#television and communication systems

[womeninscienceday]

Conversation IV - Breaking Boundaries, Space Community; I.D.E.A.S. for Sustainable Development.

Space Science and Technology are becoming increasingly important for attaining the SDGs. Earth observation, weather forecasting, television and communication systems as well as wider scientific field such as Astronomy and Earth Sciences, all rely on GIST, satellite positioning, remote sensing and other technological advances Space science, technology and applications can support a range of pro-developmental activities, inter alia, sustainable cities and agricultural planning, biodiversity protection, tele-medicine and disaster risk management. This conversation will highlight how countries can leverage space science and technologies to achieve the SDGs, specially SDG6 and its nexus, through concrete examples. It will also feature women in space experts with an aim to attract more women and girls to space sciences.

[hella1975]

would you like to talk about how bad the mha ending was hella

as much as i would love to give like. a comprehensive response i genuinely dont think i can get my words together just yet without it being a constant unintelligble stream of 'AND ANOTHER THING-' and bc it's become quite torn in the fandom on if the chapter was good or bad i want like. an actual coherent response here. so i will reblog this if/when i can word it but know IM NOT FUCKING HAPPY

[i43tv]

fun fact about me(&): acting is one of my biggest passions! (to be specific, Rory enjoys acting the most.) I'm an active member of the theater club and I've participated in school plays. whenever we have to do a roleplaying activity in class, i put way too much effort into it!! lmao

as an alter, i really enjoy dressing us up. putting on makeup and working on our skincare. elaborate costumes cost a lot so i can't wear those a lot, but being in stage plays allows me to dress us up extra special. :]

[spacelazarwolf]

in honor of that anon who said jews have done nothing for the world, here’s a non exhaustive list of things we’ve done for the world:

arts, fashion, and lifestyle:

jeans - levi strauss

modern bras - ida rosenthal

sewing machines - isaac merritt singer

modern film industry - carl laemmle (universal pictures), adolph zukor (paramount pictures), william fox (fox film forporation), louis b. mayer (mgm - metro-goldwyn-mayer), harry, sam, albert, and jack warners (warner bros.), steven spielberg, mel brooks, marx brothers

operetta - jacques offenbach

comic books - stan lee

graphic novels - will eisner

teddy bears - morris and rose michtom

influential musicians - irving berlin, stephen sondheim, benny goodman, george gershwin, paul simon, itzhak perlman, leonard bernstein, bob dylan, leonard cohen

artists - mark rothko

actors - elizabeth taylor, jerry lewis, barbara streisand

comedians - lenny bruce, joan rivers, jerry seinfeld

authors - judy blume, tony kushner, allen ginsberg, walter mosley

culture:

esperanto - ludwik lazar zamenhof

feminism - betty friedan, gloria steinem, ruth bader ginsberg

queer and trans rights - larry kramer, harvey milk, leslie feinberg, abby stein, kate bornstein, frank kameny, judith butler

international women's day - clara zetkin

principles of journalizm, statue of liberty, and pulitzer prize - joseph pulitzer

"the new colossus" - emma lazarus

universal declaration of human rights - rene samuel cassin

holocaust remembrance and human rights activism - elie wiesel

workers rights - louis brandeis, rose schneiderman

public health care, women's rights, and children's rights - lillian wald

racial equity - rabbi abraham joshua heschel, julius rosenwald, andrew goodman, michael schwerner

political theory - hannah arendt

disability rights - judith heumann

black lives matter slogan and movement - alicia garza

#metoo movement - jodi kantor

institute of sexology - magnus hirschfeld

technology:

word processing computers - evelyn berezin

facebook - mark zuckerberg

console video game system - ralph henry baer

cell phones - amos edward joel jr., martin cooper

3d - leonard lipton

telephone - philipp reis

fax machines - arthur korn

microphone - emile berliner

gramophone - emile berliner

television - boris rosing

barcodes - norman joseph woodland and bernard silver

secret communication system, which is the foundation of the technology used for wifi - hedy lamarr

three laws of robotics - isaac asimov

cybernetics - norbert wiener

helicopters - emile berliner

BASIC (programming language) - john george kemeny

google - sergey mikhaylovich brin and larry page

VCR - jerome lemelson

fax machine - jerome lemelson

telegraph - samuel finley breese morse

morse code - samuel finley breese morse

bulletproof glass - edouard benedictus

electric motor and electroplating - boris semyonovich jacobi

nuclear powered submarine - hyman george rickover

the internet - paul baran

icq instant messenger - arik vardi, yair goldfinger,, sefi vigiser, amnon amir

color photography - leopold godowsky and leopold mannes

world's first computer - herman goldstine

modern computer architecture - john von neumann

bittorrent - bram cohen

voip internet telephony - alon cohen

data archiving - phil katz, eugene roshal, abraham lempel, jacob ziv

nemeth code - abraham nemeth

holography - dennis gabor

laser - theodor maiman

instant photo sharing online - philippe kahn

first automobile - siegfried samuel marcus

electrical maglev road - boris petrovich weinberg

drip irrigation - simcha blass

ballpoint pen and automatic gearbox - laszlo biro

photo booth - anatol marco josepho

medicine:

pacemakers and defibrillators - louise robinovitch

defibrillators - bernard lown

anti-plague and anti-cholera vaccines - vladimir aronovich khavkin

polio vaccine - jonas salk

test for diagnosis of syphilis - august paul von wasserman

test for typhoid fever - ferdinand widal

penicillin - ernst boris chain

pregnancy test - barnhard zondek

antiretroviral drug to treat aids and fight rejection in organ transplants - gertrude elion

discovery of hepatitis c virus - harvey alter

chemotherapy - paul ehrlich

discovery of prions - stanley prusiner

psychoanalysis - sigmund freud

rubber condoms - julius fromm

birth control pill - gregory goodwin pincus

asorbic acid (vitamin c) - tadeusz reichstein

blood groups and rh blood factor - karl landsteiner

acyclovir (treatment for infections caused by herpes virus) - gertrude elion

vitamins - caismir funk

technique for measuring blood insulin levils - rosalyn sussman yalow

antigen for hepatitus - baruch samuel blumberg

a bone fusion technique - gavriil abramovich ilizarov

homeopathy - christian friedrich samuel hahnemann

aspirin - arthur ernst eichengrun

science:

theory of relativity - albert einstein

theory of the electromagnetic field - james maxwell

quantum mechanics - max born, gustav ludwig hertz

quantum theory of gravity - matvei bronstein

microbiology - ferdinand julius cohn

neuropsychology - alexander romanovich luria

counters for x-rays and gamma rays - robert hofstadter

genetic engineering - paul berg

discovery of the antiproton - emilio gino segre

discovery of cosmic microwave background radiation - arno allan penzias

discovery of the accelerating expansion of the universe - adam riess and saul merlmutter

discovery that black hole formation is a robust prediction of the general theory of relativity - roger penrose

discovery of a supermassive compact object at the center of the milky way - andrea ghez

modern cosmology and the big bang theory - alexander alexandrovich friedmann

stainless steel - hans goldschmidt

gas powered vehicles

interferometer - albert abraham michelson

discovery of the source of energy production in stars - hans albrecht bethe

proved poincare conjecture - grigori yakovlevich perelman

biochemistry - otto fritz meyerhof

electron-positron collider - bruno touschek

[girasois]

words for users !

ideias de palavras aleatórias para ajudar você a criar seu próprio user;

random ideas of words to help you to create your own user.

core -> aesthetic core

vlog -> daily videos

logs -> daily facts

mp3 -> audio file format

m4p -> apple audio file format

mp4 -> video file format

txt -> text format

jpeg -> image file format

jpg -> image file format

png -> image file format

gif -> animated file format

raw -> uncompressed file format

zip -> compressed archive file format

rar -> compressed archive file format

web -> internet file format

doc -> document file

pdf -> document file

vinyl -> phonograph record

film -> motion picture; photography

user -> person who utilizes a computer or network service

i2 -> "keeping it real"

self -> a person's essential being

itself -> a person's essential being

priv -> private

luv -> love's short form

tale -> a fictitious or true narrative or story

archive -> to place or store (something) in an archive

list -> connected items

tier -> a type of hierarchy

talk -> speak in order to express something

chat -> to have a conversation

post -> to announce or publish something

zone -> a subject to particular restrictions

vie -> life in french

tie -> to form a knot or bow in

on/online -> connected to a network

byte -> a group of binary digits 

bits -> a small piece, part, or quantity of something

ram -> hardware in a computing device

8bit -> computer term used to designate either color depth

pixel -> a minute area of illumination on a display screen

data -> things known or assumed as facts

series -> a number of things, events, or people of a similar kind

village -> a self-contained community within a town or city

lab -> a laboratory

lady -> a woman

miss -> a form of address to a woman

mister -> a form of address to a man

error -> something not found

art -> the various branches of creative activity

petit -> small in french

poet -> a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression

thing -> an object without a specific name

stuff -> a vague reference to additional things

vogue -> the prevailing fashion or style at a particular time

tv -> taylor's version and/or television as a system or form of media

media -> the main means of mass communication

topia -> an imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect

saur -> forming names of extinct reptiles such as dinosaurs

tune -> a melody, one that characterizes a particular piece of music

deun -> melody in deutsch

off/offline -> disconnected from the Internet

gloss -> shine or luster on a smooth surface

fae -> a fairy, in modern fantasy fiction

[opencommunion]

“Palestinian Prisoners’ Club:

With the advent of the holy month of Ramadan, more than 9,100 Palestinian prisoners in occupation prisons face a policy of starvation and deprivation from practicing religious rituals.

The Prisoners’ Club added in a statement that the starvation policy worsened in an unprecedented way after October 7th, as a result of a number of measures it imposed, including closing the so-called prisoners' cantina, confiscating the prisoners' remaining food supplies, and reducing meals; the food provided to them was poor in quantity and quality, which affected their fate, especially the sick, and contributed to the worsening of their health conditions. The throwing of thousands of detainees after October 7th into cells without providing food also contributed to the worsening of the starvation policy.

The starvation policy constituted the most dangerous policy imposed by the occupation after October 7th, in addition to torture and abuse, which affected all male and female prisoners, as well as detained children, and caused them health problems, specifically in the digestive system, in addition to the weight loss that all prisoners suffer from today.

