#it's okay i can fix him (by making him worse)

[fuctacles]

<< 10 | - | 12 >>

Robin finds them sprawled on the grass, resting after their play break. Steve notices her first, his head raising and tail wagging excitedly, though he doesn't move from his spot warming Eddie's thigh. 

"Steve?" 

That's when his friend realizes what got him so excited and he waves to Robin as she spots them in the middle of the yard. Their eyes meet and he knows she's surprised to see Steve in his other form again, but she doesn't say anything. Their werewolf friend yips happily and stands up, away from Eddie's petting to greet his best friend. 

"Hello, Buckley."

"Hello, Munson." She puts her hands on her hips in a perfect mirror of Steve. "I see you two are hard at work?" Robin quickly folds when Steve sits at her feet, his tail moving so fast it is barely visible. She squats down to scratch around his ears. "Hi, dingus."

"Exactly, and we're taking a well-deserved break right now," Eddie says with a smile, sitting up. "The barbeque is out and cleaned up, and we're almost done with the pool and chairs," he sums up their work so far, pointing vaguely to where everything is. 

"Damn, it's like you don't need me at all, huh?" she asks mostly towards Steve with a tilt of her head. He nibs at her fingers in retaliation before trotting away. "Hey, I was joking!"

But Steve picks up the ball still lying next to Eddie's leg and brings it back to Robin. She looks at him in confusion, so Eddie quickly swoops in with an explanation.

"We were playing fetch!"

The yellow, damp ball falls away from Steve's mouth like he might have just gotten self-conscious about the thing. But Robin takes it in stride, grabbing the toy and straightening up. Her friend quickly forgets his inhibitions and straightens up, hyperfocused on her raised hand. 

"Fair warning, I'm not the best thrower. But I guess I can't be much worse than Munson."

"Hey!"

She proves her words seconds later when the ball barely misses his head and Steve jumps right over his body, making him yelp. 

"Jesus H Christ you two!" he yells at them, but is genuinely happy for his friend enjoying his dog form without second guessing himself. 

He idly picks at the grass, observing them and dodging Buckley's shitty aim, wondering how he would feel if he could shift to a creature loved by everyone and with simple needs and ways to express himself. It sounds freeing, but he likes too many things his opposable thumbs can do, like playing the guitar, petting a dog, or playing fetch. 

Does Steve have things he needs his thumbs for? Is he still playing basketball? Maybe Eddie could teach him the guitar. Or Maybe Steve just needs a healthy balance between human and animal treatment. 

Eddie is so preoccupied with his thoughts, that the next ball Buckley throws boinks right off the side of his head. 

Steve skids to a stop in front of him, eyeing the skittering ball like prey, but in the end, jumps up to Eddie and starts licking at the sore spot, while Buckley yells her apologies in the background. 

"Okay, okay, I'll live! It's just a flesh wound!" he laughs, while Steve's hot tongue is ruining his already questionable fringe. The dog boops his cheek with a cold nose and goes to pick up the ball. Eddie takes it as his clue to stand up and fix himself up a bit.

"It pains me to say it, but I guess it's our sign to get back to work," he sighs, dusting off his knees. Steve shows up next to him, eyes huge and the ball between his teeth. "Nuh-uh, man, we can play more later. We gotta finish the yard today so we only have the food to worry about tomorrow."

Steve huffs, the ball falling from his mouth with a sad thump, but he walks away towards the house, bumping Robin's leg on his way to the back door. While he disappears inside, Eddie jogs up to her. 

"Hey," he says again. "I'm trying to help Steve out of his funk." 

Robin raises her eyebrows. 

"How?" she crosses her arms. 

He suddenly feels uneasy, shifting his weight while trying to give his theories and plans shape. There's no one better to talk it out with than Stev's best friend, so he pushes through. 

"Well, he likes how we treat the dog-him, so I think we should treat him more like that on a daily basis. You know, scratches, praises, and shit," he looks up at Buckley hoping he doesn't sound completely insane. "So he likes being human a bit more."

She hums, glancing back at the house.

"You're right," Robin says to his surprise. It's not something he hears often. "Though I think it works best with you."

"What do you mean?" he asks with a frown. 

But she waves him off, turning to where Steve is emerging through the back door wearing loose sweatpants and with his hairy chest on display. 

"Robs!" he greets his friend with a grin, gathering her for a side hug that quickly turns into a friendly chokehold. 

Eddie hopes Buckley can sense his menacing glare despite their roughhousing.

Tags: @noodle-shenaniganery @jaytriesstrangerthings @imaginary-maggie-waggie @samsoble @croatoan-like-its-hot

@dragonmama76 @storyranger @scoops-aboy86 @ollyxar @estrellami-1

@stevesworldxx @ajeff855 @live-laugh-love-dietrich @thelittleclare @wheneverfeasible

[bloodykora]

Hellooo. I am here to hurt everyone's feelings. This is a Viktor x reader however it will spoil season 2 act 1 so! Make sure you've seen that before reading this.

No use of y/n and its gender neutral!! It is angst but I hope y'all enjoy

Vik Masterlist

The gathering sat in circles around him. A barren scrap yard that had been used for shimmer addicts now brimming with a new hope.

These people, his followers were waiting for something. And you had no clue what but you felt relief seeing him on his feet.

It was a surprise reaching the lab after taking the break Jayce insisted on, just to find out Viktor had woken up and left. Thinking about it made your blood boil again. Storming out the lab to find the man who had awoken. 

It was off putting how quiet everyone was. They didn't dare to bother him, instead waited patiently until someone may be called up or spoken to.

The outer rings of the formation had people without cloaks on, their backs and bodies looking almost completely normal until a spot. A scar? All the same scar but in different places. Some up the arm, or from their spine up the neck, swirling around the side of the back. 

You stand there, far back enough to not been by anyone. Not yet decided on what your actions should be. Would the mob try to stop you, would he? If he had pushed Jayce away then who is to say he won't do the same to you.

He shifts, catching your attention immediately. Out reaching his hand, or at least what you assume was a hand. From the distance it just looked like a purple shape, perhaps gloves or something to keep him warm. You could see make out the shape of his cane but, it didn't seem he was as dependent on it as before. 

A person stands to their feet, approaching Viktor and taking their hood off. Your view of him is obstructed, curious on what is happening before shocks of bolts come from the pair. Wind now whipping out from them as well, you can see the stranger's  body beginning to light up with purple.. energy? Then a halo like ring appears, winding around and you can't even describe the pattern within it. 

The rest of the members seem calm but intently watching as it happens. It finishes with a flash of white light making you close your eyes. You blink before returning your sight to them, the stranger now standing taller. Their hood now removed, skin bright and healthy, each hair placed almost perfectly, and that same scar. You could just make it out. 

You hear the thud before you see him falling to the ground. Your instincts now taking over as you flee from the hiding spot. Your feet seem to be so loud, adrenaline pumping in your ear as you run past all the hooded figures staring at you. 

