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stylesispunk · 6 months

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"I couldn't want you anymore" | part 7

Artist! Joel Miller x Florist! Reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next

summary: when Sarah's mom comes back into Joel's life to fight for their past relationship, Joel needs to convince her he is in a happy relationship with the florist next to his gallery in order to make her go away. The problem is, that he and the florist can't stand each other's guts or that it's what he thinks.

warning: age gap (Joel is 36 and reader is 28). Remember that "Bee" is the reader's nickname, angst as always, fighting between our two main characters + smut, and fluff.

a/n: Hello! Chapter 6 is here. First, I want to thank every one of you for reading and reblog and comment on my story, it makes my heart happy. This chapter is shorter than the last two, but is a chapter I had to rewrite 3 times because, but I didn't like it at all, but I hope you do a little bit at least? haha. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated and please share your thoughts with me, I love reading from you No proofreading so I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes. Happy reading. 💌

masterlist

It's been two weeks since your last visit to Joel's place. It's been two weeks since you showed up on his doorstep, angry and broken because you blamed him for wrecking your plans to move on and start a new life, and two weeks since he kissed you.

Two weeks, and Joel had started to become crazy because of your radio silence.

He had thought that after your emotional outburst, you would simply need time to think, hoping that you would return sooner and ask him to try, for real this time.

After three months of not having you that close, he had replayed every moment of with you, every touch, your eyes, and the taste of your lips. He had poured his heart out to you, declared his love, and yet your response was requesting time to consider his intentions.

He feared you were tired of him, and the accident's wounds didn't hurt as much as his heart. He was recovering faster, yet his emotions were pained.

He recalled the night he crushed your heart, thinking this is exactly how you felt when you said "I love you" and he failed to respond the same back. For him, the irony of pain was how badly you wanted to be comforted by the one who hurt you, but now it was you who wasn't there.

The longing for you got stronger as the days passed, and it became increasingly difficult for him to sit still and wait for you to reach for him. Joel acknowledged that your silence wasn't completely a rejection, but he was afraid that the distance you were creating might shatter what was left of your story.

He didn't want you to become a memory; instead, he wanted to create memories with you.

"I think she's being unfair to Joel," Tommy said over dinner, seeing Sarah, Lily, and Joel's gaze on him.

"Why do you mean by that?" Lily asked, defiantly

"Joel told her he loved him, wasn't that what she wanted?" he inquired.

Joel threw his brother a cautionary stare as Lily scoffed.

"No, no, it wasn't. She didn't stay because of him."

The weight of the conversation was pressing down on Joel. He was aware that everyone around him were concerned about him, but at the same time he hated how everyone had a say about you and him, not knowing what really was involved.

"It's not like he forced her to stay," Tommy continued.

Joel's irritation was rising, and he felt the tension between his brother and Lily; after all, she was your best friend, and she would defend you from everyone.

Joel pushed his plate aside, feeling that he was in an endless cycle of emotional limbo as he lost his appetite. All he wanted was to have you back in his life, but that was a decision only you could make, and it was driving him insane.

"Can you both stop?" Joel interfered, his voice firm. "I don't need you two fighting over something that was my mistake."

Tommy and Lily fell silent, their expressions softening with concern. They exchanged a glance before Lily spoke, her tone gentler now. "Joel, Tommy is worried about you. We can see how much you're hurting."

Joel nodded, acknowledging their concern. "I know. Thanks for looking out for me, but this is something I have to figure out with Bee. If she needs time, I'll give her time, even if it kills me”

Tommy, understanding his brother's feelings, nodded in agreement. "You're right, Joel. We'll be here for you, no matter what."

Joel appreciated their support, but he couldn't help but wish that you would break the silence and give him some clarity about your feelings. The uncertainty was becoming almost unbearable.

Joel continued going back to the moments you'd had, your most recent overwhelming argument, and your decision to take some time apart. He wished he could break the stillness and tell you how much he loved you. He wasn't just driven by the desire to fix his mistake; he also wanted to repair a relationship that had been harmed due to his commitment.

He felt more anxious with each passing day, his longing for your presence almost unnerving. The gap between you required to be filled with understanding, trust, and reconciliation.

He'd been on edge for days, spending his days recovering from the accident, alone when Sarah departed for school, with only a painful silence echoing in the back of his mind, waiting for any sign from you.

When the doorbell rang one hour later, he felt a rush of hope running through his body, thinking that maybe you had finally come to him to talk things through. He rushed to the door and opened it, only to find you standing there with a serious expression and small envelope in your hand.

"Joel," you said before he had a chance to say something "I've come to give you this."

He was taken aback, expecting an emotional talk rather than a monotonous tone leaking through your voice, indicating an absence of enthusiasm.

You didn't even look like yourself; you were painted in grey shades.

"What's that?" he asked.

You handed him the envelope containing the money he had paid Connell for your shop behind your back "I don't need anything from you, Joel. Not your pity, not the idea that you own me because you bought my shop. I can take care of myself."

Joel's face contorted with an array of emotions as he was taken aback by your words. "Bee, it's not about that. I—"

But you cut him off, your frustration evident in your voice. "Joel, you can't just buy something I love, throw your money at my back, or kiss me and expect everything to be fine." You won't be able to buy your way back into my life."

He struggled to hold back his anger in the midst of your stubbornness any longer. "I'm not attempting to bribe my way in, Bee. I thought I was showing how much I cared, how much I was willing to do to in order to make things right."

Your eyes were filled with rage. "What?" you ask. "You thought that once I found out you were the one buying my shop, I was going to run back to you?" "That I was going to be over heals for you?" you hit him in the chest.

Joel's rage and pain welled up within him. He tried to narrow the gap between you and make amends, but every step he took appeared to push you farther away. In an outburst of rage, he cried out, "What do you want from me, Bee?" "How long will it take for us to get things right?"

You shook your head, the annoyance clear in your voice. "You can't expect grand gestures to fix everything." It takes time, effort, and faith to repair what has been damaged."

"All right," he said, taking a step closer to you and leaning in closer. "If you despise me that much, leave!" "Leave as you said you were going to"

You stared at him agape, your own anger rising at him. His words stung.

Joel's remarks had hurt deep, and you couldn't deny that you had been holding resentment and rage. But his closeness, his intensity, made you feel weak "Maybe you want to go back to what we used to be, all the fighting, all the cursing," he whispered in your ear, "Maybe you loved that."

The harsh tone of his words caught you off guard. Your feelings for one other were a tangled knot of love, anger, impatience, and hurt.

You were drawn in by his dark gaze, and you cupped his face firmly feeling the warmth of the skin beneath your fingertips. The rage remained, but beneath it was an obvious spell that kept you together.

"Shut up," you commanded, your stare locked on his, his lips inches from yours, his breath against your mouth.

"Make me," he challenged you, staring you in the eyes.

Joel's dare hung in the air, challenging you to break the distance dividing you, to let go of your rage and fury, and eventually give in to the magnetic pull that had always been between you.

You crashed both of your lips with not a single word, going into an intense kiss. It was laced with desire and frustration against each other, the climax of all the tension that had been building over the weeks you were together once and three months apart. Your lips moved eagerly together, each of you pouring all of your feelings into the kiss.

And now that his arm was healed, he clutched your hips and push you against the door, without intentions of stopping devouring your mouth in this hungry kiss. Your arms found their way to his neck to tangle into his locks, and Joel groaned into your mouth.

"You fucking idiot," you muttered between kisses, but he bit your bottom lip to silence you as his hands moved from your hips to your bum and to your waist, drawing you closer to him. His lips started kissing your neck until they found your mouth once more, you whimpered against his mouth.

His hands found the gem in your top and yanked it off. He'd spent the last three months longing to see you like this again, and now he was on cloud nine.

"Bedroom," he whispered softly, not breaking the kiss.

Once you stepped in his room, you were lying on your back with him on top, taking your lips back to his again.

You placed your arms around his neck and opened your legs so he could go closer to you, moaning at the sensation of him against where you wanted him most.

"This doesn't mean anything," you whispered as he ground his hips against yours, sending electricity running through your body.

"Shut up," he said, and you chuckled, grabbing his pants.

"Make me," you said, with a smirk on your face just like he did minutes ago.

He groaned into the skin of your neck, yanking his jeans and underwear off. Your gentle grasp on him caused him to whimper.

He drew you closer to him by your hips as you continued to devour one other, his hands going under the denim skirt you were wearing.

You knew this was bad, that allowing him to do these types of things with you was a show of weakness, but you couldn't stop the joy and the dazzling fireworks traveling up to your lower stomach were stronger than your thoughts. You were utterly out of breath, and you wanted him so bad it ached that you felt your lungs would catch fire.

You couldn't really comprehend what he was saying on the skin of your chest because your mind was consumed by the overwhelming desire to have him as you needed right now.

He paused kissing you and spreading kisses on your chest for a moment to gaze at your parted lips and your chest rising and falling as a result of him, and he couldn't lie, he felt proud of his lasting control over you.

"Are you going to keep looking or are you going to f-"

You couldn't finish before he snatched your lips back, dragging you around his waist and grinding himself against you, making you moan against his lips. With such want, you could feel the aching growing up between your tights.

"You don't seem so mad at me right now, do you?" he huskily whispered in your ear, making your knees weak.

Before you could fire your retort, his fingers teasingly pulled your underwear down, careful to avoid where you wanted him the most. He seemed to be having a good time and enjoying every second of you squirming under him. Your head fell back to the bed, a gentle but irritated murmur from your lips. When he saw your reaction, he smiled, and you felt the delicate touch of his fingers stroking across your core.

"Oh," you whimpered, out of breath.

His soft lips caressed every single area of your skin on your chest, just over your red bra, with an agonizing slowness that made you insane and roll your eyes of pure pleasure. The one he unhooked with one hand so swiftly you gasped, a sound drowned out by the sensation of his lips over your nipples while he continued to pound on you at your core.

He greets you with a laugh, his cheeks exposing his dimples, and his eyes shining at the sight of you.

"Stop teasing, you idiot," you grumbled.

He sucked on a nipple, causing your back to arch as he gripped your hips to the bed before meeting your eyes, absorbing every inch of your face lost in the joy of the moment, stroking your checks with his thumb.

As he grabbed for a condom from his bedside table, you grip the gem of his t-shirt to remove it, leaving no barrier between the two of you.

He moved between your tights, spreading them apart once more, and welcomed himself into you. You hadn't had him since that night when you confessed to him, and he felt even bigger than you remembered, and you both gasped when he began thrusting inside. He pushed his forehead against your neck, kissing you softly over the skin.

"You're amazing like this," he said into your ear, "God I could just-"

He could complete it since he focused solely on making you pleased picking up his pace and thrusting quicker. He was completely inside you, feeling like he was breaking down your defenses as he pushed it on and on. You were out of breath, and all the air in your lungs didn't feel quite enough. You bucked your hips, allowing him to move even more quickly. And that's exactly what he did, giving you everything you asked for.

As your nails left red lines on his naked back and he thrust his hips harder into you, you could feel the heat spreading all over your body, like diesel meeting fire, causing an imminent explosion.

You struggled to breathe, but it didn't matter since the surge of ectasis he gave you was enough to make you feel alive. His finger traced the patterns over you, leaving hot flames all over your skin, and you clutched him, trying to appreciate this closeness before it was ripped away.

And he continued to rock into you. The sounds you both produced were completely hot, forcing your blood to rush into your checks as you continued to toss your head back to give him permission to mark the skin of your neck.

"Fuck you," you said in ecstasy,

"you’re doing it, love" he retorted.

You grasped for his hair to hold him tight against your lips, kissing the warm skin under his ear as if you wanted him to hear you, panting for air, feeling your climax come so close that you trembled against his body. Not long after, your world spun around you, and you tightened your grip on his waist, feeling the release as you cursed in his ear, forcing him to release after you. His push grew sloppy, sending small sparks up your tights, till he came to a halt and you saw a delicious sight.

He kissed your temple for a few seconds longer, enjoying the sweat drips on your skin. Finally, you looked into his eyes. His brow eyes' delicate brightness sent thrills down your spine, leaving you with a lump in your throat.

Joel chuckled as he caressed your warm face, his touch on your skin radiating affection. All of the tension and resentment that led you to have sex before disappeared into the void.

"You don't have to go anywhere," he leaned in, his lips brushing against your brow. You're exactly where you should be."

You closed your eyes, appreciating his proximity and the soothing sound of his voice. “How can I trust you?”

Joel's lips lingered on your forehead as he replied, his words filled with sincerity, "Because when I hold you like this, it's where I find peace and meaning, Bee. I was a fool not to see it then. It took almost losing you to realize I'm in love with you."

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, everything seemed to align. The honesty in his confession left you breathless. The anger, the passion, and the pain you both had shared had led you to this moment, where the love you had for each other was undeniable.

Your heart ached at his words "Joel, it's not that simple. There's so much we need to work through, so much we need to rebuild."

He nodded, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. "I know, Bee”

Joel rested his forehead against yours, enveloping the both of you in comfortable silence.

“Can you give me my clothes, please?” You asked breaking the atmosphere

With a heavy heart, Joel nodded and reluctantly pulled away from you.

He moved to take your clothes from the ground of his bedroom and handed them to you. The air between you felt charged. The lust, and passion you felt for each other leaded you to crossed the line once again, this time, being the anger, the main feeling holding you together.

“You don’t have to go now, you know that?” he pleaded,

You avoid looking into his eyes, you knew you were weak for the man and you could fall for his words.

“I know, but I need to” you answered, as you quickly dressed, convincing yourself, you didn’t want to give yourself so easily to him again.

"Can you give me my clothes, please?" You spoke, breaking the comfortable silence between you two.

Joel nodded, involuntarily breaking away from you, with a heavy heart.

He took your clothes from the floor of his bedroom and handed them to you. The space between you now felt tense again. The lust and passion you had for each other drove you to cross the boundary once more, but this time with fury as the main feeling holding you together.

"You don't have to go now, you know that?" He begged,

You avoid looking into his eyes because you know that you were vulnerable for him and you might be persuaded by his words.

"I know, but I have to," you replied as you hurriedly dressed, assuring yourself that you didn't want to give yourself so easily to him.

Joel sat there silently watching you, his eyes full with love and need for you. He knew what had just happened was fueled by rage and desire, and that didn't mean you were okay with him. It would be difficult to repair your connection.

You turned to face Joel as you finished dressing. "I need some time, Joel." Time to reflect, heal, and figure out where we stand."

“It was good by the way” you addressed smiling at him, referring to what you’d had “But it doesn’t mean I want to be with you right now."

With those words, you made your way to his bedroom door.

“And what was that back at the hospital when I got into the accident?” he asked before you left, “Would you rather for me to be dead or what?”

You came to a halt as his words impacted you like a punch in the gut. You turned back to face Joel, your rage returning.

"That's not fair, Joel," you replied, your voice shaking with emotion. "You know I would rather die than lose you like that".

"Then why are you so scared?" he questioned, reaching for you once more.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you struggled to fight the oncoming storm of emotions. "Because I'm not just afraid of losing you." I'm afraid I'll lose myself again. "I'm afraid of getting hurt." You let out a sigh. "You led me on back then, how can I trust you again?"

Joel took a step closer, his voice desperate. "I promise not to hurt you again, Bee." I've learned from my errors. Give us a chance to make things right."

You shook your head, unable to find the appropriate words. "Joel, I need more than promises. I need time for healing and rebuild trust. That is a process that cannot be rushed."

Joel sagged his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair, clearly distressed. "I'm at a loss for words, Bee. I love you and will do everything for you."

You took a step back, putting distance between you two. "Joel, love is more than just saying the words. It's all about showing it through actions."

You turned and walked away from Joel, leaving him with a broken heart and a need that mirrored your own.

You had taken refuge in your own peace a week later, evaluating your alternatives in all facets of your life. What were you going to do with your work, yourself, and even Connell, since despite his assurances that he would never hate you, you own him more than you realize.

And on the opposite side, there was Joel. He had expressed his love for you, but you had learned that words are insufficient in this instance. You knew it would take time to reestablish confidence. But as time passed, you couldn't help but miss him even more than you did the first time. He had a tremendous power over you. The times you spent together, the laughter, the shared moments, and how he taught you to fall in love again.

You remembered that night at the gallery when he showed you the drawing he had made of you. When he first caressed the skin of your body, leaving his mark on you.

Deep down, you knew that love was a tricky and imperfect emotion that didn't always follow a straight line. Despite your concerns, you wished to give Joel another chance.

A knock on the door broke through your thoughts. You jumped up from the couch, cautiously approaching the door. When you opened it, you were surprised to see Lauren standing on your porch. She looked concerned, her gaze avoiding direct contact with yours.

"Lauren, what are you doing here?" "How do you know where I live?" you wondered. Your tone was a mix of surprise and curiosity.

Lauren took a big breath and looked you in the eyes. "I need to speak with you. "Can I come in?"

You hesitated for a second before stepping aside and allowing her to enter. She entered your living room and sat, her posture eager and apprehensive.

You joined her on the couch after closing the door behind her. "What's this about, Lauren?"

Lauren looked at you, her eyes searching for understanding. “I know our first encounter wasn’t friendly, and I want to apologize. I’m truly sorry for the way I acted”

Lauren's honesty in her eyes was not lost on you. You were afraid she was coming to tell you she was now with Joel, which could break your heart.

Lauren continued "And I'm really ashamed of this but I think you should forgive Joel"

You took a big breath, unsure what to say. Lauren's apologies caught you off guard, and you were at a loss for words. "I appreciate your apology, Lauren," you said after a little pause. It means a lot to me." "But Joel isn't a topic I want to discuss with you," you said timidly.

"It is," she replied. "I know you weren't together. He told me."

Your pupils dilated, and you couldn't help but feel embarrassed.

"And yes, at first I wanted to be with him," she admitted. "I wanted my family back, but it's too late now." And I have to thank Sarah for accepting me back into her life after what I did, but Joel? will never love me again."

"Why are you so sure?" you questioned, your tone tense.

"Because he has been in love since the beginning."

"The eyes, he had been looking at you with such adoration, neither I had those eyes looking at me like that."

You were out of breath, and a knot formed in your throat.

"No, that's not-"

"You love him too," she said, "and let me tell you something, the years I lost with Sarah?" I'm not going to get them back. So, if you and Joel truly love each other, don't waste more time."

Lauren's sudden comments stunned you while also leaving you conflicted. Her apology for her prior behavior was a step toward peacemaking, but her admissions regarding Joel and his sentiments caught you off guard.

You paused before responding, your mind racing, "I'm not sure I want to get hurt again."

She nodded in agreement, and he dug inside her purse for something, that turned out to be a journal.

She nodded in understanding, and then he reached for something inside her bag for something, it was a journal.

“I stole this from Joel. I think you should take a look” she laughed, giving the journal to you.

“I just don't want to see you both miss out on something beautiful because of fear or doubts. Life's too short for regrets."

You looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. "I need time, Lauren, to figure things out and heal. I'll consider what you've said, though. Thank you for your apology and for your concern."

Lauren smiled warmly at you “Good luck” she said.

You couldn't help but stare at the book in your hands as you saw Lauren leave your house.

The journal she had given you caught your curiosity, and you couldn't stop yourself from opening it to find out what was inside.

You started flipping the pages, knowing it was Joel's journal. The entries spanned several years ago, from the years you arrived here, and reading them made you feel touched by the depth of his feelings and the journey he had been on. The pages were crammed with his ideas, hopes, and dreams, many of which were centered on you.

Joel had written about the day you two first met and the times he had spent with you, but it was the drawings of you that grabbed your attention.

"The pretty florist next to my gallery looking at her flowers"

"The florist in her environment, framed by a floral tapestry."

"The pretty florist, a captivating muse for my brush and canvas."

All of the entries were from the last four years.

However, the most recent one, from a year ago,

"the florist who stole my heart"

And you realized Joel had been loving you long before you had feelings for him.

a/n: Okay, so you know things may get better between them...

tags 💌: @joeldjarin @borhapparker @fatima-marisa @kirsteng42 @paleidiot @harriedandharassed @runningmom94 @pedr0swh0r3 @ssacharcoalgrey @missladym1981

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iwillgiveyoumyhappiness · 2 years

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Secret relationship getting accidentally revealed trope with cix?

Byounggon: Everyone knows, but they silently and unanimously agree not to say anything. It's impossible for him to hide the way he looks at you, so everyone was pretty quick to catch on.

He always takes care of you first, he remembers all the little details, and he smiles brighter when you're happy.

At first, they theorized he had a crush on you, but that idea was thrown out the window the moment Jinyoung caught you two sharing a sneaky kiss in the hallway before Byounggon had to run out unexpectedly in the middle of your movie night.

Still, everyone just decided to give him a break and let him tell them when he was ready. In their eyes, he deserved the reprieve.

