#weight loss regime

[weightlossregime]

7 Days Strength Training Plan | Weight Loss Regime #strengthtraining #weightlosstips #trainingplan

This video provides a simple and effective 7-day strength training plan perfect for beginners. This full-body routine requires no equipment and can be done at home.

#7daystrengthtraining, #strengthtrainingforbeginners, #fullbodyworkout, #homeworkout, #noequipmentworkout, #beginnerworkoutplan, #weeklyworkoutroutine, #strengthtrainingroutine, #fitnessforbeginners, #bodyweightworkout

[pratanumindpowerdevelopment]

yoga chart for losing weight of 5 kg in 1 month

A well-planned yoga routine can effectively support weight loss, helping you shed 5 kg in one month when combined with a balanced diet and lifestyle changes. Yoga not only burns calories but also improves flexibility, muscle tone, and mental well-being.

Yoga Routine Overview

Duration: 5-6 days per week

Focus: Dynamic flows, strength-building poses, and relaxation

Intensity: Start with beginner to intermediate poses, gradually increasing intensity

Weekly Yoga Plan

Day 1 - Dynamic Flow (45 minutes)

Warm-up (5 minutes):

Deep breathing (Pranayama): 5 rounds of deep inhalation and exhalation

Gentle stretches: Neck rolls, shoulder rolls, and wrist stretches

Sun Salutations (Surya Namaskar - 15 minutes):

Perform 8-12 rounds of Surya Namaskar at a moderate pace

Focus on breathing and form, gradually increasing the pace

Standing Poses (20 minutes):

Warrior I (Virabhadrasana I): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Warrior II (Virabhadrasana II): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Triangle Pose (Trikonasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Chair Pose (Utkatasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Cool-down (5 minutes):

Child’s Pose (Balasana): 1-2 minutes

Corpse Pose (Savasana): 3 minutes of relaxation

Day 2 - Core and Strength-Building Yoga (45 minutes)

Warm-up (5 minutes):

Gentle stretches, focusing on the spine and legs

Core Strengthening Poses (20 minutes):

Plank Pose (Phalakasana): 3 sets of 30-45 seconds

Boat Pose (Navasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Dolphin Plank Pose: 3 sets of 30 seconds

Bridge Pose (Setu Bandhasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Strengthening Flow (20 minutes):

Downward Dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Four-Limbed Staff Pose (Chaturanga Dandasana): 3 sets of 10-15 seconds

Locust Pose (Salabhasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Cool-down (5 minutes):

Seated Forward Bend (Paschimottanasana): 1-2 minutes

Corpse Pose (Savasana): 3 minutes of relaxation

Day 3 - Yoga for Flexibility and Balance (45 minutes)

Warm-up (5 minutes):

Deep breathing and gentle stretches, focusing on the spine

Standing Balance Poses (20 minutes):

Tree Pose (Vrksasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Eagle Pose (Garudasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Dancer’s Pose (Natarajasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Half-Moon Pose (Ardha Chandrasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds each side

Hip Openers (15 minutes):

Pigeon Pose (Eka Pada Rajakapotasana): 3 sets of 1 minute each side

Butterfly Pose (Baddha Konasana): 2-3 minutes

Cool-down (5 minutes):

Supine Spinal Twist (Supta Matsyendrasana): 1-2 minutes each side

Corpse Pose (Savasana): 3 minutes of relaxation

Day 4 - Power Yoga (45 minutes)

Warm-up (5 minutes):

Gentle stretches and deep breathing

Power Yoga Flow (30 minutes):

Sun Salutations (Surya Namaskar): 10 rounds at a faster pace

Warrior Sequence: Warrior I, Warrior II, Reverse Warrior, and Extended Side Angle (Hold each for 30 seconds)

High Lunge to Plank Pose: Flow between these poses for 5-10 reps per side

Crow Pose (Bakasana): 3 attempts, hold for 15-20 seconds each

Core Yoga (10 minutes):

Boat Pose (Navasana): 3 sets of 30 seconds

Side Plank Pose (Vasisthasana): 3 sets of 20 seconds each side

Cool-down (5 minutes):

Child’s Pose (Balasana): 1-2 minutes

Corpse Pose (Savasana): 3 minutes of relaxation

Day 5 - Relaxing and Restorative Yoga (45 minutes)

Warm-up (5 minutes):

Gentle neck, shoulder, and back stretches

Restorative Poses (20 minutes):

Supported Bridge Pose: 3 minutes

Reclined Bound Angle Pose (Supta Baddha Konasana): 3 minutes

Reclining Twist (Jathara Parivartanasana): 1-2 minutes each side

Yin Yoga Stretches (20 minutes):

Dragon Pose (Lizard Pose): 2 minutes each side

Shoelace Pose (Gomukhasana): 2 minutes each side

Butterfly Pose (Baddha Konasana): 2-3 minutes

Cool-down (5 minutes):

Corpse Pose (Savasana): 5 minutes of deep relaxation

Day 6 - Active Rest or Light Yoga (30 minutes)

Light Yoga Flow (30 minutes):

Gentle Sun Salutations: 5 rounds at a slow pace

Focus on deep breathing and mindful movement

End with Child’s Pose and 5 minutes of Savasana

Day 7 - Rest Day

Rest and Recovery: Take a complete rest day to allow your body to recover. You can incorporate light walking or simple stretches if you feel up to it.

Additional Tips for Yoga-Based Weight Loss:

Stay Consistent: Practice regularly to maximize weight loss and flexibility.

Focus on Breathing: Proper breathing (Pranayama) during poses helps burn more calories and improves focus.

Diet: Complement your yoga routine with a calorie-controlled diet, rich in fruits, vegetables, lean proteins, and whole grains.

Hydrate: Drink plenty of water throughout the day, especially after your yoga sessions.

Sleep: Ensure you get 7-8 hours of quality sleep each night for recovery and to support weight loss.

By following this yoga chart, you can work toward losing 5 kg in a month while also improving your overall strength, flexibility, and mental well-being.

[freudivania]

Rotina emagrece

Dizem que é mais fácil largar um vício do que um hábito. Ok, mas e quando a gente quer CRIAR e não largar um hábito, quanto tempo demora? Onde vivem? O que comem?

Estou tentando formar alguns hábitos novos. Isso de acordar seis da manhã e ir dormir antes da meia-noite é um deles, na realidade. Passei oito anos trabalhando em casa e no horário que queria, simplesmente por ser da natureza do serviço, assim, meu horário preferido para trabalhar era a madrugada, quando a cidade estava quietinha e a internet aqui na quebrada, top.

Sim, tinha dessas aqui. Acho que não faz um ano que tenho internet boa.

Quando comecei a fazer faculdade, essa rotina foi quebrada em partes, porque tinha dia sim que, mesmo não trabalhando, continuava nerdiando nas madrugs por puro costume.

Mas a verdade é que tudo isso é muito ruim pro corpo. E engorda. É impossível passar uma madrugada inteira sem ficar enchendo a cara de besteira e não raro, acabava substiituindo refeições importantes por lanches. Aí vc dorme em qualquer horário, acorda em qualquer horário, come qualquer coisa e ainda diz assim "ah, mas estou acostumada!".

Estar acostumado a algo e isso ser bom para você são coisas muito diferentes.

Como semana que vem começam as aulas, decidi adiantar o expediente e passei a regular meus horários de uma forma melhor, o que acaba incluindo comer certinho, café da manhã, almoço e janta, sem ficar enchendo a cara de coisinhas entre as refeições. Se bater uma fominha, espero, se a fominha continuar, espero mais um pouco, se a fominha virou fomona, aí tomo a minha sopa ou como uma frutinha. Se aguentar esperar até a próxima refeição, melhor.

Aliás, ontem fiz uma coisa que nunca faço, que é dormir com um pouco de fome. Nada oooooooh meu Deus, mas aquele leitinho, aquele iogurte ou o pãozinho que comeria pra não deitar de barriga vazia, deixei pra lá, fui dormir e não morri. Acordei hoje bem disposta e sem querer comer o mundo inteiro.

E sim, o ponteiro da balança voltou a descer. Devagarinho, mas o importante é não subir.

Já mandei 5kg embora, basicamente um sacão de arroz. E, curiosamente, hoje tirei um saco de arroz do armário e fiquei refletindo sobre aquele peso nos meus braços, pensando que tinha tirado exatamente aquilo do meu corpo.

Até o meio do ano, tenho bastante peso pra perder. Sem neura, na moralzinha, meio quilinho por semana só pro corpo não surtar e me fazer entrar em compulsão ou pior, dormir loucamente pra conservar energia. Acho que comendo direitinho, levando as marmitas certas pra faculdade, parando de comer depois de um certo horário, passando bastante tempo fora de casa e tentando aumentar minha atividade física, não vai ter erro não.

Espero que ano que vem eu possa reler esses posts com alegria, e não com a frustração de ter falhado comigo mesma DE NOVO, o grande mal de todo mundo que luta contra a balança.

[stargirlygirl]

you have an ed (zayne helps you through it)

summary: zayne helps you realise you have an ed (anorexia), get diagnosed and supports you throughout your recovery

contains: nsfw; explicit anorexic mindset and behaviour; heavy fatphobia; voyeurism (in the mirror); smut; f!masturbation; implied penetrative sex at the end; not exactly implied mommy issues, but it can be read that way; 5.9k words

PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU READ: we are diving into the anorexic brain. you may find this post triggering because the fic is primarily from the reader’s pov; it might remind you of past experiences (if you have any). you will encounter explicit fatphobia! appearance and weight are connected with morality, and there is one mention of porn. this post is NOT a promotion of ed’s or anorexia specifically. it is intended to comfort readers who have had similar experiences, or provide insight to those who’ve never experienced an ed on what it’s like. helpful links are provided at the end.

You don’t have a problem. You don’t. Really. I mean, thinness isn’t a problem, right?

By your standards, you’ve never looked better. Sure, not eating much and exercising whenever you’ve got a spare moment can be exhausting. But who wants to be fat? Because to be fat is to be undesirable, unlovable, the lowest of the low. That could never be you.

It’s been exhilarating, watching the fat fall off your waist, revealing your hip bones and abdominal muscles. Having a thigh gap is awesome (except for the fact that you can’t warm your hands between your thighs in winter), and your arms have never looked so toned. You’re feeling more confident than ever in your appearance. So no, you don’t have a problem.

Okaaayyyyy, maybe the hair loss is a bit of an issue… and the moodiness. God, you’re just so fucking angry all the time. You can’t help it! Everyone has been stressing you lately. Even Zayne, your sweetest sweetie bear, has been getting on your nerves.

You know it’s not intentional, how triggering his inquiries into your current workout regime or meals are. You know he cares, but for some reason, it irritates you every time he brings it up. You’re doing the right thing! Eating less, moving more. You’re the epitome of health right now. If anything, Zayne should be looking up to you and asking for your advice rather than critiquing your lifestyle choices. Have you seen his diet? All of those sweets?! You’re convinced that it’s his metabolism or genes. You could never be naturally fit like that.

“Make sure to take rest days. Remember, muscles aren’t built in the gym. They’re built during recovery.” “Honey, the shower drain was clogged with your hair again. I’ve noticed that it accumulated faster this time. Are you eating enough?” “Dear, is everything okay? We haven’t been… intimate in a couple of weeks now.”

