name one native american intellectual off the top of your head, name one native american actor or actress off the top of your head, name one native american senator, one native american news anchor, or an author or a tv personality or a singer or a poet or a comedian, name a single native american teacher you’ve had, can you? probably not 

ok so now think of one native american cartoon character you know of or a sports team relating to native americans whether it’s their actual name or their team logo, or a town you live in or near with a “native” name bet a lot of these things came to you right away i bet you didn’t even have to think 

needing native representation in media, education and government are not decoy issues, the commercialization and appropriation of native cultures are not decoy issues, the lack of native representation is institutional oppression at work 

White people specifically need to reblog this, I don’t CARE if it makes you uncomfortable–that’s the point. Listen to Native voices about Native issues PLEASE

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.

This is amazing!

This is The Prime Minister Of New Zealand, Jacinda Ardern. She’s 37. She’s the youngest female head of government in the world. She’s also the first western woman to give birth while in this position of power. 2 days after the baby was born - with midwives, standard in NZ hospitals - she introduced her to the country during a press conference on the nightly news. It was really lovely. She named her Neve Te Aroha. Te Aroha means “The Love” in Maori. It represents ALL the names that were submitted (upon her request) from various tribes throughout the country, and was her attempt at capturing them all. This is her and her partner, no, he’s NOT her husband (gasp!), walking to the press conference. He’s TV fishing show Host Clarke Gayford, and HE will be staying at home with baby Neve when his lady goes back to running the country in 6 weeks. Clarke sports a snazzy sweater he picked up at the op-shop (second-hand store) in Gisborne, and thinks its just kinda logical that he gives up his day job to stay home and look after the baby.

A week after the birth on July 1st Jacinda introduced a $5billion Families Package that she’d drafted on the floor of her friends house in Hastings - long before her pregnancy. It’s based on the knowledge that the first few years of a babies life are the most important. The package gives an extra $60 a week to families with new babies, and an extra $700 to families for winter heating costs as well (it’s cold as hell down there in the winter). It also increases the Paid Leave for new parents from 18 weeks to 22 weeks. She announced the details via Facebook live, from her couch, right after she’d finished breastfeeding the baby. Because Kiwis. Some of the most down-to-earth, no-drama-having, just-do-it kind of people you’ll ever meet.

And because Women. We really do know how to lead, and to do it well.

DEADASS!!!

Aaaaand they will disbar a lawyer QUICK but these cops get paid vacation.

All I’m saying is you need a master’s to be a social worker, but you can be a cop with a high school diploma. Like, on what fucking planet do that make sense?

Cops don’t have to know the law.

There was a supreme court decision recently that a cop is not falsely detaining someone if they’re doing something the cop reasonably believes is against the law, even if it’s actually legal. I think the specific case was about someone driving with a broken taillight in a state where a car is street-legal so long as at least one of its taillights works.

Meanwhile, as a civilian, ignorance of the law is not a defense.

Cops are not required to know the laws they enforce. You are required to know every law you might conceivably break. But then, of course, if you backtalk a cop because you have better knowledge of the law than they do, and they respond violently, good luck winning that.

I’m sorry but not really, what the fuck?

It occurred to Pooh and Piglet that they hadn’t heard from Eeyore for several days, so they put on their hats and coats and trotted across the Hundred Acre Wood to Eeyore’s stick house. Inside the house was Eeyore.

“Hello Eeyore,” said Pooh.

“Hello Pooh. Hello Piglet,” said Eeyore, in a Glum Sounding Voice.

“We just thought we’d check in on you,” said Piglet, “because we hadn’t heard from you, and so we wanted to know if you were okay.”

Eeyore was silent for a moment. “Am I okay?” he asked, eventually. “Well, I don’t know, to be honest. Are any of us really okay? That’s what I ask myself. All I can tell you, Pooh and Piglet, is that right now I feel really rather Sad, and Alone, and Not Much Fun To Be Around At All. Which is why I haven’t bothered you. Because you wouldn’t want to waste your time hanging out with someone who is Sad, and Alone, and Not Much Fun To Be Around At All, would you now.”

Pooh looked and Piglet, and Piglet looked at Pooh, and they both sat down, one on either side of Eeyore in his stick house.

Eeyore looked at them in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“We’re sitting here with you,” said Pooh, “because we are your friends. And true friends don’t care if someone is feeling Sad, or Alone, or Not Much Fun To Be Around At All. True friends are there for you anyway. And so here we are.”

