and I had several glasses of wine while I was watching

Candy Hearts || Bucky x Reader

Summary → A year of silently pinning over your best friend and neighbor Bucky Barnes ends happier than expected when you spend Valentine’s Day together.

Word Count → 2.9K (I’m a wordy bitch, okay?)

Warnings → Cursing, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!). Fluff? Definitely fluff.

A/N → Happy #FreakyFriday y’all! I apologize for the delay, but I had an unplanned twelve hour work shift today. With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, I thought I’d try my hand at fluffy smut (it’s a first for me - so go easy on this fic). Other than that, enjoy!

A nervous giggle flew from your lips as you twirled on your toes to face the full-length mirror hung over the back of your bedroom door. Your usual untamed knot of hair had been brushed and curled into effortless beach waves that cascaded down your shoulders and back. You wore nothing but Bucky’s trademark, burgundy Henley, which you’d confiscated the last time you’d done laundry together. It hung loosely over your frame, hitting mid-thigh and creating an innocently sexy, ‘girl next door’ type of vibe. You undid the first few buttons of the V-neck, to show off just the right amount of cleavage. You opted for some mascara and pink chapstick, making your lips appear fuller. Thoroughly satisfied with your appearance, you exited your room and tiptoed excitedly down the hall.

Over the past eighteen months, as your friendship with Bucky had grown closer, the both of you had developed several traditions. Every Sunday you’d get together for pasta, you’d lift weights with each other three times a week, and Tuesday nights were spent on Bucky’s couch with abundant amounts of junk food while binge watching television shows. Unless there was a particularly lengthy mission for the team or some other out of the ordinary incident, neither of you ever bailed on your plans. And tonight, Valentine’s Day, was not about to be any different. You had been secretly ecstatic when Bucky double-checked you’d still be getting together for takeout and Netflix, despite the holiday.

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Happy Birthday, Love - Harry Styles Imagine

Breakdown: Harry forgets Y/N birthday and makes it up to her. 

For as long as she can remember, her favourite day of the year was always her birthday. This was not because she enjoyed being the center of attention, and not even because she loved receiving gifts, but the love for her birthday was due to her love of being surrounded by the most important people in her life. For her, there was truly nothing better than having each special person gathered together.

But now, the magic she once felt for her birthday has vanished. With her body curled into a ball on the leather couch, she stares at the clock hanging on the living room wall. As the clock strikes midnight, a tear streams down her face and gently lands upon the pillow that cradles her head – the pillow that is already damp from her abundance of tears.

Tonight could have been an incredible night. Actually, tonight could have been the perfect night. All of her loved ones spent the day pretending as if they had forgotten all about her birthday. Even when Harry woke up this morning, he did not give her a kiss or wish her a happy birthday. Instead, he promptly rushed out the door for another day at the recording studio. Later in the evening, her best friend called and asked for her to come over, for she had clothes that belonged to her and wanted to return them.

However, once she arrived, her best friend’s house was crowded with all of her favourite people. Even her parents had flown into the city to make a grand surprise for her birthday party. It was absolutely perfect…well, almost.

Her favourite person in the entire world was not there. When she asked where he was, her best friend stated that he was well aware of the event, for they had informed him about it about a week prior. She waited all night for his appearance, assuming that he would make a grand debut and surprise her in the most romantic way, for that’s truly the type of guy that he was. Nonetheless, the night dragged on and her stunning boyfriend did not arrive. Relentlessly, she eventually had to forfeit any hope of him appearing, and decided to return home. She expected to find him there, but of course, he hadn’t come home yet. Therefore, she changed into her Pyjamas, curled onto the living room couch, and wept at the thought of him forgetting her own birthday.

It wasn’t that she wanted to be celebrated or given attention, but it made her question whether he even truly appreciated her? For his birthday a few months ago, she had spent weeks planning an entire day of exciting birthday festivities. She spent hundreds of dollars and committed her own blood, sweat, and tears to ensuring that it was the most perfect day for him. But he couldn’t even remember that it was her birthday?

And now it’s over.

As the night continued on, her eyes grew weary. Eventually, she fell into a deep sleep, only to be woken at around two in the morning by the sound of the front door swinging open. She abruptly pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned forward, peering into the front porch of their cozy apartment. Of course, it was her boyfriend of two years, Harry Styles.

She watched as Harry pulled off his expensive jacket, revealing his chiseled arms, which were covered in his famous tattoos. He hung his jacket in the closet and pushed his hand through his curly hair, removing it from shielding his eyes. Harry made his way from the porch and into the living room, halting when he spotted her sitting on the couch.

“Oh, hey love,” he greeted with a small smile. “Sorry I’m home late. We all decided to visit the bar after finishing at the recording studio.”

She didn’t respond. She just stared at him, wondering if it was even worth bringing up anymore. He clearly did not care, and at this point, she couldn’t find the effort to care either. But as he continued to stare at her and wait for a response, he noticed her swollen eyes that were surrounded with black mascara, her red cheeks, and her trembling hands. An expression of confusion fell on his face, and just as he was about to inquire, his eyes fells upon a small box resting on the coffee table before her. The box was covered in gift paper, and on the front was a tiny greeting.

Harry’s entire body froze, for he was realizing what was going on, but hoping that he was wrong. He grabbed onto the small present and lifted it towards him, reading the small greeting on the top of the present. The card read, “Happy birthday to our darling daughter. This present is for both you and Harry to enjoy.” And Harry realized that indeed, he was right – he had forgotten his girlfriend’s birthday.

Harry dropped the present to the ground. As he accepted the truth, he placed both hands on the top of his head and closed his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. With his body frozen in the same position, he opened his eyes and asked, “The surprise party?”

She gently nodded her head. “It was fun,” she said, quietly.

“Your parents?” he asked.

“They were there,” she confirmed. “They were only here for tonight.”

Harry buried his face into his hands before letting out a loud, “Damnit!” He quickly moved towards the couch and sat himself down beside her. He reached forward and cupped her jaw with his hands, pulling her face towards his.

“Y/N, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am,” he says in a quiet voice.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she says, forcing a tiny smile on her face. “You’ve been really busy and finally had a night to enjoy yourself tonight.”

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, for he can’t believe that she is trying to justify what he’s done. He shakes his head, adamantly. “No, Y/N. It’s not okay at all. I can see that you’re hurt and you have every reason to be.”

She shrugs her shoulders and attempts to give the impression that she was fine, but the tiny tears forming in her eyes are stronger than her, and they end up spilling down her cheeks. Harry wraps his arms around her and tugs her towards him, pulling her into his warm embrace. He leans down and kisses the top of her head.

“I love you so much, Y/N. You mean everything to me and I truly do not deserve you and your good heart.” Harry kisses her head again. “I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

The next morning, she woke up to the feeling of Harry’s bear chest pressed against her back, and his loving arms wrapped around her body. The first thing she noticed was her cellphone, which had hundreds of notifications. When entering onto instagram, she noticed that Harry had tagged her in a post. Harry did not use social media as much anymore, and he hardly ever posted about her and their relationship, but this time, he did. On his instagram, he had uploaded a photo of her sleeping and underneath was the simple caption, “Happy birthday to my everything xx.”

The next thing her eyes fell upon was a small box on table beside the bed. She reached for it and quickly unwrapped the paper. Inside was the most beautiful little necklace she had ever seen. It was a thin gold chain with a tiny heart pendant attached to it. Inside the box was a small note that said, “I bought this several weeks ago in preparation for your birthday. You have my heart, Y/N.”

The rest of the day continued just as magically. Harry promised to make it up to her and he certainly did. He promised to take her for lunch, but she was completely dumbfounded to discover that her parents too were at the restaurant, for Harry had flown them back to London. Once completing dinner and returning back to their shared apartment, she was startled by yet a second surprise party – one in which all her close friends and family members were attending.

And then to conclude the most perfect day, she and Harry spent the night doing her absolute favourite thing. While she was in her bedroom preparing for bed, she heard Harry’s deep British voice call for her. Once chasing his voice into the bathroom, she found a naked Harry, sitting in a bubble bath and holding a bottle of wine. Without hesitation, she stripped down to her naked state and hopped into the bathtub. With her back leaned against his chest and his legs wrapped around the sides of her body, Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips against her cheek. He then wrapped his arm around and handed her a glass of wine.