Besides... You were both happy. What was the harm?

[Rest under the cut]

Seunghun: For sure he was tryna get frisky with you and got carried away. You're just too damn sexy, okay? It's not technically his fault.

"C'mon, we have at least an hour," he'd say, trailing his hands up and down your sides. "Live a little, huh?"

You'd give him a suspicious look. "I don't know... It feels risky."

He leans in, kissing right under your ear. "It is risky," he whispered. "But you're kinda into that, aren't you?" He could feel you falling apart under his hands, which he considered a win.

A few breathless kisses later, your shirts were gone and he had you pinned against the wall, sucking dark marks into your neck. In the midst of the heat between the two of you, you didn't even notice the bedroom door open until you heard a gasp and a pile of clothes hit the floor.

Seunghun's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he saw a shocked Yonghee standing in the doorway with his hands covering his eyes. Seunghun pulled you behind himself to shield you. "Yonghee," he started, clearing his throat. "You didn't go to the radio show?"

Yonghee swallowed hard. "No..." he started. "God, I was doing laundry! Were you so horny that you didn't even notice me?!"

Since the cat was out of the bag now, you decided to just tell everyone when they got home. Everyone was pretty accepting and welcoming, but I'm sorry, I don't think your relationship with Yonghee will ever be fully mended :') He gets PTSD every time he looks at you.

Yonghee: Read here

Jinyoung: He's like a kid in a candy shop when you both have a free day and he's finally able to take you out. Even through his mask and bucket hat, you could tell by his eyes that he was donning the biggest, cheesiest smile.

"What's got you smiling like that, boy?" you chuckled.

He squeezed your hand tighter. "You," he said without hesitation. "It's usually you."

You couldn't help but return the smile. "Jinyoung, it's just a Starbucks."

"Yeah, but it's a date!" he said, the excitement in his voice bursting through the air like a firecracker. "A normal date, like normal couples have, and it's not at 3AM! I haven't been this happy in ages."

You looked at him, completely agree utterly endeared. "I'm glad you're excited," you said.

At the chain cafe, it was even harder for him to keep his joy under wraps. You'd just finished ordering and you were waiting for your names to be called, and he was just sitting there, staring at you with this lovestruck grin.

You could feel your cheeks heat up. "You've really gotta be more subtle," you chuckled. "I'm excited too, but the fact is, we're out in public, so if anyone recognizes you, we've gotta have plausible deniability. Pretend you're not crazy about me for two seconds," you joked.

He shook his head. "Impossible. Besides, I don't think we really have to hide it anymore."

You raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Hyunsuk already knows," he shrugged. "Which means the whole world will know before too long."

Your eyes widened. "Hyunsuk knows?"

He nodded. "He texted me right as we got here. Said he was at the bus stop and he saw us holding hands. Said we were cute together."

You hid your face in your hands. "God, this is so embarrassing... This isn't how I wanted this to happen." You looked up again. "What'd you say to him?"

"Told him he was right and thanks," he said, shrugging again. "Honestly, at this point, I don't care. I love you so much that it’s getting more stressful to be secretive than to be public." There it was—that killer smile. "I just wanna love you out loud."

Well, damn... How could you say no to that?

Hyunsuk: "I love you," he giggled softly into the phone as he laid on the lumpy hotel bed. "And I miss you so, so much. I wish you were here so I could just—"

"Who're you talkin' to?" Byounggon asked, drying his hair with a towel after exciting the bathroom.

He let out a surprised squeak, jolting upright and almost hitting his head on the headboard. "Uhh... Hyunyul," he lied. Apparently unconvincingly, because he was met with the most judgmental expression.

"That's a very romantic way for you to talk to your little brother," he said. He pointed to Hyunsuk's unlocked screen. "Kinda weird for you to have him saved as 'My Girl❤️', too."

Damnit... It was always his big mouth that got him in trouble.

"Hey, (Y/N)," he muttered quietly into the receiver, complete with an awkward chuckle. "I'll call ya back.”

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yn-dreamlife · 3 years

Text

Don't Think Anymore

A/N: School can get stressful and I know that, so have a short little comfort blurb I made, hopefully it'll help even just a little. Tbh this was going to be a bunch of filth but... idk.

Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x reader

Description: your boyfriend can see how stressed you are so he wants to comfort you

Warnings: fluff, hints at a bdsm relationship, reader bites there fingers, more fluff

Your eyes stared ahead blankly, the thoughts no longer truly processing as you stared at your thesis. Your dissertation paper, one of the most important things you’ll write your whole college career. And you were dreading every moment of it.

Today was one of your longer days, starting at 5 a.m and only ending at 7 p.m. Not that you had class all day. But you had been working all day. Doing class work, trying to finish up homework, and then going back to this stupid paper.

And once you had gotten back to the apartment you shared with your boyfriend you hadn’t gotten up from your desk. You had planned on spending only 15 minutes to write down a few thoughts, but when Shota walked in three hours later you hadn’t moved. Not. One. Inch.

“Babe? I’m home!” He had called placing his shoes on the rack by the door and hanging up his coat, he had dropped his briefcase prepared to have you jump into his arms and greet him like you always did but he was left disappointed.

“Y/n/n?” He called. He checked the kitchen and the bedroom, it looked like you weren’t even home.

“Y/n?!” He called again, worry growing in the seasoned pro until he stopped, he noticed the light peeking out from the door to his office. He walked over silently and slowly inched the door open.

He knew you studied in his office sometimes, often leaving sticky-notes with little notes to him in your wake that he would take with him to put on his computer at work and in drawers, threatening to expel students who mentioned it. When he looked into his office he saw you sitting there one knee draw to your chest as the other was placed normally. Your chin rested on your knee as you stared ahead.

You didn’t even acknowledge him when he stood beside you even going as far as spinning your chair to face him as he crouched down but you just continued to stare blankly.

“Y/n?” He whispered his hand cupping your cheek as he pulled your hand away from your mouth grimacing at the raw skin around your fingers making a mental note to place band-aids and lotion on your hands.

Your eyes flickered just barely but he knew you were coming back “hey there kitty,” he whispered as he felt you lean into his palm heavily.

“Sho…” you whispered now registering that your boyfriend was in front on you. “You home e’rly” you spoke words slurring slightly.

He frowned slightly, shaking his head “I’m home when I always get home, how long have you been sitting here pretty girl?”

You turn your head to the clock slowly, your body feeling like lead. “Um…” a heat flared to

your cheeks as your eyes widened. “Uh well… th-three hours….”

He raised one eyebrow with an unimpressed look. “I-I’m sorry sho I didn’t mean to! I was… I was just gonna write down… a few… a few thoughts and then… I don’t know what happened… this paper is just… so… so hard.”

By the end you could barely speak as you broke into hiccuped sobs. His look immediately softened, he was just upset you had overworked yourself again nothing more.

“Shhhh shhhh” he soothed softly “it’s okay kitty m’not mad. Jus’ worried ‘s all.” He murmured softly into your hair as he pulled you into his arms switching spots so he was now sitting in the chair and held you in his lap. He rubbed one hand up and down your back as he allowed you to hold the other and play with his fingers like you always did when you got nervous.

He found it endearing, even feeling a little prideful that it was him you latched onto whenever you got overwhelmed or stressed. He remembers the first time you had done so and how his heart raced, you two hadn't gotten together yet and frankly he himself wasn’t feeling all too great about Midnight's gala. You had been standing beside him seeing as you were his plus-one, you were young… younger than he thought he should be with, but thankfully Mic smacked… or screamed some sense into him saying how it was perfectly fine for there to be an age gap.

So he had asked you to be his plus one to the hero gala, it was the summer of your third year at the college Mic teaches at, he hadn't even known you were a student until he walked into Mics second classroom, because for some crazy reason this man was a pro hero and decided to teach at two separate colleges for multiple classes and still have a radio show. He first saw you while you were sitting and speaking with Mic assumingly about grades. And that was yet another thing Mic had to convince him was okay, after all Aizawa wouldn't be teaching you, you two weren’t even on the same campus, so it was perfectly fine for you to be a student and him a teacher.

When he showed up to pick you up for the hero gala- which would be your fifth date- his jaw had dropped. You were wearing a black dress that fit you perfectly both in body and personality. Mic teased him endlessly when you two first arrived because after all… black is Shotas color, something you had thought of when picking out the dress.

As you stood next to him he could tell something was wrong and just as he was about to ask he felt a warmth in his hand only to look down and see it was your hand, or rather your fingers. You were asking, silently if it was alright. Not that you hadn’t held hands before but he could tell you were just anxious, so he moved his hand closer to yours and you quickly latched onto him. Interlocking your fingers and hugging his arm to your chest. And a few moments later you found yourself absentmindedly playing with his fingers. From then on it was something you found yourself doing more and more as your relationship progressed, he just made you feel so safe.

You whined softly cuddling into him, “shhh it's alright pretty girl I'm gonna take care of you okay?” You nodded into his neck enjoying the soothing feeling that washed over you as he spoke. He walked you into the bedroom gently placing you on the bed removing your socks and shoes before swiftly heading to the bathroom to start a bath, putting in your favorite soaps providing a little bit of bubbles hoping they would make you happy.

When he returned he found you sitting up looking for him, “where’d y’go” you said softly standing and wrapping your arms around him, he pet your head softly.

“Jus’ went to start up a bath for you beautiful” He murmured as he placed a kiss to the crown of your head, “how about we get you in there, yeah?” you nodded, allowing him to pick you up and carry you to the bathroom as you mumbled something about closing your eyes for one second and suddenly he was gone, he simply just chuckled as he gently placed you on the sink and began removing your clothes.

After he removed your shirt he gently peppered your neck and shoulders with kisses, not lingering in any one spot just simply showing his appreciation for you. He removed your pants allowing his hands to map the expanse of your things but not going any further knowing you were tiered.

Once you were finally freed of all clothing he placed you in the bath before quickly and unceremoniously stripping himself to get in behind you. You leaned into his embrace quickly and melted into him. His firm chest being a place that had become your safe haven, as long as he was near you knew everything was okay.

Slowly as Shotas hands ran through your hair cleaning it gently you found yourself relaxing, thoughts of the stressful classes, and ridiculously hard paper drifting away. His hands worked wonders on the knots that had formed throughout your muscles essentially leaving you in a puddle between his legs.

Every gasp and moan of content was carefully evaluated to see how he should adjust his massage- if he should lessen up or go farther into one spot and you never even had to tell him because he was always right. By the end of it you were both pleasantly sedated and calm, you more so than him.

“You ready to get out?” He murmured as he gently ran his nose along the column of your neck.

You were quiet for a moment before you spoke, “I guess so…. But can we still cuddle?” Your words were slow and hazy sounding even to your own ears.

“Course we can, can’t leave my best girl all alone.” He says as he gently stands and urges you to do the same.

“I better be your only girl,” You mumble as he begins to drain the bathtub and dry you off.

He chuckles “you know you are.” he says with an eye roll but no part of him was truly annoyed as he saw the small smile adorning your features. He leaned down softly kissing each of the corners of your mouth.

As he moved to pull away you stopped him by wrapping an arm around his neck and properly pushing your lips against his own, it was short but the passion was there. “Ya’missed.” you mumbled against his lip and he chuckled once again.

You found yourself falling into giggles as he carried you to the bedroom. That was something you could always count on, whether it be after a scene or even just you overworking yourself Shota wouldn't allow you to lift a finger, doting on you the way he always says you deserve.

Gently placing you on the bed he moved into the closet to find you both some clothes and soon after he emerged from the closet with a pair of sweatpants slung on his hips and a t-shirt in his hands. Once he had slipped on a pair of comfortable panties and the t-shirt onto your body you allowed him to carefully place band-aids and lotion onto your fingers making sure to be gentle around the raw skin. After he was finished he carefully slipped both of you under the covers.

The silence was comfortable only filled with your breathing and the gentle pitter-patter of rain that had begun sometime during your bath. And although the bath had helped you found some of your previous anxiety seeping back into your body.

As if reading your thoughts, Shota spoke up, “Y’know, I’m really proud of you and all the work you’re doing. I know sometimes schooling isn’t the easiest thing, and I know keeping motivation when it gets hard can be even harder. But with that said I don’t want you to keep pushing yourself so hard. Don't let school take away what makes you you, that spark. And… I can try my best to help you, I know you like being independent and don't like asking for help but… we all need to ask for it sometimes.”

You turned your head up looking at him with tears shimmering in your eyes, “thank you Shota.”

He smiled at you fondly, “Of course, you're my precious girl after all.” He paused cupping your cheek and gently brushing a tear away, “I love you kitty.”

“I love you too Sho…. so much.”

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parkers-gal · 3 years

Note

Can you please write one where the reader is singing about her ex and breaks down crying and Tom comforts her

if you’ve seen the bbc videos of ari g then this will make a lot more sense <3 (i subconsciously chose ag!reader for this so... enjoy)

wc | 1.5k

｡☆✼★━━ requests are closed ━━★✼☆｡

Today, you’ve planned to record every song off of your thank u, next album with BBC radio in the Live Lounge, just as you did years ago with a few songs from sweetener. It’s been almost three years since your number one album came out, and some of the songs are still yet to be performed live.

You love recording with BBC radio — your band and backup singers are just as included as you are, and there’s always a few invited fans up on the balcony to silently sing along. This isn’t the BBC special, considering you didn’t want to make a big deal out of this. But, because you decided to opt out of the television special, you’ve decided to include a few unperformed songs like “in my head” and “ghostin.”

Clad in a black hoodie, faded jeans and thick platform sneakers, you’re seated on the bar stool in front of the microphone stand. The keyboard player sits behind your right side, your backup singers in a studio box beside his set up. To your left is the drummer and two guitar players — one on the bass and the other on the electric guitar.

In front of you, behind the camera lens, seats Tom in his famous shit happens! Hoodie. His curls are messy and he wears a genuine smile, beaming at you while you put in your in-ears.

With a nod to the camera man, you give your final look of approval to the drummer before the camera starts rolling and the intro to “imagine” starts playing. Tom clasps his hands on his lap; he’s sitting cross legged on a shaggy rug with your favorite stuffed animal in his arms. He’s got a blanket beside him despite the fact that he’s perfectly content with his hoodie and jeans. He looks so soft and gentle, and you want nothing more than to sit beside him and sing your heart out, but alas, you stay put and settle on locking eyes with him while you belt the chorus to the first track of your fifth studio album.

Eventually, the song ends, and after successfully doing the whistles, you take a gulp of water before giving the producer another thumbs up. “Needy” plays and you start singing the intro with as much emotion as you can muster — the album makes you nostalgic. You made it during a time of heartbreak and self deprivation, where you were drunk off your ass and all you had was music to therapize yourself. It brings all those emotions back in a rushing flood of remembrance.

But here, in front of you after so much time, you see Tom with a supporting smile and eye dimples that make you want to write a thousand songs about him. You have love you didn’t have before, and that’s enough.

For the first time ever, you perform “in my head” live. You can already tell that twitter is going to flip when the video releases. As you sing the verses, you try to contain up as much consistency as you can, though your voice wavers slightly and you can feel yourself getting emotional. You power through, though, and when the song finally ends, you release a deep breath and drink some water.

Tom mouths a question, wondering if you’re alright. You assure him as best you can, giving him a small smile and a little thumbs up. You have approximately two minutes to compose yourself, seeing as they’ve brought in a few strings players for the next song. You’re singing the album slightly out of order — not that it matters much, but you are.

The producer, who’s behind the camera, gives you another notion with his hands, informing you silently that the next song is starting. You nod, setting down your bottled water and waiting for your cue.

With a shaky inhale, you let the beginning of “ghostin” consume your body. You’ve done this in the studio, when you first recorded the song. But it’s been so long since you've sung the song all the way through. And even then, you’ve never done it publically.

You take a deep breath one last time before you start singing. You see Tom from the corner of your eye, and you remind yourself that everything is okay, and that these wounds are healed and you’ve grown from the tragedy that was captured in your music.

You finish the chorus for the first time, successfully making it through the first verse. Not without a few stumbles and sniffles, though. When you begin on the second verse, everything comes rushing back to you — moments with Mac and moments with Pete, and moments with Pete where you’re grieving Mac and breaking Pete’s heart. It’s all too much at once and you realize you should’ve tried to rehearse it beforehand.

You wince at yourself, face contorting into that of a pained expression while you attempt to prolong the waterworks. You gasp into the microphone, skipping a few beats and a line in the verse to somehow compose yourself.

Everyone seems to be on edge, realizing how this might not play over well. Tom, though, is especially on edge, antsy while he watches you. He’s reading your body language, decoding your silent thoughts. He knows you’re going to break any second, he knows you’re not going to make it through the song, and while that’s okay, he knows you might not think so. He wants to be there, though, when you do break. It’s his job.

Your hands are shaky while you move up to grip the microphone in hopes of reminding yourself of where you are and what you’re doing. It’s a lost cause, though. You gasp into the microphone again, and suddenly you’re sobbing into the speaker.

You mumble out a quick, “I’m sorry,” before rushing out of the room, stepping off the chair and making your way away from the cameras as quickly as possible. You can hear a few gasps and murmurs from the few fans and the stage crew members, but you don’t pay them any mind,

Tom was off his ass as fast as you were, dropping the stuffed toy and racing after you with crazy curls and furrowed brows.

“Love? Love,” his gentle hands grip your arms and you gasp again, trying to breathe through your thick sobs. He shushes you, “It’s alright, baby. I’m here, I’m here, It's just me.”

You’re hidden away in his chest, nodding as best you can. Tom’s heart breaks as he feels you come apart in his hands. He doesn’t cry, though, not when he needs to make sure you’re okay,

Your nimble hands grip his hoodie tightly, balling up the cloth in your fists. Tom holds you carefully, arms around your waist while he tries to help you control your breathing.

“In ‘nd out, like this, yeah?” You nod, following his heavy breaths. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” He sucks in a breath, unsure on how to approach the topic. “You were good enough, baby. Everything that happened isn’t your fault — it never was, and it never will be.”

You peer up at him, lifting your head and wiping your eyes, You sniffle again, and Tom turns his head in hopes of finding a box of tissues. He’s grateful when a crew member is already standing by with a box in his hands. He leaves the two of you be after successfully handing Tom the box.

“Here, love,” he strokes your back with his hand while you blow your nose into the tissue. After a few silent beats, he breaks the quietness. “Y'alright, darling?”

You nod, wiping your nose with the edge of your palm before pulling the sleeves of your sweater down to cover your hands. You use the sleeves to wipe at the stray tears, and when you finally look at Tom, you wearily smile gratefully.

“Thank you, Tommy.” Your voice is timid and gentle, quite a contrast to the way he heard you singing not twenty minutes ago — before “ghostin” fucked with your mind. “Don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“Of course, my love.” He offers a smile, one you slowly return. “You wanna go back out there?”

You nod, silently leading the way while anxiously rubbing your palms on your jean-clad thigh. As soon as you step back into the Live Lounge, a round of applause goes around until everyone is clapping and cheering for you, including Tom. It warms your heart, and you laugh for the first time after crying, right into the microphone for everyone to hear.

“Thank you all so much,” you swallow thickly while the clapping settles down. “I’m so sorry about that. Let's give this another try, yeah?”

The producer mouths something at you, “Are you sure?”

You nod, almost excitedly, and he speaks into his headset. The camera starts rolling and the strings start “ghostin’s” introduction. With one final deep breath, you lock eyes with your sweet British boy right as you start the first verse again. This time, you make it all the way through. For the first time.

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x singer!reader #tom holland x ag!reader #tom holland x famous!reader #tom holland x celebrity!reader #ag!reader #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland imagine #tom holland oneshot #tom holland blurb #tom holland fanfiction

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paperpocalypse · 4 years

Text

family outing.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 29. Tucking their hair behind their ear to help them get it out of their face.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,436 words

Warning: Mild swearing

[A/N: Mild S2 spoilers!]

“So,” Vanya’s brow furrows, “Five met you after the apocalypse?”

“Yep.” Leaning against her car, you cross your arms and sigh dreamily. “Hate at first sight. He almost shot me in the head.”

“… With a gun?”

You grin. “Well, he couldn’t’ve shot me with a Twinkie.”

Vanya looks ahead at where Five is talking to some middle-aged guy, his expression friendly and polite. What a businessman. Her eyes narrow in shocked disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs. “My family is crazy.”

Your grin widens as she shakes her head. Something about her mannerisms helps you realize why Five is so fond of her, though he’s never said it outright. She’s definitely your favorite of the bunch. Sans murderous intent.

“Some types of crazy can be good,” you reply, nudging her arm. “But your family’s got all of them and it’s gonna get real messy. Time to spice up your little farm life, Vanya.”

