#dust mask with respirator

[sexymenwearingmasks]

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Antimasks sentiments are creating pushback against ppe in the most ludicrous way. I’m playing word chess to convince people of the necessity of requiring dust masks to protect against inhaling ARSENIC POWDER

[angelpuns]

Just figured out that my cough is probably from being outside when they were harvesting soybeans :/

[goatsludge]

Finally got my hands on the correct version of the AOSafety/Cabot Unistar Respirator that Delta used for training throughout the 1990's.

All modern tactical respirators (such as the Ops-Core SOTR) would follow the form factor of this design. (Which is a little ironic considering the original design was banned from the market for having defective seals lol)

[damnyousubdermalirritants]

UPDATE: NOVAVAX NOW AVAILABLE!!!

Hi everyone, it's been about a year since I posted about updated COVID vaccines and it's time for another update if you are in the US:

THE BRIDGE ACCESS PROGRAM IS ENDING!!!!

If you are uninsured or your insurance does not cover covid boosters, please schedule a new booster appointment before the end of August because the Bridge Access Program (the way the government will still pay for your booster) ends in September. The updated mRNA boosters from Moderna and Pfizer are available now. Go Go GO!!!

Shitty, I know! If you can call your congressional reps, the FDA, the CDC, whomever to tell them you want this program to continue/be reinstated, that would be great. Also, while you're at it, call the FDA to tell them to expedite the approval for the updated Novavax booster (3017962640).

The new Novavax vaccine is designed for the JN.1 strain which is one of the most recent mutations of the virus going around. If you have insurance and can afford to wait, I highly recommend getting the Novavax booster when it becomes available.

We are currently in the largest Covid summer surge since 2021

If you haven't had a booster in the past six months you are essentially unvaccinated. New strains with different spike proteins keep evolving faster than vaccine development and distribution can keep up. All that said, getting Covid is not a moral failing. If you do feel sick, take a rapid test! If it's negative, test again a day or two later. It is better to know than not to know. Here's a refresh on how to take a rapid test correctly:

If you do get Covid, it is worth getting on antiretrovirals within the first week of symptoms to reduce the overall viral load your body has to fight. If your insurance doesn't cover Paxlovid or Remdesivir, here are other low/no-cost ways to access it:

If you get sick, rest radically even after you stop testing positive on rapid tests. Avoid exercising for at least eight weeks after the fact to reduce the risk of developing long covid.

Regardless of your vaccination status, masking with a KN95 or N95 respirator (or equivalent standards in your country i.e. FFP2/3 in the EU) is the most reliable way to protect yourself and others. If Covid protections are a financial burden, there is likely an active Mask Bloc near you doing free distribution of respirators and tests that would be happy to help you. Here's a global map of them from covidactionmap.org

Some quick tips: if you're wearing a bi-fold mask, flatten the nose-bridge wire completely, then mold it to your nose on your face for a better fit. The best mask is the one that you will actually wear regularly to protect yourself. I really like the selection of styles, sizes and colors from WellBefore:

As school is starting, getting you and your family boosted is one of the best things you can do to protect yourselves. Masking is perhaps even more important. If you can advocate for updating and regularly changing the HVAC filters at your local schools to MERV-13 or higher to keep the indoor air cleaner, that can also make a big difference. Better indoor air quality in schools helps protect kids from illness, allergies, wildfire smoke, and more per the EPA's website.

These are steps you can take to improve air quality at home as well. Corsi-Rosenthal boxes are low-cost and highly effective for cleaning the air indoors.

Here's a map of clean air lending libraries for getting access to air purifiers for events from cleanairclub.org

[charlesherbertlightoller]

In light of the summer surge of COVID-19 rolling round, masking protocols getting scrapped left and right, other respiratory diseases on the rise and seasonal air pollution ramping up, here's some more things that high-performance respirator masks (N95 and the like) protect against:

Influenza (including bird flu!)

Common cold

Bacterial pneumonia

Tuberculosis

Measles

Fungal spores (including valley fever!)

Dust

Airborne allergens (pollen, pet dander, dust mites, etc)

Man-made air pollution (exhaust from cars and jets, industrial emissions, etc.)

Wildfire smoke

…and much more!

While COVID-19 is undoubtably serious and masking is the best way to prevent yourself from catching it, there's many more reasons why the air might be bad to breathe, and breathing bad air is a public health risk for everyone! Additionally, certain demographics experience higher levels of exposure to airborne contaminants than others, yet they often have the least access to accurate information, personal protective gear and medical resources.

It is imperative, for stemming the spread of COVID, mitigating the effects of other airborne hazards and showing solidarity with vulnerable individuals, that we normalize masking for a variety of reasons. Do you have a cold? Wear a mask. Do you have allergies? Wear a mask. Do you live or work in an area with heavy air pollution? Wear a mask. Is there a wildfire nearby? Wear a mask. Just want to avoid getting sick when you go to the doctor's office? Wear a mask. Whenever and wherever there might be bad air, masking protects you!

It may seem like nobody cares now, but I promise you; change is possible, change is inevitable, and YOU have the agency and ability to make change for yourself, your community and the world by setting an example and spreading the word. So take charge and clear the air!

(I do not use Blaze. Please reblog this post so it gets more notes!)

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

im a big fan of when hermits take absolutely zero safety precautions around redstone but then they interact with another redstoner for some reason and they're just absolutely flabbergasted at the lack of precautions (usually theres like thick gloves, eye protection, a respirator mask ect.)

Pretty much every redstoner on Hermitcraft has their hands stained red from the dust. What do you mean they can just wear gloves. No. It's just redstone, it's not dangerous! The worst it'll do is give you cool red eyes, look at Tango, he's fine!

