#and this is me doing an unkindness to myself

[valtsv]

this isn't intended as some kind of holier-than-thou virtue masturbation because fuck knows i've been cruel unintentionally and/or reflexively too many times to count, but it is kind of amazing how much more difficult it got to be sincerely, intentionally hateful or mean-spirited when i realised that the rush i got from it was because it made me feel powerful

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WHERE IT HURTS THE MOST

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse. based on this request. warnings | an: hurt, some comfort (not too much because i wrote this when i was sad lol) descriptions of getting shot, bleeding out, hospitals, needles, mentions of death, ok maybe there is physical comfort because i couldn't help myself, probably a v unhealthy relationship with ur ex—move on girl! word count: 2.6k

✧ masterlist

fav song & perhaps hotch x ex!reader’s national anthem

You didn’t notice the pain at first—just the strange sensation of heat blooming beneath your skin, like a match pressed to paper, a kiss of flame before the burn. The bullet had slithered into your side, embedding itself as if it were searching for home. Still, the sting didn’t register—not right away. Maybe it was the adrenaline taking its turn, or maybe it was his voice in your ear.

“Talk to me. Are you hit?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.

The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.

Your knees gave way first.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.

Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.

“Move! I’ve got her—move!”

His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.

Just a little longer.

Just to see him.

If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.

Let it be him.

He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.

You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.

“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”

His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.

Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.

Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.

“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”

But it was getting harder to do even that.

Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.

Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.

The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.

“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”

Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.

“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”

“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He hadn’t called you that in months.

Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.

But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.

And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

You were still his.

“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”

You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.

“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”

You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.

“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”

“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”

“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”

You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.

The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.

“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”

You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.

“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”

You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.

“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”

“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.

The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.

Everything ached.

Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.

Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.

And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.

You were no longer bleeding.

You were clean.

The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.

Until—

“Hey you…”

You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.

“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”

Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.

You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.

He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"

You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.

Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.

Blood.

Your blood.

Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.

Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.

The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.

His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.

You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.

You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.

“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.

“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”

His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.

But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.

"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."

You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.

“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”

“Me?”

“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.

“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”

“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”

His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.

You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”

You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”

"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.

"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."

You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.

“But I’m staying tonight.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[heuldoch7b]

while i was gone, i was deeply contemplative about part of what made me take a hiatus in the first place, which is shame. long post forewarning

growing up on the internet (i was 10 when i started using the internet, back in 2010-11) and something i was (and frankly, still am) constantly exposed to was shaming others. ranging from "light hearted" shaming; this ranged from poking fun at an amateur artists work for it looking funny or it being super "tumblry" to shaming with the guise of social justice, you know "hey this artist draws X and thats BAD and if you support them youre JUST AS BAD".

when i was younger i poked fun at other artists and engaged in cancel culture, on a very small scale (just my friends and i) and i regret it. it was entirely due to my own low self esteem and peojecting fear of being made fun of myself. but ive retained that fear, even as i've matured and grown to understand how unkind it is to shame and mock others, ESPECIALLY as myself a weird, autistic artist who draws "cringe but free" stuff

and even with regards to problematic content, stuff that, reasonably more often than not, ellicits a "yuck" reaction out of most viewers, has turned more into a genuine social risk of getting a callout over being immoral or gross and losing your social circles and delving into isolation. this happened to me. i think it genuinely messed me up, and im dealing with it even now.

it has lead me to be avoidant of being honest about what i like, and being afraid of befriending others due to fear of being dropped again. this is of course not fair to you, potential reader, but unfair to myself as well. i want to develop a healthier respect for my friends as well as myself about what i do and dont like, and not feeling guilty for saying no or not liking something.

i think, as i remake my old pinned post, i am going to be more explicit on stuff, i like shipping the primarchs! i love it very much even. and if you do not thats absolutely A-OK. i like drawing the dismal warcriminals as genderweird. i like maybe skirting away from how chronically cynical and dour the universe (which i do still enjoy, im into warhammer FOR warhammer) and making silly, comfy stuff. fuck i LOVE drawing weird heroic nudity mythological scenes where some characters are like, centaurs, cause its sick as fuck.

and with all that i myself need to be okay with maybe people who i enjoy their work of dont really jive with all that, and that isnt the end of the world, its just being honest with oneself, and thats really important to do. i will be trying to maybe tag sensitive stuff like primarchcest better, so people can filter it out, but i am not gonna be hypervigilant about tagging everything because that would make me neurotic and id rather just be unfollowed or blocked at that point.

anywho, i really just wanted to put my thoughts down into words and share them, i honestly wrote this out and deleted it like 3 times already due to, hilariously, shame. but this is a really important topic to me and extremely relevant to my social presence on this website. i care for you all immensely, even if we are all strangers online.

i will be sad if i lose potential friendships over the things i like, but theres literally thousands of people if not more on this website, and it so fine and healthy to go like "eh no i dont want that in my life" to something like someones specific fuckin fandom art LOL

if any of you want to talk to me about your experiences with shame, id welcome it, may it be through a reblog or messaging me personally. i think its really important for all of us to be unashamed, mindful of course, but not stifling ourselves. be free have fun type stuff. i hope i can drop my own shackles too. thanks for reading

[docholligay]

With all due respect, hate you, hate you so much, you got such a great vision of Roy and Hawkeye it makes me want to be able to fund you liveblogging both versions of the anime and the manga. Like, what the hell, you're not even as deep as all of us on this side, and you just do *that*. Gets me mad in a way that I got to go write something about them too

I HAVE ONLY SEEN UP TO EPISODE 15 OF THE 2003 ANIME PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T SPOIL ME I AM REALLY ENJOYING MYSELF.

