To begin with, this blog is a safe space. Use of derogatory terms and expression of islamaphobia, racism and the like will not be tolerated.
Free Palestine. Free Sudan. Free Congo. Freedom for all.
Please be kind to one another! β‘
β I go by Kaykay, Iβm 23.
β My writing will obviously be canonically inaccurate, it goes without saying, really. Itβs all in good fun, putting our favourite character(s) in different situations. If you find this bothersome, please do not send hate or be rude. Feel free to block me so that you do not have to engage with my content. Remember: you are responsible for your own online media consumption.
β To be noted: any similarities to other peopleβs work is purely coincidental. I do not support nor indulge in plagiarism. In addition, I do not give permission for my work to be copied, pasted and/or translated onto other sites, not even if credit is given.
My work has been linked below β
β Personal Favourites
β Audience Pleasers
β Short Pieces
Anyways, welcome and I hope you enjoy your stay. Much love β‘
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iβm going to hold your hands when i say this and i am only going to be kind about it once: ai does not belong in fandom spaces, ever. not in writing, not in art, not in video, not at all. it does not matter how bad you want to see your favourite characters kiss, or how much you need a bit of help finishing a chapter, or whatever.
make friends with artists. commission somebody. learn to draw yourself. ask for a beta read. try a writing partnership. fandom spaces are communities, so engage with them! it is about the journey and the fact that we all love something enough to create and build together about that thing.
spending 30 seconds to kill a tree and get an AI to push out some soulless empty piece of βcontentβ is antithetical to the entire point of being engaged with fandom, and if youβve taken to doing this you should really reconsider if you belong in these spaces with the rest of us.
I created the campaign for my children. Please, my children are dying of hunger. Please, $30 will help us secure some of our needs: clothes, diapers, milk, and also medicine. Please.
"I am Abdel-Majeed⦠writing to you from the heart of hunger and bombardment"
Peace be upon you,
I never imagined Iβd write a plea to the world like thisβ¦
But today, I have no other choice.
My name is Abdel-Majeed.
Iβm a father to a baby girl who hasnβt even turned one πΆ,
and a husband to a patient, broken-hearted wife β
she has nothing left but her tears and prayers.
We are now living under a sky raining fire π₯
and on a land with no food and no water π«π§.
Hunger is eating us alive.
The shelling never stops.
Even the soup kitchens have closed π· β
And the only hope left is in the hearts of the kind and merciful β€οΈ.
I know the world is tired.
I know everyone is struggling.
But I am writing to you from deep pain β
From the heart of a father with nothing left:
No milk πΌ, no bread π, not even a drop of hope.
A bag of flour here costs $600 πΈ.
Can you imagine?
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Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
From the heart of unimaginable suffering, I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported my family ππ»
Right now, famine is hitting us harder than ever, my heart cries whenever I go to the market to buy any basic necessities! The prices are crazy, and most days my children survive on just bread Hunger and thirst are destroying us, and cooking on fire increases our suffering unbearably! Severe eye and chest sensitivity, in addition to constant stomach pain due to the type of food and the way it is cooked.
All this while we flee from one place to another in fear of bombing, bullets, and imminent danger! I cannot describe what I feel, but it is a feeling beyond exhaustion!
Despite the exhaustion, your support gives us strength and I hope you will not let us down
If you can donate, please do so, or at least help us by sharing, so we can reach those who can
Your kindness truly keeps us going
>> Our campaign is vetted by gazavetters list at Momen & his family
Hello Everyone,
I am Nour Al Madhoun, 30 years old, a computer engineer from gaza, my h⦠Tahir Awad needs your support for Help my family r
Gaza is full of oppression #The worst is yet to come #Genocide #A resilient people
Jasonβs positioned on the floor, crossed legged, eyeing a dysfunctional socket, screwdriver in hand.
She is lying on the bed, on her stomach, feet swinging in the air as she aimlessly flips through a magazine. Keeping him company.
Jason says something, itβs unintelligible with the screwdriver now held between his teeth. He fidgets with the different coloured wires, studying their ends with furrowed brows.
βWhat? I didnβt really catch that,β she says, eyes lazily scanning the miniature text boxes on the page.
