes and timelines will fuck (barring certain kinds of trauma i'm not into adding to his life-story). mcu-rocket knows better than anyone that bodies aren't a good indicator of a person's worth. comics-rocket is canonically attracted to people of all shapes and sizes and numbers of tentacles or whatever. similarly, eidos-rocket seems way more interested in whether or not a particular partner or partners are going to make him feel good (and his own ability to make them feel good) than whether or not they have a certain kind of genitalia, how many limbs they've got, or their percentage of body-fat.

we mentioned how much eidos-rocket struggles with the memories of the deprivation tanks, and how much he craves your touch as a result. the truth is that having you wrapped around him for the whole sleep-cycle makes it a lot harder for his subconscious to convince him that he's still stuck in sensory-deprivation. even if he does start to drift into one of those dreams, it takes less than a second on waking to remember that he can still feel, and what he feels is you, all around him. maybe he'll press his ear to your chest: even though he can already hear your heartbeat without trying, he wants it so loud that he can taste it. sometimes, that's enough. other times, he'll wake you by pulling you fully on top of himself, needing the heat and weight of you, feeling your pulse against his mouth. if he's a certain kind of desperate, you'll wake up with his tongue or his dick inside you - as long as you've said you're okay with it, of course. i don't think eidos-rocket considers himself into somno, per se - this is far more about an urgent need for the comfort of feeling you more than kink, necessarily.

but since we're talking about kink, let it be known that eidos-rocket is the most openly-filthy rocket. he's got no problem acting out in public, touching you, trying to embarrass you. ugh, i hate gettin' wet; wet fur is the krutackin' worst, he'll say loudly in front of the whole fam. then, without skipping a beat, his eyes will dart at you mischievously. well, maybe there're some exceptions...

there's also something of an exhibitionist in eidos-rocket, as long as he's the one pulling the strings. getting you aroused in public is a fun game and it makes him smug as hell, and he doesn't generally think about being self-conscious about sex after having spent so much time on knowhere and contraxia. but on the rare occasion that you turn the tables, and he gets flustered - self-conscious, flattered, turned-on, needy - he can't hide it anywhere near as well as the other rockets. mcu-rocket might scuff his feet, scrub at the back of his neck, and look away; comics-rocket barely reveals anything beyond a brief widening of his eyes and a flicker of tail and ears (unless he's a skottie young rocket, in which case, he has no shame whatsoever) but eidos-rocket will be trying (and failing) to hide his blush so obviously that the poor guy might as well not even have any fur. i mean, hell, did you notice the scene where quill was like, "you deserve a little praise"? poor guy was curled in on himself, hiding his face, suddenly couldn't have mouthed-off to save his life. speaking of praise...

eidos-rocket generally likes to be in charge in the bedroom, like all rockets - but if you want to see his mouth snap shut, his eyes get wide, and watch him unravel into something close to subby, all you have to do is offer up some sincere, specific compliment. yeah, i headcanon all rockets as having something of a praise-kink, but how that looks can vary wildly across the multiverse. for this guy? well, let's just say that if you play your cards right and tell him just how good and deserving he is, eidos-rocket will be salivating to give you whatever you krutackin' want.

other kinks? eidos-rocket will try almost anything twice, as long as he feels safe (admittedly, that's a high bar, though you've managed to surpass it in multiple ways). but we know he's mentioned how much he enjoys "the place with the dancers." you may or may not have easy access to a pole - but offer him a chair dance, and those clever hands of his will be clutching and flexing, eyes unblinking while they drink you up. clumsy? he doesn’t care. the very idea of you dancing for him turns him on as much as actually watching your beautiful body undulate, revealing a bit more of yourself to him with every breath. let it turn into a lapdance and he'll think this is a newer and more dangerous version of the Promise — and even if it is, he ain’t tryin’ to leave. he'll fight himself to keep his hands off of you, not wanting it to end even a half-second early. eventually, it'll become a competition between the two of you: him trying to keep you writhing on him for as long as possible, and you trying to get him to break and fuck you. by the time he finally cracks, you might regret riling him up so damn much.

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True Ravager stories.