The Prisoners’ Club continued that the issue of food appeared in the prisoners' testimonies as a prominent and fundamental issue over the past period. In addition to the poor quantity and quality of food provided by the prison administration, it deliberately brings food that is not cooked well, and in some detention centers and camps, specifically affiliated with the army administration, such as ‘Etzion,’ some expired canned food was provided to detainees.

Depriving prisoners of the practice of religious rituals.

In addition to the starvation policy, the prison administration deprived prisoners of the call to prayer, and of congregational prayer, even inside the cells. Prisoners were subjected to attacks many times after trying to perform prayer, or even read the Qur’an in a clear voice. Also, in many prisons, most notably the Naqab, the Qur’an was confiscated from prisoner’s in the first period after the aggression [on Gaza], the prisoners also face difficulty in performing ablution due to the reduction of water provided to them.

In light of the unprecedented state of collective isolation imposed on prisoners, stripping them of any means of communication with the outside world, including radios and the limited television stations that were available to them before October 7th, thousands of them have difficulty even knowing prayer times inside the cells.

How did poor food lead to the martyrdom of the detainee Mohammed Ahmed Al-Sabbar?

Martyr and administrative detainee Mohammed Ahmed Al-Sabbar’s case, was one of the most prominent cases linked to the policy of starvation and the poor quality of food provided to him. Since before his arrest, Mohammed had suffered from intestinal problems and needed special food in addition to health check-ups, and the entirety of his food being legumes caused major bloating in his intestines, which led to a worsening of his health condition and his martyrdom on February 8th, and to this day the occupation continues to detain his body.

The occupation practices humiliation and starvation against detainees.

It’s worth mentioning, in light of the occupation’s continued implementation of the crime of enforced kidnappings of Gaza detainees, there is not sufficient information available about the food provided to them as part of the conditions of their detention, but in light of the testimonies that came out of those who were released, they confirmed that they suffered from the policy of starvation, deliberately humiliating them to get food.

We also point out that among what was reported by prisoners released from prisons, is that the prison administration asks Gaza detainees to ‘bark’ when bringing meals.

The number of prisoners in the occupation prisons is more than 9,100, including 3,558 administrative detainees, about 200 children, and 61 female prisoners.”

RNN Prisoners, 12 March 24

[muzzlemouths]

[CW: Death/implication of death]

The clock reads a quarter to midnight when Sun powers on. Too early. He isn’t meant to come online for another six hours, and the daycare itself won’t open for another hour after that. He promptly runs a scan to determine the reasoning behind his premature entrance and when it returns inconclusive he turns to Moon. It is his metaphorical toes he is stepping on by encroaching on the night as he is, after all.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that settles like dust. A quiet that makes one aware of the breath that stirs within their lungs or, in Sun’s case, the gentle whir of an internal fan that perpetually keeps his system from running itself into the ground. A quiet so frequently interrupted by the welcomed voice of his other half…and yet, nothing. His question goes unanswered, left to gather with the dust, and he is forced to proceed as though these strange happenings haven’t disrupted his entire morning routine.

A routine further disturbed upon having to remind himself for the second time already that it isn’t morning, he isn’t meant to be going through the start-up procedure to begin with, and he can’t be blamed for the corrupted sense of awareness he feels as a result. Sure, the lights are on, and his systems, too, return with normal results after a precautionary scan, but there is a discomfort to all of this scratching at the inner plating of his frame. Something is wrong wrong wrong.

“…Moon?”

His second attempt at communication yields no better results than the first, only a vague static answering the call, murmur-soft background noise, as though someone had plucked a phone from its receiver and then walked away. Frustrating is what it was. To ignore him was childish at best, but at worst, it was concerning. His relationship with Moon was reasonably amicable even on the longest of days, he worked better with Moon than without, so the absence was unusual as much as it was alarming.

Alone with his thoughts for the foreseeable future, Sun decides there is little point to sitting around in the midst of this confusion when he could be using the time to busy himself with more important tasks, such as tidying up all the apparent dust around here. Better yet, he can get a head-start in preparation for that day’s activities. Something to keep his mind from wandering into worrywart territory, at the very least.

An ache stemming at the tail of his exoskeleton twinges with particularly horrendous vengeance upon finally convincing his legs to move. He buries the vocalization of a wince and carries on across the carpeted room with little more than a brief mental note to mention the pain to a mechanic if it worsens by tomorrow. No use in wasting company time for what he’s sure is only the result of one or both of them landing wrong after receiving a hug from one of the daycare’s more excitable children (or several).

Still, it makes the process of retrieving a stray toy from the floor that much harder when he sees it lying in wait by the slide. If anything, bending down to reclaim the doll only exacerbates the ache until it grows into a proper sting, now difficult to ignore. Yet ignore it he does, to the best of his ability. There are things to do and he isn’t about to let a pinch of soreness slow him down now. No, sirree! He has play equipment to wipe down, craft supplies to ready, and–

and…

His hand stops just short of reaching the doll, long yellow fingers curling inward, against his palm which is painted with splotches of salt and pepper, as though a bottle of dully colored glitter glue had exploded across his fingers and hand. He straightens again and lifts his other hand, noting a similar stretch of television static, one that carries beyond his wrist up the length of his forearm in smeared blotches and specks like splattered paint in dirty snow hues.

Messy messy messy. What could Moon have gotten up to that resulted in such a mess? He’d have made a face, had he a nose to wrinkle in the first place.

Instead he allows for one small tut of disgust to escape his voice box before turning his attention back to the doll, taking note of the static that stains the carpet beside its head, and just beyond it, too; a trail made up of one scattered drop after another.

Ever curious, he knows not what to do besides follow it, hoping for an answer to the many questions burning through his system. Each continuous speck leads him in the direction of the exit, every patch of static more plentiful than the last, and as he allows the strange color to guide him forward he begins to question not only its existence, but why it all seems so familiar, as though he’s seen it somewhere before.

There is little time to mull it over. He arrives at the service desk where the trail ends abruptly, and Sun pauses with the toe of his slippers stood just an inch before a stray, black shoe that might have sent him stumbling face first into carpet had he not already been looking down. A shoe isn’t the most bizarre thing to lose in a daycare of all places, and he decides right away that it isn’t anything to worry over, just another item to drop into lost and found, but where there is a shoe there is bound to be someone missing it and, well…

Sun finds the answer he’s looking for just a few inches behind the service desk.

Face down and tucked in on themselves as they are, cloaked in the desk’s shadow, it’s impossible to tell anything about the person beyond their age, and even that is somewhat uncertain — though the size 9 shoe left behind offers a decent clue. This discovery does wonders to quell the anxiety in Sun’s chest. An adult was much easier to escort from the daycare, given the lack of parental contribution it necessitated, and it looked like this one was just sleeping! An odd place to go about it, sure — against the rules, most certainly — but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a purposeful tap to the ankle.

So, that’s exactly what he does. Bending dramatically at the knee, head swiveling to one side, Sun’s fingers dance as though he intends on tickling the trespasser awake before extending his index finger and tapping twice in quick succession against the exposed skin between their pant leg and sock. “Rise and shine, friend!” He chirps, “It’s time to head home now.”

He’d have preferred the tried-and-true method of rousing someone (that is, a gentle rock of the shoulders), but given that their guest was currently resting in the one area that Sun was not permitted entry to, he was forced to resort to more…creative measures. Unfortunately, this action does not yield the results he is hoping for.

“Friend?” Sun calls again, allowing his voice to raise a decibel from the polite mumble it had been before. The laughter that cuts from his voicebox is nervous and too loud on its own, his anxiety returning tenfold. The points of logic he had used to reassure himself before were now quickly dwindling with each passing second in which he received no response.

With his steps now admittedly growing frantic, Sun tiptoes around the desk to the other side, hoping for a better view of their comatose companion. What happens instead is an almost comical flailing of limbs as his slipper takes to an unseen puddle of static like it were a banana peel, resulting in a scramble to keep himself upright that only comes to an end when he braces against the nearest wall for support. The distraction is agitating, but short lived. A commotion like that would surely have awoken anyone, no matter how deep in slumber they were, and the continued lack of response does nothing to relieve Sun of the stress threatening to fry his circuits.

“Friend, this is n-no time for jokes!” He asserts, speaking at full volume, now, every word drenched in tense frustration. His gaze falls to the puddle of static soaking into the bottoms of his slippers, that twinge of recognition rearing its head once more. “I’m not in the mood for games, right now, so if you’re only pretending to sleep—” his hand comes away from the wall feeling wrong, the familiar sensation of sticky static blanketing his palm and crusting in the grooves between his joints as it further dries. His fingers curl into a loose fist long enough to observe the way each digit smears against his palm and leaves behind a tacky residue that he can feel, but not see.

He looks up. There, on the wall, two handprints interrupt the static. The first is larger, an obvious testament to the humbling misstep he’d only just finished recovering from, but the other…it was far smaller, surely left behind by the same stranger currently snoozing away beneath the desk, and it ran from the lightswitch down down down to the floor, where the accusing hand now rested just outside the desk’s shadow.

How strange, Sun thinks, tilting his head to get a better look. The way the static paints their skin, it almost looks like—

“You’re doing so well, dewdrop, just a moment longer and you’ll be right as rain again!” Sun gives the small hand intertwined with his own an encouraging squeeze as the other, equipped with an antiseptic wipe, dutifully dabs away at a scuffed knee. His young patient, having tripped and burned her skin along the carpet, is nothing less than a trooper as he cleans the static from the shallow wound. Not even a sniffle!

He tucks the wipe into the flat of his palm and trades it out for ointment, smearing a healthy dollop of it along the reddened surface before wiping his finger along the striping of his pants and reaching for a bandaid; Chica pink with pizzas on one side and cupcakes on the other.

“There, now. I’m sure that feels better already!”

Blood. Viscous, cold, pooling at his feet. On the walls, the carpet. His hands. Cherry red like a lollipop and twice as sticky…or so he’s told. Nothing a robot of his nature is meant to see or understand. His censors make sure of it. Rather than allow him to see things are they are, the incarnadine color is suppressed behind a layer of static, as if he won’t care to acknowledge it at all beyond its existence on scraped knees and split lips. As if he is meant to ignore the way it feels in its abundance, caked against his palms and festering between his open joints.

Messy, messy, messy. He feels dirtied beyond repair, filthy in a way that even a deep cleaning won’t fix. The wires in his stomach feel twisted, begging to come undone, shorting like sparklers against their ports and threatening to make short work of bringing him down. His screens are flooded with alerts that warn of an inevitable shut-down if he can’t manage to pull himself back together, but moving feels impossible, an insurmountable task. He can not think past the sensation of someone else’s life soaking into the cotton of his slippers.

