#go on a healing journey

[copypastus]

@nestaarcheronweek Day 3 - Self Care

Self care is calling your sister's bluff and moving away from the Night Court instead of to the House of Wind.

Listen, I fully believe if Nesta and Tamlin got to compare notes on how the NC treats them they could have bonded. And it would be hilarious.

Bonus twitchy Tamlin reaction picture free to use.

Second one too. I'm generous like that.

[dolceaspidenera]

We all know at this point that the name Astarion is connected to the word "star" (starry or little star).

But Larian decided that they wanted to go all in with the details and they delivered!

The flower you can place on his tomb in the final romance scene (which I think is such a cute and tender gesture and I love his reaction to it), seems to be an Ornithogalum umbellatum, a star-shaped white flower with six petals. Among the plant's many common names, there are summer snowflake, starflower, and star-of-Bethlehem.

Moreover, in the language of flowers, its meanings are related to trauma, mourning, and welcoming pain without repressing it.

According to Doctor Edward Bach (1886 – 1936), these flowers are "For those who find themselves in a state of great anguish due to situations that, in a given period, have caused so much unhappiness", and can be used to help with the aftermath of a trauma, the alleviation of pain and the mourning process.

Edit: every time I see an artist include this flower in their Astarion fanart my heart swells with joy. Love this community

[p1nkribb0ns]

healing ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

growing ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

accepting ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

learning ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

evolving ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

[holistichealingg]

[maxiglow]

✨ this mindset ✨

[vielesundnichts]

- r.h. Sin

[titfairy]

[gunstellations]

a little family

[a-path-by-the-moon]

[emilnikos]

Oh! What about the scene where Ford put his arm around Stanley after Dipper and Mabel leave, I love that moment cuz it’s Ford saying “It’s okay, I’m here.”

unsure if this was a request or not but ive also really wanted to draw this bc it is also one of my favourite moments. brothers forevaaarrr RAHHHHHH!! original under cut

[healingviawords]

Healing is weird. Because some days you feel like you've moved mountains with your progress and other days the pain will come back and hurt like hell. But you just have to keep going and know that when all is said and done, you're going to be okay. You're going to be stronger because of it.

[lunacelebrateslife]

[thetypewriterdaily]

🗺️🛤️💡🌟

[stagefoureddiediaz]

We’re totally getting Tommy saying something about Eddie ‘being around all the time’ aren’t we!

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XIX)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWO is here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here PART FOURTEEN is here PART FIFTEEN is here PART SIXTEEN is here PART SEVENTEEN is here PART EIGHTEEN is here...nineteen...oy vey.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... THE BART RETURNS! The earth rejoices! 🥳🎉 Physical therapy can be fun, even if it usually isn't!

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny learns a few more words with practice.

Foda is simple. If Danny is hungry, he can ask for foda. It sounds exactly like food, and when he asks, they feed him.

…Or they up his IV. Which. Danny’s tongue might still feel sore and nasty, but the doctors and nurses and millions of minders don’t seem that mad when he sticks his tongue out at them. Sometimes they even laugh.

They don’t even sound all that mean.

It takes Danny a good chunk of waking time for him to realize that he…probably is hooked up to something he doesn’t want to think about, since all the efforts of lifting and moving him haven’t resulted in a single bathroom trip since he woke up here.

Firstly: horrible.

Secondly: his legs are super, absolutely, positively immobilized, and if someone doesn’t give him enough medication quickly enough after it wears off, Danny is very aware that something is deeply wrong with them.

So. Uh. That’s…gross.

He learns bealo just as quickly. He isn’t sure what bealo means, per se, but when he says it, they up his medication until Danny can pretend he doesn’t have any legs again.

God niht is goodnight, unless Danny is feeling snippy, and then it’s just niht.

…The one lady who minds him always says the whole thing, though. Even when Danny’s mean. Like the one time he threw his rocket at someone.

Or the time he started ignoring everyone when they tried to touch him.

…Or the one time he tried to freeze his IV bag, and put everyone on alert because if he’d been human, that would have seriously hurt him.

“Sorry,” Danny’d whispered, even if it wouldn’t mean anything to her.

She’d patted his hand and meant it. Danny’d had to dry his eyes with his wrist. “Eall es wel.”

Anyway.

Danny hates being in the freaking bed every hour of every day. So when his “sitting up” exercises turn into “hey, let’s try the wheelchair” practice, Danny gets so excited-slash-nervous that he kind of feels like he’s going to throw up all the liquids he’s been injected with.