“Viktor! Viktor.” Yelling to him as you approach, his head tilts up to the sound. His hand holds him from hitting the ground, hands, fore arms, shoulders running even past that purple. But not skin. There was no skin. 

You drop to your knees right in front of him, scooping his face into your hands. It was the only part that seemed to be left of his flesh. Your thumb rubs his cheek as you stare at him.

“What happened? No, why did you leave? I was so scared that I wouldn't find you or you'd be hurt or worse. Why did you leave, you need to be checked out. You shouldn't have left, I can take you back okay? We're gonna go back and and!” You gasp in a breath, tears brimming your eyes as you shake your head in semi-shock. 

His hand reaches up to one of your own, he doesn't stop staring at you but his brows furrow for a second before beginning to shake his head. 

“I am staying here. I have work here to do.” He pulls one hand of his head, still holding it with the hand not on his cane.

“Don't, no. I am not Jayce. You are coming home and we're gonna fix this.” His eyes, you realize they weren't golden anymore. They were like an opal, white and pale hues like pink and blue along with it. 

“I have no connection there, I am needed here. This is where I'm staying.” A small puff of frustration pounds through your chest at his stubbornness. 

“You have your apartment up there and me and all your work. Your books and and, you have to make sure that stray has her dinner.” He removes you from his body and stands, without speaking he makes it clear he has no intention of following you. You small head shakes become bigger, tears now threatening to spill down your face, cheeks heating up in anger. 

You can't think or breathe, confusion overtaking most of the thoughts in your brain. Pushing off the ground with your hands, rising onto your feet in front of him.

You're breathless for a few seconds still in disbelief about what was happening. 

“Where is my husband?” A whisper from your mouth, mostly to yourself before deciding to repeat yourself. 

“Where is my husband, where are you?” Viktor's face still stays calm at the outburst, not cold yet unattached. His eyes hold no debate behind them, no trying to decide, no emotion. Flashes of him go by, memories of deciding which tarts were the best for morning meetings or nights you curled on the couch beside him while he stayed up writing notes, everything you knew of him. Everything that was Viktor. 

Now seemed non existent. 

“Go home.” Tears streaming down your face, shock and betrayal littered your face. 

Defeat. 

[emmylksblog]

COLD NIGHT // Héctor Fort

summary: A tough week left you battling insecurities, and it all came crashing down during your boyfriend's celebratory dinner with the team. based on this request

genre: angst, comfort

warnings: anxiety

a/n: i feel like I’m getting worse at writing lately, and it never seems like I can fully capture what I imagine, especially since english isn’t my first language. I’m really sorry for that, and I truly appreciate everyone who’s been reading my fics—your support means so much to me! i also hope everyone is doing well with everything that’s going on in Spain and, especially, with the heartbreaking situation in Palestine. stay strong and take care of yourselves. Stay healthy! ❤️

It had been a tough week. Ever since your relationship with Héctor was made public, you’d been walking on eggshells. The pressure to keep up appearances weighed heavily on you, everyone seemed to want to know who the footballer’s girlfriend really was.

Of course, you’d gained haters instantly, and at first, you thought you could handle it. But all it did was add even more stress to your life.

Héctor noticed how distant you’d been with him lately, and he hoped that bringing you as his plus one to the team dinner would help things go back to normal.

As you walked into the restaurant with Héctor, you felt eyes on you from every direction. You tried to ignore it, putting on a small smile as you greeted his teammates and their partners. The noise and energy around the table were comforting, but a knot still tightened in your chest.

Sitting down beside Héctor, you tried to blend in, watching everyone else talk and laugh. Héctor’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. He leaned closer, his voice soft, “You doing okay?”

Forcing another smile, you nodded, hoping it would be convincing enough. But Héctor didn’t buy it.

It felt strange trying to interact with Héctor the way you used to. None of this was his fault, but now, with everyone watching, you just couldn’t act like before. You didn’t want him to worry though, so you brushed your thumb gently over his hand.

“I’m really okay, don’t worry,” you said softly, your eyes fixed on your hands resting together in your lap.

He watched you closely, not entirely convinced, his thumb grazing your knuckles as if reassuring you he was there.

Héctor wasn’t ready to let it go. He shifted in his seat, positioning himself so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching yours with a playful seriousness. 

When you looked up, he raised his eyebrows up and down quickly, making a silly expression that instantly drew a laugh from you. You nodded, feeling some of the tension ease as you held his gaze, grateful for his little attempt to cheer you up.

You felt a wave of warmth spread through you at his words, the tension in your chest finally starting to ease. His touch, so simple yet comforting, made everything feel a little less overwhelming. 

"Thank you," you whispered back, your voice barely audible over the noise of the room. You could see the concern still in his eyes, but his smile never wavered, and that was enough to make you feel safe for the moment.

He kept his hand on your cheek for a few seconds longer before letting it fall, but his presence beside you felt like a quiet promise. No matter how much the world outside tried to pressure you, he was here, grounding you.

Now feeling more at ease, you joined in the dinner, even getting involved in conversations with some of the players' girlfriends nearby, who turned out to be really kind.

Their easy smiles and friendly questions helped you relax, and soon enough, you found yourself laughing along with them, the tension from earlier slowly fading away. 

Every so often, Héctor would glance over at you, his eyes soft with relief at seeing you more comfortable. 

Dabbing your mouth with a napkin, you reached for your bag and gently tapped Héctor on the shoulder, letting him know you wanted to head to the bathroom. He immediately offered to come with you, but you shook your head with a small smile. 

“Alright, just be careful,” he said, his eyes full of quiet concern. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

You slipped into one of the stalls, grateful for a moment alone, when the sound of two girls talking loudly caught your attention. Their voices grew clearer, and you quickly realized they were talking about you and your relationship with Héctor.

"I just don’t get it," one of them scoffed. "I mean, have you seen her? She doesn’t belong with someone like Héctor."

The other girl laughed, clearly amused. "Right? He could do so much better. She’s just... so basic, like some lowly girl who got lucky. I bet she just clings to him because she knows she’d be nothing without him."

They kept talking, each comment feeling like a jab to your chest. "I give it a few months, tops. Héctor’s too good for her, and he’ll figure that out sooner or later." 

You stayed silent, holding your breath as the hurtful words sank in.

The happiness you’d felt just moments ago plummeted, sinking deep into something cold and sharp in your chest. A tight ache formed there, squeezing painfully as their words echoed in your mind. You could feel the sting of tears building, threatening to spill at any moment, and suddenly, every harsh comment they made seemed all too true.

You felt like absolute trash. Each word they’d said chipped away at the fragile confidence you’d built up tonight, and the doubts you’d tried so hard to push down now roared to life, making you question everything.

You’d been telling yourself the same things all week, those same cruel doubts replaying over and over in your mind. But somehow, hearing it come from strangers—spoken out loud without a hint of hesitation—made it feel painfully real. It cut deeper, each word like a confirmation of every insecurity you’d been trying to ignore.