βI said,β he pauses to spit out a piece of rubber, βWhat about Rick?β
βNo, itβs too close to Dick.β
βWhatβs wrong with Dick?β
βItβs phallic. Weβre not naming our child after male genitalia.β
Jason lets out a small snort, βIβm telling Richard you said that.β
Looking up, she cocks a brow at him and deadpans, βI think he knows, babe.β
Laughing, he turns back to the socket, bending over to unscrew a loosened screw.
βHmm, West?β
βWest Todd,β She tests out the name, examines how it flows on the tongue. Unsatisfied, she makes a sour expression. βDoesnβt fit.β
βTimothy,β she offers.
βGod, no, is he a little French boy?β
βOur child is going to be nameless,β she whines, turning over to stare at the ceiling.
Looking over at her, Jason smiles at her dramatics, βOur child doesnβt exist.β
βYet,β she counters.
βShouldnβt this be a concern for when there actually is a child in question?β
βNo, we need to get ahead of it, so that when we do have a kid we donβt name him something weird, like, I donβt know, fish. We need to be the people with a list.β
βFish?β Itβs Jasonβs turn to quirk a brow, βJason Jr.?β
Wiggling to the edge of the bed, she hangs her head off of it, watching his upside down reflection cheese at her. Wide smile, teeth bared, eyes squinting in jest.
βThatβs phallic, too-are you trying to tell me something?β
Turning back, he lets out a small triumphant yes after figuring out the issue. Taking the external plate, he centres it for reattachment, βYeah, that we should make a baby.β
βA nameless baby.β
She huffs, moving back and turning over to dig her face into the comforter.
Placing the screwdriver back in the toolkit, he stands up and dusts off his hands. Walking over to her, he climbs onto the bed and plops himself on top of her.
She lets out a mock oof and mumbles, βyouβre heavy.β
βRude,β Mimicking offence, Jason laughs, βI havenβt even put my weight on you.β
βYouβre trying to kill me.β
βCome on, miss dramatic.β He moves to sit next to her, gently nudging her straight and compelling her to sit up, face to face, βThereβs my pretty girl.β
She frowns.
βThis isnβt really serious.β
She lightly tilts her head to the side, staring at him, βNo, itβs really not.β
He gives her kiss on her forehead, pulling back to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, βI think that when we see our kid, weβll know exactly what the name should be.β
βItβll just come to us?β
βMhmm. Trust me, we donβt need a list. Weβre too cool for that anyways.β
Taken aback, she huffs out a laugh. Pushing him back, she fully embraces it.
summary: Jasonβs significant other, noting the worn state of his hands, takes care of them.
warnings: s/oβs hair is implied to be long. mention of hell. mention of blood. implication of fighting.
Note: itβs been months since I have written anything. I donβt know if this is any good but it feels nice to have been able to write something again.
The city is resting. Basking in an uncharacteristic glow. The sun beams and a serene hush befalls the land it illuminates.
It is warm, not enough to be uncomfortable but tethering on the edge of something euphoric.
Jason feels it. An unparalleled weight, a suffocating burden absent from the bones and joints of his shoulders. There is no sickly grasp clawing at the tightness of his skin.
Unusual, the city does not beg a whisper of his name.
Jason lays in bed, a wave of calm having washed over him. Clad in a t-shirt, he sits up resting against the headboard, welcoming the coolness of the wood seeping into his scalp. Into the back of his neck.
The room is fairly quiet, aside from the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan and the occasional flip of a page held still by the pad of Jasonβs thumb.
Undisturbed, he reads. The furrow in his brow is straightened.
He looks youthful. From the surface of his heroic duty emerges his humanity.
She internalises it. An image of his reality. A rarity. Lying on top of him, her head rests softly on his chest. The slow rhythmic beating of his heart, unperturbed by adrenaline, lulls her to a content drowsiness. A melody, she wants to devour it. Swallow it and nestle it inside of her.
He is here. He is alive.
Jasonβs idle hand absentmindedly plays with the ends of her hair, moving to caress the bare skin of her arm. Akin to a feather, his touch is light, tempting her with the delight of his warmth.
The skin of his hand is in contrast to her own. There is a roughness that corrupts its benign intentions. She feels it cling onto her skin, softly scratch at it.
Calluses form a rugged terrain on the vast landscape of his skin. A shade of white embedded in the pink undertones of his hand. Dry, devoid of moisture, she imagines the blood pooling into the crevices on a bad day. Droplets of ruby contaminating the innocence of the hidden away pink. She traces the lines. Follows their mindless pattern and wonders if he has immortalised the pain.
