#that which is sustains or is necessary for life

[diremoone]

it’s just a scratch! (it isn’t) | sylus.

a/n:: apparently receiving a head injury leaves plot bunnies behind too lol [ sylus fluff ;; tis mildly selfship coded ;; i whipped this drabble up in about an hour haha ]

Sylus watches you pause as you lift the mug to the cabinet. Your brows furrow and proceed to slowly spin the mug around curiously.

“Sylus?” You halfway turn to him to look from your peripheral.

He glances up and replies, “Yes?”

“What am I doing?”

“Unloading your dishwasher, I believe.”

A pause, then a small, “Oh,” escapes your lips. Then you put the mug up and close the dishwasher. He’d finish it for you later.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from the book in his hands.

“About the same… Uhm…” You space out, staring at the TV for a good ten seconds before coming back to reality. “Maybe more dumb than usual.”

Sylus chuckles. “You’re not dumb. You just sustained a head injury.”

“Which has made me feel dumber,” you point out.

“Which is why I’m here,” he adds.

“To tell me I’m dumb?”

He scoffs in disbelief and closes his book as he remarks, “To make sure you don’t smack your head into anything else while you’re recovering and on leave, sweetheart.”

You feel the fluster creep to your shoulders and your cheeks at the nickname, ducking your head down bashfully.

Sweetie, when he’s teasing. Sweetheart, when he’s being soft and caring. You often hear more of the latter nowadays.

“It’s just for a few days. My symptoms should clear up come the day I go back for a checkup,” you grumble. “And it wasn’t even that bad. My elbow took the brunt of it.”

“I’m aware of all that. And until then, I’ll be sticking around to make sure you’re okay, kitten.”

But the cute moment ends when you cuss profusely, hands flying to your head in the spot where you’d gotten hit. Sharp pains crawl down from the spot, nearly debilitating and making you hunch over.

You faintly register something hitting the couch, followed by large hands guiding you by your shoulder and waist to sit down.

Sylus doesn’t like the way your body rocks in his hold, head bobbing up and down while your eyes are screwed shut from the pain, hissing when it flares. He takes his hand and gently cradles the back of your head, pulling you to his shoulder to find rest. If you had been standing, he’s sure he would’ve had to catch you before you hit the ground.

Thirty seconds in total pass before the pain in your head finally dies down. You still feel a tingle, but don’t mention it.

You inhale, then speak softly, “It passed.”

It takes a few seconds for Sylus to reply. “That was the worst one yet.”

“That you’ve seen,” you try and joke. But the grumble of dissatisfaction tells you he’s anything but amused. In fact, you might’ve just put him in a worse mood.

“I guess that means I’ll be staying over for quite some time, even after your next doctor’s visit.”

You lift your head from his shoulder and stare pointedly. “Sylus, no.”

“What? You don’t like my company?”

“It’s just not necessary for you to stay and watch me. I’m a big girl,” you argue.

“A big girl with a head injury,” he “corrects” you with a grin. “And don’t worry about your little friends. I’ll disappear for awhile when they decide to come over.”

You sigh in defeat. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“Then stop arguing, kitten.” And then Sylus’s voice drops an octave, expression changing from cheeky to concerned. “Let me take care of you. Your head meeting that table after that giant Wanderer tossed you wasn’t pretty to watch, you know.”

This time, you finally hear him, and he sees it.

You know where this is coming from. You know this comes from whatever past you two had together that you can’t remember (but apparently Sylus does) for the life of you. His concern for you is always genuine, you know this. Underneath every layer of teasing and cheekiness, you know Sylus means it when he says he wants to take care of you. And you can only imagine what you must’ve looked like getting tossed like a ragdoll by that Wanderer you’d fought.

You sure as hell know what your head feels like.

“Alright, you win.” You shift yourself onto his lap, getting cozy and laying your head back on his shoulder and closing your eyes. “Just make sure to jet when my friends come over. The last thing I need is a tremendous headache about how the leader of Onychinus is in my living room tending to me.”

He chuckles, then presses a long, sweet kiss to the top of your head. “Deal.”

[c10udy-d4yz]

The three Gods that sustain the Earth, DAABU, SAAN, AND GOODON (in reference to this post again)

Long post under the cut:

In this context, "sustain" means to "keep alive," and the three Gods represent the three main components needed for ecosystems to thrive.

