Finland: Squealing all the time because she finds the most adorable bras you could ever imagine. This includes bras literally shaped like skulls which also plays heavy metal music if you press a button.
Sweden: A bit ashamed that she has to buy bigger sizes than the others and searches more for comfortable bras than pretty ones. Is the one who makes Finlands bras and hangs them in EVERY store.
Denmark: Finds more for the others than for herself and will not let the others focus for a second. Somehow manages to convince the others to buy matching lingerie and usually ends up buying more than she needs.
Norway: Loves frilly and pink bras but they have to match her other underwear. Gives Iceland advice all of the time while managing to stop Denmark from buying everything in the store as well as explaining to the store owners why skull bras are hanging everywhere.
Iceland: Tries to escape her sister by hiding in changing booths, behind Sweden and in clothes piles. Is actually the only one that has been thrown out of a store when she was found in a box of panties behind the counter. The others will not let her forget about it.
Somewhere between her suede coat, and cable knit sweaters lies all the years they shared between them, rolled delicately inside of her silk scarves. She’s packed them away, pushed them away. With bitterness he ponders if she’ll only unwrap them once a year when the weather is fitting, the mood right.
He swallows thickly, and remains frozen where he stands as the final zipper is closed. He flinches. The drawl of the metal teeth closes her world to him with a resounding rip.
He can’t speak. His chest burns with aching realism. The loss of her. His hands are clenched, his jaw tight. The room appears blurry, the images wobbled and distorted through the tears that have suddenly brimmed in his eyes.
“I think that’s everything…” She lifts a bag from the bed, wincing at the weight of it. What did she expect, he wonders? Hundreds of little memories, little moments in time are packed in there. Did she expect it to weigh less?
“Your entire life is packed in those bags,” he whispers thickly. She lifts her face to him with an exasperated sigh.
“Mulder, don’t start,” she pleads, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s just clothes… Don’t be ridiculous,” she groans as she lifts the second bag and places it on the floor.
He moves towards her with more force than he expects, the betrayal of her words bubbling under his skin, gnawing at his gut. Just clothes…
Tears escape the confines of his lids, traitorous to his need for resolute strength. He slams one bag on the bed, ripping the zipper open. Twenty years together, and over ten spent laying beside her. He knows her better than she knows herself. A zipper can’t keep her world from him. She is his. And he is hers. The gold band he wears attests to that fact.
“Mulder, what–?” She walks around him to the other side of the bed. Their bed. Years spent sleeping beside him, wrapped around him. Their tears forever stain the cotton of the pillows, spilled in moments of sadness and ecstasy. The fibers of the sheets are woven with the whispered secrets they shared as their bodies cooled in the heated summer nights, and the laughter of better days during the cold nights of winter.
“It’s not JUST clothes, Scully.” He is breathless, emotion clogging his throat. He rummages through the bag. He tosses the extraneous contents to the side. He’s like an addict looking for the hit that fell down the drain; desperate, frantic, willing to do anything for his fix.
He lifts a teal scarf, bringing it to his nose. Vanilla cedar musk. Her.
“You were wearing this when I tried to come back…back when Will–” His voice catches, and he swallows. He must continue. He has to make her remember. “At the train station… I saw you wearing it…” He fingers the soft pashmina, and reverently places it to the side.
“Stop,” she whispers, her eyes red with unshed tears.
He doesn’t hear her. Maybe he does. It doesn’t matter. He reaches inside the bag again, licking his upper lip and sniffling. He wipes his face with a shaky hand, and holds a red turtleneck with the other. He tosses the sweater at her with a tilt of his chin, and it skids along the mattress, like a stone against a quiet pond.
“Christmas 2005,” he says, his voice raspy. She touches the soft, silky cotton, lifting the sweater. She remembers that holiday. Their first Christmas here.
“There’s still a hole at the wrist,” he points out, and she nods once, eyeing the small hole at the cuff. “You snagged it on the tree branch.”
A small chuckle escapes his chest, and he sniffs through the tears. “You thought I was crazy for wanting to cut down our own tree…” He gazes longingly at the red material, memories playing in the back of his mind. He pauses, lost in thought, reliving it all. Crackling fires, hot cocoa on starry nights, making love under the twinkling lights… “Anyway…,” he sighs, shaking his head, “you tore the sleeve helping me bring it inside the house…”
“How…?” she whispers hoarsely, and she clears her throat. She looks at him with amazement. “How do you remember that?”
He finally meets her eyes, the fight leaving him as he looks at her. “I remember everything.”
He opens another bag, and pauses for a moment before he lifts his worn Knicks shirt. “This is mine.” It’s spoken more as a whispered prayer, rather than statement. This is his. His shirt. His Scully. Don’t go.
She reaches for it, tugging it from his hands. “I’m sorry…it must have gotten mixed in…” He would believe her if not for the blush that stains her cheeks. She folds the shirt, biting her lip as she slowly places it to the side - places HIM to the side, he realizes. A lone tear escapes down her cheek.
She wipes her face, placing her hand back over the folded grey material. Her tears bleed into it. How many times has he seen her in that shirt? How many times has he lifted it, removing it from her body? The shirt really didn’t belong to him anymore. It was hers the moment she put it on that first morning she had stayed the whole night, and awakened in his arms.
Her fingers trail over the worn cotton, her small sniffles filling the silence. His heart breaks again.