And then ever so gently, Harry whispered, “Happy birthday, love.”

Fuel to Fire (2)

Stucky x reader

Notes: fluff, tattooing, some angst, smut (m/m and m/m/f), some vague hinting to a troubled past, swearing, alcohol 

Summary: Living their dream, Bucky and Steve run their tattoo shop ‘American Ink’ together, happily married for several years and business is going well. When a girl walks into their shop and inevitably into their lives right after they’ve received some exciting news, they have no idea how their lives are about to change with some harmless but straight-forward flirting.

Fuel to Fire (intro)

A/N: The way Bucky and Steve met is cute, okay? I think it’s adorable. 

“So, what’s up with you and the tattoo dude?” Clint says around a mouth full of pizza, spilling cheese on his shirt. He looks down, lower lip pushed out in a pout. “Aw, cheese”

“Real charming, Barton” Y/N rolls her eyes, throwing the hand towel at him that she saves especially for these occasions. “And there’s nothing going on, if you hadn’t noticed,” she puts the crust of her pizza slice back on her plate and sets it aside, “he’s married to that other ‘tattoo dude’, Steve”

Clint shrugs, “There’s couples who do that”

Y/N furrows her brow, only acting to be oblivious. “Do what?”

“Add a third party to the-.. well, party” Clint takes another bite, miraculously avoiding spilling more cheese, yet still looking like a bum as he slouches low on the couch.

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Confidential

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER | NAMJOON VERSION

WORD COUNT: 7K

What started out as a fun and easy way to pay off your college debts eventually meant living with a man who’s name you did not speak. To others, he was Kim Namjoon — the owner of several multi-billion dollar companies with a cold personality and a yearn for perfection. To you, he was that very same man, cold and distant, except you were strictly instructed to call him one thing and one thing only.

Daddy.

warnings: graphic smut, dirty talk, rough sex, dom!namjoon + sub!reader, daddy kink, oral sex, fingering + strong language

Originally posted by fyeahbangtaned

masterlist | ask | song

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39 Hours

Summary: When the reader narrowly escapes a known serial killer, Detective Dean Winchester shows up to work the case before it goes cold. But can he catch the killer before he strikes again?…

Pairing: Detective!Dean x reader

Word Count: 12K

Warnings: language, kidnapping, violence, injury, mentions of murder

A/N: Gruff Detective Dean…oh how I’ve missed you…


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Imagination Lane // “Imagine This” Scenario #2: Bill Skarsgard

Originally posted by thebeautyandthatbass

(Warning: This is slightly long for an imagine scenario, but I couldn’t help but write this out. I’m also in a sappy Bill mood, and I needed this as soon as the idea struck me last night as I laid in bed trying to get to sleep. Shame on me lol.)

If you want to know what The First Fight Box is and what it entails, click here.

Imagine This: You and Bill have entered into your first serious argument as a married couple. A few months back, on your wedding day, you both created what you called “The First Fight Box,” and slipped letters inside for you both to read – when the time came. 

Today, you both have agreed to a small cease-fire within your heated argument and decided to open the box…


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The Origin of the Bittle-Zimmermann Cruel Jam Empire (Another Non-NHL!Jack fic)

[Sequel to this fic]

CW: FOOD, mentions of real people

“Alright, so I got so stressed out about the exam I had today that I made a couple things of jam,” Bittle said as he swept into Jack’s apartment. He’d had his own key since Jack had gotten the place, and he abused that privilege on an almost daily basis. If it had been anyone else, Jack would have regretted living so close to campus.

“What’s ‘a couple?’” Jack asked without looking up from his laptop.

Bittle huffed and set a box down on Jack’s table with a small thud. “I plead the fifth,” he said, hand on his hip.

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Guess Who? - part 1

AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Based on Clue. You are invited to a strange house where you have to cooperate with the staff to solve the murder of one of the guests.

Word Count:1,674

Warnings: Whodunit, Language, Unprotected Sex (only 1 sentence), Murder

A/N: This will be my thank you for 5k, you’re all so amazing and nice! ♥♥♥ I hope you enjoy this series. Next part tomorrow. (i don’t own the gif, lines from the movie)

Guess Who? - Masterpage

                               The honour of your presence is requested
                                           at a Dinner Party this Friday
                                          at seven-thirty in the evening
                                                      at Hill Mansion.

Your name will be Lady Dazzle.


You rang the doorbell once and waited. A few days ago, you had received an invitation to a dinner party. So there you were, clad in a designer dress that showed off your best assets.

You looked at your reflection in the glass doors and quickly checked to see if there was lipstick on your teeth. The door opened at that moment and you shyly straightened yourself up as the butler gave you a half-amused, half-annoyed look.

“Do you know who I am?” you asked.

“Only that you are to be known as Lady Dazzle.” He took a step back, allowing you room to walk past him.

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Feysand Mate Reveal AU

So I’ve always wondered how it would have gone if Rhysand had gotten the chance to tell Feyre about him being her mate himself. So this slight AU takes place the day after the Inn scene and assumes they had never been shot down and the Suriel wasn’t in the picture.



Rhysand grasped me tightly in his arms as he aimed us towards his Velaris townhouse below. The city was a canvas of lavender and orange in the fading light, the lanterns lining the winding Sidra like a chain of stars.

As he held onto me, I tried not to notice the way his torso was pressed up against mine, every contour of that strong body matching up with every soft curve of mine, the way his muscles eased and stretched with every flap of his enormous velvety wings. 

I let my head lean in to the crook of his shoulder and jaw, resting there beneath. I could almost fall asleep, despite my usual terror at flying with the Illyrians. I was so comfortable in his arms. I let my eyes close for a moment, savoring the warmth between us.

My mind wandered, and maybe it was the closeness of our bodies, but my thoughts took me to the night before…remembering the way we had tangled and touched in that tiny bed at the Inn…the way he had felt propped up behind me as I yielded to him…the way he had run his hands over me…how much I had wanted him to just take me fully…it was enough to set me aflame right there in the sky.

I jerked my eyes back open and tried to focus on the leather detailing of the lapels of his Illyrian training jacket, anything to stem those traitorous thoughts. I counted the threads in the silver embroidering of his undershirt, counted the buttons below that, opened loosely over the russet skin of his tattooed chest. The chest that was broad and smooth with muscled strength…another wave of warmth ran down me, pooling at the core of me and I bit my lip hard, hoping he wouldn’t notice the strain across our bond. 

I edged a glance upwards at his face, wondering if perhaps he too was remembering our night…but his dark brows were furrowed, his eyes faraway and focused. I swallowed, wanting to say something, address this thing between us, whatever it was.

We had scarcely spoken the entire way home after those hours training in the Steppes. I could sense he had wanted to say…something. I had indeed caught him several times opening and closing his mouth as if starting to speak before thinking better of it. I had shrugged it off, busying myself instead with my own training. But I wouldn’t be able to ignore it much longer, especially now that we had permanently crossed some invisible line that had been drawn in the sand between us these past few months.

As we touched down on the Townhouse roof terrace, I let out a relieved sigh at the reliable feeling of a steady surface below us. He set me down gently and removed his hands from me quickly, as if he were afraid of repeating last night so soon.

He straightened up, adjusting his elegant leather jacket as I tried to rearrange the tussled strands of my windswept hair. I watched his deft and graceful hands button the places his shirt it had gone loose from our day of travel, wanting so much to feel those nimble fingers in me again…

But no. I couldn’t let those thoughts in. I reinforced my mental walls of adamant, envisioning them wrapping in more vines of protection. Whether from his intruding thoughts or my own traitorous ones, I wasn’t sure.

“Dinner,” was all Rhys murmured after a moment, gesturing to the stairwell to our right. His eyes did not meet mine as we quietly made our way down to the dining room, where I hoped to find Mor or Amren or…anyone really. Anyone to fill the heavy silence between us.