You know, sometimes in life, you just have to go, "Oh. Guess I'm here now." Same thing happened to me when I first got into Overwatch and I was like, "Oh, the untouchable unreachable cold assassin will be my girl!" and Tracer popped up like, "Did you mean the unfailingly brave and cheerful one? It is now!" (also, the main protagonist??? Or at least she was at the time. Never happens for me.)

I basically feel like I was punched in the back of the head in a dark alleyway by the relationship between those two. I am obsessed with whatever insane bullshit it is they have going on. The mind whirs. I like Roy and Hawkeye a lot individually, sure, but I don't know that they would, absent each other occupy all that much of my brainspace. But together!! Together!

Anyway, it's hilariously to the point where I almost don't want to watch more (I will, don't worry) because I very much love the vision I have of them cooked up in my head and I don't want to have something happen where it stops being fun for me, like, god forbid they kiss or some shit. I am trying not to get too attached to the thoughts I have about them, but when you watch a show the way I do, it involves a lot of ACTIVE watching and not passive watching, so I feel like a participant in the story. This can be really good--if I love something I tend to really love it and have lots to say--but it also means I get more disappointed than someone who binges the whole thing.

PLEASE DON'T SPOIL ME FOR ANY THING OR ANY VERSION

ANYWAY, this was a really nice comment! I am so happy that people who like Roy and Hawkeye seem to enjoy my take on them despite me not having much other than vibes to go on. They are very fun to think about. Having a great time.

They're so fucked up that I can't imagine them getting out and doing something different and better. Would they even know how to function in normal society? I can't see Hawkeye working in like, a cafe ahaha. Has Roy ever been allowed to learn how to warm and create with his alchemy, or is it all just destruction and COULD it even ever be something good?

AGAIN, I AM, A WOMAN ONLY 1/5 OF THE WAY THROUGH THE 2003 ANIME, AM JUST TLAKING OUT LOUD FOR MY OWN ENJOYMENT AND TO TORTURE MY FOLLOWERS. PLEAAAAASSSEEE DON'T SPOIL.

I think maybe Roy knows how utterly fucked he is for civilian life and part of his 'dog of the military' warning is 'if you grow around this metal pole, you won't be able to leave it alive'. Maybe. But Hawkeye, no I think--well in fairness I don't that she's thought it that far out, nor cares to. I think she's probably assumed she'll die in the service and that'll be that. Not in a melodramatic way, just, matter of fact*. How could she ever retire, even? Would she leave with Roy, if he asked? Would he ever be so unkind as to ask her? Even if he managed to find the will to walk out?

He's a mess, and she's a mess, and they are messes in completely different ways, and I am glad it inspires you to think about them some more as well!!

*Eta: I also think she underestimates how deeply Roy would mourn her. Not in a 'I'm not worth anything :(" way, I just think there's a part of her that doesn't like the idea of somehow being the cause of Roy being more of a disaster than he already is so she is just like, "It'll be fine. Hughes will have to step up. He'll be fine." But Roy has like two friends and Hughes is a functional human being.

AGAIN PLS NO SPOIL!!

[stcrpalaqce]

could u pls make a story abt a cat!reader and damian wayne based on the music video of the boy is mine by ariana grande?? love your work!!!

❝ ‎the boy is mine ! ❞ — damian wayne x cat!reader

warnings .ᐟ mild flirtation, tension a/n .ᐟ enjoy!! hopefully i did this justice... requests are open!! summary .ᐟ based on the boy is mine music video

You’d been watching him for hours.

From your perch in the shadows, the gargoyle architecture hiding your silhouette, you had a perfect view of Damian Wayne’s penthouse. The sleek glass window offered a clear sight of him; rolled up sleeves, files in hand, and his usual scowl on his face. He was always so serious, so focused — always lost in his world of responsibility and duty.

You couldn't help but grin, enjoying the view.

Damian moved around his penthouse, his every gesture controlled and precise, like he was trying to maintain order in a chaotic world. The way his fingers brushed over the polished surface of his desk, adjusting something that probably didn’t need adjusting, made you chuckle. He was the type of person who couldn’t sit still for too long, always doing something, even if it was just tapping his phone screen or glaring at the Gotham skyline, lost in his thoughts. You liked how his jaw tensed when he stared out the window—as though Gotham itself could break him if he wasn’t careful.

Your eyes narrowed, studying him like a cat ready to pounce. You couldn’t deny it — you were drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame. The boy fascinated you. But still… you couldn’t help but tease him. Everytime you ran into him — whether in Gotham’s alleyways or on rooftops — it felt like a game. A game where you were always one step ahead. Or atleast, you liked to think so. 

Hours later, you stood on the rooftop of the jewellery store, the musty scent of Gotham air mixing with the metallic tang of the stolen antique goods in your hands. The heist had been clean, quick and easy — just how you liked it. A perfect selection of rings, necklaces, and brooches, some of the finest pieces in the city. They were all tucked away in your sleek black bag, their worth hardly mattered compared to the thrill of the chase.

You could already hear the soft thrum of footsteps approaching, and you smirked, taking a leisure step towards the ledge of the building, your silhouette outlined against your beloved city’s lights. 

And there he was.

“Hello, Robin,” you purred, the sight of the kevlar clad boy your age making your heart go wild. You let your voice roll over him like a soft caress, your eyes lingering on him as you approached with feline grace.

He was standing on the opposite side of the rooftop now, his figure stark against the night sky. The dark mask hid his expressions, but you could see the tension in his posture — his body rigid, his eyes sharp, as though he could pin you down without even saying a word.

“What are you doing here Y/N,” his resigned voice carried across the silent night — well, as silent as Gotham can be. He wasn’t surprised. Then again, he was never surprised when it came to you. 

“A little birdie told me this jewellery store had some purr-fect pieces,” the playful glint in your eyes obvious, as your gaze followed the bag slung over your shoulder, “I had to check them out for myself.”

