anonymous asked:

"Kiss?" w/ marky mark please? I love your blog!

Mark strokes your hair softly as you heave a deep sigh and push the mockingly-big, term-laden Anatomy and Physiology book away from you on the bed.

“I can’t take this anymore. My brain can’t take this anymore.”

Propped on his elbow and hovering over you on his side, Mark gives a pout, fingers never stopping their movements as he runs them through your hair. “Babe, I think you need a break.”

“Seriously,” you sigh. “All I can think about is the integumentary system, erythropoietin, and oligodendrocytes.” And it’s true; you honestly can’t see anything that’s not a glial cell or a hormone secreted by the kidneys.

“Aww,” he sympathizes, leaning in to pinch your cheek softly, “doesn’t sound pretty.”

“Trust me, It’s not,” you groan.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks. Such a sweetheart.

“Hmm,” you turn to you lie on your side and face him, looking up at him with hopeful glint in your eye. “Kiss?” You grin sheepishly, teeth and all.

“Kiss,” he repeats, cupping your cheek with his left hand before leaning down to capture your lips. You nearly melt in his touch and sigh happily. You really do deserve a break and Mark’s lips are just the perfect reward.

You are in constant war with your body, shave your hair, plug your eyebrows, putting chemicals on your skin , dieting, trying to get rid of stretch marks and pimples, dying your hair just because you want  to impress someone or to fit in that special dress or to recreate a certain look but mainly to feel better in your own body, to feel pretty and show it to the world and yet some shitty people dare to rain on your parade, drag you down with nasty comments into an abysmal hole of self-consciousness.
Fuck them.
Let people sparkle. Let them wear what they want. Let them put make up on their faces. Or not.

Life is already hard enough without this kind of bullshit.

You know that thing, when you’re doing sitting and your really busy, and suddenly you look up into the mirror, and you see yourself. You stop, and you stare, and then you realize to yourself-

“This is me.”

You take time to reflect on how you gave yourself that appearance, that face, that body, those feelings.. and you realize how far you’ve come in life. You’re happy.

You love those stretch marks, you love your hair, you love those tattoos and those piercings, you love your body fat, and you love who you’ve become today. This is how far you’ve come. And this is how happy you are with it.

You love who you are. And who you are is beautiful.

the first time he kills you | harry/eggsy; au, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, second person pov; mature;

also on ao3.

The first time he kills you, you’re nothing but a fly trapped in his web. You are all sorts of animals. You are a fly, a street rat, and a dog who wets himself when strong hands grab you and refuse to let you go.

You try to kick him, but he dodges and your knee hits the strong muscle of his thigh. His grip tightens, but he knows better than to kick back, and you know – he is an animal too.

Keep reading

Miss Misery, Miss Misery
Why do you pop pills of potential?
Why do you burn yourself with insidious chemicals from test tubes of controlled action?
I’m trying to understand
Why do you mark your neck with your hair when you sing too flat
or why do you mix red with spilled milk?

You are the girl who is good at things
The girl who is smart
The girl who is strong
The girl who is pretty, pink, plastic beauty
The girl who never fails, never falls
The girl who never tries what she knows she will fail
The girl who never tries
who is this
who is that

But don’t you understand?
“Normal” is not a dirty word.
“Average” is not vinegar on your tongue.
Black and white is not the quality of reality
or the circle of life.
The wind blows in shades of gray.
There is no “par” to be “sub” to.
You’re only collecting bruises in your sleep,
becoming the conformist you were conditioned to be
dousing white-hot flames in white-collar button downs.
You are hostage in the prison between your own ears.
Miss Misery, Miss Mystery

—  The Sorry Result of the 10 Step Plan
- Elizabeth Hsieh