⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔥𝔢 ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

In the video the survivor said “Never seek a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And they’re all temporary problems.”

It’s very honest. It’s very clear. It’s very kind. It presents you with a lot of information and a lot of understanding and lets you take it all in like the autonomous human you are, and make decisions from an informed place. It goes over the reality of suicide attempts, pain involved, likelihoods of survival, after effects of attempts, and how to get help if you want it after reading all of that and learning about the reality of suicide attempts.

You can read it for free here: https://qprinstitute.com/pdfs/Forever_Decision.pdf

i think we should bring this back (with some amendments ofc) if we ever needed an "internet etiquette" for the younger generations, now is the moment to remind them. purity culture kills fandom

as well as the three laws of fandom:

1) Set off your smoke alarm or play the sound on your phone (if your home has no smoke alarms, pease get some!)

2) stand BY THE FRONT DOOR to hand out treats

Do this a couple times and then keep it up NO EXCEPTIONS. Accidentally set the alarm off cooking? Treats by the door. Smoke alarm sound on TV? Treats by the door. Changing your smoke alarm batteries twice a year like you’re supposed to? Give them a test run and your pets get treats by the door.

Most dogs and cats will clue in VERY quickly that hearing that specific sound means go to the front door and wait for treats.

If there’s an emergency and even if you leave by another way, you will still know the most likely place your pet(s) is and can direct first responders to help.

my mom is in fact aware that dandelions exist. she temporarily forgot the name and there was some miscommunication.

the truth is actually weirder

she’s aware dandelions look like this

she is familiar with this flower. she knows the name of this flower. she declines to believe, however, that these are also dandelions

she does not believe these are the same plant. I tried to explain, and she thought I was either misinformed or lying. so I asked her what exactly did she think the yellow ones were called?

gosh I enjoy this website

Summer sees both a drop off in donations and, at least for our trauma center, a spike in traumas. Trauma centers across the US are in danger of running out of blood for our trauma patients TODAY, which is very scary but, unlike much of the other scary national news coming across our screens these days, is something you can help fix immediately and directly.

Many things that previously made people ineligible have been rolled back. If you previously thought you were ineligible, please consider checking current guidelines!

While O- is the most dire need as it can be safely given to anyone in an emergency, all types are needed! Our emergent release blood is being pulled for patients who have a high chance of death if they don't get blood within the hour. Once they're stabilized, they can have their type confirmed and get blood of a specific, matching type released to them so that O- can go to the patients who need it most.

☆ pairings: peter parker x reader

☆ synopsis: peter orders a coffee. You say his name. Now, it’s all he can think about and he’ll do just about anything to hear you say it again. OR: you remembered peter parker. you have become such a mystery to him that he follows (stalks) you until he gets to know you better.

☆ warnings: brand new day peter, stalking (but it's okay because we love him), angst, fluff, yearning, loneliness, brief mentions of loss, awkward and stressed out peter, mentions of previous mcu events, discussion about no way home, mdni

author’s note: I can’t believe how lovely you all have been about my first ever post!! here’s a part two (but also a standalone, if you don’t want to read part one)

wc: 3.5k

part 1

Stalking wasn’t the right term. It was too harsh. Too abrasive. This was more…curiosity from a distance.

It started the same night. It gnawed away at his self-control until he couldn’t focus on a single thought that wasn’t you.

See you later, Peter.

You’d said it so effortlessly, eyes snagging on his face as they moved away from the paper cup you’d handed out a hundred times. You'd said it as you might have in the corridor - like you were hoping to say it again. It rolled off the tongue. You weren't even thinking about it - preoccupied with the never-ending line of customers that had formed. It was so easy for you to say. So familiar. Because you remembered him.

After you'd first said it, he'd suffered the realisation that food and water would no longer sustain him. Only you could. And he was starving.

See you later, Peter.

It'd replayed in his head like a song on loop. The way your tongue had curled around the letters like a promise. The way it slipped from you like it was natural. Like he hadn't been permanently erased from everyone else's minds.

Then what was so special about yours?

He'd spent the first night staring at the paper cup you'd given him, moving it throughout his apartment like it had become an extension of his hand. The second day, he revisited every interaction you'd ever shared - every classroom conversation, every paper you'd worked on together, each lunch when there was a clear table and empty seats that were asking to be picked from. It'd always been surface-level between the two of you. Polite. Sweet. He knew next to nothing about you. You liked to read. You only ate green apples. You remembered him.

When he searched you up on the third day, there was nothing out of the ordinary. He found your grades, a news report about you raising money for the local library, but nothing that screamed obviously-immune-to-the-memory-wipe-spell.

