Actually, my therapist has told me this is a healthy way of processing things. Because you can get the trauma out of your head And you can write the ending you wish it had. The trusted person rescue, the catharsis of getting to kill the one who hurt you.
It's good for your brain. It's healthier than bottling it up. Fiction is where we go for emotional release. That can be true with trauma too.
Adding @dear-massacre's tags because they are so true:
#this is why it's important to remember that fictional characters are fake #they have no agency. they're made up #it hurts no one to make any character go through the horrors #it is healthy and cathartic
idea: kara with a white shirt and lipstick marks on both sides of her collar in ever so slightly different shades, one from lena, one from andrea?
There is something decidedly artful about the way Kara looks now, tied to the headboard of their bed.
It is not their first time, of course. Lena’s had many opportunities to delight in the sight of the gentle stretch of Kara’s arms whenever she’d struggle not to tear against the silk bonds around her wrists, the tense arch of her neck when her head’s thrown back in loud ecstasy, the flexing tendon there that Andrea loves to bite at then. It feels like the eighth wonder of the world every time, the Girl of Steel surrendering herself into their hands in unabashed pleasure.
This time, though, feels even better.
Kara looks ravishing and ravished in equal measure now, face already blissed out before they’d even get started, hair tousled, spreading out into a golden halo on the pillows under her head. Angelic, almost, even with the ties around her wrists and the sizeable strap-on jutting from her hips. Lena drinks in the sight of her: the heavy rise of her chest, the flexing of her abs under the half-unbuttoned shirt. Her bright blue eyes now hazy with desire, moving from Lena to Andrea’s figure, then back again. But Lena’s own gaze is drawn to Kara’s neck now, to the messy map of love-bites and lipstick stains they’ve left all over the hollow of her throat and the impeccable white of her shirt’s collar. Deep red and a muted pink, they stand out, loud, assertive, and oh, how Kara loves to bear those marks.
Kara’s leg pressing against her thigh jolts Lena from her silent admiration.
“Enjoying the view?” Her girlfriend grins, somehow managing to be smug still, and Lena rolls her eyes and shuffles closer. She only reaches out at first, stroking along the collar and chuckling when Kara instinctively presses up against her hand.
“Don’t be a brat now,” she murmurs and bends forward, letting her lips brush over her own marks, smiling as she feels Kara’s breath hitch under her mouth.
“Or do,” Andrea’s voice drifts from above her. Lena straightens up and draws to the side again, letting her take the lead, feeling her own breath quicken as Andrea straddles Kara’s hips. She’s flushed from head to toe, and Andrea knows it, loves it too: it’s clear in her preening, in the self-assured smile she flashes to Lena before she bends over Kara’s face to whisper: “It’ll only make it more fun.”
[inspired in great part though very obliquely by this iconic piece of fanart]
“You must make a good impression, daughter. And take care of the company you keep.”
She has to keep reminding herself of her father's words, to stand tall and smile, dutiful and pleasant, and not to pick at her nails. It is a royal ball, after all. The first in ten years that Lord Otto Hightower has been graciously invited to, recalled to court and to his seat on the Council. A triumphant, joyful return by all measures.
Alicent, as ever, is ill at ease.
She’s never quite gotten used to the Red Keep during the last of the old king’s reign. It’s a queer place, too young, too great, too foul already. Even now, with its great hall all illuminated, the walls reverberating with the sound of music and laughter, it feels dark, suffocating, the twisted shadow of the Iron Throne looming large on its walls. In Oldtown, there’s wisdom and piety at court, in Highgarden, chivalry and grace. Here, she’s only met with the dragonlords’ lewd, alien splendor.
And she faces it alone.
(There was, once, the princess Rhaenyra, then a scrawny, silver-haired menace. Alicent recalls brief flashes, a wide, toothy grin, her brazen tone, the petulant pout when admonished, the little bronze dragon perched on her shoulders, then later padding after her through the court. The enraptured, curious look of blue-violet eyes, listening to Alicent’s reading. It was long ago. It’s Crown Princess now, a woman grown, and wilder still than the Rogue Prince, or so the whispers that reach the Hightower from the ports say. Dragon’s blood, King Viserys is said to jest. Alicent tries to pay just as little mind to their tales as little Rhaenyra must be thinking about her. There must be graver things for the kingdom’s heir to think about than daughters of disgraced courtiers.)
Time passes slowly. Lords and ladies come to welcome her with their honeyed barbs, lordlings and squires ask for a dance and squeeze her hand too tight, all sweaty and overeager to ingratiate themselves with the newly-made Hand’s daughter. Alicent nods and listens and smiles and charms, always gentle and always delightful as her father would wish, until her cheeks hurt and her face feels like a rigid, half-cracked mask. She feels the court’s cold, prying eyes on her, knows how they must be seizing her up, measuring, judging. A good impression.
Yet there’s something else, too, a different gaze that she sometimes meets, the eyes of a lean, pale figure from across the hall, standing in the circle of a gaggle of courtiers. They follow her with such piercing intensity that she feels her face burn. (In confusion, surely. Embarrassment.)
She takes refuge by a pillar in the end, sinking into its shadow. She doesn’t even realize when she starts picking at her nails again. She only knows that suddenly, there’s blood running down her finger and she hisses in pain, almost tearing her handkerchief in her hasty attempt to cover it.
“You have not changed one bit.”