You wish that sometimes he would shut up and let you live your life! Especially regarding that last one. It’s not like you’re not horny. I mean you are, I’m sure. But it’s just that you’ve got other things to be filling your time with, like five sets of goblet squats and then five sets of step-ups and then you’re also going on a 2km walk this afternoon and—

Zayne can’t remain silent on the matter any longer. His gentle prodding over the past few weeks has been met by an iron wall on your part. He can’t bear seeing the woman he loves harm herself like this.

The cardiologist casts his mind back to six months prior, when you both visited your family for a weekend. Sure, your mother commented on your weight and eating, but was that enough to trigger your subsequent pursuit of shedding a ‘few’ pounds?

At the time, Zayne missed the tears welling in your eyes, choked down with a dry laugh and an “excuse me” as you scampered off to the bathroom to pinch your tummy rolls and remind yourself of how goddamn right she was. You’ve really let yourself go.

Thinking back, he sees how your “fitness journey” and your mother’s comment coincide. How hadn’t he noticed earlier? He always told you how beautiful you were. Almost every day. He always made you feel so good whenever you two had sex, it would be impossible for you not to feel stunning in your body. The way you get him going by just existing in the same room as him; maybe your ass cheeks are peeking out of your shorts, or your top is a little low. Don’t you know how fucking gorgeous you are?

Not once has Zayne ever questioned your beauty. But when he catches a glimpse of you coming out of the shower, he sucks in a sharp breath. Before him, his precious girl was all skin and bone. Your luscious curves are all gone. Even your hip dips (his favourite).

Your boyfriend’s green eyes are glued to the oscillating nubs poking out of your back, rolling down until you wrap your towel around you. It swallows you up, making you look tiny beneath it. His heart pangs.

Gulping, he pushes the already ajar door open and lingers by the threshold. You lock eyes in the mirror, and you spin around to stare at him.

“Zayne!” You squeak.

He mutters, “Sorry I… I was just passing when I saw you and…” You look so gaunt. Sickly. Pale. Like one of Zayne’s patients, post-operation, clinging to life by a thread. How could he be so blind?

You shake your head, “Mhmm, don’t worry about it.” Turning back around, you flip open the lid of your cleanser and squeeze the product onto your hand. After rolling it around on your fingers, you start applying it to your dull complexion. All the while, your boyfriend stands there, shell-shocked.

In front of him stands a foreign woman. An alien, almost. It’s uncanny the way you resemble his love, because you are her.

But you’re not.

She died a few months ago, and she’s never coming back. Not on your watch. This new version of you is much, much better.

Rinsing off your cleanser, you gaze at Zayne in your reflection and ask, “Everything okay?”

“No,” he breathes out. Stalking over to you, he stops at your side. You gaze up at him and notice the sad look in his eyes.

“What?” You ask more harshly than intended. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” His hand raises, hovering tentatively as he gazes at you. With an exhale, his fingertips ghost down your hairline to your earlobe.

Your partner stutters, “I’m-I’m so sorry, my love. I—”

“Sorry? For what? What’s going on, Zayne?” He can’t stand the crease in your brow and the tension in your jaw. The sudden anger, he can feel it rippling off you in waves.

He mutters, “I didn’t realise what you were going through.” You scoff. Rolling your eyes, you pull away from his gentle touch and reach for your toner.

Pouring the liquid into your palm, you retort, “You say that like I’m terminally ill.”

He whispers, so quietly, you’re not sure if you heard it, “You just might be.” Tapping the toner into your skin, you cast him an annoyed glance in the mirror.

“Just fuck off, Zayne. Every fucking time you see me these days, you won’t get off my back.”

Spinning to face him, you shout, “I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong with me! So stop saying that there is!” His nostrils flare as he huffs.

Pushing up his glasses, he resumes a clinical tone as he says, “I hardly see you eat these days. You’ve been spending copious amounts of time exercising. Your libido has dropped suddenly, as has your body fat. You’re losing excessive amounts of hair. You’re quick to anger—”

“SHUT UP, ZAYNE!”

“When was the last time you menstruated?”

His question hangs in the air, pinned amongst the sterile LEDs overhead. No longer are you standing in your bathroom. It has become an examination room, with Zayne as your physician. What’s next? A physical check-up? Stepping on the scales? Good thing you haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.

“It doesn’t matter,” you scowl, turning back to face the sink top and snatching your moisturiser.

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats. “So, you don’t remember.”

“God, just! Just get out, Zayne!” You yell, slamming the bottle back down on the bench. Side eyeing him, you notice that he’s gone rigid, frozen up inside like his Evol has gone haywire.

Sparking silence fills the short distance between you, popping and crackling with every irritated exhale you take. Zayne doesn’t move as you finish up your facial skincare. He seems hellbent on staying with you, his narrow gaze scrutinising you beneath the unflattering lighting.

You don’t understand. You’re gorgeous now. Sexy, beautiful, thin. All of the things you weren’t before, so why do you feel so self-conscious? Why do you want him to leave even more desperately now that it’s time to moisturise your body?

You mumble exasperatedly while avoiding his eyes, “Can you please go?”

Pushing up his glasses again, he murmurs, “I don’t want to abandon you when you’re struggling.”

“I’m not—”

“Please,” he sighs. “Let me finish.”

He remains quiet for a moment, and seeing that you do, too, he continues, “I understand that this is hard for you to accept. Eating disorders are complex illnesses that require the dismantling and rebuilding of self-perception and lifestyle habits. It’s up to you to seek medical help for your disorder. And when you do, I’ll be supporting you every step of the way. But I can’t support you when you’re like this.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. You can’t do anything but blink back the tears pricking your waterline. If Zayne notices them, he doesn’t say anything.

Observing your stubbornness on the issue, he walks to the door and shuts it softly behind him. Hearing his footsteps fade, you crumple into a heap on the floor. Head in your hands, knees up to your chest, fuck the towel, you sob into yourself. It’s loud and messy, cathartic.

The emotions you’ve been bottling up for months spill over, and suddenly, you wish that you hadn’t pushed the love of your life away. You yearn for his warmth right now. His strong arms embracing you, scarred hands stroking your hair as you bare your soul to him. But instead, you bare it to the foggy shower walls, toilet, and wet bathroom mat that isn’t thick enough to stop the bones jutting out of your butt from hurting as you’ve been sitting in this position for too long. Your wails bounce off the white tiles, sweeping you up in a whirlpool of sorrow.

That night, when you’ve finally shed your last tears alongside your pride, you stumble into Zayne’s home office. He’s typing away on his keyboard, entranced in his work, when he hears the click of his door. Turning his head, he sees his girlfriend’s tear-stained face and puffy, quivering lips. You’ve changed into one of his dress shirts, which is comically big on you.

Shutting off his computer, he spins around in his desk chair and stands up. He meets you halfway, and you collapse into his arms, the waterworks starting back up again.

You sob into his chest, “’M s-sorry.” Your boyfriend gently shushes you and pats your head as you hoped he would.

He says tenderly, “I’m not upset with you, honey. I want to be here for you, if you’ll let me.” Pulling back, you nod. You go to wipe your eyes, but he beats you to it. His thumbs are cool as they swipe the tears from your lash-line, a welcome reprieve from your harsh rubs these past few hours. He cups your cheeks and leans down, kissing your forehead sweetly.

You choke out, “I-I love y-you, Za-Zaynie.”

Pulling you flush against his body, he murmurs, “I love you, too, darling. We’re going to work through this together, alright? Regardless of how long it takes, even if you never fully recover, I’ll always be here for you.”

At that moment, you didn’t quite understand what he meant. Even if you never fully recover. You have an ED, not a chronic disease. But as you come to learn, EDs are kinda like long-term illnesses. For some people, they don’t ever fully go away. You just become better at managing your reactions to certain triggers.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

The waiting room chairs are uncomfortable. Not designed for sitting for long periods, you internally berate yourself for showing up 20 minutes early to your appointment. It’s just that you were so nervous.

Today is the day. The day you get diagnosed with an ED. You’ve been on edge since Zayne booked it. Your natural reaction was to exercise even more and eat even less in the lead up to the two things you’ve become dependent on being stripped away from you. But your boyfriend suspected that.

Annoyingly, he’s been monitoring you closely every day, cooking you meals when he can and reminding you not to overexert yourself. And you’ve been eating his nutritious food and following his advice. Kind of. Okay, maybe not very well. But can anyone blame you?! Because after today, you’re going to have to become the one thing you’ve formed your entire identity around not being.

Fat.

Not curvy. Not voluptuous. F. A. T. That’s what you were going to become as soon as your new physician called you in.

You practically jump in your seat as Zayne sits down next to you, sliding his phone into his pocket.

He murmurs, “Sorry, love. I promise, I’ve taken care of everything now.” You nod, gnawing on your lip and casting glances between him and the GP’s door. Sighing, your boyfriend wraps his arm around your shoulders and gives you a comforting squeeze.

He says tenderly, “It’s going to be okay, darling.”

“Mhmm,” you hum half-heartedly. Tucking your necklace into your top, you start picking at the fabric on your too-big jeans. They weren’t baggy, because baggy jeans are fashionable. You’ve had this pair for years, and it used to fit your waist just right, but now it dangles off your hip bones like an autumn leaf on a branch.

Zayne places a cool hand over yours and asks, “Do you want me to come in with you?”

You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. I can do it.”

He replies gently, “I know you can. But you’re incredibly nervous. It might help if I’m there to support you.” The physician’s door clanks open, and their previous patient strides out with thanks. Checking the time on your phone, you let out a shaky breath. You are likely next.

Gazing back at your partner, you put on a confident front as you reassure him, “I’ll be alright. You’ve done enough by just being here with me.”

“Y/n,” the doctor announces. You give them a curt nod before grabbing your things. Your hands are trembling, and you drop your phone with a loud thunk on the plastic chair, drawing unnecessary attention.

Zayne mutters, “Go on. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” you breathe out. Half-stumbling over to the door, you greet your GP and sit down.

They take their place from across from you and ask, “So, how can I help you today?”

You laugh forcedly, “Well, um, it’s nothing really.” Their gaze dissects you, bringing your profuse sweating and palpitating heart out beneath the fluorescents.

“If it’s nothing, then why did Akso’s most successful cardiac surgeon arrange an urgent appointment for you?” You stare at them for a moment, slack-jawed and rendered speechless. Damn Zayne. You should have just made the appointment yourself. Or even better, you could have gone to a medical centre and let fate choose your doctor.

Sitting here, in this furniture-clad office with these shrewd eyes on you, you don’t want help anymore. If anything, you want to go home. You want to return to the peace of your at-home stairmaster and empty belly. To the comfort of your mirror, which always tells you the truth. And the truth is that you’re fine. You don’t have a problem. And even if you did, at least you’re skinny.

“Um,” you mumble. But what if being skinny is the problem?

Resuming your fake smile, you say, “Let me go get him. Just one second.” Opening the door, you scurry over to Zayne, who is furiously texting.

Looking up at you with those sleep-deprived eyes, he murmurs, “That was quick—”

“I can’t do this,” you ramble. “It’s too hard. I don’t need help. I’m fine, babe. Can we just—”

“Love,” he sighs, pushing up his glasses. Zayne collects your things and stands. Encircling your waist with one arm, he guides you back to the hellhole that is the GP’s office.

He affirms quietly, “You can do this.” Pushing open the door, your boyfriend greets the waiting physician and settles down next to you.

“My apologies,” he says in that cold tone. “My partner is quite nervous about today’s appointment.”

The GP nods, “I can see that.”