None of the regular people try to lift him. Instead the lady does it herself, scooping Danny up in very strong arms, the golden cuffs on her wrists weirdly warm on Danny’s skin. When Danny’s settled, his legs sticking out real weird and his back kind of sore, he’s…out of bed.

He’s. He’s not in bed anymore.

And. Sure. It’s temporary, but it’s not the bed. Danny can wriggle, and he can sort of palm the wheels underneath him with the heels of his shaky hands, and he can see so much more of himself than he has in ages and ages.

For one. Both of his legs are in casts. That’s. Not good. He can’t feel it right now, but the sight of fully encased legs…

Well. If he can transform that won’t be a problem. If. If he has to escape. But it is…it’s super scary. He mostly remembers being captured, but the…the other people had been focusing more on his thoracic cavity and his face and head.

…So why are his legs so bad? Did something else happen?

(It did, didn’t it?)

(…Didn’t it??)

His hands shake, but there’s something to all that grip training, or else Danny wouldn’t be able to paw at his neckline to look down his own shirt. Or, well, his cloth nightie, anyway.

It’s good that he looks, since, well…his chest is glowing a solid green.

Whatever should probably be scar tissue. Uh. It…isn’t. There’re gouges down his chest and a crater where his heart should be that probably should be healing over, considering, you know, he’s not freaking dead at this exact second (mostly??), but. Instead of, like, healed flesh, or, say, his insides, there’s a transparent green…jelly… holding him together.

He can see how the green bounces with his heart beat.

...Danny drops the neckline of his gown. His breath comes in choking bursts, eyes pressed into his eye sockets—he feels sick.

He is sick. He has been sick.

The humans are keeping him here because he’s a freak of nature and he’s broken from head to toe and the Guys in White carved his flesh out of his body and opened him up like a can of cranberry sauce.

He presses his hands to his chest, to his stomach, just trying to breathe for long enough that he doesn’t throw up his oatmeal and occasional juice and IV nutrition onto the pristine floor of his sickroom. The people around him all make sympathetic noises that don’t help because he doesn’t know what they mean.

And then he feels something weird.

Not all the sensation in his fingers are back. It’s easier for him to feel impediments than it is to feel textures—something that blocks him from moving, rather than anything sensory-specific. He can usually tell when he touches fabric, because when he moves too far, it pulls tight around his hand. He can tell when he’s on something solid when his hand fails to go through it.

There is something solid sticking out of him.

Danny’s heartbeat quickens. It’s not. It’s. There’s something in him.

And it’s not—it’s so solid. When Danny brushes his hands against it, he can feel his skin and his flesh move with it, trying not to dislodge the thing embedded in him. It pulls at his skin. He doesn’t know what it is.

His fingers tremble as he tries to brush over the object through his gown, trying to figure out its shape from faulty touch alone. It’s like waking up to find himself jammed with needles all over again.

People are talking around them. Danny doesn’t try to listen in. He’s scared. He’s so scared. Something’s happened to him, and he didn’t even notice.

Some of it is—hard. There’s a crinkling sound when he moves. Danny manages to pull his gown neckline back again to catch something of a glimpse, and all he sees is plastic.

He doesn’t know what it is.

He doesn’t know who to ask. He can’t understand anyone and he doesn’t know if he trusts them.

They put something in him. There’s something embedded in him.

He thinks he’s going to cry.

Something touches his arm—Danny flinches. His core tightens with stress as he puts a metaphorical hand on the button, ready to run and hide at any notice.

It’s the lady. He knows her.

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know her at all. He can’t talk to her in any way that matters. She’s not a doctor. He doesn’t know why she’s here, or why she’s keeping him here.

She’s nice. She fed him. But is that all it takes to trick him? To make him compliant? Pliable?

She stops touching him when he gets scared, her eyes worried. She kneels—closer than Danny would like, probably, but she keeps her hands to herself. Danny’s heart races faster, out of order, starting and stopping and starting again like a bad engine.

“Eow eart wel?” she asks from his left arm rest, a common question, so softly. Danny doesn’t know what it means. “Eall es wel. Ænlic eow, ænlic me. Bruce bræð wið me?”

She takes a big, deep, breath. Her hand rises slightly over her chest, following an exaggerated movement. Don’t panic. Breathe. Breathe like me. One, two, three.

Danny’s breaths are more choked. More panicked.

But when she breathes, he breathes with her—even with every stutter in between.

“Hwæt es woh[O3] ?” the lady asks, so gently it’s almost a whisper. Her pointer finger hovers over his body, but doesn’t touch—and eventually, Danny figures out she probably wants to know where he’s hurting.