Peter Quill is the type of guy to randomly drop little pieces of Ravager lore on the Guardians and then continue on like nothing happened, like when your dad reveals hes wanted in five countries type shit and Guardians always get whiplash like… shit. I forgot hes a ravager. Like-

Rocket: hey you ever been to Trivida? Looks nice Peter: oh yeah i've been. Really pretty place. One time a few guys thought itd be funny to stick me in a burlap sack, so cliche right? And they threw me out of the ship. It took Yondu seven days to find me…………….. Also i never saw those guys again. Huh. Anyway its a nice planet. Cool people.  Rocket:....... Im sorry what the fu- ~ Gamora: hey Peter, theres this creature thing that uh, wants to talk to you? Peter: oh! Achilles hey! Achilles, a giant flesh eating tentacle monster: Petey! Tell your old man I said hi why don't you! You never visit me anymore! Peter, who has Yondu saved as ‘kidnapper’ in his pager: oh yeah defo! He misses you too Gamora:...... what ~ Groot: I am Groot Peter: no no, sorry i cant Groot: i am Groot? Peter: yeah my legs magnetic because when i was like fourteen i wanted to steal this relic and then uh this older dude Macho didn't like that and he replaced my leg with a fire hydrant. Anyway want some nachos?  Groot:.... Holy shi-

Just peter dropping lore the Guardians have no idea what to do with

Gorgeous art for a great story. My heart breaks for them here.

@nerdy-and-dedicated gifted! For chapter 19 and the sneak peek given. 🥰

I’ve been feeling pretty bummed out all week and this has really lightened my day!

A painting by the amazing artist Ksenia Buridanova that is giving me Knot vibes from Chapter 16 of Entanglement. Don’t worry though, this fucker will be so, so sorry in the near and coming future. A peek at the next chapter under the picture.

Thalisk whispered something low and growling to Knoliadin before switching back to the standard Badoon that her translator could make sense of. “I advise caution, my prince. The girl has yet to learn proper respect, proper reverence,” he warned as he made his way across the room.

“I’m sure that with your careful tutelage, she will learn quickly, Thalisk. Your methods are, no doubt, impeccable.” Knoliadin replied, an understated elegance to his words that Petra had never before heard from him.

“I do not anticipate her being an apt pupil. Insouciance seems to be bred into her bones.” Thalisk answered.

“Odd,” Knoliadin answered with a frown in his voice, “I have found her to be a quick study. She has already passed the third level of Jalwek-Pazon in a short amount of time. Consider her heritage. Consider the sort of being she is.”

Even though terror was buzzing in her finger tips, the way the two men were talking about her like she wasn’t even there was starting to really annoy her. She didn’t like how he called her a ‘being’ as if she were something other. The sound of moving fabric and footsteps yanked her thoughts back into horror.

A gentle whisper of a touch brushed against Petra’s face. She strained wildly to get out of reach, to get away from Knoliadin, but could not escape. He dragged the back of his fingers across her cheek with a barely there caress. His touch was distressing, his skin seemed to buzz against hers as if little tingling fibers were connecting them where skin met skin. “I can feel the fear pounding in your neck like a trapped animal. Be calm. I will not harm you.” When he lifted his hand away, the fibrous strings stretched, pulled, and thinned, but did not separate completely. I made her skin itch and twitch, she wanted to scratch herself bloody with her nails.

Petra flinched hard enough that she experienced a bracing shock as he traced the edge of her jaw with his thumb. It made her slump in her bonds and groan again as pain danced up her nerves. “Shhhh,” Knoliadin crooned as his hand lingered on her shoulder.

When she recovered somewhat, she made a small noise of protest as he slid his claws into her hair. “Shall I remove the blindfold? I imagine it would comfort you to see where you are.” He said as he loosened the fastenings on the sides. A rustle of fabric and Petra was squinting her eyes even at the dim lights of the room.

She couldn’t see much. She knew if she turned her head too quickly she would feel burning electric torment, so she focused on what was directly below her feet. Gleaming metal, sleek and sterile duraplastic lined counters. Machines both familiar and strange loomed like ghosts in the shadowed room. There was an IV of fluids and nutrients hanging above her head, and she was laying restrained on a padded surgical table. A medical lab. She was in the ship’s medical bay. Wide bands cuffed her wrists, ankles, shoulders, waist, and hips. An uncomfortable pressure on her head made her suspect some sort of electrodes were placed there.