She chuckles a little awkwardly and shrugs. “I just hope I’ll have time to talk to them. Again, I mean. Maybe I’ll remember something when we’re all together.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Noticing Five bidding farewell to the man, you push yourself off the bumper and wave at him. “Any luck, Five?”

He points down the street behind you as he walks back over. “Plano Street Rooming House for Solitary Men,” he answers. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

“How do you know he’s there?” Vanya asks.

“I really doubt Luther would live anywhere else.”

You snort, raising your hands in surrender when Five returns it with a semi-faux withering look. With a sigh, he shakes his head and opens the rear passenger door, gesturing for you to get in.

As Vanya starts the car and turns into the street, you look through the rearview mirror at Five as he tells her where to go. Despite being stuck in a thirteen-year-old body, he still has that resting glower of his that makes him look perpetually stressed.

(Of course, it’s not just a matter of looking stressed – he is definitely stressed. Wound up tighter than a spring. You’ll probably need to force him to sit down and relax for at least a half-hour tonight before he explodes.)

His hair is a little disheveled, so you reach over to brush it out of his eyes. It doesn’t really work, but just going through the familiar motion grounds you somehow. “You know,” you muse as Five glances back at you, “Luther’s probably living there, but I doubt he’ll be in right now. He’s probably with Ruby somewhere.”

“Even if he is, we can ask around. I assume that at least one person there knows his business.”

He absently lifts a hand to smooth his hair back, and you smile. “Good point.”

—

“Hello, do you know Luther Hargreeves by any chance?”

After some door-to-door work, someone from Luther’s hall finally answers your knock. He’s a burly man, though not nearly as big as Luther, and obviously drunk off his rocker. Definitely solitary. He squints at the three of you through red, puffy eyes.

“Luther? Yeahhh, I know ‘im. Huge bloke. Real hairy.”

“That’s the one,” Five confirms. “You see, we’re his brother and sister. He hasn’t visited home lately and we’re pretty worried, so we’re just wondering if you know where he is.”

Burly picks at his teeth. “Brother n’ sister, eh? Well,” he rumbles, “I dunno where he is, but I know some of the boys are gonna watch ‘im fight tonight.”

“Where’s the fight?” Vanya asks.

The man regards her with suspicion. “Well, it ain’t a place for a little lady like you.” He swirls his beer around in its bottle, then jabs a finger at all of you. “Don’t want you three squealing to the cops, either.”

“We won’t,” you assure him, smiling sweetly. “We just want to check on Luther.”

With a little more cajoling, you finally obtain the time and place for Luther’s fight before the man waves you away with a grunt, slamming his door shut. You give your companions a self-satisfied grin before descending the staircase back down to street level. Worked like a charm. (You suspect your youthful looks probably helped a lot, though.)

“How’d you do that?” Vanya wonders as the three of you step out onto the sidewalk.

“Simple,” you respond. “I have a knack for sweeping tough guys off their feet.”

You wink secretly at Five. He rolls his eyes, the minutest of smiles at the corner of his mouth, before ushering you and Vanya back to the Chevy.

Your little trio spends the next few hours driving and poking around, looking for Luther or Klaus or Allison. The optimist in you hopes you’ll run across at least one of them. But Dallas is a big place, and darkness begins to fall around 5:30 without a single sighting.

“Dammit.” Five clicks his tongue as you exit a paint shop alone.

“At least we know where Luther will be,” you point out, shoving your hands in your pockets. “How about we get something to eat before we head to the fight?”

Vanya unlocks the car. “There’s a place I know close by,” she says, lips quirking up. “They have sandwiches and donuts there.”

You pat her back. “Sounds great, Vanya. Five? You’ve got to eat something, too.”

Your favorite number crosses his arms as you and Vanya stare at him expectantly. “We’ll get something quick,” he eventually says.

The trip only takes a few minutes. The three of you get sandwiches and a donut each and unwrap them on the bench outside the bakery.

“Sissy and Harlan and I get something from here whenever we go into town,” Vanya says, finishing the last of her sandwich and picking her donut up. “It’s pretty good.”

“So good,” you agree. Lands alive, sitting out here like this makes you nostalgic. Ignoring the upcoming doomsday and the ‘60′s aesthetic, it feels like you’re back in 1927 again, staying out past curfew with your peers. You smile to yourself and look down at your half-finished maple bar. Best to enjoy it while it lasts.

A finger quickly sweeps your brow, tucking a lock of hair out of your face. You blink and glance over at Five, but he’s looking across the street and starting on his own pastry. (Apple fritter. Perhaps you’ll ask him one day why he always gets those.)

Heart feeling even softer than before, you lean silently against his side. He doesn’t move.

After a moment, Five speaks up. “When we were kids, I brought you to this donut shop near the academy a couple times.”

“You did?” Vanya asks.

“Yeah. Griddy’s.” Oh, the one near the academy. The one that had gotten destroyed along with everything else in 2019. He gestures at the last bit of donut – plain, glazed – in her hands. “You usually got that kind.”

She raises her eyebrows, looking into her napkin. “Oh, wow. I guess it must’ve been a subconscious choice or something, then.”

“Hm.”

“You know, I’m glad we found you, Vanya,” you offer warmly. “I didn’t … really have time to get to know you the last time we met.”

A smile spreads across her face. “Same here. For both things, I mean. Not that I’d know much about our first meeting.” She pauses, examining you for a second, then blurts, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

She awkwardly motions between you and her brother. “Are you and Five …?”

“Partners,” you finish, “in every sense of the word. From what I know, at least.” With a grin, you turn to Five. “Is that more or less right?”

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Unfortunately,” he mutters as you move to smooth his hair back again. He sure had lovely hair when he was a kid – not that you didn’t appreciate his looks back in your Commission days. This de-aging thing really knocks you for a loop sometimes.

Vanya nods, still looking vaguely confused. “Okay. I don’t want to make things weird, I just – well, you two are kind of … young –”

“Believe me, we’re much older than we look,” you quip, standing up. “But that’s a tale for another time. We gotta go.”

Disposing of your trash, you join the others into the Chevy and start your next journey to Luther Hargreeves. Radio turned off, the leather seat squeaks as you lean back and listen to Vanya and Five murmuring in the front.

To see the siblings together again makes you glow inside, a bit of calm before the inevitable storm. You drink it in as much as you can.

1K notes · View notes

ipuckwithhockey · 3 years

Text

Easier Said Than Done- M. Tkachuk

Part 1, 2

Part 3- Choices to make

summary: Matt couldn’t stay away, but now he knows he has to make his choice.

a/n: SOOO.... I guess I’m back. BUUUT.... I rewrote part 3. Originally I had put a smut scene in but it ended up feeling forced and also took the plot in a direction that I didn’t like/plan. I may end up making that scene into a stand alone piece but I’m not sure yet. It’s still up somewhere on my blog but I’ll end up taking it down due to continuity issues. ANYWAY. I hope you guys like this. Any feedback is appreciated :)

warnings: cursing, mentions of smut

—

What did you do wrong?

That’s the question that keeps finding its way into your head as you stare down at your phone. You feel like all you’ve been doing for the last week is staring down, hoping to see Matthew’s contact appear. But it hasn’t.

It’s been over a week since you last heard from him and you’re not sure what turned him off so suddenly. Above all, you wish it didn’t bother you the way it does, but all of a sudden, your heartbeat races whenever your phone buzzes. For the last few weeks, the two of you have spent most the day texting each other, asking about your days, sending memes, and talking about whatever comes to mind, but now it’s radio silent on his end and you can’t figure out if you’re being crazy or if you’ve done something to suddenly change his mind.

After Matt had finally asked you out you went on your first date, and even though your roommate and best friend hadn’t been on board with it, you still ended up going. Addy warned you that it wasn’t a good idea, saying that going out with a professional athlete, especially one with a reputation, was only going to end with you heartbroken. You reassured your roommate by telling her it was just a first date. If it didn’t go well then there wasn’t anything to worry about.

Turns out it did go well and after your second and third dates you knew you were falling pretty hard for him. He had a couple of short road trips between those first few dates and when he was gone, he never failed to call you after games or text you throughout the day. He would ask you how your studying was going and would quickly Google some of the legal jargon you would use when explaining your classes.

He was polite, funny and charming, and you couldn’t resist those icy blue eyes. He had surprised you and even though the world seemed to paint him one way, you felt like you had untapped another side of him. He seemed genuinely interested in you and your life which was something you had come to realize wasn’t as common in dating as you thought it should be. You didn’t find yourself constantly rolling your eyes at condescending remarks or the mansplaining of things you understood much better. Instead, you found yourself jokingly rolling your eyes at his corny jokes and attempts at flirting with you. It was comfortable and even Matthew had found an easy stride with you.

Matthew was truly impressed with himself. He hadn’t so much as been on a real date in ages. Most of the times he had taken a girl out it was only with the intention of a favor in return. He would lazily rush through the pleasantries of first date banter, knowing that the girl across from him wouldn’t care as long as she got to tell her friends who she slept with the next morning. At the end of the night he would bid her farewell, forget her name, and never see her again.

Now, he longed to sit across from an intelligent girl who made him nervous for hours. If he could he would prolong your dates forever. You were the light and he was the moth. He’s drawn to you and there isn’t much helping that. And even though that voice in the back of his mind is telling him no, he can’t help but let you see the real Matthew. The Matthew that is sometimes nervous and dorky and that longs for something real. Something real with you.

Your five-date rule was quickly thrown to the side and after sitting through a movie with a particularly steamy scene, you couldn’t help but invite him up to your apartment after your fourth official date.

Sex with Matthew was something else. To your surprise, the awkward first time wasn’t actually that awkward, and once he was lying between your legs any inhibitions you had before were gone. He was strong and in control, but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. You felt like he was in control of himself and that if anything he was holding back, waiting for you to give him the green light. And once you gave him the go ahead you found yourself begging for more.

His confidence and smug attitude only made sex hotter. Your quieter demeanor only made Matthew want you more, and when you moaned his name against him for the first time, he knew he had never heard a sound so sweet. After that first night together, Matt knew he was only digging a deeper whole for himself, and he was secretly thankful for the road trip that took him away the next evening.

—

Matt needed time to think. Time to process what he was getting himself into. The only problem was that he could only think of you, your nervous laugh when he would flirt just a little too obviously, the way you’ve already started to reach for his hand to hold, and as much as he hates to admit it every night of his trip the thought of you and your body, your mouth wrapped around him, or the sounds he had made come from you were on his mind. But the next morning when he joined the team for breakfast, he couldn’t even let himself sit across from his captain.

He was ashamed that he couldn’t keep himself from you and that he was only living up to the word immature that gets thrown around too often. By the last day of the trip, the day that they would be flying home, Matt had decided he needed to end things with you. He knew that keeping something like this from Gio would only affect his playing. Unfortunately, he had to admit that above all else, his career was his top priority right now.

He didn’t want to hurt you, but he wasn’t new to letting girls go. He knew the process of slowly ghosting someone to avoid a big confrontation and he knew how to slowly send the message that he wasn’t interested. Only this time he was interested, and he although he might be an expert in the area, he had no idea just how difficult this new territory would actually be.

—

The two of you had been texting off and on over the few days that he had been away. When you asked if everything was okay after going an odd day without hearing from him, he told you he was just focusing on his games. You let it slide, knowing how important hockey is to him, but after a few more days you started to get a little worried. Eventually you decided to go out on a limb and after their last game on the road you called him before they got on the plane to come back to Calgary.

To your surprise he answered, and you asked if he wanted to come over when he arrived home later that evening. He told you before that he never really sleeps after games anyway, and so you figured he would probably be free to come over. At the very least, you had hoped he would be free, and as much as you hated to say it, after that night and after watching him play while he was on the road, you were more than a little wound up for him. Maybe it was selfish, but you couldn’t wait to see him again, and maybe even get him back into your bed.

“Hey. What’s up?” Matt said as he answered your call, and even though they had won the game, his voice wasn’t as bright and energetic as it usually was.

“Hey! Congrats on the win! I was thinking maybe we could celebrate when you get back tonight?” You ask with a flirty tone, hoping that he catches on to what you’re saying, and you can’t see him but Matt is loosening the tie that has suddenly become suffocating around his neck, and as much as he would love to have you sprawled on your back for him, he knows that he can’t let himself say yes, so he tells you he’s tired and that he’s going to head home when he gets back.

You can’t help but feel a little sad and you just answer simply, “Oh okay. Yeah, you should get some rest I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

But Matt can hear the change in the tone of your voice, and he can’t help but feel horrible for lying to you, knowing that he really isn’t that tired, and that he’ll probably just go home that night and selfishly attempt to get himself off on the thought of you.

And before he can stop himself, he’s caving, “A-are you free Thursday?,” asking if you’re free so that he can see you again, and you hate that it’s so easy, but it makes you smile and that flutter in your chest is back when you tell him Thursday would be great. You end the phone call on a happy note but on the other end Matthew is left with a knot in his stomach. A feeling that’s becoming all too common.

Was it this hard to walk away from the other girls? No. The answer is one he already knows, and he curses himself for letting his feelings get this out of hand.

—

He never called after that night. He couldn’t let himself do it, and when you text him he deleted the messages. He didn’t know how to handle it, but he knew that if he tried to tell you he couldn’t see you anymore that he would never be able to say it. The only way he could possibly stay away from you was if he avoided you at all costs, knowing that if he heard your voice or saw your face he would be screwed.

You’re not sure what you did wrong and even though you and Matt had only gone out a few times, you can’t help but feel like he played you. He took you out a couple times and then got what he wanted.

You didn’t want to be the crazy girl who called and texted a million times, you didn’t want to admit that he already had such a hold on you, so you refrained from texting him after trying to get in contact for a day or two.

It’s day ten now, and you’ve been throwing yourself into your studies in an attempt to distract yourself from the fact that Matthew has successfully ghosted you, but tonight when you’re about to turn off your phone, you let yourself click his contact in your messages before you type out a short text.

y/n: Hey, i haven’t heard from you in a few days, just wanted to make sure you were okay :)

It’s a simple message and as sad as it feels trying to get his attention, you send it anyway. You’re not prepared for what happens next, and when “message was not delivered” pops up on your screen you almost can’t believe it, but you know then that he’s blocked your number.

The feeling of shame and embarrassment washes over you. You feel like an idiot. Just like everyone had warned, he played you, and you fell into his game like every other girl in Calgary.

You weren’t this girl though. Or at least you never thought you were. You were smart and careful and driven. You were everything you had ever tried to be until some hot shot hockey player came into your life and suddenly you were willing to throw it all away for him? At this point you’re not sure if you’re more upset with Matt or with yourself, but one thing is for sure, you’ll never let this happen again.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk fic #easier said than done fic #nhl fic #nhl imagine #calgary flames #flames #hockey fanfic #hockey fic #matthew tkachuk imagine

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spookbusters · 3 years

Text

Space Age Love Song

Summary: Falling in love with your best friend is never really easy, but it can be so worth it.

Pairing: Ray Stantz x astronomist!Reader // Warnings: bit of manipulative ex // Words: 2.2k

A/N: The process of writing these over the last few months was so intense, but it was so worth it. It was truly a work of the heart, and I hope you all love it as much as I do.

You met in 1982, almost two full years before Ghostbusters were even a thing, in a hallway on campus at Columbia University. It was almost two in the morning.

You’d seen each other before in passing in the Chem and Physics building, on long nights, but you’d never spoken before.

All you really knew about him was that he had the sweetest smile you’d ever seen.

It was both of your first years out of your PhDs.

You had gotten a job at the school right out of the gate teaching incoming freshman.

From what you knew, he was working in an on-campus parapsychology research lab with two other graduates.

One of whom he had a second, parachemistry lab with.

You were working on some diagrams for the freshman students you’d be teaching that semester.

They were spread all over the wall in front of your office, since you’d run out of space in your tiny broom closet.

You had your Walkman in your pocket, your favorite tape on blast, and flecks of paint on your glasses.

Your budget from the university couldn’t cover largely scaled, full-color pictures of the recent Voyager 2 Saturn discoveries, so you had taken it upon yourself to scale them yourself and paint them for your students to see.

Ray was on his way out of the lab that night, after having worked on developing some negatives and going over some tapes while Venkman (who was supposed to be helping) snoozed in his office chair.

He noticed from across the hallway how frenzied you were working and was genuinely surprised by how much energy you seemed to have.

When he got a little closer, you finally noticed him out of the corner of your eye.

You offered him a smile he’d seen several times before, a little bashful, but ultimately warm and very kind.

You tried to shimmy out of the way so he could get by you and your yellow, orange, and brown paints without much incident.

Now that he was closer, he could see your paintings. He noticed the mess on your hands, the brush tucked into your ear.

And he was in awe.

When he didn’t pass you by as you expected him to, you looked at him.

He was talking!! You hadn’t been paying attention!!

You pulled your headphones off your ears, and his voice suddenly flooded in to replace the music.

“-taken you to do this?”

He must’ve noticed the way your music was suddenly audible, because he suddenly redirected his attention from the painting to you, gave a light chuckle and gestured to your Walkman.

“Sorry! Couldn’t see the headphones, they kind of blended in with your hair.”

You returned his laugh.

You explained your situation to him, and the reasons behind your painting.

He thinks it’s incredible. Not just your artistic skill, but also your dedication to your students.

That is the moment the two of you are formally introduced.

You stand there and chat for a few minutes, and eventually part ways.

But that’s not the last time you talk. Not by a long shot.

You see him a few more times to and from your class, and instead of just offering a smile, you always shoot him a “Hi, Ray!”

He likes seeing you, truth be told. You always have an infectiously positive energy about you.

After a while, he finds he likes it so much, he stops to say hey to you even when he’s just passing by your open office door.

You’re mostly acquaintances, but there are often times you find yourself wanting to get to know him more.

Like when you see him just absolutely gunning it down the hallway past your open office door with a colander on his head. Or the time you could hear a muffled ‘boom’ from the lab down the hall, followed by a similarly muffled cry of “Success!”

The day you’d finally begin your friendship would come a couple weeks later.

When he passed by your office, you were bent over your desk grading quizzes, looking stressed out of your mind. Your students just weren’t getting the material and you were wondering

The sight stirred concern in him.

“Hey,” he’d said, and you’d look up at him with tired eyes. He looked just as exhausted. “I’m headed out to get a coffee. Do you want to come?”

You accepted.

It was all uphill from there.

He told you some of the best jokes you’d ever heard, and you inspired a lot of dedication in him.

You became close with him, and you’d spend a lot of time in each other’s labs.

It wasn’t until you met the girl he’d started dating after you got to know him that you finally admitted to yourself that you had feelings for him.

It was so hard. Not just admitting it to yourself that you had fallen for him like a boulder in the ocean, but seeing him as happy as he was.

Her name was Suzanne, and they’d end up being together for almost 7 months.

Around Ray you’d think she was the sweetest thing.

But when he’d leave you with her to go grab something from somewhere, she was bitter and catty.

She couldn’t stand how much time the two of you spent together.

You’d often sigh when you thought about them together. How wrong it was.

She didn’t deserve him, and he was such a sweetheart willing to give people the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t notice how thick her façade was.

Part of you didn’t want to tell him about any of your interactions with her. You didn’t want to be responsible for ruining things for him.

But, your better judgement knew that that wasn’t right.

So, you talked to him about how she’d been acting with you during their time together.

He trusted you, and decided to talk to Suzanne about it.

The next day, he came back to your office, and you instantly knew the conversation hadn’t gone well.

His face was sullen in a way you’d never seen before, and it worried you.

You sat together for some coffee to talk it over.

Apparently, she became extremely defensive when he tried to talk to her about it.

As time went on while they were talking, he became increasingly aware of how controlling and toxic she was.

He also realized he really wasn’t as happy as he had thought he was.

They broke it off.

He actually thanked you for taking the time to talk to him the way you did.

It was a bitter-sweet moment, but it reinforced your friendship.

It took a while for Ray to heal, but when he did, he was happier than he ever was.

You were happy that he was happy. Truly happy.

You’d also given yourself time to come to terms with the fact that you were in love with him.

You were hesitant to tell him, afraid of ruining your friendship which was so dear to you.

But, deep down, you knew you’d have to tell him eventually.

One day he came to you talking about something he’d be working on that weekend.

One of Ray’s friends, Egon, told Ray about a meteor shower that could potentially generate crazy amounts of energy.

“You’re the resident star-gazer,” he said with a kind, eye-twinkling smile, “Would you want to come see it with me? I wanted to get some readings when it’s going on.”

And, God, if you weren’t completely crazy about him before, you certainly were now.

You agreed instantly.

That weekend, you two packed up the back of the 70s Chevy truck Ray inherited from his dad, and headed out to Allegany State Park for the night.

The roadtrip alone would be ingrained in your mind for the rest of your life.

You guys sang along to the radio the whole time, cracking jokes in the afternoon sun, and talking about anything and everything you could think of.