His eyes followed your languid movements, his green eyes scanning the way you moved, eyes falling on the subtle sway of your hips. His sight flickered to the bag hanging from your shoulder. He didn’t need to ask. He already knew.

You could help but let your nails trace the edge of his jawline as you closed the distance between the two of you, your fingers delicate against his skin. The sharp edge of your nails hovered near his skin, but you didn’t touch him fully. Not yet.

Damian caught your wrist mid-swipe, his grip firm but not unkind. “You’re not clever, you’re reckless.” 

You smirked, there’s just no use in denying, was there? 

“I’m both, darling,” you whispered, voice velvet-soft against the chaos of the city. You let your eyes meet his, a challenge lingered behind your gaze. “Isn’t that part of the fun?”

There it was. The unspoken dance between you. The way he couldn’t bring himself to turn you in, despite the crimes you’ve committed. The way you couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit that the tension between you wasn’t just about stealing jewels, or catching criminals — it was about something far more dangerous. 

Something neither of you were willing to face. 

Damian stared at you for a long moment, his jaw tight. And then, with a small sigh that was barely audible over the wind, he let go of your wrist.

“Go home, Y/N,” he said, though you knew the words were hollow. Neither of you would be going anywhere anytime soon.

You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into that predatory smile he knew too well.

"Not tonight, Robin," you purred. "Not yet.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of Gotham below, the weight of the tension crackling between you two.

Then, before Damian could react, you flicked your wrist free and took a graceful step back, standing just out of reach, your smirk never fading.

“I’ll be seeing you, Robin,” you said with a wink, turning on your heel and slipping back into the shadows.

But you both knew—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

[petittherr]

Letters for Her. - Grayson

Warnings: Possibly soft Angst.

“October, 1914“ — Piltover

For Enforcer Grayson, my unknown betrothed.

Greetings, Officer Grayson,

Forgive the boldness of my address. I do not know how one is meant to begin such a letter, especially when it is destined for a stranger, though, by title alone, I am to call you my future wife.

My name is not likely to mean much to you, but I have been told that you are now bound to it by arrangement. An arrangement between families, between expectations, between two people who have exchanged fewer words than a baker with his cart. I am not writing by choice, I admit. My father stood over me with that look, the one that says “Do not shame me, child, write with grace” and so I find myself here, pen in hand, staring at parchment as though it were your face.

I am told you are a decorated officer, that you lead with unwavering discipline, that your eyes do not flinch from violence nor from duty. They say your loyalty to Piltover is near legendary. I know very little else about you, save for the impression you left at my birthday, where you stood in uniform, tall and severe, your presence more commanding than any cake or gift. You looked at me once, and it was not unkind. That is the only thing I held on to when they told me we were to marry.

You have a grave sort of beauty, if I may speak plainly, gray eyes that make one think of smoke and winter, and a mouth that looks as though it rarely smiles but would be beautiful if it did. I do not say this to flatter. I say it because I have nothing else of you to hold on to, and my memory is poor when fear overtakes it.

I should not be writing you out of resentment. That is not my intent. I simply do not wish to begin this thing between us with a lie. I did not wish to marry. And I certainly did not wish to marry a stranger, least of all in the shadows of war and politics. But here we are, two names stitched together on documents neither of us signed willingly.

Still, I feel a duty. Perhaps not to the union itself, but to the person on the other end of it. So, I write. I will tell you of my day, mundane as it is, because perhaps the smallest truths are the most honest offerings.

This morning was consumed by my brothers, the twins. Six years old and already they possess the energy of artillery. I was dragged into their games: duels with wooden spoons, a siege involving mud pies, and a brief, catastrophic attempt at flying via bedsheet and balcony. I survived with only a scratch. I hope Piltover is faring as well.

After lunch, I took refuge in the library. It is the only place in this house where I am still myself. I read until dusk. I am halfway through ‘The Lives of Salt and Steel’, which is far too dramatic but I like to imagine I understand people better through fiction than I do in real life.

And now, I write to you, hoping this letter finds you uninjured, and if not happy, then at least steady in your mind and limbs. I do not know if you will read this, let alone reply. But if you do, know that you need not write with poetry or pretense. Simply tell me the truth, as I have tried to do for you.

Stay alive, Grayson.

For whatever this is between us, it cannot exist if you do not.

Yours,

–Your betrothed.

•••

“December, 1914” — The Western Front

To my betrothed, whose name I now carry like a thought I revisit often,

I received your letter two nights ago, though I confess I opened it with hesitation. Letters from home can weigh heavier than orders from command. They speak not only of what we left behind, but of what we are expected to return to. And yet yours was different.

I had not expected honesty, nor did I think you would write at all. If your words were born from obligation, I will not pretend I did not sense it. But I read them twice regardless. I read them again the next morning. I found myself returning to the line: “Stay alive, Grayson”. It is a small sentence, but it landed like an anchor.

Let me be clear from the start. You owe me nothing. Not words. Not warmth. Not a version of yourself shaped to fit another’s mold. Your reluctance does not offend me, in fact, I find it far more comforting than silence padded with false affection. I have seen too much dishonesty cost lives. I’ve no interest in watching it ruin anything else.

I accepted this arrangement for reasons that may surprise you. Piltover sees me as a woman past the prime of courtship, married instead to duty, to title, to firearm and shield. They call it a noble sacrifice. I call it necessity. The truth is simpler: I accepted because your name was placed before me, and with it came a rare thing, an agreement with no demands. No children. No merging of wealth. Just peace. And the possibility of protecting someone who deserved it more than I ever did.

I have heard whispers of your house, the politics swirling beneath its roof, the games fathers play with daughters like chess pieces. I accepted this match so that if you needed refuge, it would be found in my name, in my uniform, and in my silence. Whatever kind of bond we build, if any at all, it will be on your terms.

