#OCTOBER HAS BEGUN~!!!

[cilogram]

Ron and Russell looking lovely in Vilnius, 2012-10-04

by Martynas Sirusas (x)

[bogos-bint3d]

November 30th. One day until... One DAY... until it is truly upon us. Far far in the hidden depths of the North Pole, it begins again, as a familiar, chilling tune grows louder, and her icy enclosure once more begins to melt. There is no stopping her. There is no escaping her. She WILL get you for Christmas. You know it's all she wants. Every single year, try as you can she WILL find you, and all the burning of the planet has done has prematured her slow return. The ice cracks. The fractures grow bigger and bigger. It is time. She has fully defrosted.

[skellsplace]

HaPpy SPookY MoNth Mf'S!

[heeliopheelia]

Btw yesterday I saw a tiktok that said there's only 7 weeks left till new year's. And I was just like... What the fuck 🧍

[pollenallergie]

look i dislike idolizing celebrities but when i tell you that alana hadid means everything to me, i fucking mean it.

[felicitypdf]

a love that even time will lie down and be still for!!!!!!!!!!

[buttercuparry]

In less than two months it will be October 7th again.

In less than two months, it will be a year of genocide. 

In light of this, I just have only one request for you; please do not give into whatever you are describing as “compassion fatigue” right now.

Realize that this is exactly what the colonizers conducting this genocide want you to feel. Realize that apathy during a genocide is what leads to the normalization of atrocities. Realize that this is a tried and tested method found throughout history; that now when the genocide is been widely documented by Gazans themselves- the only way the colonizers can get away with it is by running you down and making you feel hopeless!

They want you to stop caring about their victims and this is why you need to fight harder now more than ever!!

I request you to fight harder for every Gazan! And therefore request you to fight for my friend Siraj Abudayeh too, whose family recently faced another assault. His parents and siblings had to flee to him for protection, because their areas ( Hamad, southern Khan Younis) were marked for assault from occupation forces. With the number of people depending on him increased now, Siraj has a much heavier responsibility on his shoulders to raise enough funds to support all of them and their needs, when prices of food water and other essentials are already skyrocketing.

With the coming of the rainy season, there comes the danger of epidemics spreading from open sewers as well! Siraj’s son Amir has already fallen ill, and his other two sons are showing symptoms too- they are in dire need of medical treatment! I cannot overstate how badly Siraj and his family need these funds!! How badly he needs your continuous support.

There has been a significant drop in engagement with fundraising posts and I very clearly remember, someone tagging one of my posts with compassion fatigue. It shocked me to my core to think that the cries of Free Palestine could fade so suddenly; that after only a year some of you have begun to feel fatigued, from having to care about this.

Do not give in please; do not let the colonizers make you complicit in this horror! They know that if they can overwhelm you enough, then one day the videos and posts would stop hitting as hard and sooner or later everyone will stop talking about Palestine. This cannot happen again! Not when your attention can literally save a life! This is the power you hold- especially if you are living in the Imperial core. The colonizers are afraid of it. You have to know this and believe this!

So please do not turn away and help Siraj get to 50k as soon as possible!

He is currently only at $45,044 / $82,000 CAD

[ GFM LINK ]

[ Vetting at 219 on Hussein's spreadsheet]

And if you are having trouble donating to Siraj's fundraiser through Paypal, please get in touch with @malcriada .

[dykesbat]

help a palestinian teacher and her family of 6!

[PT: Help a Palestinian teacher and her family of 6. End PT.]

Ola's campaign is number 205 on el-shab-hussein and nabulsi'svetted fundraiser spreadsheet.

$53,726 raised of $85,000 goal as of October 4th

[PT: $53,726 raised of $85,000 goal as of October 4th End PT.]

No amount of words can describe how awful it is that a full year of genocide is coming up. Palestinians deserve to be safe in their homes not having to worry about their and their loved ones’ lives or trying to figure out how they can get people to care for their survival. Every single Palestinian I have talked with this past year has been so endlessly kind in spite of everything. Please return this kindness and stand up for Palestinians. Help them.

I’m writing this post for my dear friend, Ola. She’s a seventh grade math teacher who’s so incredibly passionate about her work and uses creative methods to better teach her students. When I first read about her using extracurriculars as a means of teaching, I was left with a large smile on my face. Seeing her connect her lessons to the students rather than making the students connect to the lessons is such a beautiful thing you could do as a teacher since it shows your active consideration towards your students.

Ola had just begun her first year of teaching when this Nakba began. She’s been on Tumblr for months, trying her best to spread her campaign which supports a total of 7 people including herself. Alongside that, she’s been using her blog to share the campaigns of her extended family. Her campaign is beginning to slow. We can not afford this. Please help Ola in any way you can, whether it be from a donation, reblog, or sharing her campaign’s link. I heavily encourage you to follow her at olaa123 and spotlight her campaign if you are able to!!

[gaystheysanddinos]

ITS OCTOBER BITCHES TIME TO WRITE

[reasonsforhope]

"Vice President Kamala Harris is proposing to provide federal funding to cover home care costs for older Americans, aiming to help the “ sandwich generation " of adults caring for aging parents while raising their children at the same time.

Appearing Tuesday on ABC’s “The View,” Harris talked about taking care of her mother when she was dying and personally experiencing the challenges many families face when seeking affordable in-home care for their aging loved ones.

She promised that if, elected in November, she will seek to expand Medicare, the federal health insurance program for older Americans, so that it covers long-term care and includes services like in-home aides. Harris said aides could help seniors do things as simple as preparing meals or putting on sweaters because it is “about dignity for that individual. It’s about independence for that individual.”

Her proposal is a new one just a month out from Election Day but the issue is one that President Joe Biden's administration has been working on for years.

In an effort to soften the effects of inflation, the White House promoted as part of Build Back Better, its legislative agenda that stalled on Capitol Hill years ago, steeply increased federal spending for child care as well as for seniors. After Build Back Better collapsed, the Biden administration continued to promote increasing spending for what it calls “the care economy,” a cause Harris has continued to mention after replacing Biden at the top of the Democratic ticket.

