I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare
Yousef shared to me some terrible news. His sister and her husband were martyred, leaving behind 5 children that he now has to provide food, shelter, and care for. A video of their children can be seen here.
He needs to provide them with shelter, while also caring for his own family including his little son, Majd, who has a respiratory condition.
Please do whatever you can to support this family.
Hello,
verification: #406 (the ButterflyEffect verified fundraisers list)
Their current accounts: @youseffamilys-blog @saveyouseffamily @khadigamajd
I am facing a heavy reality after losing my sister and her husband. I am now the sole provider for their 5 orphaned children, alongside my own family and my sick son, Majd, who needs urgent medical care.
I cannot do this alone. Please donate if you can, or reblog to help me save my family.
I am Peter, am from Uganda 🇺🇬 but due to torture and persecution because of my sexual identity, I fled to South Sudan 🇸🇸 where am currently living in a refugee camp called gorom refugee camp
However life here is so harsh and we lack basic needs like food water medicine and proper shelter
Please help support us by donating or sharing our fundraiser in the posts or description
Fun facts about immigration in the US you might want to share with friends and relatives for no particular reason
The United States actually had open borders until 1924. There was no cap on immigration, and people were only denied access based on race and disability. (NOTE: Open borders means little to no formal restriction on movement across borders. There was still terrible discrimination.) (x)
The Immigration Act of 1924 had an overall negative impact on the economy (x) (x) and foreign relations with Asia, but Hitler praised it (x), because it was just blatant eugenics (x).
ICE didn't exist until 2003 (x)
Being undocumented is not actually classified as a crime (x). If it was, cases would be handled by the judicial branch, and defendants would receive the benefits of due process. But because it isn't, it is handled by the executive branch, and defendants do not get due process, in clear violation of their rights. That means no lawyers, no jury, and no real judge.
Immigration "judges," who are not required to have nearly as much experience or education in law as real judges (x), face no consequences for wrongful deportation, they are only really evaluated based on how many people they process.
While it's difficult to pin down an exact number, there have been an estimated 4,000 wrongful detention/deportations by 2010 alone (x - this one suggests a possible 20,000) (x - this one confirms over a thousand), with several reported on in mainstream media (Mark Lyttle, Pedro Guzman, Roberto Dominquez, Andres Gonzalez, Esteban Tiznado-Reyna).
In April 2025, there were several more confirmed wrongful deportations, including a 2-year-old citizen deported to Honduras (x) (x), a 10-year-old with brain cancer on her way to a medical appointment (x), and a 7-year-old and her 4-year-old brother with stage 4 cancer (x).
There were more deaths in ICE concentration camps in 2025 than almost any year prior, tying for first place with 2003 (x). If nothing is done about it, that number will increase in 2026.
In every child's eyes lies a story waiting for someone to write its happy ending. Your donation today is not just money; it's a child's laughter, renewed hope, and a brighter future. Join us in wiping away their tears and drawing genuine smiles on their innocent faces. Your giving makes all the difference in their lives! (Short and direct format suitable for websites
🙏🙏😭 ✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #380 )✅️💔
This initiative is not simply a request for financial support; it's an invitation to join me in building the future and making a difference. To achieve this goal, I need your sincere support and encouragement. Your contribution—no matter how small it may seem to you—is the fuel that will propel me and shorten my path to success...
Every amount brings me one more step closer to the finish line...
Sharing this message with your family and friends may lead you to someone who will be the reason for its success. ..
Thank you for believing in my abilities, investing in my future, and for being an integral part of my upcoming success story. With deepest gratitude, [Nazmi
summary ﹏ When Peter responds to screams echoing through a dark New York alley, he expects to save someone—not find you, a blood-covered girl crying over what her hunger has made her do. Instead of fear, Peter offers gentleness, and for the first time in years, you experience what it feels like to be cared for after being seen at your worst.
cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / dark angst & psychological horror fic and headcanons. fem!reader. protective!peter. emotional intimacy through vulnerability. cannibalism. blood and slight gore. feeding scenes. entions of torn flesh / corpses. self-loathing. guilt and shame themes. violence and death. body horror undertones. graphic intrusive thoughts. soft caretaking. angst with comfort ending. heavy emotional themes but tender relationship dynamic.
reblog is a creator's best-friend thank you!!
Rain turns New York into something softer at night.
The city still screams beneath it—sirens somewhere distant, music leaking from apartment windows, cars hissing through wet streets—but the rain blurs the edges of everything until it almost feels dreamlike. Neon signs smear across puddles in streaks of red and blue, steam rises from manholes in ghostly clouds and water drips steadily from fire escapes and rusted pipes high above narrow alleyways. From the rooftops, the city looks endless, glowing gold beneath the storm-dark sky.