The corridor of the Townhouse was dark, the last bits of sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows casting a low glow over the floorboards. I watched my boots as we descended each flight of stairs, marking each of his steps behind me, thinking about how much I wanted to just turn around and hide in one of the passing bedrooms.

When we finally reached the dining room, I was disappointed to find the large oak table spotless and empty, save for two steaming plates of chicken and vegetables flanked by a glass of wine each.

“Cerridwen and Nuala,” Rhysand said in answer to my questioning look, pulling out a chair for me. “I sent a request directly to their minds an hour ago while we were flying. I assumed you would be too tired to go out,”

Indeed he was right, and I tried to arrange my face into some semblance of graciousness as I took a seat. I jumped slightly as I felt his broad hands graze my shoulders, but he was only spreading the napkin out into my lap for me. 

Ever the gentlemen, but it irked me for some reason. I shot him a mildly indignant look and snatched the napkin back.

“I can handle that myself, thank you,” I curtly unfolded it myself.

But Rhysand only smirked as he made his way around the table to the opposite side where his plate was set.

Damn you, and your damn smirking.

Surprise flashed across his face as he took his seat, before being replaced by that feline amusement I was so used to. I felt a wave of relief at that. Maybe we wouldn’t have to acknowledge last night at all. Maybe we could continue on as normal, unchanged after all.

But something told me that wasn’t going to happen as my body thrilled at the sound of his deep voice in my head, replying,

But that winning smirk worked so well for me last night.

I felt a hot flush creep into my cheeks, but I refused to look at him. I gingerly began cutting my chicken, trying not to let my knife and fork tremble in my hands.

You’ll end up cutting yourself that way, Feyre darling.

I shot my eyes back up to meet the crinkled violet of his as his smirk deepened. I scowled and ignored him, carrying on with my tenuous cutting.

The clock on the mantel chimed half past eight, nearly causing me to jump out of my skin at the sudden noise. My eyes caught on Rhys’s movement across the table, it seeming to jar him as well.

“Is it really that late already?” I said, in a lame attempt at small talk. 

I watched his face, trying to read any reaction there. But it indecipherable was as he replied smoothly, “It’s been a long day, we should get some rest,”

“Yes, I want another good night’s rest,” I slyly hoped he would catch my intention behind the words. I had slept more restfully last night than I had in months. The fact that it was due to being in his arms was a small matter I wasn’t sure I could handle.

But he only cast his eyes down at my plate.

“Feyre, you’ve barely eaten anything,” he said, and I could see the veiled concern etched within his eyes. I looked glumly down at my barely-touched dinner, the food indeed more moved around on the plate than anything.

“What is it to you?” I asked casually, putting down my utensils on the smooth wood varnish.

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Are you hurt? Sick?” he asked softly.

“No,” I replied, sitting back in my chair. “I’m fine,”

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked, lying his hands flat on the table, as if ready to spring to my aid at a second’s notice. 

I resisted rolling my eyes as I said, “I’m just…not hungry. Really,” I hoped it would quay the emergent worry in his face. He relaxed, though I could tell he didn’t fully believe me.

“Well, then I suppose if I am just being a distraction,” he muttered curtly, swiftly standing and disappearing the plates with a wave of his hand. 

I felt an unwelcome pang at the word. Distraction. What I had asked for last night…not friendship, not a bond…not even love. I internally cringed and watched his dark silhouette disappear up the stairs.

I instantly wanted to run after him…to apologize or flirt more, I didn’t know. But my legs would not move, and any words died in my throat as I heard the distinct click of his bedroom door shutting upstairs.

Ten minutes later, I found myself pacing outside his room, up and down the hallway, praying he couldn’t hear me, couldn’t see what a fool I was.

I nearly knocked once, but couldn’t bring myself to. Couldn’t think of what to say. I had too many questions for him. But I also felt a need to apologize. To explain. But the nerve never came.

Not knowing what else to do with myself, I hid in my room the rest of the evening, holed up in bed with a book in my lap. But I read without really comprehending anything, my hands mechanically turning the pages as my mind wandered elsewhere. These months I’d spent here…how he had taken me in, given me clothes and money and food and shelter and everything else. It had begun as a bargain, yes, but now?

I had had his tongue in my mouth and his fingers inside me last night. Yet I had stupidly told him it was just meaningless fun…but I knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t just fun. It wasn’t just a distraction.

And that terrified me.

I sat there in bed, trying to find the right words to say to him until the clock on my cherrywood dresser tolled eleven. So, I gave up and dressed for bed, though sleep sounded as equally unappealing to my racing mind.

After slipping on my satin nightgown and silky robe, I crawled underneath the plush green duvet and switched off the lantern at my bedside. Instantly, the darkness sweeping across the room seeming to gloat at me, yet another reminder of the High Lord no doubt sleeping peacefully down the hall.

But as I drifted, my mind wandered back to that cramped room in the Inn…to the feel of his hands on my breasts, his fingers moving in me, his lips devouring my neck…how I had wanted so badly just to yield fully to him, to let him have me completely. How much that meant to me. How much that frightened me to my very core.

I shivered and clamped my knees together, as if it could keep the wave of want at bay. My mind played the night over and over…the way he had spoken…the bits and pieces he had given me…Let me touch you…Because I was jealous and pissed off…She’s mine.

I stiffened. That was it.

I needed to know. Needed to know what it all meant. What I meant to him.

I clenched my jaw, let out a sharp breath and sent one word down the bond;

Rhysand.

The seconds ticked on, and my heartbeat fluttered faster. Waiting. 

We have one awkward meal and you’re back to calling me Rhysand?

I fought the tug of a smile that lifted my lips and I shot straight up in bed, though there was nothing in the darkness of my room. It was just his voice inside my head.

Please. I want to talk to you. In person. 

A pause.

Might as well address me as High Lord, while you’re at it.

I rolled my eyes and just sent one word back down the bond: 

Please.

For a few horrible moments, I thought he wouldn’t come. Perhaps he had decided I was too indecisive, too spiteful, too soiled for him. I put my hands over my face, feeling shame creep in, and slumped down against my pillow.

“Well I suppose if you say ‘please’…”

I shot back up, throwing the covers off me as he appeared in the darkness, as if made from mist, silent and swift as the night. I clenched my bedsheets as I took him in; he was shirtless, loose silk sleeping pants the only thing covering his form, his velvet wings hanging unceremoniously behind him. 

With some effort, I fought to keep my eyes from tracing the contours of his torso, the way the pattern of his tattoos tapered off towards his lower abdomen…the corded muscles of his forearms leading to strong hands now dipping into his pockets as he leaned against my bedpost.

“Feyre,” he said in a singsong voice, no doubt tracking where my eyes were. It snapped me from my observance and I flushed warmly. 

I could see the slight amusement in his eyes as I met his eyes again. 

“You wanted to see me?”

I rose quickly and rather shakily from my bed, the hem of my satin robe hitting the floor and opening the front, revealing the simple albeit very short nightgown I had put on underneath.

“Or perhaps you wanted another distraction,” he said as his eyes drank me in, not a question at all.

I watched Rhys watch me, saw the panic and lust and unsureness cross his face as he took me in, from toes to eyebrows. Saw the silent restraint in his body, the body I had become so used to seeing over these months of training together.

I took a slow step towards him. He stood unmoving, not taking his eyes from mine, though I could now see him grasping that bedpost like it was supporting him entirely.

“Not a distraction,” I said firmly, trying to convey everything I felt in those few words.

He did not hide his reaction to me as he again cast his eyes down my body. I tried to ignore the way my nightown rode up with each step, at the growing impulse to throw my legs around his waist right there and then.

“I need to know…” I hesitated as I finally closed the gap between us. My shoulders tensing, I continued, “…what there is between us,”

His face was unreadable and again he didn’t move, did not even flinch as he held steadfast onto that bedpost, as if one wrong move would send us spiraling into dangerous territory again.

“I need to understand this, Rhys,” I gestured to the small space between us.

I watched his face change again, into something hopeful, but hesitant. His hands finally let go of that post to grasp my arms, lightly running up and down them. It raised goosebumps in their path. 