Wiping away the few tears you couldn’t hold back, you exited the stall with quick, abrupt movements. There was no way you could stand another second listening to that crap. You pushed the door open, not caring if they noticed the expression on your face, and stepped back into the hallway, determined to leave that negativity behind you.

You did everything you could to hold back the tears as you walked back to the table, trying to act like nothing was wrong. The last thing you wanted was to worry Héctor any more than he already was.

You’d noticed how closely he’d been watching you all evening, alert to every little shift in your mood. This past week, you’d been distant, and he obviously knew something was up, but he hadn’t pressured you to tell him anything. 

As you approached the table, you forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to keep him from noticing the cracks starting to show.

The moment you sat down, Héctor’s hand instinctively found its way to your leg, a small gesture meant to ground you. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but he could see the faint tension in your eyes, the way you seemed to be holding something back.

Without a word, his thumb gently traced soothing circles on your knee, hoping it would bring you even a small bit of comfort.

You pulled Héctor's hand off your leg, your body tensing with an unfamiliar mix of emotions. After what you had overheard in the bathroom, you didn’t know how to feel anymore. You couldn’t look at him, afraid he’d see right through you, so you kept your eyes down, your chest tight. 

Héctor's face fell as he noticed the sudden distance between you two. His hand hovered for a second before resting on the table, unsure. He could feel the shift, the unease in your every movement. His voice cracked slightly as he asked, “What’s wrong? Please, talk to me…”

Those words were your last straw. You could feel the tears starting to burn your eyes. You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The sudden motion caught the attention of the other Barça players, their eyes flicking between you and Héctor, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get out.

Héctor didn’t hesitate for a second. He grabbed your purse and rushed after you, calling your name, his voice urgent. “Hey, wait up!”

Once outside, the cold night air hit you, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to fight the chill in more ways than one. Héctor caught up with you in seconds, his hand gently but firmly taking yours, stopping you in your tracks. You looked up at him then, eyes red and face twisted in confusion, frustration, and hurt.

"Why won’t you talk to me?" Héctor's voice was soft but desperate, like he was afraid he was losing you. "What’s going on, please..."

You didn’t answer right away, just staring down at the ground, the weight of it all pressing down on you. Slowly, you brought your hand up to his arm, fingers tracing the tattoo you’d memorized so many times in the past when anxiety gripped you.

It had become a soothing ritual, something that calmed you when everything felt out of control. You hadn’t done it in a while, but now, it felt like the only thing that could help you breathe.

Héctor’s face softened as he watched you, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. Whatever it is... we’ll figure it out, together.”

You took a deep breath, finally meeting his eyes, and everything spilled out—the hurt from the whispers, the insecurities you’d been battling, how you felt like you didn’t deserve him, like you were never enough.

Héctor listened without interrupting, his hand never leaving yours, and when you finished, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” he murmured into your hair, his arms strong around you, grounding you. “You’re everything to me. Don’t listen to what anyone says. You’re more than enough. You’re my enough.”

You held onto him, your body trembling but somehow calming in his embrace. The cold didn’t matter now; just the warmth of his touch, the softness of his words.

Héctor leaned back, looking down at you with a small, gentle smile. “Come here,” he said, before pressing his lips softly against yours, sealing the promise in a kiss that spoke volumes.

You kissed him back, letting everything fall away in that moment—your doubts, the voices, the pain. All that was left was him, and you. Just the two of you.

[peterman-spideyparker]

The Great War (Babe Part 2) (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! At the risk of forgetting to post part two, I'm doing it now! Like I mentioned in the first post, it's only a part two if you want it to be--you can just have read Babe and leave it at that, but this is just more idea to go with it that I couldn't stop my brain from working on. Enjoy! :)

Summary: It's been almost a month since you left Matt. Everything hurts, and you're doing what you can to get through. Foggy calls, and it turns out Matt's not doing much better. For the first time, you have no idea what your future with Matt Murdock looks like.

Listening rec: The Great War by Taylor Swift

Warnings: ANGST, Matt and reader are separated (Matt cheated), they’re both heartbroken at the situation, swearing, fighting/shouting/anger, throwing, Matt grabs reader (NO VIOLENCE, but the Devil of Hell's Kitchen pokes out), depression (mention of the word "borderline suicidal" in reference to season three Matt), Matt being reckless, lots of crying, drinking

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson

Word Count: 2,820

Before you can even say a feeble hello, Foggy is already speaking. “Matt’s devastated,” he breathes. 

You’re hurt. Offended, even. You left because of what he did in California, and he has the audacity to feel sorry for himself? “And I’m not?” you say, probably with more venom than appropriate. “Goodbye, Foggy.”

“Wait, hold on!” You don’t know why you don’t hang up, but you stay on the line. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t the right way to start this. How have you been?”

“I’m awful, Foggy. My marriage is done, my heart hurts, I’ve lost the man I love . . . I’ve never been worse.”

“(Y/N) . . . I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Fog. All this is between me and Matt. It’s why you called, I’m guessing? Get all the answers for what exactly happened between us?”

“That’s between you guys. It’s none of my business or anyone’s. I’ve already ripped Matt a new one for doing what he did, and so did Karen and Frank, but he’s . . .” He stops and lets out a sigh. “Do you remember hearing from Maggie what Matt was like after Midland Circle? Despondent, depressed, borderline suicidal?”

Of course you remember, how could you ever forget? You’ve never seen him like that in your life. But the term “borderline suicidal” makes a pit grow in your stomach as you straighten up.

“He hasn’t tried to—?” you start to ask. 

“No, no, that was shitty wording on my part. But Matt’s not himself. It’s like watching a hollow corpse with a temper move about. He either doesn’t care at all, or a little thing will set him off. He’s being reckless on patrol, he’s drinking more than he usually does. I’ve been covering for him at the office, but . . . You need to talk to him.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheek. “I can’t, Foggy.”

“(Y/N)—.”

“He broke my heart, and I broke his in return. I stomped on it. I love him and I hurt him. If I talked to him . . . That’s salt on the wound for both of us.” More tears stream down your face as you think about it. “We both vowed not to hurt one another. H-He hurt me, but he wanted to fix it. I hurt him and don’t have that same courage to try.”

“Try now,” Foggy pleads. “Try now, help one another. Even if it’s for the last time.”

“O-Okay,” you say before you can realize it.

Foggy breathes a sign of relief. “Come to the loft.”

The loft. The scene of the crime.

You breathe a quiet confirmation before you hang up, taking time to mentally prepare yourself before you grab your purse and leave your sister’s place to talk Matt off whatever ledge he’s currently perched on. 

It’s a short trip, and Foggy meets you in the lobby of Matt’s building. He pulls you in for a long hug, and you actively tell yourself not to cry. 

“He’s that bad, huh?” you sniffle.