When you got to the park, that sweet, light-hearted energy lived on.

You were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, parked next to a ridge that overlooked the rest of the park.

You spent the first few hours hanging out, having some drinks out of the cooler you’d brought, and setting things up for the night ahead.

You’d brought your best telescope, Ray’s equipment for his readings, a radio, and some blankets for when the spring night began to chill.

You were having such a good time that you barely noticed the way the sun was almost completely below the horizon.

You were really only made aware when your watch alarm started beeping.

“Oh, hey,” you muttered, “It should be starting soon!”

As the sun set further and the sky turned dark, the two of you sat curled up waiting for the first meteors to streak across the night.

At the first sign of a meteor, Ray’s electrical equipment starts beeping off the charts, and you could swear you'd never seen him so excited.

He’s all but jumping between his electronics, noting to himself the various measurements of a form of energy that you didn’t completely understand.

It only takes him about an hour to get what he needs.

“Do you want to go home,” you ask, and you hoped with all your heart that he’d say no.

And he did. “Actually, I was thinking we could stay here a little longer. Enjoy the view for a little bit, if you want to.”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” you’d reply, and when he grinned at you, your heart warmed.

You both retired yourself to the bed of the truck, curled up in the blankets and just watching the streaks cross the sky.

You’d turned on the radio, and were passing a thermos of hot chocolate between the two of you.

You’d seen at least a few dozen celestial events in your life so far, but you’d never experienced one that had made you feel the way you did in that moment.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever really asked why you got into all this,” he’d say, gesturing to the meteor shower.

“Hmm,” you mused, “No, I don’t think you have, actually.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, silently urging you to go on.

And, of course, you do.

“When I was little, on a trip to Arizona, my family went out to the middle of nowhere, and I do mean nowhere,” you explained, “And when we got away from all the light pollution, it was still so bright outside from all the stars you could see.”

When you turned to look at him, he was staring right at you. You felt your face flush.

“I just remember wanting to learn everything I could about outer space,” you finished, “I’d never seen something so beautiful.”

When he looked back up at the stars, you leaned over and put your head on his shoulder, and you smiled.

You didn’t want this moment to ever end.

The two of you spend some time quiet, just listening to the songs softly play over the radio.

A Flock of Seagulls comes on and you smile.

You absentmindedly hum along.

He slowly reaches an arm around your shoulders.

He’s hoping you don’t really notice.

You totally notice.

Doesn’t take long for you to start singing under your breath.

"Saw your eyes, and they touched my mind. Though it took a while, I was falling in love.”

But it’s the soft muttered question of your name that really captures your attention.

You lift your head from his shoulder to look at him and you can swear that you��d never seen that look in his eyes before.

“Is everything ok,” you ask, concern tinting your tone.

You brushed your fingers across his cheekbone, and he all but leaned into your palm. The eyes that look back at you are stormy. Conflicted.

“You know I could never ask of you what I want to ask you,” he sighed. “You’re one of my best friends and I never want to lose having you in my life.”

The words nearly made you cry.

“You don’t have to ask,” you sniffled.

When you kissed him, it felt like coming home. It was warm and grounding.

Now you were crying. When you took a breath again you were crying and laughing.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you confessed, your heart about ready to leap out of your chest. It nearly does when you hear him whisper, “Me too.”

The two of you spend the remainder of the night talking about whatever you can think of and giving small chuckles against one another’s lips.

You feel like you’re on cloud nine.

You decide to head home about an hour later, packing up the truck and watching light streak across the windshield as you drive out of the park.

“This view was really something,” you say, smiling with your head leaning against the window.

And, as he looked at you in his passenger seat, holding one of his hands while he drove, he felt his heart swell with all the love he had for you.

“I had two beautiful views tonight.”

#Ray Stantz #ray stantz x reader #ray stantz headcanons #ghostbusters ray stantz x reader #ghostbusters #ghostbusters 2 #ghostbusters headcanons #ghostbusters x reader

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bright-molina · 3 years

Text

Cross My Heart: A History

Intermission: In which you can’t help but recall your history with Bobby and everything you went through. Always side by side.

aka “We interrupt this program”

word count: 2144

warnings: brief and kinda vague implications of parents dying/leaving

a/n: So here’s today’s episode of Cross My Heart. Really this a look into the relationship with Bobby and why it means as much as it does. It’s a little different but I thought it would be nice insight. Enjoy!

*flashbacks are in italics

The silence in the car was deafening.

It never was.

Especially not with Bobby, Carrie, and Kayla. Especially after a show. This was different though.

It was a small car but Bobby had made sure to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. Your thoughts drifted as you stared out the window, driving the very familiar routes with ease.

“Again?”

“Again.”

It was dark and your head was buried in your knees but you knew who it was immediately. You could feel the opposite end of the couch sink a little and peeked up for just a moment.

The last few months in that big, old home had been difficult but nearly every night without fail Bobby found you sitting in the living room in the spot closest to the window. He knew of the nightmares you had well enough.

“I can’t -” Your voice shook and he shifted to look at you. “I can’t remember what he sounded like.”

The two of you had been kids at the time. Six year old kids who had gone through way too much. More than anyone should have to.

The silence was loud and tense and finally Bobby sighed and admitted something to you. “I-I don’t remember what mine sounded like either.”

Months had passed and the two of you had developed your own little routine. Bobby hated talking about his reasons for being there but you needed to talk about yours. He let you talk as much or as little as you wanted to and listened every single time without fail.

This time, though, he moved closer and the shaky exhale he let out was much like your own. “That’s okay though. You have me. And I promise I will talk so much that you’ll forget what everybody else sounds like.”

It had worked. You laughed through the tears streaming down your cheeks and for the first time in months you actually felt okay.

“Hey,” Kayla’s voice broke you out of your thoughts as you pulled into her driveway. She’d noticed you going through the motions and had tried her hardest to avoid saying anything until now. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Will it?” Your voice was quiet, barely audible to her over the music playing through the radio. One glance in the rearview mirror revealed Carrie and Bobby having their own hushed conversation.

“Of course it will,” Kayla sounded positive and you were tempted to believe her. “You’ve gotten through harder things.”

She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before getting out of the car, making you promise to text her later. You only nodded, her words ringing loud in your head.

“I heard you.”

“Heard me what?”

Even at just over seven years old you knew what was happening well enough. It was only a matter of time. For both of you.

“You sounded good.”

Bobby knew what you meant then. You watched the grin on his face fall and you quickly shook your head, sitting up a little taller in your usual place by the window.

“I’m serious,” You moved over a bit, a silent invitation for him to join you. “I didn’t know you could sing. And - and the guy said you could have one of those guitars he always brings with him.”

“I didn’t know either,” Bobby sat down in the spot beside you and stared at the empty space in front of him. “He said it's red. Said it’s waiting at -” You watched the smile grow on his face again. “At home.”

The two of you talked until the sun went down. Like you always did. It wasn’t until you were walking to the kitchen side by side that it really hit you. Bobby was leaving.

“I’ll come see you,” He promised after asking you what was wrong. Of course he noticed. He always did.

“No,” You shook your head and gave a sigh then. “My da -” The word caught in your throat but you powered through. “My dad's sister, my aunt, came to see me the other day when you were gone. She said nobody ever told her but she’s moving here now and next week I’m moving in with her.”

Bobby frowned, dropping the fork on his plate and leaning forward against the table. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know how,” You shrugged easily. Too easily.

“You can always tell me anything.”

And though the chatter all around you was loud, all you could hear was him and the single thought swimming in your head.

You copied his movements and leaned forward just as he had. “Can I tell you a secret then?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m gonna miss you,” For a second you debated stopping there. But then his serious look turned into a gentle smile and you sighed before admitting, “You’re my best friend and I’m gonna miss you.”

Bobby nodded and finally picked up his fork, continuing with his dinner as you did the same. Just moments later when you were distracted enough he returned the gesture. “I’m gonna miss you too.”

“Move over.”

You jumped at the sound of Carrie’s voice in your ear and turned to look at where she was leaning forward on the center console. “What?”

“Move over, I’m driving.” She repeated, staring at you until you opened the drivers side door. While you walked around the front of the car, Carrie climbed across the center console until she was settled in the seat.

The moment you closed the passenger door she started driving. For a little while she said nothing, simply glancing back and forth between you and Bobby, both of you staring out opposite windows.

“I’m positive it’s gonna be okay, you know,” Carrie looked at you as she stopped at a red light, putting the music up to hide the conversation you were having.

“Kayla said the same thing,” You shook your head, cracking a smile for just a second before it faded. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re Y/N and Bobby,” Carrie said it so easily that you couldn’t help but look at her and believe her. “Things have always worked out in your favor.”

You stood on the sidewalk in front of a house that was apparently brand new. At least it was to you. Your Aunt Sofie talked loudly on a phone held to her ear as she lifted your few bags out of the trunk of her car.

She spoke big, angry words you didn’t understand the meaning of and constantly adjusted the tight ponytail her hair was in. But when she looked at you it was with a kind smile. One that made you believe you’d be okay there.

“Don’t worry about that,” She told you when you asked her about the phone call. “Just some work stuff. Now come on, let’s go get you settled.”

She had offered you her hand but before you could take another step somebody called your name. You looked at her and she looked at you and it took a moment to realize your name hadn’t come from either of you.

Your eyes narrowed in the direction of the voice and you really couldn’t believe your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” You and Bobby shouted at the same time, you confused and him excited. There were three people with him: the man from the other day, a woman frowning at her phone as she typed away angrily, and a girl around your age.

They all stopped on the sidewalk while he ran and practically tackled you onto the floor.

“I live that way,” He waved behind him down the street and you were sure the shock on your face was obvious.

You pointed at the house behind you just as he had, “I live here.”

The two of you laughed together and barely paid any attention as your Aunt Sofie walked over and introduced herself to Bobby’s family.

“Oh!” He left you for only a few seconds before coming back, dragging the girl along with him. “This is Carrie.”

“I can introduce myself,” She huffed at Bobby, who only smiled and rolled his eyes, before turning to you with a grin. “I’m Carrie.”

“Y/N.” You returned the smile and you were positive then. Everything had worked out okay. It was perfect and despite everything else, it would all be okay.

It would always be as long as Bobby was there beside you.

Bobby couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

Carrie had only just shut it off before he was all but sprinting inside without so much as a look back. Your phone vibrated in your pocket again but you paid it no mind. You knew exactly who it was and you had no intention of answering him now. There were other problems to think of at the moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” You sighed, letting your head fall back against the seat as your thoughts finally went quiet.

“No tomorrow. You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you alone right now,” Before you could ask her what she meant she got out of the car and ran for your side, opening your door and dragging you out.

“Care no, I can’t be here right now,” You insisted, not budging from where you stood.

“Of course you can,” Carrie held your hands in hers, forcing you to look at her. There was a serious look on her face as she stared at you. “This is home. We’re home and I’m not letting you leave.”

“I’m not letting you leave.”

“You can’t make me stay.”

“Maybe,” Your admission made Bobby turn around to look at you. The anger on his face was obvious but it didn’t stop you from moving towards him. It never did.

Carrie watched the interaction closely as you left her side, wondering briefly if you would be able to get through to him where she couldn’t.

“But I’m not gonna let you be alone right now, either of you. So if you leave, we leave.”

“Why do you care?” He didn’t mean the words but he couldn’t stop them. “You don’t have to care. Nobody does. No one ever has to care.”

Knowing why he felt that way didn’t make it easier to hear.

Their mom - Lori - had left when they least expected it. And their dad, as hard as he tried, was still unable to leave tour to come back to them. There they were, two thirteen year old's suddenly on their own one morning. It was enough to make them feel as terrible as they had years ago.

“This is your home, Bobby,” You motioned all around your own living room, the space the three of you had been staying in for the past few days.

Pictures of you, him, Carrie, and Kayla were scattered around in mismatched picture frames. A jar filled with spare guitar picks sat on the counter. Recordings of old home performances were collected on dvd’s under the tv.

But you weren’t talking about any of those things.

“We are your home,” You caught him when he practically collapsed into you upon hearing your words and how serious you were. His body shook and soft cries escaped him for the first time since the week before. “We’re your home and I’m not letting you leave.”

“I should’ve never answered those stupid messages,” Your head dropped and you shut your eyes tightly, trying your hardest to keep your composure. It wasn’t working. “It was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” Carrie thought of the moment they’d interrupted back at the venue. Of how intimate it seemed. Of how completely and utterly happy you looked. That was a look she’d never seen before. “Mistakes were made but messaging him wasn’t one of them.”

Carrie could tell you didn’t believe her and she didn’t blame you. It was hard right now and she could understand the doubt you felt. She knew those feelings well enough.

“Come on,” She locked her arm with yours and pulled you close as she led you inside the house. “You guys will be okay. It might take a while but you’ll get there.”

You weren’t sure who she was referring to but you didn’t ask.

The walk you made to her room was silent and familiar and comfortable. It wasn’t until you passed Bobby’s room that your thoughts started running wild again and the twisting nerves returned.

“Hey,” Carrie noticed you tense right away and she was quick to shut the door behind her. Your phone started vibrating again and this time she took it. You watched as she frowned at the screen, silenced the ringer, and stuffed it under a pillow. “I’m right here for you. Okay?”

“Yeah,” You nodded and took a deep breath, giving her the best smile you could manage at the moment. “Okay.”

Tags:

Everything: @meangirlsx @theolivekiddo @dream-a-little-bigger-x @s-h-a-d-o-w-s @fangirlangioma @jaskiers-sweetkiss @babychickanon @goddess-of-night @n0wornever @calamitykaty @hellophantoms @funsizearsonist @crybabyddl @txrii @sunsetcurvej @willex-owns-my-heart @angryknightstatesmantrash @all-in-fangirl

Cross My Heart: @who-even-is-galileo @the-romanian-is-bae @p0gue420 @jemimah-b99 @echocharm17618 @grace2000 @quillsandtypos @sunsetcurvenotsunsetswerve @mystic-writings @ifilwtmfc @marinettepotterandplagg @canadailluminate @skys-writings @phantompogues @biqherosix @wanniiieeee

message me/shoot me an ask to be added/removed!

#a little different but important i think #luke patterson #julie and the phantoms #luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms fanfiction #jatp fanfic #julie and the phantoms fanfic #julie and the phantoms x reader #julie and the phantoms imagine #jatp fanfiction #jatp x reader #jatp imagine #luke patterson imagine #luke patterson fanfiction #luke patterson fanfic

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jackson--t · 3 years

Text

Hate me, adore me. Part II

Summary: As if being locked up in the evidence room wasn't enough, Ivar and Heahmund now have to go on patrol together.

Words: 3.2 k

Warnings: none, Masturbation (not explicit), swear words (a lot).

Tag buddys: @youbloodymadgenius @jadelynlace @punkrocknpearls

This will also appear on AO3. Link will follow. You wanted more, you get more. xD Thanks @neverwantedagony - It’s not like I’m drowning in fics. :D

They hadn't really talked much about the slip with the kiss - in his opinion, Ivar could only call it a slip, because somehow the disappointment that Heahmund hadn't taken him up on the offer was deep-seated. Nevertheless, they had still been arguing about picking the lock - discussing for ages, beating each other up, until suddenly the door had burst open and Larry, a somewhat chubby colleague, had stuck his head through the door.

At first, he had just stared at the two, who had looked at him just as shocked - until he had suddenly laughed. Heahmund had put on a slight, amused "friendly colleague" grin, while Ivar found the whole thing absolutely unfunny, and his face looked correspondingly cross. He stared at Larry with a slight, offended bite on his lower lip, while the latter returned the look with a laugh.

"When I tell the other colleagues about this - they'll laugh their heads off! You two of all people, everyone knows you can't stand each other," Larry said with amusement, and at this sentence even Heahmund's forced smile disappeared from his lips. Ivar crossed his arms slightly; he stared at Larry with a scowl on his face before saying quietly, "Aw, screw it. You were going to get punched in the mouth sooner or later anyway."

With those words, Ivar was about to lunge at Larry and slam his fist into his face - if it hadn't been for Heahmund, who had already flinched at Ivar's words and let out a loud, "Ivar, damn it!" He caught Ivar just in time before the latter could lunge at the fleeing Larry with a snarl.

"Cool it! He was only joking!" Heahmund growled; his hand, which he had clawed into Ivar's collar at the nape of his neck, released the younger cop, and Ivar snorted slightly. He felt exactly the slightly reddish marks on his cheek, once from anger - and once from the feeling of Heahmund's hands on his neck. After all, he had always boasted that he could easily defeat Heahmund if he wanted to - though now that he had felt the force, he was almost not so sure anymore. Still, he pushed Heahmund away easily, glaring at him angrily.

"You stay out of this! You're not my fucking guardian, and you're not my superior. You don't have to act like the damn tooth fairy around here!", Ivar hissed in a huff, adjusting his slightly shifted bulletproof vest a bit.

Heahmund only raised his eyebrows in less amusement and snorted lightly in response; his bright eyes lingered on Ivar for a moment before heading towards the exit with a shake of his head. "Larry's damn good at hitting. Next time I'll be happy to let him knock your tooth out, tooth fairy my ass. Be more professional for once, Ivar."

"Be more professional, tell that to your hairdresser!" Ivar grumbled, slightly offended, but he only earned a middle finger from Heahmund before he bid around the corner.

Had Ivar possibly imagined a hot night with Heahmund in the evidence room? Furious sex among hundreds of kilos of drugs and dangerous weapons, while he got a good going over? Yeah, maybe. But now Ivar wasn't so sure of his perverted fantasy and realized with a slight flush of warmth to his face that he was completely crazy for thinking of such a thing anyway. After all, he hated Heahmund, the eternal nag, the cursed nerd and know-it-all. And he also knew that Heahmund hated him just as much.

The next morning

Ivar was in a bad mood. In fact, he was in such a bad mood that he couldn't even say anything - he'd been silent for quite a while, just listening to the low drone on the radio and trying to perceive as little as possible of the presence of the person in the driver's seat, who was just as adamantly silent at him.

It could only be Larry's fault that they were sitting here next to each other like the last idiots, forced to go on patrol together. According to the supervisor, the only reason was that they would work so differently and could possibly learn a little from each other. But even so, Ivar knew that it was pure harassment. Pure chicanery, after the whole precinct had learned that of all things the redneck Ivar Lothbrok had been locked up with the otherwise so inconspicuous, clean Heahmund. It had to be the hoot, behind their backs. Ivar chewed on his lower lip and fumbled around in one of the pockets of his bulletproof vest. He took out a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth, snorting in annoyance when Heahmund stirred beside him.

"Chewing gum is prohibited on duty. The citizen might misunderstand you, and you can swallow it in dicey situations," Heahmund said quietly; he didn't look at Ivar, even as Ivar turned his head to Heahmund in an annoyed pose and began chewing his gum extra loudly. He saw exactly how Heahmund's eyelid twitched again - by now he knew it was an absolute sign that Heahmund was provoked as hell. He just didn't let it out, though, because he was on duty; which was apparently like the holy grail in being good.

"I can swallow something else entirely!" Ivar retorted cheekily, watching with delight as Heahmund's knuckles turned slightly whitish on the steering wheel of the car. Oh, so he was getting mad. A slight, barely visible smirk flitted across Ivar's lips, and he looked back towards the road.

"Your sayings are old and not funny. Speaking of forbidden things - why do you always have your hair braided in such a funny way?" Heahmund said darkly; he didn't dignify Ivar with a glance, while the younger cop looked at Heahmund again with a slight click of his tongue.

He opened his lips slightly, and carefully ran his fingertips over his hair, which was braided at the sides, indignant at what the paragon-hairstyle-Heahmund was picking on him again. "It's called viking style, you uncultured bastard. History's not your thing, huh?"

"Not like that, no. It's rather awkward, too. In dangerous situations you might get caught somewhere with it, or attackers have a good attack surface. That's why police officers should have short hair."

"What, the only thing that got caught is your virginity, Heahmund. My God, you're so square, it's really hurting me. It makes me want to jump out of the car."

Heahmund snorted. "Do that and I'll be rid of you. You should know better, in your gutter you get deflowered at 11."

Ivar opened his mouth slightly, but for the life of him he couldn't think of what to say in response. Many things came into his head - he would like to punch Heahmund in the face, grab the steering wheel and blame him for the accident - and just suck him for his fucking philistinism, just so the tall black-haired guy could get along in his gummy bear world. But Ivar remembered the principle "the wiser gives way", and instead leaned back in his seat and chewed his gum quite relaxed, albeit louder than usual. And only because he could then return Heahmund's deadly stare with a grin.

Oh fuck, how he hated that guy.

"Up ahead, he's blocked a fire road. Let's get him," Heahmund said, pointing to the side of the road. He pulled the car over, and Ivar unbuckled his seatbelt, annoyed.