“These plans are common sense. They can help family caregivers work and save both families and the federal government money by allowing seniors to stay in their homes instead of being sent to nursing homes,” the Harris campaign said in a fact sheet detailing her proposal. “Medicare at Home will also reduce hospitalizations.”

As part of a blitz of media interviews she’s been doing in recent days, Harris sat down after her appearance on “The View” with radio personality Howard Stern, who said that his mother is 97. Taking care of an elderly parent, he said, “will bankrupt you.”

Such costs have increased pressure on adults caring for their parents and kids simultaneously. In 2019, roughly 30% of family caregivers of older Americans lived in households that included children or grandchildren, according to AARP.

Harris would likely have to work with Congress to achieve key parts of her proposal. Harris’ campaign points to past, similar proposals projected to cost $40 billion annually, but says much of that can be offset by savings achieved through efforts begun by the Biden administration to expand Medicare’s ability to negotiation prices with major drug manufacturers.

Harris is also promising to further expand Medicare to include hearing and vision coverage, while changing existing rules that can allow federal authorities to seize a deceased beneficiary’s home to recuperate costs. [Note: I'm sorry the current rules fucking what] The campaign fact sheet says that practice “means that those homes are not passed on to the seniors’ children, which particularly harms rural and minority families.”"

-via AP News, October 8, 2024

[transformativeworks]

2024 October Membership Drive: Preserving fan history

OTW's October Membership drive has begun!  Find out what we do to preserve fan history by reading more at: https://otw-news.org/5n8p54fc

Afrikaans • Bahasa Indonesia • Български • català • dansk • Deutsch • Ελληνικά • English • español • français • hrvatski • italiano • lietuvių kalba • magyar • मराठी • Nederlands • norsk • polski • português brasileiro • português europeu • Română • Русский • slovenčina • slovenščina • Српски • suomi • svenska • Tiếng Việt

[iannmin]

Every Season After | j.yh 정윤호

pairing + genre,, childhood!bestfriend!yunho x reader, fluff, childhood best friends to lovers, slight angst if you squint, each timestamp represents a memory (written in a linear timeline)

a/n,, just had a sudden burst of urge to write this :) & i wanted to try something new hehe

“Because of you, i laugh a little harder, cry a little less, and smile a lot more.”

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

DECEMBER 5 2005 ⋆₊˚

5:30PM, Winter. By mid-afternoon, the light, once bold and golden, softened into a pale silvery haze and the shadows began to stretch lazily across the snow-blanketed playground. The air grew sharper, filled with the familiar yet unsettling tang of frost that promised to linger long after the sun has disappeared. By the time you look up again from making snow ducks, yet another day has gone by with the apartment street-lamps flickering to life. Everybody has gone home now. It was just you and another boy. He was crouched near his army of snow ducks, wearing a thick navy parka dusted with flecks of snow. Even with his rosy cheeks and reddened fingertips, he was carefully adjusting the wing of a snow duck. You eyed his every move, but he must have felt it. “Still here?” He said, without looking up. You flinched, ears reddening, “I-I didn’t mean to stare!” He put down his duck maker and walked over, boots crunching loudly against the packed snow. Reaching out a hand, he said “I’m Yunho, I’m turning six this year, let’s become friends” After the brief and awkward exchange of names, there you were, kneeling beside him, scooping up fresh snow, transforming the playground into a battleground. And on that very night, the snow ducks stood as silent witnesses to the beginning of something new — a friendship forged in the harsh December winter.

APRIL 17 2008 ⋆₊˚

2:14PM, Spring. The Spring season had just begun. The rain came down in relentless sheets, pounding against the school roof, turning the courtyard into a mirror of rippling puddles. While everybody padded off under their multi-coloured umbrellas, you stood there squatting at the front gate, clutching your bag to your chest. Your umbrella. You'd forgotten it. Again. You were nine back then, so instead of running in the rain, your hands tightened against the grip on your bag, vision blurring - not just from the rain, but from the hot sting of tears welling up at the prospect of not being able to make it home. "Forgot something, didn't you?" the sudden voice made you jump, turning to see yunho standing there, his slightly taller frame partially blocking the rain. His dark hair was damp from the drizzle, and he wore his usual dimple smile. "I-I..." your voice wavered, you didn't know why the tears were threatening to spill over. He stepped closer, his free hand reaching out to tilt the umbrella over the both of you. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to cry over something like this, I've got you." Both of you walked side by side, the small umbrella forcing you closer together. He held it high enough to shield you, though his shoulder was starting to get wet. "You're getting soaked, Yunho." He shrugged, "I'll live. What matters is getting you home dry."

OCTOBER 23 2012 ⋆₊˚

8:16PM, Autumn. You were both 13 now. By then, Yunho had grown a head taller than you and you no longer could tease him about his height. "Happy birthday, dummy." You grinned, holding out a small, slightly crumpled box wrapped in bright blue paper. Yunho blinked, staring at the box in your hands. "I saved up. I know how much you wanted it, so...yeah." Yunho took the box and tore into the wrapping, his clumsy fingers fumbling with the tape. Inside was a red baseball cap, one he'd been eyeing in the baseball store for weeks. For a moment, Yunho was speechless. "This is... really cool, holy shit you're the best!" You lit the candle, his face glowing in the flickering light, softening the sharp lines he was starting to grow into. "Now make a wish, birthday boy." He closed his eyes for a moment, then blew out the candle in one breath. "What'd you wish for, hm?" You teased, nudging his arm. "Can't tell you," he said, leaning back on his hands. "But... I think it already came true."