-Mod Mleem

[is-this-yuri]

once upon a time i worked for a total of three and a half (3.5 entire) weeks at a metalworking facility where i used power tools to carve away at giant metal pieces. the metal pieces in question were pipes and plumbing of various types, to be used in sewer and water systems. so, for threeish weeks, i was part of the reason someone had running water and sewage. this is generally considered unskilled labor for some reason

anyway, the place didn't provide me the right sized gloves. i have freakishly small hands, so like, i didn't expect them to have a good pair for me right away, but they refused to get me a pair in the right size. so, since i didn't feel comfortable with my fingertips flopping all over the place, and they didnt just let not wear the gloves, i got my own.

i got vibration resistant gloves because i noticed even within the first day that my hand was getting numb in places from holding the tools. the gloves seemed to work great, but they quickly wore out and i had to take them home for difficult repairs every week.

i STILL got raynaud's syndrome. just working there for less than a month! with special gloves designed to help prevent it! i didn't realize until the next winter i spent homeless and my fingers went numb and turned white, so i never thought to pursue any compensation.

on top of this, the OSHA guidelines for average dust particles in the air was up on a board for me to read, but when i read it i wondered if they'd considered the fact that every single employee stops their work and sweeps their station at the same time every day, kicking up a visible cloud of metal dust particles. my boogers were constantly, always pitch black for the brief time i worked there. i have some pictures of me in that place and i literally look like a coal miner. no masks or respirators provided, i also bought my own of those.

this was also a teamsters company, and i was really excited to hear that at first because it was my first time working under a union. and most likely the union has made excellent progress in making that workplace safer than it otherwise would be, but i personally still didn't feel like my health was a priority.

so yeah, three weeks at that place was enough to know it wasnt for me. i didnt even mention the macho work culture i didnt fit into, which is also common at factories and warehouses. this wasn't my only attempt at this kind of job, but it was the shortest, because at that point i had enough self respect to leave when i knew it was bad.

the sad thing is, every job is like that in some way. your health is never a priority. the unions have gotten us to a point, but it's essentially bare minimum. and thats if you can even get unionized. you're going to have to reach into your own pocket to accomodate your needs at work, a pocket your boss's hand is already deep into.

so if youre feeling guilty, or lazy, or worthless because you can't stand your job, just know that almost no job is a hospitable enviornment.

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

"I fucking hate it here."

"Understandable," Michael agreed, the bitter, sullen disgust in his voice somehow greater than Gerry's. He gingerly approached a dresser that was in the middle of the hall, for some ungodly reason, and tugged on the stuck upper drawer until it opened. The documents inside were spotted with mould, and he was very glad he had brought a respirator and gloves. Paging through them revealed years of sales receipts, which could be of interest, if they weren't in such bad shape. Michael made a mental note of them and shut the drawer again. They weren't what he and Gerry had come to Pinhole Books for.

It had been a slow and gradual process to move Gerry into Michael's flat with him. Neither of them had ever come out and admitted that's what was happening‒ at first it was some of Gerry's clothes in Michael's closet, then it was his jewelry joining Michael's own on his dresser, then Gerry's art supplies started piling up on the rarely used kitchen table. Michael had treasured each and every addition, and made space for both Gerry and his things. They were all welcome.

This was the first deliberate venture they had made to Pinhole together, with the express intention of collecting more of Gerry's things and bringing them to Michael's‒ their flat. Two suitcases waited by the stairs, packed with shirts and trousers and other articles that hadn't made the journey already. Gerry was still in his old room, gathering more things, but the rest of the flat was stuffed to bursting with books, and there didn't appear to be much else of Gerry's worth taking.

That was making Michael's chest hurt, and not because of the mold and mildew. Pinhole was so obviously Mary's domain, her store, her home, and Gerry was like an afterthought. There was barely anything in the rest of the flat to show that there had been another inhabitant‒ no shoes by the door, no pictures on the refrigerator, no additional furniture for him to sit on. No touches of Gerry. 

In a way, that made things easier, as far as extracting Gerry from such an awful place. But it still made Michael feel utterly sick to his stomach.

He paused at what must have been Mary's office, struck by the large painting on the wall. What had once been a large and intricate eye was in tatters, shredded to pieces by what looked like large claw marks. The rest of the room was in disarray, as if whatever had caused the mess had left it for someone else to clean up. Michael didn't know if it was Gerry or Mary herself, but it clearly hadn't been touched.

"Mum's poltergeist phase." Gerry's flat voice came from behind him. Michael immediately turned and reached out, pulling his boyfriend into his arms. Gerry's face was blank and pale beneath his respirator, eyes dull and vacant, as if being in that place had sucked all the life from him. He gave no reaction to being in Michael's embrace, stiff and unmoving, even as Michael hugged him closer. "I thought…I thought she actually liked that painting, but then she…ripped it apart like nothing. And chucked books at my head. And…and…"

His words dried up, lost to the pages of books that filled the space around them like a tumor. Michael bumped his forehead against Gerry's, the only show of affection he could manage with the safety gear. "Do you have everything?" he asked, desperate to get Gerry out of the damned building. Gerry shook his head, brushing past him into the room, moving like a ghost lost to the past. He crouched, and the floorboards creaked and complained as he lifted one up, sneaking his hand beneath to pull something free.

When he returned to Michael's side he could see that it was a glass jar stuffed with papers, sealed against the dust and mildew, that Gerry cradled very gently against his chest. "It's the only place she wouldn't think to look for it," he explained, the hurt in his voice sneaking out past his face mask. Michael nodded, taking hold of Gerry's arms and guiding him out of the room and through the hall, past the towering piles of books that threatened to collapse on top of them. He didn't bother to ask again, just pulled Gerry along with him, collecting the suitcases on their way out. Out into the fresh air and sunshine, finally free of Pinhole Books.

