July 21, 2013
thy morning must have night: countingtoabillionslow: Here is what they don’t tell you:Icarus...


Here is what they don’t tell you:

Icarus laughed as he fell.
Threw his head back and
yelled into the winds,
arms spread wide,
teeth bared to the world.

(There is a bitter triumph
in crashing when you should be

The wax scorched his skin,

(Source: wearealsoboats)

February 13, 2013





Because nothing says “recovery and healing” like vengeful hate, rage and bitterness.


The description of “surviving” this gives is just another form of victimhood.  One in which the “survivor” continues to be eaten up inside and internalizes the abuse in a way that hollows them out and imprisons them for life unless they can let it go.

Don’t mistake anger for healing, and please do not interpret bitterness and rage as strength.  It’s just another form of living death, and letting the abuser “win.” 

The abused can only TRULY live when they reach a place of forgiveness and compassion: when the thought of the person no longer moves them to tears OR anger, but instead mercy.  

When you are strong enough to reach out your hand in compassion to your abuser and look them in the eye without fear of being hurt, THEN you can call yourself a survivor. THEN you will have triumphed over darkness and evil. 

I’m going to put my response to this under a cut, because it’s absolutely the angriest I have ever been on the internet and y’all following me don’t need to be forced to interact with that! Above the cut, I’d like to offer two things. The first is that I will be refraining from posting anything on either LBD or abuse & related topics for a nice long while, because there’s a healthy level of anger and then there’s what happens when someone I’ve never spoken to informs me that I don’t get to call myself a survivor! Secondly, and more importantly: while I was indeed talking in my original post about a handful of specific methods through which a character on a YouTube show could portray the aftermath of abuse in what I personally think would be a more empowering way, in real life? There a thousand, a hundred thousand, right way to be a survivor, and every one of them revolves around what makes you feel healthy and solid and whole. Don’t let anybody tell you different; so long as you’re not hurting yourself or others, however you get through this shit is just fine. <3

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January 3, 2013





Why don’t you like chocolate?

aphrodisiac(n): food, drug, or other agent that arouses sexual desire.

Colton looks surprised at Posey’s… Poseyness for a second. Colton’s is the face of someone who’s maybe not QUITE as intimately familiar with the Poseyness of Posey as Dylan demonstrably is.

colton’s face is A+++

Colton Haynes is embarrassed but endeared by his husband Tyler Posey because they’re husbands.


(Source: oldwolfie)

January 3, 2013

(Source: holland-roden, via giganticism)

October 3, 2012
Now Presenting: James Franco Stares at Jesse Eisenberg


colt-cabana:tinytragedies: jesseeisenbergsfostercats:

(via giganticism)

September 30, 2012
Saucery: My understanding of the "you're in a car with a beautiful boy" trope.


Sylar/Mohinder: “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he wants to kill you, but he wants to kill you.”

John/Sherlock: “You’re in mourning for a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he’s alive, but he’s alive.”

Stiles/Derek: “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,…

August 19, 2012


(Source: jerichogirl)

August 19, 2012
lucifer in the sky with diamonds: 4


Says to himself
The boy’s no good. The boy is just no good.
but he takes you in his arms and pushes your flesh around
to see if you could ever be ugly to him.
You, the now familiar whipping boy, but you’re beautiful,
he can feel the dogs licking his heart.
Who gets the whip and who gets the…

August 6, 2012




July 29, 2012
everything i’ve ever let go of had claw marks on it (you’re in a car with a beautiful boy) | derek/stiles


The Jeep shrieks around the corner, blue as it’s ever been, bumps a curb and misses a cone. It skids to a stop an inch from Derek’s left boot, and that’s on purpose—it always has been, after all. 

“Get in,” says Stiles, and Derek does. 

Stiles drives like he talks like he fights like he lives: reckless. He throws the gearshift like it’s the winning shot in one of those lacrosse games he never quite managed to play, and Derek keeps his eyes on the road. If he looks to his right, the countryside will stream by fast enough to make him dwell on the word fleeting; if he looks to his left, he’ll have to stare at the way Stiles’ fingers tighten and release on the steering wheel. They’re old habit, run in, the two of them in this bone-tired machine, and Derek knows there’s value in that. Derek knows that breaking patterns leads to chaos. Derek knows he doesn’t know very much.

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