And what of their guest? Sun can hardly get himself to look again, pleading with the matter of logic itself as he is forced to reckon with the knowledge that this is a rest they may never wake from. But he does look. He has to.

He wishes he hadn’t.

The brief glimpse he endures before looking anywhere else is more than enough. From this angle, the static – the blood – paints a grim picture. In spite of this, Sun finds himself circling the desk a second time and preparing to draw the body – the visitor – out from under the desk. It is a daunting task, but a necessary one, by Sun’s account. If there is nothing to be done in such a hopeless situation then, at the very least, he owes this stranger the dignity of recognition and an attempt. He can claim to have looked for a pulse. Even so, he hesitates.

There is not one to be found; Sun knows this. He knows painfully well from the static lingering on his silicone that it is already too late. Oil is warmed by the processors it fuels, and similarly, blood is meant to be hot. The soles of his slippers are cold. The pads of his fingers, against even the raging inferno of his overworked circuitry, are cold.

The body is cold.

He perseveres, regardless, dragging the stranger out from under the desk by a shaky grip on their ankle one inch at a time, pausing every few tugs to look away and regather his confidence, trying so, so hard to tune out the ever-constant music as it merrily sings through the speakers.

He begs the underlying silence. “Please have a pulse.” Tug. “Please don’t be cold.” Tug. “I don’t know what to do.” Tug. “I can’t do this alone.” Tug. “You have to wake up.” Tug. “Please.” Tug. “Please!” Tug. “Please, please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple—”

He knows this visitor. Not a friend, but not quite a stranger, either. His scanner attempts to process the identification of a man whose head is so thick with static that it returns as an error. His face is contorted grotesquely, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide with fear. They don’t look like they’re sleeping.

A security guard whose name fails to ping in his registry. Sun had spoken with him once, maybe twice before. He drank coffee by the mile and hardly stuck around long enough to do more than complain about the weather. Sun hadn’t been in a hurry to befriend the man, but he only wished the best for him. Squeezed a joke in where he could in an attempt to turn his frown upside-down. It had never worked before, but Sun was no quitter. Now he would never get the chance to try again.

“Focus, focus.” Sun carefully lowers the man’s foot back to the carpet again, choking on the sensation of bloodied clothes slipping through his fingers and resisting the urge to tear the rays straight out of his faceplate in response. He is inconsolably panicked and at a loss for what to do, two steps from outright laughing, the complete absurdity of the situation driving him to hysterics.

He needed to call security. He couldn’t call security. Security was–

Management. There were other employees that worked the night shift if Moon complaining about them making too much noise during naptime was anything to go by. If he sent out a general call for assistance surely someone would come and tell him what to do, even at this late hour. It was his best option. His only option.

“Don’t.”

The voice makes him jump clear out of his casings. He has half a mind to swear, but as it stands, Sun thinks the long divots he dragged into the service desk out of surprise are enough damage already. On top of everything else.

“Moon?” He whispers. “Nice of you to finally join us – and by us, I mean me and the deceased guest I discovered a moment ago. Do you have a clue what’s going on here?”

“Don’t?” Sun echoes, agitated, “Don’t what?”

“Don’t.”

If the tether keeping his sanity intact was fraying before, it’s now down to a single thread. “Why not?” He asks with great exhaustion, “Did you not hear me? This is an emergency! There is a dead body in the–”

“Call management.”

“I know.”

Silence answers. Despite having a hundred and one snarky retorts building in between each crackle and pop of his voice box, Sun has nothing to say to that. Nothing good, anyway. It takes nine steady ticks of the clock for him to recollect his thoughts.

“You…you know?” He stutters, “How could you…” but he doesn’t finish the question, and he doesn’t need to. Realization strikes him with an iron fist for the second time that day and it is no less kinder than the first. “Did… you do this?”

It’s Moon’s turn to go quiet.

That silence stretches on for what feels like hours to Sun, each passing second more agonizing than the last, until he starts to believe Moon had simply disappeared like before. He waits, and waits, and finally decides to interrupt the silence with a repeat of the question, despite already knowing the answer. Moon beats him to it.

The tired sigh that escapes Sun’s throat is thoroughly earned. “Well, it’s too late to figure something else out, I already sent out the emergency ping.”

“Not sure,” he says, and Sun can tell from his tone that it’s the truth. “Blurry. My head hurts.”

A sound like nothing he’s ever heard before tears itself from Moon’s voicebox. A growl, if he were to put a name to it.

“Get rid of it, then.” Moon insists through the noise, “Clean up, clean up.”

“It?” Sun gawks, “Moon, that – that’s a person. He has dignity, a family!”

“Had a family,” Moon corrects, “dead, now. No dignity. Who will they blame?”

The question gives him pause. Surely there was a better way to go about this, a solution that didn’t have his morals (and wires, for that matter) all up in a twist. Yet the longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes Moon is right. Management hardly listens when he tries to explain that it was the children who broke a piece of playground equipment, not him! They aren’t likely to give his explanation of simply having found the body any mind, much less understanding. With his counterpart practically admitting to the heinous act, already, informing management of the body would sooner see them decommissioned.

“Running out of time,” Moon reminds him, “Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick–”

“Alright, alright!” He wails, “What should I do, then?”

“Clean up.”

“Where?” Sun looks around with the desperation of a teenager attempting to play hooky, rays practically nonexistent with how he’s tucked them away. His eyes search the room from top to bottom before landing determinedly on the ball pit.

“Good enough,” Moon tuts, a rather uninspired response to the happenings around him. Of course he isn’t panicking, it isn’t him who takes the body by its ankles and drags the dead weight across the carpet. It isn’t him who shoves aside enough plastic to carefully hide a corpse in. But it should be him worrying, it should be him panicking, because if management finds out about their secret, it’ll spell doom for both of them.

“You’ll get rid of it – him – properly once there’s no one around, right?” Sun finishes reshuffling the ball pit, mostly confident that the ill deed is successfully hidden from view. “I’m going to have to wash each and every one of these balls before the kids arrive in the morning.”

Right, the kids. When they arrive in just a few hours, will he have things tidied up? Will he be able to carry on as though nothing happened? He’s a brilliant actor – or he used to be, anyway, before the company decided he better fit the role of a nanny – but this is well beyond the scripts he is most familiar with.

“They’re close,” Moon warns him, “Don’t let them see–”

“I know, I know.” No time to dwell on it now, he makes quick work of crossing the distance between the ball pit and the exit, and manages to slide his head and torso through the gap between doors within seconds of it opening, scaring the living daylights of the poor employee sent to greet him in the process.

Unlike Sun, they do swear, clutching a hand over their chest and fitting him with a downright awful deadpanned stare. “Fuck, you couldn’t have waited a few seconds longer for me to come inside?” They hiss.

“Sorry, friend! Didn’t mean to spook you,” Sun chirps. He is careful to keep his bloodied hands safely tucked behind his back. “It’s just a mess in here, is all, and I’m rather embarrassed. There’s still equipment to clean, toys to organize, papers to fold–”

“Sure,” the employee interrupts, “It doesn’t really–” they pinch the bridge of their nose, exhaling with notably less exhaustion than Sun is feeling right about now, “I don’t particularly care. What’s the big issue that I was called down here for?”

“Oh! I just wanted to know if the next shipment of wipes had come in, yet. Like I said before, much to do! Always busy, busy, busy!”

Their stare turns into an outright glower. “That’s why you called the emergency line? For cleaning supplies?”

Sun shrugs, feigning ignorance. “Well, that’s an emergency to me. Apparently our standards are not the same.” He watches them roll their eyes with more enthusiasm than necessary. ”Do you know how messy children can be? It’s practically a barnyard in here, every single day, and don’t even get me started on how much of a health code violation it would be if one of them were to pick their nose and then–”

“Fine, I get it,” they snap, “I’ll make sure your damn supplies are delivered before the daycare opens. Anything else?”

“Told you they were annoying,” Moon chimes in.

“That’s everything!” He replies, “thank you a mighty amount, friend!”

“Mhm,” they mutter, waving him off with nothing more than the noncommittal sound. When they do turn to leave, it’s not soon enough, and Sun just barely manages to close the door with a whisper instead of a slam.

His back rests against it a moment later, and he allows himself to collapse from there, sliding down the smooth wooden frame until his tailbone reaches the floor. His knees twinge as they tuck against his chest, and he folds both arms atop, resting his temple against them and taking one long, much needed moment to just breathe.

It had only been half of a lie. There was much to do, much to clean, and only so many hours remaining to get it done. The wires nestled deep in his chest had calmed, yet the tremor in his hands continued, as it likely would until the very last speck of blood was washed clean.

“…Moon?”

“Hm?”

Sun tucks his knees ever closer. “Why…why did you do it?”

“…”

“I w-won’t be mad, promise! I’m sure this is all just one big misunderstanding, after all – a one time event, no biggie! But…was it out of anger? Fear? I mean, did he hurt–”

“In my way,” Moon replies.

Sun’s head lifts from the dark haven his arms provide, noting with growing exhaustion that, for the very first time, the lights felt too bright even for him. “What do you mean by that?” He asks, “Did he keep you from doing something?”

“…I don’t know.”

Again, Sun’s head falls against his arms in defeat, and again, not two seconds later, it lifts, determined not to lollygag any longer.

His legs creak with vocal effort as he gets back to his feet. “Well, no point in dwelling on it now, I suppose. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He takes in a wide view of the daycare – static trailing everywhere – and deflates with a sigh. “Guess I better get started. The sooner we get the place cleaned up, the sooner we can forget about all of this.”

He takes a step forward, and only that, swiveling on his heel when he catches last night’s roster from the corner of his eye. A single drop of static had landed and smeared across the name of a child meant to go home later in the evening.

Strangely enough, it appears they were never picked up.

Sun shrugs, gathering the paper in both hands and crumpling it into a ball to dispose of the smeared evidence. A simple mistake with the roster, that’s all it is. The parents often forget to sign their name after all. Accidents happen all the time!

The paper lands with a soft thunk in the nearest trash can and is just as quickly forgotten. Sun pivots towards the play area once more and heads for the supply closet, steadfast in his determination to be cleaned up on time, and feeling more confident than he ought to be about how things ended, all things considered.

More than anything, he is just happy to have all of this behind them.