JUNE 26 2015 ⋆₊˚

4:26PM, Summer. You’ve just gotten the news of Yunho’s successful audition. There’s a burst of hurt in your chest, dazzling and gnawing. You know you should be happy for him for pursuing his dreams but your face burns and so do your eyes, knot thick in your throat. Before you know it, you are slipping off your shoes in front of his doorstep, fighting the internal battle to will back tears. yunho’s brows shoot up when he opens the door to your face crumpling. One look at his face was enough to send the water crashing down. Had it not been Yunho, you’d feel like an attention seeker, but you held him tight, so tight against your chest as if you were afraid of him slipping away from your grip. Without question, he swept you up into his arms, huge warm hand running up and down your back. How much has he grown? Was his hands always this big? Were you always this small? He kept you there for a long moment, before peeling himself off of you to look at your face. Your breath was still hitching unevenly, coming in shallow, jagged gasps that caught painfully in your throat. Each inhale was sharp and shaky, as though you were trying to draw air through a tangled knot in your chest. You stared at him red-eyed, snot running from your nose. He looked you straight in the eye, mumbling “I will never ever leave you. I’ll be back in no time. Pinky-promise?” and that made you feel a whole lot better.

DECEMBER 5 2018 ⋆₊˚

5:30PM, Winter. Three years had passed since then. It might have been the nostalgic faint scent of frost lingering in the air or even the all too familiar row of wooden benches that got you squatting at the edge of the playground, cold biting at your cheeks. But there it was. Your eyes landed on an abandoned yellow snow duck maker in the middle of the playground and it was enough to send memories rushing back into your head. Every detail was painful, really — the spot under the slide where Yunho used to make his snow ducks with you, the echo of laughter that once filled the air, and the way your heart had felt so much at ease. A lump formed in your throat, tightening again with each passing second. Your chest ached and your vision blurred just like it once did on an April afternoon back in 2008. Your lips quivered, tears threatening to break through again. You hated how weak you were.

“You’re always crying”

You looked up and your breath hitched. There he was. Yunho. His face was the same yet completely different — the soft plump boyish roundness now replaced by sharper angles. The way he carried himself changed too,, his lanky frame filled out, movements steady and confident, no longer the awkward shuffle of the boy you remembered. Yet, all it took was his smile to catch the faint glimpse of the boy you used to know — that damn dimple.

Your heart froze for a moment before it began to race uncontrollably. "Yunho..." You blinked, as if your mind was trying to reconcile the boy from your memories with the man standing before you. "You're really just gonna squat there and cry in front of me?" he teased, stepping closer. "Some things never change."

You hastily wiped off the stinging tears in your eyes, too embarrassed to face him, sniffling. "I wasn't crying" you muttered defensively, though your shaky voice and tear-stained cheeks said otherwise. He squatted beside you, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Miss me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur. You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, your chest tightening as the weight of his presence filled the air between you.

"Then kiss me." he whispered.

Your breath hitched again, the world narrowing until it was just the two of you, the snowy evening wrapping around you just like that same day you’ve met him for the first time. And before you could think, before you could second-guess, your heart answered for you.

[pathologicalreid]

i'll be home for christmas | s.r.

in which you, Spencer, and your toddler prepare for what will hopefully be your first Christmas together as a family

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: just a little family grocery shopping. domestic!spencer, chemist/professor!reader, the spencer reid dilf agenda, toddler tantrums word count: 889 a/n: this fic is basically my christmas present for lia. this is her errand fic which has literally been on my list of fics to write since october!!! i am home for the holidays!! so the title felt appropriate

The holidays were starting to get overwhelming. It was no longer enough to take Christmas Day off with a container of store-bought Christmas cookies and text Spencer in whichever state he’d been called away to. No, it was much more serious than that. Thanks to your daughter.

Now, you took the entire winter break off, along with the majority of your coworkers, and spent every day with your daughter. You weren’t sure who found the prospect more exciting—you or her.

At only two years old, Leah was the one in charge of this particular trip; she led the charge through the diary aisle of the grocery store, hands on her hips as she carefully inspected the canned whipped cream. Her brown eyes squinted at the labels while Spencer hauled a gallon of milk on the bottom rack of the cart, and you checked it off of the list.

You watched her carefully, toeing the line of helicopter parenting with the way you kept her in your line of sight. If it were entirely up to you, she’d be sat in the cart, but she’d thrown a tantrum when you tried to sit her down upon your arrival at the store, and you were carefully choosing your battles this holiday season. “Do you think she needs glasses?” You said to your husband, watching as she moved in even closer to the glass doors.

Leaning over your shoulder to check the list, Spencer hummed before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “We can make her an appointment,” he offered. “It looks like she might just be too short to see the labels,” he frowned at the shopping list that you precariously balanced on the handle of the cart, “We passed the butter.”

You looked behind you to see the boxes of butter—already picked over by other holiday shoppers—at the beginning of the aisle, “Oh, would you...?” Your voice trailed off as Spencer had already begun backtracking to the butter, looking over the selection as if it was the biggest choice of his life.

“Mama,” a little voice called, Leah had made her way back around the cart, holding a red aluminum can in her little hand. The little glint in her eyes spoke for themselves, Can we get this?

Smiling down at her affectionately, you crouched down to grab the whipped cream from her hand, tiny fingers red from the cold metal. Whipped cream wasn’t on the list, but this was a battle you’d gladly give in to. Peeking over your shoulder for Spencer, you found him slightly retreated from the wall of butter, holding a box in his hand with his phone pressed to his ear, “Uh oh,” you murmured, bending down and picking Leah up so you wouldn’t have to worry about her wandering off.

The toddler followed your gaze, seeing her father on the phone, eyebrows pinched together. “Uh oh,” she echoed, resting her head on your shoulder. You checked the time on your watch, knowing good and well enough that it was nearing her naptime, but you’d wanted to do the holiday grocery shopping while the majority of the population was in the middle of the workday.

You so badly had hoped that Spencer would be home for Christmas this year, but the look on his face didn’t seem promising. He’d been called away on Christmas Day for Leah’s first Christmas, and last year he’d been in Kansas through the December holidays.

Hoisting Leah up on your hip, you guided the cart away from the milk and out of people’s way, waiting for Spencer to come back. “Gotta go?” You asked, wondering if you’d have time to at least check out with what you’d managed to grab.