Gerry stayed silent for the trip back to their flat, holding his jar with a blank look on his face. Once they were there and stripped of their work clothes, he drifted away towards their bedroom, and Michael opted to leave him in peace for a bit. He busied himself with the laundry, not wanting to risk contaminating their flat with whatever had been in Pinhole. When he finally emerged from the kitchen, smelling strongly of chemicals, he found Gerry sitting on the floor of their room, the glass jar empty and its contents laid out around him. Michael paused, unsure if he should intrude, but Gerry looked up at him with eyes wet with unshed tears, and he was helpless to resist.

"I saved everything that I could," Gerry explained as Michael sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and setting his head on his shoulder. "It wasn't a lot, but for a while she left things as they were before. Didn't bother to throw them out." He scrubbed his arm over his eyes, his burned skin coming away wet. "When I was…twelve, I think, it was the first time I snapped back at her, and she…it was like a storm, she destroyed everything. There was nothing left." His fingers hovered over a ripped piece of paper, a scribbled outline of a flower in a rainbow of colors. "I felt so stupid, but I wanted to hang on to whatever I could. I know we were never a happy family, but maybe…we were a family. Once."

Michael reached over and picked up a photograph by his knee, creased with lines from being folded to fit in the jar. A lump formed in his throat as he looked at the baby held between Mary and Eric, plump and bald and smiling gummily at the camera. Mary looked like she was merely tolerating the experience, but Eric was positively beaming. "You look like him," Michael commented quietly.

"I think that's why Mary couldn't stand to have me around," Gerry noted, his voice thick with emotion, passing Michael another picture. He was a toddler in that picture, standing next to a crouching Eric at some sort of park, both of them wearing large sunglasses and smiling exactly alike. "I used to hear him through the walls sometimes, when Mary summoned him after I'd gone to bed. I thought I was just dreaming, and when I learned…" the tears in Gerry's eyes finally spilled over as his breath stuttered painfully. "She stopped summoning him. And I never got a chance to…know him."

Michael gently set the pictures aside and pulled Gerry back against his chest, pressing his forehead against his temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, because that was the only thing he could say, because there were no other words to say that could ease Gerry's grief. "I'm so sorry." He was mourning too, for a man he'd never met, but who's absence had affected Gerry all his life. "He would have loved you so much."

Gerry nodded against his collarbone. Whatever he tried to say was broken by a choked sob, so instead his hand scrambled for a roll of papers amidst all the others. They were tightly coiled around an object, and as Gerry struggled with them, a thick metal pen slipped out and onto the rug. Michael picked it up and passed it to Gerry, who held it close and watched as Michael unfurled the papers. 

He barely made it past the first line before he was crying too. It was a letter from father to son, a pre-mortem that Eric probably didn't know would be one of the few things he left to his child. Michael couldn't even bear to finish it, putting it aside before his tears ruined the paper. Judging from the places on the letter where the ink was smudged and blotchy, that had happened before.

Gerry was running his fingers over the pen, his own tears falling unheeded as he stared down at it. It was obviously a custom piece, something intended to be passed down, and now it was safely in Gerry's hands where it belonged. Michael tugged him close again, burying his face in Gerry's hair. Now he knew for certain that his boyfriend had inherited his mother's hair color. No wonder he hated it so much.

"He was an artist, too," Gerry choked out, pulling a few pages loose from the tight coil. It was lettering, looping and beautifully crisp, made by the pen now in Gerry's hand. His son's preferred name seemed to be Eric's favorite to practice. "I found these in her office and hid them. When she asked what happened to them I lied and said I didn't know, but I don't think she believed me. I wasn't as good at lying to her then."

There was more unsaid about what Mary's reaction to that was. There was no way for him to soothe that pain, but Michael ran his hands over Gerry's chest, gentle passes up and down, with as much love as he could. A kind touch for every one of pain. "That's all over now," Michael managed to say, sniffing inelegantly and shifting so Gerry's hair came unstuck from his wet face. "You, you don't have to ever go back there again. If you forgot anything I'll go get it for you, but you don't ever have to go back there. You're home now."

Gerry shook in his arms, like Michael's words were a physical thing that had settled over him. "Say that again," he asked, turning and wrapping his arms around Michael, desperately tight, tucking his face into the hollow of Michael's neck. "Please say that again."

"You're home," Michael repeated, rocking them from side to side, hands in constant motion across Gerry's body, familiar and loving. "You're here with me now, you don't have to go back. This is where you should always be." Gerry's sobs sounded like they hurt, but he was clinging back, held safe in Michael's arms, where he belonged. "You're home, my love. You and everything that matters to you, we're all here now. We're not going anywhere."

Those words were as true as he could make them. He didn't know all that the future would hold, but Michael knew that he wanted Gerry in it with him, for him to love and care for and show how good life could be. And he could feel the full weight of Gerry's love for him, the way he clung back to him, seeking comfort from him. Gerry trusted him with his pain and his grief, freely sharing it with Michael after a lifetime of holding it in. That mattered to him more than anything in the world.

Over Gerry's head, Michael examined the pieces of Gerry's childhood, carefully salvaged and hidden for so long. No more, he decided. Those treasured childhood photos could join the ones on their refrigerator‒ the strips from all the photobooths Michael had pulled Gerry into, and the stupid selfies he'd printed off because they made him laugh. Eric's calligraphy would be preserved in a frame, where Gerry could see it whenever he wished. And Michael could take that empty glass jar and fill it with the memories of them together‒ ribbons and snapped shoelaces and love notes and candy wrappers and a million pieces of them. To show to Gerry and anyone else who looked at it that their lives were full of love, and neither of them needed to hide it away anymore.