“Yeah,” Foggy sighs. “I’ve never been for him like this before. It’s like he’s not the same person.”

“I know what you mean,” you say quietly. “I haven’t felt like myself since that day.”

Foggy looks at you with a crestfallen expression, and you give him one more hug before you make your way up to the loft. 

Your key still works—you’re afraid if you knock, he won’t let you in. Hell, he probably heard you turn the block on your way here and wouldn’t answer out of anger or annoyance. Your stomach churns when you see Matt sitting in the chair. He’s in sweats, his posture is curved, his hair is disheveled, and he’s growing a thick beard. Beer bottles are on the table in front of him mixed with trash.

“Matt?” you breathe, but he remains unmoved. As you move closer toward him, he sits there like a statue, not caring to look your way. “Matt, it’s me.” Still, he doesn’t gaze your way. 

Putting your purse in its usual spot, you make your way over to him in the chair, gently cupping his face in your hands to tilt him up toward you. You suck in a small breath when you see the bruises and cuts on his cheeks, nose, and chin. If this is what his face looks like, you can only imagine the other injuries that his clothes are hiding.

“Matt,” you breathe. “What happened?”

He just closes his eyes in shame, starting to turn. You don’t let him, though, bringing his face back to center.

“Matty,” you plea. “Matt, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“You’re not my sweetheart anymore,” he finally says, and it burns like acid. You deserve it—you gave it just as good to him when he came back from California. “And I’m not yours.”

“We didn’t sign any papers yet,” you breathe, trying to lighten the mood as you hold back your own tears. “So, legally, I am.”

Matt peels back from my touch like he’s getting out of an itchy sweater. Okay, you deserve it. You deserve all of it.

“Matt—.”

“You left,” he spits. “You left just like everyone else, even when you swore you wouldn’t.”

You sit back on your heels. It hurts, but it’s the truth. “I did.” He turns back toward you like he’s shocked you actually admitted it. “I didn’t try to hear you out, and I’m sorry. I should’ve. It was . . .”

He turns toward you, ice in his blind gaze. You’ve never seen Matt like, this, and as he starts to slowly rise from his chair, it’s the first time you can say that you’ve ever been afraid of him. 

You spring to your feet as well, trying to at least keep things on the same level posture wise. 

“Now you’re trying to make things better?” he growls low. “You’re the one that tore it up in front of us. I wanted to stop the breakage, but you readied the wrecking ball. This shit is your mess. It’s like this because of you.”

Now you start to get mad. “Oh, just me? Any breakage that was the breakage that you started. Those images and videos were circulating for two whole days before you came home. I didn’t hear a single word from you—a ‘good morning’ or ‘I’m boarding my plane’ or otherwise. You just showed up here expecting it to all be fine—.”

“You don’t get to assume in this,” he grits, the space between you dangerously nonexistent as one of his hands tightly grab on to your wrist.

“Yes, I can. There’s two people in this mess. I’m saying what it seemed like on my end,” you say, your heart thundering in your chest. Matt wouldn’t hurt you—he’d never do that. But with how his hand is on your arm and the mood he seems to have been in since you left, you’re not entirely confident in that statement anymore.

“You never really knew a damn thing about me, did you?” he frowns. “You just kept a version of Matt Murdock in your head and lived with it this entire time, huh?”

“Maybe I did. Because this isn’t the Matt Murdock I came over to talk to. This is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. So, if you’re gonna let the Devil out, let him out on me, Murdock. Do your worst.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he threatens, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth. 

“No. I came here to talk, and that’s what we’re gonna—.”

Before you know it, his hand is off your wrist, wrapping around the neck of a beer bottle before he whizzes it past your head like a threat. You flinch, moving to cover your head before the bottle leaves his hand, and you remain curled as the glass hits something behind you, knocking it over as they both crash to the ground. You slowly turn to see what was caught in the crosshairs—the beer bottle had hit a picture frame, knocking it down off the side table and breaking it. You can tell by the shifts in his body language he immediately regrets it, his shoulders slumping as tears start to sting your eyes. You notice he starts to take a step toward you out of the corner of your eye, but you’re on the move toward the broken picture frame. One of the pictures from our wedding.

Huh, you think. How fitting. 

You lower yourself to your knees, carefully picking it up and looking at how your faces were beaming with nothing but joy, how you held onto one another with love . . . and now how it’s the opposite. How you’re broken. You wouldn’t look at him the day you left, and he won’t look at you know. You curl over the photo, freely weeping on the pile of glass. You just want it things to go back to normal.

You hear Matt pad softly over to you, squatting as if he wants to put a hand on your back to soothe you, but he backs away to let you cry. Tears pour out of you like a geyser, a constant flow down your cheeks as you sit alone in the living room. Maybe it was an accident that he hit the picture, but his senses are so sharp . . . maybe he did want to hit it. Maybe he was trying to prove a point. Maybe he wanted to show you that by you leaving, you were the one who put the final nail in the coffin of your marriage.

Maybe he really doesn’t want you anymore. Maybe he stopped wanting you before he went to Los Angeles. Maybe he stopped wanting you a long time ago.

You’re still crying when you hear Matt come back over toward you. Through your limited vision, you watch him clean up the broken glass from the bottle and the frame. It takes him a few trips, but it’s eventually all cleaned up. He leaves again before walking back toward you, holding out a box of tissues. With a shaking hand, you grab one and wipe at your nose, desperately trying to calm yourself. 

“This is my favorite picture of us from our wedding,” you sniffle. “This is what I would grab if I could only take one thing from the loft in an emergency. This would be it. And now . . .”

You can’t finish your sentence, just weeping uncontrollably in your little ball on the floor over your two deepest treasures—this photo and your marriage. Shattered. 

“Angel . . .” Matt says so softly, so tenderly, you almost forget that your life has essentially imploded.

“This is all my fault,” you cry, spiraling, trying to trace it all back to you, your actions. The big explosive things all seem to have their root in something you can place back to yourself. Matt slept with someone else, but it goes back to something you did— you had a short attention span and a bit of a short fuse before he left because a bunch of shit at work that kept piling up, and you knew he was frustrated . . . how much he hates planes. You egged him on. You did nothing to help, and when he left to go to California, he found someone who understood him in a way you couldn’t. You need an answer for this, and that seems to be it.

“This is my favorite picture of us, and it’s all my fault,” you sniffle, repeating what you said earlier, your chest burning from the tears and hyperventilation. 

“It’s just a picture—,” he starts to say softly.

“It’s not just a picture,” you weep. “This, us, it’s all my fault. We’re broken because of me. This is all my fault.”

You hear Matt pad softly over to you, squatting down and taking the picture from your hands, putting it on the arm of a nearby chair before pulling you in for a hug. All you can do is sob against his shoulder as he holds onto you. 

“This isn’t because of you,” he tries to soothe, sounding like he’s about to cry as well. “It . . . It was my poor judgement, it was my shortcomings that did this. You’re in the flaming wreckage, and it’s not fair.”

