#;meme response

you need to be held as though you're going to break. you need someone to trace your scars like cracks in a wall, crumbling. their touch is almost painful; you've been without it for too long, without someone to hold you. but, you cannot bring yourself to pull away.

i will only hesitate because if i kill him, i don't get the satisfaction of doing it more than one time. "

Oh, how she admired Twilight’s intellect and her, well... Twilightiness.

15. How has rp changed you personally?  Uh. There are probely less than three people that knew me when I started.  I was really in a mentally bad place, and dealt with someone that emotionally fucked with my headspace for years, I mean literal years. I actually wanted to die back when I was around sixteen / seventeen. Someone I wrote with actually talked me out of an attempt, I still owe them to this day because it was really important that they did that.   It’s also given me the best non-adoptive sibling. I have a really close friend on here that has known me for years, that I went and saw and she’s been a lifeline for many years for me and I’ve gotten her mental health better also, and it’s really important that friendships can help heal you and make you want to get better, even with fights and all.      I also owe a lot to @affcgato @adversitybloomed @huckleberrytm @postguilt @daniwrit @dissolvedshadows  for giving me a lot over these last few years. You guys have seen me at my worst moments and gotten me through some pretty bad times, and really I’ve grown a lot for it. Much love to you all. 35. Do you read other people’s threads or do you only read your own? Lmfao. Man, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t read my dash, people like @omniphrenia @daniwrit @ryuhart @valkyrel  @bigaoneun  @uchikatsu @countrywestern @outdraws @viragod  @adversitybloomed like i support other writers, i love seeing how people write, it’s how you grow as one reading other people’s stuff and i love understanding how they write their muses tbh. love u all.

The scars layer and multiply.

He was your sunlight. Your fingers curl around an old bottle. Whiskey.  An old bottle that has long been forgotten in the days that were golden. The happy days. The golden eves as your uncle called it. His fingers curl around the bottle, steady. One hand squeezes between the bridge of his nose, he’s stifling emotions. There’s evidence here of a fight that much is shown. It was never physical violence with the pair of them, but the words exchanged. There’s nothing left, not a bone in his body that doesn’t feel like it’s been torn apart.   He lets the bottle rest on his knee. Eyes vacant as he stares at the photo: their wedding photo on the dresser. He can see their smiling faces and it leaves him bitter. He wonders how they got to this point, how everything fell apart. How he wasn’t worth enough? How he didn’t do enough. Hoe he wasn’t healthy enough to cradle him in his fingertips and never let go. It leaves a taste in your mouth when you are the reason someone leaves you.    His cat is out of their apartment. Baast had been taken with Kal, and Upa hadn’t even expected for the white cat to be gone. The emotional support he had is shattered further by the fact that cat always clung to him in times that he was shaking or vividly upset like now. Upa closes his eyes shaking.      “How many times are you going to do this to yourself? You agree that you’d be honest. Upast I can’t keep living like this. You agreed you’d fix yourself. I can’t be the one to keep saving you.” -- The silence in the room hangs, until Upa leans over a grabs an old music device that’s wireless to let connect to the radio in the room. He lets himself fall backwards onto the bed: he can still smell the sunlight. He can still smell him in the sheets even though it’s been a few days. He closes his eyes, lets the bottle rest on the bed beside him.  “How many times have you promised me?-” He can remember the sharp look in his eyes. The heat that had come from him, the searing that had hit against the meat of his thigh when Kal had recoiled from a gentle touch. How he hadn’t reacted to the burn. How the patch of skin was gone and it had just been so simple. It had just been a fight gone bad. How it had just been a burn-     “I can’t do this to you. You don’t. You didn’t even react, Upa.”  Upa vaguely hears the radio playing and the sound coming from it when he uncorks the bottle of whiskey. Takes a sip, it burns but not as sharply as some of the mead he drinks at times. He feels the heat when it hits the back of his throat.   - “I love you but I can’t hurt you like this, not when you don’t even react. You need to get better. I can’t fix this, I can’t fix you. You need someone to help you.--      He drains the bottle and by the morning he’s gone out of the apartment and stepped through a portal into the deserts of new Mexico, his burn still stinging harshly on his thigh.     Maybe this time, he’ll get better.

“Hurts...” He’s curled in a ball, servos tight over his chest. Scars, from torture long past, litter his spark chamber- marks from attempts to get him to talk of his mods, from attempts to reverse-engineer them. On his spark itself, a dark mark- it had been described, once, like a sunspot; he wonders if stars hurt so much. Once, he would have pinged Ratchet for assistance, but for tonight, he’ll wait. 

When approached by the...unfamiliar person, Rin frowns, defensive. “You stay back.”