#Recovery Fitness Tools

[gofitnesspro]

Top Fitness Trends You Need to Know in 2024

Top Fitness Trends: The fitness industry continues to evolve, with new trends emerging every year. Here are the top fitness trends you need to know in 2024: Hybrid Fitness Models Combining online and in-person workouts, hybrid fitness models offer the flexibility of home workouts with the social and motivational benefits of group classes. Integrated Online and In-Person Classes Flexibility:…

[panharmonium]

for @keepyourpantsongohan‘s “happy naruto thoughts” request: yamato weaponizing his weirdness to mess with the kids 🌳❤️🌳

[impossible-rat-babies]

really feeling a way about eyrie being a healer tonight

[stuckymonkey]

Stolen

Mafia Bucky Au

Pairing - mafia!bucky x fem!reader

Summary - y/n lived an ordinary life as a surgical resident in New York. Her father left when she was young, and her mother recently passed away. Bucky was promised by her father to get his firstborn daughter, unfortunately for y/n, that fits her description perfectly. Kind of enemies to lovers.

Warnings - violence, angst, being taken against will/kidnapping, mentions of death, stitches and medical things, mentions of suicide, mild cursing

Word count - 3.5k

a/n - i was feeling some angst, let me know what you think! feedback is always appreciated!

masterlist bucky masterlist

"Clamp" Joe said from across to table to one of the scrub nurses. "Lap pads" I said. We were doing a coronary artery bypass graft on a six year old patient. Five hours in and Lena was doing really well. She had maintained stability the entire time, making recovery look good for her.

I was about to irrigate when the door to the OR burst open. Me and Joe didn't look up, too focused on finishing Lena's cabg, starting to close up her heart with delicate sutures. "Y/n Y/L/N?" a low masculine voice boomed out. My head shot up to meet Joe's eyes, silently asking what to do. Her eyes were almost as wide as mine.

That voice belonged to James Barnes, head of the Brooklyn mafia. They had access to anywhere and everywhere in Brooklyn, no questions asked.

After having a silent conversation, we both opted to go back to Lena's heart. The voice boomed again, this time louder and much closer. "Y/n, scrub out." Joe whispered. I couldn't scrub out. Not now. Not while it was just me and Joe with a few scrub nurses. She couldn't close alone. "No." I kept suturing, almost to the point where we could start to close up entirely. "What?!" her head jerked up "I said no. You can't close on your own. Lena has been my patient for six months. I know everything about her, and her family. I am finishing this surgery with you and I will be there when they see their baby girl for the first time in six hours." I clipped the last suture, ready to close up her chest. "Y/n, I think you should listen to Joe and scrub out."

I suddenly felt cold metal pressed to my temple. "Put the tools down Y/L/N. I'm not afraid to pull this trigger." I heard the click of a bullet sliding into place at the end of his threat. I was shaking with tears running down my cheeks at this point. "I'm sorry," I said to Joe, it was obvious that I was crying. Through blurry eyes, I saw a tear slide down her cheek too.

What was going to happen to Lena? And her family? What would Joe tell them? I stepped back from the table and let Mike, my favourite nurse, help me take off my gown and relieve my trembling hands from my sterile blue gloves.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't go back to that table. By pressing a gun to my head, James had broken the sterile field. "Well done," James spoke lowly into my ear. I hadn't noticed when, but his hand was wrapped securely around my arm. He led me away from the table, out of the OR and into the hallway where he stood in front of the elevator. The entire time my sobs never ceased and neither did the grip he had on my arm.

He let go before we left the elevator. Outside, many of what were probably his men waited for us. They lined the hallways. I felt like a sheep being herded by big, powerful, scary wolves. Tears were still running down my face as I made eye contact with my Chief of Surgery and Resident Chief. I had grown close with them over the years, and now they were watching me be escorted out of the hospital.

They knew what this meant. I was taken. The mafia had me now. Tears ran down their faces, and the faces of my coworkers who I loved like family. I tried to keep my head up to let them know I would be okay, but I couldn't help the way my shoulder shook from my sobs.

James helped me into a black car. In the front seat was a blonde, with a driver who had dark skin and short hair. I didn't try to hide the fact that I wanted to be anywhere but here. I felt exhausted, more emotionally than mentally.

"Where are we going?" I asked. "Home." James said, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt. "I hate you, James Barnes." I said, defeat laced in my tone. "Please, call me Bucky." he said. He sounded sad. That bastard. How did he have the nerve to be sad when he is the one who chose to steal me out of my OR. "What are you going to do when I kill myself?" I asked. "You won't kill yourself." the driver spoke up. "Sam-" the blonde said in a nervous and warning tone.

"She won't." he said, looking at the blonde. "You're y/n y/l/n. You're a surgeon." he said, looking at me through the rearview mirror. Everyone's attention was on him as he refocused on the road. "You saved my sister's life, Sarah Wilson. Pancreatic cancer. Four hours after being in your OR she was cancer free. We were told to start planning her funeral. I was signing paperwork to legally adopt my nephews, but you saved her life." he looked into the rearview mirror at me again. "Thank you."

We arrived at "home". During the long ride to the outskirts of Brooklyn, I learned that the blonde's name is Steve. He and Sam were Bucky's seconds in command. Steve helped with the dirty stuff like interrogations, and dealing with orders and shipments of weapons. Sam helped as well but he was also really good at chauffeuring Bucky wherever he needed to go.

There was a very very long gravel driveway leading up to Bucky's huge mansion. It was pretty, I had to admit. Nice dark brick with ivy, a beautiful garden that I bet Steve helped out with, and a peaceful fountain in the center of the drive. I noticed more fountains in the garden area. We had passed tall black iron gates on the way in, giving me an eerie feeling of what the interior of the mansion would be like. Probably dark and scary.

Boy, was I wrong. The inside was beautiful. White marble stairs, golden curtains and natural light everywhere. It felt soft and safe, while still looking professional and wealthy. I was scared to touch anything, it all looked so clean and like everything was in its place.

Bucky dismissed Sam and Steve, leading me up the stairs and to the right of the hall. We walked for quite a bit before he turned into a room. "This is yours. You are to sleep here and I will have all of your stuff here in the next two weeks." He turned to face me, "My office is down the hall to the left, first hall to your right. My room is down the hall to the right, first room on your left hand side. If you need anything, ask me, Sam or Steve. Nobody else lives here but the four of us." he sounded so calm and collected. Did he steal people often?

"I don't live here." I corrected him. The quirk in his eyebrow let me know I shouldn't have spoken. I didn't care. It couldn't get any worse than this. "You do live here. You will not leave this property until you ask me for permission and you have been assigned an escort." "I do not live here! You do not own me, and I am going home. I have to go to work, and I will not stay here." I clenched my jaw, waiting for him to say something.

"Y/n, you live here. Your father promised me his first born daughter just before your mother got pregnant. He was a horrible man, you knew that. Your mother never knew about the deal. You are mine and you will not be leaving. Are we clear?" I hated how the tone of his voice made me clench my thighs together, but I hated even more how he was speaking to me and how he thought he could just keep me here.

"No! I will not stay here! You stole me out of my OR while I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A SURGERY! An open heart surgery. A poor young girl's life was in my hands, Bucky!!!! You could have killed her!! She was INNOCENT!! I hate you. She could have died. Her parents have been in and out of hospitals with her for six years!! Six years, Bucky! She is six years old and her whole life has been within the walls of hospitals and I had a chance to change that. You could have ruined her life and I hate you." I was so angry, tears were running down my face again. I felt warm and exhausted. The urge to just sleep and hope this was a really really bad dream came over me. "Get out." I spat through my teeth, daring him to challenge my order.

He almost looked pitiful as he left my room and closed the door behind him.

The bed was uncomfortable, and I had none of my own possessions. Bucky had come in later to apologize, which fell on deaf ears. He had thankfully given me one of his shirts and some sweatpants before he went back to his office. The sheets on the bed were scratchy, and his pants were too warm.

At around 2 a.m, after no luck at sleeping, I slipped out of my room and headed towards his office, just like he had directed. I figured he would be there, being a surgeon I know what it's like to stay up late to get work done, especially if you're stressed. Which I assume he was after kidnapping someone.

I opened the door slowly to reveal Bucky. His jacket was discarded and a few of the buttons on his shirt were undone. "What are you doing here?" He asked after looking up at me. I felt his gaze rake over my body, now only clad in his shirt and a pair of my underwear. "I need your help," I said calmly. I was desperate after only a few hours with this man. I felt pathetic.

Bucky's eyebrow quirked, encouraging me to continue. "My dog, Joe is probably watching her. I wouldn't know because you took my phone, but that's what I'm assuming." he looked intrigued, with his head tilted to the side and his hands still instead of typing. "If Joe isn't watching her, she only has enough food and water for one day, unless she drinks out of the toilet bowl, but I don't really want her to do that, not that it isn't clean! But she's a big dog and-" "y/n." His cold voice stopped me right in my tracks. Shit. This is probably where he refuses to help me get my dog.

"Please," my eyes began to water at the thought of her at home, all alone, wondering where I went, and then possibly starving to death without anyone to take care of her. "She's my best friend, and I promise she won't be any trouble, I'll pay for everything, I'll even pay a rent fee or something! I just really need my dog back." I think he could see my lip wobble because that look of pity from earlier came back.

"I used to have a dog," his voice surprised me just as much as his words. I looked up at him inquisitively, "She was a Great Dane named Nala. I get it. I'll arrange to pick her up tomorrow, and some of your things later in the week." "Thank you." I whispered before turning to leave his office.

"What's her name?" I heard just before I reached the door. "Hazel," I smiled at the memory of her. "She's an Irish wolf hound." I said sheepishly. at my confession, he smiled. "Goodnight y/n." "Goodnight Bucky."

It's been a week since we got Hazel, and Bucky has seemed kinder and kinder every day. It was probably just because Hazel was such a good dog, but a part of me hoped I helped to make him happier too. When I brought it up to Steve and Sam they had both agreed it wasn't just my dog.

Another night rolled around and I still didn't have anything else of my own. I had been sharing clothes with all three of the men, including underwear. The night was the worst time for me, always leaving me frustrated at my inability to get comfortable enough to sleep. Hazel had no problems, sleeping soundly at the foot of my bed just like she would at home. Or my old house? Was this place really my home?

At 1 a.m, when I hadn't heard any movement in a while I snuck out to Bucky's bedroom where I knew he wouldn't be. He was still in his office working, I knew because I hadn't heard him walk to his room, something he doesn't usually do until at least 3 a.m. Hazel had decided to follow me, making this a bit harder to get away with when being followed by a huge Irish wolfhound.