[sexymenwearingmasks]

[epiclamer]

(Memoria)

Part 2

Air Supply

The hero didn’t know how long they had been trapped in the alley for. The minutes they were sure of felt like hours and the hours they felt they endured seemed longer than months. Struggling and struggling before they would black out again, only to wake to struggle some more.

When the Agency had caught word of the Supervillain’s gas bombing downtown, the hero was the very first to respond. Trading out their regular mask for a respirator in order to charge head first into the mess.

In the end, they had counted seventeen civilian lives saved—by their own hand—and two structural collapses safely avoided. Only once everything had settled had the hero allowed themselves to start their walk home, when they were interrupted by a pair of villains who seemed to have other plans in mind.

Each time they woke they grew weaker, a pair of arms keeping them up by their armpits was the only thing keeping them on their feet anymore. It was humiliating, degrading and most of all exhausting. They just wanted to give up, to give in, but some survival instinct inside kept them fighting as best as they could before their inevitable collapse.

The villain had only caught a glimpse as they fled from the previous crime scene, but it was enough to stop them dead in their tracks. They didn’t recognize their hero at first, they didn’t need to. Two villains laughing and torturing anyone down the side of a dark street was interesting enough for a pitstop.

They hesitated, just to get a feel for the situation, before curiosity took over rationality and the villain headed down the alley, stopping a few feet from the attraction. The other two villains stopped their messing around at the sight of the other, Villain recognized them as Other Villain and Thief, and in the back of their head they calculated their chances of winning this fight.

“Am I interrupting?”

The other two exchanged looks, the villain noticed the Thief was holding up their victim and was keeping them restrained, meanwhile Other Villain was covering the inlet valve on the captive’s gas mask. Villain tried for a look at the rest of them, but between the two criminals they could barely get a peek.

“Figures you’d want in.” Thief sneered, tightening their grip on the other. “Who told you, hm?”

Villain shrugged, “was just passing by when I noticed.”

The masked individual twitched, arms flailing for a second, before the two restraining them shared a glance. Some type of understanding passing between the two of them, they didn’t waste anymore time, releasing their holds and the figure fell to floor in a heap.

“They’ve already passed out, what?” Other Villain looked to their partner, both of them dusting themselves off as they approached the villain. “Well, at least a few times now, but have your fun while they last.” Thief smirked at the villain and Other Villain patted them once on the shoulder as they passed each other.

“Oh and, be thankful we took care of your pathetic little problem. Considering it was taking you so long anyways.” In unison the pair laughed as they disappeared down the street. Villain didn’t even bother to turn around, their eyes were glued to the person on the floor.

They recognized that suit.

“Hero…”

As the other’s voices trailed further and further, only when they were quiet whispers did the villain make a move—and a brash one at that. Rushing forwards and hauling the hero off their stomach and to their knees, Villain pulled them tight against their chest. Practically ripping off the gas mask when they were steadied and immediately they could hear the other gasp for air.

The villain watched patiently as their nemesis coughed and hacked and choked on nothing. Air filling their lungs in a flush was too much for the dizzy hero.

If what the other two criminals had said about the hero passing out multiple times already was true, then the villain was satisfied with just seeing that they were breathing. Suffocation had too many terrible side effects that the villain couldn’t handle to think about at the moment, seeing the hero be alive was enough to help them calm down.

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy… easy now, you’re okay.” They tried to be comforting, but the hero was out of it. Their eyes were unfocused, blurry and bloodshot, while their mouth blabbered incoherent nonsense and their limbs flailed wildly at no one in particular.

Villain made sure to support the other’s weight, letting them fall against them, sliding down the criminal’s body until the hero’s head landed in the villain’s lap. Too tired to keep up the fight of holding their head high, Hero stayed collapsed against the villain’s thighs.

“Deep breaths… deep breaths, Hero…” the other whined in response, feeling the villains hands slowly unzipping their suit from the back. If anything was a possible deterrent to the hero’s air intake, Villain was getting rid of it. Stripping the crime-stopper down into their under clothes and maneuvering their limp limbs out of the holes of their suit was definitely a task in itself.

Let alone dealing with the villain’s racing heart and matching head. Filled with first aid procedures, fears, anxieties and filthy thoughts, the villain was overwhelmed. All they could think to do while they worked was shush the other gently, hoping it was reassuring in the hero’s delusional state.

“All done, Hero… Good job, shh, you did so well…” the villain cooed, helping the hero back into their lap as they began to breathlessly sob.

Once they were both settled comfortably, the hero hyperventilating and the villain rubbing soft circles into their back, new plans began to form in the villain’s mind. They needed a safe space to go for the hero to rest and heal, all the while Villain continued to work in peace.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a question, Villain knew exactly where to take the hero and they knew exactly what would come of it.

[ryuzakemo128]

Grim Reaper Part Seven

Pairing: Poly 141 x female reader / Female reader/ You x Her mental health x König

Content Warning: Bloodshed, fight between a man and a woman, tech talk, injuries, future implications of murder on the horizon. Use of your nickname for König.

Words: 2628

Masterlist - Prequel - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven

Supernatural AU - Poem

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: “Who says I was going down to their level? When that level I go to is clearly lower?”

Just because you can, it doesn’t always mean you should.

Sometimes it better to walk away.

Letting things lie.

Leaving them in the shadow of what could have happened if you wanted to act upon your urge to be rid of them.

Your fingers trail along the mask. An incredible gift in your eyes. The sleek material cool beneath your fingers, the curves forming over your face.

As if the material itself bonded together with your face, the digital HUD flickering to life with a gentle hum, casting a soft glow in the otherwise pitch-black room.

Simon took a tentative step towards you. He looked at it, he said, "It's a beauty," he whispered with a hint of envy.