Surprisingly, he shook his head, “That was JJ, she was asking if we had any plans for New Year’s.” He put the butter in the cart, crossing it off of the list for you, “They only had salted, I hope that’s okay.”

You nodded silently, watching him mindfully as you exited your mild panic and returned to the present, “That’s fine.” You let Leah back down, “Okay, lovey. Next aisle,” you steered the cart over to the baking aisle, where you were sure to make a dent in your list.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked, grabbing a bag of flour from the bottom shelf and looking at you thoughtfully.

Apparently, you wore your concern more plainly than you had previously thought, “Yeah, I just hate spending Christmas alone now, it used to be the standard for me.” You rested your chin in your hands while Spencer went through the aisle, grabbing a few bits and pieces off of the shelves, “Oh, Spence!” You called out when Leah detached herself from her legs to chase after her father.

Her pigtails—courtesy of Spencer—bounced as she ran after him, erupting in a fit of giggles when he deftly scooped her up with one arm, giving her the vanilla extract to hold as she beamed up at him. “Okay, no more walking for you,” Spencer told Leah upon their return, looking through the crowded aisle as he passed you everything he’d taken off of the shelves. “On the bright side,” Spencer said, shrugging at you as he kissed your cheek, “You’ll never spend another Christmas alone.”

[fairuzfan]

19 October 2023: In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war

Horrific experiences of death and destruction have permanently impacted Palestinians’ culture, language and collective memory. “Is it war again?” asks my little Amal, 7, memories of the previous Israeli assaults still fresh in her mind.

The wording of the question shows the maturity she has been forced to develop. Last year, Amal asked her mum if it was “another war.”

Yes, it is war again in Gaza! In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war. War has become a recurrent reality, a nightmare that won’t go away. A brutal normality. War has become like a grumpy old relative, one that we can’t stand but can’t rid ourselves of either.

The children pay the heaviest price. A price of fear and nonstop trauma that is reflected in their behaviors and their reactions. It’s estimated that over 90 percent of Palestinian children in Gaza show signs of trauma. But also, specialists claim there is no post-war trauma in Gaza as the war is still ongoing.

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elders, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees and rain. The elders knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands.

A Palestinian in Gaza born in 2008 has witnessed seven wars: 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2022, 2023A and 2023B. And as the habit goes in Gaza, people can be seven wars old, or four wars old. My little Amal, born in 2016, now holds a BA in wars, having lived through four destructive campaigns. In Gaza, we often speak about wars in terms of academic degrees: a BA in wars, an MA in wars, and some might humorously refer to themselves as PhD candidates in wars.

Our discourse has significantly changed and shifted. At night, when Israel particularly intensifies the bombardment, it’s a “party”: “The party has begun.” “It will be a horrific party tonight.” And then there is “The Bag,” capital T and capital B. This is a bag that is hurriedly prepared to contain the cash, the IDs, the birth certificates and college diplomas. The aim is to grab the kids and one item when there is a threat of evacuation.

The collective memories and culture of Palestinians in Gaza have been substantially impacted by these horrific experiences of war and death. Most Gazans have lost family members, relatives, or loved ones or have had their homes damaged or destroyed. It’s estimated that these wars and the escalations between them have claimed the lives of over 9,000 (it was 7,500 when I started drafting this last week!) Palestinians and destroyed over 60,000 housing units.

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

Palestinian poet Tamim Al-Barghouti summarizes the relationship between death and the Palestinians that war brings (my translation):

It was not wise of you, Death, to draw near.

It was not wise to besiege us all these years.

It was not wise to dwell this close,

So close we’ve memorized your visage

Your eating habits

Your time of rest

Your mood swings

Your heart’s desires

Even your frailties.

O, Death, beware!

Don’t rest that you tallied us.

We are many.

And we are still here

[Seventy] years after the invasion

Our torches are still alight

Two centuries

After Jesus went to his third grade in our land

We have known you, Death, too well.

O, Death, our intent is clear:

We will beat you,

Even if they slay us, one and all.

Death, fear us,

For here we are, unafraid.

23 October 2023: Five stages of coping with war in Gaza

Our familiarity with war in Gaza has led us to develop a unique perspective and unique coping mechanisms.

We can identify five major emotional stages that Gazans go through during these grim conflicts. The stages are denial, fear, silence, numbness, hope, despair and submission.

This is day 16 and Israel has killed more than 5,000 Palestinians (many are still unaccounted for under the rubble), including over 2,000 Palestinian children, Gaza authorities tell us. More than 15,000 were injured and over 25,000 Palestinian homes were destroyed. And Israel says it is ready for ground invasion.

Stage one: Denial

In the early stages of a crisis, there is often a sense of denial. We convince ourselves that this time won’t lead to war. People are tired of the recurring conflicts, and both sides may appear too preoccupied to engage in warfare. As missiles fall and soar, we maintain a form of partial denial, hoping that this time will not be as lengthy or devastating as past wars.

No, this time it’s not going to be war. Everyone is tired of wars. Israel is too busy to go to war.

Palestinians are too exhausted and too battered to engage in a war. It could just last five days, give or take, we hope.

Stage two: Fear

Soon, denial turns to fear as the reality of another war sets in. Gaza is paralyzed as civilians, including children, are attacked by Israeli bombs. The pictures and videos of massacres, of homes obliterated with the families inside, of high rise buildings toppled like dominoes turn the denial into utter terror.

Every strike, especially at night, means all the children wake up crying and weep. As parents, we fear for our kids and we fear we can’t protect our loved ones.

Stage three: Silence and numbness

This is when Israel particularly intensifies the bombing of civilian homes. Stories are interrupted. Prayers are cut short. Meals are left uneaten. Showers are abandoned.

Therefore, amid the chaos and danger Israel brings, many in Gaza, especially children, withdraw into silence. They find solace in solitude as means of coping with the overwhelming emotion and uncertainty that surrounds them. Silence prevails.

