I'm Abdelrahman, 22 years old. My journey has been marked by loss and resilience. When I was 18, my father passed away from COVID-19. Determined to build my own future, I pursued an education in multimedia technology, balancing my studies with work to cover my expenses. I was preparing to establish my home and life.
My mother: the princess whom we strive to make happy and satisfy. ❤️️
However, the war in Gaza, especially in the north, brought devastating tragedy. My home, university, job, and family were all destroyed in the conflict. While my family moved to the south, I was in the north, facing famine and moving from place to place, trying to survive.
Our street used to be lively and full of people, but it is no longer like that.
I have witnessed countless difficult and painful scenes while escaping death multiple times. In northern Gaza, life is reduced to a cycle of fleeing from danger and searching for food amidst the rubble of destroyed homes.
I have survived many times,I was hit by a missile in previously destroyed house
This picture is enough to show our suffering in getting flour to survive.
My dream is to travel abroad with my mother and sister to continue my education and develop my practical skills. For the past eight months, I have been unemployed, focusing on self-improvement and hoping for a better future.
Your help can save a family from death, it can save a dream, an ambition, or a success, so please help me by donating or publishing my story so that I can save my family.
Hello,
I'm Abdelrahman, 22 years old. My journey has been ma… Abdallah Alanqar needs your support for From War to Education: Abdelrahman
The high you feel hearing the crowd after a performance is one that can’t be replicated. Not even the strongest drugs can make you feel this…alive. Nothing else in the world can make you feel this alive.
Aside from Seven, of course.
But if the danger of the drug is measured by how strong the addiction is, you fear Seven Lawless is definitely the worst.
Or best, depending on how you look at it.
That thought runs through your mind now when Seven takes your hand and motions to the bathroom. Your friends are too busy riding that post-performance high by dancing together, and you look away from them to give Seven a nod.
The sly, evil smile that rises on his face makes a shiver run down your spine, and you allow him to pull you through the crowd.
When you two reach the bathroom, Seven looks under each stall as you throw cold water on your face. You’re panting, sweaty, and your skin still burns with heat from the performance. When Seven is satisfied that you two are alone, he turns to look at you through the mirror. The secret smile on his face makes your skin burn hotter, and you’re certain that performing on stage to a stadium of people won’t ever hold a candle to how he makes you feel with one look.
He keeps his eyes trained on yours when he walks over to you, stopping to stand behind you. A lump forms in your throat, and a swell of excitement and nervousness rises in the pit of your stomach when he puts his hands on the sink, looking away from the mirror to tilt his head at you, gazing at your face.
“Hi.”
You manage a smile when you drag your eyes away from the mirror to turn your cheek, meeting his eyes. “Hey.”
His humor fades away once his eyes settle on your mouth and you subconsciously lick your lips. Doing the same to his own, he appears debate something for a brief moment. Then, with heated eyes, he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.
The action is cautious, delicate, which is funny considering Seven was just head banging on stage minutes ago. You can taste the strawberry chapstick on his mouth, and the heat of his tongue against yours makes your legs feel like goo. Kissing Seven is still something completely new to you.
After being best friends for years, you thought you knew all there was to know about Seven. It’s only recently that you discovered there’s a version of him you were completely in the dark about. Like how he kisses. How, sometimes, you look at him while you two are singing on stage and feel like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Or how he makes a certain sound in your mouth when you kiss him just right. A sound only you can pull out of him.
When he pulls away, it’s too soon. He smiles at you. “You did really well on stage tonight.”
“Is that why you brought me to the bathroom?” you say with a smile of your own. “To compliment me?”
“Maybe.” Your nose brushes his when he moves his head to kiss you again, chaste and brief. You ache for more. “Are you disappointed? Is it not enough?”
“Not nearly,” you admit, the words leaving you in a sigh.
His eyes glitter with happiness and he chews on his lower lip in thought before saying, “I like when you want me. For a long time, I wasn't sure if you did. Well...I hoped you did."
You hate how easily saying things like that come to him. “So do I.”
“Well, I want you all the time so that’s not really anything special…”
You sputter out a laugh, looking around the bathroom. Like most club bathrooms, it sits in disrepair from lack of maintenance. It’s dirty, and hardly romantic. When you look back at Seven, he’s looking at you with half a grin, already knowing what you’re going to say next. “Even now?”
“Especially now.” He looks at you. “Sweaty from performing and we’re alone…”
You snort and Seven smiles before he leans in again. All pretenses flee, and your skin grows hot when you turn fully to face him. He presses his body against yours, pushing you against the sink.
You deepen the kiss, your hand going to his neck, pulling him closer. Seven’s chest vibrates against yours when he groans, his palm reaching under your shirt to swipe across your stomach, the heat of his skin against yours making your desire shoot up until you feel yourself reaching between you two, your fingers toying with the zipper of his pants. Feeling exactly just how much he wants you.