"Lightweight, customisable, and undetectable by most standard security systems, protects my face from dust, debris, and potentially harmful airborne particles." you described part of it.

Other functions of your mask were less visible but equally important. It had a built-in respirator allowed you to breathe without revealing your position through foggy breath in cold environments or leaving a trail in smoke-filled rooms.

The mask's indented 'teeth' served as a silent venting system for the excess heat your body produced during intense combat. It was a marvel of modern warfare technology, and it complemented your lethal skill set like a second skin.

You don’t know when the chatter around started to grate on your ears and eat away at your nerves. Part of you thinks it was because of a certain part of you being denied sustenance. Thrill of a fight itching to be satiated.

Itching. Aching. Burning in the bottom of your stomach like a meal denied.

“We are all doomed. We are not special. None of us are special. We live on a tiny rock floating amongst other tiny space rocks. To imply we are special is to deny the truth. You are not special, just as I am not special.”

You were tired of the excuses. You were tired of them. “You are mediocre at best and tolerable at worst. I don’t care about you or anyone else here. Your existence is finite.”

“You are mediocre at everything I have seen you do.” You repeated with a narrowed glare. “Everything you are. It could and would be forgotten as long as your superiors benefit from it.”

“You don’t get to keep something someone else owns. Not ever. I don’t need a ‘saviour’ stop implying that I need one.” You murmured, your voice as fierce as a cat's growl. Your hold on his throat base stayed firm, as relentless as desert sands.

Despite your injury, you retaliated fiercely when threatened sufficiently. The cut deep enough to insert at least three fingers. You were always considered difficult to your peers. You didn't care about their opinion as much as they believed.

Imagine talking about someone’s trauma and labelling them as the ‘difficult one’ pathetic morons can’t consider the fact trauma changes people.

If they knew how trauma worked, they wouldn’t be flapping their pathetic mouths so much.

They need to learn to shut the fuck up.

Projecting their morals onto others like they’re the only people in the world.

Shut the fuck up. Most of you are more likely to have the privilege to never go through it.

Stupid pathetic moronic children who can only think of themselves first.

I see Simon receive the same treatment by women who label him the ‘difficult one’. It makes me want to smack the shit out of all of them.

Assault of any kind should not be tolerated. They need to shut the fuck up before I make them shut up.

I am tired of them. I am sick of their justifications of labels on people.

Shut the fuck up, I hate you all.

Trauma isn’t something you belittle. Yet you seem to have fun in doing just that. I hope you die and reach a depth of hell most won’t be able to reach.

It is what you deserve. It is what I want you to have. Now more than ever.

You think you snapped when it happened. Not that you aimed for a psychological snap any time, sooner or later. Yet the whispers and murmurs grated on your nerved like nails on a chalkboard. Call me pathetic and I will give you death.

I will give you a death even your so called god will not look away.

Your enemies cannot reach you. Sleep well, the clock ticks on.

The stars do not know you, prepare, they’ll whisper you your fate.

They look at you and wonder how you are even alive. Fear mixed with disgust. You feel it. You see it. They keep you because otherwise you would have been a darker shell of yourself.

He pushed you far enough to get here. Yet it caused you to laugh. To giggle. The blood gushing from your nose, a bit from your mouth, you laugh. You laugh because you know it’s all a game to them. A game of fear and power. And in that moment, you had all the power. You knew because the stars had already whispered to you, and they had never lied.

"An itty bitty knife? Are you fucking serious?" you taunted him.

The man snarled back a response, "This isn't a game, bitch," as he raised the knife, ready to strike fear into your heart.

“Are you scared? Are you going to run crying to your superiors, little bitch?” you taunted relentlessly. “Gonna cry now?”

A beast circling its wounded prey, every nip, every bite and every taunt. You became more beast than human when your anger wound-up tighter than a coiled snake. Posed and poised to strike. His eyes widened with fear, his breaths shallow, and his smugness replaced with a desperate plea for mercy.

Simon intervened, trapping you inside a headlock, the guy silently murmured and thanked for his timely intervention. He got off lightly in your opinion. Though getting stabbed by a butterfly knife put a damper on things.

"You're the one who should be scared." Simon's voice was cold and firm as he held you back, his grip tight but not painful. "You're better than this. Don't let them bring you down to their level."

“Who says I was going down to their level? When that level I go to is clearly lower?” you growled like a feral creature, clawing at Simon’s arms as he held you firmly in his grasp. His eyes, a mix of concern and irritation, searched yours for any hint of sanity left in the rage-filled maelstrom.

“We need him alive for intel," Simon reminded you, his tone still unyielding. You knew he was right, but the desire to rip the man’s throat out was a hunger that demanded satiation.

“Tell him that. The fucker stabbed me not you.” You jerked your chin towards the man cowering on the floor, trying to push Simon away, but his grip was like steel bars.

You knew he was right, but the adrenaline and anger pumping through your veins made it hard to think rationally.

You felt the warmth of the blood trickling down from your nose, mixing with the saliva on your teeth. It tasted metallic, a flavor you had become unfortunately accustomed to.

“Calm down,” Simon whispered in your ear, his grip on your arms tightening. “Remember who you are. Remember why we're here. And we'll get the stab wound looked at, I promise.”

“I'm not calming down for his sake.” You reminded him.

“No,” Simon's voice was low and controlled, “You're calming down for ours. We need you focused.”

You let out a breath, trying to regulate your breathing, which Simon knew was a sign that you were listening to him. You nodded slightly, allowing him to loosen his grip.

The room fell silent, except for the distant sound of gunfire outside the abandoned warehouse. The man on the floor was trembling, his eyes darting between you and the knife clutched in his hand.