There had to be a reason you remembered him - maybe something that might make you a target. So who would he be if not Spiderman, and how could he just leave you unguarded if you might be at risk? So it started with a patrol, which just so happened to be near your work. And when you finished your shifts and walked home, how could anyone say friendly, neighbourhood or Spiderman in the same breath if he didn't make sure you got back to your apartment safely? Or when you climbed the stairs, moved past your window and collapsed on your sofa, which could be seen perfectly from the roof on the opposite block, well...that wasn't his fault, was it?

So he watched you. You made food and dished up only one plate. You watched reruns with a hot drink. You still used DVDs, but only on Fridays, like it was a special treat. You showered each night. Every two days, you walked the three blocks to the library and picked something new to read. Always a fantasy. Always alone.

You were like him. Twenty-something, wondering aimlessly, visiting the corner shop to grab the same ingredients as every other night. You had friends, but they remained inside coffee shops. You met them, nodded eagerly at their stories, but they never crossed the threshold of your apartment. He wasn't sure why. You were nice - you saved a smile for each stranger who bumped into you on the sidewalk. You held doors open, you laughed loudly, and you hesitated by shop windows when something in it reminded you of someone you knew.

But you were lonely.

He noticed, as the days passed by, that you sat strictly on the couch, despite the chair beside it angled toward the TV. Frequently, he caught you staring at it, bottom lip jutted out like you were ready to cry. Clearly, you'd lost someone. But who hadn't during the events plaguing New York the last few years?

He didn't always watch you from afar - he wasn’t a total creep. May had raised him to be a gentleman, so he made sure to visit you at work. He made it seem casual, like he hadn’t memorised your schedule. Each day, he prayed you'd say his name again just as you did that first time. Your smiles got brighter each time you saw him, your cheeks stained pink, but you refused to give him what he wanted. You'd cycled through a range of hellos, good mornings, and good afternoons, but none of them were what he so desperately needed to hear. He'd concluded you must’ve been doing it on purpose. Maybe he'd imagined that first meeting - perhaps you'd never said his name at all.

But then he tried to sleep, and your voice pierced the haze.

See you later, Peter.

You were driving him completely insane.

So naturally, he continued to follow you. He couldn’t help himself. You just wouldn't say it.

As the days got a little warmer, you ventured out from your room to the roof. You lay reading, engrossed, oblivious that he'd been infatuated with your every moment since you'd uttered his name, or even that he watched you right now.

You snacked on cereal flakes like it was a bag of chips. You’d taken a handful up the stairs with you. The same cereal you’d eaten that morning. He could still see the box in your kitchen through the window you insisted on leaving open, even when you were out, like some kind of invitation. The box never really moved. You ate a bowl whenever you stayed up too late reading. Which was often.

That's weird. Peter startled and gathered himself up. He shouldn't know that about you. He shouldn't be watching you from the opposite roof, either. This is weird. This was way past weird.

He was going to leave. He swore he was about to. He'd stood up, grabbed his jacket, but then he heard exactly what he'd been yearning for.

"Peter?"

He froze. His backpack slipped off his shoulder. He glanced down at himself, on the roof, and paled.

This was bad. This was very bad. This was call-the-cops-he's-a-weirdo bad. How would he explain this away?

Oh, don't mind me. I'm just watching you. Have been for a few days now. Nothing to worry about!

He looked like a maniac.

Peter?

God, you said it so nicely. It'd never been pretty before, but from you it was like honey. It danced along the breeze to him, carried like a melody, and his hands flexed at his sides as the sound caressed his face.

"What are you doing?" You asked, peeking beneath your hand to avoid the sun.

"Uh..." His sneakers creaked against the tiles. The silence stretched. The wind struck his face. What should he say?

"...What are you doing?"

Nice. Real mature. He cringed. You didn't notice.

You glanced down at the book in your hands, fingers stuck between the pages to save your spot. Then, behind yourself to the blanket you'd brought up and the drink you'd discarded.

"I live here."

"On the roof? That's weird." You were too far away to hear the panic gripping his voice, or notice the way his chest constricted and the terror that distorted his gaze. "Hope the rent's cheap." He added, spiralling, his throat feeling as if it were closing up.

"You wanna come inside?"

Whatever he'd prepared to say to explain himself withered as it crawled over his tongue. If he hadn't already been standing, he wouldn't have had the strength to do so. He gawked across the gap separating you.

He should absolutely say no. He should excuse himself and run across town and never, ever, ever let himself see you again. Keep his distance. Apologise. Spend the rest of his pathetic life making up for the fact he’d ignored a million boundaries and become the worst, most-deprived version of himself he'd ever been. May would be mortified.