Then numbness follows. As people attempt to protect themselves from the constant onslaught of distressing news, they grow indifferent. Because we could die anyway, no matter where we go. Emotional numbness sets in, as individuals attempt to detach from their emotions to survive.

Stage four: Hope

In the midst of despair, glimmers of hope may emerge. Even in the darkest moments, Gazans may hold onto the belief Israel might at least kill fewer people, bomb fewer places, and damage less. The most hopeful of us wish for a lasting ceasefire or an end to the siege or even the occupation. But this is merely hope. And hope is dangerous.

We hope that politicians will man up. We hitch our hope to the masses taking to the streets to reassure their politicians and warn they will be punished in future elections if they support Israeli aggression against Palestinians in Gaza.

Stage five: Despair and submission

Unfortunately, hope can often be fleeting, and many Gazans have experienced recurring cycles of despair. The repeated loss of life, homes and security lead to deep feelings of helplessness.

In the final stage, there is a sense of submission as Gazans accept the reality that they are unable to change the situation. That they are left alone. That the world has abandoned us. That Israel can kill and destroy at large with impunity. This is a stage marked by endurance, as Palestinians strive to adapt and persevere in the face of ongoing challenges.

These stages of war have become an unfortunate part of life in Gaza, shaping the resilience and perseverance of the Palestinian people in the face of unimaginable hardships imposed by the Israeli occupation.

27 October 2023: What it’s like when Israel bombs your building

I have six children. And so far we have survived seven major Israeli escalations, unscathed. We are an average family. My wife, Nusayba, is a housewife, I have two children in college and my youngest child, Amal, is 7. In Gaza, Amal is already four wars old.

We are an average family in Gaza, but we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction.

So far, since the early 1970s, I have lost 20 (and 15 last week) members of my extended family due to Israeli aggression.

In 2014, Israel destroyed our family home of seven flats, killing my brother Mohammed.

In 2014, Israel killed about 20 of my wife’s family including her brother, her sister, three of her sister’s kids, her grandfather and her cousin. And destroyed several of my in-laws’ homes.

Combined, my wife and I have lost over fifty 50 members to Israeli war and terror.

2023 war on Gaza

As the bombs fall and Israel targets sleeping families in their homes, parents are torn between several issues.

Should we leave? But go where, when Israel targets evacuees on their way and targets the areas they evacuate to?

Should we stay with relatives? Or should our relatives stay with us, whose home is relatively “safe?” We can never be sure. It’s been more than 75 years of brutal occupation – and over six major Israeli military onslaughts in the past 15 years – and we have so far failed to understand Israel’s brutality and mentality of death and destruction.

And then there is the fear of what to do if – when – we are bombed. We try to evade them. But how can you evade the bombs when Israel throws three or four or five consecutive bombs at the same home.

The big question Palestinian households debate is whether we should sleep in the same room so that when we die, we die together, or whether we should sleep in different rooms so some of us may survive.

The answer is always that we need to sleep in the living room together. If we die, we die together. No one has to deal with the heartbreak.

No food. No water. No electricity.

This 2023 war is different. Israel has intensified using hunger as a weapon. By completely besieging Gaza and cutting off the electricity and water supplies and not allowing aid or imports, Israel is not only putting Palestinians on a diet, but also starving them.

In my household, and we are a well-off family, my wife and I sat with the children and explained the situation to them, especially the little ones: “We need to ration. We need to eat and drink a quarter of what we usually consume. It’s not that we do not have money, but food is running out and we barely have water.”

And good luck explaining to your 7-year-old that she can’t have her two morning eggs and instead she will be having a quarter of a bomb! (Israel later bombed the eggs.)

As a parent, I feel desperate and helpless. I can’t provide the love and protection I am supposed to give my kids.

Instead of often telling my kids “I love you,” I have been repeating for the past two weeks:

“Kids, eat less. Kids, drink less.” And I imagine this being my last thing I say to them and it is devastating.

Israel bombs our building

If we had a little food last week, now we barely have any because Israel struck our home with two missiles while we were inside. And without prior warning!

My wife Nusayba had already instructed the kids to run if a bombing happened nearby. We never expected [our building] to be hit. And that was a golden piece of advice.

I was hosting four families of relatives in my flat. Most of them were kids and women.

We ran and ran. We carried the little ones and grabbed the small bags with our cash and important documents that Gazans keep at the door every time Israel wages a war.

We escaped with a miracle, with only bruises and tiny scratches. We checked and found everyone was fine. And then we walked to a nearby UN school shelter, which was in an inhuman condition. We crammed into small classrooms with other families.

With that, we lost our last sense of safety. We lost our water. We lost our food and the remaining eggs that Amal loves.

We are an average Palestinian family. But we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction. In Gaza, no one is safe. And no place is safe. Israel could kill all 2.3 million of us and the world would not bat an eye.

[luvrodite]

ᯓ★ ONE. OCTOBER 1 | FUCK OR DIE

GOT ME CALLING OUT FOR HELP (S-O-S) [3.8k]

in retrospect, it was only a matter of time before you got hit. you should consider yourself lucky — there are worse fates than being fucked like your life depends on it (it’s gotham. of course it does) or: you get hit and jason deals with the fallout

content warnings. f!reader, dubious consent due to intoxication, chemical aphrodisiac, established relationship, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, begging, unprotected sex, creampie, prevention of pulling out.

ⓘ minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked!

<< kinktober masterlist | week 2 >>

It goes like this:

On a monday evening, Pamela fucking Isley decides to take her quarrel with Gotham's newest weapons company – God, could they fucking give it a break? B had only busted the last one a few weeks ago before they'd brought the city down on everyone – to new heights.

Jason's sitting in traffic with a bag of groceries slung around the handle of his bike when he gets the call. He's eager to beat you home, ready to make you dinner and heavily intent on wining and dining you after a long weekend of missing each other.

His fingers tap against his thighs impatiently, impatience sitting beneath his skin like an itch. Spikes of activity during the week had meant his plans for Friday night – dinner and a deserved night off – had been pushed to the backburner. He'd returned home in the early stillness of dawn, unable to get more than a couple of hours with you before your phone had rung, a friend's emergency pulling you out of bed with an apologetic grimace and a promise to reschedule your date night.