Peter swings through it like he belongs there; here and everywhere else.
His blue and red suit is damp from the weather, clinging slightly more to his skin beneath the constant drizzle, but he barely notices anymore. Patrol nights usually calm him down; they give him something to do with the restless energy buzzing under his ribs, something to focus on besides work and bills and the constant fear that he’s never doing enough.
Most nights are simple: stopping muggings, helping people locked out of apartments, breaking up fights before they become worse. Small things, just friendly neighborhood things.
Tonight had been quiet. Too quiet, maybe.
Peter lands lightly on the edge of a rooftop water tower, crouching as he scans the street below. The rain patters softly against his mask and somewhere nearby, music pulses faintly through thin apartment walls. A taxi splashes through a flooded intersection three blocks away.
Then he hears screaming, it’s just one sharp, terrified sound cut brutally short like the noise shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Peter freezes when he hears it.
His head snaps toward the alley three buildings down before his body moves automatically, webs shooting forward as he swings hard through the rain. Adrenaline hits instantly, fast and familiar. Someone’s hurt, someone needs help, he tells him. He lands in the alley harder than he means to, feet splashing in shallow puddles as his eyes immediately search for danger.
At first, all he sees is blood; dark red against wet pavement, too much of it.
The metallic smell slams into him beneath the rain, thick enough that it nearly stops him in place. His stomach twists instinctively as his gaze catches on the body sprawled crooked near the brick wall. Male, mid-thirties maybe, motionless. His shirt is torn open, ribs partially exposed beneath gore that glistens under the flickering alley light. And kneeling over him—you. Peter stills completely.
You don’t notice him immediately; your shoulders shake violently as you crouch over the corpse, hands slick crimson to the wrists. Blood stains your mouth, your throat, smeared down the front of your jacket in awful streaks. You look less like a monster than something wounded beyond repair.
Then you hear him breathe and your head jerks upward instantly. For one terrible second, Peter sees pure panic in your eyes. There’s no aggression, no rage but just fear. You scramble backward so quickly your shoulder slams against the brick wall behind you. A broken sound leaves your throat, halfway between a gasp and a sob. Your chest rises sharply with uneven breaths, eyes wide and glassy as you stare at Spider-Man standing frozen a few feet away.
“No,” you whisper immediately, shaking your head before he even speaks. “No, no, no—” Peter doesn’t move, eyes wide underneath his mask. Rain drips steadily between both of you, breaking the silence. You look horrified: not because you got caught but because you exist. “I’m sorry,” you choke out suddenly, voice breaking apart. “I didn’t—I tried to stop—I—”
Your words collapse into another sharp breath. You drag one bloody hand across your mouth instinctively like you can wipe the evidence away, but it only smears more crimson across your skin. Your entire body trembles hard enough Peter notices it even through the rain.
And something inside him shifts instantly because you aren’t looking at him like someone preparing to attack. You’re looking at him like someone waiting to be hurt and Peter swallows hard beneath the mask.
“Hey,” he says carefully, softly enough it almost disappears beneath the rain. “Hey, it’s okay.” You stare at him like he’s speaking another language and your expression crumples further. “It’s not okay,” you whisper.
Peter glances once toward the body before looking back at you. The sight should probably horrify him more than it does, maybe it would have once. But he’s seen too much death in this city already, too many terrible things. Too many people driven to impossible places, consequences of the society.
And right now, all he can focus on is the fact you look devastated, not even dangerous. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks gently. The question hits you harder than if he’d yelled. Your eyes widen slightly, like you don’t expect those words to get out of his mouth. “What?”
“Are you hurt?” Peter repeats, taking one cautious step closer. “You’re shaking.” You let out this small, disbelieving laugh that sounds dangerously close to crying. “You should be scared of me.” Peter’s chest tightens painfully at how certain you sound. Instead of answering, he slowly crouches down several feet away from you, making himself smaller, less threatening. Rainwater beads along the red and blue fabric of his suit as he keeps his movements slow and careful.
“I’m Peter,” he says quietly, deciding to give you this little piece of information about him and you blink at his masked face. “You’re Spider-Man.”
“Yeah, but also Peter.” Your breathing remains uneven and blood drips slowly from your fingertips into the puddles beneath you. “You shouldn’t be this close to me,” you whisper.
“But I am.”
Something in your expression fractures completely after that.