If you wish to dissolve this engagement one day, you will find no resistance from me. If you wish to keep it only in name, that too is acceptable. But should you ever want something gentler, more solid, companionship, perhaps, I can promise you loyalty. I cannot offer softness in the way a poet might, but I can offer steadiness. And I can listen.

I am forty-six. The war has aged me faster. Some mornings I wake with my hands aching, not from injury but memory. The air here bites. I drink my coffee black, no sugar. I sleep lightly, and never in silence, I need the hum of engines or distant movement to keep the ghosts at bay.

Still, I find myself imagining things I have no business imagining. I think of your voice, even though I’ve never heard it in more than a greeting at your birthday. I think of you in the library, spine bent over paper. I think of how you looked when you tried not to look at me.

You asked for my truth, so here it is: I do not know what will become of us, nor if we will ever be more than signatures bound by circumstance. But I would very much like to know you. To receive more letters. Not as your officer. Not even as your intended. Simply as someone who finds your words worth waiting for.

May the new year be kinder to you than this one has been.

Write again, if it pleases you.

—Grayson, Piltover Enforcers Officer

•••

“February, 1915” – Piltover

To my soldier, the one I cannot yet call mine,

I have no words to properly start this letter. My thoughts are scattered, like the fragments of snow that have yet to settle on the cold ground. It seems as though everything has been happening at once, and yet nothing at all.

I had a visitor. My mother and sister, as always, sent their love and a hug for you. They ask, as always, if you are well, and I promise them that I do not know the answer. I only know what you write to me, and I am learning slowly how to live with the gaps you leave in your absence. I can only hope that the love they send will be enough to carry you through the hardships you must face.

As for me, the new year festivities here in the village have been… underwhelming. I suppose it is my own fault for letting myself become disappointed in the idea of celebrations when there is little in this life I can celebrate. A contest took place, a game, perhaps for some. You may know the one I mean. The kind where young folk search for love or for companionship, under the guise of some innocent sport. But, as I have already been promised to you, I did not participate. Perhaps it would have been the first time I would have had the chance to choose, to explore my own heart freely. But that is no longer mine to decide, is it?

It would be so easy to claim that I am happy with this marriage, with the idea of being your wife, but that would be a lie. You must know that by now. You see, it is not that I wish harm on you, or that I despise the thought of marriage entirely. I simply do not understand this union we have, this promise made not by our hands but by those who decided for us. We did not know each other, and I, well, I didn’t even know your age until recently. You are forty-six, you said. That’s all I know about you now.

I cannot pretend it is not difficult. To think that I must wear this ring, carry this title, without ever having looked at you with true affection. I didn’t ask for this, but I will accept it. I will be your wife, because my father has commanded it. I do not have the luxury of choosing.

My aunt and her son came to visit this year. You might know that I cannot stand him. He does not leave me alone with his comments, reminding me that you are far away, and suggesting (no, taunting) that perhaps I will find another while you’re gone. It is maddening, officer. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him quiet. His presence grates against me like sandpaper on skin.

But please understand, I write this not to complain, but because I wish you to know. I expect respect, not just from my family or my cousin, but from you as well. I cannot stand the thought of betrayal, not from you, not from anyone. I want you to know that I trust you, as you trust me, and I wish you to be true to this, as I will be to you. I know what it is to be loyal, even if I have not known you long enough to love you yet. Please, do not break my heart in a way I cannot understand or repair.

As for my cousin, he has finally left. I will admit that I felt a strange sense of relief when the door closed behind him. If I could, I would have thrown a grand celebration for his departure, but alas, there was no joy in me for it. Just a strange, quiet peace. And tiredness, of course, may i add.

Now, my thoughts return to you. Please, officer, stay safe. Come back alive. Even though I do not want this marriage, even though I would have chosen a different path, I still want you to return to me. I would never wish harm on you. Not now. Not ever.

With all the sincerity I can offer you,

–Your fiancée.

•••

“April, 1915” - Somewhere in the middle of nowhere

To the most beautiful bride in the world,

I must confess something with more honesty than I’ve ever allowed myself in these pages: I smiled when your letter arrived. I had not realized how much I feared silence from you. A part of me believed you would never write again. That perhaps this was all a duty you had accepted, only to abandon it quietly and let time swallow the promise. But you didn’t. And for that, I am strangely relieved.

Festivities were simple here. Nothing grand or memorable. We boiled eggs and ate them as though they were some rare delicacy. The rest of the day passed like any other: quiet ( as possible), colorless. And yet I found myself wishing I were elsewhere-home, if I may call it that. Not a place, but a presence. Yours.

I need you to know something, and I want you to hold it close, even if the days grow long between my letters. Please, don’t let this engagement strip you of your youth. Don’t let the title of “betrothed” stop you from stepping into rivers, laughing too loudly, or chasing after wind with your friends. If you feel the need to run, then run. If you want to dance beneath the moonlight, then do it. Do not mold yourself into what you think I expect. I want no prison for you, not even one dressed in vows.

If you wake one day and decide that you do not want this marriage, I give you my word: I will speak to your father myself. I will release you from this path, even if it leads me elsewhere. I will not see you shackled to a life you did not choose. You deserve more than duty. You deserve happiness. You deserve love.

That said, know this too: I would not betray you. Not now, not ever. You’ve been a shadow in my thoughts longer than you could imagine. A soft shape that has taken root somewhere I had sworn to keep guarded. Even among crowds, I do not see others as I see you in my mind. The image of you, so brief in real life and yet so lasting, has made strangers of every other soul.

As for the cousin you mentioned in your last letter, though I’ve never seen his face I’ve decided I don’t like him. And if he ever returns, I’ll send a battalion, or perhaps something less charming, to rid you of his company. No one should have the power to make you feel small. Not while I breathe.