The headset in his ear notifies him of an incoming call, the syllables of your name dulled by the clinical, robotic voice of his phone's intelligence system. His mouth curves up into a smile beneath his helmet.

"Hi, baby," he answers immediately. "I'm on my way home, you need anything? I just left the store but I can go back–"

You cut him off in a tight voice. Later, he'll be ashamed that the first thing that comes to mind is, not another fucking postponement. Now, his brows furrow at your tone, stomach dipping uncertainly when it becomes clear that this is something more serious.

Your voice wobbles, high-pitched and tearful. At the same time, the dash on his bike begins to flash in rapid succession, the paging system he'd installed for the bats to communicate with him glaring back at him, blood red.

ORACLE: CHEMICAL LEAK DOWNTOWN. BATS + R.ROBIN EN ROUTE. ALL UNITS STANDBY.

His dread plummets and for a moment his throat closes over. You're speaking to him but he struggles to make it out through the ringing in his ears.

"Jason, I'm – I'm home but I don't – I don't know what to do."

He bites back a curse and tries to swallow the lump in his throat, grappling for words of comfort.

"It's okay," he soothes, straining to keep his voice level. "Listen, sweetheart, can you go lock the door for me? I'm – shit – I'll be home soon, alright? It'll be okay. We'll fix it."

He doesn't give himself time to linger on the call after you confirm you've locked it, barking out a command to dial Oracle that his system fails to pick up twice, only registering after he steadies himself.

She picks up on the third ring. It irritates him how unfazed she sounds when he explains the situation to her. He hears the click of her keyboard in the background, the hum of her monitors. Each passing second as she patches through to Nightwing is agony and the slow crawl of traffic does little to help.

His leg has begun to jostle the bike with the weight of its shaking when she returns to their call.

"You're not going to like this," she says and he feels the bile rising in his throat.

"What." He grits it out through his teeth, unable to manage much more than that. He hears Oracle sigh.

"Looks like an aphrodisiac," she says clinically. "Her plan was to get them caught compromised enough to lose credit publicly."

"Oracle." She hears his growl for what it is – Tell me whether or not it's over.

"It's non-lethal," she affirms and he sighs harshly. The tightness in his chest loosens ever so slightly as she talks. "Ivy let it off near city hall because most of the shareholders were scheduled to hold a meeting – that's where your girl works, right? Alf's working on an antidote but she should be relatively fine until it's ready. Just – keep an eye on her."

Tim joins the line then and Jason startles at the sound of his voice in his ear.

"I don't know what the fuck she wanted to achieve," the boy grumbles. He's a little out of breath and in any other situation, Jason would have something to say about that. Tonight, he's not in the mood for jokes.

"Red," he barks out. The kid makes a distracted noise, and he can hear the sounds of a scuffle on the other end. "You tell Ivy if anything happens to my girl, I'll make sure she's next."

He doesn't wait to hear what's sure to be a non-committal answer at best, kicking off and veering between the lined up vehicles. There's an outroar from the drivers around him, laying on their car horns. Someone pokes their head out of their window to scream at him.

He hears none of it, the blood rushing in his ears keeping him single-minded.

This string that twines him to you isn't new. It wears signs of age, shows the years in the way his fingers reach for yours in the early moments of his day, the turn of your eyes to his in any room. He's seen a few summers with you at his side but the fear –

Blood, coagulating, the cold brush of death, splintered wood beneath nails and a haunting smile

– the fear never stagnates.

A bitter, resigned shard of him breathes out as he speeds through the streets. A veritable sword over his crown, this almost seems expected. Loathing colours the skyline and he, the fool, to think he could hold this one, precious, beloved thing unscathed.

He forgoes the groceries in his haste, leaving the bags in his haste to throw himself up the stairs and out of the parking garage. Pulse thundering in his ears, sweat coating his palms, he scrabbles with the key to your shared apartment.

The door flies open and a hand is grabbing him by the front of his shirt before he can slot it through the lock.

You, wild-eyed and frantic, pull him inside with a bitten off sob.

"Shh, shh, I'm here, come here."

He kicks the door shut, reaching behind him to flip the locks with one hand. The other curls you protectively to his chest, fingers splaying over your back. The sight of you calms him considerably and he chokes out a stuttered breath, the lump in his throat dissolving to give way for a flood of relief.

You're burning in his arms, the thin undershirt you've got on soaked through with sweat, face glowing with perspiration. Eyebrows knitted, you cling to him tighter and he finds himself making noises of comfort.

"Jason, I –"

"Shh. I know, honey, I know," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes are tearful, salt spilling over lashes and rolling down your cheeks. "Come on, let's get you to lie down."

"No," you whine, pitching miserably as he shuffles the both of you towards your bedroom, face creasing with every movement. "Hurts."

"I know," he whispers, hating the way his voice cracks. His eyes burn painfully. "'ll get you a towel, alright?"

You're deposited on the bed and he makes a turn for the bathroom, wetting a cloth. When he enters the bedroom again you've pushed yourself up, kneeling on the bed. You've shed the pants you'd worn earlier, left now in only and undershirt and your underwear. His name falls from your lips pitifully and he steps forward, lips turning down into a commiserating frown.

You shy away from the cloth when he presses it against your forehead, letting out a hiss as it makes contact with your burning skin. He brings a hand to the nape of your neck and you seem to like that much better, sighing under his touch. Jason takes advantage of this to keep you in place, mopping the sweat off your face and neck, trying his best not to give into your dissatisfied squirming.

"I know, I'm an asshole," he mutters, when you cry out his name, displeasure making itself clear on your face. "Get better so you can yell at me for it, alright?"

"Don't wanna – yell at you," you mumble, wetting your lips as they part.

He clocks the dilation of your pupils a little too late and shakes his head adamantly, trying to draw back but you've got a hold of his shirt, pulling him forward. He catches himself with a hand agains the headboard, a knee pressing into the mattress beneath him.