Zayne glances down at you, and seeing how your fidgeting has restarted, he responds, “I am concerned for her welfare. She’s lost at least a third of her body weight rapidly over the past six months, through reducing food intake and excessive exercise. As expected, hair loss has increased while libido has steadily declined. Mood swings have also intensified over the past few weeks. She can’t remember the last time she menstruated.”

A knowing silence fills the stifling air for a moment too long, all of you bearing witness to what’s been said. Gulping, you glance up at the doctor studying you closely.

“Your concern is understandable, Dr Li,” they finally say. Turning to you, the physician asks, “Miss L/n, can you tell me what a typical day looks like for you?”

“M-my day?” You stutter. The GP nods, urging you to continue.

“Well, I get up early and do one hour of pilates, then a 30-minute no-equipment workout, and then 30 minutes of yoga. And then I have a piece of fruit before heading to work. When I get home, I’ll usually go on a run or for a long walk and then have something small for dinner if I’m hungry.” They type away on their computer, noting down everything you’ve told them.

The doctor prompts you, “Do you eat anything during the day?”

“Well, no, I’m busy,” you reply sharply. Zayne squeezes your waist tenderly, but your mind spirals because you have rolls when you sit down, and if he felt them, then—

“And do you experience any light-headedness? How about your body? Do your muscles feel very sore?”

“No,” you spit out. “I don’t. Not really. Like, sometimes I get a bit dizzy, but doesn’t everybody? And with how much I work out, of course, I’m sore. But it’s fine, like, it doesn’t stop me from working out.”

Turning to look at your boyfriend, you mumble, “Babe, I don’t wanna do this anymore. Can we just go home, please?” He shakes his head slightly.

Clearing his throat, he speaks for you, “Please overlook my partner’s brusqueness. She’s anxious about the outcome of our consultation.”

“Zayne!” You whisper-yell. The appointment continues at an agonisingly slow pace (you later learn that Zayne had a long appointment booked for you with your hesitancy in mind). You fill in a couple of questionnaires and receive your diagnosis. On the two referrals you’re given, the words anorexia nervosa stare back at you. A permanent stain, a branding almost, for the rest of your life. The GP reassures you that you will be supported every step of the way during your recovery, seeing as victims of this ED are very likely to relapse.

Slamming the car door shut, you’re on the verge of tears. Zayne climbs into the driver’s side and takes the crisp documents from your shaking hands. After placing them in the back seat and reversing out of the parking lot, he rests a loving hand on your bony knee.

He says quietly, “You did very well today.” You shake your head, your tears dripping down your cheeks. Immediately, he notices and points to the glove box.

“There are tissues in there.” Pulling the latch, the compartment flops open, and you grab the already opened tissue box nestled inside. You sit it on your lap and grab a couple of tissues.

Wiping your eyes, you sob, “It’s-it’s not t-true. I-I don’t ha-have an-ano—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, squeezing your knee. “Self-awareness and acceptance are the first steps in your recovery.” His words make you cry harder. The sight makes your boyfriend grimace, a rare expression reserved for times like these.

He murmurs, “I know you’re feeling overwhelmed right now, love. When we get home, I’ll make you some tea, and we can watch your comfort movie. How does that sound?”

You wail, “You-you know wh-what this m-means, don’t you? I’m-I’m gonna be fat, an-and ugly and y-you won’t l-love me anymore!” Without hesitation, Zayne pulls over. Chucking the ignition key on the dashboard, he shifts to face you.

He says earnestly, “I will always love you, my darling. No matter what you look like, you will never be ugly to me.” Taking off his seatbelt, the buckle hits the Audi’s interior as he leans over and bundles you up in his arms.

He continues, “I will love you in every single lifetime.”

You cry hysterically into his clothed bicep, “So-so you admit it! That-that I’m g-gonna b-be fat!”

Your partner fingers your lifeless locks while sighing, “Weight gain is a crucial part of recovery.”

For the next ten minutes or so, you uncontrollably break down in his arms. Everything you’ve worked so hard for. The body, the attractiveness, and the discipline will all be gone. Replaced with a fat blob resembling a human being that is no more than a candy-crunching demon. You won’t be who you were before your ‘glow up’. You’ll be far worse.

Zayne anchors you through the glacier collapse of your emotions and the blizzard of your tears. Taking you to higher ground, your cries transform into sniffles. You draw back and gaze up at him with cloudy eyes. His cool palms hold your flushed cheeks, and he kisses your red nose, then your puffy eyelids, your wet cheekbones, and your wobbly lips. Each press of his lips dissipates the tension riddled throughout your body, leaving exhaustion in their wake.

You murmur, “When-when we g-get back, can we—hic—can we w-watch a-a movie like you sai-said, please?” Zayne nods and kisses your forehead one last time. Returning to his seat, he reignites the engine and drives you two home safely for an afternoon of jasmine tea and animated films.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Zayne has been nothing if not the perfect partner this past year. He’s taken you to every single one of your appointments and sat patiently in the waiting room.

At the start of your recovery, he would come into the room with you; his presence gave you the confidence to embark on this journey. Afterwards, he would speak with your dietitian and psychologist about how he can support you. You used to apologise profusely for disrupting his busy work schedule, but Zayne always reassured you that nothing was more important than being there for you.

Your first few consultations were ugly. You were crying and whining about how you didn’t want to go, how you were perfectly fine to recover on your own, and it didn’t help that your boyfriend had the patience of a saint. He’d sit with you and rub your back, wipe your eyes, and pat your head. He’d wait until you were feeling better to gently insist upon the importance of your appointments. Even if you were half an hour late, Zayne would have a quick word with the front desk, and you’d be called in within the next five minutes.

Gradually, you stopped resisting your consults as you attended more. Thankfully, your care team were lovely, experienced, and empathetic (unrealistic, I know, but let’s pretend so I can advance the narrative). They were as patient with you as Zayne was and helped tackle some of your destructive thoughts about weight and morality.

Now, coming to the end of your medical treatment, you’re much happier than you were this time last year. Sure, you’re wearing three sizes larger, your thighs are the chunkiest they’ve ever been, and Zayne’s clothes fit weird on you now. But you’ve grown so much. You aren’t losing hair like crazy or snapping at your partner for every little thing. Now, you not only eat but enjoy his home-cooked meals, even the little sweet treats he brings home after a long day at the hospital.

You’re a changed woman. Not who you were before your ED, and definitely not who you were during it. Do you regret it? Sometimes. Like right now. As you stand in front of your vanity mirror, trying on this cute pyjama set you bought last week, when you were wayyyyyy too confident in your appearance.

The waistband digs into the fat of your tummy, the leg holes are tight around your butt cheeks, and the short crop doesn’t conceal any of it. You frown, snapping the elastic waist against your flesh and watching it jiggle slightly. Little did you know that you’ve been doing that for the past three minutes and forty-seven seconds, according to your boyfriend, who's been gazing between you and his watch. His bright eyes narrow as you huff and start tugging off your top.

He strides up behind you and takes the shirt from your chubby hands. You jump, positively spooked by his sudden appearance.

“Zayne! God, you scared the shit out of me,” you exhale while pressing your palm over your heart. He discards the garment on the floor, his eyes roaming over your curvaceous figure.

You slap his chest playfully before covering your own, muttering, “Pervert.”

He replies coldly, “No. Perverted behaviour is often sexual and is viewed as socially unacceptable or immoral. I’m doing neither by simply appreciating my stunning girlfriend.”

“Zayne,” you sigh, shaking your head with a small grin on your lips. You move away from the mirror, back over to your wardrobe and pull out one of your favourite graphic tees.

Pulling it on, you smirk, “So, my non-perverted boyfriend, what’re you doing watching me get changed?” Returning to his side, you check yourself in the mirror again. This time, you’re much more satisfied with your reflection. You still feel self-conscious, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was in that traitorous crop top.

Zayne embraces you from behind as he murmurs, “It looks like you’re having some negative thoughts about your appearance. I’d like to remind you to be gentle with yourself and accept your body.” You sigh as you lean into his sturdy frame, your softness moulding to his defined contours.

You chuckle, “Thanks, Zaynie. I really appreciate it.” He kisses your temple softly, across to your pretty lips. It’s featherlight, until you snake your hand around to his nape and push him into you harder. Zayne groans into your mouth, his tongue sliding across your bottom lip to request access. Granted, he explores your cheeks and teeth fervently. You can taste the treat he must have just eaten. It’s buttery. You melt into his warm body, all gooey inside as he sucks on your tongue.

Drawing back for air, your heavy breaths intermingle.

He rasps, “Why don’t we sit down?” Loosening his hold on you momentarily, your boyfriend pulls out your velvet vanity chair and plops down in it. Patting his lap, he gazes at you expectantly, like a cat waiting for its owner to feed it.

You sigh, “Babyyyyy.” He knows how much you hate sitting on his lap ever since you gained weight. You’re afraid that you’re going to be too heavy (which you aren’t) and make his legs go limp (which you never do). Leaning forward, Zayne grabs your wrist and yanks you down onto him. He manhandles you into facing the mirror, your legs dangling over his. His full lips trail barely there kisses down your neck.

He mumbles into your flesh, “You are beautiful, darling.”

“Mhmm,” you hum as your head tilts back, giving him greater access to your skin. His fingertips trace your neckline and brush against your collarbone, making you shiver and squirm beneath his firm hold.

“I mean it,” he says breathily. He tugs your shirt down to reveal your shoulder. In that same controlled manner, he peppers kiss after kiss along your clavicle and starts his descent down your upper arm.

He murmurs, “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” you answer without thinking. You ensnare his wrist (holding your shirt) with your hand, the bunched-up fabric bouncing back, albeit crumpled, as he lets go and starts thumbing the shirt’s hem.

“Do you truly believe me?”

As he slips it over your head, you exhale, “Of course I do, babe.” The cool air drifts over your exposed skin, making you hiss quietly. But his hands are even colder as he cups your bare breasts and kneads them like dough.

“With the very essence of your being? You believe me? You believe that you’re beautiful?” He prompts. You nod frantically, soft mewls escaping your lips as he rolls your erect nipples between the pads of his fingers. He rocks up into you, adjusting himself. The motion makes you bounce slightly as you feel his semi-hard cock press into your luscious ass.

You moan, “Yes, I swear.”

“Then say it,” he says gently, one veiny hand sliding down your plush tummy.

“I—” Your breath catches as he palms your heat through your shorts, arousal already drenching your thin panties.

“You,” Zayne murmurs, encouraging you to continue.

You breathe out, “I’m beautiful.” His steady fingers quickly find your slit. He strokes up it, applying much needed pressure onto your clit. You bite your lip, stifling your moan.

Rubbing your thigh with his other hand now, he whispers in your ear, “That’s right. But it’s not enough to believe it.” His voice has slick gushing from your fluttering hole. You grind on him, sighing from the pleasure. Zayne latches onto your hips, holding you still, which makes you whine. Gazing back at him, you pout.

Tilting his head, he pecks your kissable lips before mumbling against them, “Show me just how beautiful you think you are.” Pulling back, he stares at you with that slight smirk you’ve grown to love. His words don’t quite register until he’s yanking your shorts and panties off and tossing them on the floor.

Setting your legs down, he spreads his into the filthiest manspread you never knew he was capable of. But there’s one teeny problem: your legs rest on the outside of his, and when he opens them, his knees force you to display your goods.

You suck in a sharp breath, the air so chilly as it wafts over your pussy.

“Zayne!” You squeal, finding his cocky grin in the mirror. And oh— you can see just how much you’re drooling for him. It glints in the afternoon light. Your clit bobs with every clench around nothing.