Now… something lighter. I have news. I passed a test among my peers. A difficult one. I am no longer just an Officer. They call me Corporal now. A title that comes with more weight on my shoulders, but also a strange sense of pride. I hope, in some quiet corner of your heart, you’re proud of me too.

I’ll come back to you alive. That is a promise written in blood, breath, and bone.

Please, write again soon.

—Corporal Grayson, your Fiancé.

•••

“June, 1915” – Piltover

To Corporal Grayson,

Of course I’m proud of you, how could I not be? Your triumphs, even out there where I cannot see them, feel like mine too. Corporal Grayson. It suits you, doesn’t it? Has a nice ring to it. I imagine the title pressed against your shoulders like armor. Do you want to rise even further? To become something higher, perhaps a General? If that is your wish, I believe with everything in me that you’ll reach it. You have that kind of strength, I can feel it even across the miles.

And I trust you. Fully. That matters to me more than anything. You don’t need to worry—I have no other in my life, nor would I ever invite someone else in. I may not have longed for marriage when this was arranged, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to be a decent wife. I was raised with care and expectations, and I carry those lessons with pride. I will protect what is mine, and I will care for you the way you deserve to be cared for.

With each passing day, I find myself surrendering to this future more and more. There’s no turning back, is there? And strangely, I no longer want to. You’re the one I’m meant to return to. You are the one I’ve begun to belong to, even from afar.

Your letters always arrive late, like birds lost in fog, but when they do land in my hands, I read them until the paper softens at the corners. I no longer write because I must. I write because I need to. Because I miss you.

Last night, I dreamed of your death. I saw you fall on some nameless battlefield, and I woke up with my heart breaking open. The fear gripped me, stayed with me through breakfast, through the quiet of the evening. Please be careful. Please. I couldn’t bear to see a coffin draped in cloth and know that it carried the woman I was meant to marry. I don’t want to wear black. I don’t want to lose you before I’ve even truly had you.

Your face it’s beginning to blur. I saw you only once, and for so brief a moment, but it was enough to linger in me for so long. Now, though, I find myself struggling to recall the curve of your jaw, the shadow of your height, the precise shade of your eyes. I know they are tired, but in my dreams, they flicker like a candle I can’t quite catch. I fear the day I wake and find you entirely gone from my memory. What if that day comes before you return?

Why do I feel like crying as I write this? Perhaps I already miss something I never truly had. Or maybe I’m just scared.

Are you well, Grayson? Are you alive?

Please write back soon. Please.

—Your frightened fiancée.

•••

“December, 1915” - Piltover

To Corporal Grayson, my missing fiancée,

It’s been months now since I last held your words in my hands. I’ve waited through harvest, through the first frost, through the turning of leaves and the deepening cold and still, nothing has come. Usually, your letters arrive delayed, yes, sometimes two months, sometimes three. But it’s been five now. Five months of silence. Five months of imagining every terrible possibility, every unspoken goodbye.

Are you hurt? Are you lost? Or is it simply impossible for you to reach me right now? I don’t know which is worse, not knowing at all, or imagining all the ways I could have already lost you.

Your mother came by last week. She asked me if I had heard anything, if a letter had arrived with your handwriting, any sign that you’re alive. I had nothing to give her. I saw the way her hands trembled at the tea table. I saw how she looked past me when she spoke, as if you might come walking in through the door behind me.

You didn’t write to them either.

Grayson, we’re all worried. Deeply, truly, sickeningly worried. The kind of worry that hollows out your ribs and makes sleep impossible. I try not to think the worst, but you’re a soldier at war. Five months is a long time to disappear. Too long. I go out each morning and check the post like a ritual, pretending I’m not bracing myself for another day of disappointment.

Please, if you are alive, if you are breathing and walking under some grey, distant sky—send word. One line, one scribbled sentence. Anything. Just to let me know that I can still hope.

Please don’t let this silence be the last thing I ever receive from you.

—From your fiancée, still waiting.

•••

“April, 1916” - Piltover

To Corporal Grayson.

Today marks one year since your last letter found its way to me. One year since your words kissed the paper I now keep folded beneath my pillow like a sacred charm. I wanted to write to you many times in these long months, but I’ve been too unwell to even hold a pen. They say I’ve fallen ill from longing, but how does one grow sick over a woman they’ve only met once? How does one’s body betray them simply for missing letters?

Perhaps it isn’t you I miss, but the rhythm of your words. Still, that feels too small a truth.

I was confined to bed when my birthday came this time, burning with fever, unable to hold anything down but water and whispers. My mother watches me like I’ll slip away. My father, stern, proud man that he is, has been trying to find news of you, even through silence. My sister is the one keeping me here, I think. She sits beside me, reads aloud, brings me broth and brushes my hair even when I don’t ask. The twins haven’t come into my room in weeks. I must look dreadful enough to frighten them.

I asked my sister to find your family. I told her I needed to see you again, your face, anything. Your mother sent one of the few photographs she had of you. You’re there in your uniform, upright, strong. Your eyes are serious, but something about your mouth betrays the kindness I clung to in your words. It’s strange how a face I never truly knew now feels like something I’ve lost.

I stared at that photograph until the lines blurred and your image swam. You look noble in black and white, but I wish I could see you in color. In movement. Dressed in your blue uniform again, with your dark hair catching the sun, smiling, maybe even laughing, for once. Not the stillness of a portrait, but the warmth of your presence.

You promised you’d come back to me. You promised that I’d be free beside you, that I wouldn’t be caged in a marriage built on obedience. You wrote that you wouldn’t betray me. That you’d love me, someday, if I let you. You wrote like a soldier but spoke like a woman who knew tenderness.