You stare up at him, mouth turning down into a pained grimace.

"C'mon honey," he mutters, pleading, feeling his face flood with warmth. "Don't do this to me. Be good, you'll be alright, okay? Any minute they're gonna call and tell me Alf's got an antidote ready – shit, maybe we should just drive you there now -"

"No," you sob, face crumpling under the weight of your tears again, pushing up on your knees to fling your arms around his shoulders. The effort of the movement makes you stutter out a gasp and he's forced to band an arm around your waist to steady the both of you.

Your tears wet the skin of his neck, your body pressed flush against his. He becomes aware, regrettably, of the skin beneath his fingers, your undershirt having ridden up to expose the softness of your lower back.

"Please," you hiccup into his shoulder. "Please, Jason – Please."

He'll have to ask Oracle later if second-hand exposure to the toxin is supposed to have an effect on him. At the touch of your chest to his, he feels himself warm all over, mouth drying when you begin to keen, arching up into his touch in an effort to get him to do something.

"Fuck," he curses. "Fuck. Alright, just – come here."

He kicks his shoes off, the sneakers clattering against the floor, and crawls onto the bed properly. Sat up against the headboard, he meets your baleful gaze with a raised brow and reaches for you.

Jason shakes his head when you go to straddle his lap, maneuvering you against his chest until your back rests against it. You let out a whimper, displeased, but he shakes his head.

"This is all you're getting, alright? Just – it'll tide you over until they call."

He spreads your legs until they hang over his own, your thighs bracketing his and leaving you open. His blood thunders in his ears, hand trembling as he reaches it up to your mouth, fingers prodding at the soft plush of your lips.

Your tongue laves at his digits, a muffled moan trapped in the recesses of your throat. One of your hands curls around his wrist, the other perching against his thigh, nails curling against the fabric of his jeans. He can feel you shift against him, hips canting ever so slightly over his own.

Awful, wretched, lecherous, he stiffens under the movement, jeans tightening. His free hand wraps around you hip with the intent of pinning you in place and stopping you. Somehow, he finds himself guiding you back and forth instead.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, baring the soft line of your throat as you drool around his fingers. He can feel the wetness pooling around his knuckles, the softness of your ass against him, separated only by a few layers. If he cranes his neck, he'll probably find your panties sticky with your need. The thought alone makes his eyes flutter.

The room is blanketed in muffled whimpers, the whispers of rustling sheets and his shaky breaths. You've quietened down some since he'd gotten his fingers in your mouth, but the heat seems to have returned with a vengeance when you begin to fuss in his lap again. Your fingers dig into his thigh and you whine, tugging at his wrist in an effort to push his hand where you need it most.

He hushes you with a squeeze to your hip and tips your face to meet his. Bleary eyed, silvery tracks smattered across your cheeks, you're struggling to hold on. He lowers his mouth to yours, a chaste kiss that deepens when you part your lips to lick into his mouth.

"Jason, come on."

"No, don't take it off," he whispers when your hands make to tug your underwear off. You whine and he hushes you again, "Shh, I'm going to take care of you, be patient for me, alright?"

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and watches you shudder at the first swipe. Similarly affected, he feels himself twitch when his fingers make contact with the soft slickness of your flesh, gliding against silken folds.

"Oh," you sigh, sagging slightly into him.

"There you go." He presses a kiss to your sweaty temple, trying to pretend this is just another night together and he's being a loving boyfriend, that you're not delirious with want just because of the toxin running through your bloodstream. "That's my girl."

He presses gentle circles against you, closing his eyes and ghosting his mouth over the curve of your shoulder. The smell of sex is thick in the air, that heady musk and sweat that he could drown in. Your breaths come in pants now as he works you open gently, thumb rolling over your centre.

"Just like that," he rumbles, straining to keep his head on straight. It's difficult, when you arch against him, his name spilling from your lips in adoration coloured mewls. Your arm raises, curling behind you to embrace his neck.

It doesn't take you very long to come, pent up and sensitive – he discovers this when his hand grazes over your chest to stroke your face and you keen so loud he fears he'll come in his pants at the sound, your mouth, bitten raw, dropping open as you moan. A few strokes against your centre and you come apart in his arms, hard. The tremors wrack your body long after the fact, your core pulsing around his fingers.

He, ever the fool, expects this to sate your hunger.

Whatever Ivy's put in her newest concoction is potent. You gather your breath quick enough and it becomes apparent that just the one isn't nearly enough. He's pushed back against the headboard, stunned into silence as you clamber onto his thigh, pawing at him like you can't get close enough.

You struggle with the fabric of his shirt before giving up and any questions he has sputter off into silence when you begin to rock back and forth on him. The denim of his jeans is unforgiving against the thin, sodden material of your underwear, providing a harsh friction that you lose yourself to. He watches, his heart racing, you taking your pleasure for yourself.

It isn't as though you've never done this in front of him – he remembers, blurry, the aftermath of a dinner date that had seen you riding his thigh on the couch, still in your dress.

But this… This feels different.

There's an urgency to this, a franticness running beneath your skin that pushes your hips down harder, more unforgiving. Your face screws up, salt misting your cheeks and neck.

For a moment, Jason almost feels as though he's the one that's been hit. You take on a blurry quality, smudged around the edges like wet paint, wanton, hazy. A gauzy film over his eyes, he blinks, and blinks.

When you come once more, it shatters and he's aware of the stain that's bled into the dark denim on his thigh, a stickiness that's smeared between your thighs. Your panties are ruined and he gulps when he drags his gaze up from between your legs to your face.

Quiet, hungry, you're already staring at him. Your chest heaves with exertion but you remain still otherwise, lips parting in invitation, eyes half-lidded.

"Baby–"

"You said you'd take care of me," you intone beseeching, voice affecting a trembling, delicate quality.

Fuck.

He's never been good at denying you much. Already, he feels the urge to take you into his arms and promise to make it better, but he forces his hand to stay, curling his fingers in the bedsheets.