Something drew me into him, something I couldn’t name. Like a tether, ever shortening as the minutes passed…

“Feyre…” he voice was guttural as he angled his head to rest against mine. I heard him breath in. Breathe me in. I did the same, reveling in the citrus and sea that always hovered around him.

“You said you just wanted fun,”

I cringed, and swallowed thickly. “I know what I said, but that’s not what I want,”

“Then why am I here, Feyre?” There was the question. His hands left my arms. My lower lip trembled as I took in his beautiful face. So devastatingly beautiful.

“Rhys,” I steadied my voice, as I asked a question of my own, “Why do you bother?”

Confusion darkened his eyes.

“With…?”

“With me,”

“I happen to find you quite attractive, Feyre,” His hands resumed their exploration, this time running slowly over the curve of my hips, gently tugging the fabric of my gown upwards. “As I have told you many times,”

“Evidently,” I breathed, pushing my pelvis against the new hardness of his, wishing we could just throw away all that had been said and submit fully to this feeling. He gave my thighs a long squeeze as his mouth met my cheekbone, trailing kisses down towards my earlobe. I could feel the cool air kiss my now exposed upper thighs. He bunched the fabric up more, his own hips moving ever so slightly in to crush gently against mine. I stifled a groan, tried to ignore the melting feeling soaring across my body.

“But why bring me here? To Velaris?” I whispered against his jaw as his mouth roamed to my ear, placing a restrained kiss upon its point.

“I happen to find you quite interesting, darling,” Rhys breathed into my ear, but there was panic in his eyes as he straightened back around to face me. He couldn’t hide that, not from me.

“But why bring me here to your home?” I broke from him, taking a step back, stemming this flow of warmth before it consumed us fully. “Why let me sleep in your private rooms? Why introduce me to your family, your court, your—”

“I…care about you Feyre,” Rhys interjected, scanning my face.

“Why?” My voice became strained.  “Is it just petty revenge against Tamlin, still?”

“No,” Rhys hissed. “He has nothing to do with this, Feyre,”

“Is it our bargain then? Are you not able to break it or–”

“The bargain is nothing,” Rhys’ voice was flat as he placed both his broad hands on either side of my face. “Nothing,”

And I believed him, but still there was something missing. Something I couldn’t quite reconcile…

“Then why am I here?” Tears escaped my eyes, tears I had kept at bay for too long, tears of frustration, tears of hopelessness. I still didn’t understand. Why he had gone through all these pains to give me a place to be happy. Even if he now felt as strongly for me as I did for him, in the beginning we had been barely more than strangers. It still didn’t add up.

“What am I to you?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys struggled for a moment, his jaw set, his eyes furiously scanning my face again, as if trying to read something within it.

“Feyre, I have to tell you something,” His voice sounded almost shaky, his lips near trembling. “Something I should have told you sooner,” 

I had never seen him so…vulnerable. Not in this way.

I waited for him to go on. But he didn’t say anything for a long moment before he gently backed us up until my rear met edge of the mattress. I reached behind me and grasped onto it, anything to keep me steady, to keep my hands from grasping onto him and never letting go.

He leaned in and laid a soft kiss on each side of my neck, before lifting his mouth to my tear-stained cheeks. He gently kissed away my tears, as he once had done Under the Mountain.

“You’re not just a distraction,” I whispered against his face. “You’re…more than that, Rhys,”

I locked eyes with him, and before I could decide against it, I swiftly brought my face to his and kissed him deeply. There was hunger and desperation in that kiss, a kiss we had not truly shared yet. 

His hands returned to my hips, running over the bend of them as I pressed myself fully into him, wanting to taste him and feel him and understand this pull between us. And from the way his lips drank mine in, the way his hands roamed my thighs, I knew he was trying desperately to understand, too.

“Rhys…” I said from behind his lips and broke us apart again.

He stood panting before me, eyes closed. His hands went slack at his sides, and he angled his body away again.

“Feyre, don’t…” he trailed off. “I don’t think I can handle it…not again,”

My heart broke for him as I took his hand back in mine.

“Rhys, I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Just…tell me, please,”

“Feyre…” He gave me another kiss, this time long and sweet, like it held all the words he was about to give me. “There is a story I need to tell you first,”

—-

I imagine after this, Feyre reacts very much the same as in the original, with her fleeing to Mor and demanding to be taken away to think. So you can assume the cabin scene plays out the same in my AU :) Hope you all enjoyed!

Petname Babygirl II pt. 6

Yoongi x reader, Jimin x reader

genre: angst, kinda fluff, smut (t-tongue technology?)

word count: 12.6k


The night was constantly going up until you met a special guest who managed to creep into your thoughts.

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Hard Eyes: Part 1

Prompt: batmom meets Talia and there’s a lot of tension between them because of their history with Bruce and Talia wanting to take Damian back to the League of Assassins

Requested by: @shyinfluencer2017

Words: 1445


The station is larger than you imagined, and you’re not quite sure where you’re going. At this point you’re just following instinct. You move through the halls, Dick’s call still fresh in your mind. “Mom, it’s Bruce. You need to come now … it’s bad.” You hadn’t been able to make out anything after that, the tears had muffled his voice too much.

          As you turn the final corner it’s to see your boys, and the entire league. You try not to think about how bad it must be, for those looks to be on their faces. You pause for a moment, cherishing the last few minutes that you pretend everything’s okay. Then you rush forward.

          The boys see you immediately, and it takes no prompting, they rush to you. Despite having been taller than you for several years now, the oldest three seem so small, and Damian, your poor sweet baby, he seems so scared. They cling to you, and you do your best to comfort all of them assuring each of them that it’s going to be okay.

          After they’ve calmed down a bit you move forward and then you stop. There’s no love lost between you and Talia. You’ve seen the woman maybe twice in the four years since Damian has come to live with you. She’s no mother in your eyes, and she certainly doesn’t have a claim to your son.

          You decide to focus more on the doctor. He confirms what Dick said on the phone. It’s not looking good, and it will all depend on the surgery. There’s a less than ten percent chance that Bruce will be able to be the man he was before this. That reassures you in some weird way, Bruce has always been able to beat the odds.

          Finally, you take a seat. Your back is hurting, and your ankles are swollen, and technically, you’re supposed to be in bed at the moment. But, extreme times call for extreme measures. One hand goes to rest on your protruding belly, as the boys sit down beside you.

          Dick is the first one to break the silence, “So how’d your doctor appointment go? Bruce was so bummed to miss it.”

          You smile at that Bruce had been to every pregnancy check before this one. He had been so upset to miss this one. You hadn’t planned this. As far as you were concerned you had your hands full with all the boys. But one glass of wine too many had led to a forgetful night.

          Some part of you had expected the boys to be disappointed. But they had met the idea of a new sibling with enthusiasm. In fact, one of the boys would typically go with you and Bruce to the appointment.

          “Did the doc finally tell you what you’re having?” Jason asks with a grin “It’s another boy, isn’t? Something tells me Bruce is only for making boys. Look at the squirt.”

          Damian scowls at the nickname, but he doesn’t argue with Jason’s statement. If you had expected anyone to be upset about the pregnancy it had been Damian. The boy had clung to his blood tie with Bruce for so long, you had worried about him feeling threatened. Instead, he had taken to the role of big brother rather seriously.

          It had started out with him and Tim inspecting everything you ate. Then he had researched everything needed for a helping a healthy baby grow. Classical music had been playing non stop around the manor. Then one day, you had walked into what had been designated as the baby’s room, just to consider paint colors, to find that it had already been painted a soft yellow.  

          And there was Damian, working on mural. It was this pretty field of flowers, a nature scene. For a while you had just watched him paint before all of a sudden he had simply said, “It’s going to be a girl. And she should have a happy, and pretty place to grow up. Somewhere she can always feel safe.”

          You had gone to him, and pulled him in close, not worrying about the paint staining his clothes and said, “Every child should have that Damian. I can only hope Bruce and I provided that for you and your brothers.”

          Damian had simply hugged you back and said, “I’ve never felt safer than when I was surrounded by this band of misfits.”

          You just laughed, because of course he couldn’t call it what it is, “A family.”