My sister teases me and says I’ve fallen for you. And maybe I have. But how does one fall in love from just two letters?

Is it really love? Or have I fallen for the way your protection curled around every sentence, for how you said I deserved to be chosen, not handed off? Maybe I fell for that version of you: distant, imagined, safe. Maybe I love the idea that someone wanted to keep me whole in a world that keeps trying to break me.

Still, I’m afraid. Every knock on the door, every horse’s hooves on the path, I fear it’s my father coming home with the news that you’re not alive.

Please don’t let it be true. Please don’t let silence be how you leave me.

—From the bride who refuses to let go of you.

•••

“April, 1917” – Piltover

For my dear Corporal Grayson. Missing.

Today makes two years since your last letter reached me. Two years of silence, two years of holding onto hope like a fragile charm pressed between my palms. They say hope is the last thing to die and so I guard mine with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to mourn a love that might still be breathing.

I still believe you’ll come back to me.

Whole. Alive.

You must.

You promised.

Life has begun to move again, slowly, like a frostbitten limb learning to feel warmth. I’ve found work in a sweets shop, small and bright, always smelling of honey and lemon.

After my brother passed, home became a place filled with silence and locked doors. My mother won’t let the surviving twin out of her sight. She’s terrified, of war, of illness, of death..and it makes her cruel in quiet ways. My sister is married now. A good man, soft-spoken. She lives with him and writes to me sometimes, though not as often as she used to.

My father, ever practical, tried to fix my grief by finding me a new fiancé. As if affection were something you could exchange like silver for wool. I didn’t wait to argue. I packed what I could carry and left.

I’m at my uncle’s house now. He’s old, sick, and needs care. In return, I have a place to stay. I bathe him, feed him, listen when he talks nonsense in the middle of the night. Some days I feel more nurse than bride, but it’s peace. It’s enough.

But please don’t worry, Grayson. I haven’t given up on you, and I haven’t let another into the space you left behind. You are the woman I accepted against my will, and the one I chose with my heart. It took time to learn how to love you, how to even want to love you, but I did. And now that I have, I won’t trade you away, not even to soothe my aching loneliness.

When you can, write to me. I will wait. I’ve waited this long. What’s another day if it brings me closer to you?

—From the woman still calling herself your fiancée.

•••

“June, 1917” – Somewhere, far from you.

To You.

Forgive the long silence.

I wanted to write sooner, but the months haven’t belonged to me. Not after what happened. The camp was raided. Fire everywhere. Smoke thick enough to drown in. We lost too many. Those who survived scattered into the woods, hiding like rats until another unit found us. I don’t even remember how long we were out there, only that every night felt like the last.

We were recovered some months back, but it’s only now I’ve been given the means to send this letter. Just one.

I read every one of your letters. I don’t even know what to say about your brother—I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. I wish I could’ve been there. For you. For them.

I can’t write to everyone, so I ask this of you: please tell my family I’m alive. Not well, not whole, but breathing. That will have to be enough for now.

War here is still merciless. I don’t know when it will end, or if it ever will.

And about what you said about your father seeking a new suitor for you, I understand now, and I think maybe he’s not wrong. You deserve more than a ghost and half a memory. Maybe another person could give you the future I once promised and now can’t guarantee. Maybe it would be better, easier, safer.

Don’t wait on me, You. I wouldn’t want that for you.

I apologise.

Until we meet again. If we do.

—Sergeant Grayson.

•••

“May, 1918” - Piltover

To the one who betrayed me.

How could you?

You canceled everything without even speaking to me. I couldn’t even see you, your orders were clear: no one was to open the gate for me. You shut me out without a word, without a single glance.

What am I supposed to think? You’ve treated me worse than a stray, and I’m sure I didn’t deserve any of it.

If you didn’t want this anymore, why didn’t you say it to my face? Why couldn’t you look me in the eyes and tell me that you no longer wanted to marry me? Why did you let my father handle the cancellation? Did you think that would make it easier? That it would hurt less?

What is this? Who are you really engaged to, me, or the war, or someone else you found in the dirt of it all?

I don’t understand any of this. Did the war break you? Did someone else catch your eye while I waited for you?

Tell me. I deserve at least that.

-From your ex-fiancé.

•••

“June, 1918” - Piltover

To the traitor.

It’s been a month since you returned. A month since you ended our engagement without a single word, without giving me the decency of an explanation. You made it clear that I am no longer welcome in your life. I tried to reach out to you, to your family, but you locked me out as if I were some contagious disease that shouldn’t even be acknowledged.

You’ve cut me off, discarded me as easily as someone brushes off dirt from their shoes, and I don’t understand why. What happened, Grayson? I waited for you every day, every night, hoping you were still alive, hoping you would return to me. And when you did… you weren’t the person I loved anymore.

I fell in love with the woman who wrote me those letters, the one who promised me a future, who spoke to me with honesty and warmth. But the woman who stands before me now, the one who treats me like I’m nothing, is a stranger. I no longer recognize her, and it breaks me to my core.

I deserve an explanation, Grayson. I deserve to know why you’ve treated me this way. I loved you truly, madly, deeply. But now I feel nothing but coldness from you, and I don’t know how to handle this emptiness.

I know you’ve been through things, I know the war has changed you, but I didn’t think it would change you like this. I didn’t think I would be the one you’d cast aside when the dust settled.

I’m hurt, Grayson. And I don’t think I can keep waiting like this, not knowing why. I feel like I’m drowning in unanswered questions, in a love that was never meant to be returned.

I feel bad.

–From the one who loved you.

•••

“August, 1918” – Piltover

To Grayson.

I waited for you. For two months, I believed that one day you would come to me, explain yourself, or tell me that this was all some mistake, that the engagement still stood, that we still had a future. But you never came. You never sought me out, not even once, and the longer I waited, the more I realized I was just a fool for thinking you’d come back.

