#french dispatch x reader

[hoe4wesanderson]

Jason Schwartzman is my Roman Empire.

WOOF WOOF BARK I need him so badddddddd :(

I feel silly posting this but I need to express my feelings I don’t care. I wanna give him head, that sounds so bad considering he’s nearly 2 decades older than me but um who really cares?

I watched Scott pilgrim last night and when I realised it was Jason playing that stupid little emo Gideon I DIED. My last 2 hours have been spent watching edits of Jason, I printed out photos of him and stuck them on my wall, I watched 1 hours worth of interviews just for him. And in all honesty..the reason I saw the new hunger games was because he was in it.. don’t tell anybody.

Also his hands are really hot. Usually hair on men’s hands make me feel gross, but Jason? I want them is inside me. WOAH WHO SAID THAT??!

[starlightsuffered]

Best Friend’s Brother

Info - mention of drinking, jealousy, guilt, best friends brother

Zimra and I were best friends. We’d been friends since our ninth grade year and now we were in eleventh. Zimra’s older brother Zeffirelli was a year above us.

I supposed I’d always found Zeffirelli cute. I liked his passion, his wild hair, and piercing eyes. He had the most creative ideas. He loved chess and his cigarettes. I found his speeches interesting when they were usually called long winded.

I’d had a small crush on him for a bit now. The past couple months he and I had gotten closer. I’d joined the chess club and Zimra had been having parties more often. This meant that I was over much more often. I felt jealous of Juliette, who seemed to be his main rival. He was always just kind to me.

I wondered what kindness meant from a boy like him. Surely, he was the type to desire intrigue, competition, or a chase. He was likely the type who wanted to convince a girl to be his. He would probably love to sway a mind.

Last night I’d stayed the night with Zimra. She had been stood up for a date. I’d brought over some alcohol I’d pinched from my older sister. We’d attempted to do a spa night and relax to make her feel better. Unfortunately, Zimra, feeling depressed, had snuck extra drinks. She’d gotten wasted pretty fast since she was slight like her brother.

I’d rubbed her back while she’d puked in the toilet. I’d made sure she got to bed alright. She was turned on her side so she wouldn’t choke. Her sound machine made the sounds of a thunderstorm. I also made sure water and pain killers were placed on her bedside table.

I wandered downstairs to get some food in the morning. Zimra’s mother was out of town. I was surprised to catch Zeffirelli making some pancakes,

“Is Z coming down?” He asked. I shook my head and yawned. I sat on the stool by the kitchen bar. I laid my head down in exhaustion.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Zeffirelli said next.

“Really?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes,” I said gratefully.

“Alright then,” he grinned. He flipped the pancakes and whistled a tune I didn’t know. I enjoyed watching him cook. He moved fluidly. He was so elegant, all long limbs, wild hair, and soft skin.

“I have to tell you something,” she said slowly as he slid the blueberry pancake onto the plate. He pushed the meal towards me. He also handed over the syrup once he was done with it.

“Yes?” I asked. I felt silly as I tried to cut my pancake elegantly. I didn’t even know what that even would entail.

“I-I am doing this new thing where I always tell the truth. I also am apologising to those I feel deserve it,” he explained awkwardly.

I took a bite of his delicious breakfast. It was savoury and sweet and nearly melted in my mouth. He let out a long sigh before I could compliment his abilities.

“I, well, y/n,” he started. He ran a hand through his messy hair. I kept my eyes on him and waited.

“I have had a crush on you for quite a long time. I think you are just the sweetest thing in the world. I know it’s so bad, because you are my little sister’s best friend-“

“I have a crush on you too,” I blurted.

“Wait really?” He asked giddily. He looked at me with the goofiest and most adorable smile I’d ever seen. Then it fell dramatically.

“No, I shouldn’t be happy.”

“You can be happy,” I smirked and leaned across the island. I let my shirt collar ride low. I enjoyed when his eyes flickered down and he gulped.

“It, it isn’t right,” he stuttered.

“Come on Zeffirelli,” I crooned.

“Come on what?”

“Come here,” I coaxed. He moved as if he was out of control of his body. He was soon nose to nose with me.

He leaned forward and pecked my lips experimentally. He looked fiercely dreamy. He touched his lips as if I’d blessed them. I giggled. His gaze snapped to me when I did and he melted.

“I want to do that again so fucking badly,” he swore under his breath.

“Alright then love bug,” I replied. I yanked him to me by the leather jacket he wore. It was ridiculous to wear inside but I loved it all the same. I pressed my lips firmly to his. Our mouthes slotted together perfectly. His large hands moved to cup my face. I felt goosebumps all over. Every time he tried to pull away, I drew him back in. He would make a small adorable noise, and accept my affections.

I was drunk on his lips. My heart was pounding like a drum. My body thrummed with excitement. Everything inside me was on fire with delight. I loved this more than I could express.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Zimra’s voice screeched from the bottom of the stairs. We jumped apart as though electrocuted. We were both hot with guilt and embarrassment.