But he did none of those things.

"Yeah." He answered quickly. Though he was sure he would've agreed to just about anything you'd ask. Your voice was too tempting to resist.

You peeked over the railing and pointed to the metal stairs that wound up both buildings like ivy. The bases of them were adjacent to each other. You nodded.

"I'll meet you down there."

And you did.

Which is how Peter Parker ended up in front of you, rocking anxiously on his heels with a mixture of desperation and longing softening his face. There was a little cut above his eye and a bruise on his cheek. When you frowned, evidently concerned, his heart fluttered.

He followed you up to your apartment, feigning uncertainty as if he hadn't been watching you through the window like it was prime time television, and took the cup you gave him gladly when you brought him inside.

"Coffee?" You'd said, and who was he to say no when you asked so sweetly?

Peter ran his finger over the crack in the handle and smiled for the first time in a while as you told him about your book, the show you'd left paused on the TV, and rattled about a customer who'd been rude to you the previous morning.

It was so perfectly normal that it intoxicated him.

"I didn't know you lived next door. I've never seen you over there." You said after a while.

He spluttered. He glanced down at the coffee, dark stain splattered up the rim, and cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, I don't."

"Huh?" You blinked, lashes fluttering, and felt short of breath.

"I mean, I don't yet. I was scouting it.” A terrible, stupid excuse, but he had no choice but to develop it. “My rent's gone up. So...I wanted to check this place out."

"What's the verdict on the roof?"

He stammered, glancing up from his drink to assess your expression, but you were busy wiping up a spill of liquid. "Good. It-It's good. Very sitable."

Sitable. He wanted to groan. Was that even a word?

"I get it. No one goes up to mine. It's a good spot. The views cool too." You fiddled with the uneven glaze on your cup.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah.” You smiled, and his chest knotted with a different type of pressure. “You know, a couple times I’ve even seen Spiderman swing across the city from here."

"Really?" His drink might as well have been scolding. He withdrew like it’d burnt him, and readjusted his grip as not to drop the mug.

Was this a test? Were you mocking him?

It seemed only fair given he’d been following you around like a weirdo. Yet he stewed, squirming, while your gaze slipped to the window.

"Uh huh." You said, eyes drawn wistfully to the horizon. "I wonder what it's like."

"To be Spiderman?" He asked, flicking his gaze suspiciously over your expression.

"No,” you shook your head, swallowing the liquid you’d sipped with a chuckle, “To swing. I bet it's like flying."

"It is."

"Hm?" You smiled at him apologetically, having missed his response. You’d been preoccupied gazing at the rooftops, unfolding the memory of a red and blue figure flinging himself across the city.

"I said, I bet it is." Peter corrected. Washing his eyes over you. You rolled your lips together thoughtfully and sat your chin on your fist.

"He's always alone when I see him.” Your voice was contemplative, soft, and Peter felt like he’d been punched. The air slipped from his mouth, pushing his voice out like a gasp. You weren't aware, but you could see him so clearly that Peter had to look down and make sure he didn't have his suit on.

"What?"

"It seems like a lot to do alone.” You thought aloud, nodding your head to the city, “Patrolling New York. Fighting bad guys…” you shrugged, turning to get the pot from the stove and refill his cup. Automatically, he extended it to you, like saying no to you was never going to be an option. “I hope Spiderman goes home and has friends. Family. I feel like doing all that to come back to an empty apartment would suck."

"…yeah." Peter rubbed the handle of his cup and dropped his eyes to the dark liquid. His reflection glared back at him. Tired and slightly dishevelled. Alone. He sighed.

"Y’know, this has been really nice, Peter.” You say, a little nervously. “Thank you. We should do this more often. If-If you'd like, I mean. No pressure."

"No. I'd love to.” You look up at him with big eyes that swallow him whole. You blink. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “Not no.” he gulps the air, which seems to have thinned, and pushes his cup to the side. “Like, no, yes, give me all the pressure. Yeah. That'd-That'd be cool."

You nod. He scrambles to be somewhat normal. You grin. His heart hammers.

"Cool."

Months later, with your sneakers crossed and propped up on the little table and a book abandoned on your lap, Peter still found himself wondering how it was possible that you remembered him at all. But it wasn’t just him that you remembered, it was everything.

“-And then Ned, oh my god, he slipped off that stool and brought the whole thing down!” You were laughing so hard your voice was breaking. You held your stomach, giggling, and the grin that had stretched across Peter’s face was starting to hurt. His cheeks ached.

Ned. School. When he was still just Peter.