Soap walked in moments after the whole debacle, his eyes scanning the scene before his gaze settled on the trembling man. “Well, well, look what we have here. A little stabbing party and I missed the invite,” he quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. He knelt down, pulling the knife from the man’s shaking hand with ease. “Looks like you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

You were about to leave the rest to Simon and Soap when Soap dragged you out instead, muttering things about not letting the bloodlust get to you. “I could have walked outside you know?” you muttered to him.

“You're a liability like this,” he shot back.

“Like what? Stabbed?” you countered.

Soap's smirk grew wider, “Exactly. Now, let’s get that wound patched up before you go full on Wolverine on us.”

“The animal or the mutant?” you snorted. “My life would be easier if it was the mutant. He heals instantly. Don't roll your eyes at me. I read so many X-Men comics growing up.”

Soap chuckled despite the gravity of the situation, his Scottish accent thick with sarcasm. “Ah, so you’re telling me you wish for the gift of healing rather than the rage of the beast?” He led you to a makeshift medical station set up in the corner of the warehouse, the harsh lighting revealing the stark contrast of the crimson blood against your pale skin.

“I mean that would just come with the healing right? With how Wolverine is, I wouldn’t mind the rage as much. The claws would be a bonus.” you quipped.

Soap shook his head, his amusement clear despite the seriousness of the situation. He took a deep breath, his eyes focused on the wound, “Well, we’ve got bandages, not adamantium, but it’ll have to do for now.”

Simon glared at the comment made from a bystander calling you cute when you are clearly not. You had wanted to be called it when you weren’t bloodied with another person’s blood on your uniform and your knuckles.

Once you were isolated, Price looked at you from the sidelines, his expression unreadable. As you let your aggression out on a punching bag. The smacking of gloves against leather in the background as they continued to speak about the fight between you and a guy who happened to be taunting Simon.

It grated on you enough to lash out. Ending in bloodshed. Despite these fights being rare, they are bloody enough for people to remember them. You felt the weight of Price’s gaze, his silent disapproval heavy in the air. He couldn't be upset with you entirely as you don't escalate them as much as people would love to believe.

“You okay?” he finally spoke, his tone flat.

“If you're angry with me just say so.” you told Price.

Price took a drag of his cigar, his eyes never leaving yours, “I'm not angry with you.” He said, “I'm just concerned. This isn't the first time you've lost it like that.”

“And it's not the first time they escalated it either. But you don't see that part because by the time you're here. They're on the ground and I'm already stabbed.” you reminded him. “Lecture them before you lecture me.”

Price's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a serious whisper, “Look, I know you've been through a lot, but we need you sharp. We can't afford any more… incidents like this. Do you understand?”

“How about you tell them to keep their hands to themself?” you countered.

Price sighed, his gaze flickering to the side, “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is. Its called keep your hands to yourself. Don't touch someone without their consent.” you reminded him.

Price knew you had a point, but the situation was more complicated than that. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. “I’ll handle it. But you need to control your temper. We're in a war zone, not a playground. If we don’t keep our heads on straight, we're all going to end up dead. Or worse, captured.”

Like the god Hades, you will never been seen as anything other than a monster of your own creation. Maintaining a balance most will never see. Passive. Altruistic. A creature made by whims and wants of others. A creature made and remade repeatedly.

A story retold to fit the whims and wants of those they want to appeal to. Hades went from passive to a main villain because of the lack of media literacy to think clearly. Whittling down his wife to a lost lamb in distress. When she is in fact his queen with strengths of her own.

A falsehood created by those who would rather see their version of a tale prevail than to see a man be gentle with his wife. Better to dehumanise the king of the underworld than to think otherwise.

They don’t seem to understand. Evil has no shading. Darkness does not equate to evil, and living in the shade of blissful ignorance will not save you.

Just as fire causes destruction. It also has a hand in creating life.

Neither side is good. Neither is side is bad. Both sides would have been considered good and great given the angle someone would take. Both sides can be considered a great evil. No matter what happens from this point forward. You will always be referred to as the name you are given. No matter how tainted you feel about yourself.

They will still refer to you by this name. Now, today and tomorrow.

As Elysium and Tartarus are both heaven and hell. It is both. It will always be both.

Choosing to believe one version of a tale over the other reeks of bias.

Much like Hades. You don’t have to go to them. People will come to their own end when they come to you. A fruitless endeavour to ever hope they could live to see tomorrow if they were your target. They are good as dead.

You are the least evil amongst them. It also didn’t mean you are harmless like a pup as much some might think.

“They will all come to me eventually. Regardless of how they feel on the matter.” You muttered. Mostly to yourself than to Simon.

Simon decided to interject, his deep British accent breaking through your deep meditated rhythm. The punches against the bag hard enough to shake through a concrete wall. Strong enough to go through a wall made of wood. You wore specialised earphones to block out background noise.

Now all there is left of you there are memories. It’s been a month since your kidnapping, entering into a second month now. They turned to your private thoughts of your journal in the hope they would find you sometime soon. Hoping König would not kill you out of boredom of you.

People fear death and fawn over theatrics.

People hate you because you represent the end of life.

Death. Grim Reaper.

Retellings will tell them you took them. Kidnapped them.

Even though your intentions were revealed to them and them alone.

Behind closed doors.

Twisting your words against your memory.

Even when your intentions were not what they will assume.

They mix up benevolent with kindness. You will show them, won’t you Mäuschen?

You will show them what it means to evoke the name of death upon their lips, right Maus?

The walls of your old bedroom, no longer the same as they once were. Not like you cared now. It was a moment of another time. Inside a lifetime, you thought you had all to yourself. Fleeting, as they were, finite. You were glad they were gone. As you were about to something so heinous. Even your mother would have disowned you.

No. She isn’t here anymore. She can not save you. No one outside this room can save you apart from yourself.