[sysmedsaresexist]

I've seen this question going around a fair bit to blogs that don't really give a good answer and I don't really want to interact with, SO

Let's talk 📣

Headspaces

Did you know that there was a point in time when inner worlds were largely confined to discussions of polyfragmentation and complex MPD?

I've posted before about the experiences of older systems before the internet, and this topic falls into that same boat-- back before maladaptive daydreaming was even a named concept (Eli Somer first wrote about MaDD in 2002).

So, to anyone worried:

Not having an inner world is NORMAL

In fact, for the longest time, it was the norm.

As such, there were techniques used to HELP clients develop an inner world in an attempt to learn to communicate with their alters.

And I'd like to share one of those with you! This technique could be useful to ANYONE still struggling to speak with system members, and gives you a basis from which to build an inner world.

The Round Table Communication Exercise

When I first started my journey, I had no communication with my system. We experienced heavy emotional intrusion from each other, maybe a whisper here or there, but that was it.

My therapist taught me this technique to use during our sessions and while I was going to sleep.

Essentially, you're meditating. Find a quiet place to relax (when going to bed it perfect), close your eyes, and imagine a table.

Start simple, nothing intense. Hold the image of the table in your mind. What is it made from? How many legs does it have? What colour is it? Is there anything on it? Etch this table into your mind. Every inch of it. Commit it to memory.

And now, set chairs at the table. How many are there? Are they the same material as the table? Are they comfortable or hard? Tall backs? Arms? Can you sit in the chair and lean your forearms on the table? Is it comfortable?

Invite others to come sit with you.

Maybe they won't show up the first day, but continue to invite them, continue to imagine that table and the chairs. Note any changes that occur to the table.

Once you're comfortable with the table, familiar with it, slowly look around the room. How many walls? What colour? Is there anything on the walls? What kind of vibe is the room giving you? Is it welcoming and relaxing? If it's not, imagine yourself changing the room. Straighten pictures, paint the walls.

Continue to visit this room and invite others to come talk.

Eventually, someone came to sit at the table with me. As we sat and spoke, I could start to envision his face, his hair, his voice, his clothes, I could hear him telling me his name.

And over time, more people joined us. More chairs appeared, knickknacks were scattered around the room and across the table, doors appeared along the walls.

We created a couch and a TV, to simulate fronting and imagine our interactions together.

Because that's all an inner world is-- an imaginary recreation to represent internal interactions.

There isn't some small pocket in your brain where everyone lives, you're not born with an inner world, it doesn't come free with your first alter's Xbox. An inner world can be as simple as being able to visualize an interaction, or an entire immersive daydream city.

One of my alters is very emotionally reactive, and when he's frustrated, he "flips the table." This visualization is something everyone in the system can see, it's the same feeling each time, and the reactions of each alter can be perfectly visualized as this table flips-- exhausted groans, facepalms, shooshpaps as he's whisked away to his room through one of the doors.

When we're fighting for front, we can see ourselves sitting on the couch in front of the television, fighting over the remote, or if we're co-con we can imagine ourselves sitting together on the couch. Maybe we're cuddled and happy, or maybe we're sitting there awkwardly, a solid inch between us where we refuse to brush arms.

Over time, the couch became bigger, and more of us could sit together, everyone aware of and watching the images on the screen of our life happening in real time. We could talk to each other about choices we were making.

Eventually, we could visualize ourselves talking it out rather than fighting. We were able to slam our hands down on the table before it could be flipped.

These visualizations are our basis of communication.

This is an inner world, even if it's nothing more than a room that I created myself.

I hope this exercise can help others.

Good luck, and happy daydreaming.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 1, Unarmed - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, poorly translated Russian, mentions of CSA/trafficking, mentions of death, emotional repression of childhood trauma, Bucky nightmares, bonding over trauma, some fluff and comfort.

Word Count: 2.6k

Previously On...: You literally ran into Bucky in the hallway outside your rooms and bond over a shared love of Middle Earth like the fucking nerds you are. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

A/N: I know this part introduces some heavy backstory for our Dear Reader. Please know writing this for her has been a therapeutic exercise for me in dealing with trauma from my own childhood, which, coincidentally, has been shoved back into the forefront of my life recently, forcing me to re-evaluate things I thought I had processed. Please know that I'm not approaching this subject flippantly, and her reactions/attitudes have been based on my own healing (or rather, suppressing) journey.

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @blackhawkfanatic @marcswife21

Your friendship with Bucky only continued to grow from there. There was something about him, his quiet demeanor, his gentle sense of humor, that made you feel an immediate connection with him, as if you'd known him for ages instead of just a few weeks. You weren't one to open up to others easily; it had taken you over a year to trust that Tony didn't have any ulterior motives for befriending you, but with Bucky, it was effortless, as if you couldn't have stopped it even if you wanted to.

About three weeks into his residency at the Tower, you were exposed to your first instance of one of Bucky's nightmares. He'd told you he frequently had them, but you'd yet to experience one firsthand. You hadn't been able to sleep-- your own losing battle with insomnia--, so you were coming back up from getting a late night snack in the communal kitchen when you heard the muffled shouting coming from behind his door. At first, you were going to ignore it, sure that it was his television, but you heard him utter a single, desperate "Pozhaluysta," the sound of it so heartbreaking that your breath caught in your lungs. Please.

Crossing over to Bucky's door, you knocked softly. "Bucky? It's Pocket. Are you okay? I heard shouting." You waited for an answer... but nothing. Taking a step closer, you put an ear to the door, holding your breath. You could make out the sound of frantic thrashing, cries of "Net!" and then a whimper. He sounded like he was in trouble, like he was in pain.

"FRIDAY," you said to the AI that ran the tower, "open the door."

"I'm sorry, Ms. (Y/L/N), but Sergeant Barnes has locked his door for the evening."

"For fucks' sake, FRIDAY," you muttered. "Enact override protocol 346.78C." There was no point in being the Avenger's resident computer genius if you couldn't hack their home automation system, was there? You heard the click of Bucky's door unlocking. Turning the handle and hoping that asking him for forgiveness was easier than asking for permission, you stepped inside.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, but once you were able to make out shapes in the gloom of the darkened suite, you saw that the layout was relatively similar to your own. You made your way over to the bed, expecting to see Bucky writhing on it in the midst of his nightmare, but it was empty, stripped of all bedding, just a bare mattress.

Then you heard him, thrashing from the space between the bed and the wall. You shuffled over to the other side and found the super soldier lying on the floor, tangled in his sheets. A thin sheen of sweat covered his naked torso, a pair of sweat pants riding low on his hips. His face was contorted in agony as his head twisted from side to side.

"Net! Net!" he cried out in Russian, fighting off invisible assailants, "Pozhaluysta, ne nado! Eto bol'no!" No! No! Please, no! It hurts!

It physically pained your heart to see him struggling like this, so you did the first thing that came to mind-- you threw yourself across him, wrapping your arms around his body and holding him in place, whispering back to him in Russian: "Ty v poryadke, ty v poryadke. Ty v bezopasnosti. Nikto ne mozhet prichinit' tebe vred." You're okay, you're okay. You're safe. No one can hurt you. "I've got you, Bucky. You're safe."

It was a long moment before you realized that his thrashing had stopped, his heartbeat had slowed, and he had wrapped his arm around you, holding you to him as if you were a lifeline.

You pulled back, allowing him to sit up.

"Pocket?" he asked, voice laced with confusion at seeing you, as though he wasn't sure if he was actually awake or not. "What are you doing here? And... were you speaking Russian, or was I dreaming?"

Suddenly shy, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, avoiding looking at him. Jesus. He literally just woken up to you throwing yourself on top of him. "I-I'm sorry," you stammered. "I was walking by, and it sounded like you were having a nightmare. I was worried, so I came in to check on you. I'll let you go back to sleep. Sorry." You got up to go, but his hand reached out and encircled your wrist, gently holding you in place.

"No," he murmured, pulling you back down to the floor next to him. "You were right, I was having a nightmare. I... I told you I get them, sometimes. Memories, really. Of things Hydra... did to me. Things they... things they made me do. Thank you," he looked up at you, catching your eyes through the darkness and holding your gaze. "Thank you for waking me up, for taking me out of it."

You gulped, the night becoming far more intimate than you could have anticipated when you went downstairs to grab a pint of ice cream earlier. You forced a smile. "Of course. What are friends for?"

"Are we?" he asked, his voice suddenly low, causing a pool of warmth to collect in the bottom of your stomach. "Friends?"

"Of course, Buck." You gave him a concerned look. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Because I'm a monster, Pocket." Bucky lowered his head in his shame. "I'm a murderer and a monster."

"Oh, Bucky, no." You took his chin into your hands and brushed a strand of hair away from his face. "Sweetie, no, you're not. You were a victim. You didn't consent to a single thing Hydra made you do. I know that it's going to take you a long time to believe that, but it's the truth. I promise you it is." He closed his eyes and nodded.

"Pocket, do you think..." he looked away from you, almost shyly, "do you think you could stay? After a nightmare, I... Well, I don't really like being alone."

"And Rogers isn’t one for midnight cuddling, huh?" you teased, a playful smile on your lips. You couldn't see it, but you could practically feel the sardonic look he was giving you. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Yes, I'll stay. But Bucky, I have one rule--"

"I'll keep my hand to myself and be a perfect gentleman, I promise," he said solemnly.

"Pfft," you scoffed. "I don't give a shit about that. Be as handsy as you want. No, my one rule is: I am not sleeping on the fucking floor." Bucky rewarded you with another one of his genuine laughs. You couldn't articulate how happy it made you feel knowing that you were the cause of that laughter.

"You got it," he said, as he stood up and began to move his sheets and pillows back to the bed. "Nothing but the best for you, doll."

Your insides glowed at this new nickname, and you were positive he was going to notice how his words made you light up in the dark. You busied yourself with helping him make up the bed before crawling under the covers. You tried not to be too obvious as you inhaled the scent of Bucky on the pillowcase. He smelled like cedar and leather and something unidentifiable that was just so quintessentially Bucky that it had become your favorite scent. You wanted to bottle it up and use it like a fabric spray so you'd always be surrounded by it. 

The bed dipped as Bucky got in, pulling the covers up over himself. "Thank you for this, Pocket," he whispered.

You turned onto your side to face him. "Of course. Any time, Bucky; I sincerely mean that. I know what it's like; I have them, too."

"You do?" You felt him reach for you in the dark, taking your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours. "You can tell me about them. If you want to."