“I told you,” Zeffirelli murmured.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[gwiyeounsonyeon]

May Writing Challenge Day 16!

Pairing: Zeffirelli x Male Reader Summary: You and Zeffirelli share a few kisses Words: 629/200 Warnings: You burn yourself Notes: were getting into the nitty gritty with this one

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The sharp sound of the curtain being pulled open is loud in the quiet bathroom but Zeffirelli’s yelp is louder. You raise your brow at him; naked, smoking, and scribbling in his notebook. “What in the hell are you doing now?” The amusement in your voice is undisguisable and he gawks at you. “You’re in my bathroom.” He says indignantly, you tilt your head, unable to fight the smile slowly creeping up on your face, “Yes?” It shouldn't have been a question but your tone pitches anyway, the movement of his adams apple draws the attention of your eyes, then your gaze drops only to dart back to his face. “... While I’m in the bath?” Color rises to his face when he catches your wondering gaze, “It seems you are.” You say simply, you shift your weight to the other foot, the movement rattling the curtains. 

“While I’m naked” His voice had pitched up slightly either out of nervousness or embarrassment, “I’d hope so.” That came out so wrong, both your faces go bright red. He gestures with his cigarette held between his fingers. “Close the–” You dont give him time to finish before jerking the curtain closed. Once shielded from view you let out a unanimous breath of relief. You slide down to sit on the floor, leant against the side of the tub staring off at the far wall trying hard not to think about Zeffirelli, or his… 

You huff frustrated at the flush on your face and your stubborn wondering thoughts and you stick your two fingers through the crack of the curtain. It only takes a moment of hesitation before Zeffirelli is gently placing his cigarette between your fingers, the flush on your face darkens as his fingers brush against yours and you find yourself pulling the cigarette back too soon and nearly dropping it. You dont, saving it by catching the smoldering tip in your hand, you hiss and Zeffirelli pulls back the curtain to see what happened. He plucks the cigarette out of your hand and places it between your lips, he drops his notebook and pen on the floor to pick up your hand to inspect the damage. “Why’d you do that.” You roll your eyes and blow smoke in his face, pinching the cigarette between the two fingers of your other hand carefully. 

“You say it like I did that on purpose.” – “Didn't you?” – “Absolutely not?” He eyes you, squinting slightly. “You dont sound sure.” You roll your eyes again, “Why would I burn myself on purpose?” – “To get my attention.” You look at him quizzically. “And… Why do I want your attention?” He watches you for a moment, you try your best to hold eye contact, swallowing the buildup of saliva that's gathered in your mouth at the pictures your awful brain is putting in your head. It becomes too much and before you can catch yourself, your eyes glance down to his lips, just for a second but he still sees it. “That.” – “That, what?” You respond entirely too fast but before you can start criticizing yourself about how stupid you must seem Zeffirelli leans forward and chastely pecks you on the lips. 

He pulls back entirely too soon, he kisses you entirely too soon and for a few long seconds, you’re both left staring at each other in shock. You swallow before leaning in again but he has the same idea and when you meet in another kiss your teeth click painfully, drawing you apart once more. You let out a choked sort of chuckle and bring the cigarette to your lips, your hands shaking anxiously, “I’m writing my manifesto.” His voice is too shaky, too hoarse but the distraction is good enough, “Let me read it?” – “Absolutely.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

hellooo, hi, im not sick anymore (more or less) and in surprisingly great spirits! i was thinking, if you wanted to write more Zeffirelli and absolutely and i mean ABSOLUTELY no pressure maybe we could have some sort of university themed kinda fic? not an AU just kind of widening the lens of The French dispatch to see Zeffirelli as a students not just his after school activities. im thinking like a philosophy student poet boyfriend x art and film theory painter reader kinda situation. studying and going to interesting lectures and to cinema in the evenings..idk it would be lovely to have some nice uni vibes to motivate me. also if you don't feel Zeffirelli now Timothee himself would be very much okay too i feel like. it is all up to you. sending you great energy, love you, message me if you want to brainstorm this story or want to talk literally about anything xx

omg hiiii!!! it’s fall now!! zeffirelli would be living his best life. i was really missing zeffirelli and timmy. timothee always renters my brain this time of year so be prepared. it’s movie szn brainrot time, my friends.

coincidentally enough, this happens to be my 700th follower celebration as well! yay!

uhhh so usually i write the translations at the bottom but i didn’t keep up this time i’m so sorry 😭😭

zeffirelli masterlist

ensoleillement (sunshine)

“You’re late,” you say, looking at the clock in the corner of your living room.

“I brought compensation.” Zeffirelli holds up a brown paper bag from the pastry shop down the street as an apology. “There's a pain au chocolat in there for you. I also got you a coffee.”