Slowly, I opened the door to his bedroom. It was gorgeous. He had an abundance of pillows, a soft blanket at the end of his bed and thick creamy coloured duvet. Dark wood furniture decorated the room, complemented by dark curtains and hunter green walls. The place was gorgeous and very well decorated. I moved closer to his bed and found an extra soft blanket under the duvet. I slid it out and draped it over Hazel's back so my hands could hold other stuff. I grabbed a body length grey pillow, deciding he wouldn't miss it for one night.

Before he came to his room, we scurried back to my bed as quietly as possible, Hazel not dropping the blanket once.

"That's the best she's slept in weeks, boss." I could hear voices outside of my bedroom. Steve. The curtains were closed, so it was still nice and dark in my room, then another voice spoke, "Really? She hasn't been sleeping well this whole time?". Bucky. "No, she tosses and turns all night. Honestly, I would too if I didn't have anything of my own.". Sam. "She likes your pillow though." Steve commented.

I didn't want to get up yet but I didn't want to be watched either. I slowly opened my eyes and lifted my head to see the three men in my doorway. Steve and Sam smiled before walking away with waves directed at me. I waved back before focusing my gaze on Bucky.

"I see you like my stuff." he smirked, slowly making his way towards my bed. Hazel jumped off to go find food, her bowls had been placed in the kitchen. "You know, it's wrong to steal sweetheart." Bucky was looking down at me now, his hands in the pockets of his neat dress pants. "You left me with no other choice," I said without much confidence.

"I don't have any of my things, and these sheets are god awful and scratchy." "Maybe I just like seeing you in my clothes," he hummed. A warm blush coated my cheeks as he leaned closer. "You're kinda cute sweetheart." At this point I could smell his minty breath, and feel it as well. "Give me my stuff, and you'll get yours back." I suggested before flopping down on my bed and pulling the covers over me, specifically the blanket I stole right off of his own bed.

He laughed before tugging at the blanket to reveal me clinging to his body sized pillow like a koala. I refused to meet his gaze, instead keeping my eyes closed. "I can't sleep unless I'm comfortable." I stated.

"I get that. We'll have Steve pick your stuff up, but you can keep the pillow." he winked.

That afternoon, Bucky had sat down and had lunch with me. He made eggs, bacon and fluffy toast. I helped a little, making us tea and setting the plates at the black marble island.

"So, I was thinking, you can start working remotely until they absolutely need you back at the hospital." his eyes met mine, waiting for a reaction. I was excited, but I tried not to show it too much since I really shouldn't have been taken from the hospital in the first place. "Then, once I'm sure it's safe, you can go back."

"Safe?" How did my safety play into this decision? I was confused, I was always safe at the hospital, save for the occasional confused patient. "Y/n, your father had a lot of enemies, quite a few of them are associated with other mafias, none as well built or known as my own. He promised you to me in hopes that peace could be made, but he betrayed several of his promises and upset more people than he could handle. Because they can't get to your father, they might get to you next."

"Fine. But I need to get to the hospital sooner rather than later. I have a million patients and I've missed so many rounds. For all I know, Lena could be out of the hospital by now. I haven't had contact with anyone for weeks." I sighed, to which he frowned at. "I know, and I do feel bad but I also care about your safety."

I blushed at his admittance, not used to being romantically cared for. Over the days that turned into weeks, we had grown to like each other. Maybe this arrangement would end up working after all.

"Fuck."

Bucky had given me a space to work within his office, so that's where I was when I heard a string of curses and muffled groans near midnight. The door suddenly swung open, revealing a bloody and battered Bucky.

"James?" I asked. "Hey -shit- y/n/n." He clutched his right arm to his abdomen. There was so much blood from so many different places. "It looks like you need my help," I sassed, getting up to help him settle down on the leather couch. His "yeah" was cut off by a groan. "I need to take your shirt off, okay?" Concern was surely painted on my face as I saw his blood soaked jacket.

"At least buy me dinner first," he laughed. "Ha ha. I'm glad you're in a decent mood," I said while starting to unbutton his white work shirt. I rolled up the sleeves of his black Henley that I was borrowing. He had three major wounds: one on his cheek, one on his right arm and one located on his lower abdomen.

"This is going to hurt," I warned, getting the first aid kit from across the room and preparing the peroxide. He hissed as I poured it over every wound, dabbing them after with gauze. "You're doing great," I tried to smile sympathetically while remaining focused.

"I'm going to stitch your face first, okay?" I asked, getting the supplies ready. "I don't need stitches." he countered. "Bucky, this wound is deep and it's not going to stop bleeding until I close it. You need stitches." "Doll, I'm fine, just leave it."

"Right! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I forgot that you had a medical degree." I said sarcastically. He blushed in return and stayed still while I started to stitch his cheek.

A part of me wanted to make a jab about being out of practice, due to being kidnapped from the hospital, but I held back. Bucky was a good man and we were starting to bond and get along way better than I had ever anticipated. I learned that he had a sister, Steve had been his best friend since highschool, and he had inherited the mafia from his father.

James was a man who loved dogs, and making sure the ones he loved were safe, from his best friend all the way down to Anne, the maid and housekeeper. Another hiss pulled me from my thoughts. "Sorry," I winced. "Almost done."

"Thank you" he said after I patched each site with gauze and polysporin. "Anytime." "I guess we make more sense than I thought." he said as we sipped coffee in the kitchen. "How so?" I laughed. "A surgeon and a mafia boss. I could use you doll." He smiled. I tilted my head to the side in mock offense. " 's that all I am to you? A good pair of hands to tend to your messes, Mr. Barnes?" I asked. "No no no! I just mean that we make sense, you know?" I smiled at him over my mug. "I know."

He started leaning closer to me, to the point where I could feel his breath on my lips. Bucky's eyes met mine over the small table, his flesh hand coming up to cup my cheek, the other resting its cooler touch on my neck, pulling me in. I never fought once, instantly kissing him back when I felt his lips meet mine.

I sighed into the kiss, letting him hold my face and tip it back. His tongue caressed my lower lip before bringing it into his mouth, sucking on it tenderly. My hand moved to cover his flesh one, leaning into his touch slightly. He inhaled me as he pulled back. I felt my face flush and go warm and his hungry gaze, as if I was his prey and he wanted to devour me whole. "Bucky," I panted.

He smirked devilishly. "You like that, doll?" I nodded dumbly at his question. Bucky's eyes creased at the corners when he smiled, tilting his head down to look at me. "I like you," I whispered. He leaned closer, "I like you too, printessa."

Over the weeks, I had started sharing Bucky's room with him. I had an abundance of plush blankets and soft pillows to cuddle with. He had started coming to bed earlier, and I have started back at the hospital. Joe and my other friends missed me while I was away, and I can guarantee that I missed them just as much, if not more. My Resident Chief and Chief of Surgery both cried when they saw me walk back into the hospital lobby, happy and unharmed.

Life was good again, and I finally felt peace.

[cassandrasimplex]

Listen, when I say, as an abuse survivor, that Astarion's storyline is written with care, delicacy, and profound understanding: Since I completed it a few days ago, which I found incredibly cathartic and fulfilling due to points of commonality with the nature and causes of my CPTSD, I've been sleeping 7-8 hours a night straight through (instead of 3-5 at a time), my resting heart rate has dropped almost 10 beats per minute, I've had zero nightmares (based not just on what I remember but also on how much I move and talk in my sleep), and my fitness tracker wants to know what I've been doing different lately and whether I can keep it up.

I don't expect this change to be permanent or even long-lasting, but not even months of therapy at a time have ever had a positive effect so strong my tracker picked up on it. Not even when I was in crisis mode and only able to sleep 2 or 3 hours a day was therapy able to improve my sleep and my well-being so immediately. Astarion's storyline from finding Cazador's prisoners to the final confrontation, which took me a bit over an hour, did. If you want to count all the narrative build-up to that climax that gave it meaning, call it six weeks' investment for such a dramatic improvement.

The idea that trauma-aware roleplay can help people with PTSD and especially CPTSD find short-term peace and even a long-term improvement in overall functioning and mental health isn't new to me. I stumbled across it on my own, unguided, 30+ years ago. It's a bit newer to most therapists, but it's an approach used in experiential therapy and some related strategies and had been studied for much longer before its incorporation in such toolkits. But BG3 isn't being sold as therapy; it's being sold as a fun video game to play in one's free time.

The thing about CPTSD and recovery from abuse in general is that you have to practice new ways of reacting to the world. Therapies like cognitive behavior therapy focus on helping the patient replace old, maladaptive patterns of thinking that helped them survive a traumatic situation but hinder functioning in safer environments with intentionally-created ones that would have been too dangerous to practice in the traumatic environment but are healthier and more supportive outside it. These patterns have to be practiced, though; it's not enough to just correct yourself once with a more affirming statement and wait for results. You have to do it over and over until it becomes your new default. And results matter. If practicing the new behavior or thought results in the kind of negative outcome it would have prompted in the original abusive situation, the effect is that the old, maladaptive pattern is reinforced instead: "See? I knew acting that way would be too dangerous. I knew thinking that way would just be lying to myself. I already know what's best. The way I've always behaved in order to survive is what serves to keep me safe."

Which is why Astarion's storyline is both so effective and so astonishingly well done. Over and over, you get the chance to reassure him that your friendship is not merely a set of opportunistic transactions, that you don't want to control him, that you see him as a person rather than a puppet or a tool, that he can refuse to manage your feelings for you or even outright hurt your feelings without being "punished" for it. You can comment out loud to him when you catch him being manipulative and tell him that's not how your friendship works while still accepting and supporting him as a person, as a friend. You can make your friendship with him an environment completely opposite in nature to his relationship with his abuser. You can teach him -- and, if you need it, yourself -- what a safe environment looks like. And you can teach him that his abuser's behavior was successful in an environment created specifically to reserve all power for the abuser, but doesn't serve as well outside that situation, to encourage him to find healthier ways of dealing with the world than the ones that were modelled for him within that trauma. (Am I projecting? Of course I'm projecting; that's precisely what makes roleplay such an effective tool. It's a natural human tendency that can be used to advantage.)

And somewhere in your psyche, if you're a person who needs to hear all that as much as Astarion does, your mind is taking note: "How I thought the whole world works was wrong. Only that one little part of the world worked that way. The world is much bigger than the limited environment that hurt me. There are better ways to live and be." The parts of the brain where trauma plants its deepest roots can't tell the difference between play and reality, between past and present. They can't tell the difference between "I can make a safer environment for this person in front of me" and "I can go back in time and make a safer environment for the person I used to be." (That's why so many abuse survivors feel compelled to help other abuse survivors -- empathy, yes, and identification, but on a deeper level than that; we try to become the person who never showed up to help us.)

And if "this person in front of me" happens to be a fictional character, well, it can't really tell the difference between fiction and reality either -- especially when the fiction has a visible face and an audible voice and convincing expression in both.