Rely on your instincts.

“What’s the matter, lamb? Are you scared?” You cooed into his ear. A plan forming in the back of your mind. If this was the game, he set up. He should be prepared for you to win it.

Fair is fair after all.

What is his will become yours.

What is yours will never be his again.

[zm-deragis]

I need an original series phaser for my Halloween costume. I did not already own an original series phaser. The solution:

Make one out of Cardboard and Popsicle sticks! It's not perfect, but it will suit my purposes nicely.

Build pics/details under the cut!

As you can see, the handle's main structure is popsicle sticks. There's a bunch of those hot glued willy-nilly inside the prop to make it sturdier. I used both glazing spot putty and wood filler to smooth out the surface, but frankly I recommend skipping the spot putty. Super nasty to work with, and actually really delicate, so not really worth it. Wood filler is cheaper and less likely to give you lung cancer. Wear a dust mask or respirator when working with either, regardless. The rounded edges of Phaser I are actually foam clay, which I figured would be easier to use than to shape and fold cardboard into a compound curve. The radiator fins in the back of the prop are made of acrylic from a cheap picture frame.

This took me about a week to do, but that's partially because I lose focus easily.

[lightning-and-sparks]

Hey! Are you writing a prequel fic and don’t know much about spray paint?? I got you💅

Sparks Guide to Spray Paint

Spray paint is definitely a strange medium that depending on who you are you may not ever get to interact with much. Graffiti culture as a whole is super cool and something that’d add more depth to your fics.

Something I found that isn’t as common knowledge as I thought is that people don’t know spray paint is toxic. It’s loaded with cancer-causing chemicals that you can’t inhale too much of. Many muralists I know use what is called a respirator

Respirators are probably the best layer of defense when dealing with spray paint but probably not something a runaway teenager would have. Which goes into what I have used/use. While it’s not as good as a respirator I have used a dust mask. They suck in the heat but are great at keeping stuff out of your airways and the next step of defense I’d recommend. They’re easy to find and more importantly, easy to carry.

I’ve used them for construction stuff and that metal band is going to keep them put and even leave a mark when you're done. They’re disposable and usually because they’re always near me I’ll replace them more frequently because they gross me out.

Options that aren’t as good but better than nothing are your typical bandana or shirt pulled over your nose and mouth combo. Easily the most aesthetic which would make a better look but not as safe. (I have done these but irl I’d try and get something that would protect you especially if it's something you do frequently.

Super great pro tip, don’t be stupid like me and put these in your hair after I don’t even know why I did that. Spray paint dries quick but somehow I managed to do that and get some black in my blonde highlights which sucked.

Okay! On to the paint.

Yes, they are runaways who probably don’t live in luxury but spray paint is pretty expensive, and rightfully so. There are cheap alternatives and even half cans which are super cute and tiny but totally inconvenient for tagging but can be used for tiny details.

Spray cans are heavy when they’re full so I like to keep my colors to a minimum. Usually, I have to walk far and into wooded areas so that’s my primary reason. Also, not as much paint as you think is there.

One way to get around costs and just get tags up are black tags. They take significantly less paint because you only really need the one coat. Depending on where you are they kind of blend in IMO. (I've used the can on the right and it worked pretty good.)

Had to pull out one of my own pictures because there aren’t many good ones on Google. There is a lot you can do with black and white. I’m a girly teen girl so I’d rather spring for a nice red, blue, or purple to go with it.

I think I could compare spray paint to nail polish. It has a similar rattle and needs to be shaken. There is a metal ball in each can. While you can control how you spray it, there still is a wild element especially if you don’t have different/angled tips but those aren’t necessary. Some people prefer to buy their own tips since the ones on the can usually suck. (especially cheap paint)

I know that gun-shaped handle is not aesthetic but believe me, holding a can and pushing down on it hurts like hell. People usually use those to spray paint like furniture but I just thought they were worth mentioning.

You can't really spray paint in the rain or it looks like shit. It does dry fast but it's better to have that window of a dry period.

The purpose of Graffiti is usually political. It's a way to get a message across and protest something. It has morphed into more of an artistic outlet but the roots stem from expression. I've never really made something that was in protest to something specific but I feel the whole point of what I do is to combat the boring and lifeless urban look. (I live in a city)

Tagging is the proper term for marking an area. A tag is usually between 3-5 letters and has creative liberties throughout. I used to use a three-lettered tag but I knew some people who knew it so I recently switched to a four-lettered one. I've seen longer and I've seen shorter. There aren't set rules for tagging and in some way, it is a free-for-all.

There are unspoken rules of tagging. realistically, it is bad sportsmanship to cover over tags but it happens. I know of people whose friend died and his tag got covered and they were devastated so I personally try to avoid that.

Contrary to popular belief, graffiti isn't illegal everywhere. There are areas where authority will "overlook" such as abandoned areas. Frequent hunts for me are usually underpasses (illegal) abandoned buildings (50/50 shot) and a semi-abandoned skate park (Legal; Sk8ter boi map cooked with that one)

Sometimes you can even get commissioned to do a piece. I've met a person or two who have.

Tagging for the most part isn't meant to be explicit or hagness. It is more so art. I like to take creative liberties with it like making "S" or "Z" into birds or other objects because, at the end of the day, it is about expression.

Quick tagging, or as I've deemed it. Is kind of premade tags on stickers where you just kind of leave them where you go and are common in high-traffic spots where you can't pull out the cans. (Whoever started the "Hello My Name Is" stickers, I love you)

The Lookout.

Graffiti is unfortunately a two-man/woman job. If you are somewhere you aren't supposed to be you need a lookout. Mine have changed over the years and I used to work with other artists and we'd swap. Not everyone will jump at the chance to do something kinda illegal.