“I just want things how they were,” you sniffle. “I want to come home. I want us to be okay.”

Matt’s silence is terrifying. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt rage like that. Darkness like that,” he says softly. You feel a tear fall from his cheek to the top of you head. “Shit, I grabbed you . . . Fuck, I’m so sorry. I-I would never—(Y/N), please—.”

“I . . . I,” you start. He’d never hurt you. For all his anger, for all his strength, Matt would never hurt you. But when you’re facing off with the man that patrols the streets? The man that brought down Wilson Fisk not once, but twice? You just didn't know. 

“I scared you.” Tears are flowing down his cheek. “I could hear your heart race . . . I knew you were scared and for a moment, and I didn’t care. It’s like I wanted you to be scared, and I liked it. I was glad you were scared of me.” He sounds disgusted with himself. “You really thought I was going to hit you.”

“I did. For a moment,” you admit. It catches in your throat, but there’s no use in lying if you’re trying to fix this. 

Is that what you came over to do? To fix this? 

He lets out a long breath, slumping to the floor. “What happened to us?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” you say. And it’s the truth. You don’t really know how you got to this point. Yes, you know why you walked out, but it’s like there were the small hairline fractures in glass—so fine that you couldn’t see them—and then a hammer came down on it and a million little pieces was left in its wake. But how he sounds . . . you know that tone. When it’s been a rough night on patrol, it coats his words like sap—he’s going into a dark headspace, and when he gets too far in, it’s hard to get him out, and you need to get him out. You move around to carefully sit next to Matt, putting a hand on his forearm. You can feel a thick bandage on his arm before you can process that he winces, so you move to slide your hand in his. 

“I know you’d never hurt me,” you breathe. “I know you’d never lay a hand on me like that.”

“But I did, though. If I added more pressure, I could’ve snapped your worst. It would have been easy for me to do.” You see him swallow the lump forming in his throat, his own self-hatred inflating at a dangerous rate. “I was full of rage. You were scared of me.”

“I’m scared of all of this,” you admit, your voice small. “What’s happening to us. How it’s effecting you and me. We’re . . . We’re not ourselves. I-I don’t recognize either of us. I don’t like it. I want things back how they were.”

“But they can’t go back.” He sounds broken, hollow—just how you feel. 

“Are . . . Are we too far gone?” you ask just above a whisper, terrified of the answer. 

“I don’t want us to be.”

You hang your head. “I haven’t been sleeping,” you admit. “It doesn’t feel right without you, your arms around me.”

He places a gently hand on your chin, lifting your face up and wiping tears off of your cheeks before pulling you in for a hug. It feels like warmth. Like love. “I can’t sleep in the bed. It smells like you, and with you gone . . . I just patrol all night.”

It’s like when you think your heart can’t break any more, it does. “I still feel so upset, but, I feel hollow more than anything. Like part of me is missing.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I-I’m so sorry.” He kisses the top of your head. “I should’ve listened, I shouldn’t have left like that, but I was just so upset. I couldn’t be around you without feeling like screaming or crying or both.”

“We . . . We can get through this. Can’t we?”

You think about it. Is this something you can do? You’ve been through worse— you’ve seen him near death more times than you would like, you’ve seen how the toll of Daredevil and the stress of being an attorney wear him down. Even the debate on how we should bring up our children should you choose to have them strained you both. But your happiness, your life together, it’s bigger than your low points. It has to be.

It has to be. 

Right?

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[peppymintdreams]

pickle comes back home injured after meeting with a client

Who did this

Isaac Rhoades x Pickle

Pickle comes home hurt and Isaac is not having it

The door creaked open, and Pickle slipped inside, trying to be quiet. Each step sent a sharp pain through their side, and they winced, clutching their ribs as they closed the door behind them. They hoped Isaac hadn’t heard that they could make it to the bedroom before he noticed anything was wrong.

“Pickle.” Isaac’s voice cut through the quiet, low and dangerous. He was already standing in the hallway, eyes fixed on them with a sharp, intense gaze. It wasn’t a greeting it was a demand.

Pickle froze, instinctively straightening, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through their ribs, and they winced again. “It’s fine. Just a meeting that went south, nothing to worry about ”

Isaac was in front of them in an instant, his hand gripping their chin with a tight but controlled force, tilting their face up so he could inspect them. His eyes darkened as they roamed over the bruises, his jaw clenched. “Fine?” he hissed, his voice cold and edged with anger. “You’re bleeding, Pickle. What part of this looks fine to you?”

“I can handle it,” Pickle muttered, trying to pull away from his grip, but Isaac’s hold tightened, his fingers firm on their skin. He wasn’t letting them brush this off.

“You can handle it?” His voice was low, filled with a quiet fury. He released their chin, but his eyes never left them as he spoke, his anger barely restrained. “You think coming home looking like this is handling it?”

Pickle felt a pang of guilt, but they refused to let it show. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

Isaac laughed, but there was no humor in it just frustration, cold and biting. “Drag me into it?” He took a step back, running a hand through his hair in frustration, pacing the room like he was trying to keep himself from losing control. “You don’t get to make that decision, Pickle. Not when it comes to your safety.”

“I didn’t expect things to get out of hand,” Pickle said softly, trying to diffuse the situation, but it only made Isaac angrier. His pacing stopped abruptly, and he turned on them, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and something deeper fear, possessiveness.

“You didn’t expect it?” Isaac growled, stepping toward them again. “You went into a situation that could have killed you, and you didn’t think to call me? You didn’t think I’d want to know if you were in danger?”

Pickle opened their mouth to respond, but Isaac was already moving, grabbing their shirt and lifting it just enough to expose the bruises and the blood-soaked side where the cut was still seeping. His eyes darkened further, his anger boiling just beneath the surface.

“Take it off,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. There was no room for argument, and Pickle obeyed, pulling off their shirt with some difficulty, the pain making it harder than usual.

Isaac’s eyes scanned their injuries, and his jaw clenched harder, his fingers hovering just above the bruises as if he couldn’t bear to touch them without making things worse. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, but filled with an icy, controlled anger. “Who did this?”

“It was just a client,” Pickle began, but Isaac cut them off.

“A client,” he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. He stood abruptly, his anger spilling out as he paced again. “And you went to meet them alone. Without telling me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you, Isaac. I can handle it.”

Isaac spun around, eyes blazing. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was sharp, full of anger, frustration, and something more possessive. “You think you can just waltz into dangerous situations, get yourself hurt, and I’m supposed to be okay with it?”

Pickle stared at him, unsure how to respond. Isaac’s protectiveness had always been intense, but this, this was different. There was a darkness in his expression, a possessiveness that felt like it could consume them.

“I should never have let you leave the house,” Isaac muttered, more to himself than to them. He ran a hand through his hair again, pacing in tight, agitated circles. “I shouldn’t have let you go without me.”

Pickle felt a chill run down their spine. “Isaac, you can’t lock me up.”