“Keep it,” he whispers, grimacing at her pain. She clutches the shirt to her chest before she packs it back inside the suitcase. At least she’s taking a little piece of him with her.
He helps her pack everything back in the bags, replaying the small moments that brought them here. The black leather pumps with the ankle strap she bought on a whim, and regretted it twenty minutes into the evening when her feet hurt so badly she could barely walk. He carried her back to the car that night, and they laughed the entire way, ignorant of the quizzical glances from strangers. Don’t mind us. Just two people in love.
A pink lace bra, it’s cups sheer and feminine. Her skin practically melted into the paleness of the expensive threads. His 50th birthday. He remembers the lingerie fondly, both on and off her body.
When the final zipper is closed, he looks to her. “Do you remember it all…, when we were happy?”
His eyes plead with her, for forgiveness, for understanding, for love, and for hope. Twenty years together. Over ten spent in each other’s arms. Is it really coming to this? After everything they’ve been through…?
She looks around their room, dragging her hand along their bed as she comes to stand by the door.
calum blurb/imagine/smut thing where you come home from a run and you think you look disgusting but he gets super turned on by you being all hot and sweaty and before you know it your frick fracking on the floor?;)
ok if ur 12 or 13 or even 28 u shouldn’t be reading this im so impure when it comes to calum im sorRY
As soon as you closed the front door behind you, your chest heaving in short gasps of breath, you swiped the back of your hand across your forehead to wipe away the small droplets of sweat that had accumulated during your run. Your whole body glistened with the wet, sticky stuff, and you felt absolutely disgusting. Thank god Calum wasn’t home, or else he’d have to see you like this, probably smelling just as awful too.
So without another moment’s waste, you began peeling off your damp articles of clothing piece by piece and tossing them to the side as you made your way toward the bathroom. You’d almost made your way past the living room, when an unexpected whistle made you jump, your body instantly spinning round to find the source of the noise.
“Calum!” you gasped as your boyfriend lounged across the sofa with a wide smirk on his face. “I…I, erm…”
“Look incredibly hot? I agree,” he chuckled, getting up and walking over to you.
Just as he drew nearer, you held your hands up in defense and started to back away, eyeing him steadily, ”Babe, don’t come any closer, please. I look and smell like shit.”
He laughed at your remark but only seemed more encouraged to keep moving forward, his arms outstretched to pull you in for a hug. As his grin widened, your lips curved into a deeper frown, cheeks already flushing in embarrassment. Now that you had no way to escape, you pressed your back against the wall and reluctantly allowed him to wrap his arms round your waist in a tight embrace.
“Cal, I’m sweating like a pig! Why the hell are you—” you tried to protest, your words muffled against the soft fabric of his shirt.
When Calum pulled back, you could tell he was amused as ever by the look in his eyes, though you failed to pick up on the slight arousal in his soft brown gaze. You thought he was just teasing you as usual, so you made every effort to wiggle out of his hold and sprint off to the shower, only to be caught by Cal’s hand gently grasping yours and pulling you back.
“I’m serious, Y/N, the sweat really works for you, actually,” he insisted, his eyes traveling down your body as he spoke.
“You’re not being serious, you’re just making fun of me,” you groaned. You moved to pull away, now slightly annoyed, but he caught hold of you again to meet your gaze with a more earnest expression.
“Would you like me to show you just how serious I am?” he challenged quietly.
You folded your arms across your chest, “Go right ahead.”
You half-expected him to laugh it off and go back to watching TV, but he surprised you when his hands drifted to the waistband of your spandex shorts, fingers gently hooking underneath them. He looked to you for permission to continue, deep chocolate eyes meeting yours in question. You nodded a little uncertainly and allowed his broad hands to follow through with their actions, a little surprised at how quickly and swiftly he tugged your shorts down your legs. Now you were left in nothing but your sports bra and panties, anxiously awaiting his next move.
“Love the neon pink sports bra, babe,” he murmured with a chuckle, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth to admire your body.
You lightly slapped his chest, cheeks now flushing pink a little, “Don’t be a tease, Cal.”
He raised his eyebrows at your remark, stepping a little closer to you so that his body was now pressed against yours—and, more shockingly, his hard member against your thigh.
“I guess a tease would do this too, huh?” he whispered as he took a step back from you. The smallest, imperceptible whimper escaped your lips as he did so, your hands moving to pull him back, but he remained where he was. Now smirking again. Running a hand through his hair, eyeing you over, letting the tent in his pants grow larger.
“A tease might make you wait until the boys are gone, too,” he added, nodding upstairs to indicate that the rest of the boys were there, probably playing video games or watching TV.
“No. Now,” you insisted, now desperate to feel him again. Your fingers had already begun tugging at the hem of his shirt as your eyes pleaded with his.
“Here?” he questioned.
“On the floor?”
“On the fucking floor, Calum.”
No words were necessary from then on. Both of you were quick to undress each other right in the middle of the living room, lips pressing against each other in hot, wet kisses that could probably be heard throughout the house. And if that wasn’t enough, Calum had already begun sucking on your neck, drawing a series of loud moans from your lips as he gently placed you on the floor. Now he was hovering above you with his hands planted on either side of your head, grinning like his usual idiot self.
“Don’t worry, I’ll have you sweatin’ some more, babe.”