But he’s not hurting. He’s scared. There’s something inside him, and he isn’t sure what it is. He presses the heel of his hand to the object. He feels something rigid refuse to bend inside his flesh.

There’s something of recognition in the woman’s face. “Inne cwic tima,” she says, more certain of answers outside the room, and darts away,

Danny wants to bounce his bound leg. He feels awful when anyone is in the room with him, considering how little of them he knows, but, somehow, it’s so much worse when he’s actually alone.

When she comes back, there’s a second person who walks through the double doors with her, in blue scrubs with ducks on them. They wave to Danny.

Danny…blinks. He feels numb. It’s kind of a problem.

They take it in stride, though; in their hands is a blank board and a chunky marker. The cap comes off, the new person scribbles for a minute or so, and then turns the board around so that Danny can see.

It’s a…person. A rudimentary outline person, sure, with some visible bones and organs to fill in the person-shaped outline. Danny can recognize most of them from anatomy class, although those memories are more…personal, now. A little more painful.

The person taps on the board. The person points to Danny.

Danny frowns.

The person turns the board back around and makes some Pew, Pew, Pew! sounds with their mouth, occasionally opening and closing their hand over the board to match the noise. There’s some more scribbling. When the board turns back around, there’s a violent smudge of marker on top of the drawn person’s drawn intestines.

The person takes their covered pinky finger and erases a little neat circle of marker in the intestines, mostly favoring one side. They draw a little arrow from the hole to the general outside-of-the-person blank area. Then another circle, with a thicker circle inside.

Danny recognizes the object jutting out of him. Oh. This is how he got it.

The person—probably a doctor, Danny guesses, or the surgeon who did this to him—do these people even need credentials, actually?—hands the board over to the lady. They hold out ten outstretched fingers, marker under their arm, and make a show of counting every one of the outstretched fingers with the opposite hand. Then they take the board back.

And then, when they write on the board, Danny can actually understand what they say.

Or, well, it’s numbers! The numbers are the same as his—the line and a circle is clearly meant to be a ten, and the little x is a multiplication symbol— they draw a 10, as clearly and a brightly as it could be against a stark white board, and add a little x 7, probably to indicate a week; the result is ten suns times seven, or seventy suns.

Danny feels his heart bounce in his chest. Danny would bet a whole lot of money that the number is meant to be seventy days. There is an end point. It’s not that Danny is free to be subjected to random anatomical whims—there’s a goal here. This was purposeful.

The little circle-within a circle gets erased. The hole is scribbled through as if it was never there, and the person makes a weaving gesture with the marker that Danny is certain is meant to be sewing.

Tears prick at his eyes. The lady gets close by him again, but Danny lets her. His hands aren’t good enough for wiping tears the way he wants to, yet. Help and company are good.

She gives him a tissue from Danny's bedside table. He takes it with a whisper of a grip.

“Seventy?” Danny rasps, tearful. Hopeful. Terrified of hope. He practically jams the tissue into his eye sockets.

The lady’s eyes go wide. “Seventy,” she repeats, marveling.

It’s enough. Nothing is perfect, but it’s enough. And if Danny's allowed to spend so long in front of the space window that he falls asleep in his wheelchair, well. It's not like he was in charge of where they went.

[nevertheless-moving]

I'm not quite there yet but I KNOW that after wind and truth featuring Szeth and Kaladin's Unwell Adventure, I WILL be adding Kalaszeth to my all encompassing mental cabinet of beloved possible Kaladin ships.

---

Which introduces a new funniest time travel companion for a new funniest post book 5 time travel scenario.

Stormlight au 31:

Szeth, having jump scared the bridge crew by appearing lightly glowing in the dark while they were having stew, been hastily ushered by the captain into the bridge four barrack, only to sit on the floor and stare dead eyed at nothing: Kaladin, standing between the crew and the man on the floor:

---

Lopen looked around. As usual, he could tell that the men were silently crying out for him, the Lopen, to take charge and speak.

"So!" he said cheerfully. "Gotta say gancho, very excited to meet an old friend of yours! Nice to take some mystery out of that mysterious past of yours, eh?"

Kaladin shifted from foot to foot, face twisting a bit. He had been acting strange since that terrifying glowy high storm vision of his a few days back. Even more broody than usual, which was storming saying something.

"It must be difficult," Rock said slowly. "Being Shin man with great powers and shardblade."

A shardblade which he had summoned unceremoniously, causing all of bridge four to scramble for weapons, only for the crazy man to hand it to Kaladin with a mumble, then sit on the floor.

Kaladin had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, before placing it, very, very carefully, under his bed.

A storming shardblade. Under the Captain's bed.

