tell me what i'm supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you

cosmic-files-87  asked:

2/11/15 MSR for the angsty list....I know....I am an ass.... (but really!!!!! Please write that!!!!)

2 - I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you.

11 - You can’t keep hurting me and then demand I apologize instead.

15 - You betrayed me.

Author’s Notes: Okay, this one hurts. Like a kick to the groin kind of hurt. I almost feel bad. It is high angst & will probably piss some of you off. If you proceed – you were warned. Post IWTB.

Two Weeks, Too Cold

It’s been two full weeks since she’s seen him.

She can’t remember the last time she went more than a day without hearing his voice – What’s up, Doc? – watching him as he watched her, or felt his broad chest against her back as he spooned her to sleep.

I won’t be coming home, she had said. Don’t do this, he had begged.

Scully keeps telling herself that she made a mistake by letting him kiss her as she stood in their front yard with tears rolling down her face, by entertaining the notion that they could ever hide from the darkness. It was cruel, she thinks, because even then she knew that she wouldn’t be coming back home.

Which isn’t exactly true, because she did come home, briefly, to gather a bag or two of her belongings. Her chest aches at the memory – of the desperate tears and of his voice breaking on each  I’m sorry and please don’t leave me.

That was two weeks ago. Two weeks that have been filled with work, because if she can’t help the man she loves then at least she can help a child breathe. Two weeks filled with too much coffee, because her fingers feel ice cold without his own interlaced with them. Too little sleep, because her skin trembles and aches without his hands there to gentle away the nightmares.

Two weeks, she has decided, is long enough.

I just want to see him, she tells herself as she guides her car onto the long gravel drive that leads to their shared home. The house is modest, but cozy. Most of all, it’s theirs. The few tangible things they’ve shared in the past have been wrenched away from them – but not their home. No blood to scrub out of the carpet, no taped X in the window to summon life-threatening information. It’s just home, and it’s theirs.

She steps out of her car into the crisp air of early morning to pull open the gate, and she smiles to herself. The ritual of it is comforting. Countless mornings and evenings have began and ended with opening this gate, letting herself back into the beautiful, private world she shares with Mulder.

Pulling into her spot in front of the house, she sees a strange car. She frowns curiously. Did he go out and buy a car after I left? She wouldn’t put it past him, except that it would require his actually leaving the house (and nothing short of a psychic priest has convinced him to do so thus far).

On her walk to the front door, her heart begins to hammer against her ribs at the thought of seeing him again.  It’s only been two weeks, she chides herself. Still, she expects that he may be angry. When he’s hurt, he tends to deflect – in his case, that means petulant withdrawal and an abundance of sarcasm.

She draws in a deep breath and unlocks the door. He may still be asleep, she realizes as she steps into quiet darkness. It’s just after five o’clock in the morning. Just because she hasn’t been able to rest doesn’t mean he can’t.

But oh, she’s finally home. She closes her eyes, relishing the smell of Mulder’s aftershave mingled with the scent of the roses he had delivered to her office just a week before those goddamned agents showed up at the hospital. She remembers bringing them home, carefully tucking them into a vase of water. They’re beautiful, she had told him. Not as beautiful as you, he had replied, his hand tucked against the small of her back.

“Who are you?”

Scully starts at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, opening her eyes to see a woman standing at the threshold where kitchen becomes living room.

A woman.

Tall. Brunette. Holding a glass of water. Wearing only a t-shirt and a confused expression.

“This is my house,” Scully says, the words scraping past a throat that has gone as dry as desert sand. “Who are you?”

The woman stares back, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt uncomfortably.

No, not her t-shirt. Mulder’s t-shirt. Scully’s favorite shirt that Mulder owns, because it’s soft and worn and somehow still smells like the cologne he wore the first time she slept in his arms, even after all these years.

I’m going to be sick, this is not happening, oh Mulder what is going on…

The woman finally speaks, clearing her throat. “He – he said he lived alone.”

I’ve wandered into the wrong house, Scully thinks numbly. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.

But no. That’s Mulder’s shirt, and that’s the drinking glass my mother gave to me when we moved here. That’s the couch where Mulder and I made love less than a month ago.

“Scully.”

This can’t be the wrong house, because that’s Mulder. He’s standing in front of her, and he’s not wearing my favorite shirt, he’s not wearing a shirt at all, and he looks terrified, and oh God I’m going to be sick…

“Mulder?” Her voice sounds tiny. Her hands are still freezing, but now her palms are sweating as her stomach churns. Please explain this, Mulder, she begs silently. Please please please please.