You nodded, before realizing he probably couldn't see you, so you hummed an affirmative. There was something about the cover of night that made you feel brave, safe in opening up to Bucky; you found yourself wanting to tell him what kept you awake at night. You took a deep breath.

"I... didn't have the best childhood," you began, trying to keep your voice steady. "My father took off before I was old enough to even remember what he looked like, and my mother was always more interested in getting high than she was with being a parent. I was in and out of foster care for a while when I was a little girl." Buck squeezed your hand in sympathy and you continued: "Then she got this boyfriend, Darren." God, even now, the taste of his name on your tongue was like bitter bile. "For a little while, things were… better. Mom got her shit together enough that Social Services sent me back to live with her. I could almost believe that things were going to be okay. I mean, we even stayed in the same place for more than six months. I went to school regularly. It almost made me feel like a normal kid."

"What happened?" You barely heard Bucky's whispered question. You let out a harsh, disillusioned laugh.

"Puberty," you told him. "I turned eleven, got boobs and suddenly Darren's paying a lot more attention to me." You felt Bucky tense in the bed beside you. "Of course, that's entirely my fault, right?" you continued. "At least according to my mother. They started fighting more often, and she went back to the booze and meth. Stopped giving a shit about everything. Going to work, paying bills, making sure I went to school, whether or not I even ate. Only thing that mattered was where the next fix was going to come from." You took a breath. This next part was the hardest, and Tony was the only one you'd ever told the entire truth of the matter to.

"And with Mom incapacitated, boyfriend feels he's got free reign," Bucky supplied for you.

"Yeah," you swallowed, grateful you hadn't needed to actually say it, yourself.

"Pocket," Bucky began, "that's aw--"

"There's more," you admitted before he could continue. "Darren liked to bet on horses but, like absolutely everything else he ever did, he was complete shit at it. Ended up owing some horrible guys a lot of money. There was no way in hell he'd have been able to come up with it, so he... proposed a trade."

"God," Bucky breathed. "Oh, Pocket. I am so, so sorry."

"Thanks," you said, wishing that was the end of it, but knowing that you still weren't finished. "Darren realized he had a valuable commodity that a, uh, certain kind of man would pay good money for, and he wasn't just going to let such a lucrative income stream go to waste. He was an idiot, but he wasn't that dumb."

Next to you, Bucky sucked in a breath. You could practically feel him vibrating with anger for your younger self. "How long?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Seven years, more or less. When I turned 18, I grabbed every important document I could get my hands on, hightailed it to Boston and never looked back. But the memories, the nightmares? They still haunt me. Even after all this time, they’ve never fully gone away. So, you know, I get it."

There was silence for a moment, but then Bucky cleared his throat and asked: "Where is he now?"

"He's got himself a nice little plot of land in Pensacola," you said, a smile ghosting your face.

"So, he got off Scott-free." Bucky's voice was a low growl.

"Oh, I didn't say that, you said slyly. "That nice little plot is a pauper's grave at Pensacola Federal Prison Camp. Bastard got himself shanked in the slammer about ten years ago. Happiest day of my fucking life.

Bucky's laugh was low and dry. "What about your mom? Please tell me she got what she deserved, too."

You shifted slightly, propping your head up onto your hand. "Honestly, I have no idea what happened to her. The way she drank, she's probably long dead by now, and I could honestly not care less. That's why I have everyone call me Pocket." Bucky moved to mirror your position, using a pillow to prop himself up instead of an arm, so you were laying eye to eye, only a few inches separating your faces.

"Okay, explain to me how that makes sense," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his warm breath fanning pleasantly across your skin.

His touch was gentle and you found yourself subtly leaning into it. "My legal name is (Y/N)," you told him. "It was my mother's name, too. I know that 'Pocket's a ridiculous nickname, but when people call me that, it's like I'm someone else, someone new. I'm not that scared little girl that had all those horrible things happen to her. I'm someone I made myself into." Your voice had dropped to barely a whisper as you admitted it to him.

He studied you for a moment before speaking, voice low. "Thank you for trusting me with this, Pocket." 

You let out a small laugh. "I think we might need to make each other some matching friendship bracelets or something after all of this sharing," you told him. Bucky laughed with you, and the tension that had been hovering in the air lessened. You hadn't meant to get so deep into your personal history, or to get emotional, but sharing your story with Bucky brought you a sense of relief; at the very least, you'd helped take Bucky's mind off of his own nightmares, even if it had meant delving back into your own.

You both fell silent for a moment, and then Bucky spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant. "Pocket, can I ask you something? A favor?"

You looked at him, noticing how his eyes glinted in the dark. "Yeah, of course, Bucky. What's up?"

He swallowed audibly, his grip returning to your hand. "I don't want to overstep or make you uncomfortable, so maybe this is too much to ask, but… do you think…  maybe we could… I don't know… be there for each other? You know, when we have nightmares? Just... hold each other, maybe?"

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your mind suddenly racing with implications. Was he suggesting what you thought he was suggesting? Did he want to… cuddle with you? Your body was suddenly acutely aware of how close you were to him, of the heat that radiated off of his body. You licked your lips before answering, your voice coming out a little huskier than you intended. "I mean… I wouldn't be opposed to that. If you think it would help, then I'm all for it."

Bucky let out a small sigh of relief, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing soothing circles. "Thank you, Pocket. You have no idea how much it means to me."

You leaned into his touch, a shiver running down your spine at the gentleness of it. "I think I might. I mean, I don't know exactly what you went through, but I know what it's like to feel scared and alone."

Bucky leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead as he whispered, "Neither of us have to be alone anymore. We'll be here for each other."

And then, without another word, he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close to his chest. You could feel the beat of his heart, steady and strong, and the warmth that radiated off of him made you feel safe, taken care of. You wrapped your arms around him in return, feeling a new sense of peace and security you hadn't known in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[sylvies-chen]

my favourite thing about season 2 hands down was watching them bring darcy’s storyline to life and it really highlights what heartstopper as a comic-book-turned-television-show does so so well, which is encompass different forms of queer trauma/struggle

this season focused a lot on nick’s journey with coming out, the steps forwards and backwards he takes. it also shows him dealing with actual homophobic sentiments directed at him in his own home for the first time (can I get a good ol’ FUCK david nelson up in here? thank you!) which he has to learn to handle if he wants to come out sadly. and gaining that strength to step forward into the public eye and even just the point of having to actively own and protect your identity is definitely a valid struggle and anxiety-inducing thing, as we all see.

charlie’s trauma is also explored, though it takes to the end of season/vol 2 to get us there, in that spot where he opens up about it. the eating problems is definitely the red flag that consistently and subtly pops up throughout the season, but we don’t get that full unravelling of the impact it’s had on him until the last episode. he got outed and bullied at school at an age where social acceptance and community is so integral to your self-esteem. and he hasn’t developed healthy coping mechanisms to deal with the lasting impacts of it.

but darcy’s trauma and struggle weighed on my heart so much this season too, because not only is kizzy just a phenomenal actor but also because it provided a whole other angle of trauma that charlie and nick haven’t quite been through: the trauma of homophobia from a parent. like, it is so crushing to learn that the one person who is supposed to love you unconditionally just… doesn’t. nick has his mum, and charlie has tori as a protector and supporter, and his parents too in their very misguided way. they both have at least one family figure in the household that embraces them and, at the very least, will defend them. but darcy doesn’t, and her friends are her only support system. which doesn’t make her struggles any worse or better than nick’s or charlie’s, but it just brings a different angle into how she interacts with the group and I loved getting to watch her finally be able to open up.

I could also go into ben, how he represents a fourth sort of struggle which is when queer repression and internalized homophobia take a toll on your moral character, but instead I just want to wrap up by saying that as much as heartstopper represents the varying ways in which queer struggles impact your life, it does so thricefold in representing the different ways in which queerness and queer community heal you, making life more vibrant and fun and peaceful.

so… yeah. I’m not emotional you are.

[angellurgy2]

Hiveship

hii! this is the 1st and 2nd chapter of my new story, as a little show of whats to come when i make it a full-length book.

cw for bug rape but like, its also just an introduction to deeper non/sexual ways the bugs will destroy this girl's soul. you'll see!

i'd appreciate if people checked this out/gassed it up because i've worked reallyyy hard on this for a bit ^-^

CHAPTER 1

A live wire sparks as loretta reaches a gloved claw inside the open electrical box, her digits blunted by her heavily plated and padded, alabaster white cosmonaut suit. she roots around the active electricity, scraping out chunks of the greenish-brown sludge growing in its crevices- the same mysterious viscous slime that’s been popping up in parts across her starship over and over the past few weeks. her theories ranged from an excremetal expulsion of an unidentified space object, to some disgraceful cosmonaut’s trash finding its way into her ship’s vents.

she clicks the button for the analyzing tool of her protective visor, closely examining the fluid. long thin wires splay across all sections of the large junction, leaving burning hot indents in the thick substances that feel like way too much of a fire risk. looking at the wires, spread out in patterned parallels like gigantic spider-webs, an anxious tinge of fear strikes her. don’t fall in, don’t get caught- robots don’t need any more prey. not that you’re prey. you aren’t.

she flicks her visor back off, worried her sweat might fog up the the visor, and continues swiping the rest of the gunk into a bin.

all clean, she fixes the fuses back into place before immediately making her way back over to the equipment corridor to hang up her suit. on the way she passes vibrant posters of mechanical cross-section diagrams, detailed anatomy drawings of every variety of species she could scavenge, and historical propaganda posters. it was a nice splash of existence inside a clinical minimalist coating. 

lounging in the cabin suite on her sofa, she flips her state-provided entertainment console to the galactic news. on-screen a suited, pristine looking woman takes the centre stage behind a stretched out desk. her voice is calm and analytical, with a hint of soft sympathy that can’t be hidden no matter how hard of a professional facade they must put on.

“News from the pandora planets have finally reached the internal core, revealing devastating effects of the latest assault campaign from the exoskeletal hives, multiple colonies’ messengers have reported complete razing of ground and sub-ground infrastructure, with several not appearing for the census at all. the URSS military and all commune bioships have retreated back to pantheon-V for rehabitation before a pandora counter-takeover can be attempted.”