She wonders if it aches to form a fist.
Turning slightly, she grabs a hold of it, firm, halting its ministrations and places a small kiss onto it. Sitting up, she moves off the bed, willing Jasonβs unrelenting gaze off of the page.
A question hangs off his parted lips, and dies at the sight of her retreating figure. She skips into the bathroom, with a sense of urgency trailing behind her. He hears her rummaging through the cabinets, perusing for something.
βIβll be just a minute, Jay,β he hears her muffled shout. He pictures her head buried deep inside the wooden box, scavenging. A huff of laughter escapes him.
She emerges with the smile of a victor, flashing two tubes at him. Head tilted, he watches on. Amused. Revelling in the normalcy that generally evades him.
Book set aside, she warrants his full attention, βWhatβs this, then?β
Climbing back onto the bed, she sits in front of him, legs crossed, βYouβll see.β
She grabs his right hand, and squeezes some lotion onto it. Placing it next to her, she begins to massage the dollop into his skin, spreading it all over, watching the streaks of white disappear into the pinkness that is him.
βBaby, you donβt-,β she feels a tug as he attempts to pull his hand away but she holds on. Grip firm and unrelenting.
βI want to.β
He persists.
βPlease, Jay.β
Jason sinks into the feeling of her touch. Delicate, riddled with care. Something so foreign, so undeserved. He selfishly clings onto it. Chains it for him to keep and never envision another enjoying it.
A man trembling along the pathways of hell bathes in the glory of heaven.
Her eyes never leave his hand. She continues to work. Blowing on the nearly healed cuts on his knuckles, she soothes him, marvelling him into a contemplative silence.
His heart is steady. It skips a beat or two at the sight of his dreamt up domesticity. Her compassion spreads within him. A wildfire, it consumes him. He wants to remain trapped within its confines.
A safe tranquility.
βThank you,β he whispers. Small. Short. The words are not enough to carry the weight of his gratitude but he has no other.
With their hands still clasped together, she looks up and smiles at him. Completely natural and doused in an essence of love.
βYou take care of everyone, let me be the one who takes care of you.β
Literally what do you mean a grown ass (white woman) typed out some shitty mediocre excuse of an article for The Cut, listing some of the best fanfic for The Pitt WITH FUCKING AO3 LINKS TO PEOPLEβS ACCOUNTS? How on earth did we fucking get here when it comes to how we engage and view fanfic and fandom spaces?
Not only was that article just a disgrace, the way the author talked about fanfic writers as a whole as if theyβre in the wrong for writing things on their free time, in addition to having microagressive and ableist commentary on said fics in dismissing Dr. Robby/Dr. Collins as the most popular ship in the fandom to then talking about writing Mel as a sexual being as if thatβs not possible with neurodivergent individuals is really just so fucking disgustingβ¦I donβt even have words to describe how I feel. Not to mention, this person also linked several Jamira/Mohabbit fics which have since been locked to only registered users, and even going as far as to mention a Dr. Abbot/Dr. Robby fic in the article feels like an egregious attempt at doxxing and shaming if Iβm being honest.
Fanfic and fandom shouldnβt be mentioned in mainstream media under the guise of pop culture for the sake of clicks and attention. The reason why fandom & fanfic even exist is so people are able to engage with their favorite pieces of media in ways they can control and manage privately. Itβs a safe space for people to build community with other like minded individuals and to share thoughts and joy about said media. Thereβs a found social contract when it comes to the general audience of things and fandom spaces, and mentioning fanfic in an online column as a journalist of all things breaks that trust and ruins the connection people have already built towards that particular type of media. Itβs also a violation of privacy just mentioning and linking peopleβs fanfics in an article for the world to see when many donβt understand fandom culture and the authors didnβt consent to having their work publicized in that way. What gives you the right to do that if you hold no relationship with the authors directly?
Since the pandemic around 2020, the approach towards fandom spaces and fanfic as a whole has changed dramatically. People are more hostile and judgmental when it comes to what people write, how frequently they do and treat writers like content pumping machines because weβve become so accustomed to fast paced consumerism. People lack boundaries between actors and the media theyβre a part of or consume, they print out peopleβs fanfic works to βownβ as if itβs their own; and now itβs progressed to peopleβs work being scrapped to train generative AI systems by the millions and journalists using their fanfic works to talk about the things people write, share, and engage with in their own free time for publicity or even money.