“Who is she?” When the other woman speaks again, Scully wants to scream at her. She has no right to ask that. Scully is the one who should be demanding an explanation. She’s the one who deserves an answer. Not this stranger, with her morning-after hair and her long smooth legs brushing the hem of Mulder’s shirt.

I’m going to be sick.

“Mulder?” This time, her voice is louder, sharper, less please tell me this isn’t what it looks like and more how fucking could you.

He doesn’t acknowledge the other woman’s inquiry, instead stepping toward Scully with his hand outstretched. “Scully,” he begins, and her name on his lips tells her all she needs to know. She’s heard him speak her names countless times – calling to her for help, playfully teasing her, comforting her in times of distress, moaning in ecstasy as she coaxes him to climax, even shouting in anger during a particularly intense argument.

Never – never – has he said her name with this desperate, helpless tone threaded through it.

The woman has disappeared, and Scully can hear her in the bedroom – our bedroom  – gathering her things, probably eager to get away from this house – our house – and whatever is about to happen between them.

Mulder moves forward, and she sees panic etched into the lines of his face.

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as the full realization of what’s happening settles over her. “No,” she chokes, swallowing against a throatful of stomach acid. “No, no, no.”

“I’m sorry, Scully, please let me explain.”

Her eyes fly open, and she wraps her arms around herself. “Explain?” Her voice catches on a sob. “What is there to explain?” She stares at his face, his beautiful face, and it’s more than she can take, his eyes full of regret. She backs away, grappling for the doorknob.

“Scully, don’t leave. Please.”

Two weeks, Mulder!” Her stomach aches, her head pounds, and I need to get out of here, this is not happening. “I was gone two fucking weeks!”

She is hot and cold at the same time, her clammy palms sliding against the doorknob as her fingers shake uncontrollably. She feels the heat of his body behind her, and oh God, she wants to lean into him, just to warm her hands, but nonononono, she has to leave, she cannot stay another minute in this house.

When he places a hand against her shoulder, her entire body recoils. “Get the hell away from me,” she gasps, her breaths coming in shorter spurts now, her lungs burning.

The doorknob finally relents, and she shoves against the door, stumbling outside where it’s still so cold, it’s not home, and she can’t breathe, and fuck you Mulder how dare you how fucking dare you.

He follows her across the yard. “Scully, please.”

She doesn’t break stride or respond. She’s almost to her car when she feels his hand catch the arm of her coat. She jerks free, but his grasp is lighter than she expected, and the heel of her boot slides against a leftover patch of ice. 

Under any other circumstance, she would have caught herself. The reflexes instilled in her all those years ago in FBI field training never failed her before, but she can’t even catch her breath so how is supposed to support her full weight?

Maybe she doesn’t even want to.

Her knee meets the ground with a sharp crunch, and she hisses in pain.

Immediately, Mulder is at her side. “Oh God,” he says, and reaches for her again. She slaps his hand away, and finally the tears she’s been fighting break through, streaming hot against her chilled face.

“In our bed, Mulder,” she says bitterly, leaning back against the tire of her car. “I was gone two weeks, and you fucked someone in my bed.” She tries to suck in a lungful of air, but is met with resistance when the breath halts on a sob. So this is what suffocation feels like.

“I was drunk,” he whispers miserably.

“When are you not?”

He flinches, but continues. “I don’t know what happened. Scully, I don’t even know her.”

“Where did you meet her, Mulder?” She glares through her tears. “All this time, while I’ve been working, have you just been out meeting women to bring back to our home? Our bed?”

“Of course not,” he breathes, staring at her in horror. “Never. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did,” she whispers brokenly. “I never believed you would do this. Not in a million years, Mulder.”

“Neither did I.“ His voice is pitiful and sincere.

She swallows thickly. “You betrayed me.”

He sinks all the way down beside her. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know, and I’m so sorry.” There is a heavy silence between them for a moment before he adds, “Scully, you left me.”

Scully shifts to face him, and grits her teeth against the pain that the motion sends shooting through her knee. “You’re unbelievable,” she spits venomously. “You screw another woman in my bed, on the sheets you bought for me on my last birthday, and you’re making this my fault?” She fumbles with the top of the tire, trying to pull herself to her feet.

“Scully, stop,” Mulder pleads. “You’re hurt – your leg.”

“You’re damn right I’m hurt,” she snaps. “And it has nothing to do with my leg.”

