queens homes

I discovered today (because ppl keep asking for it in the Boyd Holbrook tag) that what we BOFQs used to call self-inserts back in the day are now called “imagines”. Which are a little different because instead of being ultra-beautiful Mhairie who all the X-Folks admire and inevitably bang, it’s LITERALLY YOU in the “imagines”. So being a good fanperson I have decided that I will, in fact, write a few short Boyd Holbrook imagines.

It’s cold on the Staten Island seashore. “Boyd, I’m cold,” you say as you shiver in your inadequate jacket which you will one day miss terribly as you sit high up in the bleachers at some Canucks game some future boyfriend will drag you to. “I just gotta find a couple more pieces of wood,” Boyd says, a chiseled figure in the distance as he scours the beach. “My sculpture of Jesus taking a bath needs a big enough tub for him to sit in, I mean come on.” You smile, admiring his devotion. Jesus is very important, it’s true. You suddenly feel humbled by his artistic quality and ability to sculpt and how he lives with a bunch of other models like Zoolander except instead of mocha orange frappucinos they all love outsider art. “Shit, a crab bit me,” Boyd says.

Imagine you are lying on the sofa while Boyd, your husband, practices his banjo while his dog sings along. His friend Pedro Pascal taught him some songs in Spanish, he says. You listen quietly and intently for every mention of “amor” as he mumble-sings. It’s so warm and cozy tucked up in blankets on the sofa; earlier Boyd gave you a nice full-body massage that he says he learned from Hugh Jackman. Boy, does he ever know a lot of helpful people! Just the other day he introduced something new and exciting to your bedroom games (”Trust me, baby, it’s gonna be funner this way”) and said it was suggested by none other than Liam Neeson! What a life.

You are pregnant and you and Boyd have rented a cabin up in the hills for you to have the baby. Every day is full of comfort – roaring fires in the woodstove, blankets and quilts, reading, eating banana pudding and drinking Ale8 – and you couldn’t be happier. Boyd closes his book one night and looks at you, his blue eyes full of his own happiness, and he says, “Reckon I should get some scissors and hot water.” For a moment you’re puzzled, but then he pulls the blankets aside from your legs, reaching between them, and holding up your new daughter. You were so comfortable you didn’t even realize you were giving birth! Boyd brings the baby up so you can cuddle her, fixing you with an ardent gaze. “I love you, (Y/N),” he says with passion, “and I love our little daughter (B/N) too, forever.” 

I hope these small efforts help fill the void! I apologize if they are unsatisfactory since I, an asexual who balks at putting herself in sexy/romantic situations, would be happy with imagines that looked like this:

You go out to try sushi at Tojo’s because it’s across the street from where you work, and Boyd is there because he’s in town filming Predator, and you sit at the counter eating sushi and drinking plum wine and yammering on about shit and then your lunch break’s over but you call in to work sick and take Boyd to Steveston because you want him to try the desserts at The Sweet Spot and he wants to take a photo standing outside that shop that Rumple runs in OAUT. Also he offers to pay for everything and you make a token protest before allowing it and then the two of you get bubble tea and go your separate ways.

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.