So many people are already being discouraged to write and share their writing in the first place, and with the way things are going, I wonβt be surprised if people just flat out stop writing fanfic all together, or start sharing their writing as pdfs on encrypted messaging apps to people they trust. I donβt get whatβs so hard about leaving fanfic writers and fandom communities alone, but if this isnβt a sign of the growing puritanical, conservative, and hyper surveillance nature in our culture, then I donβt know what else there is to say. Iβm worried about the future of fanfic writing and creatives as a whole, I really am, and we are quickly running out of safe spaces to engage in fandom content overall. Frankly I donβt think we have any safe spaces left, and thatβs terrifying.
A sickening nausea is penetrating through the confines of his throat. Forced down, it swivels within the pitfalls of his stomach.
It is not contained.
A wildfire, it is spreading.
As he continues to take in his raw image, it is burning every inch of him.
βSometimes I wonder if the sight of me makes you feel sick?β Voice hoarse from its deliberate quietude, Jasonβs words mimic a dagger, stabbing into the pericardium of her heart. Breaking into tiny trinkets, she feels them begin to infest the rest of her with their sorrow.
βHow could you ask me that,β she whispers, a sense of betrayal prevalent in her unwavering stare.
How could you think that?
Clutching onto the marble vanity, his grip is taut, his knuckles projecting a spectral whiteness. He lowers his head, eyes no longer willing to bear the weight of his reflection, βI feel that way.β
Nervously gnawing at her bottom lip, she cautiously moves towards him. Coming to a halt right behind him, she hovers her hand over his back before gently resting it on his warm skin.
βJay, would you tell me why?β
A hitch in his breath. A slightly waver in his sigh. A shake in his grip.
His composure begins to fade.
He feels it, his equanimity diminishing into mere embers.
βEvery time I look in the mirror, I hate what I see,β he murmurs.
Letting go, he allows himself to fall onto his knees. Turning to wrap his arms around her legs, he rests his head against her stomach.
Burrowing his face into it almost as if to hide, he permits his tears to fall. An overgrown child, he sobs, salty pearls of water seeping into her shirt.
βThe scars, the bruises, theyβre repulsive,β he whimpers, βIβm covered in ugliness.β
A sharp ache scatters throughout her being, draining into her bones, rendering her unstable.
βOh, baby,β she whispers sympathetically, running her fingers through his hair, pushing them back off his forehead.
Loosening his grip on her, she manoeuvres herself to kneel in front of him. Cupping his face, she urges him to open his eyes, to rid himself of his cloak of shame and meet her gaze, βCan you look at me? Please.β
Red rimmed and drenched in a melancholic sorrow, his eyes bore holes into hers.
Searching, yearning. Afraid.
βI think youβre beautiful,β she whispers earnest.
Tilting his head into her palm, his forehead furrows and he shuts his eyes. A warm, minuscule droplet escapes, tracing the damp trail burned into his skin. A pearl lands on her hand before dissolving into a small invisible puddle.
A soft smile makes its way onto her lips. Wiping away the remnants of his grief, her fingertip traces the inflamed patch of skin on his cheek.
J.
Marvelling over the ridges of the engraved letter, she mumbles, βThis oneβs my favourite.β
His breath hitches and he looks her way incredulously. Following her movements, Jason feels a pang in his chest, the rampant beating of his heart, a frustrated gesture demanding liberation from the rods of its cages, βH-how, why?β
Leaning forward to press the utmost delicate kiss onto it as if newly etched into his skin, she speaks against the torrid mark, βBecause it is a reminder that you survived.β
Jason feels the fire begin to dissipate. The black smoke lifts. He hears her voice amidst the noise.
Pressing a kiss onto his forehead, she continues her declaration, βA reminder that youβre alive.β
Pulling him close towards her, she slowly places a languid kiss on his swollen lips, βA reminder that you won.β
Lips parted, he rests his forehead against her own, breathing a sigh of contention.
Itβs quiet. Itβs safe.
βI hope one day you get to see yourself the way I see you.β
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
Summary: Every night, she waits upon Jasonβs return. Barely awake, she cannot give into sleep without hearing his voice.
Warnings: Alluded that the s/o does makeup.