You stutter, “I-I… I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?” Dipping his head, your boyfriend kisses the shell of your ear tenderly.

He says quietly, “Evidence suggests that you do understand.” Encircling your wrist with his long fingers, he guides your hand down to your sopping cunt.

“Why don’t we start here?” He rasps out. You moan as he directs two of your fingers to your hole, your back curving into that magnificent half-circle as he drags your soaked digits up your folds to rest on your clit.

He coos, “Like this, sweetheart.” Your lover kisses your earlobe, then continues, “Why don’t you take over now?” He releases your hand, leaving you a sputtering mess as you comprehend what he wants from you.

To touch yourself.

You whimper as your fingertips run in circular motions over your clit. Your lip is caught between your teeth, incisor marks tattooed into the ripe flesh. Zayne wraps his toned arms around your plush midsection, stabilising you as you arch and whine from the pleasure. One of his hands presses on your lower tummy, intensifying the ecstasy coursing through your veins.

“I-is this—Mhmm!— okay?” You moan. He kisses your cheek lovingly before rubbing his against yours.

Finding your eyes in the mirror, he murmurs, “Perfect. You’re doing very well, darling.” He presses down firmer on your tummy, making you shudder. Mewls spill forth erratically as you clutch his arm with your free hand.

His nose nudges at your jaw as he mumbles, “I want you to look at yourself, not me, love.” You nod pathetically, your gaze shifting to yourself once more. Somewhere in the raging storm of sensations is a blip of disgust at how fat you’ve gotten. And how you, existing as a fat person, can enjoy such mind-numbing pleasure.

Your (typical) pornstar body is gone, replaced by all of these rolls and stretch marks.

Seeing your movements slow, Zayne breathes out, “Your grade is slipping, Miss L/n. You’ll have to pick up the slack if you want to pass the final exam.” His hips buck into you, your boyfriend intentionally rubbing his hard length against you. You moan; the thought of him sliding it in excites you.

“Please, Zaynie!” You whimper. “Please fuck me!”

He chuckles darkly, his lips on the corner of your mouth, “Prove to me you know how beautiful you are, and I will.” Sweat drips down your brow as you give your swollen clit a moment of rest. You trace your slit, fucking up into your hand from how sensitive you are.

Starting your circles on your clit again, you murmur, “Fuck! It feels so good.” Zayne clutches your chin and tilts your head up, so you can stare at yourself again.

“Focus.”

You whine, “I am!” The pleasure tingles in the farthest reaches of your system, all the way to your toes, making them curl. As it accumulates, you try and shut your legs, but your boyfriend isn’t having it. He spreads his legs wider, forcing you to open up even more.

It’s trance-like, watching your fingers roll over your clit. And the longer you stare, your distasteful feelings toward yourself begin to fade. Maybe it’s the heat of the moment making your brain go fuzzy (probably), but you start to like the way you look. Your once-hated blobs of fat transition into sexy curves as you draw closer to your release.

You grin drunkenly, “’M kinda hot—Ah!— when you think ‘bout it.”

Zayne praises you breathily, “Correct, darling. You are very hot.” You giggle and tip your head back.

You moan, “Kiss me.” He obliges, meeting your bitten lips with his plush ones. You cry out into his mouth as your climax takes hold of you. Your ministrations falter, your legs shaking as you cum all over your fingers. They’re buried between your fat pussy lips as you whine, Zayne drawing back and brushing his nose tip against yours. His hand glides over your hot flesh, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he cups your dripping cunt (your hand included).

He says tenderly, “You’ve been very good, dear. I’ll reward you now.” You moan loudly while slumping against his firm body, your limbs and brain all mushy as he carries you to your bed. Placing you in the centre, he climbs on top of you with his hands on either side of your head.

In your pleasure-filled daze, you glimpse his pants, bulge obvious in the fading sunlight, as well as the wet streaks glimmering on the beige fabric.

You glance up, your eyes wide as you ramble, “’M sorry, baby! I didn’t mean to ruin your pants. I know how much you like this pair and—”

“It doesn’t matter. Your pleasure is more important to me than a pair of trousers,” he mutters. You nod, grateful for the man you get to call yours. Not just because he prioritises or supports or loves you unconditionally, but because he puts you at ease.

Shifting onto his forearms, Zayne murmurs, “Now, regarding your reward…”

masterlist

star girl's final words: mega cathartic post for btw. two years into recovery from ano, i write this from a place of empathy and understanding, and i hope this post reaches you in a good place. there are so many little things about having anorexia that i've tried to capture in this post, from the deeply ingrained fatphobia to the 'not naturally thin' narrative. i hope this fic makes you feel a little less alone in your journey (if you're on one), or helps you to understand what other's are going through.

also, everyone say thank you to @heartyluv for helping me with ideas for zayne's smut (touching yourself in front of him was jay's idea)! this fic wouldn't be what it is without you. you can check out jay's pots, csf, and adhd reader fics via their respective links (big inspirations for my fic).

helpful links:

in aus

butterly foundation ⟶ national ed helpline lifeline ⟶ national crisis helpline headspace ⟶ understanding eds ⟶ mental health support for young people nsw health ⟶ supporting someone with an ed

book recommendation: what's eating us by cole kazdin

review: for those recovering from anorexia, this book helps you feel seen and heard in your experience. it reminds you that recovery is not linear, that you might never fully heal, and that's okay.

[aventurineswife]

Okay skibidi hear me out, Penacony men with a s/o who was originally in a planet similar to alien stage.

I’ve been imaging random scenarios in my head and it WONT LEAVE ME ALONEEEEEE. How would the react learning that their s/o was artificially made with a older sibling? Or how they were actually naive as a child because how shielding they were by their older sibling only to find out the truth after preforming agaisnt them?

Reader joins the rebellion is just… hhshshshshdjdc I NEEDDDDD

The Cost of Freedom

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Gallagher x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dystopian Themes, Found Family, Betrayal, Loss, Post-Rebellion, Grief, Existentialism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Political Intrigue, Introspection, Trauma Recovery, Redemption Arc, Ambiguous Morality.

Warnings: Death of a Family Member (sibling), Themes of Guilt and Self-blame, Descriptions of Emotional Turmoil and Grief, Systemic Oppression and Rebellion, Brief Mentions of Violence and War, Ethical Dilemmas involving Loyalty and Survival, Existential Crises related to Purpose and Creation.

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed as you recounted your origins—a distant planet where you and your sibling were engineered to be perfect instruments of a system you barely understood. Your older sibling had shielded you from the harsh truth, ensuring your life felt whole and untainted. They had been your protector, your guide, until you uncovered their compliance with the oppressive regime you eventually came to hate.

When you told Aventurine how you performed against your sibling during the rebellion, how their face had twisted in a mixture of heartbreak and betrayal as you dealt the final blow, his constant smile faltered for the briefest moment.

“I see,” he said, voice smooth but quieter than usual. “So, you won the bet, didn’t you? Sacrificed the thing you loved for the chance to topple the system.”

He knew the cost of winning far too well.

You nodded, the weight of that victory still pressing against your chest. "But it didn’t bring me peace. It broke me. I killed the only family I ever had."

Aventurine stepped closer, his fingers brushing against your trembling hand. "Family," he murmured, "is a luxury for people who play safe. You and I? We take risks. We burn bridges because standing still is a death sentence."

Though his words carried a glimmer of understanding, you could see it in his eyes: the gamble of loving you was one even he might not win.

And yet, in the quiet moments when you were plagued by memories of your sibling’s dying expression, Aventurine stayed by your side, speaking of strategies and victories you’d never dare chase. Because Aventurine, for all his charm and cunning, understood what it meant to run from the ghosts of the past.

Even if neither of you could outrun them forever.

Ratio gazed at you, his expression unreadable as you revealed the truth of your existence: you were a creation, not born but made, shaped to fit a purpose beyond your control. Your sibling had shielded you, nurturing your innocence and curiosity while silently shouldering the burden of knowing the truth.

“I learned,” you said, voice trembling, “the truth during the rebellion. I had to… to confront them. To stop them from silencing me—us.”

The rebellion had been chaos, a crucible of innovation and destruction, and in the end, your sibling had fallen at your hands. They had looked at you, not with anger, but with pride and a heartbreaking sorrow.

Ratio leaned forward, his hair falling over his eyes. "You see it as a betrayal. But tell me—did they have a choice? They protected you because they believed you deserved better, even if it cost them everything. Including you."

His words stung because they rang true.

“Is that supposed to help me?” you snapped, tears threatening to spill.

“No,” he admitted, his tone unapologetic. "But it should make you see the brilliance in their actions. They didn’t protect you out of weakness but out of brilliance, out of love."

He reached out, his hand hesitating before brushing against your cheek. "Knowledge is cruel, my dear. It’s a weapon, and it cuts us as deeply as it cuts others. But you—" His gaze softened. "You must decide whether their sacrifice will shackle you or set you free."

Ratio would never admit it, but he saw echoes of himself in your story—an intellect burdened by loss, trying desperately to find meaning in a world that seemed too cruel to deserve it.

The dim lighting of Gallagher's bar cast long shadows over his scarred face as you finally shared your story. You told him of your artificial origin, of how your sibling had raised you in a cocoon of safety, only for you to shatter it when you learned the truth.

“I didn’t mean to fight them,” you whispered, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “But they wouldn’t stop. They believed in the system, even when it was killing us.”

Gallagher’s eyes flickered with a rare hint of emotion. "And so, you ended it. You chose freedom over them."

"I didn’t choose," you said, voice cracking. “I survived. That’s all it was. I survived, and they didn’t.”

He said nothing for a moment, only pouring another drink. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough. "Surviving doesn’t feel like winning, does it?"

You looked up at him, surprised.

"I’ve been there," he continued, his hand unconsciously brushing the scar on his face. "Fighting for something you believe in, only to lose the people you care about most. The world doesn’t stop turning, but you carry them with you. Every step, every breath, they’re there."

“Does it ever stop hurting?” you asked, the weight of your grief pressing down on your chest.

Gallagher shook his head. "No. But you learn to live with it. And maybe… you find someone who makes the weight a little easier to bear."

For the first time, you saw the man beneath the stoic facade—a kindred spirit who knew the ache of loss and the struggle of moving forward.

Sunday listened in silence as you recounted your origins, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. When you spoke of your sibling’s betrayal—how they shielded you from the truth of your existence and the oppressive system that controlled your lives—his gaze softened, though his expression remained inscrutable.

“You killed them,” he said, his voice quiet. “The one who protected you. Loved you.”

“I had no choice,” you said, guilt choking your words. "They stood in my way. I—"

Sunday raised a hand, silencing you. "You don’t need to explain. I understand."

You stared at him, disbelief flickering in your eyes. "How could you possibly understand? They were my family, and I destroyed them."

He stood, his regal presence imposing yet strangely comforting. "Do you think I haven’t made sacrifices? That I haven’t hurt the ones I loved in the name of peace?"

You faltered, unsure of how to respond.

“My Sweetdream Paradise,” he continued, his tone heavy with conviction, "was born from the same pain you carry now. A dream of mercy, built on the ruins of lives I once cherished."

“But at what cost?” you asked, tears streaming down your face.

Sunday stepped closer, his gloved hand resting lightly on your shoulder. "That is the question we must all face, isn’t it? The cost of peace. The cost of freedom. It’s a burden you and I will carry for the rest of our lives."