Seven pulls away, putting his hand on yours, stopping you. When you look at him, he shoots a pointed look at the door. Understanding, you smile and push yourself off the sink, grabbing his hand. It’s your turn to lead him and you do so to one of the empty stalls.
The moment you lock it, Seven is on you. He pushes you against the door of the stall. He stifles your gasp with another kiss, this one hurried and urgent as if time is running out.
When he pulls away to kiss your neck, you bring a hand to his hair to guide him. The strands are soft between your fingers, and Seven smiles against your skin. And then, between kisses, he says, “When do you think we’re going to tell the band about this?”
“Never,” is your immediate reply, and his kiss melts into a bite that makes you stifle a moan. You drop your hand from his hair to the waistband of his pants, forcing it down his hips. “They’d never let us live it down.”
You and Seven have been hiding away for the past few weeks. You don’t remember the exact reason why you two agreed not to tell anyone, but it had something to do with “not ruining the delicate ecosystem of the dynamic” whatever that means.
“Do you think they already know?” he manages, the words coming out strangled when you hook a finger over the band of his boxers, pulling them down. "They must have an idea." Seven swallows when he follows your gaze to the space between you two.
“Don’t know,” you say, kissing him again. He bites your lower lip in playful warning and you pull away to spit on your hand. “And right now, don’t care.”
“Eventually we’re going to have to tell the—oh.” You know exactly how to shut him up. Your hand wraps around him and he jerks his hips forward, unable to stop the moans from leaving your lips.
You kiss him again, and he puts two hands on your cheeks. You've barely settled into the rhythm he likes most when the bathrooms swing open, and Seven’s eyes widen. Sensing another groan from him, you put your hand on his mouth and his brows furrow together in panic. Then you quicken your pace and his drops his head against the door, his face melting back into that expression of carnal pleasure you like to see so much. Seven completely forgets what he was worried about.
“…you think we’ll be able to come back next week?” You almost choke the moment the voice rises in the air, and your hand falters. Seven makes a frustrated sound in his throat and he puts a hand on your arm, urging you to continue.
“You heard that?” Iris asks.
You look at Seven with wide eyes, and his brows furrow in faux innocence. “Mfhfnmf?” he mutters against the skin of your palm. You want to scream in frustration—at Devyn. At Iris. At their impeccable timing.
You hear the doors of the stalls slamming open and Seven shoots you a look. Ah. Shit. The last thing you need is for your friends to find out you and Seven are…whatever you are right now.
You step back and Seven fumbles for his pants, grumbling in disappointment as he buttons it closed. You look around, uncertain at first, before you step on the toilet so only one pair of feet are seen in the stall. Seven spins around in confusion, not knowing what to do with his hands and...with himself, and you point at the door so he understands.
“I swear I heard that,” Iris says. “What if someone is dying or something?”
“It’s…me,” Seven calls out. His voice is thick with desire, still hoarse from what you two just finished doing.
Well, finished isn’t exactly the word.
“Seven?” Iris ventures. “You alright?”
“Yeah, just felt sick,” he responds, looking back with a shrug. The heat in the pit of your stomach hasn’t gone away, and when he looks at you, it takes everything in you not to tell Iris and Devyn to fuck off somewhere.
“You need a hand?” Devyn asks.
"A hand?" You hear Seven snicker, and you want to kick him. Though you can't stop your own smile. "Nuh-huh. I'm not throwing up or anything." Seven puts a cheek on the door, then his hands. He looks like he’s getting irritated. You understand—you want them gone.“I’m alright. I’ll meet you guys back outside.”
Your legs are starting to hurt, you shift in order to give your muscles relief, but the toilet seat moves with you, making you slip.
You scream, because what else is there to do when you're slipping face first off a toilet seat?
“Wha—” Seven barely has time to spin and catch you before you’re crashing into him, making his head clatter against the door. The sound echoes against the bathroom, and your friends are gasping.
"Ow..." Seven groans.
“Seven?!” A moment later you see Iris peeking out from under the stall, her eyes widening. “[MC]?”
“Heyyyy,” you drawl out casually, your body slumped over on Seven’s as he uses his arm to hold you up. He uses the other one to open the door, and it swings open pathetically until Devyn and Iris are looking at you with twin expressions of surprise.
“Hey.” Seven nods his head in greeting, smiling awkwardly. He puts his hands together to lock his fingers behind your back, holding you to his chest.
Devyn glances at the both of you, lips parted. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”
“I…uh.” He swallows. “Thought I had a bowel problem. [MC] was just helping me in making sure nothing wrong’s down there.” He forces out a laugh. "All good."
You look at him, wanting to beam your disappointment into his brain. Really? That’s all you could come up with?