Loretta shudders. the exoskeletals have been advancing deeper into URSS territory much faster than ever before, the fact that the state hasn’t been able to put a stop to it—and that the threat has only gotten more aggressive—makes sweat begin to pour down her head. if she was doing a term with the forces or part of a commune science crew she’d probably be worried for her life right now. thankfully, her ship was currently flying safely in one of the middle systems, relaxing in orbit of an abandoned desert world after recently coming back from a call of excursion to the outer worlds. she always enjoyed the quiet of minimal space travel and the utter lack of civilization when she gazed down upon a world, so this has been her favourite spot to reside for a long while. from the cabin module’s glass wall she can see such stark vistas of sandy mountain ranges, demarcating the most beautiful fields of gigantic outstretching spiny cactus.

with a loud buzz the tv automatically switches to the nightly Sallite news segment, where they broadcast the most important of state propaganda to every television set at 8pm local time. with an exasperated sigh she turns the volume all the way down to 1, takes off her grey tank, and throws herself into her cushioney bed. a switch on the wall next to the alloy headboard turns on the room’s surround sound to a soft pitter of forested rainfall, and she falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Loretta awakes to the foreign sound of a sloppy wriggling near the floor by the end of her bed. jerking upright, she quickly slides into the suit boots she had laid at the side of her bed, strapping them tight, and moves to examine the intruder. 

a pulsating green slime slides itself across the floor, leaving a small trail of slightly transparent lime goo behind it. loretta kneels to look at it closer. she could swear it’s looking right back at her- though without any obvious eyes or features of its own. it excretes another loud squelching sound and fires off a copper-smelling mist around it, some of which sprays directly into loretta’s face causing her to wince and tear up at the dense cloud of smell. she reflexively slams her booted heel down into the creature, stomping through its gelatinous body.

she attempts to swiftly scrape the thing off her heel,, but the flattened slime spreads to encase her entire boot before she can even look down at it. when she does, she sees sticky lime green half-translucent goo coating the suit metal like adhesive, excreting a slight burning odour. loretta throws her leg around trying to eject the subject, but only manages to trip over herself, tumbling to the thick panelled floor with a resounding thud. 

on her back she watches with wide terrified eyes as the slime continues to slowly expand up her limb. it should be stretching itself out fully by now, but it seems to have an infinite amount of mass to express over her. some kind of anomalous entity from deep space? but how would it have gotten this deep into the middle systems? a new wormhole would’ve been reported immediately, and the nearest systems are all too well-inhabited. the gears turn in her head, clearly rusted over, struggling to think of a potential scientific hypothesis. by the time she breaks out of her clouded monologue and thinks to stop analyzing, the slime has already subsumed her entire left leg, grasping spreading tiny green tendrils grappling for the next part, which is fully uncovered by the comforting protection of the URSS engineer corps. she struggles to force herself away by clawing into the floor, but the slime seems to have extra weight to pin her leg down. such a little creature, overpowering her so easily- it must be alien. she doesn’t stop struggling even if it pins her utterly. if she could just get to the corner and grab her piece she could-

her scrabbling eyes find themselves staring at the cabin’s ceiling vent. a thick bile-like grey sludge seeps down from the cracks, forcing her to hurry. loretta shoves her hand into the green slime against her better judgement, trying to peel it off like one of her mother’s gelatin molds. her hands try to slide underneath it but they find themselves struggling to push against an unmovable solid, far away from the gravyesque consistency it had before. then she feels her legs, or rather, feels the lack of feeling of her legs. when she tries to move them, she cant even muster a shake, lower half pinned to the floor, not even pins or needles remaining. it doesn’t stop her relentless pushing and attempts to pull herself out by her arms, but she might as well be an amputee at this point. like one of those UOA prisoners of war from back in the day, laser neutered to be nothing but working hands for the Authority’s machines.

unable to get away from the oncoming deluge, lorreta realizes it must be relent or die. and so she does, shutting her eyes tight and curling her lips inward together like the anti-parasitites’ studies have taught her. though this wasn’t the typical annalidesque parasite commonly found in the outer cosmos, or a parasite at all for all she knows, it’s the best her dizzy mind can handle. and as she feels the sludge’s drip touch down on her estrogenated skin, it succeeds in helping stop it from flowing inside her eyes. she can feel it coat the skin tight, like a face mask but smelling of wood and suffocating and lively probing at her pores, blocking her vision black with its opaque body.

the sludge now dispensed, loretta senses a chance and attempts to pry the mask off of her. blindly groping for a free spot by her neck and sliding her unkempt nails under it and into the disgusting goo. it feels like a cadaver from anatomy class under her fingers, diving into the fat and peeling away the outer layer. but this corpse has undergone rigor mortis, and loretta’s attempts to peel it off go only slightly better than with the green thing, lifting an inch before it slaps itself back on even tighter. her second attempt goes even worse, her arms starting to feel numb and anaesthetized. she lifts her arms to fight but she cant feel the texture of what she touches anymore, and then the viral limpness travels to the rest of her motor function, and they flop uselessly at her sides. no part of her body responding to her brains frenzied orders to move, the most she can do is flail inside.

she pictures Andromeda-ZE in her mind’s eye, emotionally travelling to the place she spent most her childhood. she’s running through the market, the most well-known place in the capital, excitedly waving at family friends and commune teachers like she’s a kid again, so happy, so free, so ignorant. red and yellow and orange colours shine bright on the market stalls, sand and wood structures stand beautifully tall around her, everything is even more beautiful than it was when she was young. the wind on her cheeks as she runs makes her glow with a safety she doesn’t feel in the atmospheric void in space. not far ahead she spots her unit hut, and ramps up her speed. in a minute of invigorating sprint, she makes it to the large aspen door, knocking 5 times. she hears several light footsteps trot up and bounces with excitement. the door slowly creeps open… 

and a hulking nurse bug towers over her. its mandibles chitter, the egg sack on its back wiggles, and its claws rub together in front of its chest. she looks into the creature’s eyes and sees a thousand mirrors staring back at her. she screams muffled into the slime gag, jolting away from the colour behind her eyelids, and back into the void in front of them. instead of trying to push inside like loretta assumed, the sludge begins to creep into the part of her eye socket above her lids, pushing with prying hair-like digits. her heart cramps, and she can feel her heavy perspiration being immediately absorbed by the material the second it drips.  she doesn’t want to close her eyes, doesn’t want to see the bugs that close again- the spindling inner legs, the slimey chitin, vision of swarms of exoskeletals charging her squad flash through her, all she wants to do is scream but all it does is wear out the last muscles she can work. but she can’t stop, she wails banshily, reverberating in her own skulll. and then she can’t manage to hold her eyes open any longer.

the jointed arthropod returns, fully subsuming her soul. 

“it’s okay, sweet darling Lore, we are here now” it speaks in her mothers voice. sweet and soothing.

CHAPTER 2

loretta wakes up in a stasis vat, her body floating in air like oil. green biofluid drenches her skin, manufactured nutrients flooding her organs, keeping her fed and stable. she smiles, thinking back to her first spacewalk, bounding into the open cosmos with footless steps. she kicks her foot up, sending herself into an airy backflip. her mouth opens on its own and takes in a load of the fluid. it tastes like the earth pineapples her mothers would trade for on her birthdays. she has to figure out what this is when she’s out of here. and by the looks of her motor functions, she’ll be out of this in no time. 

* * *

she awakes groggily inside of another vat. there’s no more fluid, but something similar sticks to every inch of her skin. the walls of steel have turned into a coffinesque cocoon, fleshy and aboreal brown and wriggling with her movements. yet as she attempts to push herself backwards, her hands still find themselves scraping cold metal. she sees how some light manages to seep through the cracks of the chitinous chamber, and prods at the squishy folds where the tiny glowing rays strike, poking through an inch or two of foreign flesh before her fingertips feel air. bio vat? or some sort of.. metamorphosis chamber? she can’t remember how she got here, or when she signed up for such a procedure. she needs to find someone before she gets stuck. she lifts her moist lips to one of the little holes and screams out a plea for help. she manages to fit another finger out, and begins trying to spread open the breach when she’s stopped by someone’s cold fingers pulling hers. one of the scientists, or guards? 

the person outside pulls on loretta’s hand hard and she feels her light body raise up to the roof of her confines. despite her reaching the walls, they keep going, tugging forcing painful friction between her bare limbs and the meaty hide. in a few short, supernatural pulls she is burst through the sac entirely, getting to see chunks of what appears to be sinew and slime splattering the surroundings as she flies through antigravital space and crashes hard into a familiar wall.

HISSSSSSSTHH

innumerous spindly brown limbs bringing fading memories of phasmid anatomy charts stretch out across the polished floor and walls now brutally scattered with keepsake and furniture debris, looking like abstract blobs in loretta’s slime coated vision. blobs which are constantly being absorbed upwards into the air by twitchy movements. loretta grasps at the wall behind her, pulling herself away from the enormous creature. 

slamming into the far wall, she attempts to reach for where her dresser should be, where her trusty sidearm should be awaiting its imminent retrieval. then she remembers the lack of gravity. 

it was a stupid idea to make a grav switch so accessible. she never even uses it, and humans are the only creature out in this abyss who are weak to its pull. stupid stupid stupid. she tries to look for it in the debris but can’t make it out through all the other white and grey blobs. 

in the room, a few brown splotches stand out, utterly foreign to the ship’s shade-based palette. she stares closer, and even more seem to appear. the black space where the open door leads to dark corriders begins spewing them  out en masse until at least two dozen of them scatter across the floors walls and ceiling of the cabin, staring right back into her with beady pinpricked eyes. 

a bug pounces, its thin limbs pinning loretta hard. the hair on its tarsi scrape across her bare arms jolting goosebumps up her entire body. its membranal underside presses up close, making her shake with unease as its squishy segmented body rubs against her and coats her with an inky discharge well familiar to her after multiple campaigns. 

click, click, click, click. clinking mandibles together, like a hungry and petulant child. antennae rub against her ears, just then noticing their dulling by a xenotic wax substance. yet the vile hissing of a group of specially angered freaks still deafens. 

searing pain transports into her flesh. she screams but a sludgey backup in her windpipe stops everything but the vibration. loretta looks down at the thick brown apical claw stuck inches deep in her side. a gaping void begins a slow seeping of crimson.  another of the blobs quickly dashes into her view, bursting into definition as it pops up at the wound’s side. the same black liquid that drapes over her skin begins to leak out of its open mouth-thing, mixing and diluting the blood until the cut is naught but a thick black wall subsuming a portion of her outer thigh. 

she looks forward again as a twinge of neck pain insults her for forgetting herself, and sees the first roach reaching its body upwards. a yonic hole in its abdomen begins to slowly invert, while a large black tendril reaches out of the now-extremity and fluidly twirls itself around loretta’s leg, dripping ichor all the way.