It’s hard, you know? To be the joke of the city. “The little woman who was abandoned, because the other woman must’ve figured out what she was doing and went looking for someone else.” Everyone laughs, they all talk behind my back, and yet, I keep my head up. I pretend that it doesn’t hurt, that I’m not dying inside. But it does hurt. So much.

I was cruelly kicked out of your life. You didn’t even give me the decency of a goodbye, Grayson. You just… left. It was as if I meant nothing. But, I’ll take your advice: be happy and free. Maybe that’s the best I can hope for now. I didn’t want this marriage in the first place, did I? I was forced to reach out to you, forced to write to you when I didn’t even know where to begin. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the right thing to let it all go now.

I still hope you’re happy, though. I really do. I hope you find whatever it is that makes you feel free. We were never meant to fit into the boxes others wanted us in, and we’re both too stubborn to live for anyone but ourselves. I hope you find peace, even if it’s without me.

Thank you for making me fall in love with you, for showing me a glimpse of something I thought was possible but that you threw it away.

Be happy. Be free, Grayson.

Goodbye.

–From the one who once loved you.

•••

“October, 1918” - Piltover

For my dear You,

I know it’s been a while since you came to our home, and I’m sorry that they wouldn’t let you in.

Today marks your 2?nd birthday. Time, I wonder, has it passed quickly or slowly for you? No matter how it feels, I want to wish you the happiest of birthdays. You deserve the best, truly. I hope you can enjoy today as if it’s the last, savoring each moment.

As a mother desperate for her child’s happiness, I must beg you, please, don’t leave Grayson. I know things between you two have become complicated, especially with the way she’s been pushing you away, but don’t give up on her just yet.

My daughter, Grayson, was hurt terribly in the war. She made me swear to keep it a secret, but I can’t bear to see you both suffer in silence. A bomb that struck her camp took many lives, and unfortunately, it didn’t spare her. Grayson lost nearly all mobility in her right leg.

Her face oh, dear, her beautiful face is now marred, burned from one side down to her shoulder. She feels that if she stays engaged to you, she’s holding you back, making you sacrifice your life for hers. She says: “You deserves to be free, not trapped in a life with someone like me, a walking deformity.” It breaks my heart to hear her say it. She was never a woman of vanity, or one to care about her looks, but now, it seems to be something that fills her thoughts more than anything.

But, if you truly care for her, if you love her despite the changes war has brought to her body, don’t let her push you away. Grayson is afraid of being a burden. She won’t be able to work like she used to, not in the way she wants. She fears you won’t want to stay with her if you see her like this, if you see the scars, the damage.

So, I’m asking you, as a mother who can’t stand to see her child in pain: Please don’t give up on her. Come to our house. The door is always open for you. I know she may seem distant, but she still needs you.

However, if you realize that you can’t stand by her after everything that’s happened, if the thought of her scars and her limitations are too much, then please, I beg you, stop sending her letters. I can’t bear to see my daughter holding herself back, holding her tears to remain looking strong, unable to answer you anymore.

My Grayson is strong, stronger than anyone knows, but inside, she’s just a child who needs love and care. Choose what’s best for you. The door will be open if you want to come, but if not, please, stop writing. It’s too painful for all of us.

With a heart full of sorrow,

From a mother who loves her child.

•••

“October, 1918” - Piltover

For Grayson’s Mother.

I understand. Thank you for sharing this with me, ma’am. I apologise.

-From [Your Name].

•••

“September, 1920” - Home

•Note for my now Wife.

Watching you sleep brings me so much peace, especially knowing how tired you must be after such an intense night of love.

I never properly thanked you for staying by my side, for insisting on being here with me, even when everything seemed so uncertain. I want you to know that even while deformed, tired, I will love you more with every passing day. You are my light, and I love you, even with all my flaws, even with the pain I carry.

I chose this moment, after our honeymoon, to watch you sleep. Our marriage may not follow the rules of society, but I am certain that the heavens are celebrating our bond in their own way.

Seeing you at peace like this, it’s almost like therapy for my soul. I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world.

Once again, thank you. Thank you for never giving up on me.

•••

“September, 1920” – Home

•Note for Grayson.

Stop saying those things, love. I’ve told you a million times, I don’t like it when you call yourself deformed. It hurts me to hear you speak of yourself that way. You are an honorable woman, Grayson, don’t you dare forget it.

I thought we had moved past writing letters, but when you brought it up again, I realized how much I missed this. I missed writing to you, sharing my thoughts with you in this little way.

I love watching you cook for me, especially when you do it without a shirt on. Have I ever told you just how irresistible you are? Honestly, I’m grateful every day that you’re mine. Only mine.

And never, ever thank me again for staying with you. I didn’t stay out of obligation. I could have left when I had the chance, but I didn’t. I chose to stay. I chose you, Grayson. Don’t make it sound like it was some duty or sacrifice, because it wasn’t. It was my decision, my heart’s choice.

I love you, my fierce, beautiful woman.

Always yours.

•••

“October, 1920” – Home

•Note for my love.

Today you are 2? years old. You’ve grown so much, and I am beyond proud of the person you’ve become. My heart swells with love for you, I feel like it could burst any moment just from how deeply I care for you.

Never change, my love. Never stop being that cheerful, vibrant soul who finds happiness in the smallest of things, the one who is always so affectionate and full of warmth. You are everything to me, and I love you more than anything that has ever existed or will ever exist.

Forever yours. Sheriff Grayson, as you call me.

•••

“October, 1920” – Home

•Note for my beautiful wife Grayson.

It’s funny how we write notes to each other while you lie on my legs, reading the newspaper. There’s something about it that makes me feel even closer to you, like these small gestures are just another way we connect.