Just for shits and giggles, I'm pretty sure the duo in Wasabi Extreme are supposed to mimic an artist and lookout/spotter whatever. I think that was a cute detail.

Style.

There are so many different types of graffiti styles that I could never talk about to the proper extent. I think the biggest takeaway is that no two people really tag the same. They may look the same but it's different. The style of tag can also reveal their skill type.

Where I am, graffiti is like a community almost. You meet people or recognize them by their artwork. your name and tag are one on the same and I've been called by my tag. It may seem punk or whatever but really it's just a bunch of artist that make their own gallery.

I've recently gotten back into it with a new name and look. It is really fun, very risky, but feels right. I'm not saying to go out and vandalize stuff but, ya know. Make something once in a while

I hope this is useful to anyone for fics or other stuff. I'd recommend like looking more into it if you're interested because this is definitely not a full guide.

[solargeist]

thinking about etho & ur last post. maybe redstone is similar to clay and ceramics where if you breathe too much of it in it settles in your lungs and starts causing Problems. so etho has to wear a mask / respirator because he’s been using redstone for so long that it’s started to cause some lung issues or smth

- ramblings of a ceramics student

Thats also true ! I used to wear a mask to deal with clay and this didn't cross my mind phphphph it really gets everywhere.

Etho is forever sneezing and coughing red dust

[redd956]

North [1] (Whump Writing)

I WROTE SOMETHING

Content: Cold Whump, Intimidating Caretaker, Restraints, Captivity, Unnamed Characters, A Pinch of Touch Starvation, Dangerous Weight Loss

"Um... H-Hi." Whumpee squeaked underneath the shadow of their Caretaker.

They heard that their friend's acquaintance was intimidating, but they still did not expect the heavy breathing soldier twice the size of them. The figure's breath left through a respirator in form of thick mist, and an axe was clutched tightly in their hand. They did look very warm though in all that snow protective gear compared to the backdrop of nothing but snow for miles through a hole in the wall.

Wow, whumper really dragged them out into the middle of nowhere huh?

There was no sign of Caretaker's human-ness. All their skin was covered up, and a fluffy winter hat paired with the strange respirator masked their entire head. They simply stood there. They simply said nothing.

Wind fled into the room from the hole in the wall to their cell that Caretaker made. Whumper was going to be real annoyed when they see that. Really annoyed.

Whumpee's skin gained a new reddish hue at the cold's sting. They enclosed their arms around themselves, pressing their rags of clothes to their scrawny form, despite knowing they could bring no heat to their own body. As they did so the chains against them clinked.

Chains... It didn't matter where Caretaker was going to take them, as long as it didn't inquire chains. Their neck felt weak holding the heavy metal brace that once dug into their skin, and now hung loosely.

A mechanical sigh hissed through the respirator as Caretaker lowered to Whumpee's level. Whumpee straightened up their posture as best as possible, and held their head for the embrace of touch, but they still shuddered when thick gloves met the underside of their head.

Caretaker softly prodded their fingers around the area, gently adjusting the direction of their face. The axe even made a quiet clatter when they sat it down. Whumpee failed to resist wincing at the feeling of Caretaker's fingertips brushing against the skin of their neck. The metal brace scraped to the side in careful sporadic intrevals.

Although unable to see Caretaker's eyes, the warmth of a stare buzzed along their collarbone.

With another strange sigh Caretaker rose to their feet, shaking their head, and gripped the axe.

Of course. Whumpee wasn't enough. They were never enough. Why would Caretaker want to take in another mouth to feed? Such a damaged one too? How could they let themselves get their hopes up on the words of a somewhat friend, if Whumpee could even call them that...

At least there wouldn't be chains on the other side. Hopefully.

The chain let out an exasperated urk. Whumpee tried to curl in. Too far from the wall, they could only manage a sort of slouch. Hugging their arms against each other they did nothing but shiver in the coolness of Caretaker's shadow.

They couldn't even look their final killer in the eyes, watching the form of darkness move across the floor. The shadow's arms departed from itself raising an axe high, before-

SNAP!

Bits of shattered chain scattered across the ground. A pinch of sparks followed after them as axe connected to stone flooring. Shaking, Whumpee strained a turn behind them. A severed set of chain links let out a dying breath when a small gust pressed the dust off of them.

Caretaker pulled onto the shortened half connected to Whumpee's neck, debating their satisfaction in its length.

All the wind left Whumpee's lungs as they felt two heavy pats across their back shoulders. Caretaker methodically sifted through the rucksack they brought, dragging out a coat several sizes larger than Whumpee. They kept giving Whumpee a look every time they rubbed at their eyes.

"Thank- Thank yo-you." Whumpee mustered as Caretaker became finally satiated in the amount of bundling up they wrapped their rescue into. Those words were muffled under a thin scarf.

Whumpee tried to show their new acquaintance that they could dress themselves. That went as miserably as it could, the two shiny red scrapes across one shin stood as a token to that. Now Caretaker didn't even let Whumpee try to slip their own respirator on.

Mechanical hissing. Not a chance for another word. Whumpee felt Caretaker's hands slide underneath them, and the iciness of stone was gone... as they were lifted into a bridal carry. Caretaker's gear was so warm, impossibly so.

Caretaker made sure to draw the heavy chains onto Whumpee's chest as to not pull against their neck. They tried to use the same buzzy warmth of a stare to get Caretaker's attention. They wanted to thank this friend of a friend with every ounce of their existence, ignoring their own automatic movements more attune to melting.

Melting into Caretaker's chest, they nuzzled their face against the hot fabric. Their eyes refused to stay open, the eyelids wanted to feel it too.

Caretaker felt frail hands do their strongest at gripping against their chest. A sigh of relief exhaled through the respirators.