His eyes snapped to theirs, the possessiveness in his gaze more intense than ever. “I can’t?” His voice was quiet, dangerous. “You come home to me bleeding, bruised, and you think I’m just going to let you keep putting yourself at risk?”

“I’m not a prisoner,” Pickle shot back, trying to stand their ground. “I can take care of myself.”

Isaac stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, his presence looming. “Clearly, you can’t.”

Pickle flinched at the coldness in his voice. Isaac’s hands came to rest on their shoulders, and his grip was tight, his anger barely controlled. “You’re mine, Pickle. Do you understand that? You belong to me. And if you think I’m going to stand by while you walk into danger, you’re wrong.”

Pickle’s heart pounded in their chest, torn between fear and comfort in his intensity. They knew Isaac’s anger came from a place of love, but this this was more than just protectiveness. It was possessive, controlling.

Isaac’s hands softened slightly on their shoulders, but his eyes never wavered. “I don’t care what you think you can handle. Next time, you call me. You don’t go anywhere without me.”

Pickle opened their mouth to argue, but Isaac silenced them with a look. “I’m serious. If something happens to you...” He trailed off, his voice thick with the anger he was trying to suppress. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not again.”

His hands moved to cradle their face, and he leaned in, his forehead resting against theirs. “You don’t get to put yourself at risk, Pickle. Not without me there to protect you.”

Pickle swallowed, their voice barely a whisper. “I understand.”

Isaac’s breath was warm against their skin, his presence overwhelming. “Good,” he whispered, his voice still filled with that dangerous possessiveness. “Because if anyone else tries to hurt you, they’ll regret it.”

Pickle nodded, feeling both the weight of his words and the depth of his love for them. Isaac’s protectiveness was fierce, consuming but it was also grounding, wrapping around them like an ironclad shield. They weren’t sure how to feel about it, but one thing was certain: Isaac would never let them go.

[orbleglorb]

tumblr in the blaseball universe, part 10

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

image descriptions: the first image is a thick black bar meant to separate posts. the second image is a thin gray bar meant to separate reblogs. they are used continuously throughout the post when appropriate. like right now

☎️ official-jessica-telephone 🔁

☎️ official-jessica-telephone

what happens if the real JT wants this URL. it's a part of me now. who do i become if i have to give it up

🐟 offishal-jessica-telephone Follow

she'll have to krill you for it

☎️ official-jessica-telephone

WHO ARE YOU

102 notes

☕ eyesinthedark11

every day with salmon weather for the past few months, my dad has miraculously "found" fresh salmon for us to have for dinner. should i ask him where he's getting it from

#personal #i know the answer. i just need the verbal confirmation

0 notes

Whoops, looks like this post doesn't exist!

🐍 gamer--gorgon

shoutout to the guy (who i think might be in our shadows?) that goes fishing during every salmon game. you should see if you can get anything from the floods

#if he's a shadows guy it's extra funny because he's gotta come up from new jersey #all the shadows share an apartment there #charla said she thought she knew him but every time she tries to get into the stands to talk to him he just disappears lmfao #i get it king. i really do

41 notes

☎️ official-jessica-telephone

what do you MEAN they're rebooting supernatural???

35 notes

☕️ eyesinthedark11 🔁

☕️ eyesinthedark11

i understand that this is ostensibly a terrible thing to say but i truly do not think parker macmillan did anything wrong. if my mom was the coin i woulda done worse. i wouldn't have only been passively killing

🦆 peripheral-duck

everyone wants to act all gifted kid burn out fleabag mommy issues #coquette #girlblogger but the minute mommy decides murder is okay if it gets her some money it's all "well why didn't PARKER do anything :/" you fake fucking bitches. bro got cursed to bring destruction in his wake and THEN cursed to wander everywhere. we're not going to question that??

☕️ eyesinthedark11

if the coin was my mom i would have burned the whole earth years ago. not even because of firewalker or anything i woulda just done that

#like you are looking at mommy issues supreme. you show some fucking respect #<- PREV #on one hand it feels really weird to say these things about a Real Guy who is possibly still alive #on the other hand. you fake bitches #if you've reblogged a fleabag quote i don't wanna hear shit from you #'maybe the fireballs didn't know what instability was' valid point! #but that does not mean they're not at fault. you know #idk why everyone expects parker to just. fix everything. #if he's in the vault then he's been 19 for like 50+ years. he suffers more than jesus

5 notes

🐶 catgirlfirefighter

it's somehow the league's best kept secret that mike townsend is deaf. people keep coming to me like, "idk how you're friends with the guy, he just ignored me, he's such a dick" bro he can't hear you. and also yeah he is a huge bitch

#right judgement wrong reason #mike if you're reading this. ily <3

112 notes

🦞 marketplace-shellfish

Hey has anyone heard from that guy who was making the "meatcute is not real and can't hurt me" affirmations recently? I can't tell if it's a bit or not but they haven't posted since.

#blaseball #san francisco #san francisco lovers #hopefully it's nothing and i'm just anxious lol

11 notes

[arcane-ish]

I'm basically the opposite of a JayVik shipper, but to me the scene felt too short not because it should have been more emotional but because I feel like an audience I don't know what Viktor's deal is and why he's leaving.

I don't think that it's a big deal that Viktor is unemotional because I assume that that is the influence of the void/hextech thing that is changing him from the inside.

I kind of don't like how season 2 so far makes pretty much no effort at all to be self contained. It just assumed that everybody remembers everything from season 1 rather than laying out the characters emotions more. Becuse I feel like generally Viktor's story was pretty muted and small in season 1 in the later acts.

He was vaguely against hextech, he was upset about Skye. Okay, how does this relate to what he's feeling now. I'm trying to picture some things that would have "solved" the scene to me. Not in "I wanted an emotional shippy scene", but in "I wanted to understand why Viktor is doing the things he's doing".

If we had a scene of encased Viktor from his POV that makes it clear that he hears and understands everything that is going on around him and he's not happy with somethign Mel or Jayce are saying.

Or maybe the Void was whispering to him. Or if the Void was giving him visions of Skye and void!Skye is telling him what to do.

I think if we boil it down, the big shift of Viktor leaving is not really "zomg, Viktor is breaking up with Jayce", but it's more that when Jayce shows Viktor the notes he made, he probably expected Viktor to go back to studying them.

And studying stuff was a bit personality trait of Viktor's in season 1, so him turning his back on "this should be investigated" is a big shift.

That shift could have been explained by a more emotional reaction. If Viktor had blown up at him and gone basically "you fool, you keep trying to do the thing that brought us into this mess".

I think that's the big shift. That

1.) Viktor is turning his back on science/Piltover 2.) Viktor doesn't think Jayce can be persuaded

Now that isn't really that out of the ordinary. Viktor did his hextech experiments without letting Jayce into it and he also kept the whole Skye thing from him.

So, is there a reason to why Viktor is going to the Undercity?