DAABU is the God of Purpose. He can take things that are rotten and dead, break them down into their most basic elements, and then scatter them back unto the Earth so that they can find purpose in new places. He's lived most of his life underground, and thus has gone blind- there's no need for sight when you're always in the dark. However, he's very good at using echolocation and sensing vibrations in the ground, which is how he gets around. He loves doing what he does because he knows it keeps the Earth energized, and for that, he's always joyful.

SAAN is the God of Growth. He is the Father of all land plants, and with the blooming flower atop his head, he can grow any plant he desires just by releasing spores. He likes to take walks in any place that's full of greenery, so that he may gaze upon his kingdom. He's also fond of pokémon, even though some of them eat plants, because he knows such behavior is necessary to keep the Earth in balance. When he grows weary, he roots himself into the ground and enters a dormant state that can last years, maybe even decades, during which he appears to just be a regular plant.

GOODON is the God, or Gods, of both Bounty and Partnership. They were named as such because of their resemblance to the Father, GROUDON, but their chosen names are GOTEN and HEION. GOTEN, the left head, is a true meat eater, while HEION, the right head, is a true plant eater, but the body needs both to survive, thus they represent Herbivores, Carnivores, and Omnivores all at once. They are the Gods of Bounty because they need to eat a lot of food in order to sustain their physique, and by God do they eat, but they are also the Gods of Partnership because they need to cooperate and strategize with each other in order find food to eat in the first place.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

FUCK would vaggie's Spear! kid have dreams of all the battles she took them into? would the baby cry and cry and when chaggie finally figures out how to, like, use a magic thing to figure out what's wrong- it just projects these shadows of carnage- and vaggie RECOGNIZES all of it- and, she was holding the baby but hands them off to charlie before leaving the room... and the moment charlie's the one holding the kid and singing to them, the crying stops.

vaggie. just on the other side of the door, hearing this. sliding down to sit on the floor and Not Cry over how she brought a life into the world by taking other's lives, and this isn't even just her own thing to bear- just being HELD by her is enough to make the baby remember all the times when she was using them as a weapon..

charlie, alone in the room now, holding their kid a little tighter and singing with a little tremor in her lullaby, scared vaggie maybe ISN'T right on the other side of the door listening to them... or that she won't be for much longer

oh i hate this au now. bad. cursed

[heartburiedingreece]

THIS PHOTO OF ELIO MAKES MY FUCKING INSANE FUCKING LOOK AT HIM WITH THOSE FUCKING PUPPYEYES AND WITH THE SHIRT AND HIS HAIR AND HIS FUCKING CHEST AND OH MY GOOOOOODDDDDDD😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩

[ntls-24722]

What I think is extremely funny is that this transformation went mostly unnoticed up until the very end because a lot of the changes were very... Fritz. He was literally already enough of a freak of nature that when he DID become one, no-one noticed until they pulled up old photos of him.

Like - "You're telling me he's roaming the woods in the middle of the night, eating carrion and rotting meat, and you watched him crush bone between his teeth? Yeaaah, that's Fritz, he's a freak."

But anyways,

When Comet died, he was left without a source of protection. He's already grieving the loss of her, but now there is the problem that he actually is vulnerable and in danger without a giant spider to keep him company - they spent their whole lives dismantling an extremely powerful company that creates murder machines both un-and-in-tentionally. Fritz and Comet had an entire species and incredibly powerful billionares as opps for over 15 years, and Comet, the 80-ton murder spider on his side, is now dead. He is scared and sad, and one of the things he is scared to do is sleep.

The way Comet was at his side as they slept had an almost hypnotic effect (because of how big Comet's heart was, her heartbeat was constantly audible and as they slept, Fritz's own heartbeat matched up with what was a very slow one) that made the both of them feel incredibly safe and without her he's both scared for his life and without that easy crutch for calming down. Comet was placed in the starfall (I have NO damn clue as to how) and once while visiting her, he spends too long and sleeps beside her.

It is the first time he sleeps well in weeks.

Chasing that, he keeps visiting and sleeping by her side or inside her as the soft tissue begins to disappear, and because of the prolonged exposure, he begins to adapt as a member of the starfall ecosystem. His stomach becomes stronger and the smell/taste of rotting meat, something he used to hate, begins to be more palatable, and he's sensitive to even just the sound that her body produces with the wind, which is rather similar to organ pipes.