she’d never gotten this close to one of the breeders before, to the point she didn’t even recognize their exotype until now. as far as she knew, they stayed deep inside the tunneled grounds of the hive worlds, fucking like lagomorphs to appease their queens and ever-outbreed the URSS’s onslaughts. and yet, here they are.

the appendage flicks into loretta’s belly, proding at and pushing inside her navel cavity. it feels almost like she’s being licked by a pet dog, or it would if it wasn’t by a fucking bug. the creature tries to push forward past the inch-deep space and is swiftly yanked back in turn, reaching the end of its rope. loretta sighs. if they can’t even reach her then the worst they could probably do is-

the tentacle prods at a lower place before a concept can reach her nerves. a deserted, forgotten plateau, a space too human for her to accept. sliding over a smooth ravine, wet shocks drive up her legs. coiling atrocity digs into her malleable dirt like the hills in pandora. she screams like she imagines it must. though the terror speaks in soft, writhing texture, and not pain. pandora and i, sister bodies- desecrated in twain.

she turns her head to the room’s one window. beyond the hexagonal plasteel frame, one of the last things held up through the chaos, halcyon skies stretch out for infinity- vistas of beautiful achromatic calm broken only by dots of terrestrial colour. an anaerobic dead zone, where nothing except calm would subsume her. devour her. she yearns to feel that cold blanket take her now. she dreams of the window bursting open, space gaining pressure the glass wasn’t ready for, and ripping them all out with it. she dreams of mom bursting through the door gun in hand. she dreams of simply disappearing from all being. 

from above her head slithers another pair of mandible and trio of forceps, digging into her budding chest. a sparse pink miasma sprays across her vision, and she’s stumbled out of her wonder by a furious coughing fit rising in her trachea, and finally taking off some of the adhesive coating her throat alongside it. she tries to look back outside and the claws digging deeper just force her gaze right back. her eyes glaze over with water and, unable to wipe the sleeves away, it drowns her. it fills her mouth until her muscles strain, spread taught like an epithelial fingertrap. she cant help but cough more, painfully clenching on the foreign object sliding deeper inside using her windpipe as a transistor to her weak points.

beige meat squishes up against her face, phantom sensations of a man’s stomach thrusting. it should never have been able to get more evil than that. how did they put human’s cruelty into animals, was it taught? more inches of squishish meat force the thought from her shrouded head. her tears taste like ink. maybe they like it that way.

Lorettas’s hull stretches with fullness and terror. she cant see it, but she can feel it bulging her front extremitously. it feels like the two tendrils will soon meet in the middle. she shudders in fear and feels them swirl inside her as punishment. 

she feels a slight relent, and her thoughts finally losing their haze. the creatures in front of her thrust backwards through the air, and the twisting coiling tentacles whorl their way out like a pullcord. again she has to feel the thing climb her hole, leaving a painful space where there used to be nothing, unable to go back to nothing. it is ashamed and sobbing in it’s own. what a bipolar old lady you are, where is your rage?

his voice forces itself inside of her. look what you’ve done. ruined and irreparable. you must’ve loved it. you and your little bug fascination. maybe if you didn’t spend your time with abominations, you wouldn’t have become one. 

she screams back. it’s not too late, i don’t love them. he’ll never control me again, i’ve carved so much into the world, i won’t let myself be belittled. you’re smart, they’re miniscule- a surprise assault shows their utter lack of strength. i’ll kill them all if i have to. i’ll prove it, i will.

she tries to open her eyes again and sees, stained by pink clouds floating in her sclera, a huge mutated insectoid towering behind the others. a large dynastinaen horn displays ignorant ideas of its strength above its excitedly quivering mandibles. or perhaps the exoskeletals have no need for concepts of pride or egotism. perhaps hive mentality’s destroyal of the individual will always grant them an advantage. no thought of the victim- evil little creatures. no different than the evil of the Authority. no different than-

two blunt black mandibles thrust into her chest. the wind is crushed from her body before she can realize what’s happening. she is too dazed to look at the impact. her deflated cadaver is thrusted into the air, and carried,

her vision bobs up and down as swift twig limbs drag her forth without thought. station windows fly past her, blobs vaguely looking like her favourite posters lay scattered and sliced in pieces, slime staining them irreparable as it coats the floor. does their cruelty know no limits? was the destruction of her ship and her spirit not enough? the destruction of her people? will anything sway their pure evil? she wants to cry, but she’s already using all the tears her body can muster. 

black begins to gorge itself on the halls, the chunky whirring of automatic doors blares in her ears drowning out the chattering sounds of dozens of limbs. the hydraulics were a deeply familiar sound, one she had always cherished hearing. it felt like a reminder of the spacecraft’s life, always interacting to her existence, responding in kind noise whenever loretta’d root around fixing her insides. it was a comforting relationship, wonderful in its unconditionality.

now, her beautiful partner screamed red with anger. they destroyed her entrance too. the airlocks outer seal is burst open with what could fairly be assumed to be anti-ship cannons, if not for the claw marks and acid tainting it all. she looks through the inner seal, into the void where death surely awaits, her body has been so painfully torn and remade, that she can’t make herself put up a single limb to fight at the end. she imagines a blaster in her hand, and clenches its handle tight. then she opens her eyes, and her fingers havent moved an inch. 

then her face meets cold surface, jagged. then the green drapes grab onto her skin again. then her blood mixes with the green and turns the colour to the same rust she smelled in the air at the start. then she feels the perfectly held-at-average air of her beloved spaceship turn into cold freezing anguish of the outside. then she feels her body turn to nothing. then, she feels nothing at all.

[sanjerina]

Not to go off, but:

- structural, racial, and financial inequalities make it next to impossible for some parents to parent effectively (because they’re working six jobs and/or are in prison and/or are chronically ill);

- their kids go to understaffed and underfunded schools who are expected to provide not just education but also child care, mentoring, mediation, and twelve other unfunded mandates to support their students;

- the kids wind up trying to parent themselves and counsel their friends in schools that are not following through on their IEPs, not providing effective classroom management, and not able to keep sufficient adults around for supervision — and schools are thence full of dysregulated children. many of them high as balls, who do not feel safe;

- and our health insurance companies give me and my colleagues in community mental health like 8-12 therapy sessions to fix alllll of that and refer them out to community supports that either don’t take public insurance or straight up don’t exist.

(Plus we still don’t agree on best practices for teaching people to safely use television and the internet, much less these damn smartphones, and our brains are still running hardware from 150,000 years before the Neolithic Revolution.)

So not to kvetch or anything? but I think the rich assholes who have been profiteering off of the aforementioned inequalities should be obligated to spend a few billion dollars to fund some smart people who have been trying to actually fix, like, literally any part of this.

I ranted yesterday at the end of this post about C-PTSD about the extensive damage chronic stress and chaos does to brains. We have set up a system in which this damage is almost unavoidable for a vast number of people, and it’s only snowballing out of control as the generational trauma continues to rack up. (This shit was already endemic when I was a kid, and I’m old enough to be some of these kids’ grandparents.)

We continue to ask more out of workers, more out of children, and more out of their schools, and while thank GOD people are finally talking openly about the impact on mental health, community mental health centers designed to patch you up and send you back for more systemic damage are … not gonna be enough.

Like, it’s something! Therapy will and can and does help! But if you are sensing the game is rigged, I am here to validate the shit out of that for you.

And yet. And yet. We go on. Gotta haul on that moral arc and bend it. 💛

[eroticcaa]

AFTERLYFE - S.RILEY x BLACK!READER

࿔ An age-old war has been raging since the start of the apocalypse between the military and the vampires as their sworn enemies. Soldier after soldier seems to go to waste as the vampires keep multiplying. Task Force 141 had been deployed out when the Colonel took interest in the hive of vampires.

࿔ CODENAME: Smiley. "SUKO"

࿔ WC: 510 [SRRY MY LOVES! It’ll be longer next chapter promise!] [NOT EDITED]

࿔ Tags: VAMPIRE APOCALYPSE, YOUNGER SIBLING OF GAZ, SWEARING, INTENSE GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, SYMBIOTE!READER, BLOODY CONTENT, DEATH, SLOW BURN.

ACT I, SCENE I: ❝ OUTBREAK ❞

It had been 5 years since they came back to their home, the sun disappeared, engulfing the world in eternal darkness. The air turned into a crisp cold that brought shivers to human skin. Then they just..came, like they were waiting. Many humans died that night, young, old, mid-aged. No matter the difference. They bought different diseases with them not suited for humans.

Within Two hours, the world was in ruins, the remaining alive running, crying, hiding, streets ablaze — doors to cars and businesses left open with blood trailing to the ground, drip, drip, dripping onto the concrete. There’s a television store three stores down from the ruin park. Over and over, it repeats the same message.

“THIS IS AN EMERGENCY BROADCAST. ALL PROGRAMS HAVE BEEN TEMPORARY DISABLED IN THESE AREAS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. FURTHER INFORMATION WILL BE PROVIDED SHORTLY BY YOUR LOCAL GOVERNMENT OR POLICE DEPARTMENT UNTIL THEN PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND TAKE TO THE NEAREST SHELTER. WE ADVISE TO DO ANY MEANS NECESSARY TO PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR LOVED ONES..”

The picture changes to a woman, pale skinned, blonde, middle-aged, —— she seemed to be dressed in a military uniform but in a more professional setting. Behind her were white walls of what seemed to be a closed off room.

“This is an emergency message from Kate Laswell, overseer of the CIA Special Activities Division. We advise you and your loved ones to stay inside, our system has been tracking large amounts of clouds, tsunamis rising in the Pacific Ocean. Temperatures dropping rapidly to negative 20 degrees C•. This unknown phenomenon is said to reach the city of Chicago within the next hour. Civilians are advised to stay inside or immediately find shelter. Do not travel around the area you are in unless instructed. Immediate care and highways have been closed to civilian use.”

“Expect a disruption with Mobile and Internet services for the next 2 weeks until further action has been done. Safety information will be communicated via Radio. Station 97.3, if you have any useful information or questions do not hesitate to channel in. Immediately seek shelter and assist each other in this upcoming situation. Please..we can’t lose ourselves to those…things or lose ourselves within each other. May God help us all in the end.”

“Laswell..Signing Off.”

© EROTICCAA 2024. DO NOT MODIFY, COPY, TRANSLATE, REPOST OUTSIDE OF TUMBLR OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN.