          Coming out of the memory you find everyone silent, and you take a moment to examine them. They’re still dressed in their uniforms and they’re covered in dirt.

          Quietly you suggest they go shower and change, when they protest, you tease and say that their stench is making you feel ill. That gets them going. A few of the League members inquire after you and the baby. Eventually they too leave, and then it’s just you and her.

          Neither of you says anything until you can’t take it anymore and you finally ask, “What are you doing here Talia?”

          She turns to face you, radiant as ever, her eyes as cold as ever. “My son and his father needed my assistance?”

          “Is that a question or an answer Talia, because I’m not buying it. The boys are too distraught to see it, and the League doesn’t know you well enough to see it, but I do. I know everything about you Talia. I’ve read every part of the file Bruce has on you, and I won’t let you do it.”

          She raises an eyebrow at that, “You’d let him die? You must really want his money.” She glances at your stomach, “After all your child is legitimate, and he didn’t even have you sign a prenup.”

          You roll your eyes at that, “I care about what Bruce wants, and he told me that under no circumstances was he ever to go into the Pit. If there’s one thing in this world that scares him, it’s what that goop would do to his mind.”

          She studies you for a minute, “Then I suppose I’ll take Damian with me when I leave then.”

          “You have no right. Bruce and I have full custody. And Damian is just as much my child as any of his brothers.”

          She smiles at that, “Is he as much your child as the one in your womb? Blood is thicker than water after all.”

          You can’t help but scowl, “I hate that saying, because while I may not have given birth to those boys, while I may not share their blood, I’ve raised them. I’ve attended every parent teacher conference, shown up for every play, taken care of them when they were sick, worried every time they go out on patrol, held them after a girl broke their hearts, watched them grow, watched as they became brothers, and so much more that you will never understand.” At this point you’re right in her face, because you want your meaning to me clear, “Those boys, are my children, and blood has nothing to do with it. You just try and take Damian, and you’ll be the one to need that damn goop,”

          She looks down at you amused, “Big words for such a little church mouse. What’s the little pregnant housewife going to do?”

          You just smile, “I wasn’t always a housewife Talia. You would know that if you were actually able to find anything on me before Bruce.”

          She actually looks a little frightened now, and you know it’s your eyes, they’ve slipped into that same hardness that had made people braver than her panic. You make one last statement, “Leave now Talia, and don’t you ever threaten my children again.”

          She leaves, she never turns her back on you but she leaves. You take your seat again, and wait for him to come out of the shadows. You meet Clark’s eyes, and you can finally feel the tears start to build as he wraps an arm around you, you let them out. He just holds you while you cry, because he knows. He and Bruce are the only ones that know about your past, and he knows that it’s Bruce that keeps you grounded, that Bruce is the one that keeps you from slipping. And he knows that if Bruce Wayne dies, as soon as you’re able to, you’ll hunt down the bastard who caused it. And he knows that he’ll have to be the one to stop you.

          For that reason Clark Kent prays that Bruce Wayne pulls through, for the boys, for you, and for your unborn baby girl.

Random Headcanons of the Week #3

Hello, everyone!
This time we decided to think about the reactions of some of our favorite characters to a prompt that we found a while ago and really enjoyed:

Reader: “May I ask you politely to slam me into the wall and make out with me?” 


Reinhardt

Actually, watch out how you phrase this question. Don’t say pin instead of slam because he will probably just charge at you and kill you instantly, not even realizing what he’s doing.

Reinhardt would be very sweet about it. He asks if you’re okay with it since you’re not exactly alone at the moment and people might be watching, he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.
“Anything I can do to make meinen Schatz happy!” he laughs as he carefully slams you against the wall. Well, you won’t have to worry about any spectators anyways; it’s probably way too hard to see what’s going on behind this lovely giant.

McCree

“Woah, there!” would probably be the first thing he says but, of course, he won’t leave it at that. He leans in a bit closer and asks you to repeat your question.
“I ain’t sure if I understood ya correctly, darlin’. Could you say that again?”
As you quietly repeat your question with a giant blush on your face, the smirk on his lips just grows bigger and bigger. He’ll definitely fulfill your desire.
“Well, guess I can’t say no to that.”

Jack Morrison

He just stares at you for several seconds, slowly processing your words before he becomes extremely flustered. His face turns bright red and he has absolutely no idea what to say as you just keep staring at him unfazed. At some point, he would gather his courage and take a look around to make sure no one is watching the two of you.
“I mean since you asked politely…why not?”

Gabriel Reyes

Your question is originally meant as a joke. You are sure that Gabriel must have noticed the tone in your voice but he just doesn’t care. At all.
“Whatever you want,” he mutters with a smirk.
He doesn’t even hesitate for one single second. There is absolutely no time for you to regret anything or retract your words. Contrary to Jack, Gabriel doesn’t care about being seen at all, he’ll make sure everyone knows you belong to him. 

Junkrat

He’s convinced that you reached a completely new level of telling jokes. He laughs it off but on the inside, he would love to grant your wish. However, he soon notices your determined expression and realizes that you’re far from joking.
“Wait, for real?”
“Yes, for real!”
His face is adorned by the largest grin as he leaves you no room to breathe for the next few minutes.

Hanzo

This poor man is just so confused when you ask him. Why would you want that, especially in public? Where you going crazy? You two barely show any affection outside one of your rooms so this is a completely new topic for him. Hanzo just stares at you for a while, it feels wrong but he still kind of wants to comply with your request. However, he takes his time so you have to take matters into your own hands. In the end, Hanzo is the one getting slammed into the wall and receiving kisses all over his face. It takes him a while but he will be glad to return those. 

Genji

You will definitely need to reassure him that it’s okay. Because of his past as a notorious playboy, he doesn’t want you to feel like you’re just one of many others; he wants you to know that you’re special and the most precious thing in his life.
“I know, love. Don’t worry about it! Now come on, I asked you politely, didn’t I?” you tell him. He lets out a small giggle and starts kissing you intimately, still wanting this to be a cherished moment.


Mei

Since both of you are usually pretty shy, this question absolutely catches her off guard. With flushed cheeks, she asks if you are really sure about this. As you answer in the affirmative, Mei quickly builds an ice wall to shield the two of you from any unwanted spectators. However, you still are the one who has to take the initiative. 

Sombra

She decides to use her abilities to make sure no one would interrupt you. Automatic doors? Hacked and closed. Lights? Hacked and off for the next fifteen minutes. Surveillance cameras? What surveillance cameras? But of course, before things start getting heated, there’s an important question.
“Are we talking about making out or making out?” she questions cheekily.
“If we’re gonna do it, we better do it right, don’t you think?”

D.Va

Hana simply grins at you, offering a deal: “Sure thing, yeobo! But only if you beat me at Street Fighter!” You stare at her confusedly. It is impossible to beat her at any video game; she could just say no if she isn’t feeling like it. But things turn out quite differently: you win. Or rather, someone lets you win.
“You know, you could have just said yes without this whole ordeal, Hana!”
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” she responds as she puts away the controller and starts making her way over to you.

Pharah

She sends you an emotionless gaze for a few seconds before frantically looking around and making sure no one is watching. She wouldn’t admit it but she had a really bad day at work and is more than glad that you asked. From time to time, Pharah really needs a small make-out session to relieve the stress. Who doesn’t? 

Mercy

Angela seems barely fazed by your question even though her cheeks are taking on a slightly rosy tint. She smiles warmly at you and would agree but she notices a lot of Overwatch suddenly running around.
“Why don’t we take this somewhere private later? Seems like a team just got back from a mission so I’ll have to take a look at them, okay?” You nod and she gives you a quick peck on the lips before walking away to the infirmary. The busy doctor will definitely fulfill your wish later in the evening.

Widowmaker

She doesn’t care about any possible bystanders at all. You want a make-out session, you’ll get a make-out session. However, she’s not really sure if she’s doing it right. Amélie needs a surprising amount of reassurance on that topic, she never really knows how to interpret all these feelings inside her or read her partner’s emotions. She has trouble actually telling if you’re enjoying this or not so make sure to tell her.