She flinches, shirks away from the unexpected company – or would, but there’s a hand wrapped around her wrist, gentle but firm, holding her in place. A laugh, low and delighted.
Alicent looks up. Her captor is the pale stranger – a youth clad in the royal red-and-black, a mess of short, silver-white hair framing a handsome face, lighting up with amusement as they watch her stammer and squirm. Not Daemon, not one of the Velaryons, certainly, not…
“I did not use to give you such fright.” They grin at her dazed stare, mischievous and eerily familiar, squeezing Alicent’s hand carefully, pressing the handkerchief just tightly enough against the bleeding scratch. “Not just by seeking you out, that is.”
“Rhaenyra.”
The name is half-sighed, half-choked. The world is spinning. There is so little of the bony, bratty child she once knew in the princeling – princess standing now in front of her, half a head taller than Alicent, wide-shouldered, dashing, that Alicent can hardly believe it. But the princess is smiling even wider now, all bright, brash joy, and that sight itself is more achingly familiar than any superficial mark.
“The Hand has hidden you from us for far too long. I could not yet ride Syrax when you went away, do you remember? She’s large enough now to saddle two.” She’s holding Alicent’s hand, still, drawing it closer to her, close enough that Alicent’s knuckles brush against the buttons of her doublet. It is not strange, surely, the Crown Princess talking to the daughter of the Hand like that. No-one should think that unseemly. “I hope your father does not mean to deprive our court from your presence once again. I should take very dim view of it.”
Her gaze is warm still, but her tone drops strangely deep, enough to make Alicent shiver. She casts down her eyes.
“My father has meant no offense, Princess.”
That earns, startlingly, only a scoff.
“None of that, my lady of Hightower. You know me.”
Alicent’s face burns. “I’ve known you once.”
Rhaenyra lets go of her hand. Alicent’s heart sinks, for a second – then Rhaenyra’s fingers wrap around her chin, instead, tilting her head back ever so slightly, gently, until they are eye to eye once more.
It’s true. I started calling “the cloud” offsite storage, and the comprehension that dawns in my customers’ eyes is super gratifying. They understand external hard drives, but many couldn’t wrap their heads around this mystical floating in the air storage–because that’s not how it works at all. You’re just using space on someone else’s hard drive.
I explain this to eeeevery patron who comes in to ask for tech help etc. I find ways to explain it, because it’s important.
“Oh ‘the cloud’ is just what they decided to call it. What it actually means is that you use the internet to connect to some dedicated computer somewhere where your file is stored, and then you can access that file, which is why it only works with an internet connection. You’re just renting space on a computer the company owns.”
watching a video of a guy make a miniature model of a hydroelectric dam outside and like. just imagine that youre an ant living nearby like youve been helping in the colony for a few days so you decide to go to the pheromone trails to get some food but the path is now blocked by the fucking hoover dam
Look I know this is a scientific publication but you don’t understand— we need to include milk and cookies in the photo. We have to. Otherwise the science suffers
the thing about adulthood is when someone says something extremely rude to you, you can either turn the other cheek or calmly & firmly correct them. The third option is to tell them “say that again, I’ll bite you” & everyone sort of nervously laughs and tries to move on from your little joke. Which is why I think it’s very important that when they do say it again you follow through. Nobody actually expects you to bite them. We should be biting more. Also if you’re with the county health department do not read thi s post
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[image description: a series of messages on Yok Yak. The messages read: “When I was in elementary school I remember this one girl had like THE birthday party of the year every year and at the end of the night she would pick which friends could sleepover (continued). and she would like dramatically list off people’s names and it honestly felt like I was on the rose ceremony of the bachelor like shit was intense waiting to hear if your name was gunna be called and. I remember every year I got picked and I felt so relieved like omg until this one year when the bitch didn’t pick me and I was furious like this sick elitism had really gotten to my head okay this was. Like if you weren’t picked you literally had to pack your bags and leave and like we would tell our parents we weren’t sure if it was a sleepover or not they had no idea about this dramatic ending to. The party. So I remember looking her square in the eyes and saying “can I borrow your phone? Me Jamie and Hannah need to ask our parents if we can have our own sleepover tonight”. And I swear to god this was like. Anarchy. This was unheard of. Usually all these little girls would sadly pack up their bags and go home with their tails between their legs. So we planned a sleepover over the phone and birthday girl was pissed the fuck off and I was in my element like this was what 9 year old me was put on this planet to do. And then the next year she didn’t invite us to the party. So we through our own sleepover the same night. And half the girls went to mine and half went to hers and it was the biggest rivalry l ever. Had. I told everyone who wanted to sleepover could do more and more people came to my sleepover. And I sincerely hope this girl still remembers me every year on her birthday as the bitch who tore her down from her throne.”
“That was wild.”
“This made my day.”
“Thanks I saw a picture of her on Instagram and I was like wow shit was wild.”
I’m now remembering that my school got a slurpee machine and then had to get rid of it two weeks later after someone poured toxic chemicals into it that they stole from the science lab in an attempt to poison the entire cheerleading squad so like, maybe I was just boring
americans pleeease. please kill elon musk 🙏🙏🥺😔😩🙏 americans! please. Please !!! kill elon musk. don't you remember gun.. ? bang bang ? your favorite game..? Americans... please. 😔🙏 have you forgotten your local deity, captain america: kill nazis??? americans !! I know you can do it 🥺🙏 please americans..
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