"And don't you dare interrupt me again with your smart-ass bullshit," Ivar hissed, and Heahmund raised his eyebrows. He adjusted his vest and his gun once more - while Ivar surreptitiously watched the whole thing out of the corner of his eye - before they were also standing in front of the man. It was a typical suit guy, with a cell phone to his ear, and he just nodded roughly at the two cops.

"Yo, put the phone down, loser," Ivar snarled irritably, and the man's mouth dropped open slightly. It worked, though - Ivar knew that his rough manner silenced such guys quickly. But this time, the dark voice to his right interrupted him, clearing its throat indignantly.

"Sorry, Ivar - you can't call him a loser. That counts directly as an insult. You'll have to do it differently."

"What, you're serious, Heahmund? You're such a fucking nerd, honestly."

"Besides, you ask for ID first!"

"I hit first, then questions get asked."

"What fucking gangster movie did you pull that from again, huh? You're a cop, not a drug lord!"

"From which textbook did you get the right order, please? I have experience, and you have to be harder on guys like that, you moron."

"Ivar, I swear to you, if you don't finally - "

"Can I go?" the voice of the puzzled looking man interrupted them both; he had his eyes extremely strangely fixed on the two arguing policemen and winced slightly when Heahmund and Ivar both turned to him abruptly and snarled at him at the same time as if from one mouth, "NO!"

Ivar licked his lips angrily, his eyes still fixed on Heahmund, who was eyeing him just as angrily; the two had their arms crossed, and Heahmund tapped one of the pockets on his vest with his index finger.

"Shall we look, Ivar, huh? I've got the book with me. By the way, every policeman should have that with him, too, or do you know all the laws by heart?"

Ivar rolled his eyes. "You're serious, Heahmund? Really? You can suck my di -"

And again, the voice of the still confused-looking man, who by now wore frown lines and had his arms crossed in front of his chest, mingled in between. "Are you guys married or something?"

Silence, threatening silence spread over both parties, and Heahmund and Ivar had their deadly gazes once again fixed on the man, who by now was growing a bit paler. And although the penalty was not actually that severe, they pressed upon him twice the normal rate - with the result that the man angrily noted down their duty numbers, and Ivar wanted to give him the middle finger as he walked away; if Heahmund's hand had not been quicker, and he had slapped it away with a rough hiss.

The next argument after a silent hour in the patrol car came quickly - and it was because the two were arguing about where to get something to eat. Ivar flatly refused to accept Heahmund's snob suggestion with Starbucks, while Heahmund had equally rejected Ivar's suggestion of the best bakery in the Bronx.

"I'm not going to eat at fucking Starbucks! I'm not paying $500 for a shitty donut that tastes dried up!" Ivar bitched, eyeing Heahmund particularly disparagingly as he headed towards Starbucks anyway, undeterred by Ivar's objections.

"And I'm not eating at a bakery in the ghetto. Not only do we get a lot of business there - they're just... no." Heahmund retorted darkly, and Ivar snorted deeply.

"What do you mean ghetto? You're insulting an entire neighborhood. It's the best baker, I swear! You've never had better fucking donuts than there. And his wife makes a kick-ass coffee."

"No.", Heahmund said bluntly, and Ivar couldn't keep his aggression in check anymore and gave Heahmund a little shove against his shoulder before turning away from him in a huff. Already the day felt like 48 hours, even without Heahmund nearly kicking Ivar out of the car for refusing to go along. It didn't get any better when they entered the Starbucks; although most of the people eyed them kindly, Ivar gave each one of them an abysmal glare. His mood was even more screwed up when he saw the prices on the menu.

"A coffee is six dollars? Are you fucking kidding me? The hookers in the West District are cheaper than that!" he snarked, earning an indignant look from the saleswoman - Heahmund lowered his gaze and ran his hand to his forehead. He shook his head slightly and exhaled deeply before ordering for both of them and paying as well.

Ivar frowned; he didn't really need Heahmund doing anything like that - but today he was going to make him bleed. Just for his fucking arrogant face and smart-ass demeanor in front of the citizen earlier.

As they sat down at one of the tables, Ivar didn't acknowledge Heahmund at first; until Heahmund pushed the coffee over to him and looked at Ivar with a raised eyebrow. "Actually, you don't deserve this. But before you go on bashing red-light prices... God, Ivar. You really are terrible."

Ivar shrugged and nodded a slight thank you; he couldn't bring himself to say the word thank you, not like that. He stirred a little in his coffee before eyeing Heahmund again. "You can afford it, after all, your daddy is the chief of the guard. President of the guard, oho."

Heahmund frowned; he returned Ivar's brash look and sighed softly. "Yes, exactly. Because my life is also so closely tied to my father's, of course. Be good enough to at least shut up when we eat now."

Ivar smirked; he swallowed the comment he was about to let go and took a bite of his donut instead. And as he had already expected, couldn't even begin to match the one from his "ghetto" store; but something else jumped out at Ivar, and he downed his donut with a groan.

"Heahmund, no. You're not serious." he murmured, raising both eyebrows as he met Heahmund's gaze.

"What?"

"You're not seriously folding your fucking napkin."

"Yes, I do, as you can see. If you know the etiquette, you do."

"Oh my...no. No. Do you iron your underpants, too, or what?" Ivar snarled, and he almost had to laugh out loud when Heahmund couldn't hide the smirk that formed at the corners of his mouth.

The bright eyes locked on Ivar, and Ivar returned that gaze. "Shut up, Ivar." was all Heahmund said in response; even as Ivar let out a high-pitched, raucous laugh.

He hated this man - and how he did it. But despite that hatred, Ivar couldn't turn off the tingling sensation that bubbled up in his body - something irritated him so much about Heahmund that it made him completely hot. He didn't even know what it was - Heahmund was more than the opposite of him, they came from two different worlds and would never get along. But something in those eyes, something in that face - something in that voice and manner made Ivar boil inside.

Maybe because it was a challenge. Something so different from everyone else - or maybe he just hadn't had hot sex in ages. And even as he watched Heahmund eat his donut in an extremely civilized manner - Ivar couldn't help but imagine what it would be like when Heahmund fucked him. Whether he was hard, or gentle - whether he was how he was in duty, or whether he was privately the rough, brutal type in bed. That thought almost drove him crazy; and made him wince almost in horror when, after staring for quite a while, Heahmund's eyes locked on him.

It was already dark when Heahmund set Ivar down again in front of the police station. Ivar was still leaning against the bonnet of the car, lighting a cigarette - while the first stars were already slowly appearing in the sky. He fixed his gaze on the twinkling lights, and only noticed much too late that Heahmund had moved in front of him and was looking at him.

Heahmund was close, very close. Ivar lowered his cigarette and looked into the older man's face with a slight smirk; in the evening he didn't seem so rough anymore, and the contrast of his eyes was almost soft. Ivar's body tingled so hard he could feel it all the way down to his toes.

"Tomorrow we should both behave better. I think if we were a little friendlier, it would work out after all. Differences or not.", Heahmund said softly; Ivar could feel his breath on his face, and he swallowed slightly.

"My name isn't friendly, though, and I like my differences," Ivar hummed, almost too soft for his usually raucous manner. But Heahmund's closeness upset so many things that he couldn't quite explain himself honestly. Especially not when suddenly Heahmund's arms pressed down on the bonnet next to his body.

Heat shot to Ivar's face, and he opened his lips softly. Sex on the bonnet, oh fuck yeah. Nice in the dark, that the other colleagues didn't see it, and Ivar and Heahmund would be able to release all their anger on each other. Maybe Heahmund was carrying the exact same thought in his head, Ivar thought, as he pressed himself slightly breathlessly closer to Heahmund, and their faces were only very slightly apart.

Heahmund jutted his chin slightly, and the tip of his nose almost touched Ivar's; out of reflex, Ivar dropped his cigarette, and his hand settled almost automatically on Heahmund's shoulder. He exhaled slightly as he heard Heahmund's voice very low and dark against his cheek, smelled his aftershave, felt the intoxicating warmth. The power that flowed through those trained arms. God, he was so hot inside....

"See you tomorrow, you idiot." It was no more than a husky, raspy, beautiful whisper to Ivar's ear, and Ivar was about to settle into a definite head pose, head slightly tilted, lips slightly parted - when he felt Heahmund's arms release from the bonnet, and the big cop walked away with a wink.

Ivar stared after him with his mouth open - his eyes open indignantly, and with his heart beating so hard it almost hurt. And it burned - that fucking wanker had actually left him standing again and made him look stupid to boot. Ivar snorted perplexedly, his lips twisted into an incredulous smirk, if only slightly - before shaking his head and lighting another cigarette. No one had turned him down yet, no one.

That evening, Ivar lay in bed torn up inside - his thoughts revolved only around that damned bastard and his disgustingly off-putting, yet appealing manner. He hated this man, he really hated him. Everything about him was something that Ivar had loathed all his life - and that he could never imagine being at his side. This awful, nerdy manner, this behavior... Ivar couldn't help but be permanently upset with Heahmund, inside and out.

But that he also felt something else - something forbidden good, which made him hot to the bone inside - he realized at the latest when his hand slipped into his boxers, and he grasped his hard cock.

No, you can't jerk off on the idiot now, Ivar still thought, before he bit his lower lip with a soft sigh and his hand was already moving. The thought and the hateful feelings that still shot through his body soon left him breathless; and he almost couldn't believe that when he came with a low groan - he was thinking of Heahmund. And what the latter would probably do if he saw Ivar like this now.

#fanfic #heavar #vikings #enemies to lovers

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natromanxoff · 3 years

Text

I wasn’t sure about posting this at first but as it is already shared publicly and I have come across with it on Pinterest, I decided that it would be okay. So here is a story of a fan about Jim Hutton:

“ON 23rd of March, there was a Queen Tribute band concert in Goresbridge and my boyfriend told me that Jim would come as well. He admitted that he had arranged with Stephen for Jim to come along. The concert was in the pub called The Spirit Store. What a great name for spiritual meeting, I thought. When I entered, Jim sat at the table with Stephen, Jascqueline, her sister Valeria and other family friends. There was nowhere to sit, so we just stood by the table for a while. When I looked at Jim, he appeared somewhat fragile and tiny, like a man who could easily be overlooked. He didn´t look anything like those photos portraying him in the books.

After a while, there was a free seat by the table and everyone, including Jim, moved in order for us to sit down. It was just one place and my friend Mike wanted to take it. He got up fast but they all stopped him. Jim measured Mike up and down and told him, "Perhaps you should let the lady sit here, you cavalier!" Embarassed, Mike got up from his chair and offered it to me. I got the honorable place alongside Jim. Being a woman sometimes has its advantages! Jim welcomed me with heartfelt "Hi". At first I was nervous, but after a while I felt relaxed and enjoyed Jim's company. I was aware of his behavior, gestures, laughter, and tried to absorb his energy all at once. It was easy to talk to him about anything and everything.

I wanted to know the man Freddie loved so much, so I guess I started giving him many questions.

"Jim, are you still in touch with Phoebe?" Jim looked at me closely and began to talk to me with interest. "I haven´t really been talking to him for a long time. I know he had a hotel in Dubai, then he sold it, and he's in Prague now. He also bought something overthere and I think he's going to settle down there." When I heard about Prague, I jumped up excitedly and told him that I was from there. He smiled a little, though the coincidence like this didn´t overwhelm him as much as me.

He relished glass of Budwaiser and smoked Ultra light Silk Cuts. He offered me one and lit it up for me like a real gentleman. It seemed he wanted to continue talking. We both made fun of the ultralight effect of his cigarettes, which would probably piss off every orthodox smoker, Freddie for sure! He then demonstrated jokingly, how to properly smoke them. He inhaled all the smoke by sucking in his cheeks and widening his eyes, as if he should soon burst like an inflated toad. None of us resisted and we both burst into a mad laughter. I told him about my visit to Munich and meeting Barbara. He smiled and listened, then he rolled his eyes up to heaven and stated that she is one hell of a crazy woman. I totally agreed, and added, that also alcoholic one. It was surreal to talk about mutual aquaintances together, people we both knew. I also mentioned my visit to New York club and I could see how he returns nostalgically into his memories. Then I also tried to make him remember my friend Allison, who told me about him in the first place.

"About nine years ago she visited you in London". He couldn´t remember and admitted, that since then a lot of people have passed through his life and many of them he never saw again.

I continued. "She showed me several of your photos and in one of them you were holding Freddie's portrait that you bought at the auction". Suddenly he jumped up and said he knew whom I mean.

I showed him my miniature box containing a stone and talked about it with almost patriotic pride. "It's a stone from Logan Mews that I had to dig out from under the threshold of his house, because there was nothing else to take." Jim laughed out loud, this time without any hindrance and doubt that I was totally crazy. I also laughed because I knew I sound like nuts. He remarked with smile from ear to ear that I was pretty crazy. "Yeah, I'm crazy, and I'm proud to be. Who isn´t...and by the way.....why not?" I smiled at what I just said, because that´s what Freddie would say, to defend himself. Jim then talked about the medallion that Freddie had given him for his birthday. He said, there were three miniature pictures inside. "The first is that of Miko ", he said gently, looking up at me to make sure I knew who he was talking about. "In the other one is Freddie" ... he continued with kind of fervor and love. Something deep inside me shivered. "In the third one," ... he didn´t answer yet, when I jumped into his monologue ...."Tiffany," I blurted out.

"My mom's photo," he finished his sentence. (and I prayed he didn´t register my answer).

It was nice to hear him remembering like that. He opened up in front of me the way I never dreamt of. I think it was nice for him to share these beautiful moments and to talk about things that meant so much to him. "This rock is my good luck charm. I have been listening to Queen since I´m twelve and I also work in the Fan Club's office. We celebrate his anniversary every year. When I went here, I was kidding with my friends that I might meet Jim Hutton in Ireland... and here you are, sitting right next to me. That´s my dream come true", I said all emotional.

"How do you know Stephen?", he inquired after while.

"I go out with Vinnie and they are good friends" He eyed my boyfriend and indicated that he knew who he was.

"I was annoying the two of them and was constantly asking them to bring you", I smiled.

"Oh, Jacqueline wanted me to come, alright" Jim smiled at the thought. Then he talked about the music talent competition, in which they were selecting the best imitators of Queen.

"What music are you actually listening to?" I wondered.

"I have no favorite, I'm listening to almost everything. Even a radio".

"And do you still have Zig and Zag?"

He only sighed and said in a sad voice that they had both died since then.

"And do you have any other cats?"

"Yeah, I have seven others now," Jim smiled. This number didn´t surprise me. The old habits are hard to kill.

"Do you still keep up the gardening, Jim?"

"Constantly," he said with a loving smile and amusedly showed me his hands dirty from the clay and covered in sores. For God's sake, he must have been gardening a few minutes before going to a concert!, I thought to myself. A complete garden maniac.....

We were joking on the account of the band that was supposed to start playing long time ago, but somehow did not. He told me it would be nice to get drunk, so we didn´t know how terrible they were. That really made me crack up. He could be so funny.

He joked and emphasized to everyone around the table, that instead of a concert he could have been at home watching his favorite movie. In the same breath, he admitted that he was curious about their performance and that he hadn´t been out in ages.

He leaned over to me and confessed, that now he lived a life completely cut off from the rest of the world.

"We are basically the same, I am basically like him. Now I just enjoy loneliness and privacy. I don´t go out anywhere except my garden". I immediately knew whom he was referring to in his speech.

I said that I had discovered his house in Palatine and apologized when I saw his slightly concerned look. I said I was just little curious.

He then recalled a few of his encounters with the fans. One day there was an unknown car with a couple of strangers that arrived to his house. They came all way from Vienna and they found him by questioning people in a town! Not a hard thing to trace him, he said, as every cab driver in the area knows him pretty well. One local newspaper even published a photo of his house, and although they gave a wrong address, a lot of people had found him.

That made me laugh, because I knew what it means to be a devoted fan.

"On the other hand, it's nice to know that someone is constantly looking after you and giving you the feeling that all this is still alive," I added with a smile.

"Jim, do you still have your Volvo?"

"You mean the one that Freddie gave me?.....No, I don´t have it few years now, I´ve swapped it for a new one," he smiled.

He was all too gallant all the time, always lighting my cigarette.

He also wondered how long I would stay in Ireland, so I said that only another half a year.

"And you wanna come back here?" He asked suddenly.

"Oh, I'd love to. I'm trying to find a job either in Carlow or Kilkenny," I said enthusiastically.

Then I fell silent, looked at him and assured him "Definitely."

Each time he looked up into my eyes, I saw an incredibly nice person in front of me. Something in his silent expression suggested that he had suffered great deal of pain in life, but that he was now completely reconciled with his fate. Still, in his eyes shone a spark of unrelenting humor. In his company I forgot all about the world. I was happy to be able to make such an affluent and warm contact with him. The longer we knew each other, the closer we were.

When he wanted to go to the toilet, Stephen told him that the men's toilets were behind the bar and the ladies in front of the bar. It sounded like he wasn´t quite sure which one would Jim prefer.

But Jim didn´t care much and set off to the men's. I admit it made me laugh a little.

Then we continued our dialogue. I mentioned that I read both his and Phoebe's book, but that I couldn´t find his book anywhere in the stores. He confirmed that it´s out of print at the minute.

When I told him that I had stolen his book at the local library, he laughed and said that I should have asked him and he would have given me a copy, but he only had Italian version.

Finally, the band started to play. Everyone in the pub stood up and whole lot of us - as we were tucked in at the back, climbed onto the window ledges. I stood next to Jim, who remained seated.

He looked a little bit run over. I knew he was surrounded by the loneliness and I watched him with sadness. I lacked much power or words to comfort him. It was only after some wonderful songs that we both joined and got up. He could not remain sad in such a loving and friendly company for ever.

When he noticed the enormous, life-vibrant energy that only Queen music could produce in conjunction with a crowd of people singing, I think he forgot his personal pain. I could see pride in his face. He stood up and watched the band. Then he addressed me and made me come up onto the ledge above him to see better. I would not listen to anybody else, but from him it didn´t sound like an order. He wanted me to get the most out of it and it pleased me. Then we sat back and drank. Jim seemed to be getting cheerful and livelier. The more he drank, the more cheerful he was. The guys ordered him Red Bull with vodka. When I asked him if it was vodka, he claimed it was white lemonade! He put a warm glass of "vodka" on my hand, so I almost jumped out of my skin, which he thought was terribly funny.

Whatever he did, he looked at me as though I was the only person who knew what was behind his looks. His faces and funny grimaces reminded me of Freddie. He had a lot of subconsciously inherited poses and gestures from him. Even in his laughter I could detect an influence of Freddie's strong personality. He simply marked all people around him. It was not the same contagious and stormy laugh, but there was a spark of resemblance.

His niece Jacqueline, Valerie and Stephen, danced all the time on the ledge and Jim was pulling them and wrapping himself in between their legs, hugging them, clinging to them, and messing around like a little boy. It was a wonderful sight, as he was so happy and childish.

After some time, Jim lost himself in a crowd of concert goers, so I went to look for him. Without his company it felt such a sad place. It was as if he had fallen through the ground, which made me very nervous. Finally, I found him by the entrance table, where he was joking away with one old blonde, not too different from frivolous Barbara Valentin. I asked him for a photo together. At first he looked impenetrable but as soon as I threw a sad eye and smirked, he brightened up and agreed as if saying "You know you can, anything for you, darling"

His niece Valerie took our picture. He then whispered to me that he hopes I´ll send him some pictures later.

After that he announced that we are going back inside to listen to the band.

I saw them from close-up and I must say that it was much better to just hear them. They looked rather too comic with all their wigs. It was something that would make Freddie laugh too.

I told Jim that they don´t look very natural,which he agreed with, but he said he couldn´t complain about their music. He was totally right, because musically they weren´t bad and the singer had a very authentic voice.

Inside, everybody was dancing and Jim joined in and circled around them like a rogalo.

The whole pub vibrated with intense and loving energy. There was no one who would be bored. Jim then threw himself in the arms of his two nieces, who gently caressed him in his hair and embraced him. He let them take care of him, now vulnerable like a little lost child all of a sudden.

There was something deeply touching about it. He had closed his eyes and sadly lowered his head, as if his tears flowed deep inside, in his invisible world. I realized at this stage, how much he really loved Freddie. I was looking at him and I had a desire to caress him and comfort him but instead, I had to stand aside.

"You can have everything and yet feel alone", Freddie once said. But I was glad Jim had his family and friends around him, who cared and protected him. Jim was going through sorrow and joy,both at the same time, it seemed.

During one of his many shananigans, I caught him messing around with his niece's boyfriend.