She gives up on standing for the moment. “You never answered my question,” she tells him, her eyes burning hot into his.

“What question?”

“Where did you meet her? I’ve never known you to socialize, but clearly, there are a few parts of your character I somehow missed in all our years together.”

He stares at his hands for a moment before meeting her gaze. “I went on a walk and ended up at a bar. It’s a couple miles down the road. I had more than I planned, and she – she offered to drive me home.”

Scully folds her arms tightly around her midsection. The tire is wreaking havoc on her back, but she barely notices.

“Classy, Mulder.” She closes her eyes again, but the tears fall anyway.

He sighs. “You left, Scully. You just left, and you wouldn’t return my calls. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

Scully tenses as another wave of nausea washes over her. “I left because you wouldn’t leave the house unless it was to spiral back into your fucking paranoid obsessions!” 

She covers her face with both hands. “You can’t keep doing this,” she sobs. “You can’t keep hurting me, and then demand that I apologize instead.”

“When have I done that?” His voice is laced with disbelief. “When have I ever done that, Scully?”

Fuck you Mulder fuck you fuck you fuck you –

“Fuck you,” she cries, gripping the edge of the tire again and heaving herself to her feet. “I don’t need you.” 

She ignores the throbbing in her knee when she puts weight on it. “I don’t need anyone,” she says, her voice breaking. “I think we both know I’ve survived greater losses.” She wrestles with her purse, digging for her keys. “But it’s fine. I don’t need any of you.”

Mulder touches her shoulder, and she shrugs him away again. “Don’t touch me.” She yanks her car door open. “I told you to get away from me.”

“Scully, I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “You may not need me, but I need you. I always have.”

“You didn’t need me last night,” she tosses back viciously as she forces key into ignition. “I can’t take care of you anymore, Mulder. Figure it out.”

He positions his body so that she is blocked from closing the door. “Scully,” he tries again, his voice echoing with despair. “I’m begging you. Please. You came back for a reason. Please don’t leave again.”

Her chin trembles as she answers him in a voice as brittle as dry ice. “I left for a reason, too.”

She grasps the door handle in her hand despite the remaining tremors. “Move.”

He slowly backs away, and at last she sees tears shining in his eyes. It’s too late, it’s too much this time, I can’t.

The sound of her slamming door causes him to jump. The pressure she places on her gas pedal makes her moan with pain as her knee protests the movement.

When she glances in her rearview mirror, she sees a tear-blurred image of her entire world, standing with his arms hanging helplessly at his sides.

He’s still not wearing a shirt, she realizes.

Go back inside, Mulder. It’s too cold out here.

I would know.

END.

Before you ask, yes, there will almost certainly be a follow-up.

and all these little things

ao3 link

robert finds a way to support aaron throughout his counselling sessions.

or, four tuesdays that robert supports aaron, and one tuesday where robert needs his husband.

The first counselling session had lured Robert into a false sense of security. He’d collected Aaron from the counsellor’s office in Leeds, and he’d been okay, he’d been quiet, sure, but he’d been okay - he’d smiled at Robert and suggested lunch in town somewhere before they made the drive back to Emmerdale.

Robert didn’t know much about counselling, if he was honest, beyond what he’d read online when scouring through the infinite list of counsellors Aaron could go and see. Aaron had been the one to agree he needed counselling, but Robert had been the one to find a counsellor for him, in the end.

He hadn’t know what to expect, from Aaron’s sessions, but that first one made him think they wouldn’t be all that bad.

It was the third, when Robert realised it wasn’t going to be an easy road. Maybe it had been completely naive of him to believe they could just muddle along and everything would be okay, even with Aaron having to relive the worst parts of his life over and over, have someone pick them apart and put him back together all over again.

Aaron was quiet, when Robert came in from work. He’d driven himself to counselling that afternoon, Robert stuck in meetings for Home James until the earning evening time.

“Hiya,” Robert greeted, setting his laptop and folder down on the kitchen table, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Aaron’s head. His husband flinched away from Robert’s touch, and instantly, Robert was worried. “How was your day?”

“How do you think?” Aaron snapped, not looking up from the cold cup of tea he was holding tightly to.

Robert wasn’t really sure what to say. “Have you had tea?” he tried, hoping it would elicit a better reaction.

“‘M not hungry.” Aaron shook his head, shoving his chair backward. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s six o’clock, Aaron.”

“So? Are you tryin’ to tell me when I can and can’t go to bed now?”