If it wasn't hard enough to cope with the loss of the love of your life, it's even harder when the love of your life is slowly becoming your ideal environment from her grave! The worst part is is that he struggles to stop visiting her because he likes the change. Because of this, he's 90 with the dexterity and general energy that he had 50 years ago, and the fact he's changing at all makes him feel like Comet is still with him. The fact that despite her death, she's still affecting him and changing him in the way he can see her effects on him, he can feel her effects on him, with his fingertips and in his head. He doesn't see them as effects or biproducts or circumstance radiating from her,

He sees the changes like it's her right there.

[pl4n]

from a while back

[headspace-hotel]

because I'm thinking about sustainability, I'm trying to understand why USAmerican houses are so large

I don't just mean McMansions, I also mean why regular houses and especially newer houses are so huge in proportion to the amount of living space they seem to provide. When I look at the square footage of the house it seems like a lot, but when I look inside at what it has to offer, it seems impossible to get rid of any of the individual things inside without impacting quality of life for the residents, and this is puzzling, since I know there are significantly smaller houses that are perfectly fine to live in.

So I have been looking at floor plans for various houses of various sizes and it seems a major problem is that the design of houses is just terrible.

I hate it so much. At first it doesn't look like there's anything wrong with it. But examine how efficiently the space is being used. From this perspective, it's a cursed and evil garbage fire.

So much space is taken up by doors to things that don't need doors. Why do you have a walk-in pantry with a door on it? Why do you have a laundry room 4 times the size of the washer and dryer with a door on it? A simple curtain would look nicer and doesn't need 10sqft extra to allow the door to swing open.

An additional large amount of space is taken up by awkward hallways that wouldn't need to exist if the arrangement of the rooms had been thought out better. There is a short little hallway to reach the garage because the pantry and half-bathroom are in the way, which branches off from a hallway that exists to reach...the laundry room, which is made 2x as big as necessary so the hallway can connect to it where it is wedged in the depths of the house.

The master bathroom has a tub AND a shower AND two sinks which makes it weird to have a half-bathroom right next to the master bedroom. It's hoarding all the bathroom amenities?? There's also a pretty big room that isn't labeled that is only accessible from the master bathroom. Walk-in closet? Sex dungeon?

(Why do walk-in closets exist? It's just an extra room with shelves in it. You can put shelves in a regular room.)

The other two bedrooms are really small and have another weird hallway to reach them, which could have been part of the bedrooms themselves. The closet labeled "linen" opens directly into the hallway and is on the other side of the house from the laundry room.

My dad remodeled houses for a living when I was a kid and this thing looks like it would be pure evil to run plumbing through...

[determinate-negation]

“Prior to October 7th, between 170-200,000 Palestinians worked in Israel (roughly 75% with work permits—with around 90% of these permits going to Palestinians living in the occupied West Bank). After October 7th, nearly all Palestinian workers were fired, their work permits revoked, and their range of movement, already limited, restricted even further. The economic damage has been immense particularly in construction and agriculture, where the majority of Palestinians had been employed (it is an aspect of Zionist cruelty that Palestinians—a highly educated people—should be confined to low-wage manual labor employment in two of the primary economic sectors which have been used to advance their dispossession). To provide the starkest example: the construction industry, which accounts for 6-7% of Israeli GDP was, as of December 2023, operating at only 30% of its pre-October capacity, and fully half of all building projects were on hold.

Although business interests were able to pressure the government to allow a paltry 8–10,000 Palestinians back to work in December, the short- and long-term solutions to the problem of Israeli dependence on Palestinian labor (and, indeed, for the Zionist it has always been a problem) appears to be the increasing importation of foreign workers from Asia and Eastern Europe, particularly Thailand and India. It should be noted that Israel has used debt—the result of exorbitant “placement fees” charged by recruiters in workers’ home countries—to trap many foreign workers in hyper-exploitative working conditions enforced by geographic isolation. This is the paradigmatic form of modern slavery. Even if cheap imported labor were to get the construction industry back on track, the war has also resulted in the downgrading of Israel’s credit rating, a sharp decline in imports and exports, the almost complete pause of its tourism industry, a snowballing cancelation of arms deals the world over and, in the case of Turkey, trade relations as well, yielding an almost 20% contraction of its annualized GDP.