“There she is,” Knoliadin said, and Petra’s eyes flickered to her side to see him smiling down at her. He wore a dark eye patch over his ruined eye and a sleek red and golden brocade robe of Shiar wood dove silk. Before she could stop the sound, a whine spilled over her lips. “Shhhh,” he repeated, as he cupped her face, “So, you feel it too, our connection, our bond.” It was as if her cheek was threaded to his palm with squirming, writhing worms that consumed both of their flesh at once.

“You didn’t mean to create this connection, did you?” he asked, voice full of sympathy, compassion. He glided his clawed thumb under her eye to catch the first drops of moisture there.

“No,” she answered, eyes overflowing with tears.

“You did only mean to heal me? Nothing else?”

“Yes, only that.”

I might be in love with Wanda now too.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part four. south dakota.

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angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 4/7 | word count: 1864.

rocket and wanda get in a fight.

During a watch party for Avengers: Endgame on Twitter, Markus revealed the idea to team Wanda with the Guardian of the Galaxy captain actually made it into several versions of the film's script. "We had whole drafts with Wanda on a road trip with Rocket," Markus wrote, "but after the Vision plot in Infinity War, nothing we came up with was anything but wheel spinning for her character." CBR

They don’t stop until Rapid City. Wanda looks like she might actually be ready for a nap — her firestorm-eyes somehow blunted by exhaustion — and Rocket himself could go for a few drinks, which is apparently not a thing you’re allowed to do if you’re in a moving vehicle in this corner of Terra. 

Stupid, he’d scoffed at the witch. M’not even the one working the frickin’ pod.

Car, she’d corrected mildly, and she still hadn’t let him have a drink. He’d thought about swiping some booze at one of the so-called rest-stops, but then he’d felt all twisted-up inside about sneaking a drink when it was clearly something she didn’t want him to do. In some ways, she reminds him of Gamora — too serious, carrying way too much for her skinny baldbody shoulders — and the thought of fucking around with her rules when she’s got so few of ‘em just makes him feel small and low.

Sometimes he misses the days when screwing with someone brought him twisted shreds of meanspirited joy. 

Time to be the captain, he thinks bitterly.

By the time they find a hotel with a vacancy that doesn’t look like a shithole — not that he minds shitholes, of course, they kinda feel like home to him; but Wanda’s muttering something about bedbugs and reminding him that Natasha’s paying  — well, by then, he’s a little worried he’s not gonna get a drink after all. There doesn’t seem to be a bar within reasonable walking distance — not that he can see. But when they check in, he can see from the corner of his eye that there’s a bar attached right to the frickin’ lobby, and he thinks maybe Terra doesn’t completely suck after all.

The witch is so exhausted that it actually doesn’t take long for her to drift off this time — at least, not by his standards. He can hear her heartbeat suddenly thumping her awake every few minutes for the first half-hour or so — but eventually, her stifled breaths of wakefulness spread out and smooth over. 

It’s not that he’s trying to sneak out. He hasn’t done that since — well, since Pete was around, and that was mostly just to fuck with an easily-annoyed Star-Lord. Really — and Rocket would never admit it if asked — he’s pretty sure that, like himself, the witch finds it easier to sleep when she’s not alone. 

So he putters around, quietly working on a series of tiny linked infrasonic mines made from some scraps he’d squirreled out of Nat’s sound system and a pocketful of things called earbuds he’d swiped at one of the fancier rest-stops. Once he’s sure Wanda’s asleep, he scrawls a note for her — hoping he’s remembering the written Terran language Pete had insisted on trying to teach the Guardians before everything went to hell. Rocket had picked up a fair amount of it, even if he’d pretended disinterest. 

He wishes he hadn’t been such a frickin’ dickhead about it.

witch -  goin to lobby bar. see you in mornin. r

He snags one of the access cards out of the flimsy paper envelope that the front desk had issued them, and carefully eases the door shut behind him. Currently, the plan is to let the poor witch sleep, and to get so wasted while she does it. He’s been sober for cycles now, and he frickin’ deserves it.

Down the hall he goes, whistling a jaunty tune, tail swinging casually behind him. On the way past the ice machine, the door of another room opens. Some baldbody woman looks out, then drops her eyes to his. She blinks, goes white, and closes the door right back up again. He shrugs — weird — and hops in the elevator. He ain’t a fan of the little crack between the floor of the hotel and the little metal box, dropping down countless stories to the basement below. Don’t Terrans know how to make any safe tech? He tries not to think about being in a deathtrap while he hits the button labeled G, which Wanda had explained was for ground floor. 