"A Shin with a shardblade who wears white," Moash added sarcastically, eyes flickering to the Captain's bed even more than usual.

(White may have been a stretch, what with all the mud and possibly dried blood. Still. Lopen could perhaps see Moash's point.)

"Yes," Rock said. "Why, were I more suspicious man, I would say Captain, this man on the floor, he can not be Assassin in White? Surely most wanted, most dangerous man in all Roshar is not here, in the place we sleep, asking for aid. Surely it would have been mentioned if this man who caused the war we even now are a part of, was old friend of yours?"

"I..." Kaladin trailed off. "I promised to try and protect..."

The whole bridge crew groaned, Skar even throwing his spear at the ground. Bad form, that.

"Storm's sake lad!" Teft growled, arms in the air. "You can't befriend and save every wanted criminal you meet!"

"If it is of help -"

The men started at the unnerving dead voice coming from the so far quiet assassin.

"We are not truly friends. Merely -"

He said a word, presumably in his language, then frowned, the first recognizably human emotion that had crossed his face.

"I do not know this word in Alethi. In Azish it is I think -"

He said something that made Sigzil choke on air, jaw dropping. "Uh," the Worldsinger stammered out. "I. Ah. I think. That might be the wrong term."

The Captain seemed to pale slightly. "Szeth, we can talk about that later," he said quickly. "We should probably figure out a plan for you to surrender to Dalinar - or Elokhar - without you getting immediately executed - Yes, Dalinar is probably-"

"Perhaps," Sigzil interrupted, voice higher than usual. "You could define the meaning of the word you used before."

"Sigzil!" The captain hissed.

"Captain?" Sigzil challenged, voice still slightly too high.

"I was emotionally and mentally unwell," the assassin in white said in his monotone. He paused. "Even more so than currently."

A few of the men took a step back.

"Stormblessed..." he looked up at Kaladin, and his voice seemed to soften, just the slightest bit. "He felt pity for me. Then he helped me feel. Helped me think that perhaps, someday I would feel the desire for life. He did this despite no great love for my being."

Many of the men nodded at that. Sigzil's shoulders slumped in relief.

"He accomplished this primarily by fucking me in a cave."

The nods froze. Sigzil closed his eyes.

The Captain slapped a hand to his face.

"The translation for this from my language would be 'pity fuck', but there is more cultural nuance..." The Assassin shrugged. "In any case it is not a bond such as that of friendship. My soul is still far too damaged for that."

"Szeth..." The Captain said, looking down at him with obvious concern. He glanced at the room, blanched at the men's expressions, then slowly pressed his head back into his hand.

Moash made an indecipherable noise and stomped towards the door, before making another noise and stomping back.

The Captain kept his palm pressed to his face.

A sudden wave of epiphany hit Lopen. "Hold on. Now hold on just a storming minute!"

The room turned slowly from staring at their Stormblessed leader to staring at Lopen.

He pointed accusingly at the Captain. When the man failed to pull his massive hand from his beautiful face, Lopen faced the others, glaring.

"I know that I joined bridge four late! But are you telling me that before I got here, the whole famous 'pulling everyone out of bridge crew misery' was actually the captain...I mean did storming all of you..."

He made a deliberate gesture, pointer finger moving extra emphatically to make up for the missing hand with which to form a hole, meeting each man's eyes with a challenge.

Drehy let out a wheeze. He and Skar looked at each other before dissolving into quiet, helpless laughter. Drehy sank to his hands and knees, wheezing more, and Skar bent over, tears streaming down his face as he gasped around his laughing.

"That ain't an answer!" he said indignantly.

He looked at Teft, but the older man had put both hands over his face. His shoulders seem to shake occasionally. Lopen's eyes narrowed as he turned to Rock.

The horneater had a hand over his mouth, but he brought it down, coughing once as he stroked his beard.

"What," Rock said mildly. "You thought it my stew that bring back men's will to live? You honor me, the Lopen."

Lopen gaped at that, and he wasn't the only one. The handful of other 'late' additions, men who had been rescued on the field from other crews, started in shock.

The rest of the crew completely lost it at that point.

Skar and Drehy collapsed further, banging their fists on the floor. Bissig started laughing as well, falling onto Natam, who had made a strange grunting whine at Lopen's question, a whine which grew louder at Rock's reply.

Moash's lips turned up reluctantly before a snort escaped against his will. He fell back against a wall, knees seeming to grow weak. Another snort. "Imagine!" he gasped out. "If he just started punching people in the stomach, ran around like a madman, and expected people to follow him!"