His words resonated with a truth you couldn’t deny. Sunday, for all his composure and grace, was a man shaped by loss—just like you. And though his dream of a perfect world seemed impossible, you couldn’t help but wonder if, in his own way, he was trying to atone for the same sins that haunted you.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Tactics of Persuasion

Phantom dreams

Story-telling

Tailored pitches

Source credibility and authority

Social consensus and social identity

Scarcity

Information control

Self-generated persuasion

Commitment

The rationalization trap

Phantom Alternative

An option that looks real, is typically superior to other choices, but is unavailable (Pratkanis & Farquhar, 1992).

The key to selling a flimflam (i.e., the selling of pseudoscience, fringe science, and other questionable claims) is to sell the phantom as real and possible and something that can be obtained with the right belief, effort, and, of course, money, but, in reality, it is a false dream.

The sale of a phantom begins by creating ostensible solutions to satisfy our most basic needs and desires.

As such, phantoms often purport to provide things such as:

Health (quack cures, diets, “healing” rituals, mental health pseudoscience, psychic surgery, faith healing).

Wealth (get-rich-quick schemes, lucky lottery numbers, investment fraud).

Social popularity (weight loss regimes, love potions, dating and romance fraud, becoming an “expert” with “secret” knowledge about UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster, and the moon landing).

Fear of death and the end of our existence (séances, life-after death claims).

Reduction in the anxiety of life’s uncertainties (advice given by horoscopes, astrology, psychic mediums, and other means, phrenology, psychic detectives, conspiracy theories that “make sense” of the world and the desires and feelings of those who spread them).

It is relatively easy to create a phantom since it does not actually need to solve these needs, but just appear to do so.

Compounding the problem, it’s often difficult to spot the real from the fake course of action without the needed knowledge, expertise, and critical thinking skills.

Although a phantom dream is imaginary, its impact on our behavior is quite real.

Story-Telling: The Invented Ruse

To allay our concerns, the seller of flimflam invents a ruse or story to make the fake look real (Bell & Whaley, 1991; Clark & Mitchell, 2019)

A good narrative:

helps to guide our thoughts (e.g., the cure is natural and traditional),

determines the credibility of information (e.g., as a natural cure, this makes sense), and

ultimately directs evaluation and choice (e.g., it works for Native Americans and Quakers, why not me?).

As such, stories cement information in our mind and tend to persist even in the face of strong, discrediting information (Anderson et al., 1980; see Pratkanis (2007) for the use of stories in influence).

Tailored Pitches

Fake healers can use the technique of pre-show to gather needed information.

For example: Before the healing event, attendees can fill out prayer cards with their healing requests and other information.

During the service, the fake healer can call out names and appear, by purported divine intervention, to know the person’s illness and personal life story.

Typically, the fake healer will “cure” shills (plants who fake illnesses) and those with painful health problems for which the pain can be overlooked in the excitement of the moment. The prayer cards (along with Googling and social media) provide the needed information.

Source Credibility and Authority

Two of the most robust research findings in social psychology are as follows: (a) we tend to listen to those who are credible (expert and trustworthy) sources (Hovland et al., 1953); (b) we tend to obey authorities (Milgram, 1974).

The merchant of flimflam leverages these 2 basic human tendencies by creating a persona as a credible authority and then using that persona to hawk a phantom.

Social Consensus and Social Identity

Flimflam merchants will use our social relationships to sell their phantoms by employing the influence tactics of social consensus and social identity.

When we see other people doing something, we are more likely to do the same through the conformity created by social consensus – if everyone is doing it, it must be the right thing to do.

Social consensus engages 2 psychological processes that promote conformity (Deutsch & Gerard, 1955):

information or social proof (“if other people are doing it, it must be correct”; Cialdini, 1984) and

normative influences or social pressure to agree or go along with the group (“I don’t want to be different from the group”; Asch, 1951).

The seller of flimflam will manufacture a false consensus (or take advantage of an apparent one). Quack remedies, astrological readings, unproven Covid treatments, get-rich schemes often feature testimonials of people who speak to the “value” of the product.

Once we become engaged with a flimflam, it can provide us with a desired social identity or a sense of who we are based on our reference group memberships, whether they be real or aspirational (Abrams et al., 1990; Kelley & Volkart, 1952; Tajfel, 1981).

Scarcity

Another social influence tactic to make a flimflam look desirable is to make it look scarce (Cialdini, 1984).

Given that phantoms are generally rare, this is rather easily accomplished.

As an effective social influence tactic, scarcity:

plays on a rule in our head, “if it is rare, it must be valuable”;

creates a sense of urgency and panic that we need to act now and feeling of frustration (reactance) when we do not obtain the phantom; and

inflates our feelings of uniqueness and self-worth when we obtain something that is rare (Pratkanis, 2007).

Information Control: False Accusations, Projection, and Doubt Campaigns

The sellers of flimflam often encounter scientists, journalists, magicians, lawyers, informed citizens, and other “do-gooders and crusaders” who use evidence and reason to point out false claims made in selling the phantom.

If left to stand, these criticisms can cut into sales and deflate the entire scheme. As such, the flimflam merchant needs to control the information environment and can do so using at least 3 techniques:

First, the peddler of a flimflam can falsely accuse the critics. Such attacks can be effective because it can result in a negative impression of the target of attack, undermining their reputation (Wegner et al., 1981). In addition, such allegations set up a chilling, coercive effect as others may become fearful of speaking out.

A second information control tool for the flimflam merchant is a variant of the false accusation known as the projection tactic – accusing others of the misdeed you are doing (Rucker & Pratkanis, 2001). In research, we find that a projection attack: (a) focused attention on the accused and away from the person making the accusation, (b) increased the blame placed on the target of projection, and (c) decreased the culpability of the accuser, making the accuser look good and moral for raising such issues. The effects of projection persisted despite attempts to raise suspicions about the motives of the accuser and providing evidence that the accuser was indeed guilty of the deeds.

A third approach to controlling the information environment is through a doubt campaign (Michaels, 2008; Oreskes & Conway, 2010). The purpose of a doubt campaign is not to convince someone of something (say, the value of the flimflam) but instead to raise doubts and confusion about the facts with the goals of (a) making it difficult to know the truth, (b) creating the impression that there is a controversy (when there is little or none), and (c) forestalling any action until the “controversy” is resolved. The doubt campaign was pioneered in the 1950s and 1960s by tobacco companies seeking to dissuade consumers that their products were harmful, but now is used to create doubt and confusion on such issues as climate change, the efficacy of vaccines such as those preventing childhood illnesses and COVID-19, the value of masks for limiting the spread of COVID-19, and evidence against various conspiracy theories.

Self-Generated Persuasion

One of the most effective means of influence is to have the target generate arguments in support of a position and thereby persuade her- or himself (Boninger et al., 1990; Lewin, 1947).

Self-generated persuasion is effective because in essence it asks the target to think up good reasons for a proposition and to refute any counter argument.

This self-generated message comes from a source that is considered credible, trustworthy, respected, and liked – ourselves.

Commitment

In order to establish continued advocacy and use of a flimflam, the seller needs to secure a commitment, especially a public one, from the target.

With a public commitment, a person is linked to a behavior or course of action – in this case, advocating for and using a flimflam.

Breaking this binding produces a negative tension of not living up to one’s promises and a concern that one will look inconsistent and untrustworthy (e.g., a need to save face). As such, securing a commitment increases the likelihood that the target will comply and perform that behavior (Brockner & Rubin, 1985; Salancik, 1977; Staw, 1976).

Commitments are strongest when the behavior is public/visible, irreversible, and perceived to be freely chosen.

One method for securing a commitment is through the use of the foot-in-the-door tactic (Freedman & Fraser, 1966).

Flimflam is rampant on social media, and we can easily see why.

Social media, with its emphasis on engagement (liking, reposting, posting, commenting, posing, arguing) provides many opportunities to make public, irreversible, and freely chosen commitments (as well as to allow those commitments to be used to create the appearance of social consensus as to the value of the flimflam).

While making a commitment increases compliance, it also results in perhaps the most important ingredient in selling a flimflam: setting a rationalization trap.

The Rationalization Trap

Once a person is sold on a flimflam, and especially when he or she comes to purchase and publically advocate for the phantom option, it changes the way a person processes information.

No longer is the goal “to find things out” but instead to defend and justify the beliefs and actions in what can be called a rationalization trap (Festinger, 1957; Pratkanis & Shadel, 2005; Tavris & Aronson, 2007).

When a person holds 2 discrepant thoughts, what social psychologists call cognitive dissonance, it results in an aversive tension state with painful implications for the self.

In such a state, we are highly motivated to reduce the dissonance.

Of course, one way to reduce the dissonance is to admit a mistake – I was wrong about the cure – and to take responsibility for one’s actions by alerting others and rejecting or, at least scrutinizing more carefully, the source of the disinformation about the quack COVID-19 treatment.

While a mature response and what science requires (Feynman, 1985), it is often difficult to take this route to dissonance reduction, especially when we have made public commitments, self-generated arguments, and linked our social identities to the flimflam, in this case, the quack cure.

Admitting a mistake often is taken to mean – to ourselves and to others – that we are not a good and capable person.

After all, we were unable to see through the deception and then told others to do something that might damage their health.

Unfortunately, an all-too-often course of action is to dig in our heels further and to rationalize and justify our behavior.

Some common ways to do this include:

deny the evidence (“the data showing the ineffectiveness of the cure is made-up”),

take some irrelevant aspect of the disagreeable research and pretend that it is damning (“the study was only done in New York”),

derogate the source (“that’s from the biased media and the doctors’ union”),

derogate others who expose the quackery (“nurses and doctors don’t care about people”),

perform a selective information search (search out and spread any study or claim no matter how unreliable that supports one’s position),

keep repeating discredit research as if it is true, bolster one’s own self and one’s intuition as a way of knowing (“I can see through the media; I did my research unlike those duped by big pharma”),

derogate other forms of knowing, particularly science and reason (“science is a limited way of knowing unlike my intuition”),

use whataboutism (“what about the time Fauci might have said something wrong”),

seek external justification (“a cure that might work is better than having to wear a mask”), and, perhaps worst of all,

self-censorship of putting ourselves in an information bubble where we only hear agreeable information and anything disagreeable is either not heard or ridiculed.

Obviously, a rationalization trap is a very effective means of selling a flimflam.

Once we are in the trap, we will continue to buy the flimflam and advocate for the phantom option in an attempt to justify ourselves in the face of failing evidence.

A key component of being an active truth-finder is to have a plan for evaluating and making decisions about claims.

When we do make a mistake, the honorable thing to do is to admit the error and take responsibility for our actions.

Source ⚜ Reading Scientific Articles ⚜ False Claims ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[just-b-wilde]

By the way, I live in a country that actually experienced the Nazi occupation, it's not just some random concept from fiction. And even though I personally never lived through that regime, here the term "Nazi" is not something we throw around lightly, like it’s just another insult.

It’s a word we treat with great care and gravity because of what it truly represents — real suffering, real terror, real loss.

That’s why I have to say: I was honestly shocked by how often the word “Nazi” was used in Season 6 in reference to Nick — something the show had never done before. It felt cheap, careless, and deeply inappropriate.

To use something with such painful weight as just another piece of “shocking content” is not edgy. It’s offensive.

I don’t think I even need to mention that it absolutely didn’t fit there, no matter how you look at it.

[weightlossregime]

Amazing Health Benefits of Amla आंवला के अद्भुत फायदे #amlabenefits #amlakefayde #indiangooseberry

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Fourteen.