With these numbers, it could be said that Israel’s present genocide against the Palestinians harms both its short-term and long-term economic interests, sacrificed for the drive to extermination. But the enforced economic obsolescence of the Palestinians must be understood as integral to the drive for their extermination. Employing the brute force of siege, Israel has succeeded in cutting many Palestinians off from much of the global economy—now, entirely in the case of Gaza, and increasingly so in the case of the West Bank. Even those who are able to run businesses with international clientele face delays or de facto bans from cash-transfer sites like PayPal, and imports, exports, and access to certain goods are all controlled and restricted by Israel. These restrictions limit access to raw materials, affecting the types of industry Palestine is capable of sustaining, and limiting prospects for economic development.

Palestinians' limited access to the global economy in turn nurtures a dependency on Israeli goods and employment. But this dependency cuts both ways—Israel has grown dependent on Palestinian labor, which renders Palestinians necessary to the functioning of the Israeli economy and also creates barriers against their total social exclusion (not only in the sense that this labor requires social interaction with the Israeli populace). As Bataille writes in The Psychological Structure of Fascism, “money serves to measure all work and makes man a function of measurable products. According to the judgment of homogenous society, each man is worth what he produces.” In capitalist society, productivity becomes the prerequisite to admittance to social life. To totalize race-based social exclusion, then, the target population must be rendered economically obsolete. “As early as 1895,” Fayez Sayegh notes, “Herzl was busy devising a plan to ‘spirit the penniless population across the frontier by denying it employment.’”

Nazi Germany understood this as well: the 1938 “Regulation for the Elimination of the Jews from the Economic Life of Germany” completed the work begun three years prior by the Nuremberg Laws, which stripped Jews and other groups of their citizenship and enshrined racial classification and separation into law. “The Jewish middleman,” Adorno and Horkheimer write, “fully becomes the image of the devil only when economically he has ceased to exist.” In apartheid society, in which the target population is seen as subhuman, or at least undeserving of rights or consideration, the wage remains one of the last means of verifying their humanity: beasts may be productive, but they do not earn a wage. The attempted elimination of Palestinian labor from the Israeli economy marks one of the final steps on the way to their full dehumanization in the Zionists’ eyes, one that prepared the way for the present mass extermination.

Zionism is not, then, a race-based system of economic exploitation at its core, though it does benefit from such exploitation: it is, first and foremost, a program of land acquisition. We can see the dual attack on Palestinian economic self-determination and land ownership in Israel’s routine destruction of Palestinian olive groves. Settlers, often armed or otherwise protected by armed agents of the state, uproot, burn, or cut down olive trees, with increasing frequency since 2019. The aim is to drive Palestinians from their land by destroying the subsistence produced by the land itself and nurtured over centuries by Palestinian farmers, in an effort to “Judaize” the area. As Palestinians flee from unchecked violence, forced from their land at the barrel of a gun, Jewish settlements appear in their wake, strictly illegal but in practice facilitated by the state until they are eventually recognized and assimilated into the legally regulated regime of property. (The whole cycle of legalizing illegal settlements, in any event, is something of a formality as their existence and proliferation is the entire raison d’être of the Zionist project.) When Palestinians refuse to leave and cannot be forced, they are murdered.”

Jake Romm, Elements of Anti-Semitism: The Limits of Zionism in Parapraxis Mag

[theyjustadmitthathuh]

If you’re wondering or looking for an excuse to try this out, I will be the first to vouch that radical feminism and living by those beliefs has increased my happiness 10 fold since I started. It was only a couple years ago that I was once again supporting Some Dude and trying to maintain friendships in which I came painfully second.

Within a year of cutting the leaches from my life, not creating any new male relationships, sustaining only those male relationships which were required (such as for work or a friend’s husband), and generally putting women first in every aspect of my life and giving their (and by virtue of theirs, my own) voice more weight than any man’s voice, I achieved more stability and genuine connection than I have ever had in my life.

By living as a model of what I believe, I have led other women to cut men from their lives beyond the truly necessary, and even though none of those women are radical feminists, they have all told me in detail about the remarkable change in their lives and how much happier they are now. Many of them have told me how excited they are to never date again now that they know what life could be like.

I went from the lowest point of my life, to supporting and housing other women as they move towards a better future. It blows my mind everyday.

You dont have to live in a woman only utopia to make pockets of paradise. You just have to put women first.