I'm not in the slightest saying, "Go out and buy BG3 to fix yourself!" because using roleplay as therapy is far too highly personal and variable to expect consistent results from a script. There might be people whose trauma is reinforced by the same things that spoke so soothingly to mine. Larian is a video game company, not a therapist. But I can't get over the way a video game company for fuck's sake has created such a sensitive, tender, supportive story that it can even accidentally function this way. They didn't have to go so hard. They didn't have to lean so far into empathy. They didn't have to bring so much realism into it. They could have just told an interesting story. They did tell an interesting story -- but someone here decided they needed to tell it so well, so powerfully, that they were going to need to know exactly what living through events like those would do to a person, and how a friend would have to act to support that person in working toward happiness and health.

Well fucking done, Larian. Extremely well fucking done.

And although I can't reasonably expect the current effects to last, I can carry something lasting from here on; I can add "What would I say to Astarion right now?" to the list of questions I ask myself when triggered, when I realize I'm experiencing an implicit flashback. What would I say to Astarion? What would I say to a friend? What would I say to someone I care about who's been through the same things I have? What would I say to myself if I thought I deserved to be happy and free?

[drdemonprince]

Hi I keep thinking back to your book unmasking autism, I recently was diagnosed with level 1 by my new psychiatrist but with losing my healthcare I feel lost on how to function without medical assistance. I typically mask and been learning how not to, but it always feel at the opportunity cost of more money, overly explaining to family or grief. I’ve been in a loop of feeling I shouldn’t exist due to my disability and it a sad feeling.

I am so sorry to hear that you are going through this. I'm certain you already know this, but it's not the case that you shouldn't exist because you are disabled. The vast majority of people on this planet find it absolutely soul-sucking and exhausting to present as what gets called "neurotypical" at work. It's too many hours of pretending to be someone you are not, with no space allotted for your full humanity, with not enough energy or hours left behind to look after oneself, have nourishing authentic relationships, and ample space to recover, be playful and joyful, and dream. Every person requires ample time and space for themselves to recouperate, and to listen to the actual feelings that they have inside, and capitalism instead demands that we suppress all of it, and it can slowly eat away at us and make it difficult to access authentic pleasure or connectedness. For Autistics it's especially pronounced because we are such a bad mismatch with what capitalism demands, and because we need so much energy recovery time, but it's simply the case that you are not broken or defective for failing to fit within such an oppressive system. It is that system that should not exist, and that terrorizes everybody, to varying degrees. I bet if you look at the most "well adjusted" hard working people that you know, you see how their lives have been totally ruined by overworking and killing what's wild and free about themselves, or what used to be those things.

I have spoken to hundreds of Autistic people in the situation you are in at this point, and I have found that for the majority of us, embracing our disability and articulating our needs means that very dramatic changes have to happen in our lives. Some people have to reorient how they interact with their families, establish new boundaries, push to really educate them on neurodivergence, go no contact, or rethink what family means to them altogether. Lots of us leave careers or switch to part-time or remote work, or have to get incredibly creative and resourceful in order to survive in a way that we can stand: going on disability benefits, public assistance, living with friends, pooling resources, going off the grid in some way, finding some side hustle or scam that makes it possible to survive, doing sex work or freelance, taking on childcare or eldercare duties for a friend who is employed, or something of that nature are all options I've seen a lot of unmasking Autistics pursue. None of these options are ideal, and they all come with significant costs and risk factors. But then, so does killing oneself slowly with work.

I have a whole book coming out next year in March about these specific considerations, with lots of tools and decision trees and research and quotes from other Autistics. The book is designed to help Autistics who are in that second stage of their unmasking journey sort out what a life where it is possible to be less masked means for them. Where can they live? Who is gonna support them? What matters to them in their life? How can they reset their relationships in light of their neurodivergence? What does it mean to grow old as a disabled person? These are the kinds of questions the book will hopefully help me explore, and discover the best answers for themselves. Of course, many people would say that their only way out of this is the downfall of capitalism, but I personally am of the mind that we have to make that end happen ourselves by working less hard, consuming less where possible, leaning on other people, providing support to our neighbors, becoming less reliant upon our employers and the government, and building our collective escape from the capitalistic machine. And we can all have some small part in that, even if only for ourselves and those immediately closest to us. That's enough.

I hope that you find a way of life that is sustaining and feels whole and good for you. As neurodivergent people we do things very differently. And that is both the curse and the beauty of us. The prescribed script we've been given for how life is supposed to look is never going to work for us. Indeed, it's not working for most anybody else either. There way forward will not be easy, and the lot you've been given to deal with is not fair, but there are also millions of other disabled people just like you who are leaning on one another, slowing down, refusing to play into the existing system's hand as much as is possible for them, and making a new world. And just by pondering the things that you are, you're helping already to make that new world too.

[fluorescentbalaclava]

training season's over

chapter 1: Ground Zero

Summary:

After 5 years of service in KorTac, they consider you capable enough to hold yourself in solo missions. Money and freedom, what else could you ask for? But what feels like a good start, progressively starts to backfire.

TF141/female reader, Konig/female reader

spy reader, forced bonding, slow burn, slow build, militar inaccuracies, suggestive language, language, canon typical violence

This is an introductory chapter. Mandatory mention that English isn't my first language so apologies in advance. Hope you enjoy!

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Movies were absolutely right in one thing, one of the big parts in the life of a spy consisted in being shoved into small spaces for a bit too much time, mostly air vents. A little fact they forgot to add, is how fucking boring it could be while you waited for the for the moment to act.

They are late. You thought as you rested your head against the wall of the same air vent you’ve been in for the last forty-six minutes.

1900 – You were dropped in a nearby building by a car without a number plate, property of KorTac.

1920 - You’ve managed to catch a maintenance man smoking a cigarette on his break, successfully making him nap with an always handy syringe of tranquilizer, stealing his card, as well as his overall and cap, using it to sneak inside the building. Once you got inside, you saw the maintenance cart, and you used it to hide your tool bag. The way up wasn’t too complicated, as everyone seemed to respect the uniform, probably assuming something just needed to be fixed, and since you had the maintenance key card, you didn’t have to ask for permission to get through doors.

1945 – You were already on the roof, after what felt like a life climbing stairs to avoid most of the cameras, you discarded the uniform, and got everything needed from your bag before letting it hang from your back. You walked to the edge of the roof, big fall but not a big gap between buildings, you knew you could make the jump, but before that, you pressed the comm.

“Sage to Control, how copy?” You said quietly, while taking a moment while you wait to admire the view of the city. Perfect October day, the night already fell, the cold breeze hit your face, making you lift your face mask, only leaving your eyes uncovered. The streets beneath were full of traffic, full of lights, full of life.

“Control to Sage, send traffic.” Your station chief said through the comm, reminding you that you were here for work, not to admire the view.

“I’m in my first position, everything peachy so far. Remind me to check on the tied-up janitor in the alleyway on my way back”.

“For now, just try to get in there without a fuss. Remember---”

“I know, no execution authority, don’t get caught, recovery mission only. Get the intel without the 141 noticing, got it. I’m not a rookie anymore, remember? Playing on the big leagues now” You said with a hint of amusement, and the man behind the comm could hear the smile on your voice, which made him sigh.

“Listen, Sage, I know the first solo mission sounds exciting, but König was right to be worried when we left. The 141 is a dangerous unit, you must avoid contact by any means necessary…I don’t even know why they’re sending you alone in this, I think it’s a bit irrespon---”

“---sible to send a rookie? Don’t worry, I am not planning on getting caught. And for your information, I am being sent because all the other spies from the force are already in other missions, and I’m the only one left that fits into an air vent…but honestly, it’ll be fine, and if not, please bury me with my Sylvanian Families collection.” You said as you were eyeing the jumping distance, letting out a grunt as you throw your tool bag, which landed in the roof of the other building. “141 is supposed to be here at 2030 according to the intel, right? I should get going to get in position. I will listen but I will have to cut contact from my end, update me on the status”.

“You have a Sylvanian Families collection?” The voice now sounded confused on the other side of the frequency.

“Unimportant now. Update me on the status of the guests every 15 minutes. Over” You said before cutting communication on your side.

You took a few steps back, before running to the edge and jumping, landing on your feet in the next roof, which made you feel a small sense of pride, and it was a shame no one was there to witness your dexterity skills

The briefing for this mission made it very clear that this was a very important one, hour after hour spent studying the blueprint of the building, the map of the air system, and going through multiple contingency plans for every scenario that could happen. Alone, back in your bunk bed, you felt that the blueprint was already burned into your eyelids. Not only that, but four manila folders were often read back-to-back by you, and four names were constantly in your head.

Price.

Ghost.

Soap.

Gaz.

The folders contained multiple transcriptions of some of their communications, information of previous deployments, and some of their personal data. You also got some files on your work laptop containing security videos obtained of them. They were not only clearly bigger than you, but their form didn’t stop them from being able to be sneaky and fast. If they found you around, for sure you were dead.

From the roof, you went down an air vent with the help of a rope, until you reached a horizontal vent, which allowed you to start crawling. It was easy from here, forward, then left, then right, and straight until you reached the vent over two hallways in the shape of a T, and in the hall at the side there was a large window with view to the city, where the 141 was supposed to arrive any minute now. The hall was empty, as the armed guards were outside, protecting the three doors that connected the main building to the halls, and there it was, a heavy metal door that led to the office when the needed intel was. Some files about imports and exports, you weren’t really given much information about them, only their label to be able to identify them and the order to burn the rest of the papers.

Going down the air vent to the office wasn’t an option, as it would trigger the security system, the only way was to get in from the front with the keycard but get it from the guards directly would get the attention of the rest of them, going against the orders of being subtle. You had to wait for the 141, and use them as a distraction, knock the guard, steal the keycard, create further distractions, steal the files and leave a charge of explosives in the office. Easy-peasy.

“Control to Sage. They were dropped by a helo on the top of the building. Get ready to act. Over” The words snapped you out of your boredom, and you already felt your body pumping adrenaline to get you ready to move.

Soon enough, a loud crash of glass broke the silence, followed by three loud stomps on the floor, making the shattered glass on the floor crack underneath their boots. They seemed even bigger in person but given their entrance they were stealthier in the recorded footage.

“Bravo 0-7 to Watcher-1. We are in position, waiting for contact” A husky voice said, and you recognized the man as Ghost, which wasn’t hard considering he was wearing the same skull mask as in the files. The three men had their arms ready, and you heard the sound of the keycard granting access, soon followed by gunshots. The first ones to go down were the guards of the hall that was beneath you, the two dead bodies falling into the ground. But the group didn’t have a rest as guards started shooting from the other doors, and from the fallen guards corpses you could hear how they others were calling for back ups through the comms.

Shit. Be fast.

You opened the vent grid, the sound of shooting covering the sounds of metal, and taking advantage of the situation, you threw a smoke grenade at their feet.

“Fuck!” Another voice said as smoke starting to cloud the vision of a part of the hall. You quickly dropped from the air vent, your feet barely making any sound against the ground, and you crouched, stealing the key card from the dead guard, and quickly making your way to the office, not before throwing another smoke grenade at them to keep them busy.