He sat him on his knees and imitated sexual intercourse. It would seem offensive and utterly crazy to someone who didn´t know him. But we all did. Jim was laughing like crazy and when he finally looked at me, he seemed a little embarrassed by his behavior and gave me a look that said"I hope you won´t tell on me to Freddie"...but it was hard to take him seriously.

We both smiled conspiratorially at each other. In that sense, our relationship no matter how short-lived, was special. We understood one another in thoughts. He winked at me a couple of times, tapping my beer like an old buddy.

In one moment in particular, Jim leaned over me and whispered: "You as a fan have right to be crazy, but them" ... pointing at our dancing group of friends ... " they are fucked up", he said with smile and he began to knock his finger against his forehead. An international gesture that doesn´t need an interpreter!

Jim then went to the toilets for a while, and I, like a stray sheep, followed him through crowds of oblivious dancers. He was somewhat drunk at that time and barely retained a balance. He staggered a little like a broken tree. No surprise after god knows how many Red bulls and vodkas! I was bit afraid for him, so I supported him inconspicuously by both shoulders from behind. He went to the toilet and cared too little to even close the door behind him. If anyone was looking, he would see Jim Hutton pissing in a toilet bowl in his bright canary shirt.

At that moment they played the most touching song of all, These are the Days of our lives .... I stood by the door and listened, watching the band and waited for Jim. I don´t know why, perhaps because of the fate that brought me here, I suddenly felt terrible sorrow. I was sorry for Freddie and Jim. Tears poured into my eyes. I didn´t cry, but was very close to it. Jim suddenly appeared next to me and noticed my face. "What about those tears? I hope you don´t cry", but at this stage I was lost for words. His concern made me sad even more. Something inside me forced me to caress him. I hugged him gently around his neck and put my head on his shoulder for a moment. I wanted to let him know that I am very sorry about what happened to Freddie. He did not resist. He knew he wasn´t the only one in the world who was missing him. I looked into his eyes, and I told him a sentence that I didn´t know why I said, but I strongly felt it..."Jim, he's here, he IS here." His expression was rather confused at first. "Do you believe me?" ... I said this with a seriousness and a certain degree of self-assurance that he froze for a while. He looked thoughtful. He knew what I was talking about.

I seemed to only confirm his inner conviction. He didn´t say a word. He wiped my tear away with the edge of his hand and without warning, took me firmly by the hand and led me through crowds back to our friends. There was a lot of care and love in his touch. The music was just playing and Freddie just sang "I still love you" and I knew he did.

I didn´t want to leave, but I knew I said everything I needed to. I could not leave without saying goodbye. It would be a sin after all this to just disappear into eternity. I interrupted him from the conversation with someone else, leaned over the table and said, "Jim, I'm leaving now, so I want to say goodbye, it was great pleasure meeting you." I smiled as much as my heart allowed me to and shook his hand. He stared up and thought for a moment, and then, without any hesitance said, "We do not see each other for the last time." I didn´t know at this time how true his words were.

I thought I did not understand well, so I asked again, "sorry?" and he repeated patiently and more resolutely, "I shall surely see you again," while taking my hand into his hands and kissing it gently.

He left me in amazement. I stumbled out from there perplexed but still I could hear him talking about me to someone there. He probably said he hadn´t seen a bigger nutcase in a long time, assuming from his cute teddybear smile. Gosh I loved him so much!

The next day I learned from my friends that Jim was looking next morning for his jacket that he had forgotten in his car. Few days later, I've sent him the promised photographs. Jacquie confirmed that he called in to say he had received them allright.”

2001

“...And then I returned back to Ireland in 2004.

I had the opportunity to welcome Jim to my own home in Carlow sometime in 2006. He was Stephen´s surprise. When the door opened up, I didn´t see him at first.

Then his head popped out from the side of the door and with a laugh he emerged a bit later. He hugged me like we hadn´t seen each other for million years. What I felt at that moment was indescripable. My dear Jim back in my life and in my own house!

We all sat in the living room, Jim settled down on the sofa, I was sitting on the ground and absorbed the precious moments because I knew time spent with him was only borrowed time. Then we watched Queen videos and talked about Freddie as if he were in the next room. It was so surreal. Me and Jim agreed that our favorite video was Scandal, and he just added that Freddie didn´t like it very much because he couldn´t make any creative input in it, although he loved the song.

Then we talked about his illness, about him taking up to 40 pills a day to sustain his health and he also explained the difference between AIDS and HIV, as many people still didn´t know. We have talked so much and - above all - we laughed all night, almost at everything. It was so easy to succumb to his funny personality once again and to his heartfelt laughter. He made jokes about fancying my ex-boyfriend, whom he lied on top of on the sofa. Long time ago, I´ve sent him a letter explaining to him how Freddie has impacted my life. But I've forgotten I´ve ever written it and now I was faced with the horror that I actually have sent it. I hoped he has forgotten about it, but when Jim and I met in the corridor of our house, I couldn´t but apologize to him for that letter, and for being so daring. To my surprise, he looked at me softly with his tired eyes and assured me that my letter was absolutely fascinating. Then we were interrupted by Stephen, who was just leaving a toilet and the conversation was cut short at that point. Unfortunatelly I would never have the chance to find out what was the next thing he was about to say, because I noticed he wanted to continue, if he weren´t interrupted.

When we were saying goodbye at the door, he treated me as an old friend. He simply kissed me on the lips, which utterly shocked me and made me laugh at the same time.

He invited us back to his house to have a little party, but my ex-boyfriend was not in the perfect mood and so we politely declined, which I will forever regret!

About a year after that I bumped into Jim several times in the city where we both lived, or we exchanged text messages whenever I needed to advise what room flowers would be best for our new house. Sometimes I learnt about how he´s doing through my ex-boyfriend, who used to hang out with him and drink few pints in a night bar. Once my ex confessed how Jim told him that I was a great person and he should be happy to have me. They must have been talking about me!!!!

Then I met Jim one night in the nightclub, where he was with his friends. He spent most of his time sitting in the lounge smoking a cigarette, having fun with younger girls. Wherever he was, you heard his laughter. That night my ex-boyfriend arranged for Jim and me to have a dance together.

Jim was just dancing on the dancefloor with some older woman. I remember he had his jumper tied around his waist. I just got onto the dancefloor, he looked at me all serious and pulled me close to him. It was some tediously slow song that I can´t even remember, I just know that we were staggering from side to side like two handiccaped penguins and that made me laugh hysterically.

He was such a clown! Now, however, I consider this moment as one of the most precious memories of him. It was my night.

Back in 2009, I have learned that Jim was diagnosed with cancer. My ex-boyfriend told me how concerned Jim was when informing him. He said, he wept. At that time I didn´t know how serious the situation was and I hoped Jim will get better in no time. I believed the doctors would somehow help him out of it. I saw him a little later at work when he came to our restaurant for breakfast.

I almost served him as another customer, but when I realized it was him, I pulled myself back into the kitchen and let the other girls serve him. He never noticed. I was in such state of shock. I didn´t know what to do, how to act and what to say. He was so thin, just skin and bone. His face was sinking, his eyes full of pain, a small tube leading from his nose to the oxygen device he carried in his backpack and a small canvas hat on his head. I couldn´t believe this was Jim, whom I have remembered being so full of life and joy only half a year ago. I wanted to cry like never before. I also felt embarassed by my own cowardly reaction. I wished more than anything in my life to hug him and say I loved him. I wanted to wish him a happy Christmas. But I was scared of my own tears, which would not help him in his situation.

I wrote him a message on the phone, but he didn´t respond. And then I got the terrible news. Jim died and somehow I also missed his funeral. I took a first taxi and went at least to his months Mass and visited his grave, bringing him daffodils and little white lantern with candle. It was so hard for me. His relatives stood above his grave. I said my prayers in a minute of silence. The air didn´t move and the moon was full in the night sky. It was dark and cold all around but I didn´t care.

I wanted to see him laugh and mess around like he used to. It was as if another star had disappeared and fell to the earth. If only life could last forever.”

2006-2010

Credits to Seraphiel’s blog. Please don’t repost without credits.

#jim hutton

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blakelywintersfield · 3 years

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As a victim of gun violence myself, I will be keeping my guns, thanks. Fear mongering? Maybe a little bit the fact is politicians absolutely “hell yes I want to take your AR15, your AK47”. They’ve said it often and loudly that they would like you to be disarmed. If you feel no one in your home is mentally stable enough for a gun, great, but you have zero right to tell others they should do the same.

1. If you're a victim of gun violence then the NRA gives absolutely NO fucks about you. You're not a victim of gun violence in their eyes, you're a victim of a criminal who happened to have a gun. Calling it "gun violence" is liberal propaganda to blame the gun, instead of the person. The gun didn't create the violence, the person did. That's their shitbrained logic and that's how they would respond to you if you told them (without disclosing if you're a gun owner or not) "I was a victim of gun violence." Because just like your dumb ass, they're not responsible gun owners, they're reactionary gun owners, and if you're reactionary as opposed to rational, you shouldn't have dangerous weapons, and your "you can't tell me what to do" 5-year-old attitude towards that would not hold up in a myriad of other scenarios. By your logic, suspending the driver's license of an elderly individual with dementia is unconstitutional. Not allowing someone with chronic seizures to drive is unconstitutional. Not allowing people to sell food without meeting safety and sanitation standards is unconstitutional. "You can't tell me what to do 'cause muh freedumb" isn't a fucking part of the constitution, you're just a chronic nationalist boot deep-throater whose mommy told him that the world owed him everything.

2. Where did I say guns should be taken away from you, or anyone else in my tags. Where? Here, I'll post the fucking screenshot of it and you can highlight it:

Please show me where I said "people should have their guns taken away" you reactionary cowardly fuck. I'll wait.

3. Politicians stating "no one needs a stockpile of AK47s" is not synonymous with "we want to take your guns". Gun buy-back programs that are VOLUNTARY are not the same as threatening to "take your guns". What benefit would you, as one person, gain from owning 5 semi-automatic weapons in the argument of "self-defense"? Are you going to wield one in each hand, one with each foot, and one with the mouth you can't seem to fucking shut? Do you think any of these weapons would protect you against government militia (which is what the second amendment is FOR, for one, and which the NRA does NOT condone if it's conservative sanctioned militia takeover) breaking into your property with a force of 10 people in bulletproof gear and military-grade weapons that could probably blow your fucking empty head off your body in one shot? Or do you like owning all of these shiny scary-looking toys for intimidation, thinking it'll protect you from future violence, like a fucking Halloween house made to scare away children? If that's your reasoning, then you definitely need therapy because that's textbook maladaptive coping with trauma -- I'd know because I have my own array of self-defense weapons that I got in response to my traumatic event, including a knife that could fatally gut an adult man with one stab. That's not a reasonable response to trauma!! But at least I can admit it! Your pisswad ass on the other hand can't, and views anyone saying "the NRA is a shit organization that doesn't support responsible gun ownership or the responsibility of gun owners and their actions, and is essentially a domestic terrorist grooming organization" as an attack on you as an individual, because you can't stomach the idea that maybe, just fucking maybe, you may be on that list of people who shouldn't have a gun because you're too mentally fucked up to be trusted with something like that, like people who are chronically suicidal (in other words, the MAJORITY OF GUN RELATED DEATHS), people with psychotic tendencies that can lead to hurting themselves or others (not because people with psychosis are "scary evil people", but because those moments of psychosis literally keep a person from making rational observations and decisions, and these individuals are already advised to have possible harmful tools locked up or just not in the house for their own safety), people like incels that believe if their entitlement is denied that they have the right to murder, etc. Honestly, you do sound like someone who shouldn't have guns, because your unstable ass probably read up to the second tag and skimmed the rest in a blind rage before sending an ask two days after I made that post, and seemed to conveniently miss the end:

What's your reasoning for the NRA keeping silent about responsible black gun owners being gunned down by police because the cops know they're legally registered gun owners (Jason Washington, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, whom the NRA defended being murdered by police while pulled over for a traffic violation, in his car with his wife and CHILD, and verbally informed the cop like a responsible gun owner that he had a conceal and carry permit, and was reaching for his wallet in plain view of his family and the fucking pig)? What's your reasoning behind them callously dismissing police violence against black people who are unarmed or have a history of supporting gun control (Botham Jean, Clementa Pinckney, fucking JAMES SHAW JR., WHO STOPPED A MASS SHOOTING WHILE UNARMED HIMSELF), as though that makes it their fault they were murdered, injured, or otherwise victimized? What's your reasoning behind them only piping up about "muh guns" whenever politicians say "there's a gun problem" after the 29th public shooting that month, but not tackling the issue of gun control disproportionately impacting people of color while letting crazy little white kids run loose with a multitude of firearms? What's your reasoning behind them siding with idiot fascist Trump's temper tantrum over the NFL's protests on police violence -- something they, once again, consistently respond to with "they should've been armed" if the black person wasn't, and give complete fucking radio static to if the black person was armed (even if legally armed)? They're so against gun control, but never seem to care when it affects black and brown people -- only when Jack Incelson, age 16, who posts on 4chan about how he wants to cut women's heads off and fuck their dead bodies, is at risk of not being allowed to keep his AR15. If people of color are killed while armed, it's justified because "they had a gun"; if people of color are killed while unarmed, it's their fault because "they should've had a gun" -- this is something the NRA is notorious for, because they don't give a flying fuck about people who should have the right to arm themselves.

4. On that point: I fully support the Socialist Rifle Association, even as someone who does not want to own guns -- because, as stated in the post you're shitting your diaper over -- I support organizations that vouch for responsible gun owners. The SRA holds irresponsible gun owners accountable. They actually support people's right to bear arms to defend themselves against tyrannical government forces. They are active in disaster aid, in environmental defense, in protecting people of color. I do not like guns but I 100% support the SRA, because they fight for people who do need to arm themselves to have that right, and I support that sentiment. I believe people of color should be able to arm themselves. I believe queer people should be able to arm themselves. I believe poor people should be able to arm themselves. But the NRA doesn't actively fight for any of those groups' rights -- the SRA does.

But you know what the SRA doesn't do? Send out unsolicited letters begging lower-middle-class white people for money so they can "fight the gun-hating liberals" from "taking away our guns n freedumb" and offering "i <3 guns" bumper stickers and shit in return. They don't view any political party as their friend because they know that Republicans and Democrats alike do not actually want you to be able to defend yourself against the government. They don't send fear-mongering letters full of hyperbolic bullshit to scare people into thinking that Biden or Obama or whatever Democrat is in the office is going to break into your house with police, beat your wife and children, and steal your guns while cackling maniacally over you as you sob "why mister president? why would you do this to your loyal and patriotic citizens?" The SRA opposes gun control laws that unfairly target demographics that are at the highest risk of police violence. The NRA does not, and, in fact, has a very heavily documented history of siding with conservatism, including making statements about things that don't even involve guns -- stating that American men are being turned into "second-rate women", outcried banning anti-queer discrimination and compared the ban to slavery, made a call to imprison people protesting against Trump's Cabinet picks, called the Women's March anti-American. These are all recent you shithead, so you must be purposely ignoring all of this to feel justified in defending this domestic terrorist organization, or you're probably a self-victimizing white man who can't handle being told no. Or maybe both. I don't know and I don't fucking care.

Don't fucking message me again. Unfollow me if you were previously following me and haven't already. Get some fucking therapy instead of crawling through strangers' blogs trying to find a reason to justify your irrational anger at them. And while you're at it, do me a huge favor, you cowardly fucking cunt: go to your nearest sex shop, buy 5 gallons of lube, pour them over your guns, and shove each and every one of them, fully loaded, up your ass. That way you can keep a close eye on them since your head is obviously already lodged up there.

Alternatively, you can eat shit and die.

#welcome to the bpd space my empathy is at 0 for you and i would experience a heavenly degree of schadenfreude from watching you suffer #where did you think this was gonna go you dumb cunt? what did you think you'd accomplish?#what about my blog says ''i'm a friendly space for neo-conservative sacks of shit''?#the last tl;dr point of my byf literally says don't follow if you're republican/conservative #and you can pretend you're not all you want but if you see people condemning the nra while stating they support gun organizations that #stand for responsible gun ownership and your reaction is to send an angry ''fuk u deez er MUH GUNS U CANT TAKEEM FRUM ME'' you are reacting #the same way conservatives do. supporting people's rights to arm themselves does not mean you can't condemn shitty organizations like the #nra and in fact refusing to makes you an irresponsible gun owner in itself because you refuse to acknowledge organizations that mow down #people who need to arm themselves so that YOU can.#you don't care about people's rights you just don't want to be told no. like a fucking toddler.#anyways gonna tag some stuff for possible blacklists #violence against women #police brutality #racism #graphic descriptions of violence #long post #can't think of anything else y'all can lmk if there was something i missed

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couldyouimagine-that · 3 years

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Honestly dude, idek. This just came to me. Not really any warnings, but there are mentions of alcohol and it takes place in a club/bar. A Boba x Reader songfic using Shape of You by Ed Sheeran.

Masterlist

You began tapping your fingertips against the table yourself and your companions were occupying when the live band started playing Shape of You. You were lowkey keeping an eye on a tall, dark haired man across the dancefloor from where you were sitting. He was the latest target you were after, one Boba pointed out to you and in fact a bounty Din had been told about by Karga a few days ago. Your heel started tapping to the uplifting beat without your permission, something Boba raised a silent eyebrow at from his place next to you. You gave a half shrug before jumping up just as the lyrics started up.

“The club isn’t the best place to find a lover, so the bar is where I go,” you sang, voice drowned out by the music blaring through the speakers around you. Your words were directed at Boba, though you glanced at the bar just off to the side to play along with the song. He rolled his eyes in response. “Me and my friends at the table doing shots, drinking fast and then we talk slow.” You offered a wide grin to Din and Cara at this point, the Mandalorian’s helmet moving in such a way that you suspected it was hiding a knowing smirk and Cara just displaying hers openly. Fett’s own helmet was resting on the table in front of him, visor facing out to the room and making his broad figure all the more imposing.

“Come over and start up a conversation with just me and trust me, I’ll give it a chance.” Your gaze was back on Boba now, who was having absolutely none of it. Your feelings for bounty hunter were by no means secret among anyone, but he was playing hard to get. That was fine; you were more than capable of doing the same.

“Take my hand, stop, put Van the Man on the jukebox and then we start to dance.” You started swaying your hips to the beat just slightly, a hand you knew would be ignored outstretched towards Fett. If the music were any quieter, you might have heard Din scoff behind his visor, gaze very firmly fixed on his two close friends. Him and Cara had been working (scheming) for ages to get you two together, but it turned out to be Boba who wouldn’t make the move. They came to the same conclusion you had; this was a game for him and he was dragging it out as long as possible.

“And now I’m singing like-” You cut yourself off, retracting your hand only to gesture at the bounty hunter, clearly signalling for him to pick up the lyrics. He refused point blank, watching your movements with a neutral expression. “You’re no fun!” You yelled over the music, a teasing grin over your lips. In the absence of a response, you continued singing. “Say, boy, let’s not talk too much, grab on my waist and put that body on me.” That was accompanied with a calculated swivel of your hips. “Come on now, follow my lead,” you started walking backwards, hips jutting out to each side like you were on a catwalk, then you spun sharply and continued stalking towards the centre of the dancefloor. There were a few people already on there, but that didn’t bother you. “Come, come on now, follow my lead.” You continued singing, commanding the attention of the room, confidence practically rolling off of you in waves. You stopped right in the middle, eyes surveying the crowd now waiting to see what you did next. One very specific set of eyes were boring into your back.

“I’m in love with the shape of you,” you were exaggerating all of your movements now, your whole body seeming to become part of the lyrics flowing around you. “We push and pull like a magnet do.” You threw your hands forwards and backwards to emphasize that. “Although my heart is falling too, I’m in love with your body.” You had gained a fair few people’s attention now, making you pretty confident that your plan would work. “And last night you were in my room,” you spun around, gesturing randomly into the group of onlookers, “and now my bedsheets smell like you. Every day, discovering something brand new, well I’m in love with your body.” You punctuated the following ‘oh’s’ in the song with precise flicks of your wrist, hips moving to match. You moved back towards the other side of the floor with a bit of fancy footwork, eyes locking on one particular person.

“One week in, we let the story begin, we’re going out on our first date.” You reached out to the man whose attention you had been trying to get (quite successfully done if you did so yourself), eyebrows lifting to suggest the lyrics were about him. He gave a wide smile in return, between surprised and pleased. “But you and me are thrifty, so go all you can eat. Fill up your bag and I fill up a plate.” He started walking towards you, his own hand starting to reach out. You took it and pulled him onto the dancefloor, close to you but not quite touching.