On four, the elevator pauses and a man nearly steps in before noticing Rocket. The interim captain of the Guardians of the Galaxy offers a friendly, nonthreatening mock salute. 

“Hey, guy.”

The man goes white, and steps back out of the elevator, suddenly gripping his messenger bag in front of his belly. Rocket frowns as the doors slide shut.

Terrans are so frickin’ weird, he thinks again.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, and Rocket grins at the sight of the bar, with all its glass bottles reflecting molasses-brown shadows and amber light.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmurs, and strolls across the tiled floor and through the little entryway. The bar is nearly empty — perfect for penance-drinking. He leaps delicately onto a stool at the bar. “I’ll take the hardest thing you’ve got,” he tells the bartender — a slender humie with thick, darksilver hair. The man blinks at him, eyes growing wide and face turning to ash. “The whole bottle,” the captain clarifies, suddenly recalling that Terran humies tend to distill some of the weakest liquors in the galaxy.

“I — I don’t think I can do that,” the Terran says thinly. His eyes flicker over Rocket, ears to tailtip.

Rocket’s brow pleats. “Huh? Why not?”

“Uh,” the bartender says, eyes siding nervously to one side, “we don’t serve… pets at the bar…”

It takes a minute for Rocket to be sure he’s understood correctly. His lip peels back from his teeth and he catches himself at the start of a seething hiss when the man shrinks back.  

Terrans are just morons, Rocket reminds himself. You’re s’posed to be the captain now. Of the Guardians of the frickin’ Galaxy. A good guy. 

Hang onto your frickin’ temper.

“Dude,” he manages to grind out between sharp teeth. “I ain’t a frickin’ pet.” 

“Wild animal, then,” the bartender mumbles, eyes nearly as big as Mantis’ had been, but much less kind. It sends a spear of leaden regret slides right through the fucked-up, half-shredded muscle of Rocket’s heart. 

That chick with the antennae, he’d called her. Why’s he always gotta be such a dickhead?

For once, he tries not to turn that pain outward, even though it’s always so much easier. Still, he can’t help but feel his fists curl and his ears flick back, flattening against his skull. “How many wild animals do you know that talk?” he asks the humie behind the bar, trying to be reasonable. “I’m a frickin’ Guardian of the Galaxy. An honorary Avenger or whatever. I fought Thanos for you assholes.”

I lost my whole family for you.

The bartender begins backing away, palms raised in surrender. “Look, I don’t know anything about you being an Avenger, but if you’re not a service animal, I don’t think you can even be in the bar—“

Rocket feels his eyes go round and his spit go sour. The fur on his back and neck and arms splays wide, and his tail puffs to twice its normal size. “A. What?”

The bartender looks like he’s going to cry. “I don’t know, man! For all I know, you could be rabid—“

“I ain’t rabid,” Rocket snarls, rising to his feet on his barstool. “I get my frickin’ shots—“

“—and we don’t serve raccoons!”

His jaw clicks shut. The sharp electric-shock of the word burns every nerve and short-circuits his brain, and all he can think is how much he’d give up for Pete to call him that shit-name again.

“What’d you call me?” 

He launches himself over the bar and lands on the mirrored shelf behind it, spraying bottles across the narrow space while the Terran shrieks and cowers. Glass and booze explode against the tile while Rocket spins and hooks his hands into claws, ready to rend. 

“I’m gonna frickin’—“

He’s springing through the amber and blue shadows when strands of light, as glowing-crimson as his own warning-beacon eyes, loop around his waist and tug him back, suspending him in midair. He tears at the gossamer-fine threads, but they slip through his fingers like mist.

“Rocket.”

He bares his teeth and glares upward. 

The witch. 

She strides across the lobby, smudged and tired, her red-star eyes spiraling and spilling molten fire. Her hair’s all tangled from whatever brief sleep she’d gotten, and her face looks white and pinched and pained. She must’ve woken, some part of him notices — smothered under the heat of his fury, his lashing tail and kicking legs. She must’ve woken, and noticed he was gone, and seen his note.

She looks concerned.

The front desk staff flinches away from where they’d been watching the scene unfold in the bar.

“Rocket,” she says gently. “Stop.”