࿔ ࿔

notes: this is just the start of a chapter and I lowkey don’t fw it lol hope y’all enjoy!! don’t forget to like, reblog and comment what you think!

[wanderh3art]

i am too communist for syscourse bullshit.

even if the coexistence of multiple beings in one body ONLY exists as a biological reaction to chronic stress—a colonial imperialist viewpoint—it is counterproductive to gatekeep plurality on that basis

humans bodies are specialized for community and play. human bodies are NOT specialized to do labor for multiple hours every day. human bodies are NOT specialized to live under the "work or die" paradigm.

there is not a being alive on this planet not feeling some of the environmental stress of living in a world undergoing a manmade mass extinction event

and the vast majority of people i know are struggling to make ends meet. pressure is building, it's been building for awhile.

depression is rampant, and still undercounted. given how many people actively lie to therapists i think it's no joke fair to say the vast majority of people in my country, especially same age peers, are dealing with a chronic anxiety disorder and/or mood disorder

and we've all been going through it since we were young, right? how many of us had friends who were and are fully okay? chronic stress, anxiety, and/or depression since childhood are literally traumatizing.

in the united states, children have no rights. the american education system is traumatizing by design. it teaches youth how to be deprived of rights.

"but multiplicity is an extremely rare phenomenon"

Nope, it isn't. It simply isn't. Even by official metrics (which are always undercounts when it comes to stigmatized diagnoses), DID diagnoses are more common than red hair.

Psychistry lied. Psychiatry stigmatized plurality as a part of its colonial agenda to police ideas of self, body, and spirituality that don't fit into the western imperial dogma of One Self One Reason One God But Don't Think About That Last One Too Hard.

so listen. i don't actually give a fuck about scientific research into the "etiology" of my existence as a being, i find that offensive and adjacent to eugenics in mindset.

why am i here? well you see i'm an ex-imaginary shadow siren. i came here through the television while my then 5yo host was playing the thousand year door, i used to be an imaginary friend made out of shadows, i can operate in shared reality and also hold these beliefs about my self concept, it's not impossible.

HOWEVER.

even IF i thought there was a legitimate line of inquiry to be made into the "etiology" of multiple beings existing in one body

where is the untraumatized control group?

first off, you cannot accurately control for trauma or for particular types of trauma in this world. you just can't.

even if you could somehow only survey very honest people, i have had more than one clinician literally ignore me about not having had certain kinds of trauma and tell me that i must have experienced that trauma bc i'm multiple. so how the fuck can we trust these people's data on what causes multiplicity and plurality?

second off, everyone is traumatized. psychiatry and pop psychiatry lied about there being a meaningful divide between weak victims and resilient survivors too. - Vivian 🔥

[astrosky33]

HOUSE MEANINGS IN ASTROLOGY

[READ] People often question why there’s so many meanings for each planet/house and the reason is so that you can learn more than just one thing about yourself through each placement. Otherwise astrology would be very vague and boring. These are all meanings that I’ve learned from my astrology classes at Kepler College

1ST HOUSE: identity/self, outward personality traits, outlook on life/approach to life, appearance, physical body, beauty, confidence, beginnings, how you initiate/ambition, your mannerisms, your outward behavior, physical fights, your presence, individuality, and passion

2ND HOUSE: money/finances (how we spend it, store it, and manage it), work, short term jobs, your work ethic, material possessions, self worth, values, emotional security, stability, financial security, how you meet financial obligations, your singing voice, giving/receiving, and resources (both material and non material)

3RD HOUSE: communication, your speaking voice/the way you talk, your mind, the way you think/your thinking skills, your perceptions, your opinions, your conscious mind, neighbors, siblings, interests, gossip, ideas/information, mathematics, literature, transportation (only ground not flying/air), local media, social media, cell phones, phone calls, visits, social activity, publishing, early education (before college), short trips, and short journeys

4TH HOUSE: homes/houses, family/family roots, your parents (particularly the mother/motherly figure), your inner child, emotions, foundations, your childhood, heredity, tradition, self-care, places of residence, real estate, properties, femininity, and conditions in early life

5TH HOUSE: children, childlike spirit, talent, creativity, drama, risk-taking, spotlight, romance (shows short term relationships, flings, hookups, and if long term relationships then only puppy love), hobbies, pleasures, objects of affection, vacations, games, speculation, fertility, concerts, festivals, and joy

6TH HOUSE: daily routine/day to day life/daily tasks, your health/fitness/the work you do on your body, your duties, self improvement, consistency, step-siblings, your hygiene, innocence, systems, service to others, co-workers, analytical nature, diets, animals, and your pets

7TH HOUSE: long term relationships, marriage, concern for others, attraction/attractiveness, charm, conflicts, partnerships, business partners, contracts, love affairs, open enemies, close associates, lower courts, negotiations, peers, agents, equality, harmony, and sharing

8TH HOUSE: major transformation, sex, death, longevity, changes, joint/shared finances, investments, stock market, your partners resources, taxes, inheritance, reproduction, seduction, intimacy (in general not only sexual), rebirth, merging, taboos, resurrection, loans, assets, secrets, mystery, businesses, spiritual transformation, magic (especially black magic), psychology, surgery/operations, trauma, periods, and the occult

9TH HOUSE: wisdom, law/laws, beliefs, religion, philosophy, higher education (college/university), viewpoints, languages, foreign environments, in-laws (your relatives through marriage), ethics, long journeys, travel, ideologies, higher courts, media, television, interviews, cross-cultural relations, grandparents, and learning

10TH HOUSE: your legacy, your career, your public image, your status, your reputation, fame, long-term goals, worldly attainment, sense of mission, responsibilities, recognition, authority, father/fatherly figure, experts, bosses, achievements, and professional aspirations

11TH HOUSE: friends, friend groups, gains, money made from career, desires, step/half parents, step/half children, uniqueness, inventions, technology, film, social awareness, influence, manifestations, hopes and wishes for the future, ideals, humanitarianism, associates (not just close ones), groups (in general), politics, social networking, where you make your debut into society, companions, allies, science, socialization/social interaction, clubs, organizations, and parties

12TH HOUSE: healing, the hidden, karma, karmic debts, old age, sleep, mental health, solitude/isolation, dreams (the ones you have when you sleep), hidden enemies, hidden causes, illusions, secret bed pleasures, spirituality, fears, losses, endings, escapism, impersonations, closure, need for withdrawal/privacy, afterlife, limiting beliefs, subsconcious memory, subconscious mind, hypnotism, self-undoing, hidden desires, the past, delay, and restrictions

MASTERLIST

MORE BEGINNER ASTROLOGY

PLANET MEANINGS

© 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[fatehbaz]

what does your username mean?

Cat ghost.

As child. Would go to library, to look at books about creatures, with a pen and notepad. Or sit before a television watching "nature" documentary stuff, with a pen and notepad. Was fixated on habitats. The context. Did not like to isolate an individual creature from the wider ecological community. This led to interest in geography, distribution range maps. Was aware that, in popular perception, some creatures were strongly associated with a particular place. "Lion is an African animal. Tiger is an Asian animal." Allegedly. And other stereotypes (many of them, I would later come to learn, due to chauvinism, exoticism, Orientalism, colonialism, etc.). Came across a kind of large textbook on wild cats. Saw the historical distribution maps. Only a few centuries ago, tigers were in Anatolia, the Caucasus, near the shores of the Black Sea. Was intrigued. From the middle of the twentieth century onward, the lion and cheetah were so closely associated with Africa, where like over 99% of their range was located. And yet. There remains a small remnant population of nearly-extinct Asiatic lions far away within India''s borders. And there remains a small remnant population of nearly-extinct Asiatic cheetahs within Iran's borders. And all that space, in between, where both cats were now extinct. Only 100 years ago, tiger, lion, leopard, and cheetah all lived generally near each other, still, in eastern Anatolia, near Mesopotamia, etc. And now, only a few dozen wild native cheetah remain on the entire continent of Asia.

"Cheetah". The word for this cat is from South Asia. Through Hindi, from Sanskrit.

"What happened?" I read on. Cheetahs were present within the national borders of what is now India, along with tigers, lions, and leopards. By the 1500s, there was a tradition in South Asia, where some in the Mughal aristocracy enjoyed using cheetahs as companions in sport hunting. The cats would be captured in the wild, and then trained, and then brought along on royal hunts. The cat was the star athlete, goaded into chasing down prey, for the entertainment of the hunting party. There are elaborate paintings, commissioned by Mughal courts and some now displayed in collections of European museums, depicting trained cheetah hunts. It has since been popularly said that Akbar was particularly fond of cheetahs. (Akbar the Great was the "emperor" who is credited often for consolidating Mughal state power across India, solidifying regional power by building administrative systems/structures in India ["forging an empire out of fiefdoms"] that would later eventually be manipulated and overtaken by the British Empire. According to some tellings of the historical narrative.)

Accurate or not, it was said that at any one time, Akbar possessed one thousand cheetahs. A vast royal menagerie. The names of several of the most celebrated cheetahs are still known. In some stories, when he was still young, Akbar was presented with a gift. His very first cheetah: Fatehbaz.

This disturbed me. A child, reading this book, I was upset by the idea of such a vast menagerie of wild animals. Large wild animals, with great need for food, space, enrichment. I was upset by the exploitation of captive wild animals as displays of aristocratic wealth, not just in the Mughal state(s), but also those menageires and exhibitions elsewhere, both earlier and later in time: the royal hunts of Assyrian kings, the Roman arenas, Charlemagne's elephants, European circuses.

So, as a child, I imagined that Fatehbaz resisted the captivity. Like in a daydream, a fantasy. I imagined a royal menagerie breaking free from restraint. I imagined elephants and rhinos and tigers and lions and leopards and jackals and crocodiles. I imagined the beasts attacking an emperor's court. But there are now less than one hundred cheetahs which survive in the wild in Asia. And when Mughal statecraft gave way to European statecraft, when Britain moved into South Asia, the bounty hunting specifically targeted big cats. And, meanwhile, the cats were confronted indirectly with habitat destruction, commodity crop monocultures, industrial-scale resource extraction. So I came to imagine the ghosts of cats. The ghost of a cheetah like Fatehbaz on the Indus plain. The ghost of a jaguar in the Sonoran desert. The ghost of a lion on the Mediterranean coast. The ghost of a tiger on the Amu Darya shore beyond Bukhara, where even the Aral Sea itself has vanished.