“Aaron, you know -“ Robert began, sighing as Aaron walked out of the backroom without waiting for him to finish his sentence. He stood alone, in the kitchen, for a few minutes, trying to figure out what he could do to help.

His first instinct was to follow Aaron, and hold him close, and reassure him that everything was going to be alright, that he’d be okay - but Aaron didn’t want that, he’d told Robert he didn’t want that.

He’d just have to find a new way to help Aaron through it all, he supposed.

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anonymous asked:

I am starting the KCL Shakespeare Studies MA and I'm already panicked as all hell. What if I'm not good enough, what if I run out of money, what if no one on the course really likes me and just thinks I'm a stupid, attention seeking tool who has no right to be among them... How was the first week for you? What helped you settle and ease into the course? I don't want to mess it up...

Okay, so definitely don’t panic. I won’t tell you it’s a chill program, because it’s very demanding, but trust that your professors are going to give you all the tools you need to do well. Here’s my advice:

  1. Remain calm. Freaking out is only going to make things worse for you and everyone who wants to help you. You’re not getting any grades right away and you’ll have a couple of trial runs before you get a grade that actually counts, so you have plenty of time to get comfortable.
  2. Do the reading, but don’t fall into the trap of thinking you have to do all of it. Trust me. I did the program. Do as much reading as you need to to understand the material, but don’t kill yourself trying to read every item listed on the syllabus. They don’t expect you to. Optional assignments really are optional. More here.
  3. Unless you’re truly incapable of taking notes by hand, don’t bring your laptop to class. You won’t need it, and it’ll just distract you and everyone else. Not to mention, you really don’t want to be that person who everyone knows is just Facebooking or online shopping when they’re supposed to be engaged. Peers and professors will notice. So if that’s going to be a temptation for you, leave the laptop at home and type your notes up later. (Not to mention, you’re going to be walking a lot between the Globe and VWB and laptops are heavy.)
  4. When building a bibliography, work backwards. When you’re working on a paper, start with the most recent criticism on a topic and use their bibliographies to see what went before that had a significant impact. This is a much easier/smarter way to research than splashing around in the 1950s with a bunch of stuff that isn’t really important anymore and having to shoehorn all the recent stuff in right before the deadline. 
  5. The easiest way to get along with your peers is to (1) not be competitive and (2) not be selfish. First things first: Don’t ask people about their grades, because everybody loses. If they did poorly they feel terrible, and if they did well they feel like an asshole. It’s none of your business. Don’t do it. DON’T. This shit should stop in middle school. Do, however, absolutely talk to them about their topics and their research process and get interested in what they’re talking about. You’re all going to have different interests and specialties and having all those interests in the same room is partly what makes this program so amazing. And here’s what you have to remember: you’re not competing with your peers for a limited number of good grades or good impressions. So don’t compare yourself to them, and don’t try to ‘outdo’ anybody. (Especially, don’t name-drop. If you’ve worked with someone important in the past and it happens to come up, great. If you bring it up at every possible opportunity, you will invoke a lot of eye-rolling and no one will actually be impressed.) Another great way to not make friends is to monopolize time and resources. How many people are in a conversation? Five? Then you should really only be providing 1/5 of the dialogue and if it feels like more, slow down a minute and let someone else talk. We’re all excited about what we’re working on, not just you. So get interested in what other people are saying, not just what you have to say. Similarly, share resources. If there’s a play that everyone needs by Wednesday and you’re the first person to get it out of the library, don’t hoard it until Tuesday night. People will come after you.
  6. Specificity is your friend. The smaller your paper topics, the better the paper you can write. Niche is not bad. A lot more on this under the academic writing tag.
  7. Start thinking about your dissertation now. Don’t freak out about it, but the sooner you start thinking and reading on the topic you think you might be interested in, the better off you’ll be. 
  8. Talk to your professors. If you’re confused about something or just feel like you need a little more guidance, email your profs. Go see them during office hours. These are smart, amazing people and it would be foolish not to absorb as much of their knowledge as you can. Again, don’t monopolize anyone, but don’t be afraid to ask for help or even just elucidation. 
  9. Go out and do stuff. It can be kind of overwhelming suddenly starting graduate school in a new city where you’re on a course with 30 people you don’t know. It can be tempting to just hole up in your room and drink tea and unwind at the end of the day. And that’s fine, but don’t miss out on opportunities because of it. Go out for drinks with people. Suggest grabbing pizza after class. Have a movie night. Get to know your classmates and London. The sooner you go exploring, the sooner you’ll start to feel at home. 
  10. Budget. London is expensive. Take an afternoon and sit down and figure out how much you can spend each month, and leave yourself a cushion, because you never know when something’s going to go wrong and you need to grab a cab or buy a book you can’t find in the library or whatever. Make a monthly budget, break it down by necessities, and then see what’s leftover for fun stuff. Most importantly, STICK TO THY BUDGET. The last thing you want is for term paper season to roll around and to be panicking about your bank account when you should be working. Also: open an English bank account as soon as possible if you don’t already have one. It can be kind of a hassle, but the sooner you do it the sooner you stop getting gouged by exorbitant ATM fees.