The key card granted you access, deactivating the security system, and you quickly entered the empty office, hearing some coughing from the outside, and more shooting and screaming that got muffled as soon as you closed the door. You quickly put a chair on the door, in case they would try to get in, it would grant you some more minutes.

You searched through the office, not bothering to be tidy, just dropping the papers on the floor…and then you found the file, a twinkle of excitement appeared in your eyes as you put the folder in your mouth, stepping over the desk and taking from your bag a little box of tools. You took out a screwdriver, and tried to rapidly, but calmly, unscrew the grid of the air vent. Your eyes widened when you heard a loud “Clear!” from down the hallway, followed by heavy footsteps. You managed to make the grid fell, and you swiftly climbed into it. Once up there, you threw the explosives down the office with a detonator, which grant you three minutes to crawl your way out of the air vent. As you passed by, you could see the task force going through the corpses to find a keycard.

“Found one, LT” You heard underneath you, as one of them stood up, holding a key card. Mohawk = Soap, you thought to yourself.

“Wait, you hear that?” Another one says. Pretty boy = Gaz.

You stopped on your tracks, not even breathing. Before you heard a gasp for air coming from a guard, followed by a shot.

“Found it” Ghost answered.

You felt relief flooding your body, but you couldn’t enjoy your small victory properly as the sound of the explosion left your ears ringing. A heavy warmth flooded the air vent, and under you, the sound of glass, grunts and three heavy bodies falling onto the ground. Your ears were still ringing, the heat was slowly becoming unbearable, and the smell of smoke flooded the narrow space as you tried to crawl faster through it.

As you reached the vertical vent, you used your ascender and quickly got to the top. You gasped for air as you felt the cold autumn breeze on your face. As your eyes adjusted to the night, you saw the ropes and some other equipment the 141 left behind them. It wasn’t time to rest yet, as you took the file out of your mouth, saving it to your bag, before throwing it across the gap and into the roof you came from. Soon enough, you followed after, jumping across the gap between both buildings.

Your fall wasn’t as graceful as the first, accidentally missing a step and landing on your knees with a grunt. But you let yourself fall on your back against the concrete. Your face felt like it was burning, the breeze was pleasant against your flushed skin, your clothes and hair reeking of smoke, but once again oxygen was filling your lungs. As you catch your breath, you pressed your comm.

“Sage to Control. How copy?” You asked in a low voice, panting.

“Control to Sage. Are you okay?” The voice quickly answered.

“Yeah, yeah, got the intel. I’m in one piece. Ready for extraction, a shower, and a nap”

“Copy, Sage. Picking you up on the alley, remember to untie the handy man”.

Back in the base the mission was considered so successful that for the next few months your rank went from sergeant to "Task Force 141 shadow" as the first mission and your survival rate apparently meant that you were the first choice for any mission that involved them. They considered the indirect approach worked better than directly engaging in combat against them, which left casualties between the KorTac ranks in the past.

Every mission for intel they had, you were behind them, lurking in the shadows, waiting for them to just start shooting to use the confrontation as a distraction to get to the target first. It was funny to hear them frustrated and annoyed over the comms when they realized that once more, they lost the intel. And then it's fate was obvious once KorTac put it on the market, selling it to the best bidder, or sometimes even using it to complete their own missions.

"You have to be careful, maus. I know you think it's fun, but they're dangerous, like us" You found cute when König used pet names. It was truly amazing how such a unit of a man was capable of being soft at the same time, ever since you started working there under his command until now.

But lately you didn't feel like a mouse, you felt like a hyena or a vulture, just scavenging while the bigger predators weren't looking.

"It's alright, don't worry, bud. I promise you I'm being as careful as I've always been" You said in a reassuring tone, a soft smile on your lips, and you squeezed his arm as he was sitting across you on the common room, a hot tea brewing in front of you.

"That's why I'm worried" König had an unsure look, under his sniper hood, his eyes fixated on your mug, rather than you. And you could tell he was anxious by the way he was shaking his leg. "Just don't leave any tracks, ja?"

What you weren't going to admit to him, is that you were growing slightly fond of the task force you so dutifully followed around. During these months you learned plenty of things about them, just by staying hidden and listening, like Ghost's dad jokes, Gaz unluckiness with helicopters, Soap's preference to play as a goalkeeper while playing football.

You blamed the growing one-sided familiarity by the fact that your new assignments made you spend lots of hours alone, lurking, stalking, in position ready to strike the moment things unfold. Back in base, and since you started to work alone, it was only in rare occasions you were at the same time as your old unit, the opportunities to catch up with them and being social becoming scarce.

And they seemed to be so close, so used to each other, so comfortable to even use their names sometimes. You had to admit you weren't used to that. You didn't even know König actual name let alone his face, and even if other members were more open about their names, their backgrounds were still vague. Not that you were an open book, as you only went by your callsign, your real name a secret between your contractors and you. But back in KorTac the less you knew, the better. It's probably for the best, anyway. Another very possible reason for your newfound fondness was the fact that after every successful mission came a very generous check. In fact, so generous that it was enough, plus your savings, to purchase a flat. Not too fancy, but cozy and big enough for you and your things, and something to call your own as well.

Moving in was tedious, lots of boxes and newspapers wrapped around the fragile stuff, and you were too tired from work to really unpack everything, leaving only the necessary items out. You definitely needed to have dinner and have a nocturnal nap before you keep on unpacking stuff, and the other things weren't as urgent. Besides, it would be a few weeks before your next mission, so you had plenty of time to enjoy settling down in your new home and looking around the neighbourhood. For now, you could really use some food, and at this hour you certainly weren't going to cook. You grabbed your jacket and went down the street.

Thankfully, there was a Chinese place in a five-minute walk. There were lots of people around, going to pubs, as it was a bit of a commercial area. It was nice, some fairy lights, some decorations, people sharing drinks, laughing, you could get used to walking around here. You ordered a serve of chow mein and three spring rolls, got it in a bag and made your way back to your flat.

The building you lived in now was a bit old, so you had a fob for the main entrance and a key for your flat. The door creaked a bit when you opened it, and you closed it behind you, but as you turned around you bumped into something that felt almost like colliding against a brick wall, you turned around and you saw some hands inside a mailbox.

"So sorry, si---" You said looking up and as soon as your eyes focused on the figure you felt how your face went pale, and how all the blood of your body went to your legs, your mind screaming you to flee.

Black eyes stared back at you, and that was the only part you could see, as the rest of the face was covered by a balaclava with a skull print on it. Fuck...

"Staring is rude" That husky voice you were so used to hearing through a comm sounded so clear, and the grip on the takeaway bag tightened.

The fuck is Ghost doing here.

"I-I..." You had to clear your throat, to manage any words out. "Sorry, I'm usually more polite, you just...caught me off guard."

"Haven't seen you here before" He lives here?! No way. This is a trap.

"Moved in this morning" You answered as flatly as you could.

"Ah" He said in an uninterested tone, as he went back to check the mail.

You couldn't help but stare up at him, completely dumbfounded. He was wearing a hoodie covering his head, blank pants, and heavy boots. Why isn't he attacking me? Does he know who I am? What the fuck is this? Jesus, I could throw up.

"Can I help you with something?" He answered in the same tone, not bothering to look back at you a second time.

"You live here?"

"Third floor" He answered plainly.

"Ah" Does he genuinely just lives here? No way, they're setting me up. "Why check the mail at night?"

"Just arrived" He answered as he broke one of the envelopes and checked it's contents. Light bill, and you heard him cursing under his breath.

He is so much taller up close.

"Right…alright, see you around…" You said before quickly going up the stairs, so taken aback that you completely forgot about the elevator.

You arrived to your flat, a bit agitated, and closed the door with the lock behind you. And added a chair under the doorknob, for good measure.

You left the food on the table, and quickly went to grab one of your guns. A SIG Sauer P320, and you checked every room, not that there were many rooms to check. The bedroom, the living-dining room, and the bathroom. Both for people and for cameras or mics, but everything looked normal, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. Lock the windows just in case.

After your thorough search, you sat at your dinner table, left the gun next to you, before beginning to unpack your food. You ate as your eyes were fixated on the door, waiting for someone to come in shooting, for a team, for a raid, anything.

0000 – No contact.

0100 – No contact.

0200 – Still no contact.

0300 – Fuck, I’m tired.

Not today, it seems...fuck, this isn't a coincidence, out of all the buildings in this fucking island he lives here? No bloody way. They know.

next: chapter two "charlie foxtrot"

if you like it leave me some kudos or suggestions on ao3! <3

[writingwenches]

Rhaenyra’s Daughter OC

drabble summary: first look at my new OC, I wanted to create a daughter for Rhaenyra who is staunchly team green. She got away from me a bit. I tried to embody a daughter that was opposite of Rhaenyra in every way, while also still being exactly like her. She believes herself to be Laenor’s only true born daughter, I didn’t explicitly state her parentage, but I’ll leave it up to yall to figure it out. She’s still very new in my head, so more to come from her in the future!

contains: traditional medieval sentiments, religious worship, pure female rage, “thanks! I hate her!”

drabble wc: ~1k

please note: this character is not meant to “make fun of” other people’s Rhaenyra’s daughter OC, I chose the name Aemma because I haven’t seen it used before, so no one gets the wrong ideas.

I don’t have a specific planned romance for her yet, so feel free to send in requests and ideas for her!

Read her debut in her own chapter one

On the day of her birth, King Viserys was the first to speak his daughter’s name, as a gift to the woman he loved. He had informed his small council when the news of a healthy female babe came to them, that the babe was to be called Princess Aemma Targaryen. 

Queen Alicent, debilitated from her labors, spent the days following the birth with her mind controlled by milk of the poppy. Her seventeenth nameday came and went. She couldn’t be sure, as her mind frolicked with the dancers painted on her chamber walls, but Alicent did not recall the kitchens preparing her traditional cinnamon cake to mark the celebration. 

Queen Alicent first heard the babe’s name from her father, the Hand of the King. And right then, her recovery ended. 

Princess Helaena Targaryen was announced at court that every afternoon, with the king’s approval or presence.

It was not long after that Princess Rhaenyra was in need of a name for her own healthy baby girl, and Aemma seemed fitting. 

Princess Aemma Valyarion was born the Realm’s Delight. Aemma was perfection personified from the moment she was born, two moons early, but weighing more than any of the king’s children. Disregarding the Maester’s astrological based predictions of the birth, it was foretold that the babe would be of sturdy health, and her favorite thing to do was scream. 

It was not something she would grow out of. 

The princess’s hair was her greatest treasure. Pale white, with flecks of silver under the sun, she had grown down to her hips. Each night, requiring two maids to brush it to her satisfaction. She did not appreciate inefficiency, only inspecting after twenty additional brush strokes. 