These memories were a gift - some revoked privilege that he’d pushed to the back of his mind. It hurt too much to dwell on, but here you were, recounting school days as if the rest of their class hadn’t forgotten he’d ever existed. They weren’t even your stories to tell; you’d been across the lunch hall. You’d watched these moments unfold, and that felt all the more insightful. You’d seen his friends. You’d seen him. You reminded Peter that he really had been loved, once. That it'd been real. That he was still real.

How was that possible?

Then, one day, you came out with it. You plucked an olive that’d fallen out of your sandwich onto the wrapper. The summer sun warmed your cheeks and your legs, which swung happily beside Peter’s on the bench. You were sitting near a monument dedicated to the lives lost during one of the many invasions over New York.

“You know, at my old apartment, there was a really cool sandwich shop. You’d have liked it. The bagels were really nice.”

Peter nodded and swallowed the bite he’d forced into his mouth. With the bread still pushed into his cheeks, his words were muffled.

“Oh, yeah? What’s it called? We can add it to the list of places we need to try.”

“It’s gone now. The whole block was destroyed a few years ago. To be honest, I thought the whole world was gonna explode.” You pause, scratch your nose, and place your sandwich onto the paper laid out on your lap. You squint, and Peter looks at you without thinking; the ghost of a frown tugging at your mouth was enough to summon him. “...Do you remember that?”

“The Battle of New York?”

You shook your head. You huffed. He smiled crookedly. “Hey, did you just scoff at me?”

“No.” But you had. You looked out to the park, flicked your gaze over the children, dogs, and joggers. “It’s just…no one ever knows what I’m talking about. It makes me feel like I'm mad.” You touch your forehead. Your shoulders sag. You roll your lips and sigh to yourself. “Maybe I did make it up.”

“Make what up?” Peter sits up straight, senses suddenly flooded with you. Your teeth clench. You hesitate.

“So, like, four years ago. The sky went all purple and orange. And the world went funny. People just came out of the sky in flashes. Then my building broke. Half my street was shattered, but when I came back around, it was like it never happened at all.. No one ever remembers.” You sighed and took a slow, drawn out intake of air. You were stalling, frightened to see the doubt on his face.

Yet when you turned back, Peter was studying you. You could see the cogs behind his eyes spinning frantically. It made you self aware. Beneath his unmoving gaze, you shivered.

“You passed out?” He asked eventually.

“Uh…” you paused. He could see you deciding if you should continue. You bit your lip as he leaned forward, chasing your answer. His sandwich was forgotten and placed to the side. You shrank beneath his stare. “Well, kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“You promise not to get weird with me?” Abruptly, your eyes jumped to his. Your brows were drawn together nervously, and it pulled on the strings inside his chest. His mouth went dry. He nodded. Anything.

“I-yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

“When the building collapsed, I was in the lobby. Apparently, the ceiling came down. And the electrics were exposed. Anyway, I got shocked and it stopped my heart. I don’t remember any of this, obviously, I was just told about it when I woke up in the hospital. But no one remembers any of it." You pick at a loose thread on your shorts and shrug. "And the sandwich place is something else now. Like a Boba shop.”

Peter was speechless. His mouth remained open in a little o.

You waited. Shuffling on top of your hands, you stressed your lip. You were watching his face carefully, certain he’d tell you the usual spiel: nothing like that happened, you must have imagined it. He’d likely excuse himself from the spot beside you and pull away as a friend completely.

The notion of him leaving hurt your chest. You were attached. You looked forward to seeing him, and whenever he moved his soft eyes in your direction, you felt weak. You didn’t want the lovely brown to harden once he decided you were crazy.

“You died?”

You shrugged. “Allegedly.”

Peter swallowed.

Everyone alive would forget Peter Parker ever existed.

That’d been the spell Doctor Strange created to repair the tear in the multiverse. But you hadn’t been alive. For a single moment, your heart had stopped. And as improbable as it was, it must’ve aligned with when he cast it. It finally made sense.

Peter leant back against the wooden panels and exhaled.

You picked up your sandwich. You bit into it, convincing yourself he thought you were crazy as you chewed. As the silence stretched, you frowned, and it reengaged Peter’s brain. He twisted toward you.

“I don’t think you’re mad. I remember it too.”

“Peter…” you sighed, shook your head and folded the last of your sandwich in the packaging.

You’d heard that before, too.

When you glanced at him, you were hurt. Your pretty eyes were pained. Your face flushed with embarrassment. You shoved your food inside your bag and prepared to leave. “Please don’t mock me.”

Your voice was so quiet. So meek. It splintered Peter’s chest. Without thinking, he reached for you. Taking hold of both your wrists, he snaked his fingers over the warmth of your skin. Your cheeks darkened.