“I hope it’s not in the bag,” you respond drily, but take the bag nonetheless and rifle around for your breakfast. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Here,” he says absently, placing it on the kitchen counter.

“Dieu merci,” you sigh, taking a sip and shouldering your bag. The leather strap digs into your shoulder through the fabric of your coat.

“Thank me, not God,” Zeffirelli complains, ushering you out the door.

“You’re still the reason I’m late.” There’s a warning in your voice, but you can’t put any real venom behind your words. You never can, with him.

“Oui, but you’re not going to any important classes right now.”

“I’m going to math,” you protest. He reaches across you and takes your coffee, sipping it and grimacing. You slap his hand away and retake the coffee. “No matter how much you try, you aren’t going to like the way I have my coffee.”

“That’s because you have terrible taste,” he complains. “Why are still taking those bullshit classes? There are so many better classes to take.” It’s a conversation you’ve had many times, mostly out of jest, but there is some seriousness behind it.

“You mean math?”

Zeffirelli hums. “That’s the one. Why would you waste your time with math when you could be going to philosophy at noon?”

“Because I’m not some poet revolutionary, Zef,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder with his. “Not everyone is as successful as you.”

“Nonsense. You just haven’t shared any of your ideas with other people. Come on, amor, let me know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Right now there are a few things, but I don’t think you want to hear them,” you deadpan, gathering your books in your arms.

“Don’t get shy on me now, ensoleillement.” The endearment falls easily from his lips, his favorite term for you, meaning, quite literally, sunshine.

Ironically, you got the nickname on a rainy day when you had been giving him a hard time about his tendency to walk in the rain.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you reply, knocking your shoulder against his as you both try to go out the same door to the street below your apartment.

“All that math is filling your brain with nonsense,” he complains, his shoes scraping against the worn hardwoods. “I can’t have a good philosophical conversation with a mathematician.”

“Just because I’m taking the class doesn’t make me good at it,” you correct absentmindedly. He huffs and steps into pace beside you, his hand brushing against yours. The autumn leaves crunch under your feet, warm red and orange bleeding past as you make your way to class, the air crisp and the sun slinking behind the clouds. You really should be trying to make it to class on time, but you know you’ll regret it if you leave Zeffirelli out here alone with that rosy color on his cheeks from the cool air. Fall suits him well, and he wears the chill running through your fingers well.

It’s better to be here, your hands skimming against his, knuckles red and electric when he touches them than it is to be sitting in a class. Especially because he isn’t in the class.

The walk to your school isn’t much further. Just through the town sits a two-storied brick building where you’ve devoted hours to studying, crying, and trying to get Zeffirelli to take breaks unsuccessfully.

The cobblestones underneath your feet are consistently unsteady, and you find yourself, as usual, looking in awe at the quaint town that wakes up as you walk through.

There’s the flower shop on the corner with the green and white striped awning that gives out free roses on holidays. Next to it, stands a stationary store where you go more days than not to get a hand-pressed piece of paper to write home on. Across the street is a cafè where you and Zeffirelli have spent countless sleepless nights discussing movies and poetry when you should be studying,

This isn’t your hometown, and it isn’t his either, but you both know it more than you ever could know any other place on Earth. Zeffirelli’s American rouge, prophetic attitude couldn’t come from a town this small, but that doesn’t stop it from thriving. Here, nothing can stop him. Not living with his parents, which he does on purpose, or not knowing how to start a manifesto. Those things are trivial and unimportant because this place reveres every waking and sleeping moment it has with him. You and

You, well, you can’t claim this place as your home, but you’ve fallen in love with its poetically simple lifestyle. The two years you’ve been here as an exchange student has been the best you can remember, and you aren’t sure how much of that is related to the boy next to you.

A gut instinct tells you that he might have something to do with it, but you would be drawn into the charm of this town anyway, probably. He’s just an added bonus.

Zeffirelli takes the cup of coffee out of your hand and tosses it into the trashcan before you enter the towering, gray stone building that is your school.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” he asks, walking backward down the opposite hall that you’re traveling. “My mom packed cookies.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat and you can tell you’re grinning like a fool. You genuinely don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you don’t doubt the truth of his words. “I can’t even make fun of you because your mom’s cookies are so good.”

“That’s the sweet spot.” His arms are outstretched wildly as he turns back to go to his class. “I’ll see you later, amor. Don’t have too much fun in math without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Zef.” There’s still a grin on your face when you walk into class, and you take your seat next to your’s and Zeffirelli’s friend, Mitch Mitch.

Mitch is radically passionate like Zeffirelli, but, as obvious by his presence in a math class, he’s less utterly devoted to the revolution. Which is to say that he’s still deeply invested.

“Did l'auteur make you late again?” Mitch reaches over you and slides today’s work to you. “I swear, you need to stop waiting for him in the mornings.”

“He did indeed.” You lean back in your chair and try to listen to the lecture, and you think you retain about half of the information.

