cw: child abuse, csa implied.

kids like us speak a secret language
not necessarily of bruises.
we speak a language of the difference
between closing the cupboards
and closing them angrily.
we speak a language half child, half grown up,
rolling words and vomit over our tongues
trying to disguise the taste of last night,
to outlive tonight, to dare to hope
for a better tomorrow.

kids like us rip dead plants out of
barren soil and say it looks like us,
say we’re used to feeling wilted, say
we’re used to being thirsty, say we’re
used to people looking at us like we ruin
the scenery. kids like us make up stories
where the flowers bloom again, where the
dandelion is just as happy as the sunflower,
just happy to be alive.

kids like us have an ancestry, a broken or
not-so-broken line of battered kids and absent-
angry-alcoholic-abusive owners. we can trace our
scars all the way back to our great-greats, maybe,
watch the way they travel from parent
to child to child to child to child, and it makes sense,
and we weep for our forefathers, but we can’t hate them
any less.

kids like us find each other, use the scars like road maps,
sometimes we want family and sometimes we just want
to lock ourselves in a room together and cry it out,
swapping stories that sound like battle tales and always end with
“and then it never left me, and I never left it, and I’ll always be
the boy on the couch or the girl on the floor and I don’t know
how to grow into anything else, anymore.”

kids like us hate being called kids, feel like
we never got to live kidhood, like adulthood
escapes us in the bathwater where we rinsed the blood.
it’s like we never know what hit us. we crowd around
the campfire light of our parent’s computers and
whisper our stories to each other. look at this boy,
he’s a damn dead dandelion too, let’s prop him up
a bit, make him something beautiful. this is how
we deal with it, with little dead flowers.

kids like us speak these languages and tell these stories
as a way of being. surviving makes it sound brave. we
never survived anything that wasn’t already in us, in our
families for generations, stretching past the dawn of time
to the first person to ever look at a child and say “I am hurting
and so will she.”

kids like us have outlived that legacy a thousand times over
and by god, I hope someday
my kids won’t have to.

—  kids like us | j. savage 

agenderraskel  asked:



Anonym asked “Oh my god how do the villains react to tiny tony downing that whiskey?? Do they look in horrified while giving crossbones a death glare cause ‘dude what the fuck?’? Does crossbones panic cause ‘holy shit kid I didn’t mean it literally!’ Does somebody do something to help the poor kid? Does he even have actually clothes yet or is he gagging and holding back tears in a dirty ragged oversized shirt looking even more pitiful than he should?


@myfriendstellmeimweird asked “In the Tiny!Tony au where he’s actually small, what happens after he’s finished the glass of whiskey? Sure the villains are (theoretically) evil (at least enough to shout at kids), but aren’t they shocked that he would just chug the whole glass? Do they gape and vow to protect him after killing whoever made a child react like this? Or- do they go the other way? A kid with the guts to drain a whole glass of whiskey (and he’s so small), do they think he’s brave? Do they (try?) and order another?

The most important question first: Yes, Tony still wears nothing but a shirt. He’s rolled up the sleeves, and it keeps slipping off his shoulders. It’s also torn in various places and has some spilled liquids on it.

Crossbones does panic a little. Like everyone else he’s assuming the kid is connected to Batters in some way, and he’s fond of this place, alright, he doesn’t want to start a war with the owner. Mostly he’s surprised though, because what the fuck?

The overall reactions are mixed, I think. However everyone might have reacted, and whether or not Tony would have started crying will forever remain unknown because in that moment Batters shows up and he. is. PISSED. 

The villains, wisely, get the hell out of his way.

Tony on the other hand assumes Batters is angry with him. He’s the one who messed up after all. He’s the one who did something wrong. And apparently he still doesn’t do anything right.

He also thinks he’s gonna throw up now, and that probably won’t help.

Batters sends Crossbones one Look, takes a hold of the squirts’ shoulders to steady him and leads him into the back room. Where Tony promptly starts crying. Silently. And then throws up. And chokes. And keeps crying.

Batters is going to murder Crossbones (you know, if @agenderraskel leaves something for him to play with).

And well, that’s tiny Tony’s introduction to the villains. Some of them (a whole lot of them) respect him a lot. Not all of them approve his drinking, but they sure are impressed that he finished his glass once he started it. (And obviously Batters doesn’t mention the throwing up part.)