Thank you kindly to those of you still reading :)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,905

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen

Aemond would be the first to admit, should he entertain such talk, that he often much preferred for his wife to be the more commanding in the bed chamber. This was even truer since his succession to the Iron Throne, the heavy weight of the realm and the crown – although not literally placed upon his head as yet – often burdening him heavily.  

Yes, to have someone in control of him for a while made for the perfect tonic of change. The morning of his coronation was no different.  

His vision swam with bursts of colour behind a closed eyelid, hands roaming over her body, opening his eye and viewing the utterly delectable sight of his love, knelt astride his head, the sweet honey of her cunt bathing his tongue as he ate her with fervour. 

They had newly moved into the king’s quarters, Aemella perplexing the handmaidens and various other courtesans alike by refusing the queen’s quarters entirely. Although they were next to the kings, she had no desire to reside in separation. One of the elder female courtesans had been most bemused, the woman within the employ of the castle’s textile needs, called by the queen to discuss new drapes and bed linens. 

“If I may be so bold, my queen, but when you are already with child, why is it that you seek to be with the king nightly within his bed?” 

Ahh, the older generation. To them, lovemaking was a means to procreation and little more. “For the comfort of his embrace. Also, because it is rather impossible to have sex with him when a wall divides us.”  

Her statement had a nearby Gileda quietly laughing behind her hand, the queen’s candour not quite what the lady with the armfuls of fabric had expected to hear, colouring to the shade of beetroot rapidly.  

Indeed, it had been many years since the reigning king and queen had been so genuinely in love with one another that they showed that love quite so regularly. While for Aemond, his respectable demeanour meant that he was never overt in his desires towards his wife, if the noise borne of those desires should happen to carry, however... 

“Ser Crison, I have handmaidens bothering me about not being able to gain entrance to the king’s quarters,” Ser Eddard bustled, not pleased over being disturbed by the trivialities of the servants. “Something about needing to begin seeing to the queen’s hair regime.” 

It was a little past dawn, the usual time in which the queen rose. “Then let us investigate.” The knights moved from their quarters up the many stairs which took them higher within the Red Keep, arriving upon the correct floor where the king’s quarters were located.  

The nearer they walked towards the door, the more apparent it became why the queen was not allowing the handmaiden’s entrance. It was doubtful she’d heard them at all.  

They paused, sharing a look, eyebrows raised. “Her grace is...” Ser Criston began, his words cut short by the noise that filtered from behind the doors. 

“Oh gods, fuck!” 

“Receiving the king, it would appear.” 

Eddard couldn’t bite back his smirk, or help the snort laugh that sounded his nose. “We should not laugh.” 

“No,” he agreed, his eyebrows raising a little. “Most certainly not.” 

“Tis’ not appropriate,” Eddard continued. 

Another bliss-filled wail sounded.  

“Well, at least the king will not be short of heirs, if this is how they intend to go on.” The knights walked away, both giving way to a moment of boyish immaturity as they shared laughter.  

While they headed off, on the other side of the door, Aemella felt like she was drowning in the ecstasy she received from her husband, head thrown back, thighs quivering, her moans unabashed. He gilded the pearl of her sex with wet heat, each lick rolling slowly, smiling against her as her cries filled the air. 

“Does my tongue please you, my queen?”  

He knew well that it did, but Aemella still gave him what he sought. “It never fails to, husband.” Her mouth dropped open; eyes pinching shut tightly. “Yes, right there, ohh!” 

He knew she was close, tongue fluttering in hard, rapid licks upon her bud, his hands tightening at her waist, entranced by the sight of her losing her mind to his mouth. She dug her nails into the lean muscles of his arms, dragging raspberry brandings over his pale skin as her body burned white-hot with every rolling ripple of her release, glimmers tingling up her spine, leaving her breathless.  

“I think I deserve rewarding for that, sweet wife,” he groaned, wiping his mouth, kissing her thigh and branding her with a little bite as she shuffled backwards, straddling his hips. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, leaning forward to kiss him, sinking down onto his cock. “And you shall receive it too, darling love. I know how keenly you enjoy being ridden.” 

Straightening, she rolled her hips, slipping down on as much of him as her tightly stretched cunt could take, feeling him filling her deep. “Oh, gods. I love you so much, Aemond!”  

He couldn’t help but offer a little tease. “You always do, when you’re all full of my cock.” The sudden upward punt of his hips almost unseated her, Aemond grasping her breasts and steadying her, sitting up, pulling her legs around him as he kissed her with filthy heat. “I love you, too, my sweet, beautiful wife.” 

It became torrid and wild with all the ferocity of a hurricane, bodies grinding against each other hard, all that had been softer in edge sharpening, his fingers clenching as he grasped her back, short nails grazing her skin as he bit her nipple.  

Groaning out the heat of his arousal, his teeth released the soft flesh, kissing the pink marks left behind upon a deep groan, his hair tugged at, her fingers weaving into the roots. Her hand yanked in a fierce tug, her eyes gleaming with all the power her fuck wielded over him. 

“Bend for me, my king.” 

He leaned back, arching like the bend in a riverbank, her lips meeting his throat as her hips worked in serpentine against him, each roll viciously slow yet savagely thorough, her inner muscles clasping in spasm on his cock. She had him sent mindless rapidly, his deep moans filling the air, fingers digging into her shoulders as she rode him with ember-burning vigour. 

In the place she had kissed one brother to his death, she sent her other to the edges of the heavens, tongue sliding in a sensuous lick along the column of his neck, the roll of her hips a little more purposeful, staring at him intently. The love within her heart echoed through her dominance, gentle glimmers meeting the sharper edge she fucked him with, scraping like feather kisses and razor cuts across his soul.  

Releasing her grip within his long, silver mane, she pushed him down, her hand curling elegantly at his throat and holding him there, whispering words of love, lust and desire to him in their mother tongue, High Valyrian spells that held him bound, enchanted into the bed.  

The fervid nature of their tryst held no hope of anything more than a rapid chase to their simmering release, Aemella grinding down upon him determinedly, the lighting dancing at the base of her spine streaking fully, bouncing from strike point to strike point. She came with a wail, the flutters of her walls around him milking his cock to erupt deep in the velvet wet of her, both panting in exhaustion as she collapsed atop his chest. 

Sweet glimmers ebbed, his hands stroking her sweaty back, Aemella looking down upon him with the kind of wide, satisfied grin that made his laughter sound, kissing her head.  

“Such a smug face, wife,” he chuckled, hand stroking her cheek. 

Turning her head, she kissed his palm. “I always am when you come that hard for me, love.” 

Indeed, he had. Lying there with his mind a foggy mess, he could have happily fallen asleep again. He didn’t have the luxury of dozing in the aftermath of his bliss, though, both getting out of bed and bathing quickly before a flurry of activity overtook their morning. For the entire time as handmaidens rushed around them, they stole little glances at one another, Aemella bursting with pride especially. 

There he was, her twin, her husband, her love, and he was about to be coronated. She didn’t think she could feel prouder, but later that morning, with thousands of people gathered there within the dragonpit to bear witness to the new king being named, her heart could have burst.  

Once again, Otto Hightower announced the proceedings, his mighty voice booming through the huge, looming space. 

“People of Kings Landing, today again we are united in our grief, our family and the realm alike mourning the loss of our beloved King Aegon II. But it is with his passing we are now fortified once more in the hope for a solidified future, with his younger brother, Aemond I Targaryen, succeeding to the throne.” 

Seeing him walk towards the platform beneath the arch of swords, a tear slid down Aemella’s cheek. After all his childhood torment, such indignities and deep-cut wounds, being made to believe he was not good enough by means of cruel bullying via his brother and nephews, there he stood. A literal king amongst men.  

Every storm they had weathered together had led to this moment.  

“My queen.” he whispered as she greeted him with a soft kiss, moving aside as he knelt.  

The High Septon walked forward, taking the small, gold bowl of anointing oil from one of his aides, beginning to mark little slicks upon his forehead as he spoke. 

“May the warrior give him courage. May the smith lend strength to his sword and sheath. May the father defend him in his need. May the crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” 

He then took the crown, handing it to Ser Criston Cole, who could only hope as he raised it aloft, the head in which he would place it upon would hold better sense and judgement than that of his predecessor. 

“The crown of the conqueror, passed down through generations.” As it was placed upon his head, Aemond felt with it the great weight, but it was far eclipsed by the sense of righteousness. This was how it always should have been, he realised. 

His sense of duty and destiny intertwined as he rose, the anointing oil cool on his brow, and the crown's heaviness a testament to his newfound responsibilities. Aemella's heart surged with a mix of pride and resolve, knowing even more so than before that their shared journey of hardships had culminated in this literal crowning moment. She could see in his eye, the unwavering determination to rule with sense and efficiency, a stark contrast to his predecessor's short, yet volatile reign.  

The atmosphere in the dragonpit was electric with anticipation, every eye fixed upon the new king, a crown upon his head, ready to lead them. 

“Let the Seven bear witness.” Ser Criston continued, stepping back as Aemond stood, receiving bows of acknowledgement from his family, his heart virtually bursting into flame to see the way his queen smiled at him. 

“All hail his grace, Aemond, first of his name. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” 

Turning to his public, he nodded to them, standing poised before drawing his sword and holding it aloft, his name chanted by the thousands there to witness his triumph. Raucous applause and cheers filled the dragonpit, the celebration joyous and exuberant.  

Standing dutifully, Alicent leaned to her daughter. “Do you recall what it was that I told you, while you were still only a girl?” Studying her carefully, she inclined her head towards Aemond. “The husband is the head, but the wife is the neck…” 

Aemella finally peeled her loving gaze away from her husband. “And the neck can turn the head in any direction she wishes.” 

She nodded. “Exactly.” While her eyes flitted back to her son, she leaned close to her daughter’s ear. “I am trusting you to make those turns where you see fit, lest your husband become more unhinged than we both know well he is capable of being.” 

Something flickered in her daughter’s eyes, a dark light Alicent had rarely seen manifest itself. It chilled her for a moment, swallowing hard as Aemella leaned to her. 

“Trust that I know always, mother, exactly in which direction to wield my power.” 

Her statement should have settled her mother’s fears, yet for Alicent it only left her with an uneasy, nagging doubt over which of her twins truly was the more unhinged.  

Sheathing his sword, the king turned, extending his hand towards Aemella. She moved gracefully, taking it, Aemond pulling her close, his eyes glittering with adoration before turning back to the crowd. 

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I present to you your queen, Aemella Targaryen.” Very unprecedentedly, he then took to his knee before her, the cheers rapturous, kissing her hand. There was not a chance that on his coronation day, the woman who had brought him there would be pushed into insignificance. They were, after all, one. His triumph was hers. His adoration was hers.  

His rule was hers. 

As king, he planned to swiftly prove to her, too, just how significant she was to him. Not that she ever needed to be told, but there was a score to settle.  

The eroded cliffs that jutted out from the swirling sea stood formidable, Vhagar coming to land upon one of the high bridges that connected Pyke to its keeps. No matter that formidability, the mighty dragon dwarfed her standing, her ear-piercing roar signalling the arrival of the king.  

“My lord, king Aemond has this moment arrived upon Pyke, another dragon circling overhead.”  

Dalton Greyjoy did hate to be disturbed over dinner, but he would have been dealing in untruths had he stated not to have been waiting for this moment. “And what does the one-eyed king wish for from me?” 

His servant looked trepidatious, having of course witnessed the redoubtable air the new king had arrived in, waiting beside his colossal dragon for Dalton to make his way to him. “Your audience, outside.” 