“I’m not. I wouldn’t. I believe you. It happened near Christmas, right?”

Though you’d gathered your belongings, you settled. You glanced at him cautiously. You nodded.

He hated the way you were looking at him. The way your lips pursed and your gaze raked over his. You looked as though you didn’t trust him. It was a blade twisting through his chest.

“Y/n, please.”

“...You remember?” You whispered doubtfully, lips barely parting. He nodded, confessing to something you weren’t asking him.

Though you had no idea what’d happened to Peter, it felt like the two of you were talking about the same thing. It was cathartic. A relief he'd only dreamed of. Peter’s throat tightened and his grip climbed up your arms.

“Yes, I do.” He swallowed thickly. “Everyone forgot.”

You nod. You watch his mouth. You agree. “...Everyone forgot.”

Tears spring to his eyes. His fingers thread into yours, convincing himself you’re really beside him and this was not some cruel figment of his imagination. It felt like a confession. It tasted like the truth. He squeezed your hands.

“You didn’t.” He says, and you nod your head. He exhales shakily. When he smiles sadly, his lower lip wobbles.

“No,” you say, “I didn’t forget.” And you press your back against the seat again. Wordlessly, you shuffle closer. Peter’s chest heaves with a sob he’d been holding for years. He swallows it, grits his teeth, and you gently place your cheek on his shoulder. It’s cautious at first, until he lifts his chin to rest on your hair. You settle beside him, nuzzling into his jumper and he holds your hand a little tighter.

My father finds gay men uncomfortable.

He's told me before that it's like a knee-jerk for him. Something he doesn't consciously control. He sees two men behaving romantically, and his body reacts with mild discomfort.

In the 1960s, when he was in high school, most of the boys in his form thought he was gay on the simple fact that he wasn't homophobic. He wouldn't participate in insulting queer people, he didn't care if someone was gay, he wouldn't have a problem hanging out with gay people. So people thought he was gay. That's how prevalent homophobia was in his formative years.

When I was 10, my dad told me very seriously that Holmes and Watson were gay. That it was obvious from the literature and the time period that they were meant to be a gay couple. When I was 14 and I came out to my parents as bi, when my mum was upset my dad ripped into her for it. Told her that she was being stupid, that it was my life to live how I wanted to and that she needed to get over herself.

My dad formed my views on censorship: that being that it was completely ridiculous and thoroughly evil. He didn't believe in censorship of any kind. If I asked him a question about sex, he answered it honestly. When I was 12 and I asked him about homosexuality, still young and uncertain, he told me that there was nothing wrong with it. That it was just how some people were. That there was likely an evolutionary reason for it. And that for some people it was uncomfortable on an instinctual level.

He taught me that just because you're uncomfortable with something, doesn't make it wrong. He also taught me that most people don't understand this.

I see a lot of this on the internet as of the last few years. The anti shipping movement, the terf movement, the anti ace movement. It all stems from discomfort that people have crossed wires into believing means wrong. Really every -ism and -phobia out there stems from this same fundamental aspect of humanity.

is it cool?

ੈ✩ megumi fushiguro x reader

ੈ✩ synopsis: megumi comes to you as a last resort to lose his virginity.

ੈ✩ tags: fem reader, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of masturbation, megumi is bad at feelings

ੈ✩ wc: 3.8k

ੈ✩ a/n: this was in my drafts for a month straight and i finally finished it LOL. listen to steve lacys new album along with this its v good

"We don't have to kiss."

"What?

“We, uh, don’t have to kiss,” you repeat.

Megumi leans in unconsciously, then pauses. Wasn’t kissing a part of sex? Or intimacy with anyone you were attracted to? Which is what you were – someone he was attracted to, undoubtedly, humiliatingly. Nothing more.

He’s gotten over the initial embarrassment of your multiple advances, each of which he either ignored or brushed off, until recently. He was used to your antics, never took them seriously, but you’d gotten drunker than you usually would’ve at Yuji’s birthday party a month ago. He remembered your hand on his thigh after too many tequila sodas. He remembered that he didn’t mind it. If anything, he was tipsier than usual, and any touch from you had his cock stirring like never before.

Before he registered it, your mouth was brushing against his jaw. Do you want to go back to mine, you’d slurred; the hush of your voice rasped in seduction. His eyes had widened, clarity breaking through his senses. It was a bit harsh, the way he nearly shoved you away. He would cringe every time he replayed the moment, how you had winced at his sudden movement, hurt painting your features under the dim bar lighting. He hadn’t spoken to you for weeks after that.

He blinks at you. “...you don’t want to kiss?”

“I mean, I–I do. But we don’t have to. Like, if you don’t–”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks flatly.