“Oh,” said Eeyore. “Oh.” And the three of them sat there in silence, and while Pooh and Piglet said nothing at all; somehow, almost imperceptibly, Eeyore started to feel a very tiny little bit better.

Because Pooh and Piglet were There. No more; no less.

~ Kathryn Wallace

It’s a minor pet peeve, but it is everywhere today so errrr…. please keep in mind that “Rest in Peace”/RIP literally comes from a latin phrase and is a very very deeply Christian expression.

When talking about the departed, Jews say “may their memory be a blessing.”

So please, when talking about a dead person who is Jewish, try to keep in mind that RIP is a Christian phrase.

I learned something today, so I’ll pass it on so someone else can learn too

In addition, when talking about the dead of a Muslim person, it’s used to say “to God we belong, and to God we return”.

K

It was a cheerful Saturday morning in the 8th year common room when the Gryffindors began to speculate.

Because there was currently a naked Draco Malfoy fast asleep, curled up into a tight ball on Harry’s bed, while said Gryffindor was nowhere to be seen.

“It must be a ploy!” Ron shook, “He was trying to get into Harry’s bed to prank him. It must be!”

“Really, Ronald?” His girlfriend gave him an unimpressed tilt of eyebrow, “If that’s what actually happened then we’d most likely see Harry tied up somewhere, instead of just Malfoy sleeping in his bed.”

“That’s because Malfoy has already taken Harry’s out and hidden him.” Ron gasped, “Oh no! We must save Harry!”

Neville chose to ignore him, “So, where’s Harry anyway?”

The crowd around him gave an unanimous shake of head. “I don’t know, mate,” Dean frowned, looking around the room, “I think we’re all too hungover from last night’s party to remember anything.”

At his words, several groans shot up among the group. “The headache is still killing me!” Parvati complained. “Yeah, me too!” Another voice sounded.

Luckily, Hermione was already passing around vials of headache potions, which she seemed to have magicked out of thin air.

“Do you think Malfoy got here last night or this morning?” Neville pondered.

“Well if he got in this morning, we would’ve never known.” Dean shrugged. “But we didn’t see him coming up with us last night.” 

“But we were also pretty sloshed last night that we can’t be sure.” Seamus added.

Hermione hummed. “Why is he here though, instead of going back to his own room?”

Her question was met with silence as everyone contemplated with a still alcohol-addled mind, until Neville reasoned. “Maybe he was also so drunk that he followed us back here?”

“Okay but why is he in Harry’s bed? They wouldn’t have got into bed together, right?” Lavender, who was surprisingly awake enough to process more logical thoughts, pointed out. 

Hermione considered this. “Maybe Harry never went to bed himself? That would explain why he’s not here right now.”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head, “I heard him got into bed. Besides, we didn’t see him passed out downstairs.”

“So did Harry willingly let Malfoy into his bed just like that?” Lavender backtracked, “Seems unlikely but maybe Harry thought he was someone else.”

“That blond hair is quite hard to miss.” Seamus countered.

Thus, the group lapsed into silence again. Until Ron’s face lit up as though he was hit with a brilliant thought. “I know it.” He announced. “Malfoy didn’t get into Harry’s bed by himself, someone must have put him here.”

“And who would’ve done such a thing?” Hermione chuckled in fond exasperation.

“Someone who wants to finish him off, maybe?” Apparently Ron was still hung on his conspiracy, “Someone who wants Harry to. So they put Malfoy in his bed for Harry, y’know, like a prize!”

“Ooh,” Dean smirked, “A naked Malfoy presented as a prize for Harry. That is actually plausible. Though in a very different way.” He winked at Seamus, and an identical smirk spread on his boyfriend’s face.

Hermione harrumphed. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand : How do we deal with this situation?”

Parvati added. “And what is Harry going to do when he comes back to see this?”

Ginny piped up. “And why is Malfoy naked?”

Ron started and swivelled around to face his sister. “Ginny!” He exclaimed too loudly for someone who was standing next to a sleeping person, “Why are you here! You’re not an eighth — ”

“Oh I’m here too!” A cheery voice said beside her. When everyone turned to look, Luna waved enthusiastically.

Ron’s jaw worked and he visibly swallowed whatever argument he had in mind. “You know what, never mind. Indeed, why is the goddamn git naked!”