You crawl forward, until your lips are ghosting over his, eyes swallowing his field of vision until all he can see are the stars in your irises. He feels the

"Jason, please, it still hurts," you whimper quietly, a wounded noise that carves him from the inside out, guilt and shame poisoning his every nerve. He's at war with himself, wanting to ease your pain – he feels responsible for it, in a way – and hesitating similarly. Is this right? Is it okay?

Before he can come up with an answer, you press your mouth to his.

The last of his inhibitions crumbles completely under the plush of your mouth.

He rolls the both of you over, relishing in the gasp you let out, the sight of you splayed against the mattress. He's quick to divest himself of his clothes, tugging his shirt off recklessly, not minding the sound of ripping fabric he vaguely registers hearing. The jeans go next, and his underwear in one, flung to some corner of the bedroom.

Your spit slick mouth curves up into a delighted, drunken smile when he crawls over you, body eclipsing yours with every intent of ravishing you.

Jason holds himself up with one hand, the other reaching to the bedside table and rummaging in the drawer for the box he keeps there. Only, he comes up short and dread dawns over him in a cold wave when he remembers –

He'd used the last of the condoms a few nights ago. It hadn't mattered in the last couple of days, the weekend too busy for the both of you to do much else but curl up next to each other, too exhausted to consider working up a sweat.

"Fuck," he whispers, shaking. "Fuck, baby, there aren't, um…"

Your eyes fill with tears at the unfinished sentence, a hiccuped sob stuttering out of your chest.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he tries to soothe you, a hand smoothing down your face. "I'll just – I'll run to the store, I'll be back before you know it."

"No, please, just–" Watery eyed and upset, you tug him closer as though fearing he'll take off. "I don't care, I don't, I just – I need you, Jason. Please."

He stares at you, heart thundering in his ears. "Fuck you without –"

"Need you now," you whimper, lips tugging down pitifully into a pout that cuts through his chest.

It isn't as though this is his first time fucking you raw –

Tipsy laughter, hushed whispers of it's fine, just once, we'll get the morning after pill.

– but still. This is different, another ballpark entirely.

You stare up at him, desperation in every crease and curve of your face, pleading with him. Too far gone to care, you beg him.

"I'll, um," he rasps out, throat dry, "I'll pull out."

You make some sort of noise that sounds like a vague affirmation, tugging him closer hastily. Poor, pretty girl. His chest aches at the sight of you, needy, looking to him to fix it.

"I'll fix it," he finds himself muttering, lining himself up with your entrance. You've similarly taken to murmuring under your breath, hands carding through his hair, devotion in your every touch.

"Need you so bad, please, please, baby."

The slick that smears against his head, the soft warmth of you, nearly makes his eyes roll back into his head. A drawn out whimper spills from your lips at the press of his hips, the first inches of him pushing into your tight heat.

You sink into the mattress as he notches himself further inside, mouth opening. You paint an obscene picture, your lips bitten raw, naked chest arched. He lowers his head to mouth at your nipples, teeth teasing at the sensitive points. You're warm, so warm beneath him – around him.

He's given only a moment to breathe before you push your hips up, impatient. Fucking yourself against him, your fingers dig into the muscle of his back for leverage, tucking him close enough to you that he brushes against your neck and tastes the salt on your skin.

Jason sets a harried pace, bucking forward against you. You begin to cry out again, every resounding slap of his skin against yours drawing out a moan that curls tight around him and presses down on his stomach. You exchange panted breaths between open mouthed kisses, tongues and teeth clashing messily, muffled pleas that beg for more, more, more.

Filthy, debauched, it doesn't take very long for you to approach your peak. Jason, lost in the wetness of your cunt, feels his own building and knows this is a dangerous game he's playing, toeing the line of recklessness.

"Close," he pants, feeling the tell-tale fluttering of you around him, your orgasm imminent. If he can just hold out until he's gotten you there –

Your legs wrap around him, hold so tight he's not able to do much more than rock against you in desperate, quick rolls of his hips.

"Inside," you warble. Your hands come to cradle his head, coaxing him down to kiss you, licking up into his mouth sweetly, teeth catching on his bottom lip. "Mmh, please, baby? Please? I – Jason – want it so bad, need you inside."

"Oh fuck," he gasps, voice hitching, breath stuttering. His face creases, overcome, and you grin, dazed, drunken, pulling him into another sloppy kiss. What's he to do?

You scream into his mouth at the same time that Jason comes. His vision whitens at the sensation of your pulsing heat, the unforgiving tightening that demands his orgasm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips, burying himself to the hilt and surrendering to your claim.

Warm and wet around him, the evidence of his debauchery coats the inside of your thighs and clings to the base of him. He's light-headed, a little winded, and it takes him a moment to gather his sensibilities. When he looks down, he finds you a boneless puddle beneath him, eyelids fluttering tiredly.

He should pull out. He knows he ought to – but he's broken so many rules, what's another? Jason gathers you in his arms and rolls over gently, tucking you against his chest, a hand skimming up and down the length of your spine comfortingly.

"Fuck," he whispers out into the air, and you murmur atop him. He glances down, meeting your bleary eyes. "Y'just had to go and get caught in that crossfire, huh?"

"N'my fault," you grumble, pressing your face back into his chest.

"Gonna give me a heart attack," he grumbles, dropping a kiss to your crown. Then, with a look over at the bedside table, he jostles you a bit. "Hey. Don't fall asleep. We still have to get you the antidote."

"Wake me when 's ready," is your answer, tone somehow managing a prissiness unexpected of someone who'd just been fucked to within an inch of their life, and he drops his head back into the pillows, incredulous.

This girl would be the death of him.

first kinktober 2024 fic let's go!! i genuinely didn't think i was going to be able to commit to kinktober this year (i'm still nervous about whether i'll be able to) because finals are literally just around the corner and i'm stressing. but hopefully you enjoyed the first installment to this year's kinktober and the coming ones don't disappoint, either!