whitmanpumpkin

[whitmanpumpkin]

someone finally dubbed I Would Die 4 U by prince over bill’s lip syncing hhhh thank you twitter user haderism

[whitmanpumpkin]

Bill Hader on SNL (107/?)

[whitmanpumpkin]

Ewan McGregor as Obi-Wan Kenobi in The Pantom Menace (1999)

[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]

Bill Hader + Kissing

[whitmanpumpkin]

I love mailman bill !!! idk if you’re planning to do a part 2 but please do, it was so cute💗

i am definitely planning on doing a part two! 

[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]

“When I’m ‘on’ a lot, I’ve learned, it’s because I’m nervous and I’m wanting the room to be filled with friends, so if people start laughing, I’m like ‘OK, I’m in a room with friends’. And then I can kind of relax and be vulnerable or mess up. To me, it’s the same as walking up and introducing yourself: ‘Hi, where are you from?’ Instead I tell a joke and try to make people laugh.”  —Bill Hader

[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]

Source: This

[whitmanpumpkin]

i want moooore from professor!hader and carmen inspired fanfic!!!!!!!!!

oh, it’s coming soon…

*insert some maniacal laughter here*

[whitmanpumpkin]

i love your fics 🥺

seriously, i don’t know what else to say except thank you! it feels so cool to have people who enjoy what i’m writing and i’m just glad that i can share it with all of you guys!

[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]

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.

[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?”

[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]

Professor!Hader