Gifts from her grandsire birthed her collection. The elder captain enjoyed Aemma’s excitement with every exotic trinket she returned with, as his wife and daughter had grown tiered of his absence. Her favorite treasures were the princess’s vast collection of combs and brushes from around the known world. She had comb made of a single jewel from the mines of Casterly Rock, a comb of pure frozen fire from the markets of Asshai, the small folk call it dragon glass, and her most prized possession, a brush that is said to be made of hair and human bone from north of the Wall. 

Every night she would pick her two tools, one for each maid, as a sort of prayer for the next days blessings. Her mother hadn’t ever understood her obsessions. 

Her mother never understood anything. 

Aemma screamed. Rhaenyra screamed back. A chair is thrown from her balcony and Queen Alicent enters the young girl’s room without introduction. Aemma cried and threw herself at the Queen’s mercy. 

“I simply suggested,” her mother started, “that we visit the dragon pit so that we might––“ 

“You wish to sabotage any chance I have of ever finding a husband!” Aemma’s words bit like the heat of dragon fire grazing skin. “No man shall have me if I stink of dragon!”

High Valyrian was out of the question, why speak the language of a civilization not competent enough to remain living amongst some ‘falling volcanic ash’, Aemma believed that the gods only act their vengeance on those who deserve his wrath. If one never sins, one will always be kept in the favor of the gods.  

Her mother spoke blasphemous contradictions, always downplaying the gods judgement. 

“We of Old Valyrian were only saved from Doom by the grace of the Seven,” Aemma’s hands rose in praise, “and we must honor them in the way that they demand.” Her daily trips to the Great Sept surpassed that of the most pious at court. 

At the mere suggestion, from Rhaenyra, for Aemma to spent time away from her constant, quiet, contemplation, the young princess would drop to her knees while loudly begging the gods forgiveness of her mother’s trespass. Her hands rose to the ceiling, her calls shouted to their exhalation, to cover the heretical words of her mother. 

Rhaenyra eventually gave up, and allowed the girl to do as she pleased. Aemma’s eyes were shut closed for her endless prayers before meals, her calls were loud enough to cover the rest of them picking at their plates. 

“May my every action be guided by your grace, and let me praise your name with all my actions.” 

Sometimes, Rhaenyra thought her daughter was doing these things simply to irritate her mother. Laenor, her father, thought she was simply fascinating. 

Aemma believed in eternal damnation, neither her parents knew where the thought had stemmed from. She was still a child, in her nursery room, when she told of dreams from the eternal burn of dragon fire that awaits those that displease the gods. Not even the Septas could talk the girl from her heading. She viewed her life as a test, and she would not allow herself to fail it. 

Of course, Princess Aemma Targaryen was not going to become a dirty, old, Septa, she was born with a grander purpose. She knew she was to be a mother from her playing with dolls. She knew she was to be a great mother one day. 

Something that she knew her own mother was not. 

Before Aemma was old enough to understand, she could read it on the faces of those at court, there was something wrong. The Queen had never spoken ill of her mother in her presence, but Aemma suspected she had always just finished speaking before the young girl was close enough to hear. 

The young princess had told Aegon they were to be wed before he was ten, she told him he was expected to begin praying with her, to better prepare his soul for the gods final judgement. He detested the idea to such extent, that he leaned into her anger at his every lewd and wanton act. 

Aegon would not make a proper husband, she would need to find her own. Aemond could be a proper match, as he still did not have a dragon. 

Aemond would sometimes hear her screams marking another spat with her mother from the training yard. He supposed their children would grow strong, and she did not have the look of a bastard that marked her brothers. Still, he did not like the idea of more unity with that family. 

It was not Aemma’s words that haunted Aemond from the night be lost his eye, it was the imagined droves of ladies at court that said the same. 

Aemma shouted at her child brother, Lucerys, from her place at the Queen’s side, “I can not marry him now that he has one eye!” 

author’s note: THANKS for reading! And if you need a terrible older sister in your fic, feel free to use her! Make sure to tag me so I can watch her path of destruction! I don’t have a specific planned romance for her yet, so feel free to send in requests and ideas for her! I had a LOT of fun writing her religiously, without leaning on common christian-centric phrases.

fic universe: Aemond x Peasant OC

tags: @targaryenswhxre (I hope you enjoy!)

[kg0384617]

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[selfcare-with-senshi]

ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ Welcome!

This is a blog meant to help younglings (and elders) who struggle with proper selfcare. A well maintained body, mind and environment are crucial to a good life, and I'll be happy to help!

This is not a fandom blog! But I will occasionally share positive Dunmeshi things too :)

Senshi ✧ he/him ✧ 21+ ✧ diagnosed w. AuDHD and PTSD

One of the greatest things in life is that you can start over whenever you want. Right now, you can choose to make the change you need. To be the change. In this very moment, you can choose recovery. Today could be the first day of the rest of your life. Even if nobody came to save you in the past, or nobody taught you what you need to know, you can learn to be there for yourself now - and you're stronger and more capable than you may feel.

Your experiences weren't for nothing. They shaped you into who you are. And once you can learn to get along with the person you are, you've won at life.

I steer away from discourse, fandom drama and the like. I don't engage in callout or cancel culture. I don't have a DNI, but I block people when I notice they support any hateful ideology (for example homophobia, transphobia, racism, bullying, callout culture, anti-recovery, etc...) Please keep in mind that I'm not a professional, but I'm some guy out there who cares and wants to see you succeed.

Look after yourself! 🍞

divider by @/saradika-graphics. last updated - 28th of July 2024.

Do you have a problem, a request, or are you looking for something? Please read below! 🙌

I'm happy to answer ♥ Life Questions (for example, how to unfuck a depression bedroom, how to cook eggs, how to make a vet appointment...) ♥ Questions about Autism, ADHD, PTSD, and mental health (with the help of therapy resources or my own experiences) ♥ Venting (please with warning beforehand, a quick "CW vent" is enough!) ♥ Personal Questions ♥ Dunmeshi related things

But please keep in mind

♥ Please keep it sfw ♥ What I post and answer is my opinion, my experience, and doesn't have to work 100% the same for you! ♥ I have my own life outside of this blog and it might take me a while to respond. ♥ I can't answer every question. ♥ I reserve my right to refuse answering things and sharing information I'm not comfortable with.

Taglist

#senshis recipe book -> posts related to a healthy diet, properly handling/cooking/storing food, and overcoming eating disorders. Potentially triggering if you struggle with EDs, please be careful! #selfcare with senshi -> posts and reminders related to the 5 fundaments of selfcare - eating, drinking, sleeping, resting and exercise. #senshis first aid kit -> therapy resources, tools and reminders related to mental health and coping with the monsters of daily life.

#senshis adventurers bible -> posts related to survival, in summary. How to make phone calls, how to make appointments, how to tie knots...

#senshis infodump -> posts that don't fit into any of the categories. #the advice box -> answered asks #senshi speaks -> personal posts #lower levels -> venting catch-all tag

If you need something tagged, please feel free to shoot me a message or an ask (`･ω･´)ゞ

[krakenartificer]

Notes on therapist selection

(From someone who is getting a good grade in Having a Therapist, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve)

Some friends were discussing their work to find a therapist today, and I noticed some unspoken assumptions that can sometimes get in the way of finding someone who's a good fit for your recovery needs, especially around deciding what specializations to look for when no one covers the full range of your crazy. So a list of things to think about that -- as always -- may or may not be useful to anyone except me.

1) On overlapping specializations Anyone who specializes in ADHD or Autism will also have experience dealing with trauma, because every school system I've ever encountered has been traumatizing for NDs. They may or may not call it trauma in their own minds, but they know how to handle "a bad thing happened in my past and it's fucking up my present" problems.

Likewise, everyone who specializes in trauma has experience with anxiety. PTSD was, until 2013, classified as an anxiety disorder. DSM-V puts it in its own category for presumably good reasons, but everyone with PTSD has anxiety (or close enough that you can't specialize in trauma without knowing how to deal with anxiety).

That said ... 2) On picking your therapist based on vibes

Vibes are really more important than specialization. Specialization is important if, like, you have one (1) specific problem and you are looking for a solution for that problem. Like, if your life is fine except that you have ADHD and the executive dysfunction is causing you to be unable to write English essays, then you definitely want an ADHD specialist. But if your opening session is going to be

Therapist: So what brings you in? Me: Well! -straightens lapels- -pulls out easel- -pulls out prepared presentation notes- I have a list

Or

Therapist: So what brings you in? What changes are you looking to make? Me: This -gestures- Therapist: You just pointed to all of you Me: Yes.

then any generic psychologist is as good as any other. You got shit in your head and you gotta detangle it and it's all snarled together anyway, so it's a lot more important that you find someone who you're willing to be working with for years.

3) On finding "the one"

Odds are really really good that you're gonna have more than one therapist in your recovery arc. I did 2 years with one who specialized in psychological impacts on physical health, and it did so. much. for me, and I don't regret it for a moment, but also ... I reached a point where that wasn't the specialization I needed anymore, and also the shit in my head I needed to deal with was the kind of shit that (for trauma reasons) I couldn't talk about to someone in that therapist's demographic. So I left that practice, and found my current therapist.

My current therapist is great, and I'm really glad I'm working with him, but it's entirely possible that he's not going to be able to sort out this entire mess. We may reach a point where his specialties of relationships and adhd are not my bottlenecks any more, and he doesn't really have the tools he needs to handle what my next bottleneck is, and I'll go find someone else who can meet my needs at that time. This is normal and expected, and it's entirely fine to plan on it by (for example) deciding that you want a specialist in this thing right now, and you'll go find a specialist in this other thing later.

4) On Shopping

It's entirely reasonable to have more than one therapist this week. You are in no way expected or required to pick a single therapist based off of some profile pictures, a bio on the website, and a phone call, and then you're stuck with them forever. It is normal and understood that you will set up appointments with half a dozen therapists, and then pick two (or three) to do another session with, before settling into a single choice. Or don't! If you like two therapists for different reasons, and you'd rather work with them simultaneously instead of serially, then feel free to schedule with twice as many therapists, half as often. This ain't a wedding; you don't have to restrict yourself to only one.

Narrow down your choices as quickly as you want to based on your anxiety about not having a decision, based on your executive dysfunction and inability to track multiple things, based on how you feel about each one ... but don't narrow them down to one just because you think that's "the rules", somehow.

5) On Being Abrasive

If you know, upfront, what some of your dealbreakers are, just straight-up say that as you're scheduling the appointment or in the first session. My last therapist became a problem for me because she expressed empathy in a way that was too similar to the way my abuser used weaponized politeness to deny me boundaries; I couldn't talk to her about my violations because her demeanor was too similar to the person who violated me. So when I first talked to my current therapist, I told him, "I need someone who, if they think I'm full of shit, will say 'I think you're full of shit.'" He replied "One of my other clients calls me 'Deadpool'." I said, "Perfect. Let's give it a shot."