Crossbones feels bad though. Not the shit-I-fucked-up-and-now-I’m-gonna-have-to-apologise bad. But the I’m-gonna-lurk-in-the-corner-and-pretend-I-don’t-notice-you-but-will-be-weirdly-protective-of-you-if-anyone-starts-anything kind.

Nobody is stupid enough to make Tony drink another glass. 

(Once someone tries. Once.)

Crossbones does get some shit for this btw, especially from Magneto.

(Oh, and there were definitely a couple of dignified villains gaping at Tony knocking his drink back. But nobody talks about that. Seriously. It never happened.)

(It’s a good thing for everyone involved that Loki isn’t around to witness the incident to be honest. The guy is many things–an unrepentant killer among them–but he doesn’t tolerate children being mistreated. At. All.)

jade-the-lizard  asked:

so I have a headcanon that 2p Canada's flannel works as a security blanket bc France gave it to him I I was wondering, what would be a 'security blanket' to the other 2ps?

Allen: A raggedy old teddy bear that Oliver gave him when he was just a tiny country. He’d never admit it, but he still sleeps with the thing. 

Francois: The closest thing he has to a security blanket is the memories of himself and his first love. If you ask him, he’ll tell you that they’re the only thing that’s kept him sane throughout the years. 

Oliver: Flying chocolate bunny. As much as the creature scares him, it was a gift from his mother. And he couldn’t get along without it.  

Xiao: A photo of himself and a fellow country (let your mind wander, you’ll figure out who), standing under a tree in his yard. They were both younger, happier, actually smiling for a change. It was a better time for the both of them. 

Viktor: His scarf, which he got from his sister. It has kept him warm and– in his mind– safe over the years. And he couldn’t thank her enough for it.  

Flavio: The glorious white jacket– that his brother bought him for his birthday– that he wears practically everywhere.  

Luciano: His very first knife, which he keeps in an inside jacket pocket at all times. His grandfather gave him that and he is very protective of it. 

Lutz: His hat. Yes, that hat. The one that Luciano calls “ugly as fuck” at every given moment. The brown hat that he’s had since he was a kid. He knows its battered and worn, but he can’t bear to part with it. 

Kuro: His katana. It was a cherished, very personal gift from an old friend. If anything ever happened to that sword, well, let’s just say that very, very bad things would happen to whoever did away with it.

Dramione: Hermione teaching Draco and the kids how to make muggle cake. For anon.

 “No, no, no, not like that,” Hermione scolded, slapping her husband’s hands away from the bowl. “You don’t stir it, you cream it. Like this,” she said, proceeding to press the batter with a wooden spoon. Draco Malfoy shot a bemused look at their seven-year-old son that sat on the counter with his legs swinging, who promptly burst into giggles.

“Whas’ so funny?” Narcissa Malfoy II – or “Cissa” as they called her – demanded, peering at them through wide blue eyes from her seat on Hermione’s hip. “Daddy, why did he laugh?”

Draco smiled endearingly at his daughter. “Daddy was just joking with Trenton.”

“Draco, would you pass me the baking sheet?” Hermione asked, turning away from the counter and towards him. Behind the muggleborn’s back, Cissa scooped up a handful of batter and shoved it in her mouth.

“Sure,” the Malfoy heir replied, handing the square metal pan to his wife. “Although I still don’t see why we have to do this the muggle way.”

“Because it’s FUNNER!” shouted Cissa, hopping on to the counter. After putting a digit to her lips to keep Trenton quiet – who snorted in quiet amusement – she hefted the bag of flour beside her and dumped it over her embracing parents.

They broke apart in shock, and then burst out laughing when they saw each other’s now-white hair. “You – your – your face though!” Hermione stuttered between gales of laughter.

Draco snorted. “Yes, yes, let’s make fun of me.”

“It’s just - you, the immaculate Draco Malfoy, are sitting in our kitchen, covered in flour, baking a cake!” his wife wheezed.

“Not much of one,” Draco pointed out, nodding to the bowl where their two children were hastily eating, their cheeks bulging with cake batter.

“Hey! Kids – off! You’re going to get salmonella!”

“But Mum…” Trenton whined, sliding off the counter. “It tasted good!”