Bonus: Bastion

The three glasses of red wine affect you in a weird way: the fact that you ask Bastion to make out with you speaks volumes. Bastion lets out a puzzled beep, awkwardly patting your back with one of his arms. Of course, you realize your mistake after a few minutes.
“Right, sorry. You’re…you don’t even have a mouth, sorry. Shit, I apologize, Bastion.”
The robot reassures you with an understanding dweet.

Four Bedrooms

[ao3]

Based on this story told at Jibcon 2017
3.7k words

The thing is, Misha’s a liar.

He stretches the truth when he knows it’ll be to his advantage. He flatout lies when he thinks the truth will upset someone more than he’s willing to deal with.

So when he offhandedly invites Jensen and Jared to his rented house for the duration of filming the season 12 finale, he doesn’t expect them to take him up on the offer until after he’s already told them it’s a four-bedroom house.

It’s not a four-bedroom house.

The downstairs consists of a cramped living room with a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a small kitchen with enough counter space for exactly one cutting board and a sitting area with a wooden table and three chairs instead of four. The upstairs is one hallway with a master bedroom on one end and a much smaller bedroom on the other end. The spare bedroom barely has enough space for a full-sized bed. There’s one bathroom upstairs, between the bedrooms.

“Uh, you sure this is the right place?” Jensen asks as he sets his duffel bag down on the small couch in the living room.

“I might’ve…stretched the truth a bit,” Misha replies sheepishly.

Jensen turns to him, hands planted on his hips, unimpressed glare on his face. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

As Misha opens his mouth to respond, the door bangs open and Jared comes in with a whistle.

“Wow, Misha,” Jared says as he looks around the small room. “This is as awesome as you hyped it up to be.”

“I never said it was glamorous.”

“You also didn’t say it was the size of a broom closet,” Jared replies as he throws his stuff on top of Jensen’s. “Where are we sleeping?”

Jensen and Misha share a look before both turning back toward Jared. Misha says, “We can worry about that after work tonight I guess.”

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love’s got a hold on me; (m)

⇢ summary: taeyong just doesn’t how to quit while he’s ahead.

⇢ relationship: taeyong x reader

⇢ genre: smut… lol.

⇢ words: 1.9k

⇢ warnings: shame(ful)less smut. sub!taeyong, teasing, orgasm denial.

Originally posted by yoon-to-the-oh

a/n: this started out as a conversation and just dwindled into this mess.


Taeyong was good, more often than not. He was sweet beyond compare, thoughtful even at the expense of his own comfort. He was wonderful, and you were certain that no one could replace him even if they dared. He was your boyfriend, and he was willing to please no matter what, no matter when, no matter where. But maybe it was just something in the air, or maybe one of the boys had said something to him that riled his ego, but whatever it had been, he was steadily facing the consequences. Such consequences were torture, the kind he so enjoyed.

“Such a bad boy, you’ve been acting up all day.”

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maple mary [stan uris x reader]

summary: stan confeses his feelings but richie ruins everything

a/n: this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day 10 and prompt haunted mansion. Also, I used @horrificmemes
31 Horrific Days v2 [October Writing Challenge] ! same day, prompt growling. i am apart of the stan uris deserves love tooTM

if you like my stuff and want to support me, don’t forget to treat me to a KO-FI! take part in the 7K followers gift HERE!

MASTERLIST.

There are several places in Derry that spike fear into children and adults alike: deep forest spots that seep with dazing scents, where trees are so high they block the sun, waters, overflowing and so powerful that only God knows where they would take one if that one was so unlucky to get sucked in, abandoned buildings as old as Derry itself, or random places of killings riddled with ghost stories that only younger half of the population actually believe. 29 Neilbolt Street is one of those locations, and one you and the Losers are now accustomed to very well, and the other is a house down Maple road, a large abandoned brick building with wines growing through its windows like pretty flowers in spring.

“—That’s bullshit. There’s no way Maple Mary is haunted.” Eddie mumbles into his cereal; the lights of late Fall morning shine through the window. A couple of brown and yellow leaves dance in the chilly wind. Eddie’s house is mostly quiet, only his mother is watching the morning program on the TV in the living room, while you, Stan and Eddie eat in sleepy silence. Richie is still snoring upstairs. No one dared to wake him. Mostly because no one wanted to deal with his whining.

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casefile; sherry baby!

MSR; Rated R; Revival Era; Humor, Fluff, Horror Lite, Smut Lite; 7k; Mulder takes Scully out for a romantic evening on Halloween. It does not go as planned. 

A.N. Happy Halloween! Unbelievably sappy shit ahead. Prompts: Scully being jealous for no reason, a ghost watches M/S get it on. @fictober @today-in-fic


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 shoot poltergeists–”

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!

Wild

Originally posted by yeolhighness

Chanyeol having a guy’s night with the boys generally never bothers you. They’ll go to a bar or to some game or play video games and it’s always just a fun, rowdy, but mostly contained evening. They have fun but they never get wild so you never mind when Chanyeol tells you that he’ll be out, not to wait up.

This time, however, you are mildly concerned for the safety of your fiancé and those around him.

There are less than twelve hours until your wedding, twelve hours until you stand before your friends and family and declare your love for one another, and he’s about to leave for his bachelor party. And, although the guys have rarely caused any trouble during normal guy’s nights, you know that this one will be different.

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Take it Out on Me | 3

Summary: Yoongi/Reader/Hoseok. When your boyfriend neglects you one too many times, the only thing left for you to do is run to his best friend for comfort.
Genre: Angst
Words: 2,787
Warnings: Cheating

Disclaimer: The plot idea is not mine and the two first chapters were written by @btsfiles. I am merely continuing it, with her permission.

-Admin Mari

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 (by @btsfiles)

Originally posted by leojuseyo

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Scars

Originally posted by thalassa55

Tom Holland x Reader

Request: Yes

Summary: Struggling with scars due to several surgeries as a child, Tom is there to comfort and love the Reader.

Word Count: 2,580

Warnings: Language, body image issues, talk of scars, childhood, loving!tom, sad stuff, fluff. (That’s it ??)

A/N: Wowza, I posted ?? I know, it’s crazy. Hopefully this is close as to what the anon asked for and is a decent tom imagine (still struggling w/ those tbh). As always, enjoy reading and feedback is appreciated!


Today was yours and Tom’s one year anniversary of being together.

You were beyond ecstatic when he had asked you out for the first time.

Thinking about it always makes you crack a smile, remembering the horrendous first impression you both presented to one another.

You had been at a local cafe getting a simple cup of coffee, enjoying your time.

Tom, however, was in a rush to get to a meeting, so as you were reaching to grab a napkin off the baristas counter, he quickly and accidentally rammed into you.

His coffee went everywhere.

He started apologizing profusely, but you were too entranced  by his muddled hair and deep brown, chocolate eyes that glistened every time he stared into yours with worry spread across his gorgeously chiseled face.

After that, you two kept running into each other.

A few of your friends always commented how it was “fate.”

And after a while, you started believing it too.

Tom is my soulmate.