So if you really care that someone will let you schedule appointments online, or will never touch your wrist, or will treat your "disorder" as a neurodivergence to be accommodated rather than a problem to be solved, then say so. The sooner you both know that, the better: if you have particular needs, they need to know that now; and if they're not willing to meet your needs, YOU need to know that now.

(You will not, of course, always know your dealbreakers upfront. When I picked my first therapist, my primary problem was hip pain, and I didn't know it was PTSD. It was through her help that I realized that (a) I had trauma and (b) she was way too like my abuser for me to treat PTSD with her. This was not a failure. This was a massive success, because learning that was what allowed me to find someone who could help me (see point #3). It's fine if you don't know, right now, what you need -- that's part of why vibes are so important (see point #2). But whatever information you can give them, it is helpful to do so, and (despite what people in your past have implied) it is not rude, it is beneficial and desired.

6 - not advice, just a reminder

You are beautiful and brave and strong and I am so proud of you for fighting through all the shit -- both internal and external -- to get yourself help. No one ever talks about how hard it is to get to the point where you schedule that first meeting with that first therapist, and I want you to know that it is painful, it is challenging, and you're not lazy or stupid or whatever other lie your brain is telling you.

[h3rmess]

WHERE OUR BLUE IS

Written by @h3rmess ✰

Masterlist

S2 : Chapter 2 - New Home ☆☆

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He laid on his bed, his eyes began to close again. He let out a grunt as he changed his position, laying fully on his back. Our eyes locked, fitting perfectly with each other. It felt as if we were destined to be together. He smiled softly as my heart melted.

"You know you don't have to do this, right?" He looked away as he spoke.

"Yeah, but I want to. I can't help but feel like it was my fault. I was there. I could have saved you." Guilt flooded my veins as I looked down in shame.

"There's no point focusing on what could have been. What's done is done, so don't feel bad about it." He consoled me as I nodded.

I had been taking care of him for the past day. I brought him food, helped him get up when he needed to, and stayed by his side. It gets lonely when you're all alone during recovery. I didn't want him to feel the way I did.

He insisted that I didn't need to help him, but I decided that if I could at least help one person, that would make me happy.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him as he turned to look at me.

"A little... yeah." He replied.

"Anything in particular you want to eat?"

"Pizza would be nice."

"Got it! I'll order some right now." I picked up my phone, searching for a website to order pizza from.

I placed an order as I went to go and sit with Fushiguro once more.

I sat at the edge of the bed awkwardly. He patted the spot next to me, imploring me to sit with him. I stood and moved my weight, placing myself gently next to him on the bed. Our proximity made me nervous, our shoulders almost touching.

"Can I ask you something?" He said suddenly, startling me.

I nodded as he proceeded. "Why were you...so insistent too stay with me to keep me company? I would have been fine on my own."

I let out a deep breath before formulating my words. "When I was young." I began, placing a pillow on my lap and fiddling with it. " I had a terrible accident."

Fushiguro's expression softened as he listened attentively.

"I'm not sure that it was an accident, actually. A boy from the Zenin clan who my family adored visited us in England. They thought that it would be a good idea if I, as a ten-year-old, and him, a little older, fought each other in a showdown with spectators." I explained, his eyes never leaving me.

"What happened?" He probed.

I lifted the hem of my skirt slightly, revealing a scar that ran across both of my thighs.

"I was about to beat him. He had somehow got hold of a special grade cursed tool. He had no idea how to use it, and long story short, he ended up cutting my legs off." I traced the lines of my scars, reluctantly remembering the traumatic event.

Fushiguro gasped quietly, his hand reaching out to mine as he rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand.

"You are so strong. Much stronger than any of us here." My eyes pricked with tears as he spoke. I stopped them from moving, using my reversed cursed technique to get rid of them.

"Thanks to my cursed technique, I was able to regain my strength, though my legs had to be sewn back on. My parents said I brought shame to our family. They left me alone in the hospital throughout the entirety of my recovery. I was so alone. I never want anyone to feel the way I felt. That's why I wanted to help you. The solitude I felt left an empty hole in my heart." The atmosphere became solemn, all the joy and previously positive emotions I felt draining from my manner.

"I'm sorry I asked. I didn't mean to bring back bad memories." Fushiguro muttered remorsefully.

"It's alright. You didn't know. And plus, you can't live life without a little sadness, right? There's always a trough before a peak." My voice was but a whisper. My cheerful tone returned as I tried to lighten the mood.

"I guess this has made us closer now, huh. You got to see me in a vulnerable state already!" I chuckled as he removed his hand from mine with a smile.

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm happy about that."

"Me too."

We sat, motionless. The silence surrounding us was comfortable and warm. I felt at home when I was with him. I felt as if I could pour my heart, my thoughts, everything out to him without the fear of being exposed or judged. All at once, thoughts of spending the rest of my life with him invaded my mind, almost as if it were an insight into the future. It was vivid. I saw Yuuji and Kugisaki on the couch as we all sat there, enjoying each others company. I denied the possibility of these thoughts being true. I looked into his eyes once more, the everlasting void of Azure sucking me into him. A pleased look graced his perfect face. Maybe I could stay with him a little longer.

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TAGS ~

@nyxlai @inlovewithlondonn @sad-darksoul @eternalalmondd @httpstoyosi @vivi-loves-penguins @samutoru @lysaray

[the-one-that-weeps]

What kind of tropes do you like hoc? I'm curious

Awww thank you ^^. I spent so long on this I'm so sorry I just sort of spiraled and one thing led to the other and I ended up tracking all my favourite fics and books out there and... sorry Lynnie. I'm going to write a lot so sorry about that too... here are some of my favourite tropes from the top of my head:

Found Family: I think fanfic is a very important self-healing tool for the modern generation and I'm no exception. Just... The thought of fitting in and being loved is too much for me and I need it like a drug.

Cuddling and Snuggling: same as the last one. I don't know if touch is my love language or if I'm just a sap but whatever has cuddling goes directly to my tabs. Yes this includes close proximity even though I'm not particularly proud of that.

Hurt/comfort: same as the last one. Whether it's Sickfic, PTSD recovery, injuries, panic attack, just a character being sad or going through something. There's something so unbelievably beautiful about the fact that no matter how ugly it gets — how ugly you get — there will be someone reaching a hand through the darkness. It sickens me. Also yeah, touch starved is very much in here.

I also like misunderstandings because I am very very weak and very very stupid and I like characters getting hurt.

And I am also very weak for character analysis. I swear every time I find something there it's pure gold. And in that category I am especially weak to character parallels and so on.

I'm surprised we share so many faves and thanks for the ask again!!

[synnthamonsugar]

one-word writing prompts, intractable, mara/eris?

Clad in thermal underlayers and the loose head scarf she wears at rest, Eris regards the Reef-purple skin-pressure suit laid out on the bunk before her in preparation for the day's mission outside the ship. Her eyes linger on its glistening glass dome helmet, boots and gloves that look almost too fashionable to be protective equipment. Next to it, a tangle of harness webbing meant to hold armor plates, supply pouches, and life support units waiting for them near the airlock of the vessel.

The elegant tech stands in contrast to the rest of the objects scattered on Eris' bunk. She didn't have much time to pack for the journey, but still managed to snag some essentials from Sanctuary. A worn field blanket, hive tablets, a leather-bound journal, dried asphodelia bound together with a string of beads, a rucksack filled with carving tools, ritual objects and mundane necessities. Visible only by its green glow, the ahamkara bone shard is nestled among the folds, and her armor lay in a crumpled heap. In the brief time they've been traveling together, Eris has managed to stake out at least this part of the ship as her own. It's comforting in its familiarity, even if it's a reminder of a place that is anything but.

"Manufactured precisely to your specifications," Mara comments, strolling into the quarters in an identical garment. It's not too different from her usual attire, Eris notes, though she lacks the usual capelette or cloak from her Dreaming City uniform, no fur ruff or badge or sash either. Combined with the tight-fitting hood that flattens out her voluminous hair, she looks distressingly bare, fragile almost, like a bird plucked clean of her plumage. 

She idly picks up the suit. In its inert state, it's stretchy, the densely woven network of wires inside bumpy under her fingertips. It feels pleasantly sturdy despite being so light, but she still puts it down after a moment.

"I appreciate the effort, Mara, but I have ways to protect myself." 

"And they are clever. However, I think it's prudent that your magic be spared for what lies in wait on the approach to the Pyramid."

"You underestimate the reserves of my power. It takes little more effort than breathing."

"We are entering the vacuum of space. Eris. . ." There's a pointedness to Mara's voice that pricks at her ears. She's heard this tone more on this trip than in all their years of work together, though this is the first time on the journey she's felt certain <i>Mara herself</i> is behind it. "In our joint ventures, I've always given you the freedom to operate as you see fit, as you've given me. The mission ahead is dangerous, even by our standards, and harm coming to one of us could spell doom for both. For this reason, I must insist you use the best tools available."

"How are you sure mine aren't?"

"Because mine is made with thousands of years of Awoken astronautical research." 

"I am not one of your people." She makes a sweeping gesture toward her armor and hive accoutrements, "This is what works for me."

Their gazes lock in a tense moment of silence. Eris tries not to feel impressed at how well Mara manages to maintain eye contact despite their mismatched numbers. Her emotions are inflamed enough that conceding even this would feel like a defeat. 

"This isn't about the suit, is it?"

Eris attempts to gather her words and fails because they aren't usually hers to say. To think about saying them at all makes her feel unlike herself, flush with an uneasy, jittery warmth. She may hide from the petty and cruel strangers of the Tower, but among her confidants she's never felt particular embarrassment about her physical condition. Had Asher not dirtied his hands with ichor helping change her bandages in the infirmary? Had Ikora not felt her horns and scales when she washed her hair early in her recovery?

So why was she hesitant to slip out of her veil and bare her face in front of Mara? Why was she self-conscious around the woman with whom she'd shared almost everything else: hope, fears, plans, secrets, even the power of life and death? At the Battle of Saturn, she thought they'd crossed the boundary between their carefully curated personae into something more vulnerable, more intimate, but perhaps she underestimated the elegant wall they'd built, mistaking secrets slid through the cracks for its fall. 

Prompted by Eris' silence, Mara tries continuing. "If you feel shy—"

" — I know I shouldn't be —"

"There is nothing wrong with that, but I assure you nothing you can show me will come as a shock—" 

"I don't want you to look at me and see the face of your killer."

Nary a ripple of surprise across her porcelain face. Instead, she takes a step closer, places her hands loose across Eris' shoulders, her touch cool but comforting.

"Beloved, I could see only you."