“I will, sweetheart,” Rocket promises earnestly, still twisting and tearing at her threads of power. “Swear I will. Just lemme take care of this one jackass first—“

“No,” she says, stepping up next to wear he’s suspended, her face just a few inches from his. Her magic pulls him gently over the bar, closer to herself. “He’s not worth it.” She looks around the lobby, and some distant part of Rocket wonders how such a volcanic stare can suddenly look so utterly cold and remote. Is his own eyeshine is picking up the reflection of her light and throwing it back at her? He can picture it: four firestorm-eyes lighting up the entire hotel lobby. 

“Nothing in this place is,” she adds icily, and the ends of her hair begin to flicker and float in a wind he can’t feel.  His instincts suddenly shudder and go still: the freeze element of a classic flight-or-fight reaction. Something deep under his fur acknowledges the pure threat of her. The witch’s voice is dark, and crackling with raw red lightning. Something at the base of his spine recognizes it as the most dangerous sound he’s ever heard, and his ears flatten in alarm, puffed tail suddenly tucking in against his inner calf.  The silk strands of magic lower Rocket gently until his feet rest on the surface of the bar, but they don’t release him — not yet. Never mind that he’s not fighting anymore.

“You are a fool,” she tells the bartender, turning her molten eyes toward the baldbody still cowering behind the bar. She lifts a hand to point at Rocket. “This person is more than just an Avenger. He has saved the entire galaxy — a number of times. In all likelihood, he has saved you. Personally.” Her eyes skim the weeping bartender dismissively, then flick dismissively over the front desk staff and the two other patrons Rocket hadn’t even noticed, hiding near a potted tree that reminds him too much of a young Groot. 

“He’s no animal,” she tells them in that terrifying, midnight-voice. Honestly, Rocket wouldn’t blame any of them if they’d wet themselves. His own bladder suddenly wants to let go and it’s only his superior frickin’ aversion to embarrassment that keeps his body under control. 

“He deserves your deepest respect, and your deepest gratitude,” she tells them. Her eyes, still haloed in red radiance, hold onto the bartender.

“Now pour him a drink.”

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After getting over the initial shock and heartbreak of this tweet and this reply, it hit me that (and I don't know if this is a cultural thing here in the middle east or an Islamic one)

A child has to be named even if they're stillborn.

For a child to not be named, that means there's no one left to name them. They were killed along with their entire family.

I hoped I was wrong, but I checked the list of victims of Israeli attacks and found this:

Israel has ended 47 Palestinian bloodlines over the course of this genocide (or perhaps more), so you might think that this little detail isn't that important, but I don't think we should get used to cruelty of this proportion, no matter how consistently Israel commits it.

The number of victims isn't just a number. These are people with full lives and hopes and dreams.

It's enough of a disaster that these families were wiped out, but in murdering them, Israel didn't just deprive them of their lives, hopes, and dreams. It deprived them of even the dignity to name their children.

It continues to deprive the remaining Palestinians of their most basic human rights.

What did the Palestinians do to not deserve food or water or electricity?

What did their *newborns* do to not deserve lives or at the very least names?!

This is the most harrowing form of terrorism I can think of. The genocidal Israeli occupation is the most despicable terrorist organization the world has had the displeasure of knowing.

The whole world should be deeply ashamed that it's not only allowing such heinous war crimes to be committed, but in a lot of ways, it's enabling them.

I don't know how anyone can be neutral about this.

Stand with Palestine, stand against the occupation. Against genocide.

ربنا يتقبل الأطفال دول و أمهاتهم و عائلاتهم اللي الاحتلال قتلهم معاهم شهداء، و ينتقم من إسرائيل و أي حد بيمكّنهم أشد انتقام في الدنيا قبل الآخرة.

The cuteness is so perfect!

Entanglement -Chapter 5

This isn’t my favorite picture BUT I did slowly make this whole feeling really down so I’m just happy I finished it. This amazing story is by @hibatasblog!

Quelquefois les ailes d'un papillon sont plus fortes que le squelette humain.

I don't care as long as you read, people. Reading off a shampoo bottle is still reading!

My mother says that fanfiction doesn’t count as reading because “it isn’t nearly as good as the stuff that’s published. You’re not going to find something online that will win a Booker Prize.” Please reblog if you count fan fiction as reading, or if the fanfiction you’ve read is equally as good as published novels. I want to see the figures.