The teacher at the front of the room drones on for half an hour about something you don’t understand, not that you care enough to pay attention. Despite the nature of his ideas, Zefrilli is correct about the fact that math isn’t your thing, nor is it going to help you at all. Especially not when you don’t have a clue what’s going on. Based on the look on Mitch’s face, he understands even less than you do, which is comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Why did you convince me to take this class?” Mitch groans, flopping onto the desk and banging his head on the wood. “I’m too pretty for math.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” You pat him on the shoulder consolingly and gather your things together.

“Peut être pas, but it makes me feel better about myself.” You walk side-by-side to the next class. You have film studies with Zefirelli and Mitch has some economic class.

Zefirelli is waiting by the door for you, and, when he sees you, he pushes himself off the frame and asks, “How was the waste of time?”

“It was a waste of time,” Mitch confirms, bumping shoulders with Zefirelli, who looks at you for confirmation, which you readily give.

“Let’s do something worthwhile then, mon chéri.” Zefirelli holds out his arm for you, and you take it easily. “To the magical world of film we go.”

“Onwards we go.”

*

Lunch doesn’t come soon enough, but, slowly, it comes. Mitch, Zefirelli, and you usually eat together, but today Mitch is going to the cafe down the street with a girl in your class named Layla. She’s sweet, and you hope she’s enough for Mitch.

You and Zefirelli find your normal spot in the corner of a courtyard hidden away in the twisted cobblestone streets. It’s nothing special, just a park bench pretty much, but you wouldn’t eat anywhere else. Not when Zefirelli is sitting close to you.

“What are you writing about?” he asks, leaning over your shoulder to try and read the words in your journal.

“How much I hate math,” you deflect, shutting the small spiral and stuffing it into your backpack.

“That’s not what looks like when you write about something as trivial as math. I’ve seen your math face, and it is much more détestable.”

“You’re telling me that you don’t write enthusiastically about math?” you joke, hoping to deflect the attention.

“Only about my manifesto.”

“Yeah, well you have your manifesto, and I have my movie.” It slips out easily like things usually do around him. You’re so used to telling him everything, so it comes as no school that you’re unable to keep this from him.

The thing is, he isn’t supposed to know about the movie you’re writing. Not because he wouldn't support it, which you’re sure he would, but because there’s no doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it. You try to backtrack. “I mean, I have the movie that I’m studying for class-“

“-You’re writing a movie?” he interrupts, his hand frozen where it’s reaching for his food. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m not writing a movie,” you attempt. “It was a slip of the tongue. Fourchement de langue.”

“No it wasn’t,” he denies easily. “You’re writing a movie.” This time he doesn’t ask, but he does return to his previous action, splitting the pink-colored cookie in half. He offers one half to you and you take it. You decide not to respond and focus on the cookie instead.

“So, what is this secretive movie about? Hopefully something dashingly bohemian and revolutionary.” You know he’s tuning down his excitement for you, which is nice. At least he’s trying. Hopefully, he knows that you would never keep something like this from him if you weren’t embarrassed.

“Those are your interests, not mine,” you sigh, despite the deception behind your words. Truly, you do care about those things, maybe only because he cares so much about them.

“Yeah? Then why do you work with me on my manifesto so much?” he prods, a grin on his face. Everything about him screams “got you” and you have no choice but to accept his meaning.

“Maybe I like being around you, connasse.”

“That could not possibly be it,” he dismisses easily. His cookie gets placed on the floor beside him and he leans into you, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. “You’re much too talented to be hanging around me all the time.”

“You can’t be serious,” you chastise, your hand running through his hair. “Zef, you’re the most talented person I know. Not only are you some sort of chess wizard, but you also have such a passion for life that I don’t see anyone else. I’m lucky to be around you as much as I am, honestly.”

“You’re just saying that,” he sighs, but there’s a blush rising to his cheeks that fits him so beautifully.

“We’re poets, Zefirell, we only say things that we mean.” He leans heavier into your side and you relax against him, taking his weight happily. The rest of the world passes by, and time passes by, but you don’t care. This is where you want to be, by his side.

You would lift the sky for him, but right now all he needs is a shoulder to lean on. It’s something you’re ready and willing to give.

“You know,” Zefirelli starts, “there are stories about people like us. You know, people that want to change the world. Usually, they have someone by their side, a second-in-command. Napoleon had Josephine, Pierre Curry had Marrie, Sintra had Garder.”

“I think it be more reasonable to say that Marrie had Pierre, given that she was the one who did most of the research. And you’re forgetting that Sinatra and Gardner broke up after 12 years.”

“But she was the only woman he ever loved. Come on, amore, you know that. Anyway, what I was trying to say-” he looks up at you, smiling softly- “before I was so rudely interrupted, is that most people have someone beside them when they start their journey sur le chemin de la révolution. The road to revolution can be lonely.”