[sayruq]

Dear friends and kind strangers,I urgently need your support to help me raise funds to evacuate my family out of Gaza. This is the only way to help them survive. It breaks my heart that it has come to this, but this fundraiser is my last window of hope to secure the necessary funds to evacuate them. My father and my two brothers urgently require medical attention, and time is of the essence. I am Eman Abu Hayya. I have survived four Israeli assaults on Gaza before leaving to pursue my studies in Philosophy in Doha, Qatar, back in 2017. While I reside in Qatar, my entire family remains in the Gaza Strip, trapped amidst the cruel and harrowing reality of ongoing genocide. My aim is to facilitate the evacuation of my loved ones from Gaza to ensure they receive the critical medical care they urgently need and to shield them from the constant threat of Israeli bombings and the dire scarcity of clean water, food, and healthcare. My family consists of 11 members: my mother Najat (49), my father Akram (60), three brothers Ahmed, Yahya and Zakaria (30, 27, and 22), one sister Shaima (24), two sisters-in-law Wafa and Hana (25 and 24), and three young nieces and nephews Najat, Hayat and Gaith (aged 1, 2, and 5). They deserve the chance to live full lives, and I cannot bear the thought of losing any of them. My two little nieces’ names mean Life and Survival (Hayat and Najat), respectively. Let’s help make these two names a living reality through your kind donations.

Please help Eman. Donations have slowed down but my family's situation remains dire. Her family's house was destroyed. One of her brothers sustained a serious injury during the bombing which requires surgery while another has a serious medical conditions requiring immediate medical intervention. On top of all of that her father has diabetes. Not to mention the two children above.

Please please donate. Share if you can't

[zipper-neck]

Trans Rules of Engagement

By Florence Ashley

Strong communities make us all safer. As anti-trans movements gain in power and influence, holding space for each other through our flaws remains critical. Yet the very conditions that create our need for community care make it hard for us to care for each other. We are raw, wounded, traumatized, and hypervigilant. We make mistakes brought on by fear and hurt. We lash out at each other when we do wrong, often partaking in pile-ons facilitated by the synchronous nature of online interactions. Whether we realize it or not, we often exclude trans people from community when they need it most.

I have lost count of the number of trans people I have seen cast out of online trans spaces for misdeeds both major and minor—far too often with my help. I sometimes find myself wondering where they are now and whether they are still alive. Because, as Kai Cheng Thom has taught us, social death often means real death for trans people. Trans communities are life-sustaining in a world that hates us so, so much. In a world that wants us dead. We have lost too many people not to stop and think about how we can foster life among each other.

This goal I have for myself—that of fostering life—motivates the following principles and rules for engaging in online intra-community conflicts while preserving the life-sustaining spirit of our communities. Countless times have I failed to heed these principles and ignored these rules. This failure, which many of us share, is precisely why I now want to lay these principles and rules down on paper. If only as a reminder of my aspirations. The principles and rules are meant to be adopted for oneself, not imposed onto others. Their purpose is to foster productive engagement, not create even more conflict and rigidity. I hope that this will be a living document, and invite you to make your own version if you would like. Borrow what is useful, supplement with what is needed, alter what can be improved.

Some, and perhaps all, of the principles I acknowledge are false, hence the need for a living document. Each of my suggested rules have exceptions. In setting them out, I am staking a claim as to the sort of myths and half-truths that are necessary to sustain life in a world that wants us dead. We must treat them as true if we wish to foster life-sustaining communities and survive the hellscape we belabor.

Principles

1. We are all flawed, traumatized humans at the end of their rope. Many of our actions say more about the conditions we live under than who we are as people.

2. No one is disposable. No one is unsalvageable.

3. Life holds greater value than being right or comfortable. Hurt is preferable to death.

4. No one should be deprived of community.

5. Harm does not require further harm. Punishment does not equate protection or healing.

Rules

1. Do not depart from these rules, unless you have to.

2. Morgan M. Page’s Rule: Try to avoid criticizing other trans people in public. The world does it enough already.

3. Favor in person or private conversations: Addressing someone’s comments or actions in person or privately is typically more constructive and effective. It allows you to communicate more cogently and with more nuance problems in someone’s actions or words and because it is less likely to make them react defensively from a place of trauma or fear.

4. Take your time: Few things require an immediate response. Responding while caught in a surge of thoughts and feelings is often unproductive. Ask yourself how much harm was done, versus how much we are reminded of an earlier harm. Ask whether your response is rooted in misperception or potential biases towards the person due to race, disability, gender, or other marginalized identities. Consider whether their words or actions reflect a different kind of thinking or communication style, a lack of access to education, or limited access to progressive communities and norms. You can respond tomorrow, once you have collected your thoughts, talked to others, and gained perspective.

