#bill hader x self-insert

[whitmanpumpkin]

heeeey maybe could you do bill x fem! reader based on carmen by lana del rey? i would love that

okay, so thank you for this. i haven’t actually listened to that song since i was like 15 and it just brought back a rush of memories from high school. so, i went with your prompt, but have also been listening to carmen suites from the opera and this is what we’re going with. the lyrics of the lana song i think i really focused in on were:

“that’s the little story of the girl you know, relying on the kindness of strangers… sing your song, song, now, the camera’s on and you’re alive again…”

and this is what came out of that:

look, he just needed some sort of relief. despite being the guy who had just won his second emmy and in one of the biggest block busters of the summer, bill sure didn’t feel like he was on top of the world. maybe it was because he knew he was running himself into the ground – trying to be the perfect father, the perfect writer and actor, and the guy who had over a hundred people’s lives all on his back. he couldn’t afford to mess anything up, because then he would mess up everyone else’s lives. 

he remembers telling the story of his pitiful night after his first emmy win, and the pitiful trip to in-n-out burger on his way home. (but, he would never tell people he much rather preferred spending that evening with his kids afterwords.) this year, he didn’t have that honor since they were going to be with their mom for the weekend. so, he really was alone.

maybe he should just go to one of the after parties. even though he despised the huge game of winners and losers, there had to be a few people he could mingle with until he didn’t feel so pitiful in himself and had enough courage to head home.

and so he texted a friend and they gave him an address to some big fancy house in calabasas. once he got there, he was sure he was going to regret his choice. the house (if you could call one as big as this one that) was teeming full of people, all busy enjoying their own evening to really notice his late arrival. 

he wove his way through the hoards of people, stopping finally when he saw a small pocket of empty space. well, almost empty. 

you stood there, red pantsuit and all, not really taking the time to notice your new company. you had better things to worry about, like how you were going to get a light for your cigarette. maybe your new company would be willing…

you glanced over once, and then twice. wait a second – why did he look so familiar? ah, didn’t matter. “you got a light?”

bill, who hadn’t smoked in years, fumbled around his pockets looking for a lighter he knew he didn’t have. after a few seconds, he showed his empty hands and turned his attention back to the party. “sorry,” he murmured. “i could go look for one in the kitchen if you need me to?”

“no,” you sighed as you tossed the unlit cigarette on to the ground. “i probably shouldn’t be having one anyways.”

now it was his turn to take a double take of you. wait a second, he thought. “you’re that singer aren’t you? you just won for–”

“i did,” you said. you didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence, because you knew exactly where he was going. yes, you just won best original song, but it was the emmy’s and your competition was mainly rachel bloom and the guys from documentary–

“you’re the guy from gentle and soft!” you realize a little too quickly for your mouth to catch up. the words have already spilled out, and you turn back to him with wide eyes and a slight gleam of panic. maybe you shouldn’t have had that fourth drink. 

huh. he didn’t think you would point him out for that. “i am.”

“amazing falsetto.” you joke before turning back to the party in front of you.

he chuckled. there was a moment of silence between the two of you, and bill figured he didn’t have anywhere better to be. you sure did. when he was in the winner’s room after his win and waiting for his name to be engrained on a small, gold plaque – he saw how people crowded around you for your win. 

you were a big deal. 

you kind of always had been, at least since you were a teenager. there had been a string of popular singles and albums that preceded you, and with your ‘momager’ having no concept of when to stop, she had kind of drilled you into becoming a household name. at least, that’s what all the tell-all stories said. you never really said what actually happened or why she disappeared from the scene, somewhere in your mid twenties. honestly, everyone was too scared to ask. 

it was a good thing you made a name for yourself, always a smiling and gracious person to the public. and to those inner circles, you seemed to be the life of the party. bill wondered why you were all alone here, and why the hell no one had found either of you yet. 

he had to ask. “what are you hiding from?”

“honestly?” you turned back towards him. “having to put an act on.”

your words kind of hit him square in the chest. and maybe it wasn’t the words themselves, but the way you spoke. ever so slightly pained and unwilling, he could see how little enjoyment you were actually getting out of the night. god. he didn’t know what to say, so he just hummed. “i get that,” he tried. 

“yeah,” you sighed back. after a beat, you added: “and you? same, i’m guessing?” 

“caught me there.”

there was suddenly an eruption of cheering from a crowd somewhere to your right, and both you and bill jumped slightly. and then, bill was pretty sure he heard the opening chords to one of your songs. he glanced over with a cocked eyebrow, wanting some form of an answer before he saw you. 

shit. 

you looked a little pained as you stared at the ground. the pair of you heard somebody beginning to chant your name, and you wondered why you had even come. 

“you don’t have to go out there.” it was like he was reading your mind. 

“i do.” you said with such disdain, still staring at the ground. but almost in an instant, he saw the pain flash away (or at least hide) behind a smile and bright eyes. you gave him a wink and headed out to find where they were calling your name, never so much as giving him a goodbye. 

he saw you again, during a party for the golden globes. 

this time he had a lighter on him, but you turned him down when he offered it because “they’re really not a good idea for my career.”

right. 

but that’s okay. because, “you drink, right?” he asked. and you blinked once, then twice. was this man really asking you if you wanted a drink? 

“god, yeah.”

“i know a little bar, a few blocks away.” he explained, loosening his tie and trying to breathe a little in the stuffy room. “if–if you’d want to get out of here?”

you didn’t know what to say, blinking at him and trying to gather your thoughts. but, there really only seemed to be one answer. “i’d love to. as long as you buy tonight.”

“is there a promise you’ll buy them another time?”

[billhaderplsholdme]

starting to work at the movie theater with college!bill

warnings: swearing, that’s p much it

- you were drowning in student loan debt so you needed to pick up a part time job to cover some of the expenses

- you applied everywhere: the coffee shop, the local diner, your favorite restaurant... and the only place you were able to even get an interview at was the shitty movie theater at the shopping center

- you didn’t mind since you loved movies but it definitely wasn’t your first choice

- on your first day it was really slow and there was only one other person working

- your manager walked you to the concessions stand and yelled over at the boy working the popcorn machine, “hey bill, doesn’t look like it’s gonna be too busy tonight. could you train her?”

- bill turned to look where you were standing and you couldn’t help but swoon

- he was so cute and had the prettiest curly hair you’ve ever seen

- you were snapped out of your thoughts when he walked up to you and held his hand out

- “sorry, what?” you said, blushing so hard you felt like a tomato

- bill just smiled, “I said I’m bill, what’s your name?”

- “oh, sorry. I’m y/n. nice to meet you.” you shook his hand. you felt butterflies in your stomach at the contact but you shook them off, reminding yourself that this is your co-worker and you literally just met

- he walks you over behind the counter and goes over the general stuff

- “so uh, this is how they say you should make the popcorn, but I always put a little more butter because why not” he shrugs and pours more than he should

- you laughed and nodded along, entranced by his voice and distracted by how cute he was

- you weren’t even sure if you were gonna remember anything he taught you because you couldn’t stop staring

- “uhh, the slurpee machine, pretty simple. you just pull down and it shits out all the slurpee you need. my favorite mixture is the cherry and Mountain Dew. kinda my special recipe. wanna try?”

- you nod and he grins, grabbing a water cup and filling it up with the perfect amount of cherry and mountain dew slurpee, handing it to you, “just don’t do this in front of the managers, they go batshit crazy whenever we drink the slurpees”

- your hands brush when he hands you the cup and you get goosebumps. you take a sip and it’s so fucking good. “holy shit”

- he laughs, “right?!”

- after he finishes teaching you the rest of the basics, you guys get to talking.

- it’s a Wednesday night so there was really no one there, which was great because no customers came to interrupt you two.

- you guys talk about your favorite movies, what movies you’re looking forward to... all that jazz

- you guys flip out when you mention that the evil dead movies are some of your favorites, and end up talking about that for like 30 minutes straight

- then he makes fun of you for not having seen back to the future yet

- “WHAT THE FUCK? are you fuckin nuts?! how are you alive right now?”

- “I’ve just never gotten around to it!”

- “oh so you can watch 16 candles everyday but never watch one of the greatest movies of all time?”

- you laughed, slightly embarrassed but knowing he was joking

- “ok.. what about... Airplane?” he asks

- you grimace out of embarrassment as you look at him

- he flips out again, “WHAT?! that’s like, the funniest movie of all time man. you gotta watch it.”

- you promise you will and smile at him

- he goes, “okay, you know what? make a list of every classic movie you haven’t seen yet and I can have you over to watch them if you want”

- you were shocked by his confidence and the fact that he wanted to hang out with you outside of work, especially having just met. “really?”

- he just shrugs, like it’s nothing. “really!”

- you smile wide, “...okay”

- you were about to make this list as long as possible just so you could spend more time with him

- suddenly, your manager walks up to you guys, “alright, you two are good to clock out for the night. hope bill didn’t bore you to death there, y/n”

- bill raised his arms, “what did I ever do to you man?”

- you laughed and bill walked with you to clock out, grabbing his jacket and throwing it on while you guys walked out to the parking lot.

- you awkwardly point to your car, “well... this is me.”

- he chuckles, “no way, I’m parked here too! what a coincidence”

- you couldn’t help but laugh. why was he so damn charming?!

- he takes out his phone, “here, why don’t we exchange numbers so we can schedule our film festival?”