“We talk for hours and hours about the sweet and the sour, and how your family’s doing okay.” Your whole body was swaying, and you kept eye contact with your apparently willing target. “Leave and get in a taxi, we kiss in the backseat,” you blew him a chaste kiss, “tell the driver make the radio play. And I’m singing like-”

“Girl you know I want your love, your love was handmade for somebody like me.” Your face lifted in joy as he sang the lyrics, voice a deep baritone that was barely audible beneath the pounding music. “Come on now, follow my lead, I may be crazy, don’t mind me.” He glanced off to the side in faux disappointment, the warm grin ruined the effect entirely.

“Say, boy, let’s not talk too much,” you lightly tapped his chest, then grabbed his wrists. “Grab on my waist and put that body on me.” You put his hands on your waist then yours on his shoulders, now dancing as a couple like you had known each other for years. You offered the onlookers a bright wink and a raised eyebrow in your current partner’s direction as if asking if he was the one. The cheers you got in response certainly sufficed as an answer. “Come on now, follow my lead. Come, come on now, follow my lead.” You moved close to his chest then, arms around his middle and dancing over his spine, trailing to just above the back of his belt.

You sang the chorus together, you easily matching the footwork he came up with. You had to admit it; he was an excellent dancer. During the first set of ‘oh’s’, you faced each other, hip movements matching and exaggerated once more. On the second, you spun sharply to repeat the movement with the man at your back, then you both spun so you were behind him on the third repetition. He turned a third time to face you once more as you continued matching each other’s footwork, some of it fairly complicated and receiving some appreciative cheers from your accumulated crowd. “Come on, be my baby, come on.” His fingertips trailed over your jaw as he pretended to ask you genuinely, you making a show of considering it in return. You carried this on until you reached the last chorus.

“I’m in love with your body.” You twirled a few times, his hand well above your head with how tall he was. “Every day, discovering something brand new.” You came to face him one final time, arching your back and leaning back, him leaning over you to give a dramatic end to your routine. “I’m in love with the shape of you!”

You grinned as you looped your arms around your partner’s neck and let him pull you upright once more, offering your adoring crowd kisses from your fingertips. You walked off of the dancefloor together, still standing close when you stopped. Your chest was heaving but you kept up your grinning.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” He had a fairly strong Southern accent now you could actually hear his voice. You thanked him, but declined graciously nonetheless by telling him you were just out to have a good dance. You parted on as friendly terms as possible with a stranger, then made your way through the crowd and back towards your table, hips still swaying to the beat of the next song. Someone stopped you when you were almost back to compliment your dancing, so you used that as an excuse to take the last couple of steps in reverse. You thanked her as she moved away once more, then collapsed backwards heavily into the seat of the circular booth surrounding your table, pressing yourself firmly into Boba’s side. He turned his head towards you almost immediately, but made no further move. You didn’t look at him either, gaze on Cara as she gave an impressed whistle.

“I had no idea you could dance like that,” she said with a smirk which you quickly returned. Boba gave a quiet cough next to you, but rather than meet his gaze, you stared out over the dancefloor, noting your partner had well and truly disappeared. With that, you held up a hand in front of Boba and dropped both an ID and security card onto his lap.

“That guy wasn’t actually the target,” you murmured, sitting close enough to the mandalorian’s side that he heard you speak. “He was part of the security detail, and the one we’re actually after is very much not here.” You saw Cara and Din share a glance from the corner of your eye, but Boba still said nothing. You couldn’t help the slight twang of disappointment you felt at that, after all the trouble you went to for the sake of getting information which was at least in part for him. You waited a minute in the growing silence before shifting your body just slightly so you could see the bounty hunter from the corner of your eye, though the indignant “Well?” you were about to give was well and truly cut off.

Fett’s hand moved to cup your face, one finger trailing lightly over your throat first. You were still panting a little from the dancing but you were sure he wouldn’t believe that for a second. Your eyes widened in spite of themselves and the wicked smirk he threw you was enough to tell you he knew exactly why.

“Impressive,” Boba muttered warmly, the multicoloured lights projecting from the ceiling reflecting in his amber eyes. Any witty response you would have normally given died on your lips as he twisted to face you properly, his other hand going to the back of your neck to pull you in close. You rested your hands on his shoulders before you could think better of it and then his lips were on yours and everything around you simply faded into nothing.

When you finally came back to your senses, all you could focus on was Boba. He leaned forward again until his forehead rested against yours in what you belatedly realised was a Keldabe kiss, a gesture that made you lose your breath just as much as the other kiss you had shared just a moment ago. Neither of you said anything and nothing needed to be said, though eventually you were both brought back to the real world by slow clapping from Cara and a grumbled albeit good-natured “Took you long enough,” from Din.

#boba fett x y/n #boba fett x you #boba fett x reader #boba fett fic #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett #mandalorian reader inserts #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #cara dune #Star Wars

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Come Home to My Heart, Chapter 2 (Lemyanka) - Plastiquedoll

read on ao3 ✨| chapter 1

A/N: hiii, this is chapter 2 of this lemyanka childhood friends, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers whatever you wanna call it. I really wanted to play with the time skips to show different parts of their lives together throughout the years so this is a continuation from chapter 1 a few years later. thanks for reading <3

-2-

At the age of thirteen, there were many things Priyanka loved. The list included: electric blue glittery nail polish, writing her name with a golden pen, pop music and girl groups-especially Britney Spears and The Spice Girls-, any movie with Lindsay Lohan in it, acting in the school productions -especially if she got the main role-, sleepovers over Lemon’s house where they secretly watched The O.C., seeing films with Lemon without an “adult” with them, re-acting scenes of the Cheetah Girls movie with Lemon…

She was at Lemon’s a lot.

The thing was, Lemon was the only child of her parent’s marriage, her parents both worked, and most of the time she had the house on her own. For Priyanka -who lived with her siblings and her parents and couldn’t spare one second of privacy at her own home- it was like paradise. They did everything together, on the weekdays they did homework together and afterward, they would lay in the blonde’s room reading magazines and cutting pictures of celebrities and clothes they liked, or listen to a new CD they had been saving for weeks to buy for hours until they knew the lyrics by heart.

Her room had yellow walls -big shocker- and it was covered in posters and pictures with Priyanka, white carpet on the floor, and a mix of Barbie dolls and makeup over the boudoir. She also had a large single bed only for herself with like a million fluffy pillows they had shared more than once.

Lemon had ballet classes three times per-week and Priyanka had rehearsals with the drama club but those were the only moments they were apart. Being childhood friends, their parents got into the obligation of sending them to the same primary school after finishing kindergarten and now they would attend the same secondary school once summer was over.

It was a warm day of summer, Lemon rolled over her bed and showed Priyanka an item she liked, Crazy in Love by Beyoncé played on the radio while the other girl was trying to cover a pimple on her chin with some foundation she had bought in the mall.

“You’re going to make it worse.” Lemon made her remove her hands.

“It hurts, it’s like a little red dot full of hate.”

“Use toothpaste instead.”

“Does it work?”

“Allegedly.” She shrugged. “I read it somewhere.”

“Okay… What did you want to show me?”

“Look at these,” she pointed at a picture of Hillary Duff. “I need those shoes.”

“That’s a pump.” Priyanka said, unimpressed.

“But it’s pink and yellow. How you don’t like the gradient in the colors? I’m in love.”

“Can you even walk with heels?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I can. When you’re short like me, you gotta have some options.”

Priyanka couldn’t argue with that, for her age she was already one of the tallest girls in the classroom. Sometimes she disliked being that tall, she felt like a little deer that couldn’t control its feet, wobbling around awkwardly.

Her best friend flipped a few more pages.

“Look! It’s a poster of Ryan Gosling from that movie… The Notebook.” She sounded excited.

Right. They were supposed to be excited about handsome muscle guys but there was something about it that didn’t click with Priyanka. She thought maybe she was just too young to get it, that when she’d grow older she’d get the feeling but until then, she had become very good at pretending.

“Oh, he’s so hot.” She hoped Lemon didn’t notice the fakeness of her voice.

“I know, right?” She giggled. “Do you want his picture?”

“Ah… you can keep it… I already have Leonardo DiCaprio’s and that’s just too many white guys.”

“Alright.” She picked a pair of scissors and started cutting the actor’s silhouette. The pair of dark-framed glasses she had on kept sliding down her nose bridge.

Priyanka smiled fondly at it.

“I’m home!” It was Lemon’s mom that had just returned from work.

Lemon jumped out of the bed and stood in the door’s frame. She looked even smaller in that oversized t-shirt of the Powerpuff Girls and shorts she wore as pajamas. Her hair was tied in a messy ponytail that brushed her shoulder blades.

“Hi, mom.” She yelled. “Priyanka’s here!”

“Hi, Priyanka!”

“Hello, Mrs. Baptsita!”

Priyanka adored Mrs. Baptista, she was a little wacky for Lemon’s taste but it was because she was younger than most moms with kids their age. She liked Priyanka and she supported their friendship since kindergarten, called them the Ketchup&Mustard duo since that Halloween they had matching costumes.

“Is she staying for dinner?”

Lemon turned around. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Priyanka shrugged. “Sure.”

“She is mom!”

“I’m making spaghetti!”

“Sound good!” She turned back to Priyanka again. “I hope you like spaghetti.”

“You know I do.”

Just a couple of minutes later, they heard the sound of Mr. Baptista’s car at the entrance.

“That’s my dad.” Lemon pointed.

“Hello, I’m home.”

“Hi, dad! Priyanka’s here.”

“Hi Lemon drop, hi Priyanka!”

“Hello, Mr. Baptista!”

Lemon grinned but not even five minutes later than her father’s arrival, the vibe of the kitchen changed and it was clear by the sound of their voices, her parents were arguing. Another argument…

“I swear to God… this is the third time this week."

Lemon sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands. She looked tired.

Priyanka gently touched her knee offering some comfort. Lemon pulled a weak smile that faded as soon as the voices increased in volume.

"Hey, I have some extra cash, wanna get some pizza?” Priyanka offered.

Lemon bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Lemon changed her shorts for pants and put on a pair of sneakers, then she grabbed her keys and both of them were out of the house. It wasn’t that late yet and there was a pizza place a few blocks away they could get on foot; they walked in silence until Lemon’s house was behind, then the blonde let a big sigh out of her chest.

“Pri, I can’t do this…” She sounded fragile as if she was holding the pieces together trying not to break with all her strengths.

Priyanka ran her arm over her shoulder and held her when she seemed about to fall.

“It’s okay, I’m sure they are going to work it out.”

Lemon snorted. “They started going to couple’s counseling and it got worse, they have pretty solid arguments to fight now.”

Priyanka covered her mouth holding back the laughter. “Sorry.”

“You dumb bitch.” Lemon shook her head.

They walked hugged like that the rest of the way, ate greasy pizza with extra cheese, and returned to a sepulchral silent house. Priyanka laid on the bed next to her, so close yet so far. If she extended her hand just a little more, she could touch her shoulder, make sure she was okay but for some reason, she couldn’t. Yet, she hoped that being there for her friend was enough then.

On the other side, Lemon had her eyes wide open, unable to drift off when her mind was going through a million different scenarios. Everything could only go downhill from there.

They didn’t know at that moment but the worst was yet to come.

She dashed out of the house as soon as she got the phone call, barely having the chance to put on a helmet before grabbing her bike. Priyanka was still catching her breath by the time Lemon opened the door.

Her face was bathed in tears, her eyes completely red and she couldn’t stop crying not even to explain what had happened. Priyanka had a vague idea judging by what was said on the phone but it wasn’t until she saw her friend she knew it was bad. Very bad.

Lemon wasn’t the most physically affectionate person in the world but she let Priyanka hug her and cried it out on her chest. They sat on the porch until the blonde began to calm down and could explain it better.

“Pri, they… they are getting divorced. It’s all happening so fast.”

Priyanka held her hand and squeezed it lightly. Lemon looked at her hand and then at her face, her eyes flooded with tears again.

“Hey,” The brunette tried to comfort her. “I’m so sorry, I know you love them both and they love you very much but this is probably for the best.”

“No, Pri, you don’t understand. They are… separating for real. They talked about lawyers and My mom she…” Lemon sobbed. “She wants us to move out…”

“Oh, I mean, that’s normal like-”

“…to New York.” Her voice was weak, defeated.

It took Priyanka a moment to process the newly acquired information.

“New York?!” She repeated in disbelief.

“Apparently, she has a job offer there, and… they think it’s for the best to put some distance between them.”

“I get the ‘moving out thing’ and the distance but that’s a completely different country!”

“I know! That’s what I said. Tell me I’m right, she’s out of her mind.”

“But wait, when does she want you to move out? What about school?”

“She thinks it’s a good idea if we go before the new semester starts so we can settle in and…”

“No, the new semester starts in two weeks… What about your dance lessons? Your life here?”

What about us?

“She said there are plenty of dance academies over there… That I would do fine. I hate it. This doesn’t go with the plan we had.”

Priyanka and Lemon had a life plan since they were ten, sealed with a pinky promise. They were going to graduate high school together and go to university in Toronto where they both would be roommates throughout college. It was their way of being together, to accomplish things in the company of the other, a sign of their unbreakable friendship.

“Wait but… what about your dad?” Can’t you stay with him?“ There was a hint of hope in Priyanka’s voice.

Lemon stared at the wooden floor of the porch for the longest time before looking back at her friend.

"I can’t. My dad travels a lot for business and while he’s going to remain here… my mom gave me no choice. They even said that it’s either New York or some boarding school in Quebec.”

Lemon surely had gone mad about it for her parents to threaten her like that, it didn’t sound like the Baptistas at all.

“This can’t be…” Priyanka shook her head. The tears felt warm on her cheeks.

“We’re leaving next week.”

“No…no, that’s… that’s too soon. You can’t leave… who’s going to help me buy a new outfit for the first day? Who’s going through the first day of school with me?”

“I hate to think about it. They really think this is for the best and then decide to drag me to a different country for the first year of school… «You have to be reasonable» they said, but they are the ones that come with these ideas out of blue.”

It was too sudden it made Priyanka felt dizzy; she couldn’t even begin to imagine what her friend was feeling like.

She squeezed her hand again. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You keep saying that but-” Lemon shook her head.

“Because it is going to be okay. I promise you, we’ll still be together, and… maybe we don’t get to attend the same high-school but we can still go to college together, the plan can still work out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. You’re my best friend in the world; nothing is going to change that.”

Lemon smiled for the first time after getting the news of her parents’ divorce.

“Thanks, Pri.” She went for a hug and was received with open arms.

They hugged for a while without saying a single word, in that situation, words were unnecessary.

The day of Lemon’s moving, ironically the sun was shining and Priyanka kept reminding herself that in different circumstances they’d be at the park with their bikes or at the local pool but no, she was heading to her best friend’s house to say the last goodbye.

Priyanka hadn’t cried in front of her since that day on the porch but she had cried a lot when no one was seeing her. She was sad, upset, and mad about the situation but she didn’t want Lemon to leave with a sad note. So she went ahead and planned a week dedicated to her best friend, to enjoy the things they loved the most.

They had made each other friendship bracelets with their names –Priyanka was red and orange and it had a little golden star hanging next to her name; Lemon’s was pink and yellow and a butterfly next to hers- they had movie nights and sleepovers, karaoke sessions and dancing marathons every day until that awful day arrived.

Priyanka rode her bike like she had done millions of times before. There was a «FOR SALE» sign hanging outside and she hated it with all her soul. There was a truck parked outside as well with many boxes stacked inside and some furniture pieces they were taking to New York. Lemon was sitting on the porch’s stairs with a backpack on, the scene was oddly familiar and for a second time stopped.

She didn’t notice Priyanka’s presence until the brunette touched her shoulder.

“You’re here.” She said and did her best to smile.

“Where else I’d be?”

Lemon stood on her feet and hugged her, Priyanka hugged her back.

“Promise me you’re going to wait for my calls every week… and that you’re not going to have another best friend… ever.” Lemon sobbed on her shoulder.

“I promise it.” Priyanka patted her back in a calming gesture.

“I’ll visit on holidays, my dad is probably going to get a shitty apartment but still, I’ll be here.”

“I know you will.”

Lemon let go of her embrace. “Thank you, Pri. You’re my best friend in the world.”

“I know, right?”

The blonde giggled. “You’re so stupid…”

“Luce, get in the car, it’s time to go.” Her mom called her as she carried one last box.

“I have to go now. I already said good-bye to my dad; he had a flight to catch early but… It feels so empty without him here.”

“Lemz, I’m sorry.” She hugged her one more time. It was quick but it lingered. “Take care and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do in New York.”

“That sets the bar very low, don’t you think?”

Priyanka laughed. “I’ll miss you like crazy.”

“Me too.”

Lemon’s mom waved in their direction, the car was already on and the truck was closed and packed.

“Well, I guess this is our goodbye for now.”

“Count the days because I’m going to be back in no time, okay?”

She nodded.

“Love you, Pri.”

“Love you too.”

And with that said, Lemon started walking toward the car. It was painful to watch her leave but Priyanka didn’t want to look away, she wanted to remember it all until they could meet again.

The car started moving but stopped abruptly as Lemon opened the door and ran back to where Priyanka was.

“Lemon, what…?”

“I almost forgot, I was supposed to give you this the first day of school but…” She was out of breath. Suddenly a brand new CD of Spiceworld was on Priyanka’s hands. “You were so sad when your sister broke the one you had worked so hard to buy and I thought…”

Priyanka was hugging her again. “Oh, Lemon…”

“Please don’t forget me.”

Her mom honked at them, the truck was already hitting the road.

Lemon walked back and this time, she left for real.

#rpdr fanfiction #drcan #can1 #priyanka #lemon #lemon x priyanka #childhood friends #friends to lovers #lesbian au #timeskips #angst #come home to my heart #plastiquedoll #concrit welcome #tw mentions of divorce

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fizzypunks · 4 years

Text

Bad Timing

fandom: My Hero Academia/ Boku No Hero Academia word count: 5k rating: T (cannon description of violence) summary: Shouta has to handle the aftermath of the Nomu attack, and Hizashi has very bad (or good) timing

ship: earsermic

AO3

note: best viewed on Archive bc it keeps the formatting like itallics!

___

The day was finally at its end – the sun set in slats across the teachers lounge, and it was 3:55, when most people were leaving or gathering their lives up in a rush to get home. They’d all already left, urgently trying to beat traffic and make their way to whatever Friday plans they had in store.

Aizawa didn’t have Friday plans – instead of unceremoniously rushing to get home for the weekend, or go drinking to relieve stress, he was instead sitting on the couch. He didn’t have lessons or binders around him, having freed one hand to take out his phone and flip through his lessons that Hizashi kindly spent the time uploading for him.

The screen was bright and blaring and bled color into color into color – it was hard to look at for too long, but it was the only compromise he could make with his body when it came to improvised lesson plans. He’d type it up, with his one hand, a letter at a time, while his body healed enough for him to do better.

This is what it is, no use complaining. Just get it done.

The ache in his eyes he could deal with – he’d be disappointed in himself if he wasn’t used to it at his age, and he’d made peace with the eye strain and pain and dryness and anything else that was unpleasant about his quirk. His body, however, was a new story. It ached in a way he never experienced in his life, deep to the bone and then, maybe, even deeper – not a movement existed that didn’t somehow remind him of his body, his mortality, and it’s still a wonder he even survived.

He stopped asking questions like how a long time ago, though, and he didn’t dare start now. All it did was drive him into crazy circles of what ifs , dead ending in worse case scenarios that were a half inch away from coming to be…

This new burn, this new hurt – it conjured with it the same image – or maybe it was muscle memory – of painful blood splatter in his eyesight. With it came a reel of other horrifics images and feelings and sensations that might have been if…

It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant...

When he told his class that it didn’t matter that he was teaching, he meant it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but since when did he ever get what he wanted? It’s hero work, and educational duties don’t take a break just because he broke ; they never permitted a break because he wanted and wished.

He broke. Plain, simple – no explanation necessary. That’s a world he’s unfortunate enough to live in, so he grits his teeth and bears it.

It’s all Shouta can do. Bear it, heal as best he can, move on – think about it less and less until it’s just another frame on the wall of memories that like to bug him at night, those few rare ones that let him rest and dream.

Bear it. It didn’t kill you, so bear it.

Still, in the middle of the day, after teaching and improvising and making himself stand upright like he didn’t want to bury himself in sheets, it was a weird sensation. Living through something that almost took his life in the most violent, frightening way possible, all for his kids. He didn’t think this time around, with the mending and the processing and the eventual moving on, would feel so…

Off? Like a buzz on his skin, like time was shifted just a second ahead and he was playing catch up. He didn’t know the right words, couldn’t even explain to himself the things that he was feeling. He finally settled calling it weird. Whatever that meant.

He’d dealt with trauma before, too – but this breed of unease was new, even to him and his seasoned career.

The room was silent, but it felt louder than ever, and his screen had timed out when he realized he’d been staring dryly into it without doing anything.

