my daughter slipped and used ‘she’ to describe my AFAB boyfriend and immediately corrected herself and if a seven year old can remember to respect someone’s pronoun choices then what the fuck is your excuse
There’s scars on her arms, not because she asked for them but because sometimes the weight of living digs into her flesh, splitting skin and biting into muscle and sometimes going so far as to scrape bone.
She stitches herself up (or doesn’t), and moves on.
When the weight crushes against her again she bears it, grits her teeth against the shining blade the world wields, and convinces herself that she deserves it. She exhales and lets it burn and whispers words that the world has taught her, hissed oaths about what she deserves and what she doesn’t, reminding herself of the lessons the world has taught her, lest she forget - even for a second - that this is anything less than earned punishment for daring to be less than perfect.
She forgets her marks are battle scars and calls them ugly, hiding them from anyone who might look too close.
She is a being bred for battle and the scars that cross her arms are a testament to strength and weakness, to all the darkness and light that her fragile frame contains. She bores out the imperfections that the world has deemed unfit, and the words tastes bitter in her mouth when she whispers that she aches for love, because how could the world love someone who bears evidence of struggle on their skin?
When it’s someone else’s hands ruining her skin, she closes her eyes and calls it justice, and it turns her body into a battlefield.
At the end of the day, she’ll pick through the wreckage he left behind and find what’s worth saving. She’ll stitch up the scars he created and call them love, because she’s learned that love equates pain and pain equates misery and it’s all the same, isn’t it, and what does it matter as long as someone sees her?
She waits for the world to decide she’s done her penance, and she metes it out in patient lines, tallying up the wrongs she’s created and the world has enforced.
She is built of love and it’s buried under her scars, and someday she will find a forge and build armor from the white-hot strength of it, stitch it together with the unbreakable thread of her determination and it will blunt the sharp teeth of the world’s howling rage and keep unwanted hands at bay. Someday, she will learn how to choose her battles and she will win every one, a seasoned veteran beating back the tides of war-hungry savages. Someday, she will find footing midst the wreckage and shout her triumph to the heavens.
Someday, she will discover the fire within her and nothing will stand in her way.
stings like salt in an open wound like life gave you lemons and you used yourself as the juicer before you tried to make your lemonade like you thought that the application of blood sweat and tears really does enrich any experience and it’s all well and good (an idea that piques the interest and a story to bear your glory) except for those moments when your nerves are on fire and your eyes are burning and the only reason the end result is so refreshing is because the experience prior was a level of exhaustive shakingcrying ruination that bears no comparison
You do this to yourself
But doesn’t it taste so sweet
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