- you laugh and pull yours out, handing your phones to each other to exchange information

- you got yours back and saw that he saved his contact name under “bill (your movie jedi)” you laugh and look up at him

- “get it? cause like, you’re kinda the padawan in this situation but instead of the force it’s movies?”

- you burst out laughing at how cute but nerdy that was

- he puts his hands up laughing and goes, “I thought it would be funny, man. sorryyyyyy for making a perfect connection right there.”

- you reassure him, “no, it was great. I promise.”

- he laughs, he almost looks relieved. like he wanted you to like his joke.

- you cut in, “alright, well I better get going. thanks for uh, you know. training me and stuff. and talking about movies. not a bad first day”

- he smiles, “no problem. remember to send me that list, okay?”

- “I will! okay, uh bye..” you hold out your hand for him to shake, but to your surprise one of his arms pulls you in for a hug

- “sorry, I’m a hugger,” and pulls back casually. “alright, goodnight y/n, see ya soon.”

- you lose your mind over the fact that he just hugged you and can’t find the words to say, so you just smile and wave, then he turns around towards his car, walking in the opposite direction

- you turned on your heels quickly and started giddily walking to your car. oh my god oh my god oh my god

- you get in and rest your head on the steering wheel, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

- maybe working at the movie theater wouldn’t be so bad

[topperscumslut]

Masterlist

So i decided to finally make a masterlist of all of my fics cuz they tend to get lost in my feed amongst every other bullshit fandom thought that i post and all of the things i reblog from other people so here we go

last updated: 11/22/24

Outer Banks

🏄‍♂️Topper Thornton🏄‍♂️

Let Me Take Care of You (pt 1) (SMUT)

Let Me Take Care of You (pt 2) (SMUT)

Dress (SMUT)

Stranger Things

👹Eddie Munson👹

You Shook Me All Night Long (SMUT)

The Umbrella Academy

☕️Five Hargreeves☕️

Marshmallows (SMUT)

That 90s Show

🎥Jay Kelso🎥

My Idiot (FLUFF)

Big Reputation (FLUFF)

Scream (1996)

🔪Billy Loomis AND Stu Macher🔪

Guilty as Sin? (Stu x Reader x Billy) (SMUT)

🎬Randy Meeks🎬

Broken (SMUT) (Vaginismus friendly!)

The Hunger Games

💎Marvel Sanford💎

Can You Stay the Night? (SMUT)

Dating Marvel Sanford Would Include (Headcanon) (SMUT/FLUFF)

🐦‍⬛Sejanus Plinth🐦‍⬛

Kiss Me With Your Eyes Closed (FLUFF/ANGST)

Descendants

👑Chad Charming👑

Take Me Already (SMUT)

Nicky Ricky Dicky and Dawn

🐶All Quads🐶

The Quads Taking Care of Their S/O Who Can’t Sleep (Headcanon) (FLUFF)

Aged Up!Quads as Stoners (Headcanon) (NSFW due to drug mention, NO smut) (no reader mentioned)

🧑‍🍳Nicky Harper🧑‍🍳

Disaster (FLUFF)

Dating Nicky Harper Would Include (headcanon) (FLUFF) (AGED UP mentions of sex but no actual smut)

SNL

🤵Bill Hader🤵

Flip the Script (SMUT)

Impractical Jokers

👟Self Insert w/ young!Sal Vulcano/90s AU👟

Prepare For Something Amazing (FLUFF) (light angst) (multiple chapter fic)

disclaimer: everything i write for characters that are minors (even fluff, or even if the actors are adults) are aged up!!

[occasionaloneshots]

Goodnight to... (IT)

Ya know, like the tiktok thing?

Those that believe Eddie Kaspbrak 1990 > Eddie Kaspbrak (2019)

People who think they could defeat Pennywise alone

Lesbians for Stan Uris

OT7 shippers

Those who believe Stenbrough and Stanpat should exist in the same timeline 

clown fuckers (I don’t understand you, I won’t lie, but I hope you sleep well) 

Victor x Belch shippers

People who believe that at least 1 loser is a swiftie

Those who actually read the book

fix it fic writers that actually keep Stan alive too

fluff fan artists 

People who only watch Chapter Two for the clubhouse scenes and Bill Hader

Mike Hanlon deserved better club

Bowers gang fangirls 

People who relate to Richie Tozier a little bit too much for comfort

Those who felt robbed by IT Chapter 1 not having the movie theater scene/Richie’s love for monster movies

Those who miss boy scout Stan

Ponytail Bill stans

those who cry over the ending scene of Chapter 2

People with one or more losers as a comfort characters

those mad that neither adaptation used Victor Criss to his full potential 

People with a crush on Stephen King’s self insert 

People who find Patrick scarier than Pennywise

Those who hate the scenes of the adult losers fighting their childhood fears in Chapter 2 (Especially Bev’s)

Neibolt kids lovers 

Modern AU fic writers

Big brained individuals that think IT should be made into a show, not movies to cover more of each character 

Please go to sleep before  1:30 am, crying over fics based on canon at 2 am isn’t good for you. 

[a19yearoldtryinherbest]

hi! could I request a bill x reader one where they were best friends at SNL and he always had a small thing for her (nothing happened because of his marriage obvs) but after they both left they lost touch. in that time the reader has won an oscar, and then they’re both casted as adult losers for IT chapter 2 and rekindle their friendship and relationship? and maybe a stan makes a video like “bill hader and reader being in love for 10 minutes” or something

YES, thank you. I'm all in for this, I think I'll have it ready by Friday

I really just love this idea, fluffy and angsty

I just want to let you know I can't really do self insert so if you want to leave a name for the character I'm all eyes? ears

[whitmanpumpkin]

okay, bear with me?? i saw this post and it’s been a downward spiral for the last four days or so? so, yeah -- we’re doing this.

being married was a mistake, and this wasn’t a statement you’d come out of nowhere with. 

you’d been able to brew over the idea for months -- long months without much entertainment except for the evening news and a few neighbor’s potlucks. there had been plenty of embroidery sections against the sound of radio soap operas and the sensation of pricked thumbs, as well as a couple of walks through the park close to the house and cul de sac you lived in. and in all of these moments, you brewed over the same fact: marrying your high school “sweetheart” had been the worst choice of your life and you didn’t know how to get out of it. 

there had been a few times you contemplated running away. if you moved to a city like new york or los angeles, nobody would know you; you could do everything all over again and with the hindsight few were allowed. 

but then you were brought back to reality with the notion that by running away, you might make the situation worse for everyone. the scandal it would cause your parents? could you ever come back home? a loveless marriage didn’t seem nearly as bad as those outcomes, even if it meant more solitary time in a home that felt more like a prison. 

with a husband that spend long weeks and months away from the homestead, selling globes and encyclopedias, you didn’t really know a life that involved taking care of another person for more than a couple of weeks at a time. sometimes, you swore that the man you married felt more like a guest in the house than the person who’s name was on the damned lease. 

so, as his car peeled away once more and for another trip, and you waved from the doorway, you really thought about trying to escape. again. because you weren’t quite sure how many more months away from a social life you could stand. 

with no children in the mix, and neighbors who seemed too interested in their own lives to come by, you relegated yourself to the continuation of embroidery patterns and trying new cooking techniques. 

the first snow of the season fell at the beginning of december, when you’d been in the house and on your own for the last thirteen days. you were just taking out a loaf of bread from the oven when a knock came on the door. and it was an odd sound, really, even if it was so trivial in it’s nature. being at the end of the cul de sac, you rarely had visitors and never when your husband wasn’t home. 

but nevertheless, you tossed your oven mitts off to the side of the kitchen and headed to the door. on the way, you scooped up your heels and placed them firmly on your feet -- just to make sure that whoever was on the other side of the door wouldn’t see you so indecently. 

and peaking through the peephole, you found a smiling mailman and a rather large box. 

unlocking and opening the door, you greeted the man as he explained the delivery. “you’re y/n y/l/n, correct?”

“i could be,” you jested as he handed the box over. your arms jerked slightly, not expecting the heavy weight of the parcel. the mailman came to help, rushing to move his hands back under the box as support. and you caught his eye for just a second too long, which let you take in the blue irises and the way his right eye seemed just a little uneven from his left. and you wanted to remember it for some reason. 

you looked away first, eyes scanning the empty streets for someone who saw a moment that didn’t exist. 

he helped you carry it in, setting the large and heavy thing down by the kitchen table. and then he tipped the brim of his hat to you, and headed out the door with a gentle goodbye. 

and over the course of the next week, you made a habit of greeting the man. and he would always smile and tip his hat, and there was a twinkle of something in his eyes when he did so. 

by the next week, there had been an interesting development. 

you weren’t dreaming about the mailman. 

it was easy to tell yourself that the first couple of nights, but then it happened a third time. and a fourth. and by the fifth night, in a lonely bed, you had to accept that these feelings sort of existed. they could never be acted on, of course. but where was the harm in talking to the man?

at first, you just watched him make his way down the street, from the window under the guise of reading. he’d finally come by, and you’d watch him from over the cover of your book as he rifled through his canvas bag and pulled one one to two letters -- just like he’d done with the rest of the residents on the street. and then would come the knocks -- three gentle taps against the wood frame of your door -- that would have you standing up and heading towards the entryway. 

and as you peeled back the door to see him with a beautiful smile, you couldn’t help but smile back. because he just seemed so kind. he’d even small talk with you. which was probably one of the best things about your day; having that little extra human interaction (especially with him) is what made the whole day worth it. 

he liked the smell of your cooking. he actually told you that one afternoon, when you were just finishing up a pot roast that would feed one for the evening. but, it could feed two, you guessed. “would you want to come in and try it?” you had asked.  

bill, which you had learned was his name a few days ago, looked hesitant at first. he glanced between you and the kitchen, and then his empty mail carrier. finally, he shrugged and figured “what’s the worst that could happen?”

so, that was how you ended up with bill sitting across from you at a small kitchen table. the dining room wasn’t set up -- which bill said he didn’t mind. and it was alright, because you secretly liked having him so close. if you just reached out your hand a little more, you could slip a hand into his or at least rope it around his wrist gently. but those were the thoughts that kept you silent as you took another bite of the potatoes you’d prepared. 

