ruby wednesday

Oh my god thank you I have been saying this the whole tiiiiime

ilya would never admit to this because it would betray a weakness to his soul that would be unforgivable in the eyes of his father and therefore in his eyes too but there is a part of him that fantasizes about getting his bell rung and everyone comes to his hospital room and tells them how much they love him and how sorry they are that he’s hurt and the doctors come in and tell him that they did a scan and found the cause of what’s wrong with him and they fixed it and they can’t believe that he had that and still managed to be best player in the league so now he’ll be unstoppable and then of course when he does actually get a bad injury on the centaurs and he’s high on painkillers in the hospital and shane comes in and is talking to him like he’s a dog about to to be put down ilya starts crying and can’t stop until shane is out of the room because he doesn’t want shane to see him like that and it doesn’t matter how far he is with galina or how secure their relationship is the fantasy of shane coming in and taking care of him utterly crumbles around ilya when it actually happens.

i refuse to read shane/scott or ilya/scott because i’m fundamentally opposed to scott hunter but not like because he offends me just because i cannot imagine anything more boring. shane and ilya are my good friends and thus i am happy to read about them. scott hunter, i don’t know that man and furthermore i don’t believe there is anything to know about that man. you can’t fool me. i know a husk when i see one.

and there were no nice men in montreal? i don’t know, probably…. i never even looked. how could i look away once i’d seen him. he and i are so evenly matched.. what makes you think i’d want just anyone? you don’t even know how intertwined we are… if i look back through the years, there he is. all of my most vivid memories from the past decade have his fingerprints all over them, if you really looked, you’d see. he’s in my throat, in the muscle of my jaw, along my spine, pressed into the skin of my inner thigh like a bruise. he’s in my eyes, even. you’d see him there, in the back of my mind, always present. not that you’d look that closely. not that you’d be able to recognize him, if you did. you don’t know him like i do. no one else would do — he’s it. yeah, he’s sort of an asshole, but he’s a good man. he has a good heart, i promise, you’ll find out in time. nice is nothing.

ever since I was little I knew I wanted to dedicate my formative years to imagining fictional scenarios