5. Don’t mob: Be aware of group dynamics. Ask yourself if you are connected to this person and in community with them. Avoid jumping into the fray when others are already criticizing the person. Do not invite others to join in and mob them. Withdraw if others join in, and kindly ask people to stay conscious of mobbing dynamics. Mobbing rapidly grows out of proportion.

6. De-escalate: Focus on de-escalating conflicts. Ask what people mean or want, and why. Ask them for clarification or elaboration if needed. Ask yourself if you know enough about the context of the situation. Distinguish the action from the person, and acknowledge that it is normal to respond defensively or aggressively to public criticism and mobbing. People are traumatized, mentally ill, and are scared of losing the little social support they have. As a result, conflict can trigger a fight-or-flight response in both those who are criticized and who criticize, which leads to escalating conflict and ends in a loss of community. Dropping the conversation to return at a later date is preferable to escalation. Often, I find it best to limit myself to three replies in conversations that aren’t constructive.

7. Respond proportionately: Responses to words and behaviours should be proportionate to their harm, and reflect a need for healing and protection rather than punishment. When we speak from a place of hurt, we can understandably but unfortunately forget the measure and impact of our response. Use language that reflects the nuances and gradations of harm rather than a coarse good and evil binary. Cutting all social support and community banishment are rarely a proportionate response, even for someone who doubles down and does not apologize. Responding proportionately is asking first and foremost what response sustains rather than dissolves life. Especially when it comes to words, it is better to under-react than to over-react.

8. Ensure support for everyone: Check in on those who are criticized and those who criticize them. Remind people that we are all in this together, and that banishment is not how we work as a community. Everyone deserves to have their needs met. Do not shun or reproach people who offer support to those who were criticized or called out. Distinguish supporting a person from enabling their behavior.

9. Hold space for people to grow: Allow space for people to be accountable, change, and move on from previous conflicts. Do not hold past behavior over people’s head, nor dig up past misdeeds to fuel present conflicts.

10. Resolve conflict and harm as a community: We must ask how our communities enable and cause hurt and harm, and find ways to transform the conditions that create them. Holding accountable, problem-solving, and conflict resolution are functions that should be taken up by the collective, not isolated and unsupported individuals.

11. Center those most hurt or harmed: Focus on supporting and empowering people who are hurt and harmed rather than on punishment. Ask what they need to be safe and integrated in our communities, while committing to support for everyone; what they need to repair their relationship to the person who hurt or harmed them. Focus your involvement on bringing people together, fostering dialogue and mutual understanding, and restoring a sense of community togetherness, rather than deciding who is right or wrong.♦

[anas-shaban]

Help Anas Family Escape the Harrowing Conditions in Gaza

I reach out to you with a profound plea for urgent assistance in aiding the evacuation of my beloved family from the harrowing conditions in Gaza to the safety and refuge of Egypt. The issue is life or death

The date October 7, 2023, marks a tragic turning point in our lives. Gaza was engulfed in a violent onslaught perpetrated by the Israeli occupation forces, leaving devastation in its wake. Our home, our livelihood we cherished—lay in ruins. My wife, our two children, and I escaped the bombardment and tanks that threatened our very existence. We departed hastily, leaving behind our possessions, our cherished memories, our sense of belonging, and everything we held dear.

My family (Father, Sister, Sister's children, her husband, and my Grandmother) were all killed as a result of this fierce war.

For 200 agonizing days, we sought refuge in Deir Al Balah in the Southern region of the Gaza Strip, only to be displaced once more by the relentless tides of conflict, this time to Rafah. However, we found no assistance in our surroundings. The shelter we found was a mere semblance of a home—lacking basic amenities, overrun by insects, and unfit for human habitation.

Now, seven months after the onset of this war, we find ourselves trapped in dire circumstances, struggling to endure each passing day in this bad environment. It is with a heavy heart that I turn to you, seeking your generous assistance in raising the necessary funds to facilitate our escape from this war-torn zone and secure a haven for my family.

To achieve this, we require a total of €19,059, which equal 222,001.14 SEK (Sweden) broken down as follows:

14,059 €: To cover the expenses of obtaining permits to leave Gaza and the associated crossing fees at Rafah, Egypt-Gaza border. This includes €9,373 for myself and my wife, and €4,686 for our two children.