“Everything must start in love,” you agree. “Nothing comes out of nothing.”

“Précisément. Would- would you like to be my second-in-command? We have a long way ahead of us, and I think it would be easier if we stuck together.”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” you breathe, laying your head on top of his and reaching for his hand. “Promise you won’t leave me for someone more antagonistic?”

“You’re enough of an antagonist for me,” he responds in an overly-sweet voice. “Not sure I could handle much more.”

“Good. I prefer you waking me up in the middle of the night rather than anyone else.” You also prefer his head on your shoulder, his hand in your hand, and his figure in your bed, but those are things you keep to yourself for now.

You’ve already got enough of a win for today.

*

A banging on your door is an unfortunately common event to wake you up. Without checking, you know who’s on the other side of the door. That messy black hair and those piercing eyes are waiting impatiently for you to make your way across your cramped apartment, you’re positive of it.

The floor is cold underneath your socked feet as you make your way over the piles of books, papers, and clothes strewn everywhere across your room. While the trek is short, to your sleep-addled brain it feels like it lasts forever, with you in a dreamlike state of confusion and agitation. You can hear the sound of rain pounding against your apartment roof, a steady rhythm in time with your slow breathing.

With a deep breath, you open your door and you’re met with the familiar, tall form of Zeffirelli. “I have an idea for the revolution,” he says, out of breath, soaked from the rain. “And I need your cinematic expertise.”

“So that’s why you’re at my apartment at three in the morning?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Yes. And it’s only two,” he says as he brushes past you and goes straight to your tiny kitchen. Absentmindedly, he rifles through your counters and grabs the first food he finds; some untrustworthy brown biscuits. You don’t take any when he offers. “I needed to talk to you. Son affaire sérieuse.”

“Right, I’m sure it is. Tell me, what exactly do you need my help with? I’m not sure I can be of much help.” You shuffle into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, accepting the fact that you’re probably not going to get any sleep tonight.

“Absurdité. Who else is going to shut down my best ideas ruthlessly?”

“I would do that in daylight too,” you accuse. He fits beside you at your counter and reaches across you for the sugar bowl, taking a sugar cube and putting it in your cup. Two more are added to the cup that he’s claimed as his own from your array of delicately painted teacups.

“But you admit to having shut down good ideas?” A twinkle in his eyes tells you to give up now and accept your defeat.

“Sure.” It’s worth it to see the victory smile break across his face, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. “I am obviously the bane of your existence. Je suis ta couverture mouillée.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” His consolidation is quick and filled with a teasing lightness that you’ve long since accepted as his trademark. A lot of people would look past him for it, and call it arrogance, but you know it comes from a loving place.

“Don’t make me send you to Mitch Mitch’s apartment instead,” you warn, waving a spoon in his direction. “I would do it in a heartbeat.” It’s not true, you would much rather he be here with you, instead of at Mitch’s. Despite the entertainment that comes with Zefirelli and Mitch’s back and forth, you’re feeling selfish tonight.

“Empty threats.” he tisks. The kettle whistles from its spot on the stove and you both reach for it at the same time, your fingers brushing against his. It’s terrifyingly electric, but you push past the feeling. Zefirelli withdraws his hand hesitantly and you busy yourself with pouring the tea.

He’s come over in the middle of the night enough for you to know how he takes his tea by heart. Two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, no more, no less. He claims that you make it better than he does, which you choke up to him being unable to boil water without making a mess.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “So, what’s this big idea? Care to fill me in on why I’m awake at this time of the night.”

“What’s your movie about?” he fires back immediately, settling into your beaten blue couch.

“Did you come here to pester me about my future?” you ask, eyes narrowed. “Because I will kick you to the curb.”

“No, no,” he laughs, “you wouldn’t do that to me. You have no resistance to my pretty face.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve figured out my one weakness. It seems as though you’ll be taking advantage of it forever.”

“Of course, ensoleillement. What would I do if I didn’t have you to manipulate?” He sits across from you on the couch and grabs one of the blankets you have thrown around. It goes over his shoulders and he huddles into its warmth.

“So what did you come here to talk about?” you ask, taking a sip from your tea and placing it on the side table.

“Oh, right!” His eyes light up as he sits up straighter, splashing tea all over himself. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to care very much. “I thought that I would have my mother’s friend, some writer, is coming into town soon. I was thinking that I should ask her to help me. At the least, she can write about us, no? What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea. What does she write for?”

“The French Dispatch. You know, the one with all the stories they put out once a month or so. I hear that she’s looking for something out here in our petite ville.”

The conversation shifts and he talks about his big ideas and how he’s going to get them done. You could listen to him talk for hours, and, by the time he’s finished, you have, not that you have anything better to do. Not even dreams of him are this real. You could never make up in your mind the way his eyes sparkle and his hands flutter with excitement, or the way his hair falls in front of his face when he’s moving too fast.