Ie: I don't trust Piltover anymore, I tried to fix things here and everything to worse anyway, it's not worth it anymore.

or: More science is wrong, it made everything worse, we should be doing faith now.

or: I got lost in sciencing for Piltover and instead I should be with the people who suffer the most. My perspective was wrong.

But IF there is reason to it Viktor doing what he does, the assumption would be that he would express this in his conversation with Jayce more clearly. Either to try to convince Jayce or just to let the audience know.

If his reason is important enough for him to leave, then it should be important enough to state it in an argument. If Jayce matters to him then he should have made an effort to argue his point to Jayce and see if he can be persuaded.

But that's not what happened. Viktor just says their paths diverged. So from an audience point of view, what is that supposed to mean.

Jayce first distanced himself from Viktor by seeking fame and politics. A story where Viktor things that Jayce has been moving further and further away particularly with their disagreements over weaponizing hextech he's at a point where he can't be reasoned with.

But didn't Viktor also distance himself by his secret hextech research? And we know he feels guilt over Skye. In a situation where two people are in the wrong, that would lead me to expect a more emotional argument. (a more muted argument makes more sense in a world where Viktor never did anything wrong and it was just "you betrayed me thrice [abandoned the lab for fame, moved towards weaponizing hextech, continued making hextech against my wishes, put me in the hextech to keep me alive when I didn't want that], I'm done now, you are beyond reaching").

The other approach is that there is no good, logically arguable reason to why Viktor is acting like that. That he's having an impaired judgement, either because the Void/Hex is influencing him and directing him or supporessing his emotions, or because he's being depressed.

There's this theory that he's a paralllel to Jinx with the whole "I was supposed to die and now I'm aimless/kind of chaotic". The thing is that with Jinx we are more accustomed to associating her with mental problems. With Viktor this is new. If Viktor is acting highly unusual (unusual because the hextech is affecting his emotions or unusual because depression) then I would have expected Jayce as a friend to argue over that. Some "what's wrong with you, you aren't being yourself".

I admit, JayVik was low on the totem pole on stories that interested me in season 1 so it's possible I missed things.

As a viewer, I feel like I'm not sure what I'm supposed to get from this. What exactly Viktor's problem is and why walking around the undercity in a cloak if supposed to help with whatever his problem is.

Again, I can deal with "he's aimless, reeling, just like Jinx", but in that case I would have expected Jayce to bring that up in a "you are being weird and off".

In my longer reaction post I wrote that to me it feels like Jayce was kind of in all stories, so to me it didn't feel like he was that emotional over Viktor, because he sort of "did his job" in the Viktor storyline in that scene and then immediately moved to the next storyline with Heimer/Jayce.

Jayce feels like his mind is all over the place (again, having time to visit Caid and build her hextech weapons, squabbling with Heimer and Ekko). As a non shipper, to me it just felt like JayVik wasn't really that high on his priority list. To me it felt like him realizing stuff about The Arcane (including the mini reference of to his childhood) felt like his most important moment.

I guess that this could feed back into Viktor and Jayce if that makes Jayce go "oh, I was wrong when I said hextech wasn't that dangerous". But on the other hand, given the trajectory of the games I would expect Jayce to continue making dumb choices and/or keep being torn between different loyalties (ie still being pulled into Mel or Cait's stories).

Maybe Jayce's next step will be to think he can science his way out of the whole "The Arcane is pissed and/or poisoning everything" and that is the core of his folly?

Is my conclusion to be that Viktor realized that and that's why he went away. But if the conclusion is "hextech is bad and we were wrong to underestimate it", then how exactly is Viktor's "I'll become part hextech and infect other people with it" any better?

I guess the conclusion could be "once they were idealist and then both of them made terrible, boneheaded choices". But as a viewer I have trouble liking this story the summary of it is that they are both being dumb.

Now in theory we could say we have this in Cait and Vi as well. Cait sliding off into violence and superstition, Vi becoming self destructive in the fighting pits. But in that story the show actually takes it time and botheres to give scenes to try to explain the emotion beats of Cait's slide into doing bad/dumb/counterproductive shit.

I just don't see this same quality there with the choices Viktor makes leaving me at "why should I care if they do weird stuff". Very "We got "idealistic person slides into doing things that are a very bad idea" at home".

I didn't like this scene much because I felt it left me unclear about what Viktor's motivations are. And if the motivation was supposed to be "the hextech is influencing him", then I would have liked to see a "what's going on with you" from Jayce, not as a shippy thing, but purely as a signal to the audience thing that still makes sense for the relationships these characters have.

And don't get me started, yeah, these characters live in a world of magic, but Jayce still took it exceptionally well that his friend is now 90% hexcore. Like wouldn't "you aren't being yourself" be kind of the logical first step?

I guess maybe to everybody it's obvious that Viktor going Jesus sheppard is a terrible ominous idea, but I genuinely feel unclear what I'm supposed to get from it. Is "The Arcane" piloting Viktor because it has a plan to fix itself and so it's sending him to the undercity to take people over? Did it divorce Viktor from his emotions and it's causing him to make odd choices based on his old interests? I don't even mind that we don't have the answers yet, but shouldn't then the tone of those scenes be more ominous in a trying to guide us to ask these questions? I dunno, the vibe of the whole story feels off to me, putting it on the bottom pile of stuff I liked or cared about in Act 1.

I think there's still potential for irony or tragedy there (maybe Jayce comes to the conclusion The Arcane is bad just as Viktor comes to the conclusion no it's great and I should put it in everybody putting them again on different sides, or maybe Jayce will just stubbornly dig himself deeper trying to science his way out). Or Jayce will just keep being in different storylines and leave that storyline keep feeling undercooked to me.

im going to say something slightly mean which is that i think there is an imagined aspect of jayce and viktor's relationship that the audience is projecting onto them that actually is not supported by the text itself and that imagined facet is the reason people think their parting is rushed more than the issues with the actual show's pacing 💀

like i do think some of what jayce actually SAYS in that scene feels kind of clunky and unearned and sorta tropey, not because of who jayce is, but because it feels like they had to cut some interstitial tissue for the sake of time constraints, but even if they hadn't had to i cannot fathom that scene being extended more than like....a minute. like what kind of argument are they going to have that wasn't the one that actually transpired?

i think it's pointed that viktor is weirdly emotionally stunted and icy after he was such an impassioned person in s1 and he said everything there was to say anyway, just with a colder affect. i guess jayce could have said "hey viktor wait" like. one more time lol but in general if you take everything we have presented by the text on its face their immediate falling out could never have been that long a conversation because there isn't actually that much to argue about. jayce did what he thought was right and what is the normal human thing to do (broke his promise to save his friend that he loves and cares about) and viktor did not want him to do that. which is literally what they said to each other. very directly.

also it's like...supposed to be cold and sad. i don't think viktor is going to be the sole big bad of the show but i do think that the whole point of what we've seen so far in act i is that the arcane is inhuman and strange and kind of hard to understand and viktor has been partly absorbed into that and jayce is still very very human and full of all his hopes and ideals and therefore not able to grasp the arcane's true nature yet. a like. screaming lover's spat or whatever was not going to happen given the narrative positions that these two characters occupy. it doesn't even happen really between the two characters who are actually lovers — cait and vi have an somewhat equivalently long (so pretty short) moment of disagreement before cait hits vi in the stomach and leaves. anything else would have felt like fanfictiony and cheap imo

[jasonsbruce]

[pyr0man1c]

“I could fix him” okay? I could fuck him?? It won’t take away the rage and resentment but idk man maybe he had a good time??