“Ugh.” Iris waves a dismissive hand, walking away. “You two are so fucking weird sometimes. Go to the doctor! It's not normal to be that close!"
"You have no idea how close we are," Seven mumbles, and you nudge his rib. He coughs, and then smiles again.
Devyn stands there, not so easily convinced, but then she follows Iris out anyway. Not without shooting you two a look.
When they’re gone, you two glance at each other. "I think it's time we tell them." You detangle yourself from him, adjusting your clothes.
Seven lets out a laugh, letting his head fall back against the stall wall.
each night that gaza experiences is deadlier than the last, as idf soldiers record propaganda tiktoks, make rave parties and grwms and fit checks, gloat over having food and water, and film themselves deriving sadistic pleasure from torturing their hostages and victims and desecrating the dead.
Palestinians have to display their martyred before the camera for you to believe the atrocities that the zionist entity has subjected them to. they cannot even mourn in private. the apartheid entity murders them in cold blood, and you deliver the killing blow by doubting them.
babies whose families have been killed will never get to know their own name.
i can't reshare a tenth of the videos and photos that cross my timeline. i have seen more dead children in the past month than i have known death my entire life.
israeli settlers burn olive trees, bomb bakeries and fishing boats, shower white phosphorus and earthquake bombs on the captive civilians of gaza. you already know about the disastrous effects of white phosphorus, but earthquake bombs were last used during ww2 to wipe out entire cities.
how holy is the land that seeks to be built over the mass graves of thousands of children? is it holier than the miracle of a child being born in this hypocritical world?
all 11 universities in gaza have been bombed. academics should be agitating right now, especially those who call themselves "decolonial thinkers." destruction of universities is a sinisterly deliberate act to sabotage the Palestinians who will survive this great catastrophe.
the act of cleansing your hands before prayer is extremely important to muslims. no part of us can remotely comprehend the grief of the mother who refused to wash her hands from the blood of her children after losing them in a zionist airstrike over gaza. "I swear I won't wash them, I won't wash my hands, how else am I supposed to sleep near my kids."
it is only both moral and right when one side defends itself. the other side are the price of war, no better than insects and cattle and sheep left to die within the four walls of the slaughterhouse.
this situation should not be up for debate, but let me finish with one final thing : do your research about Palestine. HOWEVER. you do not need a degree in middle east studies to object to an ongoing genocide. if someone outwits you in a debate about historical details and every nuance of a subject, you were and will remain entirely correct in objecting to a genocide.
may those martyred rest in peace and be reunited again with their loved ones in heaven's eternal vastness.
DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.
glory to Palestinian resistance. from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.
Since October 7, 2023, Israel has dropped 18,000 tons of bombs on the Gaza Strip. This is roughly twice the explosive force of the bomb used in World War II to destroy Hiroshima, Japan. Over 32,000 individuals have been injured, and at least 9,061 Palestinians have been killed; men, women, and children who are innocent. We cannot stay silent because these are actual numbers and actual people who, despite 75 years of resistance to injustice, are still being violently removed from their homes, subjected to ethnic cleansing, and colonized.
Hellooo! I'm not sure if the prompts are still open, but if so, maybe #61 for Vincent? 🙈
“Say it.”
As Vincent falls onto the bed, his eyes widen in surprise, his body tensing for a moment before relinquishing control to you.
“Say it,” you breathe, your voice husky with desire, your eyes simmering with intent. This time, you’ve decided to take charge, assert your desires, and make him beg for your touch. It’s a departure from your usually shy and submissive nature, but the power that surges through your veins at this moment is intoxicating.
You straddle him, your thighs spreading on either side of his hips, and hold his gaze with unwavering confidence. Leaning closer, your lips hovering just above his, you tease him, testing his limits. “Beg for it, Vincent. Tell me how much you want me.”
His breathing quickens, his lips parting to speak, but you can see the struggle within him. Pride and vulnerability wage war on his face, tugging at his desire and restraint. His eyes, filled with yearning, search yours for a moment before he finally succumbs to the delicious temptation.
“Please,” he rasps, his voice thick with need. “I want to feel your touch, to taste your lips. I crave you like nothing else.”
*Rubbing hands mischievously* How Seven reacts if MC says "You know, if we were still dating I probably would have proposed to you by now"?
“And I would’ve said yes. And it would’ve been a mistake because we would’ve ended up like this somehow anyway, and you would’ve ruined a lot more for me than just love.”
River intrigues me so much. If it's not too much of a spoiler, can you tell what's going on with him? I'm sensing some underlying tension but Idyk if it's a good thing or bad
river rockwell has always thought that mr. cooper was a stuck-up, bald little man and he wanted to do nothing more than flip him off. the math teacher shakes his head as river glares at him with slightly red and hazy eyes.
