sara darling


        that when feyre caught the suriel for the first time and he 

       said “stay with the high lord.” was about rhysand all the time


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give me laila who constantly heard growing up that it wasnt ladylike to play sports

give me laila that was told time and time again that no boy would want her with the prominent muscles that come with being a goalie

give me laila who tries to be hyperfeminine always to make people treat her like the girl she is

give me laila who snaps at her teammates who call her “Dermott” because she want to be called by her more feminine name

give me alvarez who grew up sick and tired of people oversexualizing her as a Latina woman

give me alvarez who became determined to make oversexualizing her as hard as possible and became butch and masculine

give me alvarez who was so angry about people always touching and stroking her hair that one day she cut it all off

give me alvarez who is mistaken for a boy by Neil in the semifinals because she looks and holds herself like her brothers do

give me alvarez who is more than happy to treat laila like the sweetest girl so she can feel soft for once in her life

give me laila who is the only one her girlfriend will let call her “sara” and whose girlfriend calls her “ Cariña” and “ Mi alma“

give me laila in flower print skirts and ballet flats and alvarez in muscle tanks and worn jeans

give me laila helping alvarez buzz her hair when it gets too long and alvarez giving laila fishtail braids

give me alvarez who will pick laila up and carry her even though they both know laila is stronger than her because alvarez knows laila likes to be doted on sometimes

give me masc latina alvareze and femme laila

What’s Bred in the Bone: Part I

Mass Effect: Andromeda

Jaal x Sara Ryder

A 600 year nap and a 2.5 million light-year journey to find out the answer: are humans and angara genetically compatible?

Rated M for strong language, some sexuality and violence. Alien-human pregnancy fic.

Spoilers for Jaal’s romance and loyalty mission, and end of game.

Part I of ??? - Part II - Part III - Part IV

Keep reading

Spoken Word Poetry Recs

An updated version of this post that I wrote out for @mythaelogy​ a while back <3 I just need to fan girl about these things (+ I added links)

I have seen the best of you, and the worst of you, and I choose both.

Over and over again (“You are beautiful”)

And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Still now, I send letters into space. Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems.

Once, when you were seven, you came into the kitchen and asked mum: “Does my name begin with the letter P because P is the 16th letter of the alphabet and I was born on June 16th and is Sarah just Sarah because S is 19th letter and she was born on the 19th day of June?”

…father, farther, are little mazes, mouse-traps, cul-de-sacs, this house is amazing, this house is amazing, this house is amazing, this house is amazing, this house is amazing, farther

My mother taught me this trick if you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning

Electricity bowing to nature / Mind bowing to heartbeat / This is gonna hurt bowing to I love you / I still love you like moons love the planets they circle around

This year has been the hardest of your whole life.
So hard you cannot see a future, most days.

This is my garden song /This is my fist fight / with that bitter frost / Tonight I begged another stage light to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath

Watch me tentacles and teeth. Watch me resurrected electric.

Strawberry-cheeked gourmet popsicle ladies who stay out all night drinking midori sours and somersaulting over their polka-pineapple platform heels
Pop goes the world.

Madame Butterfly. Japanese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself.
Miss Saigon. Vietnamese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself.

  • Names” by Rachel Rostad

When you name your daughter, it’s a prayer for everything you want her to be.

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?

you built a cast around your broken heart / and signed it yourself / you signed it “they were wrong”

See, this is from my father. see, this is from my brother. see, this is from that weird girl. see this is from my mother. it took me two days to figure out that
that weird girl, is his sister.

Write me a poem to make me happy. / So I write. / Move pen move,
Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers…

The failing use of my right hand isn’t actually the failing use of my right hand it’s just another way to tell the time

metaphors at 4 AM

you have never hurt me and i don’t think you ever will. you filled a very sad part of my life with laughter. online friendship feeling better than the real thing. it’s funny because before two weeks ago– i only heard your voice through music and poetry. no bullshit, just genuine love. all of my favorite things in one soul. when i let go of my razors, you said that’s my champ. when they love me, you make sure that i’m certain. is it really love or was it because they said the right words at the right time? the right person can still be wrong for you. your methods are light. your methods are simple. you cannot force love. you can only free it. like how da vinci sketched– he’d buy caged birds just to give them flight. like in fight club when the narrator finally let Tyler Durden go by shooting himself in the cheek– sometimes you have to kill a piece of yourself to save the whole. like how tupac will always love jada– even if death arrives, the impact shall remain. like how shane koyczan writes about his darling sara– the failing use of my right hand will never stop me from writing. there are soulmates and then there’s you. maybe you’re my twin flame. maybe you’re my balance. a response for all of my elements. if i am fire, you’re a barrel of gasoline. vent, rant. it does not matter, just don’t break your other hand. punch the pen into the sky instead– let the ink make the stars happy. let the hole become the moon. if i am water, you are my reflection. calm, breathe. just like that. sway your emotions into the sea, give the ocean its blue. be my sunrise. be my sunset. the greeks had gods to explain their natural world– and i’ve got you. my poetics. my prose. my bleeding heart used to play spin the bottle by my exes and it’s always in my head, in a metaphor, in a maze, in a love letter, in a paper crane, in a cootie catcher, in my bad habits– so i met her at 4 am– so i’ll meet you at 4 am, everyday. is that okay?