[villruu]

me: this is a hurt/comfort fic, alex won't have too much of a bad time

also me: [puts him in The Situation] [puts him in The Situation] [puts him in The Situation] [puts him in The Situation] [puts him in The Situation] [puts him in The Situation]

[acourtofquestions]

Dont be angry, Finnula said. Be smart.

[dandyshucks]

seeing ppl say that theyre going to kiss and hug all his trauma away makes me insane bc thats so not how it works 😭😭😭 not to be "u don't understand him like i do" but CMON... that sort of trauma doesnt work like that.... its not a "romance fixes everything" situation.... and i know half the time ppl are just being somewhat silly and not actually serious but i just get so irritated w the trope of "just get into a relationship and it'll fix all ur trauma :]" bc its EVERYWHEREEE

[dutybcrne]

@strdstd replied to your post:

{...Pyro Boothill thinkings are being thunked-}

👀

[lesbianlanarcher]

just think about it, okay ––– 

sterling wakes up from his coma, three years of his life gone, he'll never get that back, so he tries not to dwell on it. nor does he wish to dissect his dreams because thinking back to those lives he made up is dangerously close to introspection which he is adamantly against. so, he shifts focus, tries to acclimate himself to whatever his life is now. being alone sucks, sleeping with random women sucks less but that doesn't last, drinking makes him feel worse but he's not ever giving that up for anything. doing everything he used to before is pointless and, plainly, nauseating. he needs people, he’s realised... he needs to feel grounded, needs to hear laughter, needs to be in the centre of a crowded room, needs to feel real again or just feel something again. but he doesn't have many people he can call on to help him out. a stripper isn't gonna solve his problems, bartenders have heard it all before, no one wants to level with him; new york does not care. who's left? his friends, distant colleagues, these people he was forced into a working relationship with all those years ago, the people who have known him the longest, whatever he fuck they are too – they aren't there either.

who does sterling have to help him out when he needs it most? who does his mind go to purely out of instinct? who does he crave when he knows he shouldn’t? who can make him feel both shittier and lift his spirits at the same time? who is unlike anyone else? who will he always want?

~

“Lana.”

He shouldn’t be doing this.

“I bet you’re busy with that... that... creature.”

But he wants to.

“That bald fuck.”

And he always gets his way.

“Stupid prick.”

He takes a swig of... something. Some random bottle that was hidden right at the back of the drybar because he’s already drowned himself in everything else. 

“Or you’re still ignoring my calls.”

It’s been hard adjusting to a life without Woodhouse. Well, it’s been hard adjusting in general. But Woodhouse not being there anymore is the perfectly slick cherry atop the shitheap that is his turd cake of a life. So, it feels apt. 

“Which is a shitty thing to do. You know, I just got out of a three-year coma? A coma? You know what one of those are?”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows he deserves everything he gets. He’s stacked up a lot of bad karma, it was bound to catch up to him at some point. He just didn’t expect it to feel so... crushing. And he definitely didn’t think his punishment would be this lonesome either.

“Yeah, you know. You just don’t care.”

He thought everyone would be falling through his apartment door to spend time with him, ask him how it felt to be in a coma, show some form of interest in his return. 

“And, I mean, why should you?”

It never came. 

“It’s not like, hah, it’s not like we have a child together or anything.”

And from her? Nothing. Not a word. He spewed his guts, heart, lungs, intestines, everything... confessed to her at that gala and... nothing.

“Oh, wait, my mistake. We don’t.”

He tried - fuck - he tried to tell her everything he could. Everything he should have told her the very second he knew she was the only thing in his life that held any sort of value. Everything he was capable of saying without choking on the words, without gagging and wanting to throw up, he said it. 

“Because she doesn’t even know me. AJ doesn’t know her father.”

But it wasn’t enough.

“Because you replaced me.”

It might not ever be enough.

“Everyone replaced me. Me.”

His words won’t ever be good enough for her. 

“Like I never fucking existed in the first place.”

Words are all he has now, as empty as they may seem. Saying it wasn’t easy. Confronting that part of himself, the part that craves and needs and wants her is akin to torture. And Sterling knows torture well. What he doesn’t know is how he can prove that any more; how he can prove himself to her. He’s wronged her in the past, sure, but that doesn’t take away from the fact he loves her. Can’t she see that? That he fucking adores her. That he would do anything for her, that he would die in less than a heartbeat for her, he would give everything up for her to kiss him again.

“Maybe that’s what you all wanted, though? Maybe me being in a coma was the best thing that ever happened to everyone? Maybe...”

And she’s never said it back to him, not once. Perhaps in her actions, like he’s told her again and again just what she means to him, but she has never told him directly. Never said the words. No one has. Not in a manner that means anything substantial, anyway. 

“Maybe you should have just pulled the plug.”

Perhaps no one is capable of showing him that affection he so sorely needs. Katya could have... He thought she might have been the only one to rival Lana, the only other woman who could keep him distracted and occupied, but even that was tainted and turned against him. Like most things. Ruined.

“What was the point of keeping me alive?”

So, he figures he’s not meant for it. To be loved. Not meant to be shown that side of life that comes so, so fucking easy for everyone else.

“If I was gonna come back to this? What was the point, Lana?”

He has wealth in an over-abundance, any woman - or man - he wants he could probably get, and endless supply of liquor. He has it all. Doesn’t he?

“You don’t have to give me any real answers,” He laughs, abruptly and slightly manically, “You probably won’t even listen to this,” then, takes another swig of whatever bottle is dangling limply from his hand, “Good, don’t. Save us both the embarrassment. Right? Just ignore it. Like everything else. Ignore me.”

He doesn’t bother to disconnect the voice message, just tightens his hand around the phone until he can feel the muscles in his arm scream out in pain. Fucking nerve damage. Incensed even more, he hurls the device across the room where it smashes against the wall and falls to the floor, partially shattered. 

Another apt metaphor, he thinks, the bottle back to his lips, feverishly sucking from it like he’ll get what he needs when he reaches the bottom and drains it. 

The truth is, he never will.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

[cncbb]

Jamie Muscato Heathers the Musical JD I would do crimes with you

[themyscirah]

Started thinking about the Amanda Waller + Ben Turner relationship again.... fuck, I'm gonna need a minute