This probably feels like a lot, but I swear you’re going to be fine. It’s overwhelming but in a really great way. Try to savor every minute because it’ll be over before you know it. I turned my dissertation in about a month ago today, and while I don’t particularly miss that, I miss being on the course already. You have no idea (yet) how lucky you are.

The apartment smells like burnt cookies and cinnamon when Bitty walks in.

It’s dark except for the light above the oven and the Christmas tree lit up in the corner of the living room.

He drops his bag just inside the door and kicks off his shoes being careful to line them up next to Jack’s sneakers and Olivia’s tiny purple play shoes.

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Call Me | Luke

anonymous: Hi! I was just wondering if your request is open if you could write a one shot where you and Luke broke up before tour, and he’s upset and the boys call you to comfort him? Thank you, xx

masterlist
| request

The last time you saw Luke was two months ago; three days before he left for an eight month tour. He’d begged you to change your mind, told you that ending your relationship was an awful idea. Your worst, even, since the time you’d agreed to have Calum be responsible for feeding your pet fish for a week. He’d tried to reassure you that eight months wasn’t that long; that he could be gone and still be there for you and it wasn’t that you doubted him. 

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anonymous asked:

Gohn breaking up with his girlfriend and him getting drunk and all, but you're always by his side comforting him and you want to tell him you've liked him since forever but can't? Sorry if that's not like Gohn, but a oneshot like that? Angst and fluff? I'm not sure, you guys are the experts! So, I'll leave it up to you! :) thank you Admins!

Ha, we aren’t experts, but thank you very much! Sorry for the wait, and you are welcome!!

-admin p

It was three a.m.

It was three a.m. and someone was banging on your front door.

 It was fucking three a.m. and you were pissed.

 By the time you had stumbled to your front door you had planned out every word you were going to say to whatever asshole was on the other side. But those words got caught in your throat when you opened it to a red-faced Gohn. His eyes landed on you and he laughed, staggering forward to sling an arm around your shoulder.

 “Heyyyy, _____. Thought I might find you here.”  He reaked of alcohol and the half- empty bottle dangling in his left hand confirmed to you that he was completely wasted. You sighed and pulled him in through the door making sure to lock it before helping him onto your couch. He went to take a swig from the bottle but you were quick to grab it from him.

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narrydoe  asked:

3 & 9 (( if you can mix them it would be ace!!! )) oh and narry aha 🙆🏻😅

3. “Please don’t leave.”

9. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

So basically, Niall liked this instagram post today, and then missing-headache and I remembered today how I’d planned out this whole fic about Niall getting a dog, and I wrote this thing instead. :D

(it’s only like 2k)

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anonymous asked:

Could you please write something Hope introduce Lightning to his parents and tell them and the gang about their marriage plan?

Lightning Farron did not get nervous about things. She faced them head-on like any true former soldier would.

A little laughing voice in her head reminded her that she hadn’t been a soldier on this world, and meeting a boyfriend’s parents wasn’t something she’d ever experienced - in this life or any.

Maybe that was why she was…nervous.

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anonymous asked:

✫ - skimmons - 17. Or do you pick the number? I'm a little fuzzy on the details.

(Enh, I’m not picky on generating the number or if you pick it.)

leave a ✫ in my inbox + a character/pairing and i’ll generate a random number and write you a drabble

17. Pretend Couple!AU

“I call Jemma this time.”

All eyes turned to Skye who shrugged. “What? We haven’t gotten to have a mission working together in a while.”

“That’s because we all remember last time.” Fitz muttered under his breath.

“I’d be glad to work with Skye.” Jemma purposely ignored Fitz’s comment. “I’ll even come up with the backstory for us!”

She gave Skye a pleased smile who returned it while everyone else avoided looking both of them in the eye.

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