Balance on the Head of a Pin*

Chapter Seventeen

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x OFC  |  Word Count: 5256 
Warnings: Minor abuse, minor violence, French which may or may not be correct, Smut, NSFW

Taking the stairs three at a time, Loki arrived swiftly at the open door to the children’s room only to find Marabeth yanking Sara up from the floor by her arm. The girl was clearly trying to keep herself between her mother and brother who cowered against his bed, stuffed bear hugged close.

Leaning casually against the door frame, Loki crossed his arms, stating loudly, “Such a ruckus so late in the evening. Why, I am certain not even the crows of Asgard are so noisy.” He may be seeing through a haze of red, ready to gut the woman who was the spitting image of her own abusive and unloving mother, but he would do nothing to make the children Lauren loved fear him.

Marabeth, still dressed in one of her boring suits, hair askew and makeup smeared, straightened quickly. Her head snapped around to level a look his way. “Children can be unruly. My apologies if they disturbed you.”

It was not the children but the garish woman herself who disturbed him. “Children are children. It is in their nature to be loud and often sticky.” He tilted his head, smiling for Sara. Her eyes showed no fear, only anger and a desire to protect her brother. A surge of pride filled him for she was strong, resilient, and a fighter. “I am sure your aunt would be happy to read to you again this evening. Collect a book, darlings and head for her room.”

Keep reading

The failing use of my right hand isn’t actually the failing use of my right hand, it’s just another way to tell the time. And I’m ticking. So I’ve been picking myself up at bars with a bottle in each hand, but I never give myself any play. I just make plans with myself for the day after next. By the time the sun swings back around into position I forget the context of why I asked myself out in the first place. Did I think I was going to score?

I let a stranger pour me one more. She says,” my name is Sara”. Doesn’t take much more than that to start a relationship. My darling Sara cleans rooms for a living, giving her youth and beauty to dirt and dust. Understands more than most that family must be the foot you put forward first, you must weather the worst together. But, having never met her family, she places love above all else, then protests that I use the word love too freely in poems, and I should really just say what I mean. And I suppose what I mean most is that; I’m trying.

She’s been buying me time on a maxed out credit card, arms scarred from selling her own blood to pay down the debt. Tells me she doesn’t mind going broke so long as I can give her a little sweat. She says, “try”. So I do my best impression of a pen, and when every problem looks like a page I commit ink to paper. And the worth of the words that come out determines my wage. I’ve been making enough to pay her the compliment of not quitting, of not sitting when standing is required.

She only asks that I put the effort in, and in return she’s willing to pin a paper heart to her chest, then do her best impression of a target. She says that effort is the Siamese twin of success. So when everyone else looks like a wrong answer, she says she’ll settle for being my best guess. So we lie in bed like a mess that someone’s been meaning to clean for the large part of a long while. We lie there like a pile of dirty laundry, and how we’ll ever come clean is beyond me. So we don’t. She says, “it’s supposed to be dirty, and if by the end you haven’t hurt me then you didn’t try”.

So I do my best impression of a surgeon, going in, cutting purple hearts out of my own, use my veins like thread. Then have hurt sewn to our skin like medals, because when the bleeding stops, and that dust settles, all we have are our wounds to wear like decorations upon our chest. Sara does her best impression of a war, tells me not to count my pride among the casualties because maybe faith means never keeping score. She says there’s more to effort than just switching gears, and in terms of what one should give in this life sweat holds more value than tears.

You have to try, and even though the failing use of my right hand means I’ll never land a knockout punch in the first round, life is composed of sound and fury, and whatever noise is left in me will be twice as loud when I try. So I plug myself into the idea of going the distance and I amplify.

My darling, Sara has a throat like a vase that sings her words into bloom. She’s got a voice like perfume. It’s been sticking to my clothes, so everyone knows where I’ve been sleeping. She’s been keeping me so close you could use my body for evidence; pull her fingerprints as proof that she’s been on top so often she’s starting to look like my roof. But a real sexy roof, and she doesn’t leak, unless you count the crying. She does that sometimes, worries that she’s just a back up plan.

My darling, Sara, I’ve lived long enough to learn too many choices can destroy a man. I will make no exodus. I’ll be around long enough to watch uncertainty bid us farewell, then echo our names into the crater caused by the impact of when our lack of conviction fell. You’ve never had to sell me on the idea of absolute certainty in the trustworthiness of another.

The first and only time you met my mother, mom said, “I like the way she looks at you”. And I echoed back to her that I liked it too. Eyes like recycle bin blue. Sara looks at broken things as if she can make them new, and more than a few times I’ve caught her staring. Caught her wearing a smile reserved for those busy making plans. Sara believes that distance is a fundamental that can be side-stepped by a piece of string and two tin cans, and I remember when my tin can rang.

They said, “there’s no family to speak of so love is next in line, and there’s not a lot of time, but she’s asking for her boyfriend.”

In the cab to the hospital I feel my heart bend as if bracing for impact. So I do my best impression of a man and face fact. It’s supposed to hurt. A doctor does his best impression of the truth, and spares me attempts to skirt around the issue. They can’t stop the bleeding, and the failing use of Sara’s heart isn’t actually the failing use of Sara’s heart, it’s just another way to tell the time. My darling, Sara, I was holding your hand when you died, and even though the failing use of my right hand prevented me from feeling you leave, I tried.

—  My Darling Sara, Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long