“your food is delicious,” he said inbetween forkfuls of the cuisine. you smiled bashfully. “if i could cook half as well as you, then i wouldn’t need to buy so many t.v. dinners for one.”

you couldn’t help but ask, “you’re not married?”

and he paused. his eyes slowly came up to meet yours, a brow hitched up in an inquisitive manner as he asked, “did you think i was?”

you guessed not; you just figured someone as kind and attractive as him would have to be married to a lovely girl and spending his weekends taking her on beautiful trips. but, maybe that was you projecting something onto him that didn’t need to be spoken of. so instead, you shrugged. “i guess not. i never saw a ring.”

“but you were looking?”

and you blushed. “i’m too inquisitive for my own good.” 

“i don’t think so,” he replied. 

and his smile caused your heart to stop for just a few seconds, because this was something a little more intimate than that wide-toothed grin he gives everyone as he tips his cap.

he gave you the same wonderful smile the next evening, when you invited him in for dinner again. 

you had never been more happy that your husband picked a home at the end of the cul de sac -- it had meant more isolation and a cheaper price originally. but now, it meant you could have a handsome mailman over for dinner.

and not just once or twice, but enough times for it to be considered a regular occurrence. by the sixth dinner, you offered him a glass of wine. he accepted with only minor disagreement. and into the second glass, he wasn’t hesitating at all. he even made sure that you were getting a third glass as you continued a story about the neighbors down the street and their horrid dog -- which bill laughed at. 

you adored his laugh. 

and he loved getting one out of you. which was often. because he seemed to have such a natural funny bone, and everything he seemed to say was funnier than the last statement. 

bill placed his fork back onto the table, another plate cleaned. “i’m going to have to start letting out these pants, y/n. your cooking is too good.”

“i could do that for you, if you needed.”

“i wouldn’t expect you to. besides, there’s no reasons that a, uh, a married woman as kind as you should have to let out anyone’s pants but their husbands.”

“i’m sure he’d never know.” you tried to wave the thought of the household man away. he hadn’t been home in five weeks, and you were starting to think that his postcards were ornamental. maybe he’d never come home. 

bill sighed. “but i would. and i couldn’t do that to you.”

“even if i wanted to?”

he paused. his eyes wouldn’t come to meet yours; they stayed very still on what seemed like a pointless and printed flower on the tablecloth. “y/n,” he started with heavy caution. “you’re not talking about the sewing anymore, are you?”

you were about to answer, your mouth opening to try and flounder out a response as he clambered to his feet. “please don’t answer that.” 

and then he was gone. 

the next day, the mail was left in the box outside your door. 

and the same with the day after that. 

on the third day, you waited by the window and watched as he filed through his bag quickly and deposited the few letters you had into your mailbox. but then he looked up, and he met your gaze, and nothing needed to be said. because you were still married, and he was too nice of a person and too much of a gentleman to ever do anything. so, it was going to be up to you.

[whitmanpumpkin]

could you possibly do something based upon Bill + reader worrying about their age gap, say the reader is early 20’s? Like with meeting the readers parents and they worry what the parents might say?? ❤️ (love your writing)

seriously, thank you so much! as someone who hasn’t been told that a lot before this blog, it sure as hell means the world to me. :)

and okay, okay – here we go. if it’s okay, i’m going to make the reader just a little older, like 25, maybe 26? so, here we go because you and bill have a wedding to get to:

so, you and bill have decided that maybe it’s time to go “public” – and by that you mean, show up to your sibling’s wedding with a man who’s a good 16 or so years older than you. 

and you’re panicking. 

because, maybe your sibling’s wedding weekend wasn’t the best place for this to happen. 

as you glance over your belongings in the suitcase once more, fixing a curling iron that doesn’t want to stay put in it’s place, you notice bill pacing by the door. by this point, you can pick up on most of his anxious habits and do something about them. and you would right now, if you weren’t panicking of your own accord. 

you think your voice wobbles a little when you say, “are you sure you want to go?”

he looks over, pausing in the door way and frowning. “i can always stay home. it wouldn’t be hard to ask d’arcy to bring the kids back around.” when you look him in the eyes, it’s like a silent agreement that neither of you know how to broach this subject further. because nobody ever wrote a book (or hell, even a pamphlet) on how to bring your boyfriend who’s signifigantly older home with you. your goggle searches had warranted cheap advice and little reminders like “stay calm” – which did anything but. 

“but then, when else are they going to meet you?” you remind yourself and bill. because, christmas was going to be spent with the kids’ mother, easter was with bill’s family, and next thanksgiving seemed too far away to think about. 

so, there was a silent and unanimous vote that this had to be the trip. 

the two of you get to the airport with a good amount of time to spare, and then spend most of that time waiting around in a ‘skylounge’ while waiting for the plane to come in. 

the suitcases are checked, and you went through tsa with little hooplah – someone asked bill for an autographed and then looked at you with an inquisitive glance. before you could stop yourself, you were explaining yourself with: “writing team for barry. got to go scope out new locations.” which, only half of that was a lie. (maybe driving would have just been easier.) 

the flight itself goes off without any hitch, except a brief bit of turbulence somewhere over colarado. as the plane shook once, then paused, then shook again, you clutched bill’s arm resting next to you and held your breath until it was over. he squeezed your hand reassuringly and lovingly. and the plane touched down, and all the dread you’d been pushing away for the last few hours reemerged as you remembered your sibling’s best friend was going to be picking you up. 

he didn’t say anything, which was at least a small relief as you drove to the childhood home you’d grown up in for so many years. bill’s hand was warm while it was tucked away in yours and hidden behind a carry-on bag you’d half-hazardly thrown in the back seat back at the airport. little glances were shared between small talk and old memories. 

and of course, there were the obligatory questions of “so, who’s this one?” 

your parents would have asked the same question when they spotted bill, if it wasn’t for the fact they watched barry for the support. you can remember when you told them you’d written an episode back in season one, and how they were all for tuning into the show. they learned everything about it -- and therefore everything about bill -- in about a week. 

so, their bright red door swung open and you stepped into the cool air of your home town with bill right behind you. 

and they paused in the driveway. 

and you smiled, awkwardly. 

bill waved from behind you. 

it was quiet after that; your sibling’s best friend and bill unpacked the car as you took a couple of steps towards your parents and hugged them. they pretended like nothing was different or off while checking in to make sure your flight had gone well, and there hadn’t been any hiccups. 

“and is that...?” you dad tacked on. you followed his gaze back to bill, who had been deserted by the car, all of your bags around him as he smiled and waved to your parents.

you turned back to them and nodded. nobody brought it up after that. 

at least for a few hours. they welcomed bill and you inside, helped you into one of the guest rooms. and then paused, “wait -- bill, right? you’d want your own guest room, i’m sure.”

he chuckled a little airily, unsure of how to proceed. you could feel the anxiety radiating off of him. “actually mom,” you stepped up. “i think it’d be okay if he stayed with me.”

it wasn’t until after dinner that your sister brought up the whole issue. “so, what’s going on between you two? is it a writer’s room romp or something?”

“i don’t think so,” you sighed. you had been nursing a glass of red wine all night, just giving you something to hold in your hands that felt like it was always there. bill had been pulled away by your dad about half an hour ago, and you were starting to worry if you’d ever see him again. “i think it’s a lot more serious than that.”

“and you didn’t think to tell anyone before you showed up with him?”

“i didn’t know how to do it.”

“you could have just called. i think mom’s more worried about whether or not to give him a boutonnière than if he’s with you.”

[whitmanpumpkin]

as a continuation of this post, let’s just start where we left off -- shall we? i was asked by these people ( @l0ve-0f-my-life, @imquitelost) to be tagged as for notification purposes, and i hope everyone enjoys part two! there is already a part three in the works, so don’t worry. 

as luck would have it, you husband came home the day after next. 

you greeted him by the door with a warm smile -- like any loving wife should. and when he set down his suitcase and things, you didn’t hesitate in scooping them up and moving them to the respective parts of the house. while your husband shuffled through the ice box, you started a load of laundry. 

however, all you could think about was exactly what you wanted to tell bill the next time you were able to speak to him. you’d been thinking about it all night, about how you would promise to let him known your true feelings the moment you could be alone with him. how you’d declare that your feelings went deeper than needing a good friend; or how you were pretty sure that if he asked -- you would run away with him because it was all you daydreamed about anymore. 

as you came back out in the kitchen, you found that your husband was not in the kitchen like you expected. no, instead he was at the door chatting up....