Eventually, sleep takes him over, comically mid-sentence. He’s propped up against the side of the couch in a very uncomfortable looking way, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’ve known him to fall asleep in worse situations,

When his breathing stills and his eyes close, you allow yourself to look at him as he is without fluttering hands and excited eyes. He’s calm and motionless, except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Everything about him is usually coiled for action, an easy tension running through his hands and his eyes, but now, now he’s undistributed and serene, laying with his hair splayed like a dark halo around his head.

Before you close your eyes, you tuck yourself close to him, fitting against his warmth like you’ve done so many times in the past, just like this, on deep-silence-ridden nights.

“You’re my movie,” you whisper into the dark, towards his sleeping figure. “You’re the one I write about.”

But of course, he doesn’t hear.

*

“Medre,” Zeffirelli swears, hopping around and trying to get his shoes on. “I have a test today.”

“You should have thought of that before you came over that early,” you admonish, watching him with amusement. “Why you didn’t think you would oversleep, I have no clue.”

“We’re in this class together, ensoleillement. You’re going to burn with me,” he warns, rushing a hand through his hair carelessly. It sticks up widely in every direction, but you know better than to try to fix it. Nothing can convince his hair to do anything except chaos.

“Yeah, but it’s so much more fun not to think about that.” Begrudgingly, you start to get ready as well. The floors creak under your feet as you shuffle to your bedroom, where a clean outfit is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, you let yourself think of the wild-haired, cigarette-smoking, arrogant person in the room next to you. His infuriating charm and charismatic persuasion captured you years ago, and you haven’t been able to get out of his orbit since then.

You may be his sunshine, but he’s your gravity, keeping you centered but tipping you over and surprising you at times.

“Dépêchez-vous,” Zeffirelli calls, rapping his knuckles against the wall. “Hurry up.” You know he doesn’t really care about making it to class on time, despite the panic, but you also know that he understands you well enough to know that you want to make it on time.

The film class you have this morning is one of your favorites, and you try and avoid missing it as much as you can. While your film studies class is more focused on the aspects of film, this class advises it’s students on the writing and cinematography that you need to make something truly special.

To make something worthy of a manifesto.

“Mon chéri, we have to go,” Zefirelli warns one last time before giving up and aimlessly wondering around your room.

“Don’t touch that,” you sigh, not having to look at Zeffirelli to know that he’s touching something he shouldn’t be touching. When you do look over, you see him flipping through your journal.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Zeffirelli defends, hiding something behind his back. You send a glare in his direction and lean back in the chair by your mirror. The wood creaks underneath you and you stretch out your back, satisfying pops cascading up your spine.

“You have some deep dark secrets written in here?” His tone is joking, and he waves the journal in the air, taunting you.

“Grocery lists and middle-of-the-night thoughts,” you dismiss. “If you want to know when I forgot to pay the electricity bill, look on the fifth page.” You hope with everything you have that he’s going to let it go, but you have no such luck. He’s nothing if not absurdly relentless.

“I know for a fact that you don’t write anything like that down, it’s not worth the time. You just forget things like the rest of us.”

“Peut être. Still, put it down.” He doesn’t. Instead, he keeps reading with a grin on his face that slowly falls as he makes his way through the rest of the book.

“Is this- is this written about me?” he asks, disbelief written on his face. “Is this your movie?”

“I asked you to stop reading,” you defend miserably, hiding your head in your hands. “I know it’s strange, and I know I shouldn’t be writing about you like that. You don’t want to be heroic or some great leader, above everyone else, but I cannot help it if that’s who you are. Please understand, I only wrote what I saw.”

“I’m your movie? I’m what you have been furiously scribbling away at, working on late at night?”

“You’re my everything,” you admit honestly, softly, “How could you not be the plot of my movie too?” Zeffirelli walks slowly towards you and drops the journal on the floor. “I’m sorry, Zeffirelli.”

“Why?” he asks breathlessly, standing in between your legs and settling his hands on your shoulders. “What have you to be sorry for? You have immortalized be forever with your words. How can I be anything but grateful. If- if I ever gave you the idea that I do not burn for you- that I do not turn towards you in every room like you are the sun and I am a flower, then I can do nothing but apologize profusely. There is more than one reason that you are my ensoleillement. You are grumpy and rude and you give me shit for everything I do, but you also light up my days and nights. You are warmth and home. You are everything.” Zeffirelli’s voice is breathless and rushed, his hands coming up to cup your face. They’re shaky and the calluses on his fingertips are rough against your cheekbones, but you lean into them anyway.

“Zef,” you whisper, like it’s the only word you know. Just as soft as his words, his lips come down to yours, hesitantly at first, but more sure as you don’t protest.

He truly is your everything. That’s the only thing running through your mind as he kisses you with everything he has.

“We’re going to be late to your favorite class,” he gasps in between frantic kisses. “Don’t be angry at me when you have extra homework.”