5000€: To sustain our family's basic needs for two months in Egypt, including accommodation, food, clothes and other essentials.

Your support, whether through financial contributions or by spreading awareness of our plight, would provide us with the lifeline we so desperately need.

Pictures of my destroyed house

Anas is a community activist who works in many local and international institutions and has contributed to the humanitarian field. He worked at the Union of Health Work Committees as a project coordinator and currently works at the Italy organization EducAid, specializing in disability. He always participates in local and international conferences and research papers on the humanitarian situation in the Gaza Strip

Martyrs of my little family

[gay-dorito-dust]

hobie brown (spider-punk!!) is giving me severe brain rot, i love him sm 😭

if you ever decide to write for him, could you do some relationship hcs??

ty ^^

Not sure wether this is what you wanted but I hope it was worth it.

Music from the heart:

One of the most obvious ones is that Hobie would have a plethora of songs about you, it’s fucking adorable and so sweet, and so he would play them for you within the comfort of your room because where else would you rather be serenaded?

If anything it makes the moment more special and memorable for the both of you as something you can look back on with fondness.

Though you probably try teasing him one day by asking how many more songs of you he had in the works and Hobie would either say ‘too many to count.’ Or ‘a whole albums worth.’ He’s not going to hide the fact that he’s got notebook after notebook filled with song lyrics dedicated to you.

Pda though not quite:

Hobie isn’t the type to heavily involve himself in PDA but isn’t against the likes of:

holding hands.

his hand being placed on the small of your back when guiding you somewhere else.

the classic arm over the shoulder.

Thigh holding

His/ your head resting on each others shoulders and or laps.

Guitar pick:

This one came to my head out of the blue but I’m gonna add it here even though I’m not too certain but here it is anyway:

if Hobie uses guitar picks to play his guitar -which he probs doesn’t but idk- I’d like to think he’d make you a guitar pick necklace from one of his old picks.

Sure he hates gifts and such but this is the sole expectation alongside any and all handcrafted jewellery you may give him because he wears that shit with pride.

Terms of endearment:

Love

Darling

Sweetheart

Impromptu sleepovers:

Hobie crashes at your place more often then not to the point he might as well be living with you in regards of how often he leaves something of his at yours, so much so you’ve begun to wonder if he was doing it intentionally or accidentally.

Either way you made sure that his stay was comfortable by having a makeshift bed set up for him so he didn’t have to constantly sleep on the uncomfortable couch and wake up with a crooked neck.

Hobie appreciates all that you do for him but would often tell you it’s not necessary but you weren’t about to get into a discussion about whether or not he was deserving of help because the answer was obvious and that answer would always and forever will be; yes.

Also he’s a bit of a cuddle bug but only with you but that’s your little secrete.

Date nights:

Most, if not all of your dates are either just the pair of you being your natural selves in the comfort of your own home where’d you would talk about anything and everything that came to your mind, free of judgment.

or

showing Hobie your undying love and support by showing up to his gigs and scream the loudest because he is talented as shit and deserves a lot more in your eyes.

Either way as long as you were within each others company, anywhere you both went could be considered a date.

Spidey business:

Now this is all dependant on wether or not you know he’s Spider-Man:

If you did then you’d probably would help him patch up his wounds after every fight he had

Or

If you weren’t due to Hobie wanting nothing more then to keep you and that life as far from each other as possible, you’d most definitely would be concerned when you see him with any sustained injuries he tried patching up himself.

No matter how hard you try to get him to tell you what’s wrong, Hobie would just tell you it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Meeting his friends/ Bragging rights:

Before introducing you to the likes of Pavitr, Miles and Gwen(if you haven’t already met her), it’s almost an 100% guarantee that he brags about you anyway he knows how which only intrigues them more and more to the point they’re just pleading with Hobie to introduce his cool, kickass partner to them.

So when he does, the three are practically hounding you about your relationship with Hobie and when you looked back at him for help in wrangling in his over excited friends, the little shit merely smirks and shrugs his shoulders as though he had no idea they’d react like this, all the while leaning on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest; happy to see all his favourite people he cares about a lot interacting with one another to the point that by the end of the day you’re very good friends with each of them.

[moondirti]

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face. 

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.” 

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design. 

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you. 

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t. 

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ. 

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is. 

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first. 

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory. 

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition. 

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology. 

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far. 

“Oye,” 

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him. 

“I need your day pass.” 

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches. 

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.” 

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond? 

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant. 