Eris feels no need to ask for Mara's word, her promise sealed with a feather-soft touch of lips.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

One day before the funeral of Jaehaerys. The little body of the lost babe had also been sent to the Sept to be viewed by mourners before the following day, when both bodies would be cremated by the Kings dragon, Sunfyre, on a cliff at the Kingswood. It was a service Maera could not wait for to be over, in order to seek some closure and attempt to move forward in her life.

All members of the royal family were expected to attend the cremation. Helaena was getting frequent visits from Maester Orwyle and seemed able to attend, given she had adequate pain relief to cope with the after effects of losing her child. She was still refusing visitors and, while her screaming fits had ceased, she returned to spending most of her time staring out of the window, muttering to herself as tears streamed down her face.

Even Daeron, the youngest Targaryen brother, would be returning to Kings Landing on dragon-back for the funeral, yet only for a day as his dragon, Tessarion, was a formidable tool in the war effort. What Maera thought was strange was that the children, two year old Maelor and four year old Jaehaera, despite their recent trauma, would also be expected to attend. Maera was sure this was another political ploy from the Hand, but daren’t say anything to the other members of the family.

Hearing reports from her spies, Maera was relieved to know updates about her niece and nephew. Two-year-old Maelor seemed to be recovering swiftly, perhaps due to his young age which shielded him from comprehending the gravity of the situation. Despite being noted as more restless in the evenings, he returned to his usual playful self during the day, seemingly undeterred by the recent events.

In contrast, four-year-old Jaehaera was navigating her recovery differently. The trauma had left a deeper impact on her, rendering her mute and diminishing her appetite. Even her favorite toys and the attempts of her nursery maids couldn't coax a response from her. The profound effects of the ordeal lingered in the silence that enveloped her, creating a stark contrast to the lively and expressive child she once was.

Maera, deeply concerned for Jaehaera's well-being, observed a worrying parallel between the little girl's withdrawal and her mother, Helaena. Seeing Jaehaera cutting herself off from the world ignited a determination in Maera to prevent the child from succumbing to inner demons that echoed her mother's struggles. With a resolute mindset, Maera chose to spend the morning with Jaehaera, determined to coax her out of her shell and ensure that history didn't repeat itself.

On that cloudy autumn day, the beach took on a muted, tranquil ambiance. The sand stretched along the shoreline, softened by the overcast sky. Low tide revealed intricate patterns in the wet sand, remnants of the sea's gentle retreat. In the distance, beach caves stood, their dark openings hinting at hidden mysteries within. The waves, subdued by the season, whispered as they lapped against the shore, producing a soothing melody that echoed along the coastline. The cloudy sky cast a gentle, diffused light, painting the scene with a subdued palette of grays and blues, creating an atmosphere of calm contemplation on the deserted beach.

Maera walked beside little Jaehaera, with a cluster of guards not far behind them, the two figures moving in tandem along the cloudy autumn beach. Holding the small girl's hand, Maera felt a sense of silent companionship. Even though Jaehaera remained reticent, Maera found solace in the fact that the child had agreed to spend this time together. Both were dressed in black mourning dresses that billowed slightly in the breeze, and light cloaks shielded them from the chill of the windy beachfront. The somber attire mirrored the heavy emotions that lingered, yet the quiet unity between them became a source of mutual support amidst the echoes of grief.

Looking back at their footprints in the sand, Maera found the walk to be a healing balm for herself as well. The recent traumatic events, witnessing Jaehaerys' lifeless body and Helaena's heartbreaking loss of the baby, had left her in a state of disarray. Her appetite waned, and the burden of fatigue settled heavily in her muscles. Mood swings, oscillating between fleeting moments of happiness and deep depression, cast a shadow over her usual resilience.

Being near the sea, with the rhythmic sounds of the waves, brought a sense of comfort to Maera. The familiarity of the beach and the reminder of her home in the Rainwood became a source of solace amidst the storm of emotions. The walk along the shoreline provided a quiet respite, a moment for Maera to breathe and find some grounding in the midst of the turmoil that had disrupted the fabric of her usual self.

“Look at the seashells, Jaehaera,” Maera pointed to a collection of shells scattered along the sand. “Do you think we can find one with a little crab inside?”

Jaehaera stayed silent, her gaze fixed on the sand. Unperturbed, Maera continued, “And what about those seabirds? They are so high up in the sky, they look like they could be dragons, don’t they?”

The child remained silent, her eyes flitting between the sand and the distant waves as Maera tried to reach her once again. “Do you like the ocean, Jaehaera? I always find it soothing. It reminds me of my home in Rainwood, and when I was a little girl.”

Jaehaera kept her silence, but Maera didn’t let it dampen her spirits. Undeterred, Maera decided to share a piece of her own story, hoping it might resonate with the little girl.

"You know, Jaehaera," Maera began softly, "when I was just about your age, I lost my two older twin brothers." She paused, observing the child's reaction. Jaehaera's eyes flickered with curiosity as she looked up at Maera. Sensing a spark of engagement, Maera continued, "Laethan and Vaeron. They were a year older than me. We used to play by the beach near Rain House, just like you and I are doing now.”

Jaehaera looked up at Maera, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. Maera went on, “They got sick, sweet girl. A terrible illness called the pox took them away. It was just after my mother had died as well.” The weight of the memories lingered in Maera’s gaze, but she pressed on, sensing a connection forming between them.

Jaehaera’s attention remained fixed on Maera, the silence now a bridge between them rather than a barrier. “It was a difficult time, but I still remember them. When I walk by the sea, I think of them. The sound of the waves, the salty breeze, it is as if they are with me, watching over."

Jaehaera's gaze remained fixed on Maera, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. Maera gently touched Jaehaera's shoulder and spoke gently, "I know you miss Jaehaerys, sweet one. And that is okay. You may find something that reminds you of him, something that will make you smile when you think of him."

Their steps continued along the beach, the rhythmic sound of waves providing a backdrop to the shared moment between Maera and the little girl, both carrying the weight of their losses in their own way.

The pair had ended up on the far side of the shore, near a collection of rocks and caves. Yet Maera found herself drawn to the largest one.The sea cave, carved by the relentless tides, possessed a natural grandeur. Its entrance arched like a gaping maw, revealing the hidden depths within. The jagged rocks surrounding the cave bore witness to the ceaseless dance between the sea and the shore. As Maera and Jaehaera neared, Maera noticed a small group of dragon-keepers gathered near the cave. Their attire and equipment hinted at their profession, with a large stick in hand, sturdy leathers and weathered cloaks designed for the challenges of handling dragons.

Among the group, Maera recognized Vovnik, one of the dragon-keepers she had encountered before, when Ēbrion was first discovered to be residing in the network of sea caves. Vovnik, with a seasoned understanding of dragon behavior, had also deduced that Ēbrion must have dwelled within the caves for an extended period. The dragon’s choice to remain hidden was attributed to its size, similar to Vhagar, which would have drawn attention if it ventured beyond the shadows of the caves.

The dragon had departed from its island home for reasons unknown, now choosing to linger on the shoreline of the Capital. The dragon-keepers closely monitored Ēbrion, a wild dragon with little trust for human interaction. His unpredictable nature had led to fatal encounters, as he had killed a few keepers and injured many more.

As the princesses approached the dragon-keeper elder, he executed a deep bow of respect, causing Maera to smile, still unused to such formality.

“Imastan se dyni nykeēdrosa ruartan ao, Vovnik?”Does the beast still evade you, Vovnik? she asked with a playful smile.

Vovnik, with a weathered face marked by the rigors of his trade, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Nyke emagon dōrī rhēdan nykeā ziksos zaldrīzes. Ziry jāhor kirine gūrogon se havor īlon maghan yn daor he nykeā gūrēntan isse bodmagho rȳ ry,” I have never encountered such a stubborn dragon. It will happily take the food we provide but does not show an interest in training at all, he grumbled, gesturing towards the sea cave where Ēbrion, the wild dragon, resided.

Maera couldn’t help but giggle. In truth, she had become quite taken with the beast. She was fascinated when she first spotted him arriving on the beach many moons ago, but since coming face to face with him, her curiosity had only grown. She felt a deep sense of empathy toward Ēbrion, recognizing the drastic shift from a solitary life to constant exposure to humans. The dragon, seemingly alone in its newfound environment, had forged a unique connection with Vhagar, a companion of similar size. And even then, Maera had observed their relationship blow hot and cold.

Despite the unpredictability and potential danger, Maera found herself charmed by the magnificent beast. Her Targaryen bloodline, coupled with the stories her mother often shared about dragons, had kindled a fascination within her. Maera had noticed Ēbrion's appearances during times of stress, such as her wedding day, and felt a sense of gratitude for the unexpected omen. It was an odd feeling. Although unfamiliar with this peculiar sense of reassurance, Maera found solace in the majestic creature’s presence, a silent companion in moments of upheaval.

“Nyke olvie qūvyr syt zirȳla. Lo nyke ēdan nykeā lyka glaeson gōvilirion se rhaenagon nykēla qrillāettan ondoso ābrar nyke, daor sagon biare iā.” I feel quite sorry for him. If I had a peaceful life underground and suddenly found myself surrounded by people I found irritating, I would not be happy either. Maera proposed, smiling down at Jaehaera, who was still tightly clutched at her hand.

Vovnik sighed, a grizzled expression on his face. “Skoros ziry jorrāelagon iksos nykeā kipagīros, nykeā letagon. Mirtys qilōni kostagon gūrēñis zirȳla. Lo nykeā issaros issarys, pōnta līs sagon nykeā sētan naejot sagon pālegon rūsīr.” What he needs is a rider, a bond. Someone who can tame him. If such a person exists, they must be a force to be reckoned with indeed.

As Maera hummed in response to Vovnik’s words, the ground beneath them began to quake. The tremors intensified, revealing the unmistakable pattern of giant footsteps. A deep, low roar reverberated through the walls of the sea cave’s entrance, echoing ominously. Jaehaera clutched onto Maera’s skirts, seeking refuge from the unexpected tumult. Maera’s heart, however, beat with a mix of anticipation and excitement as the source of the disturbance became apparent.

Out of the darkness within the sea cave, Ēbrion emerged with a breathtaking grandeur. His colossal head, adorned with large horns, rose into view, framed by the ominous darkness behind him. The orange glow of his eyes held a hypnotic intensity, a stark contrast to the deep blue and black scales that adorned his majestic form. His impressive teeth and the sheer enormity of his presence created a surreal tableau against the backdrop of the cave’s shadows.

The dragon-keepers hastened to the Princesses' sides as the colossal figure of Ēbrion loomed overhead. However, to their surprise, Maera calmly gestured for them to remain composed. In that moment, an unspoken assurance seemed to envelop her, dispelling any immediate sense of threat.

The dragon's massive pupils expanded, resembling the vast expanse of the night sky, suggesting a state of relaxation. A plume of smoke billowed from his nostrils as Ēbrion snorted, and then, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, he lowered his head right in front of Maera. Murmurs of uncertainty spread among the dragon-keepers as they observed this unusual interaction.

