Random One Shots

Random one shots with actors, musicians/bands and characters.


147. Chris Hemsworth 5 Part 1

~This had become a nightly occurrence. You had a standing date with a bottle of vodka. Six months had passed in his absence, and you found your only solace at the bottom of a bottle. The relief that came with intoxication made things better for a while. It helped you forget for the night. It helped you forget the smell of his cologne on your clothes, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of all his broken promises. He said forever. He swore. When he made his vows, he never set an expiration date. Yet, as it seemed, that unspecified date came all too soon.
“We need to talk,” Chris muttered, pacing across the living room. He had one hand buried in his hair, the other resting on his hip. The tips of his fingers drummed against the pocket of his jeans. Those four little words put you on the defensive immediately. You weren’t sure what this was about, but the inflection in his voice told you it definitely was not good. There was a brief second when you found your heart in your throat. It felt like you were about to vomit.
Chris gestured to the chaise lounge and you took a seat, sliding all the way back. He sat down on the ottoman, placing a large, calloused hand on your bare calf. You relaxed a bit, trying to allow the action to comfort you. He refused to look at you, though. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the edge of the rug beneath the coffee table.
“You know I love you, right?” he asked softly. His let out a shuddered breath, trying to maintain his composure. Cautiously, you nodded.
“Yes, I… I do, and you know I love you, right?” It was his turn to nod. His fingers began to rub little circles over your leg, but his free hand was pressed over his face. His hair was disheveled from the constant rake and pull from his fingers, and when he looked at you, his usually bright, playful eyes were filled with dread and worry.
“This isn’t your fault,” he began, drawing another trembling breath. “I just… I can’t.” You cocked an eyebrow, looking at him skeptically. Was he really trying to say what you thought he was trying to say?
“Chris, are you…? No. No, you can’t. You can’t do this to me,” you choked out. There was a palpable weight in your chest, and you couldn’t help but cry. “Don’t do this, Chris, please! Please, no…”
Your hand clasped over his, holding it tightly. There was a void in the warmth, caused by your wedding band. He didn’t say anything, but you could see him in tears. You knew he felt awful about hurting you, given his past reactions to accidentally doing so. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. He was sniffling a little, too.
You were in the midst of nursing your third glass, swirling it so that the ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass. It did nothing for the taste, but you felt a little bit better about having some sort of noise aside from your own breathing. The phone started ringing for the eighth time.
“…melting through the cracks in my hands, I guess I held on for too long. I'm done with your bittersweet, bittersweet tragedy. It's no fun; when I'm sitting all alone, you're right in front of me…”
Instead of answering, you elected to let it go to voicemail. Once the missed call notification came up, you set it to vibrate rather than having to hear that god damn song over and over. But no sooner than you set it down, it began to vibrate again.
Incoming Call:
Liam Hemsworth
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Why do they keep calling me?! You pressed ignore and chugged the remainder of your drink. Three missed calls from Liam, two from Luke, four from Tom, making a total of nine calls you chose to ignore. For the life of you, you couldn’t fathom why any of them would want to call you, let alone in such rapid succession.
That was when the texts began to pour in.
Where are you?
Please answer your phone.
Call me as soon as you can.
Pick up or I’m coming over.
No one bothered to explain why they were trying so desperately to get a hold of you. Though your stupid brain was jumping to the worst possible conclusions (Chris is hurt. Chris is dead. Chris, Chris, Chris…), you tried to convince yourself that Chris was fine. They were just checking on you, right? Making sure you’re okay? But in the back of your mind, something felt wrong.
“Fuck it,” you muttered, reaching for the half-empty bottle of vodka just at arm’s length.
“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered. His voice cracked under the strain of his emotional state. Those words were something you never thought you’d hear from your husband: “I met someone else”. He explained that nothing happened with her, but his feelings were strong. Repeatedly, he reiterated the fact that he never meant for this to happen. He never meant to hurt you, never meant to feel this way. You knew that you couldn’t choose who you fall for, it just happens, but that brought you no comfort.
Angry wasn’t the quite the word to describe the feeling welling in the pit of your stomach. It didn’t do it justice. Using the term rage or fury would be more accurate.
You yanked your leg away from his apologetic touch, and he still refused to look at you. Blindly, he reached for you again, frantically searching for some sort of physical contact. It was next to impossible to slide out passed him, so you settled for the next best thing, climbing over the armrest.
“What the fuck, Chris?” you hissed, throwing your arms out to the sides. “Do you remember what this means?” You pointed to your wedding ring. The volume of your voice was steadily rising, building with your wrath. Your temper had become a grenade, and all he had to do was pull the pin.
“I’ll never forget what that means, and I’ll never forgive myself for this.” You yanked furiously, twisting and pulling your ring off.
“Fucking give it to her, then,” you spat, throwing it at him. It bounced off his knee and hit the floor with a clatter. The noise startled him enough to make him finally look at you. His face was stained with lachrymal trails. The tip of his nose was bright red, and his eyelashes were clinging together, dewy from his tears.
By the time your phone rang again, you’d easily downed half of what was left. Your head felt light and airy, but your stomach was stirring horribly.
Incoming Call:
Do Not Answer
“Fucking prick,” you grumbled. This wasn’t the first time since he left that Chris tried to contact you. Any and all efforts were in vain, though, because there was nothing left to say. It was just a matter of being served with and signing the divorce papers.
Your phone finally stopped buzzing, but was lit up with a trio of new texts, all from Tom.
Seriously, love, call me.
Will you please at least text me back?
That’s it. I’m coming over.
You groaned inwardly, choking back a mouthful of vodka before texting Tom back.
Everything’s fine, don’t worry. I’m just really busy, Tom. Right now is not a good time. Come over tomorrow instead?
No sooner than you put your phone down, he replied.
Not a chance. On my way, so see you soon.

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