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anonymous asked:

leela that liveshow was. a lot. so cute. Dan talking about love made me 👀

it was definitely a lot oh my god. one of my favorites in a long time and a real treasure trove of open stories, asides, opinions, and general insights into his mind, his opinions on work, his life, and of course, yes, his thoughts on love. i almost wondered if he was a little bit tipsy from the sushi dinner he mentioned going on since he’s always sort of told us that he’s pretty sensitive to wine (he was tipsy while editing that sims video when he left the flipside christmas party in december and he’d only had one glass of wine?) because honestly there was so much rambling and vulnerability in this that i wasn’t prepared for. uhhh, brace yourselves bc this is like,, the longest shit i’ve written about them in ages. i can always count on a dan live show to bring out my inner desires to write an actual novel haha

INSIGHTS ABOUT HIMSELF

the meditation bit. that was so lovely on so many levels. to know that he’s tried meditating is one thing. to watch him try to walk us through some of the fundamental tenets of a meditative mindset was another. it was so fascinating to me to hear him confirm the way in which he feels plagued by the onslaught of noise in his life, and crucially, for him, that’s all online noise—he kept talking about imaginary conversations, how all of our communication is text on the internet, and that he ingests so many of those voices constantly and always feels their presence. even though that is a generalizable thing that all of us suffer from, to an extent, in a world where we’re so digitally connected, it’s staggering to think about the scale on which he has to deal with all of the white noise and that all of it is both distressing to him and also inescapable in that it’s the foundation of his career. i just see dan as being someone who is so internally conflicted about so many things and that includes, most centrally, the role of the internet and his presence on it, and it doesn’t take much reaching to understand why he must love and hate it in equal measure.

the hydration campaign. y’all i’ve been trying to track every stay hydrated mention since the one in pinof 8 when they literally made like a psa, with no explanation or context, about the importance of water and staying hydrated and just stuck it in the middle of that vid. i’ve lost track though bc they’ve worked it into nearly every video they’ve made since then and i WANT TO KNOW WHAT ITS ABOUT. i am adamant that it’s an inside joke of some sort. i don’t think they actually give a fuck how much water we drink lol. so today when dan was like “i need to find a way to work that into the next video .. .might already be in it,” and then at the end when he said he needs to leave to go “get hydrated,” i was living bc it was the most open confirmation yet that this is something they’re so intentionally doing and working into their vids. idk if it’s just a funny thing but … my instinct is that it has some sort of deeper meaning that only they know and i’m ANNOYED THEYRE ALLOWED TO RUB THESE JOKES RIGHT IN OUR FACES UGH. jk they can carry on w their married behavior but. i want it all to lead to some sort of announcement that they’re starting a joint bottled water business at the very least. or maybe its just a euphemism for sex. who knows. ugh

dan acknowledging his pretentiousness about music is all i’ve ever wanted. it’s so funny to me how just his self-awareness that he is very pretentious and particular about his tastes is all i needed to forgive him for all of it because what pissed me off more than anything ever about dan’s approach to talking about music were his flimsy attempts at trying to act like he was so accepting and tolerant of all people’s music tastes and that he’s some sort of diplomatic saint who respects and celebrates everyone’s preferences bc … literally no he fucking doesn’t he has never even tried to make it convincing hahah. so him just outright apologizing for it today in his usual self-deprecating fashion was like the funniest, best thing to me bc god at least he knows and realizes and like maybe now he can actually work on talking about music in the deeper and complex ways that he so clearly wants to. also as a music snob in my own right i feel him on this and i’ve always just found it way easier to preface every conversation w the clear statement that these r just my own standards and i’m a douche and i’m never actually trying to disrespect anyone who might like different things than me. anyway, i love dan

INSIGHTS ABOUT WORK & LIFE

i suspected and even posted about the fact that unexpected things might have happened this week that caused phil to be delayed in posting his video and dan to be all but silent on twitter for several days. i speculated dan may not have been in a good place this week based on his silence and also the way he seemed to teeter on the brink of quite overt negativity during last week’s live show. to me, today’s live show seemed fully in the throes of that negative headspace. there was a resurgence of bleak little comments about how he’s tired (of living), how he looks like a rat and doesn’t want to be reminded about the reality of his existence, how his life is a joke, how he can’t comprehend that anyone could draw inspiration from his videos or that his stories could brighten people’s days, etc. etc. all said as casual asides and mostly followed by little laughs as is his norm, but it was very reminiscent to me of the time in early january around his 2016 memes video and his first couple live shows of the year where he talked so frequently about craving death and feeling anxious and judging his own work output too harshly, and the constant pressure of scrutiny from his audience. i don’t think this live show was as bad as all of that but it’s clear that things might be a bit difficult right now and dan confirmed that himself when he stated that it’s been a challenging week in ways he can’t talk about with us yet. i was so interested to hear him say we could ask him about it in like five months though. literally,,, i put it in my calendar for august because i’m just so curious. we have almost no hints to go off of in terms of speculating about what it could be, but to me the fact that we would be able to ask him five months from now seems to suggest that it’s not /super/ personal or phil-related (i jokingly wrote in tags that he and phil had gotten in a tiff this week lol) bc if it was he wouldn’t mention it at all i don’t think and definitely at the very least wouldn’t have given us such a specific timeframe about when we could ask about it. i’m thinking it could be work-related bc of that timeframe: a new project of some sort that will be out later this year, for which perhaps several planning meetings or deadlines had to happen/be met this week? it’s hard to say why that would put dan in such a negative headspace but he’s said before that he gets that way when he’s sleep deprived and he did just seem very very tired beneath everything. … also possible it could be about moving? maybe house hunting was very stressful and didn’t go to plan. late summer (five months from now) would be a fitting time for them to have made their move, and really it’s the only other possible thing i can think of with a timeframe that dan would specifically tell us. in any case,,, mark your cals for august y’all bc i actually can’t wait to hear more insights about this week even if we have to wait months for them.

that being said, the new dinof video is coming tmrw or the day after and he was still pretty vague about what it will be about. as i spelled out in completely unnecessary detail after last week’s live show i believe he was going to make the video about dropping the dinof user name but then changed his mind (this is the video he referenced today when he said “i was going to make a video but then decided it should be the next one” before going on like a 3-min rant about how sometimes he just feels the timing isn’t right to post a particular video.) so that leaves the field wide open for what this next vid could be. the only other hint we got was that it could be kink-related because the premium he opened that said “kinkshame me daddy” prompted him to say “well you’ll like my next vid,” but then he quickly walked it back as though to dispel anyone’s expectations that it would be kink-related? it was all a bit confusing. on that subject he did note down the idea of doing a video about going to the dentist back in a february live show, so there’s a high possibility to me that it could be about that since it’s like sort of (maybe jokingly) a kink for him, but he wouldn’t want to tease something that’s mostly NOT about kinks by saying it’s kink-related, hence his rapid back-tracking. but like. tbh who knows … dan is confusing and could pull something totally out of left field behind all of this quibbling. i mostly ardently agree with the way he told us to feel about it, which is to have literally no expectations or theories about what it could be hahah … best advice he’s ever given tbh

confirmation that he and phil will attend playlist this year, and a sort of allusion to the traditional lester clan april holiday in florida. probably means that he will join them again this year. it was kind of nice to hear him basically walk us through how all of their decisions about conventions and travel are made jointly, even months and months into the future, and to have no qualms with sharing that. he also just kept reiterating vaguely that they might have plans at various points of the year and idk about y’all but i feel like he’s trying his hardest to let us know that those plans involve each other and probs always will. could be work things (the same project that may have caused them stress this week), could, as he said in his own words back in january, be “life things.” could be both. but regardless, the plans are always danandphil things, both of them together, and i’m not sure how there is still a strain of people that insists on arguing that a moving apart or separation is on the horizon for this year. all of that is summed up in this one amazing exchange for me, when someone in the chat asks, “are you excited for australia again?” and he answers, “yeah, we are.”

i also really dug the insight about how he likes to structure his work in such a way that he’s working for three weeks straight with no days off and then takes a whole week to lose himself in a game. it’s very dan to be so all or nothing about the way that he works and to become consumed so completely by whatever’s at hand (whether it’s work or leisure) and although i might’ve suspected that that’s how he operates i don’t think we’ve ever heard him lay it out that clearly