...bill. 

from over your husband’s shoulder, you locked eyes with bill and could begin to feel your heart beating against your chest. you weren’t quite sure why you felt so much anxiety -- whether it was from the notion that your two worlds were colliding or the thought that maybe someone would slip up and the dinners and drinks would become known to other parties. 

but worst of all, you were pretty sure your fear and anxiety rested in what bill was going to think. because even though he tried to keep a calm and easy-going demeanor with your husband, you could see the cracks in the painting. his eyes would flicker back to you for only a second or two, but there was something unknown in the ways his eyes reflected light and darted between the two figures inside the house. he kept one foot on the step below him, as some sort of notice to volley between the idea of leaving at any moment and to continue talking to your husband. 

and he looked to you one more time, but this time your husband caught on. your heart thumped harder and harder as the man of the household turned around and smiled at you. “bill,” your husband grinned. “you’ve met my wife, y/n, haven’t you?”

you smiled politely, because you were pretty sure that was all you could do. “he has,” you said before bill could get any words out. “who do you think has been handing me all those packages you mail back to us?”

your husband hums as a sort of “oh, right” and that’s that. he wishes the mailman a good day, and goes to shut the door. as it’s swinging closed, you lock eyes with bill one more time and can’t quite decipher what he’s trying to say with his expression. and you hate it. 

the next few weeks feel as though they’re passing dreadfully slow. you do your housework for two, you cook for two, and you turn into a bed for two. but even with a warm body close to you, it still feels like one. you remember when you believed that having your husband home would make you feel complete, but all it’s really done is cement the fact you’re horribly lonely. and you don’t realize it more than when you’re staring at the ceiling of the bedroom and wishing that you had someone else besides you. 

bill comes by every day (except the weekends), but there’s never enough time and enough expressions to actually say something of value to him. and those are just the days you get to the door first; most days you’re stuck in the laundry room or kitchen and your husband makes it to the front door before you can rush over. and you don’t know if those days hurt more -- or if the unsure looks and grimaces were enough to do in your heart.

the day before your husband leaves, you get to the door first. 

he’s actually in town and chatting with a few friends at a country club, but you had declined the offer to come along with the promise of fresh sheets when he returned home. if only he knew the real reason, who took your breath away while those sheets you had promised your husband were hung up and blowing gently in the backyard. 

bill smiles in that chipper fashion that’s as fake as you’ve ever seen it, and he hands you the mail without much fanfare. this is what the two of you have left. 

you muster out enough courage to say, “he’s not home.”

and bill glances back up to you, and there’s a glean in his eyes you haven’t seen in awhile. but then, as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. you want it back so horribly bad that you can feel the knots in your stomach, and how much tighter they’re getting with every second that he seems farther away. what are you supposed to say now? “he’ll be gone for another few weeks. will you come back for dinner?” 

and you know you’re being quite forward in your questions, which are just thinly-veiled requests. in fact, you’re pretty sure you sound like you’re begging. and bill had to know too, because he wasn’t able to meet your eye anymore. 

you can feel that he wants to answer. his jaw is clenched, and now he’s looking out in to the front yard you’ve spent countless hours working on. but he won’t look at you. which is worse than just bidding you a good day, because you can’t shut the door on him and he can’t walk away and no one wants to move. in some horrid way, you’d be happier like this all day instead of not seeing him at all. 

“please,” you beg. “won’t you say something?”

“i can’t.”

and you don’t know what that is a response to, but it’s all he gives you as he turns on his heels and heads back to the street. you want to run after him and chase him down, ask him what he means and why this is so hard for him to talk about, but all you can do is clutch to the door as he continues to walk away.

he never looks back. 

and your husband comes home to fresh sheets, which smell like the wind and that detergent he enjoys so much. and then he leaves the next day, with a full suitcase and only the slight sadness of having to leave his wife all alone for another month or so. 

and the days drag at first. because you dread the mail arriving, since bill will only be as courteous as he is with everyone else. the warmth of knowing that you were special and different is gone, and you’re left with a normalcy you never wanted. 

but you smile back. 

he has to know, you think. he has to know how much you despise your life and what it’s become -- how he was a light at your core for the brief time you knew each other. 

the days continued on.

you’d thought of seventy different ways to try and talk to him more honestly. but you’d always get sidetracked in the end, as you thought about him. and then you realized the answer was staring you right in the face. 

so, you wrote him a letter. 

and you wrote his name as artfully as you could master on the envelope and stationary, and sealed the bottom of the letter with a kiss. it explained everything in extensive detail, like just how hard it was for you to breathe around him -- how it was even harder to breathe when he wasn’t around. and there were other things, like how his smile was the reason you felt sunshine in your heart. 

you’d considered burning the damned thing multiple times in the course of the evening you wrote it. but it was the only way you’d ever be able to truly talk to him without fear of tripping over your words or waiting for his rejection. 

you snuck the small envelope and it’s contents into a pile of outgoing mail the next morning. he didn’t even really look at the letters, instead stuffing them into the outgoing folder before bidding you a good day. 

now, you waited. 

[whitmanpumpkin]

i adore all of the ideas and everything you all sent in, regarding the conductor/violinist idea. and the general consensus has kind of been both! so sit back and enjoy what i’m considering the appetizer to this idea. the second course should be out soon!

as a member of the new york symphony orchestra, you found yourself staring at the conductor -- a little more than you should. 

but really, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing? as one of the newest members of the nyso, you had a job to do. and that was to make sure that you didn’t trip over your own excitement and do something you might regret. if you just kept your eyes glued to your fearless leader, then you wouldn’t really be blamed for anything. at least, you didn’t think it would. you hoped not. 

in the two months since the fateful audition, you’d been around the conductor maybe two or three times privately. and in those brief moments, like an introduction in the middle of a bustling hallway or the brief conversation about “where you think you fit into the symphony”, you had found that you needed to repress the beating heart and the sweaty palms constantly. 

one of your rommmates thought it was just the jitters about trying to impress your new conductor. that was a big deal on it’s own. he was pretty sure that you didn’t have anything to worry about, and the “crush” would subside in a few weeks after you settled into your place. 

and you wanted to believe him. you told yourself that’s all it was, constantly and considerably. every morning rehearsal and nightly performance at the kennedy center came with a mutter and a mantra. you didn’t like him like that -- you couldn’t. 

but then he’d laugh at something the concertmaster said to him, and you’d feel your heart swell as he showed his feelings with his whole body. he’d talk to the crowds with ease, jesting them and hoping they’d enjoy the evening, and you’d find it hard to breathe just slightly. and those were the moments you couldn’t repress your feelings enough. 

the crush slowly morphed into something far more telling and personal as the months rolled past. the holiday season came with performances of the nutcracker and other standards, as well as invitations to parties you didn’t see yourself attending at the beginning of the year -- so many months and emotions ago. 

and your conductor, who much preferred his actual name bill, was actually at some of them. 

for someone who was normally at the center of attention, he looked to prefer a small group of people to talk to in some corner. from what you could see, it was some of the strings section and a lot of the violins. which would make sense, since he had started out as a violinist. he laughed with the concert master with such ease and joy -- as though the were old friends. maybe they were. 

when the first cellist, cynthia, asks if you’ll go and grab her a drink, you agree with only a slight hesitance.  

because his little group was by the drinks.

and you’re trying to fix her a ‘strong’ gin and tonic when bill notices you.

“y/n!” he commandeers, smiling brightly as you lock eyes. you can already feel a healthy blush rising up your cheeks at the way he says it. maybe you can blame it on the drinks? 

you let out a little “hi,” back and stand up a little straighter. 

as the small talk continues and you do your best to answer all of his questions, there’s definitely a lot more panic in this conversation than you pictured at the beginning. 

what if he puts all the signs together? could he even do that? 

did he even care?

god, you needed a way out. you scramble to finish the gin and tonic cynthia had asked for a few minutes ago. you’re trying to keep up with the conversation he was doing most of the heavy lifting for, which only seems to be getting shorter and shorter responses from you. 

and then you finally finish the drink and glance back up at him.

and while you wouldn’t call it distress, there’s definitely something like concern in his eyes. as the panic and distress continues to rise up in your chest, you have to find a way out. you sputter out, “i better get this back to cynthia.”

“right.”

when you scurry away, you let a little relief help ease you back into the rest of your night. but then the real and gnawing anxiety overtakes you, and it steadily grows like a fungus throughout the rest of the night. even after you get home and drop into bed, you still can’t believe yourself. what the hell did you even do? he had to think you were an absolute dunce. or that you hated the guy who had given you your huge break. or any other number of things, which you would all continue to call yourself over the next two weeks. 

you dreaded the rest of the holidays, but more specifically the first rehearsal back. because you didn’t think you would ever be able to look him in the eyes again. 