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind. 

He is asking. 

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do. 

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.  

But, oh. 

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself. 

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.” 

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now. 

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you. 

Can’t get it up? 

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you. 

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be. 

And… Christ– 

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous. 

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago. 

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara. 

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger. 

“Where is it?” 

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin. 

“Where’s the fucking day pass?” 

Your satisfaction is short-lived. 

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point. 

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees. 

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth. 

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–” 

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.” 

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become. 

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure. 

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing. 

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this. 

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.) 

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die. 

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask. 

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?” 

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears. 

What the fuck, indeed. 

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake. 

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation. 

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed. 

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost. 

chapter five →

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[steampunkforever]

The facts of the matter:

Solarpunk is a nonexistent genre due to its inherent lack of narrative counterculture necessary for "punk" nomenclature

This is a baked-in feature the genres creators are directly responsible for, admitting to as much in the manifesto that created solarpunk

Without a narrative allowing for counterculture Solarpunk is better defined as "Sci-fi utopia with solar panels*"

In order to make a "true" Solarpunk work you must critique modern society through an ecological lens by telling the story of underdogs fighting for a green future

(or make the heroes of the story rebel against the oppression of solar power by deleting their diesel emission control systems, which is at odds with key treehugger wolrdviews)

Therefore, the reason very few solarpunk-by-definition films exist is that there aren't many fiction narratives about underdogs working against the system to create sustainable cities of the future**

Enter Megalopolis by Francis Ford Coppola***

*lets be honest, a sizable amount of steampunk, cyberpunk, and dieselpunk art just falls into "Sci-fi future with gears/hackers/art deco" too

**documentaries don't count, that's just real life

***a must-see addition to the Solarpunk canon

[astra-ravana]

The Satanic Statutes

The Satanic Statutes of the Celestial Church of Leviathan are designed to aid the Satanist into physical, spiritual, abd philosophical freedom.

Every one acts as a key to one's liberation from the oppression of the materialistic and superficial society in which we live, and be a guide to fulfillment in one's life.

The Decrees of Lucifer

1. Reject Any Act Of Tyranny: Tyrannical oppression cannot survive with forces of rebellion at work. One should opose those who oppress them and others from experiencing the satisfaction life may offer.

2. Seek Truth In All Things: The pursuit of knowledge leads to freedom of the mind. Always seek to grow and learn.

3. Respect That Which Deserves It: Any idea that poses no threat or problems should be respected, even if it is disagreed with. Unnecessary bigotry should be discarded.

4. Abandon That Which Inflicts Harm: One should let go of what troubles them to move closer to fulfillment. They should attempt to release what hinders their happiness, and purge impurities that block them from their Truth.

5. Let Others Live Their Truth: Respect other individuals in their pursuit of Truth and happiness, as long as it harms none, in reason. For to proselytize is to shed the value of your Truth.

6. Strive For Self-Illumination: To be an individual is to be true, but to know one's self is to be free. One should always strive to shine a light on their every aspect, light and dark, positive and negative.

The Magickal Suggestions of Satan

1. When one decides to perform a magickal working, one should be completely sure of their intent, what they want the outcome to be, and what might happen should the spell work in a different way than wanted. They should be 100% sure they want what they are asking for/working towards.

2. One shouldn't enter into the craft with any fear, as this will damage the effectiveness of whatever sort of magick they're working and leaves them open to spiritual attack.

3. One should take the necessary precautions to ensure that the magickal working is met with success, and that they are safe from any backlash. This means taking advantage of protective magick and balancing rituals.

4. One should know the area around them, and work in tune with the land and the spirits dwelling there. Magick will always work through the mediums of Spirit and/or the land.

5. If one is to work with spirits, one should get to know who exactly they are working with and set boundaries for that relationship.

6. If one should promise something to a spirit in return for help, one should make good on their promise, lest the spirit decide to inflict harm.

The Edicts Of Samael

1. Let not death strike a fear in your heart. For it comes to those with and without.

2. Utilize your gifts without needless restraint. For if one is to reach their potential, it wouldn't be through solemn shackles.

3. Your pride is your virtue. For if your flames should be put out, your Truth must light them again.

4. Cease not the battles waged in passion. For the war will be lost and despair will be found.

5. Remember the joys and woes of a life well lived. For riches won't sustain vitality.

6. Repair that which you have broken. For hideous regret will soil the soul.