Peter watches tears suddenly spill down your face, cutting clean tracks through the blood smeared across your skin. You look embarrassed by them immediately, turning your head sharply away as though ashamed to cry in front of him. “Oh,” Peter says softly, heart aching at the sight. “Hey, no, don’t—”
Before he can stop himself, he reaches toward you carefully and you flinch; not away from him, no, but like you expect pain. Peter’s hand pauses inches from your face. “Can I?” he asks quietly. You stare at him for a second before giving the smallest nod imaginable. His gloved fingers brush your cheek with impossible gentleness, you almost break apart from it.
No one has touched you kindly in so long you’d nearly forgotten what it feels like.
Peter wipes rainwater, tears, and blood carefully from beneath your eye with the side of his thumb. The gesture is so unbearably soft compared to the horror surrounding both of you that your chest physically hurts from it.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs. You shake your head immediately. “I killed someone.”
“I know.”
“You should hate me.” Peter’s brows pull together slightly beneath the mask. “Why would I hate you?”
A broken laugh escapes you at those words: because everyone should, because there is blood in your teeth, because there is flesh still caught beneath your fingernails, because normal people don’t kneel over opened bodies in dark alleys with tears running down their faces while the city sleeps above them.
“You don’t understand,” you whisper hoarsely. “Then explain it to me.”
The words are immediate, simple, honest and they make you still for a second or so. He wouldn’t understand, you tell yourself. He can’t. You stare at him through rain and tears and flickering alley light, struggling to understand why this stranger is looking at you with concern instead of disgust.
Your voice shakes when you finally speak. “I tried not to.”
Peter stays quiet.
“The hunger gets bad sometimes,” you continue weakly, eyes dropping toward your blood-covered hands. “I can ignore it for a while but eventually it just—it hurts. It feels like my body is eating itself alive.” Your breathing stutters. “And then tonight he grabbed me and I could smell the blood and—”
You stop abruptly, nausea washing across your face but Peter listens without interrupting once. “I didn’t want to,” you whisper finally. “I never want to.” The rain falls harder around both of you.
Peter glances briefly toward the corpse again before looking back at you. There’s grief in his expression now, sadness but not revulsion. For a second, he wishes you could see it, see his expression and realize he’s not afraid of you. “You feel guilty,” he says quietly. You laugh weakly through tears. “I ate someone.”
Peter’s chest twists like he can understand the way you feel, or how much you hate yourself for it. Slowly, carefully, he reaches up and pulls his mask off and your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. He looks younger than you expected; softer somehow. Damp curls cling to his forehead from the rain, brown eyes painfully open and earnest as he looks at you like you’re still human beneath all this blood. “I know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to be scared of yourself.”
You stare at him. “It’s not the same,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No,” Peter admits softly. “Maybe not. But I know what guilt feels like.” Something in his face tells you he means it, really means it.
You realize suddenly that he’s probably seen horrifying things too; lost people, failed people and carried things he doesn’t know how to put down.
But still—still he’s touching your face like you deserve kindness. Your voice cracks slightly. “Why are you being nice to me?” Peter looks genuinely confused by the question, once more. “Because you’re upset.” You stare at him helplessly, like it’s that simple, like you being monstrous does not erase your pain. It’s not.
The thought settles somewhere deep inside you, somewhere raw and aching.
Peter notices your breathing getting sharper again and immediately shifts closer carefully. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he says softly. You do, pupils blown out, teary. “You’re okay.” He adds, quietly but it makes you shake your head. “I’m not.”
“You are right now.”
Another sob catches painfully in your throat.
Peter glances toward your bloodied hands before carefully taking one in both of his despite the gore coating your skin. You swear to feel his skin against yours and the warmth nearly destroys you. “You don’t have to be scared for me,” he says gently.
“You should be.”
“Well,” Peter says quietly, offering the smallest, saddest smile, “I’m not.” You look down quickly because suddenly crying feels unbearable, no one has ever reacted like this before. Not to this. People fear you, they leave you, they hunt you and sometimes try to kill you. But this boy in a spider suit is kneeling in blood beside you holding your shaking hands like you’re something fragile instead of monstrous.
“I don’t know how to stop,” you whisper after a long silence. Peter squeezes your hand carefully, then. “We’ll figure it out.”
The words hit you strangely hard. We. Not you, not just your problem. We.
“You don’t even know me,” you say weakly. Peter shrugs slightly, rainwater dripping from his curls. “I can still help.” Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels like hunger again, except warmer somehow, softer like something unfamiliar unfolding painfully beneath years of guilt and isolation.
Care.
You realize with sudden, devastating clarity that no one has ever cared what happened to you after, only what you did. Peter notices the way you’ve gone quiet and tilts his head slightly. “What?” You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.” You voice up.