INSIGHTS ABOUT PHIL & LOVE

that he opened this live stream with such an earnest celebration of phil (thanking him, literally, for existing and making videos even though it was technically a misspeak) was so lovely and not what i expected but it set a nice tone for the start of this stream. the bants-y way in which he acknowledge the subscriber gap was also a tiny bit noteworthy to me, especially in light of that ask i answered recently about how they must approach the subscriber gap. i argued it def isn’t something they are sensitive about and probs isn’t something they joke about either, but dan sort of showed that he might approach it w humor if the situation calls for it rather than ignore it altogether. interesting. he’s clearly so proud of phil and was a little flustered in talking about how exciting the milestone was. and then, relatedly, so so animated and excited about “promo-ing (awkward pause and sidelong glance) his pal” and the gym video. i fucking loved hearing his version of the story and how surprisingly soft and tender he sounded when he was describing phil on the phone asking for an exercise plan (like, his tone was verging on adoring there) and then the way he looked when he got back. the way that dan says “what happened?” when he’s recounting how he talked to phil after he got home literally set my heart aflutter bc it was sooooooooo concerned-sounding even in a re-enactment, even in front of thousands of people, so i can’t even imagine how worried he must have genuinely been in that moment. the thing w videos is that they allow these real-life stories that happen to dnp to take on a sort of surreal almost fictional feel bc of the storytelling dnp employ—videos have like a real narrative arc and they’re packaged to be entertaining so in some ways it’s easy to forget that this is actually a true thing that happened. phil lester went to the gym and threw up twice from over-exertion and came home in half the time he was supposed to be gone and dan, the worried partner, was there to receive him when he did. and then, of course, to get super angry on his behalf and tell us about it later. i was literally rejoicing to hear dan be so honest about his emotional reaction to this happening to phil bc it might be something he would have usually phrased another way (‘can u believe phil asked for this one thing and got this other thing instead what is wrong with people this is why we don’t go outside’) instead of literally just stating his emotion so bluntly (‘i was actually like really mad … like honestly i was so angry when he told me.’) that difference in communicating how he feels is so hugely important to me and it’s what gave the story so much dimension,, i could literally picture dan and his instinct towards protectiveness that we’ve seen time and time and time again when it comes to phil, just full of irritation, disbelief, and actual anger in that moment and he had no problem with telling us that was what happened. i nearly thought that when he said he couldn’t go to that gym bc he didn’t want to see kyle/leon, that he was saying any real-life encounter with him would end in dan giving kyle/leon an angry speech about his lack of professionalism and total ineptitude at his job. i totally believe that it would.

the other part of dan’s reaction that i feel is worth noting is the way that he immediately said to phil that he needs to learn to be more assertive in a knowing tone as though it’s something they discuss often and, to be honest, it IS something that has come up before over and over in the way that dan portrays phil. that he’s too “polite” to call people out if they’re abusing him online, that he believes in things like etiquette and courtesy, that his personality is adorable and, in not so many words, soft. we even have seen him describe it in certain specific real life scenarios. an example that comes to mind is when they were doing the joint live show in november last year and dan wanted to talk about the sound guy who fucked up his mic at dapgoose LA, subsequently causing him to loose his voice for the boncas. dan clearly wanted to go off about how incapable the sound guy had been but asks phil for permission basically, and phil tempers dan’s response a lot and recounts the situation diplomatically. a random example that also comes to mind from ages ago is in dan’s what not to do at the cinema video from 2012 where he talks about a scenario when he and phil go out to see a movie and he, dan, is assertive enough to both 1. ask for people to completely get up and move if they’re sitting in his and phil’s seats, and, 2. shush them if they’re being too loud. he even acts out phil saying “oh my god you did not just do that, i don’t know you,” and trying to hide. i feel like this is a difference between them that’s sometimes under-discussed  or noticed because the main focus is always on their anxieties and insecurities and general distaste for human interaction. people also focus on phil making small talk with people in social settings and take that to mean that he is more confident and calm. but i earnestly believe that he is more reserved than dan in many ways and that includes in facing negative or stressful situations and dan, despite his own set of anxieties, has always been much more able and willing to demand and ask for what he feels he (or phil) deserves.

obvi the thing everyone wants to talk about (and i’m right there with y’all) is dan’s truly surprising decision to entertain a question about love and then give a definition of it. after a bit of waffling and dithering about whether it is or isn’t a social construct he seems to insist that it is a real feeling and defines it as “the fear of that person not being there mixed with sexual attraction.” super interesting to me because he seems to totally approach this question from his own perspective and experience which is why in the moment he seems to suggest that you need to experience sexual attraction in order to love people (and where does that leave people on the ace spectrum?) and, moreover, that love is definitely a feeling people feel (and where does that leave aromantic people?) he definitely interprets the question to be about romantic love rather than talking about something perhaps “safer” for his usual topics such as platonic love or familial love and it’s for that reason that i definitely think he was trying to say that this is what love means to him and in his own experience because i don’t think he would be so cavalier about conflating romantic and sexual attraction and implying that asexuality and romantic attraction cannot coexist in one person if he had had time to think about this answer rather than spontaneously deciding to answer it on the spot.

but that he’s speaking from his own experience obviously makes his answer profoundly interesting because he settles on, coincidentally or perhaps not, one of the only ways of expressing affection for phil by proxy that he’s ever been okay with sharing with us, which is that he needs phil around bc he can’t bear to be alone. this combined with the protectiveness/defensiveness he exhibits for phil pretty consistently, as well as the occasional recognition of phil’s creativity, are pretty much the full spectrum of ways in which dan ever talks about what he feels for phil in a public setting. it was so strangely emotional for me to hear him confirm that his fear of being alone and being without this hypothetical “love” is so fundamental to the experience of love for him that it becomes a big part of the way he defines it. i mean people make fun of dan’s neediness all the time in so many ways but he straight out confirms here that the feeling of needing your partner near you at all times and staving off the genuinely frightening prospect of the anxiety of being alone are so central to what he takes the experience of love to mean. and that’s true for both of them i feel because as “needy” as dan is, phil is just as attached, chooses to spend all of these moments with dan, chooses to call dan up on stage when he wins solo awards, chooses to travel and socialize and create and live with dan next to him always. the concerning degrees of codependency they exhibit are such common topics of conversation amongst us as outside observers that it’s very nearly startling to hear dan basically say that, yes, this dependency on this other person, this feeling of paralysis when they’re not there, that’s what love is to him, fundamentally. it’s the awareness that your life would be empty without them around. that is … concerning honestly, and as always i have some burning questions about how they make such an unhealthy level of codependency work but like. they do. they so clearly do. they have for so long and they show signs every day of only growing stronger and happier in their partnership, if that’s even possible.

then there’s the sexual attraction bit which like, sure. obvi.

i also thought it was immensely noteworthy that when he read out “some people never find love” from one of the chat comments he didn’t even try a little bit to make it relatable and crack some joke about being forever alone or even just a cheeky little “same.” like just, generally speaking, he approached this whole topic very much with the tone of 1. someone who has definitely experienced the emotion of love, 2. someone who is then trying to articulate the emotion of love as he experiences it, and 3. someone who still feels that emotion and is in proximity to that person to whom it is directed. there were no attempts at trying to say he can’t relate or that he doesn’t know (or to apply it to FOOD which he has said on countless occasions is the number one love of his life,) and if anything he got quite flustered and even red around his ears and cheeks by the end of the whole ramble. flustered but not actually uncomfortable, at least in my assessment. it was really so, so lovely and incredibly insightful. not a topic i ever ever thought i’d hear him venture into and certainly not in a live stream and certainly not in that much depth. to me the whole topic played out almost as though he couldn’t let some overly analytical smartass in the chat reduce this emotion that clearly means so much to him into a mere social construct or even a release of hormones (oxytocin). he needed to push back and play devil’s advocate, but instead of doing that in a contemplative philosophical way he somewhat accidentally got super personal with it and this ramble and completely rare look into dan’s experience w this particularly touchy emotion is what we got. it reminds me a lot of the vyou he answered back in 2012 about whether he believes in love, in which he is quite literally upset and completely rude to the person who asked it, saying “no offense to you but what kind of a stupid question is that?” as though he has never even entertained the possibility that people could not believe that love is a true feeling and emotion. it’s incredible to see that 6 years later dan has evolved in so many ways and is calmer and more thoughtful about so many things, but on this subject little has changed: love is so important to him and there’s no way for him to talk about it without immediately demonstrating that :( :( :(

“hydrate, meditate, contemplate, get a mate.” such a fitting closing line because is there any set of four directives that better encompass who dan is lol? overall such a good live show with so many moments of vulnerability and emotional openness. however dan really is in this moment i hope things only get better and better for him and that he can get over whatever hurdles have been holding him back from dinof and that he can edit/post this video and then let himself take that week off that he mentioned wanting, in order to play games and chill or at least get to a calmer place. love him lots :(((

(live show: meditation and hydration with your new life coach - 3.14.2017)