“I make no promises,” you laugh, pulling him back into you. “But I’ll try my best.” For him, you’ll do anything.

He’s your ensoleillement, your sunshine, just as you’re his.

[twola]

Okay, I was ABSOLUTELY obsessed with In The French Way II. It's too hot I need another Arthur anal fic😔✌ PLEASE I love the way you write ❤

In the French Way III

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link ➵ Previous

cw: in the natural progression of things - anal sex, cowboy receiving.

“Ma Cherie - now that you have given him a taste, you must- you must give him more.”

The Frenchman’s hand clasps your shoulder as he pulls you closer to the alley. You have no idea why now of all times was the time to discuss your sexual proclivities. Now, when Arthur was currently beating a man a few feet away who had threatened Châtenay’s life for sleeping with his wife, or mother…or both?

“Not now-” You whisper harshly, as the conversation is interspersed with the sound of Arthur’s fist connecting with the man’s face. 

“Non- if not now, when? I will tell you - there is no more beautiful pleasure than -mph- getting fucked. In that, I am jealous of le beau sexe.” Châtenay swirls a finger around the edge of his mustache as he swings the leather bag from over his shoulder to the ground. He roots around in the bag, muttering choice words in French before finding what he was looking for.

“Ah-ha, here we are.”

He shoves a small box into your hand with a wink. You open the box, finding a neatly wrapped piece of wood, smooth and polished to perfection. It’s strange, this cylinder of smooth lacquered wood, tipped with a gentle curve…almost… phallic?

Oh Jesus Christ.

You snap the box shut again as your eyes widen. 

“What in God’s name-”

Châtenay shakes his head. “Non, non, mon ami. You have seen the joy you have already brought your lover. This will heighten it still.”

“Charles-!” Arthur barks from the alley, having dispatched the most recent of the man’s attackers, “Think you should be gettin’ lost for a bit.” The cowboy wipes blood from his knuckles as he rejoins the two of you.

“Ah! That I shall do. Au revoir!” Charles grasps your shoulders and gives you a kiss on each cheek, and moving faster than even Arthur could comprehend, he does the same to the gunslinger before exaggeratingly bowing, before ducking out of sight.

Arthur frowns and wipes his beard, “There is somethin’ wrong with that man.”

You nod, shoving the small box into your satchel. Arthur snickers, and grabs your hand, “C’mon, I don’t feel like riding all the way back to Shady Belle t’night.”

-

“Woman, I know you got somethin’ on your mind.”

You frown, knowing you can’t hide anything from him. In this fancy hotel room, you have kicked off your boots and he’s unwound the gunbelt from his hips.

Arthur looks you up and down, raising an eyebrow. “So?”

You sigh, and pull the box that Charles gave you from your satchel before you toss the bag to the floor amongst the other things. Placing the box atop the bedspread, you take the lid off of it to show its contents.

Silence.

“Is that supposed to be a cock?” Arthur asks after a moment.

You also look down at the box, unwilling to meet his astonished gaze, burning fiercely red. 

“I…uhm, ah… it’s a-another French thing…” you stutter, unable to look at him.

Your chin is pulled up by his pointer finger, and you finally find his eyes, those blue pools that show such depth.

“I trust you.”

“Arthur-”

“I- I just- ” You stumble over your words as you turn and take the wood in your hand, heavy, solid. You wrap your fingers around it and all you can think about is how warm Arthur’s cock is when you have it in your hand.

“If it’s somethin’ I end up hatin’, we stop.”

What utter trust this man has in you. You’re unsure of how on God’s green earth that you managed to find someone like him. “You sure you want to be…fucked?”

Arthur sheepishly scratches the back of his head, “I… mean… if it’s you doin’ it.”

“I…” You grip the cock again, staring down at it.

The rustling of fabric garners your attention and you look up. Arthur has completely unbuttoned his shirt and has one arm pulled out of its sleeve. His suspenders dangle against his thighs.

“Well?” 

And in that moment, you remember the last time you had broached this idea with him. You remember his stained cheeks and blown pupils, his heavy panting and the moans… you remember the hot splash of his spend on your belly as he came - all from pressing your finger inside him.

For the first time all night, you smile back, and toss the cock to the bed as you start to undress yourself. Clothes end in a pile on the floor. Arthur grabs the balm he used last time from his satchel and hands it to you before laying down on the bed.

“Warm you up like last time?” You smile as you place the tin on the bedside table along with the wooden cock, climbing into bed and into your lover’s embrace.

He nods, pressing his lips to yours as he guides your hand to his hip. As your tongues press against one another, your hand slides across his hip, gently caressing before dipping down to press against his puckered opening. You gently slide your pointer finger inside that ring of muscle and he shivers, moaning into your mouth. Unwilling to have it over so soon, you do not press further inside to hunt for the spot that drove him wild before, but instead swirl your finger around to prepare him for something more. After a few moments of him groaning and you feeling him harden against your hip, you draw back and turn around, reaching for the balm and the wooden cock.