“You sure?”
“No one’s ever…” Your voice falters. “No one’s ever asked if I was okay before.” Peter goes very still at the words leaving your mouth. The rain continues falling around you both, washing diluted blood slowly toward the sewer drain beside the alley wall.
And then Peter does something that nearly breaks your heart completely: he reaches up carefully and brushes damp hair away from your face. “I’m asking now,” he says softly. The gentleness in his voice ruins you and a sob escapes before you can stop it. Immediately, he moves closer, instinctive concern flooding his face. “Oh, hey—hey, it’s okay.”
You laugh weakly through tears. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.”
“There’s a dead body right there.” Peter glances toward it briefly before looking back at you again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you’re still crying over it.”
The words settle deep inside your chest, because he understands then. Maybe not fully, maybe not completely or maybe he’s just trying to help like he’s supposed to. But it’s enough; enough to know monsters usually don’t grieve what they’ve done, enough to know you are suffering.
Peter’s thumb wipes another tear carefully from beneath your eye, uncaring when blood smears against his glove again afterward. “You shouldn’t have to carry this alone,” he says softly. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the rain, maybe it’s the unbearable tenderness of a stranger kneeling beside you in the aftermath of something horrific and still looking at you like you matter but for the first time in years, the shame loosens slightly around your ribs.
It’s not disappearing, oh no, never disappearing, but softening enough that you can finally breathe through it.
Peter stays beside you in the alley long after the rain soaks both of you completely. He keeps talking quietly, gently, grounding you every time your breathing starts to spiral again and when your hands won’t stop shaking, he holds them without hesitation despite the blood still staining your skin.
Like he doesn’t see something monstrous sitting in front of him, just someone hurting.
And somehow, impossibly, that feels far more terrifying than hatred ever could.
HEADCANONS ﹏ THE DYNAMICS.
headcanons happens after eater!reader and peter's first meeting in the alley.
after that first night in the alley, peter absolutely cannot stop thinking about you. not in a fearful way, but in a deeply worried one. he keeps replaying the image of you crying with blood on your hands while apologizing over and over like you were waiting for punishment and it genuinely unsettles him how much shame you carried compared to how little anger there was in you.
you disappear afterward, of course. that’s what you always do; vanish before attachment becomes dangerous. but peter keeps looking for you anyway during patrols, swinging slower through the neighborhoods where he first found you, checking rooftops and quiet alleyways with this constant nervous hope in his chest.
the second time you meet, it’s because you are actively trying not to feed. peter finds you sitting on the fire escape of an abandoned building at three in the morning, curled tightly into yourself with your forehead pressed against your knees. your hands are shaking so violently you can barely hold still. he lands beside you softly and doesn’t mention the blood drying beneath your fingernails.
peter learns very quickly that hunger makes you quieter, not louder. you withdraw into yourself completely when it gets bad. shorter answers, distant eyes, breathing too carefully like you’re trying to hold your body together through sheer force of will.
peter is probably the first person in years to touch you casually without fear; bumping his shoulder against yours while sitting beside you on rooftops, brushing rainwater off your sleeve, gently fixing strands of hair stuck to your face. at first, every tiny act of affection completely stuns you because you are so used to people recoiling once they know what you are.
there’s one night where the hunger gets so violent you accidentally snap at him to leave you alone because you’re terrified of what your body wants from him and peter just quietly sits down several feet away and says: “okay. i’ll stay over here then.” because he refuses to abandon you even when you push him away.
rooftops become your thing together. long nights sitting side-by-side above the city while peter talks and you listen quietly and sometimes your shoulder eventually leans against his without either of you acknowledging it or sometimes he falls asleep beside you accidentally after patrol and trusts you enough not to fear waking up vulnerable near you.
he never treats you like a ticking bomb. cautious sometimes? yes. worried? often. but never cruelly afraid. peter sees your hunger as something painful rather than evil, and that fundamentally changes the way you begin seeing yourself over time.
eventually, your body starts associating peter with safety instead of hunger. his heartbeat becomes grounding, his voice calms the spiraling in your head, his hands on your face during panic attacks start feeling more natural than frightening.
and honestly? peter becomes the first place that has felt remotely like home in years. not because he fixes you and not because the hunger disappears but because for the first time, someone sees the absolute worst parts of you and stays anyway.