[whitmanpumpkin]

falling for bill hader during your snl days would include...

look, it started as this simple little thing about you and bill meeting during his snl days, and then it turned into this and i just...uhm. yeah. it’s not simple and short anymore. enjoy! (and i feel like it goes without being said, but he’s not married in this.)

your lengthy relationship with bill would start somewhere on snl. you were originally an assistant for lorne, which translated to fielding calls for him and ironing out an insanely busy schedule that made you anxious just to look at. oh, and he put you in charge of getting everything set up for wednesday night snl table reads.

the table read, a very “casual” affair made up of comedians and writers in hoodies and jeans, was never meant to be a big hoopla. somehow, though, that’s what it always turned into. before you knew it, there were seventy-plus people packed into this small room on the 17th floor on 30 rock and crowding around a table as the sketch reading for the first episode of season 31 began. with lorne sat next to the week’s host (would you believe – steve carrell), the reading commenced.

you were too busy fretting over making sure everyone was seated and engaged that you missed bill’s introduction. it was a quick “meet our new features,” and a glance over to him and andy sandberg. by the time you glanced over to them? everyone had moved on and were on to the next bit of business; seth myers was halfway into the first page of one of the possible cold open sketches.

it’s after the table read that seth introduces you. he could see how busy you were with making sure lorne had everything running smoothly, but seth was a nice enough guy to know that your week would go smoother if you had a clue who these guys were. so, you shake hands with andy and bill and smile at them before you’re running to catch up with lorne – who’s already halfway down the hall with steve carrell.

over the following months, you would catch glimpses of bill at various rehearsals and table reads, but never really had the time to think about him for more than a fleeting moment. snl was only one of the many things you had to keep an eye on while working for lorne.

okay, it was a really important one to you, the one you kept an eye on the most, but it was just another knot in the rope you had to pull on a daily basis. lorne demands excellence. you knew that from the moment you got the job as his assistant. it was the reason you had applied; if you started as an assistant to lorne, maybe there was a way to get into the dream job of an snl writer someday? and maybe there wasn’t, but at least there seemed to be a shot. but that had been close to two years ago, and while lorne was a nice enough boss, he probably had no clue about your aspirations.

so the months passed in a steady flow.

sometime after midnight on a particularly heavy tuesday/wednesday writing night, you’re leaving lorne’s office when you decide to stop in and see how the writers are doing on the 17th floor.

the season finale was this week, and the pressure was on to find the perfect sketches. as you entered seth’s office, you found him with his back on the ground and his legs against the door, holding a pencil in his teeth. bill sat in what was normally’s seth’s chair and listened to his buddy rattle on about some “baby hitler” sketch they could do.

you hand off their usual coffee and sit down in the corner, providing the    comfortable silence you were very much known for on set. bill’s starting to ramble about how the sketch won’t work, and seth’s just humming so bill knows someone is listening. hitting a wall never looked so depressing. but at least you could provide moral support, so you stick around while they work through the rest of the sketch.

and bill makes you laugh. seth does too, but something about bill’s own laugh never fails to send you into a bout of hysterics — especially when you’re exuasted.

it becomes a ritual for you to come in and stick around with them on those nights, and soon enough you were helping them with sketch ideas and jokes.

the first time bill laughs at one of your jokes, you have to fight a racing heart. it’s kind of impossible though, because he’s laughing so hard that he’s slapping his leg and you can’t help but join in — which only makes his worse.

the months pass.

before the end of the season, seth brings up the fact that one of the writers is leaving the show and a position is going to open up. he practically begs you to audition.

so, you do. and it’s a hot june day when you’re standing in front of lorne, more nervous than you’ve ever been. but the moment passes like a blur, and your friends like bill and seth are waiting for you afterwords with praises.

when you get the job as a writer a few days later, you can’t help yourself from crying. you manage to hold it in when lorne comes and tells you himself, but as soon as he leaves you to process the information -- your shaking hands are shooting a text to bill and telling him the good news (as though he didn’t already know from seth).

you two end up getting drinks, and he’s a little drunk as he tells you, “you know you deserve this so much. like you work your ass off.” and then his voice drops to a whisper and you barely hear him when he says “i know you don’t need me to tell you this, but i’m so proud of you, y/n.”

and your heart stops for just a second.

he gives you the goofiest, drunk smile before he turns back to the bartender and makes sure you get another special drink. you’re pretty sure you’re drunk off of something else.

over your first season, you find yourself starting out by writing one (maybe two) sketches a week. and it’s pretty easy to see what they have in common. although kristen is the first to point it out, she’s probably not the only one that knows.

when she poked the hornet’s nest over drinks a few weeks before chirstmas, you‘re quick to backtrack. “no, no.” you hiss at her. “it’s not like that. bill’s just really talented and he can play a lot of characters.” your heart is racing because what if she’s right? what if you do like him like that, and everyone knows now.

kristen rolled her eyes, and you never say anything else on the subject. it doesn’t stop you from writing more sketches and bill being cast as a lead. you get past christmas without any issue. hell, you even get through valentines day and st. patricks day without anymore issues. but then, the jokes start again.

it’s a few weeks away from the easter episode of your first season that you start to panic, because you’re pretty sure bill thinks something is up. so, you do the only rational thing you can — stop using him in sketches. cold turkey.

you’d actually managed to go a couple of weeks without using him in one of your sketches, which had increased to about two or three a week. you thought you were on a pretty good streak, but now easter had come around and seth thought it would be a good idea if the two of your wrote another vincent price holiday special.

when you bring the idea up to bill, he’s not quite sure if it would even work. “a easter special? you really think that could work?” he has that skeptical gleen in his eyes that was common when he pitched his own sketches, but you’d never seen it directed to one of yours. when you try and explain the absurdity of it, he’s still shooing it away. “i don’t know if you want to use me.”

“what are you talking about?” you asked, incrediously. “you’re our vincent price. you have to do it.”

bill hesitated for a second. “i thought you weren’t using me in sketches anymore.” and you swear that you hear a little bit of hurt in his voice, but fred armisen is calling your name before you have the chance to ask him about what he means.

you go on and help seth write the sketch that night, so it’s ready for the wednesday night table read. but bill doesn’t meet your eye when you and seth pitch it, but at least he goes with it and it gets a lot of laughs. lorne approves it and has his new assistant write it out on a note card to use for the lineup.

something’s not right. you can feel this horrid nagging in the pit of your stomach on thursday, which only gets worse when you send bill rewrites and he still won’t meet your eye. you try and talk to him for a few minutes, but he seems to cut off any conversation and you’re too tired of this to try anymore. so, you let him go and don’t know why you’re so close to crying when you shut yourself in to yours and seth’s office.

on friday, you’re starting to get worried.

it’s costume fittings for your sketches, which means you and seth are standing in front of bill in his vincent price costume while he avoids eye contact with you. you could do 24 hours, and even 48 hours without him talking to you. but this was getting to be too much to take, and you couldn’t keep pretending like everything was easy between you two.

when seth asks the costume designer about an addition for fred’s liberache, you pull bill to the side.

“what’s wrong?”

you have to ask. it’s not like you can just keep this charade going.

he tries to wave it away. “nothing. i’m fine.”

but then you’re fighting back because obviously it’s not, and you hate that he won’t talk to you. and he can see the pleading in your eyes. and he really hates himself because bill never wanted you to feel like this. and he just sighs. “it’s stupid.”

“what?”

“it’s really stupid.” he says, like it’s a warning. “i shouldn’t have said that thing about you wanting to use me. i just let my head get the idea that you didn’t like me anymore and didn’t want to put me in your sketches.”

and you’re kind of speechless for a second. you want to say a million different things to him; he looks like he wants to, too. you can only manage to get out, “bill, you know i adore you.”

and you don’t hear how his breath catches in his throat because (of course) seth is calling your name.

the rest of the day passes without another interaction with bill. you see him in the halls on a few occasions and he smiles brightly for you, but it’s not until the end of the night when you catch him waiting for you outside your office. you’d had to stick around and finish up some things with the other writers, so the fact bill waited around sent your heart racing.

leaning against your door, with his hands in his pockets, bill was like a beautiful and tired vision. “you want to go get some coffee downstairs?” he said.

you can’t tell him no.

so, ten minutes later he’s handing you your drink and trying to explain just how much he let his anxety overtake him. you knew it could get bad sometimes, but the thought had never crossed your mind as being the reason he wasn’t talking to you. you listened as he continued on about how much he likes your writing, and how he appreciated that you would keep putting him in your sketches (even though his anxiety wanted to keep him in the background). and “i know everyone jokes about you liking me, and that’s why you write sketches for me, but it wouldn’t matter even if that’s why you did. anyone should be happy to have one of your pieces.”

you feel like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. he just lets his words resonate for a second, and for you to smile back at him, before he’s launching into a story about seth and one of the other writers from earlier this week.

the sketches go off great on saturday, like bill was sure they would, and when you get home somewhere close to 3am after the show, there’s a text waiting for you from bill.

[ See you @ monday’s pitch. You’re going to have another great we eek.]

and he’s right. the last few weeks for the year go off without a hitch. well, without anymore hitches than your used to for snl. as the season closes and the host says goodnight, bill’s the first to give you a big hug while the band plays everyone out. in fact, with his 6’1 stature, he practically lifts you off the ground.

there are the fifteen afterparties and the twenty goodbyes, but you’re finally heading home as you hail a taxi.

“you don’t mind if i share that, do you?” a voice asks from behind. when you turn, bill’s got his hands in his pockets and it’s as though he’s expecting you to tell him no. but how the hell can you do that?

when you two give your addresses and settle in, there’s the obligoutory chat about how you’re going to spend your summers. he was thinking of going back to l.a. you weren’t sure yet — which both of you already knew. but up until this point, bill didn’t follow up with the question, “well — there’s a room open at the place i’m staying in l.a.?”

and that?? well, we’ll leave that for another time.

[billhaderplsholdme]

moving in with college!bill

warnings: swearing, fluff

- you and bill had been dating since sophomore year of college

- he saw you watching Monty Python and the holy grail on your laptop in class and tapped you on the shoulder to introduce himself

- “you know, they actually dyed the rabbit red for that scene”

- you go “oh, that’s kinda fucked up”

- and since then you two have been inseparable

- this year, for your last year of college, you two decided to move into an apartment close to campus together

- the conversation was pretty simple

- he got nervous “would you wanna like... you know... live together? next year?”

