I get lost in my loneliest moments, and I follow the dark pathways that lead to the backdoor of my mind, the place where I’ve stashed all of my demons, locked them away in chains of denial and behind doors of solid willpower. They feed on a steady diet of insecurities and fears, and letting them out is easier than getting them back in their cells: awareness is the key to their release. It shines a light on the shadows of their bars and erases them.
I can see my demons before they come for me, the shape of them cresting on the surface of my mind, an inky silhouette on my shape of self. They crash down on the shore of my solitude and overwhelm me until I’m drowning, in demons and darkness and terror, sinking under the weight of my own self-hate until I hit the bottom.
Except there is no bottom. There’s just endless void, waiting to pull me away from the warmth of happiness for no sake other than the cruel cadence that is because it can.
Title: Dirty Little Strider (Dancing with Dave)
Pairing: Dave Strider/John Egbert
Notes: WOW how long has it been since I’ve updated this? Oh, whatever.
Ch. 2 is actually pretty close to done and it’s gonna involve a lot of sad. I’m really sorry for that. This ended where it did so you wouldn’t have sad SUDDENLY OUT OF NOWHERE in the middle of your sex.
Now it’ll be at the beginning of your sex, and that should be super duper okay. =3
This isn’t how you imagined it’d go, but you can’t find any fault in it, because John sounds really fucking good when you’re on your knees in front of him. He’s damn near whimpering at the moment, and the way he’s bucking his hips against your mouth is actually a lot more attractive than you expected it to be. Still, you don’t relish the idea of getting caught where you are, and you take a break from sucking his cock to shoot him the sternest glare you can muster.
“Be fucking quiet,” you mutter, trying to regain some composure. The full weight of the glower you’re bestowing on him must be lost behind your mirrored shades, because all he manages a breathless little sort of giggle and a smile that’d be cute if you weren’t so irritated with how fucking noisy he’s being. “We’re gonna get caught, and I’m not really looking forward to explaining to Bro why I was under the bleachers and sucking my best friend’s dick when I was supposed to be in class.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were s-s-serious! I didn’t—haaa—expect you to actu— fuck, Dave!” His voice rises in pitch when you wrap your lips around his shaft once more, and it’s hard not to snicker at the way he stiffens. He’s got one hand balled in the top of his shirt and at least now he’s trying to muffle the sounds escaping him.
It stops being cute and starts being hot when his other hand—finally!—finds your head, and you purr your approval around his organ when his fingers curl into a fist in your hair, because you like that (you decide, on the spur of the moment), and you redouble your efforts, damn near slurping at his cock.
It isn’t as hard as you thought it would be (ha fucking ha) to make him shudder, not with your tongue squirming against the underside of his dick and your mouth working him with overeager thrusts.
And then they didn’t frick because high schoolers don’t frick but Dave did go to class with the taste of John’s spunk in his mouth and John had to take a good five minutes to rediscover how legs work before he managed to escape from under the bleachers.
they didn’t talk about it until they were in college, except for in the moments when their friends brought up sex, at which point Dave would smirk at John and John would turn bright red and nobody really understood why.
(and second spilled her tea and everyone was sad about it.)
noooooo not the tea
Title: Between the Lines
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairing: Dirk Strider/Jake English
Prompt: Dirk/Jake, sickfic or hurt/comfort, sick/hurt!Jake.
Anonymous asked: fuck, you're amazing at writing. shit. I would give anything to be half as good as you.
All you have to do is practice! And do it. And not stop doing it. I’ve been writing daily since I was about twelve? Just sit down and put words out. Never give up! =3
Anonymous asked: Did you used to be necrohornocon
No, she’s the artist for the comic. She and I are not the same person at all. =3
Dave I had no idea I’m so sorry
You never thought anyone would notice. Hell, you never thought it mattered.
It started small (doesn’t everything?), with an idle nick on the underside of your calf. Not the wrists, because that was too easy; that meant you were seeking attention, the internet said, and you weren’t, damnit. Attention was never your goal. This wasn’t some weird cry-for-help.
You just wanted the hole in your gut to feel a little less empty.
It grew from there, though. You found out why people preferred their arms: it hurt more. After a few weeks, you just started wearing long sleeves. Nobody ever questioned it. It was the beginning of fall. Why would anybody question it?
Hell, for them to question it, they’d have to notice you were there first.
Some days, you wished you weren’t. Some days, it didn’t seem worth it. You got up, you went to school, you fought your way through class, you ate lunch alone, you struggled with your homework, you came home. You locked the door behind you when you woke up, you unlocked it when you got off the bus.
On those days, the blade dug a little deeper.
You saw your Bro less and less, because he never checked your room, and you rarely left it. There were raps to write, and stories to get lost in. There were movies to watch. There was not a single fucking reason for you to interact with the outside world.
Every day was the same. You’d fit your key into the lock, the door would click open, and you’d call into an empty house. “Bro, you home?”
He never was. Work, he said.
Always work. Always something.
Until the day it wasn’t anymore.
Until one day you came home, and you barely got the word ‘home’ out of your lips before your brother was crushing your form against his chest, hugging you so tight you couldn’t breathe, whispering choked apologies into your ear, ragged promises that he’d be there for you, that he was always there for you, that he was so goddamn fucking sorry he’d ever let you feel like you were fighting against the world alone.
You think about denying it, about laughing it off.
He yanks up your sleeve, fingers playing over old scars, fresh wounds.
He’s there as you sink to the floor, his arms strong around you. He asks you what you need, his voice full of anxious concern, and you tell him this, just this, because all you’ve ever needed is someone to be there when you’re weak, to hold you when you can’t stand, to be your backup when the world is too much.
He asks you why you didn’t say anything, and you shrug helplessly. What was there to say?
“Anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”
You shake your head. “This,” you say, gesturing at your scars, “Was never a cry for help.”
“Yes it was,” he answers. “You just didn’t realize it.”