Please, I desperately need your donations. Donations have stopped completely, and I need your support, no matter how small. If you can't donate, talk about me and share my message. Please 😭🙏 I only need 25 euros to buy 1 kg of flour to feed my children. I'm not asking for more. Please, don't ignore this and try to contribute - I really need you right now. ✅️My account has been verified by @gazavetters, my number on the list is (#380) ✅️
My niece is suffering from malnutrition in this time of famine and food scarcity. She needs milk, nutritional supplements, and diapers. Please help, even with a little money, so we can help this little girl. 😭🙏
This is the life of our children in Gaza. There is no safety or cleanliness for children and adults. We need security and food. I need your help, even if it is a small amount of 10 euros.
Our joy when we received a bag of flour after a long period of hunger and lack of bread and food. In this famine, we need food and drink. Please help us.
I desperately need your help these days with the bitter cold we're experiencing. I need to dress my children warmly in thick, warm clothes, and this will cost me approximately 300 euros.😢😢
The first eastern rain fell after the war, Breaking the tent of a woman with her children, Her only weapon was the number of children she held, And her only recourse was to weep. She stood weeping… weeping because the rain was gone, And because she had nothing left to protect her little ones but her tears…💔
Please consider donating if you can, share our story, reblog our post, and amplify our voice. You have no idea how much you can help in getting my family out of the living hell of Gaza to safety.
When the world becomes numb to Palestinian suffering, please choose not to turn away.
I am Wedad, 15 years old, and this is my life in Gaza.🇵🇸🇵🇸
We have nothing left.
Our home was destroyed.
We sleep under the open sky, exposed to cold, fear, and hunger.
No walls. No roof. No tent.
My father was injured in the war and cannot work.
My mother is very sick — her iron is dangerously low, and we cannot afford her medicine.
Her illness is confirmed by a hospital report, which you can see
Every night, I watch her struggle and pray she survives.
I have four sisters and my little brother Shukri.
Look at this video 😢… My siblings and I are searching through the rubble of our destroyed home for any clothes we can wear. Everything is torn, everything is broken… we are just trying to find something to cover ourselves in these hard days."
He is scared, weak, and I am the only one trying to protect him.
And my little sister Mira, only two years old, cries for milk… and I have nothing to give her.
My little sister Mira is suffering from severe malnutrition and is currently in the hospital. She is weak and unable to rest properly, and we are deeply worried about her."
I was forced to leave school. My dreams are gone.
All I can do is fight every day to keep my family alive.
We are just children… carrying a life no child should ever bear.
Please… help us survive.
Even a small donation can give: • Medicine for my mother
• Milk for Mira
• Care and support for Shukri
• A simple shelter to protect all of us
."Medicines for my mom."
Please be the reason our family can survive today and live to see another day." ✅
If you cannot donate, please share our story.
Your share might reach someone who can save us.
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Hello, my name is Mickey from Michigan USA and I am raising funds for Wedad… Mickey Dee needs your support for Support Wedad's Journey to Sa
My name is Nour, I’m 18 years old. I once dreamed of becoming a doctor—to help people, to heal, to bring hope. I studied hard and believed that education was my way out😭.
But the war took everything.💔
In a single moment, my home was destroyed. Everything I loved—my books, my memories, my dreams—was buried under rubble.😭😭💔💔
Now, I live with my family in a torn tent. It doesn’t protect us from the cold or the burning heat. We have no food, no clean water, no safety—nothing.😭😭💔💔
Every night we sleep not knowing what tomorrow will bring: a chance at life… or more pain.🍉🍉
My mother is elderly and needs care. I used to dream of helping others, but today I can’t even help my own family.💔🍉
I’m reaching out to every kind heart reading this: please, help us. Any amount, any support, means the world.🙏🙏💔🍉
Your kindness could help us survive… and maybe, one day, I’ll return to school and chase my dream again.❤️
link gofandme
Hello, my friend Nour need's your help, now to survive war, displacement, and fa… Clara Marino needs your support for Help Nour's Family in
To donate or contact: [Insert your donation link or contact info here
Be our voice in a world that’s forgotten us. Be the light in our darkness.❤️
I don’t even know how to begin this, but I truly need your help😓💔
I am very sick. I already went through one surgery, and now I urgently need another one that costs $300. I simply don’t have this amount, and I am terrified of what could happen if I can’t get this operation.
I am a mother of two little girls. They are my whole world I cannot bear the thought of something happening to me and leaving them behind with no one. This fear is with me every single moment.
Please, I am begging you even the smallest help can make a difference. If just a few kind people donate $20 each, we can reach the $300 and give me a chance to have this surgery and stay with my daughters.
$20 may seem small, but to me it means hope… it means life.
Please don’t leave me alone in this. Your kindness could save me.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart 🤍
Nedda, her husband, and their young daughter lost their home in Gaza when it was destroyed by a rocket during the recent war. Like many othe
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