- you couldn’t understand why he was so nervous, you were practically secretly staying over at his dorm every night

- obviously you said yes

- and that brings us to now

- you finally found an apartment that’s not big, but the perfect size for the both of you

- you guys kinda forgot that you couldn’t take the furniture from your dorms with you so you were fucked on the first night, sleeping together on the floor on a makeshift bed of pillows and the huge teddy bear he won you at the state fair, using each other’s warmth instead of blankets

- the next day you guys went to ikea to get your shit together

- and it was a nightmare in the best possible way

- you guys were walking through the sinks section when he pulled you aside and flipped up the faucet

- “honey? the sinks aren’t working”

- he looks at you expectantly

- “... you know, 500 days of s-“

- “babe we watched that movie together of course I know”

- he laughs and grabs your hand continues walking

- you guys needed to get a bed but in order to find the perfect one you guys did the “cuddle test” where you cuddled on each option and saw which was the comfiest

- you didn’t care how stupid you looked, cuddle comfiness outweighed embarrassment

- on the 7th one, you both agreed that it was perfect

- after grabbing the rest of the things you needed (dresser, desk, chairs, dining table, shelves, etc.) you tried your best to shove it all in bill’s Jeep

- you had to lift the mattress, one of you on each side, and tried to throw it on top of the car so you could strap it on top like a Christmas tree

- you threw it but the force wasn’t strong enough and it ended up falling and bonking you on the head

- immediately bill freaked out “OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU OKAY??”

- you were laughing so hard bill thought you were crying until he pulled the mattress off of you and saw the smile on your face

- “Fuck you, y/n.” He giggled. “I thought you fuckin died”

- “oh no, who would keep you from making a fool out of yourself at every single party we go to?”

- he rolls his eyes and pulls you up by your arms and you finally fit everything in the car, high fiving once you were finally able to shut the trunk

- bill got overly cocky. “boom! fuck you ikea delivery, we may be under the most unsafe driving conditions in the world right now but we still did it”

- you two laughed the rest of the ride home, his hand on your thigh as you sang along to “come and get your love”

- bill loved singing along to the opening and drumming on your thigh while he jammed out

- once you were home you had to carry all the furniture up the shitty stairs, you two almost died

- bill walks backwards up the stairs holding the top end of the box, “FUCK FUCK FUCK Y/N HURRY”

- by some miracle you guys got it all upstairs

- he pops down onto the floor, “baby I know we need a bed tonight but can we please eat first”

- you climb on top of him, your head lying on his chest, “I can just sleep here”

- his giggles shook you as you laid on top of him and snuggled your face into the crook of his neck, stifling your laughter

- you guys ordered from your favorite Chinese takeout place and gobbled that shit down, sitting criss cross applesauce on the floor

- you opened your fortune cookie “mine says that I should be prepared for new beginnings!”

- he opens his, “hm, mine says don’t build the furniture tonight I know you’re so tired just sleep on the bare mattress it’s okay”

- you threw the paper fortune at him and told him to shut up, and that you need to at least try to set the bed and nightstand up

- you guys ended up getting the bed down after lots of trial and error and “BILL STOP”

- but the nightstand ... you guys accidentally put the legs of the nightstand on the top part. how does that even happen??

- you guys were too tired to fix it so you just decided to leave the nightstand wrong-side up

- after you guys finished, you double high fived again and interlocked your hands while doing so

- bill slips his hands around your waist and pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours, “... can we not do the other nightstand tonight?”

- you giggled as he looked at you with puppy dog eyes, trying to convince you. how could you say no to that??? “fiiiine”

- bill pulls away quickly “OH, THANK GOD”

- you smack his arm playfully and then he goes and plops down on your guys’s new bed

- he extends his arms out, making grabby hands at you, “cuddle with me baby”

- you laughed at how needy he was and immediately obliged, him pulling you close as you cuddled up next to him

- once you guys finally settled, you heard a “thud” as the bed you were laying on shifted and slanted to the side

- you both went “what the fuck?”

- bill looked down at you, cuddled up against his chest, “..c-“

- you didn’t even need to look at him to know what he was gonna say “yeah we can fix it tomorrow baby please I’m so tired”

- he laughed and pulled you closer, stroking your arm as you drifted off to sleep

- living with bill is gonna be heaven (and hell at times) but this is a pretty rad start

[whitmanpumpkin]

Professor!Hader making me melt🤪

oh mAN, ME TOO. because like, just think about all the little stolen moments??

just picture the way the two of you would stand in a dark hallway where the janitor has never replaced the lightbulb, how he kind of towers over you without meaning to. and he’s holding himself steady with the doorway beam that you’re leaning your back on. and you tend to notice the little things, like how his tie isn’t quite straight or he’s mismatched the buttons on his winter coat. and both of you are perfectly content with the way he watches your every move; a strand of hair blows gently in the wind or the muscles under your cheek tense just slightly. when you look up to meet his eyes, there’s something so deep about the admiration you think you see. 

and if you’re lucky…well, it’s a good thing the hallway’s dark. 

and then there’s how he smiles at you whenever he passes you on campus. it’s always an odd little dance the two of you do, where you’re not sure if you should smile first or he should. what if someone sees the two of you, basically beaming at each other like you’re school children? what if faculty sees? so, it nearly always turns into spotting each other from down the walking lane and ducking your heads. and then, just for the briefest of seconds as you pass, you smile and “bump” him enough to notice. and he turns as you mutter “sorry”, before continuing onwards towards another class. 

or the nights he’s tried to help you learn your lines for some other show you have to do at a community theater, but he also has a shit ton of papers to grade – which are just intro to theatre reviews that feel like “the first act of any tennesee williams play”. (it’s his way of saying he absolutely despises it and won’t do it. this, of course, is after he’s thrown the bundled pile on to the coffee table besides him). 

he needs a way to distract himself. 

“and helping me learn my lines isn’t enough?” you counter, writing down yet another line and the cue line before it. 

his hands, which are always warm, come to be placed on top of yours – properly ceasing whatever form of writing you were in the middle of. you huff and puff as your eyes drift up towards his. 

he doesn’t really answer in words, but you know well enough. 

“but you’ll help me learn my lines afterwords?”

“depends on the play…” he counters, one of his hands leaving yours as it begins to travel up your arm and towards your shoulder. 

then your neck. 

finally, it stops at the hair tie you’ve been using, one of his fingers slipping under the scrunchie fabric and pulling at it to let your locks tumble down. he flings the fabric and it lands on top of his papers. 

you push your line cards onto the floor, as well as the script. he sees “oh! calcutta!” thrown across the front of the book. 

“perfect,” he mumbles against the nape of your neck. “we’ll already be rehearsing.”

[whitmanpumpkin]

I beg that we talk professor!hader 😩

i beg we do, too. because first off there’s the question of whether he’s your flustered english professor (assigned to helping you with your master’s thesis) or if he’s the kind of awkward (but in a sweet way) drama professor every freshman has an opinion on. 

i’m going to come back to the english professor concept, but let’s talk about about the drama professor for the moment.

he’s the professor who you’d never thought to be one. he dresses like a grad student, and one who never really learned to dress in the first place. in fact, on your first day with him, you talked to him like another student because it had never crossed your mind he could ever be the professor. you were hitting your head on your desk for the entire lecture. 

not only does every freshman have an opinion on him (because of course they do), but every other student that’s passed through his doors has one too. there are even some who have never had the guy, who all sigh when you tell them he’s your theatre 120 professor. 

he doesn’t like to be called “professor hader” and would much rather just be called bill. someone calls him william once, and he made sure no one ever did that again. but then someone else joked with him using “billiam” and that slides from time to time, but only because he’s laughing too hard to correct them. 

he likes to write a lot of notes, in sloppy handwriting, during all of your graded performances. at first, you’re terrified he’s writing so much because he’s going to give you a horrible grade, but instead he passes every student and has just given them a full page of constructive criticism that he hopes help them become better. 

and then there’s the fact every student that he has basically has a huge crush on him. those tend to intensify whenever his students see him preform and realize that he’s actually good at what he does. and he’s funny. and he’s great at impersonating the other professors in the program. 

you feel that same futile crush festering around in your ribcage on certain days, which are the same days you repress it. of course, it pops back up a few months later just a little stronger, but it’s not like anything is ever going to come of it. yes, he is the youngest professor and is technically only like 5 or 6 years older than you, but still. ethics, ya know?

you’re lucky enough to snag him for some of the higher level classes. and you’re not exactly the next meryl streep or anything (hence why you weren’t accepted to a conservatory like julliard’s or yale’s) but you think you’re pretty good. 

well, that’s until you get rosalind in as you like it your senior year. 

you knew all of her fun facts before you got the role. she’s the “female hamlet” and has more lines than any other female in shakespeare’s many plays. you just hadn’t prepared yourself for all of those lines, and you can feel your stress levels rising steadily as you start to drill your lines. but with the stress comes when your lines are falling flat during rehearsal, and you can see professor hader trying to hide his look of frustration as he marks his copy of the script. 

that only makes it worse, because now you’re worrying too much about the director’s opinion, and you’re starting to flounder the words all together.

which is when he calls it a day and tells everyone to go home.

“except for y/n. could you stick around for a while?” he asks as everyone else is starting to pack up their things and head out the door. you sigh and nod, praying this isn’t a long talk about the role and the stress levels you’re dealing with right now. you don’t think that you can cry in front of a professor and survive. 

he actually just wants to go over the scene and see where you’re trying to go with the character. “i really think you’re a good actor,” he reassures you. “you just look tense. how can we, uh, how can we fix that?”