“And it’ll taste better once it’s baked!” Hermione said briskly, plopping batter into the pan and sticking the pan into the oven. Behind her back, Draco winked.

Z: “OH! GUYS!”

Z: “We totally have some followers!”


Z: “What can I say? They love me” B: (yeah… uh huh. Blowing it way outta the park)


B: “It’s just called asks, noob.”

Z: “THERE YOU HAVE IT! We gunna be doing the ask-ey thinga-ma-jig. So, do the thing, guys!”

B: (This is ridiculous)

Shoutout to all the stressed, over-worked, coffee-fueled, tired, put-down, used, and battered kids who still manage to push through with a hope of a better tomorrow. Fight on, and keep fighting. Fight against the lack of sleep, your own self-doubt, the ignorant, the domineering, the tyrants, and the constant voice in your head screaming "YOU CAN'T." Because guess what? You can. So smile, this will all be over. Maybe soon, maybe not for a while. But it will get better.
Gnomes Can Fly

Background: A friend of mine was running his first 5e campaign, with me and our large circle of friends being the players.

-A living suit of armor (Me)
- A skeleton spellsword
-A dhampir swashbuckler
-A wood elf blood Mage-assassin
-A werebear monk
-A human death paladin
-A human pirate
-A human dragon shaman

Around seven of us in total. The friend playing the monk was known for trolling in almost anything and everything he gets involved in, so the rest of us formed a pact to slay him at the first hint of him doing anything ridiculous or troll like, granted this may sound a little much, but I digress. On our second session, we spent a lot of time in the in talking to a new member when someone stole her dragon. We all chased him down and during the chase Selene tripped over a child.

Me: Here child, do not fret, here’s four gold for your troubles.

Child: *shakes head* More!

Me: Urm, okay, six it is.

Child: More!

Me: oh, okay, nine it is, make my purse even.

Skeleton: *yoinks the purse out of the child’s hand* He’s trying to scam you man

Me: I know he is, give him my money!

Skeleton: No, he’s being a jerk and you’re wasting money!

Monk: (Has been quiet up until now) Can I hit the kid with my battering ram?

DM: Roll for it

Monk: *rolls a nat 20*

Needless to say this gnome kid goes flying through the air a good five miles out to sea from the port town we were in, with pulverized ribs, probably on death’s door.

Me: WTF dude!

Skeleton: Why’d you hit that kid!?

Monk: I dunno

Me: You don’t know!?

Dhampir: Now you die *pulls out swords*

*whole party draws weapons and readies to murder the battering ram wielding monk*

DM: *sigh* I just wanted to get you guys out of the tavern…

Yet another "Slytherin is typecast as the asshole villain" post

It’s actually fucked up, IMO all the “damaged” kids, the ones w/ abusive/neglectful parents and/or past traumas get sorted into Slytherin because they’ve gotten good at hiding it and playing people to get what they need and they get to school all hopeful like “maybe I’ll make some good friends and I won’t have to be alone”

and then they’re sorted into Slytherin and the rest of the school automatically hates them

One of the Slytherin characteristics is being loyal to family above all

think about it

Narcissa turned against Voldemort for her son

Snape turned against Voldemort for Lily

Voldemort and the genuine Death Eaters are the real assholes, for taking these mentally battered kids and tempting them with the prospect of a home as long as they follow his orders…

Imagine how many of the “Death Eaters” were pressured or cooerced into joining when they were in Slytherin in Hogwarts

if they tried to leave they’d be killed

if they hadn’t joined they’d be persecuted within the Slytherin family, and no-one else in the school wants to help them “because they’re Slytherin”

     ❛      Oh, i get it. you guys think you’re a bunch’a little pranksters, huh ??  ❜ the male was turning slowly away from the sink now to face the three kids sitting at the counter, high pitched laughter filling the air before another bit of batter was shot to his face with a wooden spoon by the youngest.  ❛  really, ellie? you too? c’mon kid     you’re supposed to be on my side here.  ❜   then eyes would flicker from the waffle batter to the three little ones, a slight smirk spending to his face before dipping in the spatula. lips would purse before letting out a short couple nods.    ❛  alright… alright    i see how it is. well you know what?  ❜   just then he’d whip the spatula to wave in front of the kids, batter splattering all over them; making only more laughter sound through the kitchen. // @rcseagain