“Maybe he got hot and took off his clothes.” Luna said like it was obvious, in the same cheery tone.

“With Harry in the same bed?” Parvati gasped.

“Do you think he did something to Harry?” Neville gasped louder.

“Then we must wake him up and make him pay for it.” Ron decided, then proceeded to pick up a thick book on the desk and raise it above his head.

“Hold on!” Hermione called, “He may be naked waist down too!”

“All the way naked?” Ginny said in poorly suppressed excitement, “So Harry got some last night?”

“Ginny!” Ron all but shouted. Ginny only wiggled her eyebrows.

“Hey what if that was all not it, maybe it was the Slytherins — ” Dean began, until a familiar voice behind them interrupted.

“Uh, what are you all doing around my bed?”

Every head snapped up so fast to stare at Harry in surprise that it was comical, who had just stepped out of the bathroom, hair still dripping wet and towel wrapped around his waist.

Hermione was the first to recover. “Harry! Why — ”

“Shh!” Harry shushed her hurriedly, stepping towards the group, “You’re going to wake him!”

However, the occupant of the bed proved to be already awake, as he was currently treating the surrounding crowd before him with a quelling glare that could set one aflame, albeit through half-open eyes. When they landed on Harry, though, the gaze softened fractionally.

“Harry~” Draco whined in a tone that could rival a petulant five-year-old’s, “Why did you leave me? Come back to bed.”

The Gryffindors gaped as Harry seemed to be unaffected by the prominent pout on the blond’s face, walking to his own bed and pullung the blanket open, sitting on it sideways. Draco dropped the glare and immediately latched on Harry, circling his arms around the latter’s middle and burying his face into the still-wet back.

In the process, the covers slid down further and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief as they realized Draco was, in fact, not naked all the way.

“Your idiot Gryffindors woke me up. And now my head hurts.” Draco complained in a mumble. It would’ve been annoying if he wasn’t clutching Harry like a koala. Apparently Harry had the same sentiment, given by the fact that his hand slipped into the head of messy blond to caress it.

“I just took a shower, you prat.” Harry chuckled, “And it was you who insisted on sneaking into my bed, you could’ve just slept in your own room around your den of Slytherins.”

The Gryffindors were a bit more relieved to find that the incessant bicker between Harry and Malfoy was still present, even though the tone had taken on more of an affectionate one. Harry turned to them and asked, “Do we have some headache potion?”

Ron was obviously trying very hard not to look at the half-naked pair on the bed. “We just finished the last batch,” He said in a strangled voice, putting on his ‘I’m trying very hard not to freak out’ face. Harry thought it made him look constipated.

“We can always bring some more. C’mon, Ron,” Hermione said a tad too enthusiastically, tugging heavily at Ron’s sleeve. Ron reluctantly follows her out of the room.

Luna squealed then, when the couple was out. “What a turn of events! Congratulations, Harry, Draco,” The grin on her face was impossibly wide.

Harry smiled at her with pure joy brimming at his eyes, “Thank you, Luna. Indeed,” He looked down at Draco’s curled-up form, petting his hair while Draco made immensely pleased noise.

Draco raised his head and squinted at Luna. He nodded at her, instead of giving his usual glare. “Hello, Luna. Good night, Luna.” He said, then promptly went back to his slumber.

That broke the awkward tension in the room. The Gryffindors laughed among themselves and shook their heads, Dean and Seamus shooting Harry thumbs-ups which were returned. Soon, the crowd gradually dissipated from the bed, deciding to give the pair some space (and themselves some peace of mind).

On their way out, they could still hear the lovers bantering.

“Let me put some clothes on, I’m still naked and wet.”

“Don’t bother. You look better like this anyways.”

It was a cheerful Saturday morning in the 8th year common room when the Gryffindors (plus one Ravenclaw) began to speculate.

About how Harry and Malfoy managed to get together without them all noticing.

“Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

— I Know What You Think of Me, Tim Kreider for the New York Times

after YEARS of seeing this quote online and finding it to be the most deeply and resoundingly profound writing i finally found the source article and absolutely nothing could prepare me for this opening paragraph

Goodnight

For @antique-moonglade for  their bday<3

Harry could see Draco’s eyes falling shut, and he thought it was beyond adorable. Even after five years together he still thought his lover was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. Especially when he was tired.