Thank you for making my birthday the best I’ve ever had. I chose you once, and I will choose you in every life we have together.

I love you, Grayson. Always.

Based on this fanfic, that I love so so much and hadn’t read in ages.

And on an idea that @bbybhr gave me!!

Hope you paid attention on the dates!

NOT FULLY PROOFREAD!!‼️

[broodygaming]

"TOXIC positivity for thinking it’s normal to, idk, enjoy the shows you watch."

no, toxic positivity is when a fandom can't take criticism and makes insular bubbles where they harass anyone who falls out of love with a thing or strawmans two different points into one so they can sound smart and win a shower argument.

y'know, like you did when you conflated the railroading and aimless arguments. :/

What’s a shower argument?

Haha wild. Anyways. Still don’t get ppl who have time to hate the things they watch. Seems really sad. Sorry ur in such a place. Hope you learn to love yourself more than that at some point.

[asurrogateblog]

The Syd Poll

the topic of this poll is one that is frequently avoided in the pink floyd fandom, but inevitably one we all consider – our individual views on what we think caused syd's psychological struggles (and by extension, led to his departure from the band). I think that – at least in this neighborhood of tumblr – this is a conversation we are capable of having in a way that is civil, nuanced, and at least minimally disrespectful to syd.

So, to help facilitate this, here are some ground rules:

let's all assume we have a mutual understanding of the complexities of this. syd could never actually be reduced down to a poll, and all of our viewpoints are limited in various ways

the poll options just serve as just a conversation starter, and responses are not necessarily a statement of absolute beliefs

feel free to discuss as much or as little of your own perspective as you feel comfortable sharing.

in the case that debates break out, please try to assume good intent – and also demonstrate it (unless, for instance, someone is being blatantly insulting beyond a misunderstanding that needs correcting)

please do NOT vote if you are not actually a pink floyd fan with at least basic knowledge about what we're talking about here.

The options I've included below are not meant to be exhaustive, they are simply the "theories" that I have seen most commonly circulated. I have also decided not to include combinations. I'm fairly sure we'd all agree multiple factors were involved. Rather than make the poll too complicated, I ask you to instead select the one that you think is the "most" important to your viewpoint, and clarify further in your tags/comments as you wish.

so. here we go.

READ BEFORE VOTING ^^^^

(note of correction: "late-onset schizophrenia" should just be "schizophrenia". the typical timeline for onset of symptoms is late adolescence/early adulthood, so syd would've been well within that period at the time)

[naranjapetrificada]

Is it time again? It must be.

Can't help but wonder 🤔🤨🤥

[skuntank]

Aware that my interpretation of Diantha keeps getting a little meaner over time and I want to do something abt that. It is 1000% to do with my own self-perception shit and I realize that but even if she struggles, and has weird emotional problems like I do, and has been built up to be a very complex character in my head, I do not want to see her as a mean person bc she isn't.

[herbofgraceandpeace]

not sure my boss knows how to handle that I am. anxious. at all times? So. There’s that

[monstermp3]

.

[malwarewolf404]

I had dieting fads and lately I got to thinking I should try limiting my portions to around the size of two baseballs (because I heard somewhere that’s generally how big a meal should be???) and while I want to say its been making me more mindful of how much I usually eat, I’m just hungry. I’m so hungry. And now Idk if I can eat a meal without feeling like a fatass.

[matchinacrocus]

Accept the grace and kindness for yourself that you are so happy to grant to others.

[poetryforplebs]

spanish class

when i was sixteen my brother and i took a spanish class

it was at the local community college. he joined in because i was there, or maybe i joined the class because he was, but the fact of the matter stood was that we were together.

we sat next to each other sometimes, mostly next to two sisters — one in her twenties, one in her thirties we would work together, and understood each other as families often do.

(meaning that— our souls are attached by tin can telephone strings. we can’t cut them without losing the sound of our own voice)

the class was fun.

my brother was smart. i had only to turn to him, ask him a question, and he would explain it to me i tried not to ask him too many questions. i was already his kid sister. i had to be smart, had to keep up with him. i had to earn my place.

(do little sisters ever earn their place?)

at the end of the semester, the class was split into two groups: girls versus boys, boys versus girls. we had to do a pop oral quiz and it came down to the two of us

i can’t remember the question, only that it was asked and there was silence, expectation. his brow furrowed. i waited.

time passed slowly.

light entered his eyes now was the chance to throw in the towel but not make it easy

i had to time this perfectly but my tongue was too quick

i opened my mouth—

[applause]

he turned to me, after class walking back to the car

“that wasn’t fair,” he told me

“it wasn’t,” i agreed readily

“you didn’t really win”

“i didn’t”

he wanted to go on, but he couldn’t not when i agreed with him so he kept his words to himself, the injustice of losing an unfair fight

i had done what i was supposed to. he wanted to win, but win well. i couldn’t throw in the towel, pretend to be stupid. i couldn’t let him win that way. i had to actually try and then he could win, because he was smart and he deserved it. i had things going for me; all pretty girls do. boys need the help.

i won by accident, and unfairly, and agreed with him when that was the case. i shouldn’t have won.

but i wonder too, if my younger sister had won if i would have turned around and told her that she didn’t deserve it.

i like to think that i would just accept it but then again, i would probably throw in the towel for her because she’s my little sister.

now i pause in my past. maybe that’s what he did. did he throw in the towel for me, many times? how many times? maybe this time he actually tried not to. maybe that’s what was upsetting: that the whole world would become just as small as our childhood home.

we never took a class together again.

[cubicle-dialogue]

im realizing i do a lot of self sabotaging, more than i realize. and that i keep myself from being happy. and idk why i feel like i dont deserve happiness or love like anyone else.