He refreshed the screen with his thumb, lights bright and vivid again like a train at the end of a tunnel.

He’s stopped regretting his choices, he’s stopped wallowing because after two or three close calls with death, it gets a bit old – but god does he want to wallow now . Now that his body was broken and every movement felt like shattered glass in a windshield, disturbed with every movement but, at least, mercilessly, held together by…

What?

Sheer force of will – he was certain that’s what it was. It wasn’t desire or hope, it wasn’t any positive or cheerful motto – he had time for those later, for now…

He groaned, the weight of his eyes and body finally coaxing a response from him that wasn’t dead. Responses that were complete opposites from that which he always told his peers when they stopped him in the halls or at the end of lectures.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t matter, now if you wouldn’t mind, I have a class to teach.”

It’s placating, it’s time-buying – other heroes know the drill, so they don’t argue with him too much – they just insist, and hope, that he listens enough to at least rest . He always wanted to sleep, right? He had that stupid sleep disorder that always begs for him to rest his head for just a moment, so why not indulge it now?

He blinked against it – he really did need to sleep, but the screen in his shaking fingers showed that he had plans to finalize, and a fresh round of essay to grade that needed to be graded by the next day.

So much was behind as is – the last essay, the last score for ethics lecture to be dealt out, a new plan for the upcoming week that adjusts for his kids and the stress they just underwent – no, hero work doesn’t forgive very much, and Aizawa would never tell them that he was giving them a break, but he was going to do exactly that and take off a few quizzes to lighten the load…

Shouta leaned back against the sofa, and it wasn’t too soft and without structure, that it actually did do some good for him. He tilted his head back, too, and felt brief relief in the way his head didn’t feel like lobbing off like a hammer to the side of a statue’s temple.

He sighed, and leaned into it, the slightest bit of relief he was able to find.

The one think he was grateful for was that today was better than the beginning of the week. He had a long way to go, but thankfully some of the bandages could be taken off yesterday and today was his first day of being able to fully see – his face was freed, his shoulders lightened and only wrapped with a few white wraps – but it was still a struggle with his arms, his hands – the most damaged parts of his body that were trudging along…

This is unbearable .

But he will bear it.

But, right now, he will not bear it well. Like he broke under the hand of the Nomu, he was breaking again now and nothing was capable of stopping that.

He took in a deep breath, and held it just because it felt good to feel so full. He held it and waited.

This is going to be interesting.

His breath was waning, it’s time slowly slipping by, expiring.

This is going to hurt.

His lungs were wrapped around empty air.

Bad .

He still didn’t let go, even when it ached. He didn’t know if he wanted to, but the red-blackness of his eyelids and the sting in him was a comfortable pain he knew he could release, if he wanted.

Then, finally, he did want, and he let go, shoulders slumping with a harsh exhale.

He opened his eyes to a slit, and saw the sun spots on the ceiling had grown longer. Golden, mingling, patient – he’d stared at them so many times before, grown bored of them between grading and impatience, but now they were a comfort.

Familiar monotony and boredom. It seems that being bored was not always a bad thing, after all.

Early in his career, this might have killed his spirit. His spirit, however, was put back together so many times, and damaged so cruelly and spitefully, that he at least felt some sort of partial happiness knowing it wasn’t possible to batter his spirit any more. It was impossible.

It’s reached its limit years ago, what’s a new bruise on top of the rest?

A sound like shuffling, quiet but distinct, came from behind him – clothes rustling, a distinct stiff sound, all quietly entering from behind; and it was intentional movement, Shouta knew.

His instincts never dulled, even under mountains of bandages. “Hizashi. What are you still doing here?”

His laugh – the one he would never admit to loving so deeply– was soft behind him, closer this time. “Gee, how’d ya know it was me ?”

Shouta wished he could shrug, and instead returned his eyes back to their resting state and closed them lightly. “ Gee , how’d you learn to be quiet? Or, at least, try to be.”

Soft brushing, padding of feet, the ridiculous squeak of leather – Hizashi walked around the couch and when Shouta felt the dip in the seat beside him, a little too close to him, he chuckled. “It’s hard to be, man – you know I’m stuck with my costume! On the clock, I’m Present Mic!”

“I was talking about your mouth, but sure – that too.”

Another laugh came, and it was just as warm and full and bright. Shouta guarded his expression at the sound, because it was too pleasant and he hurt too much to not indulge the pleasant things whenever they did come.

But Mic isn’t Hizashi, and he’s more quiet now, between the two of them. Like he was in hours after sparring through out their friendships and careers, like lazy drawls in the morning when they passed each other, one waking up and one going to bed after a patrol. Quiet and in tune, in a way so few really understood.

That was the part of Hizashi that no one really gets to see – the way he knew silence and patience that would put his hero and radio personality at odds if the public really got to see it. He was calm and reserved and knew which silences and calms to lean into, which ones to sit with, which ones were the important ones...

He knew it right now, which was why he wasn’t on the limits of his own energy, like a battery fed into itself – a never ending feed that could go forever, Shouta thought time and time again. And his comfort in his quirk made it all too easy to emote and exaggerate and be too much for Shouta at times.

Fragile times, like when his mind was barely glued to the body that was just as fractured and splintering around the edges as his spirit.

“My, you think so lowly of me, Shouta.”

“Just being logical. You’re louder more often than not, after all,” he said, and they both knew it was a joking lie. It’s the closest Shouta gets to a joke, anyways.

The silence returned, and Shouta felt the burning questions in the warm body beside him – too close and yet, not really close enough – within arms length, but not within arms...

But Hizashi is never one for mincing words or running from questions. “How you doing, Shou?”

Shouta grunted. “Fine.”

“No, no, no, no – I’ve heard you say that all week and, well, it’s crazy to think you’d be okay! I want to know how you’re doing. ”

“Hizashi, do me a favor. Be polite and just take the answer.”

“No,” and the response was so fast, and sounded so bratty, Shouta was tempted to open his eyes and tilt his head to the right – to see if he was as close as he thought he was, if his hair was falling, if he’d taken off his orange tints and was looking at him with those stupid pup eyes.

He didn’t, though.

“What do you want me to say?” He finally said, quietly – maybe Hizashi wouldn’t hear him if he spoke quietly enough. “Obviously, I’m not fine.”

“I know that, and –”

“And it doesn’t matter. So, with that in mind,” and he did open his eyes this time – they stung fresh again, and he blinked, and he turned his head just slightly enough to change his eyes' direction. They stayed fixed in the ceiling, on the honey the sun was spilling, and he said, “I’m fine.”

“Come on, Shou... “

“It’s just…”

Hizashi sighed. “Could you… at least try to take time off or stop studies or something ? I can’t stand – “ and here he goes, he was too emotional –

So annoying.

His voice always shook when he was sad, when he was pretending like he wasn’t going to cry.

So sweet.

“ – I can’t stand this. ”

You and me both.

It never really did any good to cut off Hizashi, and Shouta hates doing it any way. So he didn’t even attempt it. He knew he needed to say what he was saying, to be heard and unburden himself of the fears living in him. He didn’t really have the chance before, and it wasn’t fair to take it from him now. Shouta didn’t have the energy to deny him any of that, anyway, so his eyes shifted to the crease in the ceiling, the border between it and the wall, and just listened.

“Shouta, you were almost killed – it’s… it’s so bad, this time – I’ve patched you up so many times and there wasn’t anything I could have ever done about this , and I want you to stop trying to ignore it. You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”

Shouta couldn’t help the scoff, and it stopped Hizashi for just a moment. “Of course I do.”

He was so bitter, he could taste it like the lingering flavor of cold coffee.

“You literally don’t –”

“Hizashi… I don’t have the energy for this.”

“That’s my point , Shouta! You can’t –”

“Can’t do my job? Give me a better argument next time, Hizashi.”

For whatever reason, that was enough to shut him up. Shouta didn’t want to, but his headache was too strong and his friend’s concern was too soft and he was just a broken vase – hairline cracks that got too big too fast and now shattered at the foundation – unable to hold onto any of it let any of it fill him, so why even try to touch it?

Hizashi does a lot of things loudly, even when he tries not to – it’s a side effect of being the Voice Hero, a natural course of events that would, rationally, lead him to be a vocal and expressive person. He’s sniffling and trying to stop it, trying to reel himself in, and Shouta sighs again, because the Voice Hero shouldn’t be trying to reel himself in at all.

This isn’t what he wanted.

He truthfully didn’t want to be in this position at all, but he’d remembered that he never wanted to spend his time wishing , so he didn’t wish – he couldn’t fix that, or the way Hizashi was hurting for him. But, he could fix…

Whatever this was.

“Hizashi.”

The sniffling stopped for a second, enough for it to be masked in a, “... what, Shouta?”

“Thank you.”

“Hmmph.”

Pouting?

“Don’t do that.”

“Hmmph!”

Pure annoyance drove him to open his eyes, and tilt his head, and level his eyes against his best friend because pouting was so fucking stupid. His eyes widened, though, when he finally met Hizashi’s gaze for the first time that day.

The first thing was that he wasn’t fully in his costume. His speakers were missing, and his hair was fallen to his shoulders in gell-stiff half-mast, finally succumbing to gravity in a way Shouta was certain was due to a hair brush and messily tucked into a hair tie. His tinted glasses were gone, leaving nothing between their eyes as they locked.

He’d hung up his hero costume for the day, and maybe it made sense that he wasn’t talking like Present Mic any more – not as loud, not as joking, just intentions and and heart.

He was half way between the two – between persona and him, and he looked so soft…

But his eyes, his eyes that stare so deeply and knew Shouta so intimately over the years their lives had been intertwined – they were wet and silently overflowing, and Shouta was certain the embarrassment of crying was what was so freely tinting his cheeks. It was a brush of pink over pale, high cheekbones, under crescent eyes that leaked streaks down to his jaw, his chin.

He, however, still had the mind to pout – not that Shouta had anything to say, not with the sudden, brand new pain of his heart aching at seeing his friend like this.

Shouta’s eyes softened, his annoyance gone like dye down a river.

Hizashi, however, wasn’t a coward, and held his gaze because he wanted Shouta to know what he was doing to him.

And all in the glowing sunlight…

Stop...

“Hizashi…”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t try to stop me or tell me I’m wrong or that I’m crying too much or whatever .”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, because he had the mind to say something and that was the brilliant thing he thought of. His shame was hot and fast and his eyes shifted to the side, just off from Hizashi in the best possible way he could manage to face the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Well, congrats, because I feel bad.”

Shouta knitted his brow in anger. “You’re an idiot.”

Don’t make me feel worse.

“What th–”

You always make me feel worse.

“If you’re spending all your tears on me, then yeah. You are.”

Because you’re so good.

Hizashi was crying and clearly upset – anyone could see that – and yet he still decided to furrow his eyebrows and look confused and stupefied all at once. “ Wind it back a few seconds for me, Shou.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow.

“Say that again,” he prompted, shifting to face Shouta even more completely. He leaned forward on his knees, on his elbows as he wiped away the tears.

“I said you’re an idiot.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Friend .

“And?”

“Not even you believe yourself, do you? I’ve seen you cry for me, too.”

Shouta turned his eyes down. That’s different . That’s more than he can ever really explain, and what’s even more, it’s more than he wants to explain. Those words turn into sentences that turn into feelings that can’t be taken back, and he’ll never make the mistake of falling down that slope. So he looked away, anything to feel less guilty and like shit, and shook his head.

Maybe some honesty wouldn’t hurt. “What would you have me do, then? I don’t have options.”

Hizashi saw him dodge the question, the scenario he’d painted – he scooted closer and Shouta felt too alive with envy, wishing there were no barriers, be them white casts and mental blocks, that kept him from bridging the last of that tiny gap.

“I’d have you sleep. I’d have you stay home. I’d have you trust that the faculty, your peers, your friends , could handle you being out for a bit.”

The logic is there…

Still… “No, I need to stay here. My students are back, and I owe them –”

“It would be a week. You’d have your casts off in a week –”

“Who told you that? If Recovery Girl –”

“It’s common knowledge, Shou, I just guessed . But that’s not the point – the point is that I’m right .”

Where does this conversation end? He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t want to open himself up again, and he doesn’t want Hizashi to be crying like this. Crying, because of him.

He sighs again. “It’s…”

He clears his throat again. “It’s easier this way. For me.”

Hizashi had already been close, but now he was right beside him, the knee he was folded over now just against his leg. Personal space had never really been a thing for him, and now proved to be no different. His big watery eyes stayed trained on his calculated, intentionally flat ones.

He’s also always been good at picking apart his words to find the realities beneath them. “Distractions, right?”

Shouta didn’t want to admit to it, but he nodded anyway, eyes falling until they settled on Hizashi’s clavicle. His exposed, open clavicle, and he yearns even more to be able to be closer than this. Take comfort in closeness that was 16 years in the making, but never really actualized. Never, really, fully realized , either...

“Yeah… distractions.”

“Say, if I wanted to come over and make dinner and show you baby animal photos, would you let me?”

Shouta blinked, and Hizashi smiled – he looked too pretty, glowing from his tears, and Shouta hates thinking that.

“Don–”

“They’re baby foxes .”

Shouta looked down, and grew pink – it’s pathetic how easily he could be bought, and he wasn’t ever really going to say no to time with his best friend. Even now, he’s always finding himself saying yes to the colorful, often too-loud man.

Hizashi seemed to realize that he’d won, the way his eyebrows stopped dipping, stopped taking such a sad shape. “At least let me do this, Shou – if you’re gonna bring your mummy self into school and yell at kids and threaten expulsion, then let me make stir fry and udon for you.”

Shouta smiled, small, hesitant, but not quite of his own intention; finally breaking – in a different way than he’s used to. “Fine. Just to be clear, it’s only because I want food.”

“ Suuure , that’s the reason.”

And before he could say anything back, Hizashi did that thing that makes his heart weak – the thing he always does when he’s leaning in like this, and it’s too emotional for his own comfort zone, and things are charged with a restless, aching energy. He reached out his left hand and rested it over Shouta’s open one. His phone was already falling from his bruised fingers, so he pushed it down to his lap and held onto the half of his hand that was exposed.

He wants to ask why he does it sometimes, but doesn’t think that now is the time to ask it. Time, place, his broken body, everything was wrong – so he just let himself enjoy the affection, while he can bask in it with legitimate cause.

Then Hizashi had to ruin it. He grinned, a little too proud. “Nervous?”

Shouta tensed, and his body yelled at the pressure in his arms, in his torso. “Excuse me?”

Hizashi laughed a bit, and he was a little flush – from the crying. “You’re a biiiiiit pink. Like, blushing. Like, actually, you’re very –”

“Shut up.”

“You act like any teensy-tiny bit of affection is like poison, Shou – it’s okay if you–”

“I take it back, actually, you can’t come over.”

“Awwww, come on, I just –”

“I mean it, I’ll order from the corner market.”

“Now that you told me how you’ve been feeding yourself, I’m definitely coming over. God, I swear, you should know how to take care of yourself by now, it’s like you hate trying to –”

“Hizashi –”

He stood, really fast, smiling dumb and bright as he stood infront of Shouta. “Now come on! Up! Let’s go to your apartment!”

He offered a hand, but Shouta shook his head. “I can get up fine –”

Hizashi leaned forward, and it was an awkward placement, the way he was balanced, but he took the phone from his lap and tucked it into his pocket before his hand rested just on the side of Shouta’s shoulder. He urged with his eyes as much as with the slight tug at his waist. “Come on!”

Shouta looked down and nodded, a feeling of warmth overcoming him yet again. He heard moreso than saw Hizashi smile, felt him beaming at him at letting him help him up, and then the hand on his shoulder shifted, to the spot of his ribs just above the bandaging.

“Can I pull here?”

“Yeah…”

And he did and it really fucking hurt, little splinters under his skin all over again. He pulled air sharply between his teeth, and let Hizashi hook his elbow around him to stop the recoil.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“It’s –” Deep breath, relax eyes – bear it . “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine, but it’s bearable, so he releases some of the tension he know is sewn into his arms. He opens his eyes, and Hizashi is so close it’s almost startling. His arm still was around him, under his arm, like a brace. Warm, pleasant pressure, pleasant heat...

“I’m fine,” he breathes again, because for once, Hizashi doesn’t have anything to say. He just stares.

“Hey… um…”

“Hizashi…?”

When Hizashi spoke it was quiet, in a way that betrayed his confident words. “Shou… this is not good timing, but…”

This time it was Shouta’s turn for his voice to stop working, and he didn’t have anything to say – all too aware of the soft sound of breathing between them, the way his eyes were overwhelming like never before.

He had nothing to counter him or force him back or make him leave. He just waited, eyes at half mast because that was the only way he could handle Hizashi looking at him like that . Like he always did, with care and adoration, and it just made him sick.

“I almost lost you, and I don’t want to regret not kissing you any more… for years, Shouta, years .”

Shouta deserved a medal for surviving the whiplash of their conversation, from the joking to the serious to the trivial to the important… he couldn’t move much, but he wasn’t sure if that was his body or his anxious nerves speaking, so he just looked down at his lips.

“Tell me it’s okay,” Hizashi said, close but far enough for comfort. Far enough for respect , for hurting and aching Shouta to say yes or no and only then either bridge the gap or depart. His hand was delicate on his side and his finger tips were light, brushing, too much. “Tell me if you want…”

The timing was so awful – Shouta just wanted to move, to take him in right there, to stop him from talking and pull him into himself so harshly and violently that they might become one. Close was never close enough…

“I…”

Hizashi’s free hand came up to his cheek, holding him there gently. His thumb brushed under his scar, over the hot skin that he was certain was an embarrassing shade of pink…

Don’t fuck with me.

“Tell me, Shou…”

He was wiping away a tear, and Shou crumbled at the touch. “Y– yes.”

A sharp breath, then again, louder, stronger, “ Yes. Yes, Hizashi–”

Hizashi wasted no time, and pressed himself closer, and Shouta wasn’t surprised to taste salt on his lips because he’d spent too much time crying, too.

“I’m – not going to change –” Shouta said between breath and kiss, shaking from the anger of just wanting to hold Hizashi and being un able to. “I’m – still a hero – I’m still –”

– Kiss –

“ – still going to work, and – get hurt – and –”

Hizashi retreated, lips hovering for just a moment. “I know, I know –”

Shouta’s breath is heavy, laden with desires and 15 year old feelings and guilt, and doesn’t know where this is supposed to go. He’ll hurt Hizashi like this, he just knows he will – is it wise to let him do this, knowing what, inevitably, is going to happen. He huffs out his nose, trying to find a way to be delicate.

He’s never known how to be delicate, and he just wishes that right now, he could somehow discover the secrets to not breaking his friend’s hearts. “I’m – is this a good idea?”

“Of course –”

“No, I mean it – is it rational , when I’m just – just –”

Hizashi’s hands are at work again, one holding him up, one wiping away tears from a scar.

“I’ll hurt you – I’ll hurt you and it’s inevitable and I can’t –”

“ Shouta ,” and his voice was loud, and commanding, and energized – his quirk at its lowest state.

It worked though – Shouta had no idea how worked up he’d become, how his weaknesses were seeping through like never before; he was broken in so many ways right now and they were all on display, so humiliatingly on display, that he couldn’t even keep himself calm.

Hizashi kissed him again, slower this time because he, shockingly, knew how to slow down. How to be rational when others weren’t.

His lips moved to the side of his mouth, then to his cheek, to his ear – “How long, Shouta?”

“What – do you mean?”

“It’s been fifteen years for me… fifteen years. I was in school looking at you. I was at graduation, looking at you. I shared our first apartment, and was looking at you. I’ve been teaching – and I’ve been looking at you…”

How romantic…

“How long has it been?” He said.

It was too good to be true. It was too sad to be true. They’d put this off for so long, and it took a violent, bloody incident to bring Hizashi to him like this. He’d had his chances too, but he’d always shied away from them because it wasn’t fair.

He’d die a hero one day, and Hizashi didn’t deserve that .

Shouta leaned into the feeling of Hizashi’s lips against his cheek, his ear, and told him what he’d never spoken out loud before. “I… fifteen years. Fifteen years, Hizashi…”

“ God,” and he’s crying now.

Shouta doesn’t want to admit to the few stray tears decorating his eyelashes like spiders on webs, so he doesn’t – he just leans into the soft, awkward embrace from his best friend, and lets him cry because they’ve both been idiots.

The sunlight was long against the walls, and the halls of U.A were quiet, and Shouta, for all the breaking he’s done, has finally found a way to put some of the pieces back together.

#my fic #bnha fic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #aizawa #hizashi #erasermic #long post #fic length: medium #oneshot

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darkesttimelinestuff · 3 years

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7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness. “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor, picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino. The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

#fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #wtfmulder #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #mulderxscully #halloween #haunted house #spooky #msr

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