“i know you have no respect for education, mr. rockwell, but is it too much to expect that you don’t come to class under influence,” mr. cooper drones disappointedly.
river fights the urge to roll his eyes at him. “dude, it was just one blunt! does every faculty member here have a stick up their asses?”
mr. cooper purses his lips and stares at river, unimpressed. he wordlessly points to the door and the dark-haired boy hears some students titter around the classroom.
river huffs as he gets kicked out for the fourth time in four days. not even bothering to look remorseful, he shows his math teacher the middle finger before leaving the godforsaken class. he hears mr. cooper gasp like he just saw a jesus statue dancing and snickers under his breath.
the dark-haired boy walks out the back of the school, looking bored as hell. making his way to the outdoor bleachers, he ducks under the steps to hide from the P.E teacher as he pulls a rolled blunt from under his beanie.
he lets the smoke fill his lungs, closing his eyes and enjoying the floaty sensation already making his previous annoyance numb by the minute. river vaguely thinks about where he’s going to end up in the future like this. his grades were surprisingly okay, considering how many times he got detention or got kicked out of class, but it still wasn’t anything to brag about.
‘oh well,’ river thinks, flicking some of the ashes off the blunt, ‘it’s not like i wanted to go to college anyway.’
it wasn’t a particularly sure thought. his older brother had told him multiple times to at least try going to college for once. but then again, it was easy for castor to pretend that it was all going to work out okay. he was the high school valedictorian, had a constant 4.0 gpa, has multiple awards (both national and international), and is currently pursuing political science in harvard.
castor was everything river wasn’t and he did not want his older brother to have this fantasy of him turning over a new leaf. the dark-haired boy wasn’t even sure if he was going to drop out before he graduated. school just simply wasn’t worth it anymore.
before river could continue with his thought, he heard a muffled shout from the field. he visibly perks up as he recognises the voice. of course, he’d know that voice anywhere.
almost tripping over his feet, he comes forward and peers from the gaps under the bleachers. river’s fingers tighten almost imperceptively when his eyes land on the source of the voice.
‘it should be a crime to look like that,’ river thinks, making no move to turn their eyes away from the person.
his eyes roam over their face, the way their calves flex with every movement of their legs, the sweat glistening on their flesh as they finish another lap around the field. river slowly puts a hand over the left side of his chest, feeling his heart thunder against it. it reminded him of the time he almost overdosed and was found unconscious by castor.
on that happy note, river tries to reconsider if he should continue observing them or would that push them to stalker territory. deciding on the latter, he reluctantly sighs and moves back but that is when he hears the very familiar voice call out.
“hi there, stoner,” says the person and river could swear then and there that the warmth that took over him was warmer than even the hot summer day.
“hey,” he replies, trying not to sound too hesitant or looking into their eyes for too long.
Thank you for 5,000 followers ! I was thinking of what to post as a thanks and realized I wrote a letter (months ago) in response to this post that I reblogged (see: my tags).
Anyway, I wrote it ages ago for me but I decided to share it as a 5k gift. Here is the hypothetical letter Seven would've written to MC after their first kiss :) (inspired by Alex Turner)
As I write this, I feel vaguely sick to my stomach. Not only have I become acutely aware of my own feelings, but I have become forced to acknowledge the true depth of them. It makes me feel a bit powerless, my body and soul being at the mercy of your hands, lips, feet and every part of you as if I have lost all agency. Maybe I have, in a way. The moment we kissed, I knew immediately I was a goner. In more ways than one. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Terrifying because I know that I have ruined every kiss hereafter for the rest of my life, sentenced to compare every single one afterwards to yours while knowing they will never live up. Exhilarating because kissing you once has opened the opportunity to kiss you again, even a few more times if you’d like. Possibly forever, if you allow it.
The intimacy of our friendship these years have comforted in ways no one but us two will ever understand, but the intimacy of a possible relationship comforts me even more. I know, deep down, that this is a bad idea. The cons outweigh the pros: our friendship is too delicate to ruin, and yet I want the alternative so badly that I am willing to risk that nugget of a chance to kiss you again. Will you let me? Or will I be forced to write about it in songs and hope one day you’d connect the dots and save me from the uniquely horrible suffering of an unrequited love? Please don’t let this be a singular moment. Or a lapse in judgment. Or a simple testing of the waters. Please dive completely into the deep end as I already have.
Hadrian can see your lips moving — Lord, he can never not see your lips moving — and he can hear your voice bathing his ears, but as much as he likes the sound, he’s not making sense of the words. Hadrian stares at you and notices all the little details about your features. Sunlight comes in shredded shadows from between the branches of the willow tree. It makes a patchwork on your skin, the light and shade creating illusions of ridges and valleys in the corners of your nose, your cheekbones, and the flatland of your forehead.
