Sawtooth Spire the first time that i sought for grace

15 lashings for 15 days of neglect but make it sexy

a daughter that was usually like putty in her father’s hands was presently a work of pottery, kiln-hot and gimcrack; destroyable without careful handling (preferably with kevlar gloves or tongs). she sniffled, fierce scathe still turned from him as he spoke in their secret language. strong, good, he impressed upon her, though at the moment she felt physically weak and couldn’t see how she was any stronger than a wet leaf. he meant mentally, a thing she could not comprehend, and stared hard at her legs, concentrating on each plip-plop of the tears wetting them. 
being good was another matter. he reiterated good as a thing fully realized, as though to emphasize it as the axiom that her mind would refer to when she reflected on herself, on the weight of her worth. she was inspirited by it—stood up wobbling and whirled on him, catching herself with a gasp as her foot slipped off the jagged lip of the stone.
her heart and stomach both flipped in anticipative dread of the water.
she stomped up on her father, squaring up with him tbh, despite her doddery legs, jerking her shoulder away from his nudge as all the frustration rallying in her body flushed out a firm ”SCHECHD!” in rejection of all he had assured and wanted of her.
her feelings were bad because they felt that way when she experienced them. 
nonetheless, despite her harshness towards him, and despite all her dopey child emoting (daughters, amirite?), in the end he was her papa and there and his child suddenly felt an immediate need for comforting, for all the things she did feel were so much like a very big deal to her, and her earlier dunk also agreed upon its necessity.
eyebrows still bearing down her frown, she rushed into him and pressed her face into his chest, ensconcing herself into the only place that could possibly ever feel safe in that present moment.