“i don’t know,” you say. you can hear the stress rolling off your voice, and you try your best to push that back down when you continue. “would you run a few scenes with me and tell me what i need to work on?”

“sure.” he sounds so reassuring and warm, and you think your worries are starting to fall away – just a little. “what do you want to work on? how about act three?”

and it goes incredibly well. he puts everything into his lines (even if they aren’t technically his) and you’re able to actually feel the rhythm of the words. you feel your heart beating against your ribcage as the scene grows heavier, and orlando’s confessions of admiration to rosalind seem a little too real (but that has to be your imagination) for bill to be acting. but then again, he is a pretty good actor. 

after that rehearsal, you have a newfound bounce in your step and rehearsals continue to go well. 

and even through hell week, you’re doing pretty good. 

but then you notice that maybe bill isn’t? like he’s not laughing as much during run throughs, and in his lectures he’s not as prepared. plus, he looks exhausted. so, there’s that. 

you decide to knock on the door of his office one day, which is decorated in old movie and play posters, lit only by some lamps emitting a warm glow that covers the room. he has his head on his desk and he doesn’t even try to look professional for you, instead just lifting his head and wiping his face as he asks “what can I do for you, y/n?”

“i just came to check on you,” you admit. “are you doing okay?”

he doesn’t respond for a second, and then he sighs. “are you okay with shutting the door?”

you don’t mind at all, and hear it click shut. you take a seat in one of the chairs near his desk, but not the one that would have you opposite of him. there’s one in a corner that looks comfortable. 

you give him a look that says “spill”, and he laughs a little. but he talks, gently and a little reserved, about his stress and the fact that it’s only like the second show he’s directed in the program. so, he’s pretty nervous – but not about you. “you’re doing great,” he makes sure to say. he adds, “you’re always great” just a little quieter. 

you feel blush creeping up your cheeks. 

the two of you continue the conversation for another twenty minutes or so, and it only ends because you have another lecture to get to. 

he looks a little better the rest of hell week. when he doesn’t, you send encouraging smiles his way and thumbs up. he chuckles sometimes; other times he just smiles back. 

the run goes incredibly well. you don’t know why you were so worried to begin with, because it was like wearing a glove when you played rosalind. plus, it helped having an orlando that actually looked at you as though he was smitten. 

when the last show was over and done with, bows and thanks all done, you plopped down in your dressing room. the other girls in the room were all chatting about whether or not to go to the party that “orlando” (real name jack) was having that night. you planned on going, you just needed to do a few things first. 

as the other girls headed out and carpooled away and into town, you headed upstairs and back to bill’s office. the lamps were on, and you could see the tall outline of bill in a suit from the other side of the frosted glass. he looked good in a suit.

you knocked. 

when he opened the door, his eyes met your and there was such a joy in his eyes to see you. “the star of the hour!”

“the director of the hour!” you reply as you step inside. you shut the door without thinking about it, and lean up against the sturdy wood. your eyes glance over to his desk, where there’s a small bottle of whiskey opened. 

his eyes follow yours over. “do you want one?” bill asks. your shrug serves as a ‘why not?’ and soon enough, he’s pulling a glass out of one of his filing cabinets and handing a drink to you. he’s refilled his own as you toast to a great show. 

“hey, i couldn’t have done it without you.” he says. 

“and i, you.”

you both take the shot of the amber without much resistance, and it burns the back of your throat while you slam it back onto his desk. “it’s rough, i know.” he sighs. 

“no, it’s good.” you say. “why not have another?”

and that’s kind of how you end up having three more glasses? by which point, you can start to feel the heat rising up your neck and in your cheeks, which definitely means there’s a buzz going. getting drunk with a professor? something you never thought you’d do, but here you are. 

and as coincidence would have it, the lightbulb from the lamp he has goes out, plunging the room into darkness. you fumble up to try and turn on the real light to the office, but you don’t notice that he’s trying to do the same thing until his hand overlaps yours on the light switch. 

neither of you flip it.

you’re too entranced by how warm his hand feels, and how you feel him take a step closer. he’s right behind you now, and you don’t think you have an issue with it. 

you turn around to face him, only to find that he’s staring right at you. you don’t notice the missing warmth of his hand anymore, too invested by the fact his chest is rising and falling slowly, but so slow that you think he’s having to control his breathing. his eyes meet yours. you’re going to blame it on the drinks, but you lean up and press your lips to his. 

you expect him to pull away, but he does no such thing. instead, he takes the upper hand and kisses you with such a ferocity that your back hits the wood of the door and your feet lift off the floor just a tiny bit. his arms snake around you and up into your hair, pulling at the pinned portions used to hold your wig in place. 

your hair tumbles down in curls and he just gathers it back up in his hands as he holds you steady. you’re glad he is, because your legs are weak and feel like jello. 

when he finally pulls away to get a good look at you, you’re trying to do the same. even in the dark you can see his face is flushed, and you’ve managed to completely destroy the neat hairstyle he had pulled off for the night. and you’re not sure why that feels so good. 

[whitmanpumpkin]

hello, one and all! i’m working on requests and some other things atm, but i have a question! i had an au idea and i’m not sure where to take it. would you guys rather see violinist! bill OR conductor! bill ??? respond however needs be if you have a preference, or if you like both! we all (specifically me) need to try and avoid our finals in some way.

[walkerchick007]

I hate that I read this cause now I want more!!!!!!!!!🥺😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I LOVED it so freaking much!!!!!🥰💖💖💖😭😂🥰🥰 you've earned yourself a new follower!🥺😭😂🥰🥰

okay, bear with me?? i saw this post and it’s been a downward spiral for the last four days or so? so, yeah – we’re doing this.

being married was a mistake, and this wasn’t a statement you’d come out of nowhere with. 

you’d been able to brew over the idea for months – long months without much entertainment except for the evening news and a few neighbor’s potlucks. there had been plenty of embroidery sections against the sound of radio soap operas and the sensation of pricked thumbs, as well as a couple of walks through the park close to the house and cul de sac you lived in. and in all of these moments, you brewed over the same fact: marrying your high school “sweetheart” had been the worst choice of your life and you didn’t know how to get out of it. 

there had been a few times you contemplated running away. if you moved to a city like new york or los angeles, nobody would know you; you could do everything all over again and with the hindsight few were allowed. 

but then you were brought back to reality with the notion that by running away, you might make the situation worse for everyone. the scandal it would cause your parents? could you ever come back home? a loveless marriage didn’t seem nearly as bad as those outcomes, even if it meant more solitary time in a home that felt more like a prison. 

with a husband that spend long weeks and months away from the homestead, selling globes and encyclopedias, you didn’t really know a life that involved taking care of another person for more than a couple of weeks at a time. sometimes, you swore that the man you married felt more like a guest in the house than the person who’s name was on the damned lease. 

so, as his car peeled away once more and for another trip, and you waved from the doorway, you really thought about trying to escape. again. because you weren’t quite sure how many more months away from a social life you could stand. 

with no children in the mix, and neighbors who seemed too interested in their own lives to come by, you relegated yourself to the continuation of embroidery patterns and trying new cooking techniques. 

the first snow of the season fell at the beginning of december, when you’d been in the house and on your own for the last thirteen days. you were just taking out a loaf of bread from the oven when a knock came on the door. and it was an odd sound, really, even if it was so trivial in it’s nature. being at the end of the cul de sac, you rarely had visitors and never when your husband wasn’t home. 

but nevertheless, you tossed your oven mitts off to the side of the kitchen and headed to the door. on the way, you scooped up your heels and placed them firmly on your feet – just to make sure that whoever was on the other side of the door wouldn’t see you so indecently. 

and peaking through the peephole, you found a smiling mailman and a rather large box. 

unlocking and opening the door, you greeted the man as he explained the delivery. “you’re y/n y/l/n, correct?”

“i could be,” you jested as he handed the box over. your arms jerked slightly, not expecting the heavy weight of the parcel. the mailman came to help, rushing to move his hands back under the box as support. and you caught his eye for just a second too long, which let you take in the blue irises and the way his right eye seemed just a little uneven from his left. and you wanted to remember it for some reason. 

you looked away first, eyes scanning the empty streets for someone who saw a moment that didn’t exist. 

he helped you carry it in, setting the large and heavy thing down by the kitchen table. and then he tipped the brim of his hat to you, and headed out the door with a gentle goodbye. 

and over the course of the next week, you made a habit of greeting the man. and he would always smile and tip his hat, and there was a twinkle of something in his eyes when he did so. 

by the next week, there had been an interesting development. 

you weren’t dreaming about the mailman. 

it was easy to tell yourself that the first couple of nights, but then it happened a third time. and a fourth. and by the fifth night, in a lonely bed, you had to accept that these feelings sort of existed. they could never be acted on, of course. but where was the harm in talking to the man?

at first, you just watched him make his way down the street, from the window under the guise of reading. he’d finally come by, and you’d watch him from over the cover of your book as he rifled through his canvas bag and pulled one one to two letters – just like he’d done with the rest of the residents on the street. and then would come the knocks – three gentle taps against the wood frame of your door – that would have you standing up and heading towards the entryway. 

and as you peeled back the door to see him with a beautiful smile, you couldn’t help but smile back. because he just seemed so kind. he’d even small talk with you. which was probably one of the best things about your day; having that little extra human interaction (especially with him) is what made the whole day worth it. 

he liked the smell of your cooking. he actually told you that one afternoon, when you were just finishing up a pot roast that would feed one for the evening. but, it could feed two, you guessed. “would you want to come in and try it?” you had asked.  

bill, which you had learned was his name a few days ago, looked hesitant at first. he glanced between you and the kitchen, and then his empty mail carrier. finally, he shrugged and figured “what’s the worst that could happen?”

so, that was how you ended up with bill sitting across from you at a small kitchen table. the dining room wasn’t set up – which bill said he didn’t mind. and it was alright, because you secretly liked having him so close. if you just reached out your hand a little more, you could slip a hand into his or at least rope it around his wrist gently. but those were the thoughts that kept you silent as you took another bite of the potatoes you’d prepared. 