Note: I am trying to ease back into writing. It is a struggle, for I often feel as if I have regressed and lost my usual quality. Perhaps I fail to meet my own expectations. I am not entirely sure. I hope I find my voice again and I hope you find within it, enjoyment.
Like tumbleweed accompanying the tendrils of the wind, there is a bleak quietude whistling throughout the dilapidated city. Standing atop the creaky metal off his fire escape, Jason breathes it in.
In its rarity, he revels in it, slouching down slightly to let the tension in his shoulders drop, he feels it begin to dissipate. Looking around, he can almost muster admiration for the place in its sombre state.
Quiet, it nearly resembles a home.
There are no screams hurling through the air. There are no sirens echoing. Just a novel silence.
For a brief moment, it begins to seem sensible; staying makes sense.
With subtle footsteps, eliciting a soft squeak of metal, he makes his way to the window. The sight of the unlocked clasp tugs at the corners of his lips.
To be loved is to be waited for.
With a shallow thud, he lands in to their bedroom. Tidied and kept, he takes it in. He lets the comfort of safety engulf him. He sinks into the warmth it emanates. Trinkets of her linger within the space. A shirt on the back of a chair. A half drunk glass of water. Pieces of makeup haphazardly lain on the dressing table.
Trinkets of a life lived, with him.
There is consolation in the existence of her presence.
Taking a seat at the end of the bed, he lets out a deep sigh. Clutching off his helmet, he carefully places it next to him. Rubbing his hands on his face in exhaustion, he runs them through his hair in a bleak attempt at fixing their unruly state. Leaning down to untie his laces, he sets his boots aside and stands.
He follows the minute noise of the television. A snake beguiled by the movement of a melodious flute, Jason finds himself tugged at by the sound, being pulled to her direction.
She lays on the couch, nuzzled into a warm blanket. Illuminated by the mute colours omitting from the screen, the living room is encased in a blackened haze. The lights show as she watches with an inattentive laziness, a greed of evading sleep.
There is consolation in the exhibition of her sanctity.
Making his way around the coffee table, Jason sits at the edge of the sofa, next to her. Revelling in the warmth radiated by her being, Jason could set himself ablaze from the adoration trembling within his bones.
βHi, sleepy.β
Lying sideways, she rests her cheek against the cushion and stares up at him through squinted eyes, βYouβre home.β
βYouβre awake.β
Raising his eyebrow in a playful jest, he glares.
She glares back, biting back a smile.
βI was waiting for you to get back, wanted to see you before I went to sleep,β she relents.
His features soften into place. Even after years of affectionate expression, Jason finds the visibility of it surprising. Almost shy in the face of it, he has never looked more young than in this moment.
βI needed you to tell me goodnight,β she whispers.
Jason registers it, the weight of her unuttered demand, the stipulation of his arrival every night.
To be loved is to be wanted.
Standing up, he reaches out for her hand, βLetβs go to bed, get you to sleep.β
Clasping her hand into his, intertwining their fingers, she allows him to lead her in the direction of their room.
In the favour of their joint sanctuary, they leave behind the dread of tomorrow.
the prose???? the moody atmosphere???? this was so well written, just the contrast between the city he guards and the love that guards his heart, it was everything. you can almost see how the grey dreariness of the city melts away as he comes home, all the colour seeping in with readerβs presence.
Hi π, My name is Mohammad, and Iβm reaching out in a moment of desperate need. Iβm a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. π
Iβve launched a fundraising campaign with the goal of raising $40,000 to relocate my family to a safer place where my children can grow up in peace and have a chance at a brighter future.
Unfortunately, my previous fundraising efforts were abruptly halted when my account was terminated without explanation. However, I remain determined to keep fighting for my familyβs safety and well-being. π«Ά
If you could take a moment to read our story, consider donating, or simply share our campaign with others, it would make an incredible difference. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to safety and a new beginning. π
Hello,
I hope you are well.
I am reaching out to you today with great concern and sadnessππ, as my family and I in Gaza are facing significant danger due to the ongoing war.
I have launched a GoFundMe campaign to save them from hunger and the diseases that are chasing us all and to provide a better future for them. Every reblog of the post on my profile can be a lifeline for my family and help me provide the basic necessities for them and get out of Gaza to a safer and more stable place.π
I humbly and gratefully ask you to reblog the post from my profile to support my campaign.
