And it turns out we really do keep writing the same thing. I ask whether you’re sick and then you write about it, I want to die and then you do, I want stamps and then you want stamps, sometimes I want to cry on your shoulder like a little boy and then you want to cry on mine like a little girl. And sometimes and ten times and a thousand times and always I want to be with you and you are saying the same thing. Enough, enough.
Don’t ask me to stand there and watch you love someone else. I refuse to. I’d rather walk away from everything that we have ever built, than to pretend like I am fine. I’m not fine, and it’s not okay. I don’t want to see you settle with just anyone. I want to see you take a risk, and that risk should be with me. High risks means high rewards, and trust me, I am so damn worth it.
We both can’t be cowards if we want something great.
*throw letters away in a trash bin* They aren't "those love letters." They are my letters.
Who's the lucky girl?
...It's a guy
One Year Later/ The Present
*reading an letter* Dear Lance, I love you. From your secret crush. Check yes, Definitely, ABSOLUTELY if you will go out with me.
...Lance, where did you get that letter?
Oh, Shiro gave it to me. He told me it was from someone he know at the Garrison who had a crush on me but never once got the chance to give it to me.*Gave the letter to Keith* But man, that guy need to work on his confession. He could have just confess in front of me instead of writing this stupid letter. I don't mind checking all three though. I mean, I will go out with this person if he confess.
oliver goes travelling
with his quidditch team as part of the world cup, marcus has a keen interest in
literature; snippets of his daily unsent letters to oliver while he’s
only been a few hours since you left but it’s as if the moment your presence
exited the house the rain began to fall. the heavy droplets have already
overflown the owl bath – i think the little brown owl who brings our edition of
the daily prophet is so soaked he can’t fly back home; i might go and bring him
inside so he has a place to rest but i don’t have the energy to do anything
right now. when you left you took all my inspiration with you, i don’t have
much of a purpose. motionless, emotionless; i have nothing, really.
empty side of your bed reaffirmed the emptiness in my heart last night. i wish
i was overreacting when i say i feel as though i’m missing half of my soul.
damn you for being so wonderful that you’ve absorbed half of my consciousness.
and damn your job for taking you so far away from me; i know this will be the
start of something wonderful for you, but i can’t sleep without the dip in the
bed beside me. part of me wants the team to win because it’s you, but part of
me wants you to crumble at the first hurdle so you can come back.
Someone - I think it was @slowlymychaos again - commented on my holidays sketchdump that Treville looked like he was calming angry Armand down. As always, it sparked a need in me. Besides I wasn’t happy (at all!) with my angry Armand sketch. Doing better was a question of honour.
Treville has often been seen as the hot-blooded one, but historically, Richelieu had his moments of spiraling out of control. A lot of them. I enjoyed the picture of Jean trying to soothe the most powerful man of France away from destroying lives. Reasoning with a storm.
The title may or may not be a tribute to @pipuhattar ‘s therapy fic, who has never left me since.
I h8 u, reon is going to break-up and we'll be subposting one another until we are 60 xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Look dude, put it this way.. That will neverfucking happen. I have already told you this time and time again, we will be using TS10 and they will still be together, recreated in the better game, still madly in love and still fucking like rabbits.
They'll go to sleep with the covers equally divided between them, but Mary will often wake up with no blankets, because Sonya has somehow managed to steal all of them and wrap herself into a cocoon.
After a few weeks, Mary just starts keeping extra blankets to grab if she wakes up cold in the middle of night. Someone ends up stealing those too. Mary would think it was was cute if she wasn’t always so cold. She still lowkey finds it cute.
and i know that sounds crazy, because who wants to watch something they love shrivel up like leaves do in the fall? nobody does, nobody wants to see anything die.
but i needed to, i needed to watch the trees turn brown in the yard. i needed to pour salt on our love and i needed to watch it burn.
i needed to see it– i needed to see that we could die out. i needed to know we couldn’t last forever.
and i think that’s why i always kept coming back, like even though we cut our veins, the blood still flowed and i kept watching it pool up on my skin and stain my sheets and god i still kept loving you. i kept loving you under burnt bridges and broken ties.
and loving you was not good for me, it never was, but i couldn’t stop because i didn’t know how to let you go if i couldn’t figure out if we were really bulletproof or if we’d just die on impact.
so i watched us die.
i had to watch our love get shot in the chest a couple times and i had to sit down and give myself time to realize that soon it would be over– soon everything would be gone. i had to see you begin to get tired of me, i had to feel myself letting you go, i had to look at you everyday and just feel what i once had a little bit less every time.
and i’m sorry for dragging it on for so long– but i just had to know i could stop loving you before i could ever truly recognize that the person i once loved so much was gone.
I’m the kind of person that if you tell me something that someone else, including me, said was wrong and that you’re right. But you’re actually wrong, ESPECIALLY if you hurt someone in the process; that I’ll sit yo ass down so fucking fast, tape you to the goddamn chair, whip out my handy dandy fucking notebook and the whiteboard I conjured using Accio Whiteboard and will fucking document to you:
•How you were wrong.
•How you were sooooo fucking wrong.
•How I was right.
•How someone else was right.
•How you hurt people.
•Making you even more wrong.
•I’ll provide a ten page paper, double spaced, APA format with sources, references, and citations to validate my information.
•I’ll draw a flow chart on the damn white board to literally show you, how you were wrong.
the solution is, i see a whole room of these mutant kids, fused at the wrist, i simply tell them they should shoot at this, simply suggest my chest and this confused music, it’s obviously best for them to turn their guns to a fist.