“Shhh, lykirī Ēbrion,” Maera cooed, her green eyes sparkling with wonder at the beast before here. Remarkably, the dragon began emanating soft bellows from his chest, akin to the purring of a cat.

Undeterred, Maera extended her hand to the dragon's snout, just above his mouth. The dragon's scales, as smooth as ivory and radiating heat, met her touch. Grinning, Maera petted the colossal beast, using the same hand that had once revealed her blood to him. As Maera looked down at Jaehaera, she discovered the little girl’s purple eyes wide with excitement and a small, budding smile gracing her lips. This sight filled Maera’s heart with a hopeful warmth for the child.

She tilted her head in curiosity before asking Jaehaera, “Would you like to touch him?” In response, the four-year-old nodded eagerly. Maera, with a careful yet tender touch, lifted Jaehaera into her arms, cradling her on her hip. Joining their hands together, Maera guided Jaehaera’s small hand to rest on the smooth surface of Ēbrion’s nose.

In response, the mighty dragon blinked slowly, an expression of profound contentment. The tranquility that emanated from him enveloped the Princesses in a serene moment. Maera couldn’t help but smile down at Jaehaera, whose rosy cheeks bore witness to the happiness that had blossomed within her.

As Maera enjoyed the moment of connection with her niece and the dragon, she noticed a hushed conversation in the background. Vovnik and the other dragon-keepers were engaged in a murmured exchange in High Valyrian. Straining to hear, Maera turned to ask Vovnik about it, but before she could, a soft voice reached her ears.

"He’s so warm," Jaehaera spoke, the words carrying a sweet melody that had been absent for a week. The sound of her niece’s voice brought tears to Maera's eyes, and she fought to keep her composure.

"Yes he is, Jaehaera," Maera said, a joyous smile breaking across her face. She refrained from mentioning the significance of Jaehaera's spoken words, not wanting to put too much pressure on the child.

Deciding to redirect their focus, Maera suggested, "Come. Shall we head back to the Keep and tell Maelor about our encounter with the difficult dragon?" The little girl nodded, prompting Maera to set her down and gently take her hand, cherishing the newfound connection between them as they began their journey back.

“It was lovely to hear her voice again, after so long. And that she felt safe enough with me to speak,” Maera expressed to Aemond, who sat opposite her in their chambers as they shared lunch together. The table hosted an array of dishes included savory pies, roasted meats, and various side dishes. However, Maera’s plate held only a simple barley soup, a testament to her persistent lack of appetite.

The time she had spent with their niece was shared with her husband, a bright smile across her face. Maera’s green eyes lit up as she recounted the details of the encounter with Ēbrion, the joyous revelation seeming to temporarily lift the weight that had hung over them since Jaehaerys’ death.

Aemond, finishing chewing his food before he spoke, raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised you took her to the beach, given how things have been of late.”

Maera took in the sight of him as she slowly placed a spoonful of soup into her mouth. His silver hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his strong features with an air of rugged elegance. His remaining violet eye remained intensely focussed on her with a quiet attentiveness, his sharp jawline and chiseled features conveyed a sense of strength and determination.

Maera, her smile turning melancholic, replied with a sad glint in her eyes, “It is where I feel close to my family. I thought Jaehaera might find comfort there too.”

Aemond considered this for a moment before commenting, “Seems like she was quite taken with Ēbrion, from your story.”

Maera nodded, “Yes, I thought it might be a positive experience for her. Jaehaerys always said he would claim Ēbrion when he was alive. I suppose seeing the beast gave her a chance to be close with her twin once more.”

The One-Eyed Prince simply hummed in response, placing a forkful of food gracefully into his mouth. Despite the stoic exterior, there was a subtle warmth in his gaze as he engaged with Maera, creating a comforting atmosphere in the midst of their shared meal.

Swallowing a mouthful of food, Aemond suggested, "Perhaps Jaehaera could one day claim the dragon for herself."

Humming in response, Maera contemplated Aemond's idea while taking a sip of ginger tea. After a moment of reflection, she spoke with determination, "I want to strike while the iron is hot, make sure Jaehaera does not retreat back into her shell." In a sudden burst of inspiration, Maera's eyes lit up. "I could show her my sketchbook of Ēbrion," she said out loud, a plan forming in her mind.

Eager to put it into action, Maera rose from the table with swift determination. However, as she stood, a sudden dizziness overcame her. Desperately grasping at the table edge to steady herself, she accidentally knocked a glass onto the floor, the sound of shattering glass echoing in the chambers. Aemond quickly rose from his seat and rushed to her side, concern etched on his face.

Despite his protective gesture, Maera, in her stubbornness, gently batted him away, insistence in her voice. “I’m fine.”

A frustrated groan escaped Aemond’s lips. “You have been like this since Jaehaerys’ death,” he remarked, his worry evident.

Maera, ever defiant, argued, “It is just shock.”

Aemond countered, “Not like any shock I have seen before.”

With a playful grin, Maera teased, “What do you know about shock, husband?” Her attempt at humor, however, was met with a stern silence from Aemond. Unfazed, Maera reached for the water across the table, sipping it to ease the tension in the air.

As Maera set down the glass, Aemond's concern deepened. "You need to see the Maester," he insisted.

Maera shook her head defiantly, stating, "I will not."

Aemond, standing in front of her, took charge, grasping her chin roughly and tipping her head back to look at him. "This is not a request," he stated sternly, his authority cutting through the air.

Maera couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at his commanding presence. Tilted her head, she asked flirtatiously, "Is this my Prince's command?"

Aemond, not wanting to show any vulnerability, but also not immune to her charm, gave her a subtle smile and a nod. Maera, still playful, stated with a smirk, "Fine. But it will be a waste of time."

Maera decided to visit Maester Orwyle in his chambers, considering his hands were likely full with tending to the Queen's needs. She reasoned that summoning him for what she believed were mere symptoms of shock would be an unnecessary diversion of his time.

Entering the Maester's chambers, Maera found herself surrounded by an array of medical bottles and scrolls, neatly organized on shelves. The room was equipped with a sturdy table, presumably for examinations and treatments, while a small bed hinted at the occasional need for medical examinations and rest. The air carried the distinct scent of herbs and potions, creating an ambiance that spoke of the Maester's dedication to his craft.

Maester Orwyle, with his meticulous concern, had Maera seated in his chambers, questioning her about various aspects of her health. The inquiry covered her diet, appetite, and the amount of sleep she managed to get. His probing also extended to matters of intimacy with her husband, which elicited a smile from Maera as she assured him there were no issues on that front.

However, when the Maester broached the topic of Moon's Blood, Maera couldn't help but be momentarily perplexed. With the whirlwind of events since her marriage, she had inadvertently neglected to pay attention to her monthly cycle. Spottings here and there following the wedding were the extent of her awareness on the matter.

“Forgive me, Maester Orwyle. So much has happened… I cannot remember much about dates or how long I bled for,” Maera admitted with a tinge of sadness to her voice.

The Maester gave her a sympathetic smile. “That is understandable, Princess. I would still like to examine you, if I have your permission.”

“Is that necessary?” She asked defensively.

“Illness and symptoms can manifest in any part of the body,” Orwyle replied.

Reluctantly, Maera agreed to lie back on the bed, attempting to divert her thoughts away from the impending invasive examination. The Maester, with a professional demeanor, conducted the necessary examination, and seemed to hum with surprise and confirmation, before withdrawing his hand from her. Once the procedure was concluded, Maera sat up, smoothing down her black skirts with impatience and a hint of apprehension.

“Well? What is it, Maester? Is it serious? I thought it was just shock?” Maera enquired with a mix of eagerness and fear, hoping for some clarity on her current state of health.

The Maester wiped his hand on a nearby cloth before meeting her gaze directly. “It is quite simple, Princess Maera. You are with child.”

Notes: Ahhh I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. I’ve been dropping subtle hints since they got married but it’s time to make it official! Fun fact; all the symptoms mentioned where all the symptoms I had in my first pregnancy 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @0eessirk8 @shesjustanothergeek @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @abecerra611 (welcome to the club)

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[muzzleroars]

Fallen Gabriel is so friggin cool, but I have to wonder how he would fight in his new form? How would he utilize hell energy, and would some trace of his original powers (Materializing weapons from light) remain? I’ve seen art of Gabriel wielding his og swords but now partially broken, so is it made up for the fact he is physically stronger or that he can imbue his swords with hell energy?

my idea is that gabriel goes through a lot of evolution with how he fights now that his wings have been taken from him - airborne combat is what he was most comfortable with and adept at, but he does have plenty of ground-based training he pulls on to reinvent his technique. initially, when met in his tomb, gabriel engages v1 much like the prime souls, with fast and brutal assaults dealt with only his body as his weapon as he's no longer capable of light materialization and his swords are sealed elsewhere. for a time, this is what he continues to do when he and v1 move forward together as even though he regains his swords, they are broken in the recovery process and burn his hands now besides. gabriel is left...weaponless, and he refuses to acknowledge his capability with hell energy until his demonic transformation completes. and in that, he rebels against everything he once was as a way of processing his own grief.

he fully embraces his hell energy then, corrupting justice and splendor into demonic weapons so they fit into his hands once more, and becoming a gifted conductor of his newfound power source. i'm certain he could use it to craft weapons as his light once did (as a fallen archangel, he is accordingly high tiered as a demon) and he even begins making bombs that v1 can use. he also likely raids hell to get his hands on the weapons that once belonged to the fallen angels all that time ago, as he seems to be a bit more partial to the physical weight in his hands now. in this phase, he is a vicious combatant, abusing his self-sourced energy until he's drained to tear apart any enemies he and v1 come across. he revels in the bloodshed as much as the machine does, and he relishes his fallen nature in defiance of a lifetime spent as a tool now discarded from its master.

this mellows eventually however, with gabriel achieving a peace in his new status and recognizing that while he loves battle, he enjoys it most as his art form, something he can engage in with grace and mastery above all else. it was once his way of connecting to god, and now it is his way of connecting to himself, the very core of who he is. and gabriel, while enchanted with blood possibly as much as v1 is, also values his poise and chivalry just as much. this is when his final battle style is acquired, adjusting to a much heavier, much stronger body that he dedicates himself to feeling just as light in as when his wings once carried him. it's difficult of course, he feels clumsy and his tail presents a terrible annoyance at first, but he actually takes to the challenge with great joy. he learns his balance, to use his tail as a counterweight (and weapon, given its size) and how to put all this raw strength into graceful maneuvering. he feels invigorated moving fluidly across hell's floors, in touch with his battlefield like he could never be in the air. it grounds him in a way he delights in, working closely with v1 to develop a horrifically cruel duet that gabriel turns back into a dance. he continues to take his broken swords in hand, but he keeps his hell energy constantly on stand-by now - i like to think when in battle, a ring of skulls replace his halo