Praying for you and your family!ππ»β€οΈ
If anyone can contribute, please consider doing so.
Summary: Every night, she waits upon Jasonβs return. Barely awake, she cannot give into sleep without hearing his voice.
Warnings: Alluded that the s/o does makeup.
Note: I am trying to ease back into writing. It is a struggle, for I often feel as if I have regressed and lost my usual quality. Perhaps I fail to meet my own expectations. I am not entirely sure. I hope I find my voice again and I hope you find within it, enjoyment.
Like tumbleweed accompanying the tendrils of the wind, there is a bleak quietude whistling throughout the dilapidated city. Standing atop the creaky metal off his fire escape, Jason breathes it in.
In its rarity, he revels in it, slouching down slightly to let the tension in his shoulders drop, he feels it begin to dissipate. Looking around, he can almost muster admiration for the place in its sombre state.
Quiet, it nearly resembles a home.
There are no screams hurling through the air. There are no sirens echoing. Just a novel silence.
For a brief moment, it begins to seem sensible; staying makes sense.
With subtle footsteps, eliciting a soft squeak of metal, he makes his way to the window. The sight of the unlocked clasp tugs at the corners of his lips.
To be loved is to be waited for.
With a shallow thud, he lands in to their bedroom. Tidied and kept, he takes it in. He lets the comfort of safety engulf him. He sinks into the warmth it emanates. Trinkets of her linger within the space. A shirt on the back of a chair. A half drunk glass of water. Pieces of makeup haphazardly lain on the dressing table.
Trinkets of a life lived, with him.
There is consolation in the existence of her presence.
Taking a seat at the end of the bed, he lets out a deep sigh. Clutching off his helmet, he carefully places it next to him. Rubbing his hands on his face in exhaustion, he runs them through his hair in a bleak attempt at fixing their unruly state. Leaning down to untie his laces, he sets his boots aside and stands.
He follows the minute noise of the television. A snake beguiled by the movement of a melodious flute, Jason finds himself tugged at by the sound, being pulled to her direction.
She lays on the couch, nuzzled into a warm blanket. Illuminated by the mute colours omitting from the screen, the living room is encased in a blackened haze. The lights show as she watches with an inattentive laziness, a greed of evading sleep.
There is consolation in the exhibition of her sanctity.
Making his way around the coffee table, Jason sits at the edge of the sofa, next to her. Revelling in the warmth radiated by her being, Jason could set himself ablaze from the adoration trembling within his bones.
βHi, sleepy.β
Lying sideways, she rests her cheek against the cushion and stares up at him through squinted eyes, βYouβre home.β
βYouβre awake.β
Raising his eyebrow in a playful jest, he glares.
She glares back, biting back a smile.
βI was waiting for you to get back, wanted to see you before I went to sleep,β she relents.
His features soften into place. Even after years of affectionate expression, Jason finds the visibility of it surprising. Almost shy in the face of it, he has never looked more young than in this moment.
βI needed you to tell me goodnight,β she whispers.
Jason registers it, the weight of her unuttered demand, the stipulation of his arrival every night.
To be loved is to be wanted.
Standing up, he reaches out for her hand, βLetβs go to bed, get you to sleep.β
Clasping her hand into his, intertwining their fingers, she allows him to lead her in the direction of their room.
In the favour of their joint sanctuary, they leave behind the dread of tomorrow.
I am Yahya from Gaza, currently living with my family in a tent
I need your help, my father is sick with chronic diseases such as diabetes, high blood pressure, epilepsy, and two discs in his back and neck, and he needs medications that are not available. Please help me πβ€οΈ
https://gofund.me/5b2fed53
My prayers to you and your familyβ€οΈ
If anyone can offer up a donation, please consider doing soππ».
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
Donate please!!οΈHello, I'm Mohammed, 22 years old from Gaza ππ΅πΈ. Our lives were completely destroyed after October 7th. I have two brothers to support because my father passed away and my mother is old. I am displaced in Khan Younis in a small place. My house was destroyed. We are suffering a lot, so I resorted to the donation link in order to compensate for the least amount of what I lost. So I ask you through this link to donate to me even a small amount that may make a difference. Hand in hand we can. The link is in my CV
I am so sorry for the loss of your father. Praying for the health and safety of you and your family!β€οΈ
If anyone can contribute, I urge you to do so. Even a small amount can lead to a tremendous difference.