Leyten went from chuckling to a booming laugh at that, clutching at Pete and Yake to stay upright. He looked at Lopen, who made another questioning gesture. That was enough to send all three toppling over, Leyten loud enough to be heard the next barrack over.

Renarin squeaked from the corner as Natam hit the wall beside him in mirth, howling. Talek's breath, he had forgotten the lad was there, light eyes wide in shock.

Shen was next to him. Was it Lopen's imagination, or did even his eyes seemed to be sparkling with mirth? No storming way...not the parshman...the Captain wouldn't...

"Crazy!" Torfin agreed, cackling. "What kind of idiots would start pooling all their pay to buy storming bandages for doomed men, start laughing during chasm duty, swear to stand by their storming bridge, if they didn't have at least one, um - uh -"

"Stormblessing!" Leyten offered with a gasp from the ground.

Torfin pointed at him, "Stormblessing!" he repeated with a yell. "To remind them that life was worth living!"

Lopen narrowed his eyes, finally coming to a conclusion. "You fellows are taking the piss out on me," he accused.

"You know Captain," Drehy said, whole body heaving, tears still streaming down his face as he lay helplessly on the floor. "I still get nightmares."

This inspired a new wave of laughter mixed with jeers about their own issues, and suggestions for how the captain could help. Lopen shook his head, grinning widely at the room full of uproarious men. Some of his best work. And mostly achieved on accident, which was the best kind of accomplishment!

The Captain finally pulled his hand from his face. There was color high in his cheeks, and he was frowning, but the corners of his eyes were creased with suppressed laughter.

"Sorry Drehy, one time offer," he said dryly, to hoots.

And Lopen," he said, faux apologetic. "I am sorry for the oversight. I... didn't realize you were interested."

The crew edged well into hysteria, most men only able to breathe in strangled gasps and wheeze out an occasional ''Stormblessing!'

Bridge four's captain was good at playing straight man, when the mood struck him.

The Lopen huffed, but decided magnanimously to move past the slight to his honor. Even if it turned out they weren't joking.

"It's still nice to be included," he sniffed. "Ain't that right, Renarin."

The Brightlord seemed to shrink as attention was drawn towards him, face a brilliant red as he pressed into the corner. Some of the laughter trailed off as the crew remembered he was there. More of it got louder, even less uncontrolled.

The Captain's eyes widened and the flush on his cheeks spread to his ears.

"Renarin! Oh - Jezrianssake, the men are full of chullshit, alright? I didn't - that wasn't -"

The Captain gestured helplessly. "The thing with Szeth was - we were - the world was going to -"

He threw up his arms as Renarin's eyes just got wider.

"It was the stew!" He said desperately, turning to look at Eth, who looked bemused back at him. "It really was the stew!" He pleaded.

"I know Captain," Eth said soothingly. "I know I came in a bit later, but I know. That's not exactly something these idiots would be able to keep secret."

"Things might have gone faster, though..." Skar said leadingly, which set off another round of helpless groans and gasps for air.

The Captain rolled his eyes, scoffing, still the perfect comedic straight man.

...He did get the whole joke though, right? The bit of truth in the jeers? The Lopen was not generally interested in the more manly sex but Storms. It was sometimes hard to tell if the Captain realized just how pretty he was, just how much people reacted to his general...Stormblessedness. Not to mention the glowing! Everyone loves a man who can glow and run up walls.

Hm. Maybe that helped explain the Captain and the Assassin.

Moash stumbled, still snorting, over to the Man in White - to Szeth - looking down at him, appraising.

Kaladin grew tense.

Gancho had been especially strange around Moash for the last few days.

"Assassin," he said thoughtfully. "Are you sure it was just pity?"

The wide eyed man, who had remained utterly impassive as the room fell apart around him, cocked his head as Moash leaned down.

"There's a certain kind of person who finds killing light eyes, especially powerful lighteyes, a rather..."

Kaladin cleared his throat, interrupting. "We're not killing the king."

Moash turned sharply, glaring at Kaladin.

"I do not wish to kill anymore," Szeth whispered. He paused, then spoke again.

"I will kill if the Blackthorn orders, or if you ask, Kaladin Stormblessed, son son Tanavast."

Kaladin winced. "Maybe let's not mention...that whole last part when we go to the King. We...we should definitely practice exactly how we're going to explain all this."

He starting towing the still blank faced - no there was a bit of confusion there, if you were looking - infamous Assassin to his office, the men letting out the best jeers they could (considering their incoherent state) as they went.

"You should for sure mention the 'pity fuck' thing though," Lopen called helpfully. "The King will definitely be interested in that."