“your food is delicious,” he said inbetween forkfuls of the cuisine. you smiled bashfully. “if i could cook half as well as you, then i wouldn’t need to buy so many t.v. dinners for one.”

you couldn’t help but ask, “you’re not married?”

and he paused. his eyes slowly came up to meet yours, a brow hitched up in an inquisitive manner as he asked, “did you think i was?”

you guessed not; you just figured someone as kind and attractive as him would have to be married to a lovely girl and spending his weekends taking her on beautiful trips. but, maybe that was you projecting something onto him that didn’t need to be spoken of. so instead, you shrugged. “i guess not. i never saw a ring.”

“but you were looking?”

and you blushed. “i’m too inquisitive for my own good.” 

“i don’t think so,” he replied. 

and his smile caused your heart to stop for just a few seconds, because this was something a little more intimate than that wide-toothed grin he gives everyone as he tips his cap.

he gave you the same wonderful smile the next evening, when you invited him in for dinner again. 

you had never been more happy that your husband picked a home at the end of the cul de sac – it had meant more isolation and a cheaper price originally. but now, it meant you could have a handsome mailman over for dinner.

and not just once or twice, but enough times for it to be considered a regular occurrence. by the sixth dinner, you offered him a glass of wine. he accepted with only minor disagreement. and into the second glass, he wasn’t hesitating at all. he even made sure that you were getting a third glass as you continued a story about the neighbors down the street and their horrid dog – which bill laughed at. 

you adored his laugh. 

and he loved getting one out of you. which was often. because he seemed to have such a natural funny bone, and everything he seemed to say was funnier than the last statement. 

bill placed his fork back onto the table, another plate cleaned. “i’m going to have to start letting out these pants, y/n. your cooking is too good.”

“i could do that for you, if you needed.”

“i wouldn’t expect you to. besides, there’s no reasons that a, uh, a married woman as kind as you should have to let out anyone’s pants but their husbands.”

“i’m sure he’d never know.” you tried to wave the thought of the household man away. he hadn’t been home in five weeks, and you were starting to think that his postcards were ornamental. maybe he’d never come home. 

bill sighed. “but i would. and i couldn’t do that to you.”

“even if i wanted to?”

he paused. his eyes wouldn’t come to meet yours; they stayed very still on what seemed like a pointless and printed flower on the tablecloth. “y/n,” he started with heavy caution. “you’re not talking about the sewing anymore, are you?”

you were about to answer, your mouth opening to try and flounder out a response as he clambered to his feet. “please don’t answer that.” 

and then he was gone. 

the next day, the mail was left in the box outside your door. 

and the same with the day after that. 

on the third day, you waited by the window and watched as he filed through his bag quickly and deposited the few letters you had into your mailbox. but then he looked up, and he met your gaze, and nothing needed to be said. because you were still married, and he was too nice of a person and too much of a gentleman to ever do anything. so, it was going to be up to you.

[walkerchick007]

I freaking love it!!!!!🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 I need a third part please!! Hdkajsgdnskandgd I have to know what happens! 😂🥰🥰

as a continuation of this post, let’s just start where we left off – shall we? i was asked by these people ( @l0ve-0f-my-life, @imquitelost) to be tagged as for notification purposes, and i hope everyone enjoys part two! there is already a part three in the works, so don’t worry. 

as luck would have it, you husband came home the day after next. 

you greeted him by the door with a warm smile – like any loving wife should. and when he set down his suitcase and things, you didn’t hesitate in scooping them up and moving them to the respective parts of the house. while your husband shuffled through the ice box, you started a load of laundry. 

however, all you could think about was exactly what you wanted to tell bill the next time you were able to speak to him. you’d been thinking about it all night, about how you would promise to let him known your true feelings the moment you could be alone with him. how you’d declare that your feelings went deeper than needing a good friend; or how you were pretty sure that if he asked – you would run away with him because it was all you daydreamed about anymore. 

as you came back out in the kitchen, you found that your husband was not in the kitchen like you expected. no, instead he was at the door chatting up….

…bill. 

from over your husband’s shoulder, you locked eyes with bill and could begin to feel your heart beating against your chest. you weren’t quite sure why you felt so much anxiety – whether it was from the notion that your two worlds were colliding or the thought that maybe someone would slip up and the dinners and drinks would become known to other parties. 

but worst of all, you were pretty sure your fear and anxiety rested in what bill was going to think. because even though he tried to keep a calm and easy-going demeanor with your husband, you could see the cracks in the painting. his eyes would flicker back to you for only a second or two, but there was something unknown in the ways his eyes reflected light and darted between the two figures inside the house. he kept one foot on the step below him, as some sort of notice to volley between the idea of leaving at any moment and to continue talking to your husband. 

and he looked to you one more time, but this time your husband caught on. your heart thumped harder and harder as the man of the household turned around and smiled at you. “bill,” your husband grinned. “you’ve met my wife, y/n, haven’t you?”

you smiled politely, because you were pretty sure that was all you could do. “he has,” you said before bill could get any words out. “who do you think has been handing me all those packages you mail back to us?”

your husband hums as a sort of “oh, right” and that’s that. he wishes the mailman a good day, and goes to shut the door. as it’s swinging closed, you lock eyes with bill one more time and can’t quite decipher what he’s trying to say with his expression. and you hate it. 

the next few weeks feel as though they’re passing dreadfully slow. you do your housework for two, you cook for two, and you turn into a bed for two. but even with a warm body close to you, it still feels like one. you remember when you believed that having your husband home would make you feel complete, but all it’s really done is cement the fact you’re horribly lonely. and you don’t realize it more than when you’re staring at the ceiling of the bedroom and wishing that you had someone else besides you. 

bill comes by every day (except the weekends), but there’s never enough time and enough expressions to actually say something of value to him. and those are just the days you get to the door first; most days you’re stuck in the laundry room or kitchen and your husband makes it to the front door before you can rush over. and you don’t know if those days hurt more – or if the unsure looks and grimaces were enough to do in your heart.

the day before your husband leaves, you get to the door first. 

he’s actually in town and chatting with a few friends at a country club, but you had declined the offer to come along with the promise of fresh sheets when he returned home. if only he knew the real reason, who took your breath away while those sheets you had promised your husband were hung up and blowing gently in the backyard. 

bill smiles in that chipper fashion that’s as fake as you’ve ever seen it, and he hands you the mail without much fanfare. this is what the two of you have left. 

you muster out enough courage to say, “he’s not home.”

and bill glances back up to you, and there’s a glean in his eyes you haven’t seen in awhile. but then, as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. you want it back so horribly bad that you can feel the knots in your stomach, and how much tighter they’re getting with every second that he seems farther away. what are you supposed to say now? “he’ll be gone for another few weeks. will you come back for dinner?” 

and you know you’re being quite forward in your questions, which are just thinly-veiled requests. in fact, you’re pretty sure you sound like you’re begging. and bill had to know too, because he wasn’t able to meet your eye anymore. 

you can feel that he wants to answer. his jaw is clenched, and now he’s looking out in to the front yard you’ve spent countless hours working on. but he won’t look at you. which is worse than just bidding you a good day, because you can’t shut the door on him and he can’t walk away and no one wants to move. in some horrid way, you’d be happier like this all day instead of not seeing him at all. 

“please,” you beg. “won’t you say something?”

“i can’t.”

and you don’t know what that is a response to, but it’s all he gives you as he turns on his heels and heads back to the street. you want to run after him and chase him down, ask him what he means and why this is so hard for him to talk about, but all you can do is clutch to the door as he continues to walk away.

he never looks back. 

and your husband comes home to fresh sheets, which smell like the wind and that detergent he enjoys so much. and then he leaves the next day, with a full suitcase and only the slight sadness of having to leave his wife all alone for another month or so. 

and the days drag at first. because you dread the mail arriving, since bill will only be as courteous as he is with everyone else. the warmth of knowing that you were special and different is gone, and you’re left with a normalcy you never wanted. 

but you smile back. 

he has to know, you think. he has to know how much you despise your life and what it’s become – how he was a light at your core for the brief time you knew each other. 

the days continued on.

you’d thought of seventy different ways to try and talk to him more honestly. but you’d always get sidetracked in the end, as you thought about him. and then you realized the answer was staring you right in the face. 

so, you wrote him a letter. 

and you wrote his name as artfully as you could master on the envelope and stationary, and sealed the bottom of the letter with a kiss. it explained everything in extensive detail, like just how hard it was for you to breathe around him – how it was even harder to breathe when he wasn’t around. and there were other things, like how his smile was the reason you felt sunshine in your heart. 

you’d considered burning the damned thing multiple times in the course of the evening you wrote it. but it was the only way you’d ever be able to truly talk to him without fear of tripping over your words or waiting for his rejection. 

you snuck the small envelope and it’s contents into a pile of outgoing mail the next morning. he didn’t even really look at the letters, instead stuffing them into the outgoing folder before bidding you a good day. 

now, you waited.