“Stop staring.” Draco mumbled as he laid his head back against the couch and sighed. His eyes were fully closed now, but that had never stopped Draco from knowing what Harry was up to. “You’re always staring.”

“You’re always looking cute.” He grinned and kissed Draco on the cheek, gently pulling his half sleeping form into his arms. “Not my fault.” 

“Hmmm, too tired for this argument.” Draco lazily climbed into his lap and pushed his face into the crook of his neck. Harry chuckled and hugged him close. All hard edges, sharp words and defensive walls were gone, replaced by a softly breathing sleepy lover with angelic soft hair. “M’ grease.”

“Excuse you?”

“Make it greasy.” Draco explained, now really almost asleep. “You’re making my hair greasy ‘cause you always touch it.”

“We can have a shower together.” He pressed a kiss to Draco’s not at all greasy hair and laced their fingers together. “Though that probably has to wait until tomorrow, given that you’re almost asleep now.”

Draco chuckled. “No we can’t. You have no patience for my shower routine. Never have, never will.”

Harry couldn’t deny the truth of that. “Sorry babe. I try, but…”

“’S okay. Still love you.” Draco clumsily petted his arm, eyes still shut. “C’ t bed.”

“Carry to bed?” Harry raised his eyebrows, a huge smile tugging on his lips. These sleepy conversations were the best thing of sleeping and living together. “I suppose I can do that.”

“Love.” Draco mumbled, pushing his face into Harry’s hair as he was lifted up.

“Love you too.” The happiness Harry felt as he tucked his lover into bed was one that warmed his bones and let his heart swell. No one trusted or relaxed as much around him as Draco did. It was the most amazing thing to watch that trust grow and blossom every day, and he felt more than privileged because of it.

“You are the best thing in my life, Draco.” He knew Draco was asleep, but he didn’t care. It was just something he had to say sometimes. Content, he slipped under the covers and before he could take action himself Draco wrapped himself around him with no intention of letting go ever. Maybe he hadn’t been as asleep as Harry had thought.

“You are too, babe.” Draco kissed him between his collarbones, before settling his head on Harry’s chest. “G’night.”

Harry kissed him back. “Goodnight.”

OMG SO FLUFFY! SO CUTE!!!

THANK YOUUUUUUUU 😱❤❤

PSA

y’all

need

to

read

Shimanami Tasogare

It is an amazing manga with an almost entirely LGBT+ cast and talks a lot about gender identity, sexuality and troubles faced by those within the LGBT+ community (especially for younger members). Also it is fucking BEAUTIFUL.

Kamatani Yuuki’s use of imagery and visual metaphors never fails to take my breath away.

Please just read the damn manga.

I personally had an emotional breakdown because of this manga having a character I felt so connected to so definitely give it a read my dudes.

guys it’s getting an official North American release!

Volume 1 will be out on May 7th!

I also want to point out that there’s ace/aro rep in this series too!

I was absolutely shocked, never expected to see that kind of rep in manga, but it’s there! The author identifies as X-gender and asexual, so it’s LGBT+ rep being written by an LGBT+ author!

It’s a really great series!!

@thefingerfuckingfemalefury

:D

AW YISSSSSSSSS

Going to check this out!

Just imagine poor Draco during Seventh year, having to stay at Hogwarts while all the while not having any idea where Harry was, what he was up to, if he was even still alive and safe. It must have been torture. 

And then, imagine Harry turning up at the Manor that night and all Draco wants to do is smile and laugh and cry out of pure joy and relief because, here, here is his Harry. Alive. 

But he can’t. Because no one can know about them. Not yet anyway. So he just pretends that he doesn’t know. 

But Harry knows that Draco can recognise him. See him. Draco could always see him. Always saw him. And Harry is just so happy to see him alive. 

Imagine when Harry gets carried out of the Forbidden Forest in Hagrid’s arms. He’s lifeless. Everything is quiet. But he knows the moment when Draco sees him. He can hear his screams, his cries, his desperate pleas to no one in particular….”Please, no, no, no, please, not Harry, not my Harry….no, no, no….please…” in between heart wrenching sobs. 

And it killed him to hear it. But in that moment Harry knew, that when this is over, he is never going to leave that mans side again. Ever. 

Do you ever think about this? Because I do. 

Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you Malfoy?

Two bros having a wand battle, five feet apart cuz they’re not gay.

Dramione AU #47

When you try to teach your wizard boyfriend to drive a car