Forking in a final mouthful of liver sausage, he swilled it down with a slug of ale, his eye sharpening towards his brother. “Come.”  

Obediently, Veron followed through the draughty halls and corridors, the sea spray flecking them as they walked to the bridge, Aemond standing in wait, arms folded.  

“Veron, stay where you are.” His eye burned like a flaming amethyst through the night as he stated menacingly at Dalton, curling his finger. “Proceed towards your king, Lord Greyjoy.”  

Dalton lifted his head as his feet strode out over the bridge, the ground as hard beneath his feet as the demeanour he wished to present himself with. Within himself, though, he felt his courage trickling. He’d never witnessed Vhagar close before, only from the air above. The mighty dragon stood as a chillingly terrifying sentry to her rider.  

“Halt.”  

Immediately, he stopped, the king still a good distance from him. “If you call me out here to discuss alliance...” 

That was as far as he got. “I call you out here at my queen’s behest, to answer for your crimes against her.”  

“My crimes?” he spluttered, his whole body stiffening as he jumped in fright, Fyreclaw’s screech from above shattering through the night.  

Aemond nodded, looking up at the sky as the dragon began to descend, Fyreclaw hovering in place in the air. “That is correct, Lord Greyjoy. Or did you think you would remain unpunished for all the times you raised a hand to my wife?”  

The colour began to drain from Dalton’s flushed cheeks, the king continuing. “I don’t take kindly to that, nor you attempting to rape her. Neither does she, as one might imagine.” 

Fear began to coil through him, entwined with a sense of indignance. “She told me herself that if I released her, she would not seek retribution!” 

Aemond sniffed, resting his hands upon the hilt of his sword. “You did not release her, though. I rescued her from your clutches. There is rather the difference there, wouldn’t you say, hmm?” 

Realising he was at a loss with the one quietly menacingly enraged Targaryen, he turned to appeal his plight to the other. “Aemella! Please! I beseech you. Do not do this to me!” 

“Address your queen correctly, you pathetic cunt,” Aemond gritted, looking up with pride as his wife.  

“You said that you would not have me burned, your grace! You swore it!” Dalton bellowed to the skies above, his voice only just audible over the mighty swish of Fyreclaw’s colossal wings. 

Aemella’s grin grew in its sinisterness, her pretty mouth twisting, all of the pain and humiliation she had felt simmering just below her surface. Here it was, what she had waited patiently for while putting other wheels in motion, her chance to offer a fitting punishment to another who had wronged her. 

“I lied.”  

The lord of Pyke, riddled with panic, sank to his knees, clasping his hands together. It was a piteous display. “I beg of you, please! Spare my life.” 

His appeals fell on deaf ears, for there was no room for mercy or pity remaining in the queen’s heart, a single word delivered with determination that sealed the Red Kraken's fate. 

“Dracarys!” 

With a bellowing breath, Fyreclaw roasted the man alive upon his rider’s instruction, Dalton screaming and flailing before he fell forward, charred to his very bones in mere moments.  

As Helaena had foreseen, the Red Kraken finally burned.  

Neither Targaryen flinched, and nor did his brother, the king moving past the fiery corpse and approaching Veron. 

“Your grace,” he spoke, bowing, looking up and extending the same to Aemella. 

“Lord Greyjoy,” Aemond replied, Veron realising that yes, he indeed was now. “I have a proposal I wish to put forth to you.” 

The proposal was a very rapid exchange, which lead to the newly appointed Lord Greyjoy sailing his fleet to Kings Landing, arriving three days later, to his first meeting upon king Aemond’s small council. He witnessed there the fallout to the king and queen’s actions against his brother, the lords present all quietly agreeing that the punishment he’d received had not been a becoming start to his new reign.  

Veron thought it very fitting. After all, it was no secret that should one play with fire, one should expect to get burned. It was no secret either that Dalton Greyjoy had been a monster. He had revelled in it, truly, worn it as a badge of honour. 

Perhaps the worst monsters of all were the ones who did not know that they were, though. 

“Not that he should have gone unpunished, your grace,” Otto began, the weight that had been lifted of one reckless grandson now bearing upon his shoulders once more. “He should have been reprimanded through the correct avenues. To burn the man to death shows a significant lack of restraint in a quest for personal indulgence.” 

Aemond sniffed with nonchalance, his fingers running over the smooth, marble ball before him. “Some claim the worst indignity a woman can face is that of a man forcing himself upon her. Others claim it is the loss of a child. My wife suffered the former, and could very nearly have also experienced the latter – for a second time, I hasten to add - had he been successful in his attempt to brutalise her.”  

A sharply glinted stare bored right through Otto’s eyes, a savage tingle he felt prickling somewhere in the back of his skull. “The queen’s choice was a very fitting retribution for his crimes against her.” The king then extended a hand down the table, nodding at Veron. “Which brings me to introduce you all to my newly appointed Master or Ships, Lord Veron Greyjoy. Tell me of our current standing regarding the blockade, my lord.” 

“I am happy to inform his grace that the Iron Fleet will set sail at noon, along with the fortifications of the triarchy. Together, we hope to annihilate the Sea Snake’s barrier with swiftness, allowing trade to pass through from Essos once more.”  

While talk circled the table over the finer logistics of Veron Greyjoy’s attack, Otto sat and ruminated silently, a small slither of foreboding coiling through his insides. Much like his daughter, he had always seen Aemella in the light of the harnesser of Aemond’s reckless side. To learn that it had been her idea to burn the Red Kraken to ashes did not sit well within him. 

For the new king to have ousted his mother from the small council only to bring his wife in, too, seemed very much a play of fortification. Concerningly, it appeared that both twins were a little too comfortable with the notion of trial by fire. Otto could only wonder just how many more ashes in their wake would sit in charred smoulder for all to see before they found their composure. 

“Together, they could be mighty, yet incredibly poised rulers,” he began, visiting with Alicent in her quarters a time later. “Equally though, if they forge together and exclude the word of all others, then we have an even greater challenge than Aegon on our hands.”  

Alicent had been toying with it in the back of her mind, not truly wanting to give light to the whispers. Whispers both in her mind and circulating the Red Keep, courtesy of a recently departed Lord Larys.  

“Do you believe it was her, father? The agent to Aegon’s demise?”  

Otto looked troubled by her statement. He would never wish to believe it of his gentle, wise granddaughter, yet when she was threatened... when Aemond was threatened... 

His thoughts swirled in a tempest of uncertainty, not unlike the storms that had beset their shores of late. He could not shake the grim realisation that Aemella’s protection of her husband, thus leading to an ambition to steer his seat to the Iron Throne might be a far more formidable force than he had ever anticipated.  

Seating himself, his fingers dug into the arm of the couch. “I beseech even myself not to believe such of her,” he began, sighing wearily. “Beneath Aemella’s calm poise always did lie something quite unnerving, though. Especially where Aemond is concerned.” 

The king and queen’s unification seemed an unbreakable bond, yet within it lay the potential for unchecked power, a wildfire in its own right, threatening to consume all that opposed its path.  

The flickering candlelight in Alicent’s quarters cast eerie shadows, shadows that seemed to whisper secrets of vengeance and betrayals. As father and daughter exchanged wary glances, the air grew heavy with unspoken truths, for they both knew that the line between justice and retribution was perilously thin. 

“Perhaps impending motherhood may gentle her,” Otto spoke finally, the heavy atmosphere cut through with the slither of hope.  

Alicent scoffed quietly, resting her chin upon her curled hand. “Or make her ten times more ferocious in her drive to protect what is hers.”  

Only time would tell. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[thetepes]

"Fuck it, I'm going to go back to calling people Nazis if they look at me funny." - 4:20 is the timestamp.

She is such a fascinating streamer, no? Dead air, no music, bringing up a cosplayer who killed themselves over accusations after saying it's perfectly fine and good to make flippant accusations. Telling her viewers to mass report Ant's videos, something which youtube found her so inert and completely fucking unable to meaningfully achieve they automatically considered his report solved because there was never any meaningful threat to begin with.

Anyway, it means nothing. This accusation. These words. Nothing, but meaningless piss from a person who so loudly declares their victimhood and cries about their status as a poc, a transwoman, a disabled person who lives off government assistance.

These things that all of which would have made you a victim of this meaningless regime to you. Let's look at who they targeted!

Black people

Civilians accused of disobedience, resistance, or partisan activity

Gay men, bisexuals, and others accused of deviant sexual behavior

 whose religious beliefs conflicted with Nazi ideology, such as Jehovah’s Witnesses

people with disabilities 

Slavic People

Political opponents and dissenters in Germany such as communists

Roma and other people derogatorily labeled as “Gypsies” 

Social outsiders in Germany derogatorily labeled as “asocials” or “professional criminals”

Soviet Prisoners of War. 

Hm, would you look at that? It seems we both meet the measure of those who would be eradicated. We would be victims of Nazis, Lily. Both of us.

Most estimates place the total number of deaths during the Second World War at around 70-85 million people. Approximately 17 million of these deaths were due to crimes against humanity carried out by the Nazi regime in Europe. In comparison to the millions of deaths that took place through conflict, famine, or disease, these 17 million stand out due to the reasoning behind them, along with the systematic nature and scale in which they were carried out.

They were 17 millions of us. A number not one of us can begin to fathom the actual scale of.

So why do only I know the weight of this between us, Lily? Are you really so disconnected from what you are that that multi generation eradicating horror is something you can't comprehend? Nazi isn't some flighty term like Republican that can mean anything from a out of touch grandma who thinks a house can still be bought for 25k to a man holding a tiki torch saying we should nuke downtown Atlanta. Nazis are one thing. They are the thing I struggle to describe as people, but they were and are people and we must remember the great evil people are capable of.

These are not the same thing. You can't just fling Nazi out like it's meaningless. To do so demeans not just the victims, but people still living. You belittle us. You belittle yourself. When you reduce Nazi to a buzzword you take away the sheer magnitude of the violence and loss they caused. Nazi is a word with meaning. It should hurt to say because of how heavy it is.

Have some pride. Have some dignity. Some grace. Have some respect for our lost kin and those that would have been our friends, for the strangers that would have been connected to us by the single thread of this group's hatred.

Give that word it's meaning.

This part is for all of us who have grown too casual with our language, not just her,

Stop calling people Nazis unless they are. Nazis aren't fairytale creatures or monsters under the bed. They're human. They're your brother, your father, your cousin, your next door neighbor. That's what's so scary about them. They're just people. Hateful people. They look like you and me. Look at what a Nazi is. Look at their beliefs. Look at what they did. Memorize it. We all must look even though it hurts because we need to be able to identify them and half of that is giving that word weight so when we see the danger we can name it. For our own safety.

It's time to demand better. It's time to have meaning. It's time to use our words and use them accurately.

[helluvapoison]

Hi!! I love your writing so much! I was curious if you could write a Headcannon list for Adam and Lute with a partner that had a sleeping disorder?

˚✧₊⁎ Adam ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Considering his sleeping schedule isn’t structured by any means, he’s not bothered

• Actually it might take him a minute to really take notice

• During the day there’s this and to do, band practice, gigs and gaming breaks in between

• Eventually it’s all he can see. Your sluggish steps a beat or so behind his own, fists attempting to cover up yawns or rub the tiredness from your eyes

• The first couple times he’ll roll his eyes and make a comment, “Oh sorry, am I boring you?”

• Irritation fades to genuine concern the longer it goes on, “Fuck babe, go to sleep already.”

• Adam’s at a loss when you try to explain why it’s not that simple

• He’s thrown a lot of money at the situation. Comfier bed, softer sheets, one of those butt plug looking smoke machines (a humidifier) to make sleeping more enticing

• As a last ditch effort, once a day he’ll snatch away whatever you’re occupying yourself with, tether you to him with his arms and wings and make you close your eyes

• There’s a 50/50 chance he’ll fall asleep before you or wait to see if his efforts succeeded

˚✧₊⁎ Lute ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• As Adam’s right hand man, she prides herself on a perfect regime

• You’ll never see her yawn or complain that she’s tired. Even if she doesn’t get the full 8 hours of sleep, she wakes up promptly with the ring of her alarm

• It works for her, why doesn’t it work for you?

• You’re practically asleep at the wheel!

• Lute becomes frustrated, she thinks it’s because you’re not trying hard enough

• She’s not one to dote or coddle, you’re not a baby for fucks sake!

• Watching you rub your face, seemingly just as annoyed as she feels, irks her even more. Your eyes are heavy, shoulders slumped, head nodding when you sit down for too long

• Lute stiffens when she feels a weight on her shoulder and hears a soft snore at her side. Her first instinct is to wake you but she can’t bring herself to

• She exerts herself trying to find a solution

• Electronics have a curfew now, she hangs blackout curtains and dabs lavender oil under the pillows

• Promptly at 8 Lute will present you with a warm, non-optional cup of chamomile tea!

• She perches on the edge of the bed and waits until you fall asleep

• If you stay very still, she’ll act like she’s moving hair away from your face then continue combing through it with her nails

[rowinablx]

I was bored and reading Absolute Superman so have a rough layout of an Absolute Avengers

Marvel Absolute Universe: The Original Six Avengers

Setting:

The Absolute Universe is a fractured, dystopian Earth where global systems—governments, economies, and societies—have crumbled under the weight of unchecked corporate power, environmental collapse, and the rise of rogue superhumans. The Avengers aren't a sanctioned team; they’re outlaws, forged in the chaos, fighting not for ideals but for survival and a faint glimmer of hope.

1. Tony Stark / Iron Man

Absolute Twist: Tony Stark is no longer a billionaire playboy. In this world, Stark Industries was seized by a militarized mega-corporation after Tony’s parents were assassinated in a hostile takeover. Left with nothing but his genius, Tony builds his first suit from salvaged tech in a war-torn slum, a clanking, industrial monstrosity fueled by rage.

Personality: Cynical, haunted, and self-destructive. He drinks not out of arrogance but to numb the guilt of failing to protect his legacy. His armor evolves with every battle, but it’s patched together, scarred, and unstable—mirroring his psyche.

Conflict: Tony wages a one-man war against the corporate overlords who stole his life, but his obsession blinds him to the collateral damage he causes.

2. Steve Rogers / Captain America

Absolute Twist: Steve wasn’t frozen in ice after World War II. Instead, he survived the war, only to be betrayed by the government he served. Experimented on and abandoned, he became a ghost, a grizzled soldier wandering a broken world. His shield is chipped and tarnished, a relic of a lost cause.

Personality: Hardened and disillusioned, Steve clings to a fractured sense of duty. He’s a leader by necessity, not choice, and his moral compass wavers in a world where survival often demands compromise.

Conflict: Steve hunts the remnants of the super-soldier program, now a black-market operation creating monsters, while wrestling with whether humanity is worth saving.

3. Thor Odinson

Absolute Twist: Asgard has fallen—not to Ragnarok, but to infighting and betrayal. Thor is an exile, stripped of his hammer Mjolnir, which lies shattered across Earth after a failed attempt to save his people. He wields a jagged shard of it as a crude weapon, its power erratic and dangerous.

Personality: Thor is a brooding, mortal god, burdened by shame and loss. His once-boisterous spirit is replaced by a quiet, simmering fury.

Conflict: Thor seeks to reclaim the fragments of Mjolnir, believing they hold the key to restoring Asgard—but each piece he finds corrupts him further, drawing him toward darkness.

4. Bruce Banner / Hulk

Absolute Twist: The gamma explosion wasn’t an accident—it was a desperate act. Bruce, a scientist in a dying world, irradiated himself to become a weapon against a tyrannical regime. The Hulk isn’t a mindless beast but a fractured, tragic force of nature, a reflection of Bruce’s suppressed rage and grief.

Personality: Bruce is a paranoid recluse, haunted by the lives the Hulk has taken. The Hulk, when unleashed, speaks in broken, mournful fragments, aware of its own monstrous existence.

Conflict: Bruce searches for a cure, but every attempt fails, and the Hulk grows stronger, threatening to erase what’s left of his humanity.

5. Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow

Absolute Twist: Natasha never escaped the Red Room—it evolved into a global syndicate controlling the world’s shadows. She broke free by burning it down, leaving her a hunted woman with blood on her hands. Her skills are unmatched, but her body is scarred from years of brutal survival.

Personality: Cold, calculating, and fiercely independent. Natasha trusts no one, not even her allies, and her loyalty is born of necessity rather than faith.

Conflict: Natasha is pursued by the syndicate’s new generation of Widows—faster, deadlier, and programmed to kill her—forcing her to confront the monster she helped create.

6. Clint Barton / Hawkeye

Absolute Twist: Clint isn’t a charming rogue with a bow; he’s a broken survivor. A former soldier turned mercenary, he lost his family in a superhuman conflict and now fights with a bow crafted from scavenged wreckage. His arrows are tipped with scavenged tech—explosive, corrosive, unpredictable.

Personality: Bitter and weary, Clint hides his pain behind dark humor. He’s a sharpshooter with shaky hands, a man one bad day from giving up entirely.

Conflict: Clint hunts the superhuman warlord who killed his family, but each kill drags him deeper into a cycle of vengeance he can’t escape.

The Team Dynamic

The Absolute Avengers don’t assemble out of unity or nobility—they’re forced together by circumstance. Tony’s tech scavenges a derelict factory as their base; Steve rallies them with grim resolve; Thor’s divine presence unnerves them; Bruce’s volatility keeps them on edge; Natasha’s secrecy breeds distrust; and Clint’s fatalism challenges their purpose. They’re not Earth’s Mightiest Heroes—they’re its last, desperate stand.

First Mission: The team unites to stop a rogue AI, birthed from Stark Industries’ stolen tech, that’s weaponizing superhumans into an unstoppable army. Each Avenger has a personal stake—Tony’s legacy, Steve’s betrayal, Thor’s redemption, Bruce’s fear, Natasha’s past, Clint’s revenge—but their clashing motives threaten to tear them apart before they can succeed.

Tone and Themes

This Absolute Universe leans into moral ambiguity, survivalist grit, and the cost of power. The Avengers are flawed, scarred, and barely holding it together, their victories pyrrhic and their losses devastating. It’s a world where heroism isn’t celebrated—it’s questioned, doubted, and paid for in blood.

[sxvual]

Nothing pisses me off more than the lying gym girlies. Like if you’re gonna get a bbl, do it. I love a fat ass.

But I hate hate hate HATE, the influencers that take advantage of naive people trying to get into the gym more and learn more about how to properly train their bodies and being healthy.

Don’t give a bullshit regime to “growing your glutes like mine” if those aren’t glutes and it’s redistributed fat, not muscle. Don’t get me wrong I understand the results have to be maintained in the gym, but emphasis on maintained not made! So don’t lie to people and act like you went from looking like the number one to looking like dabrat wife with just protein and hip thrust.

Or selling those bullshit flat tummy teas and weight loss supplements. Like I dislike dishonestly and taking advantage of people soooooo much.

[dailyanarchistposts]

I am currently detained in an Israeli jail, the result of refusing to attend or cooperate with criminal charges laid against me and two others for joining Palestinian protests in the West Bank against Israel’s colonial rule. Because I am an Israeli citizen, the proceedings in the case are held in an Israeli court in Jerusalem and not at the military court, where Palestinians are tried.

It has been almost nine years since the last time I was incarcerated for more than a day or two. Much has changed since. Politically, reality does not even resemble that of a decade ago, and none of the changes were for the better.

Politically, the world seems to have lost much of its interest in the Palestinian struggle for liberation, placing Israel at one of the historical peaks of its political strength. I am in no position to discuss the profound changes within Israeli society and how even farther to the right it has drifted. Israeli liberals are much better suited for such a task, because they hold their country dear and feel a sense of belonging that I cannot feel and do not want to feel.

Personally, I am older, more tired and, mostly, not as healthy as I was. Of course, the price I have paid for my part in the struggle is a fraction of that paid by Palestinian comrades, but I cannot deny its subjective weight on me: from physical injuries, some irreversible, through sporadic despair, anxiety and sense of helplessness, to the encumbering sensation of loss and the presence of death – and the grip all these have on my day-to-day life. And yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Right now, just as it was back then, sitting in prison is better than any other alternative available to me.

The legal fallacies that riddle the case against us are of little significance. While it is fair to assume that had I agreed to cooperate, the trial would have ended up with an acquittal, my refusal to recognize the court’s legitimacy is based on two main grounds.

The first is that my Palestinian comrades do not enjoy the luxury of being tried in the relatively comfortable conditions of the Israeli courts. Rather, they are tried as subjects in the parody of a legal system that are Israel’s military courts. Unlike me, Palestinians do not have the option of refusing to cooperate with their captors, since the vast majority of them are tried while remanded into custody for the duration of their proceedings.

Additionally, the punishment Palestinians are faced with is significantly harsher than that specified in Israeli law. Thus, in this regard as well, despite refusing to recognize the court’s legitimacy, the price I am likely to pay is significantly lower than that paid by my comrades.

The second, more fundamental ground to refuse to cooperate is that all Israeli courts, military or otherwise, lack any legitimacy to preside over matters of resisting Israeli colonial rule, which employs a hybrid regime, ranging between a distorted and racially discriminatory democracy in its sovereign territory and a flat-out military dictatorship in the occupied territories.

Faced with the tremendous shift to the right in Israeli politics, the shrinking remnants of the Zionist left – once the country’s dominant elite group – are consumed by lamenting the decline of Israeli democracy. But what democracy is it they wish to defend? The one that has dispossessed its Palestinian citizens of their lands and their rights? The one that, at best, views these Palestinian citizens as second-class? Perhaps it is the democracy that governs the Gaza Strip through vicious siege while it reigns as a military dictatorship in the West Bank?

Despite the obvious nature of the Israeli regime, Israeli liberals are not willing to contest the fundamental premise of internal Israeli discourse and acknowledge that the State of Israel simply is not a democracy. Never was.

To join the fight to topple Israeli apartheid, the few Jewish citizens of Israel willing to do so will first have to recognize that they are overprivileged and be willing to pay the price of relinquishing that status. An open rebellion against the regime has been taking place for decades, carried out by the Palestinian resistance movement. The price paid by those involved in it is immense. Jewish citizens of Israel must cross over and walk in their footsteps.

[princesssarisa]

I’m glad to say that the Jewish Food Festival went smoothly and peacefully, and the food was excellent as always!

It was very nice to have latkes for the first time since last Hanukkah, and for the last time (if I want to stick with my weight loss regime) until this year’s Hanukkah.

[weightlossregime]

Papaya: The Tropical Fruit Powerhouse for Your Health पपीता खाने के फायदे: एक सुपरफूड की ताकत

Discover the incredible health benefits of papaya, a delicious and nutritious fruit. In this video, we'll explore the various ways papaya can boost your overall well-being. From improving digestion to enhancing skin health, learn how to incorporate this tropical fruit into your daily diet.

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