You open the tin and swipe your fingers to collect the balm, then slather it all over the head of the cock and down the shaft, glancing backward as you notice Arthur turning to lay on his stomach. 

You turn to sit next to him, holding the cock in one hand and the other gently caressing his lower back, “You sure you’re ready?”

“Woman, do it now or don’t-”

He shuts up completely as you press the cock against his ass. The tip breaches him and he hisses as the curve of the wood pushes past the ring of muscle. You press it inward slowly, letting a breath out of your own.

“You alright’?” You whisper, your other hand rubbing gently across his hip bone.

He nods into the pillow, and you see his fingers tighten on the fabric of the bed as you push the cock in another inch. Arthur is beautiful there, sprawled on the bed. Breath heaving, his large, muscled body completely under your spell. Under your control. He gave this of himself, something that men never do.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly again, the wooden cock halfway buried in him. He nods into the pillow, seemingly unable to speak, but raises his hips toward you the smallest bit in silent assent.

Around that curve of his hip, the smallest visage of his cock is visible to you, blood swollen and hard against the bed. Your concern is assuaged - certainly, if he wasn’t enjoying it, his cock wouldn’t be so damn hard.

Your other hand runs gently up his back to his shoulder, squeezing as you lean up on your knees next to him. Ever so slowly, gently, you press the cock down into him. Arthur groans, muffled by the pillow as the sheets are crumpled beneath his grip.

Finally, the flared base rests snug against his ass. you gaze upon him, breath heaving, and he starts to rut his hips against the mattress, trying to find some relief for his cock. The sight has your cunt wet as you sit on the bed next to him. Arthur raises his head to look up at you, breathing heavily through his nose. A fierce blush dances over his cheeks as he grunts, pushing himself up to his hands and knees.

“Get o’er here.”

He grabs and forces you underneath him and pulls your legs apart with a fervor like a wild animal. In the flash of movement, you are instantly reminded of the strength held within his body - there was no escaping his grasp - no fighting against any way he were to manipulate you.

“Fuck- next time ‘m gonna stick this in you - make you feel how good it is -” he growls as he roughly pumps his cock, panting as he lines himself up with you and pushes inside with little warning.

Your arousal eases the way, but your lover is well-endowed, and you gasp at the stretch of him as he buries those hot inches of flesh inside you. A broken wail claws its way from your throat when his hips find yours, buried as deep as he can go.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Havin’ this in you along with my cock, filling you up both ways at once?”

You moan your response as he thrusts down into you hard, digging your nails into his back. Your ankles cross over his lower back as he pummels you into the bed, red-faced and positively feral.

At a thrust that moves your whole body, your heel slips downward and bumps against the base of the wooden cock, and Arthur immediately jolts, grunting loudly as he shoves his head into the pillow.

“You -hah- like that?” You pant into his ear and he groans needily in response.

Snaking your hand underneath his arm, you’re just able to reach the base and grasp it, pulling the cock out a few inches before pushing it back in.

Arthur nearly collapses on you, barely able to keep himself from crushing you as he shoves his cock as deep as it can go into your cunt, shuddering as you repeat your motion.

“Fuck, fuck - oh - ngh - Jesus…” His teeth worry your ear when you pick up the pace, pushing and pulling the wooden cock in his ass.

“You gonna come for me?” You pant back at him and he raises himself unsteadily to his forearms, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Yeah, yeah - ‘m gonna come -” he rumbles, his pupils blown and skin flushed red, “g-onna gonna -ngh-”

You lean up and kiss him hard as you shove the cock into his ass to the base and he yelps into your mouth and mashes his hips into yours as he comes. Hot spend fills your cunt as you mewl to the sensation, throwing you over the edge as Arthur bucks again, making a pitiful sound you thought nigh impossible from the fearsome outlaw.

It's several moments, Arthur panting, shaking over you, before he’s able to regain control of his senses. He rolls off of you onto his side, one hand reaching behind himself to slowly pull the cock from his body. He squeezes his eyes shut and hisses as it slowly leaves him, biting his lower lip against the feeling of his hole having been stretched out. He tosses the lacquered wood into the pile of clothes on the floor, it lands with a loud clunk.

You gawk, astonished at him as you feel his warm spend drip from your cunt. Squeezing your legs together to stymie the flow, you wait for him to right himself, laying on his hip opposite you in the bed.

He finally opens his eyes to find you looking concerned, upset even.

“What - what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Are you alright?”

“Am I… darlin’-” he chuckles, reaching toward you and easily pulling your body into his embrace, “I’m more than alright.” He laughs, kissing your forehead as you loose a bated breath.

“That another French thing Châtenay tell you about?”

You look up at him in surprise, “What, how -”

“You think he hasn’t told me of a few crazy things either? Keeps sayin’ that the best thin’ for you is takin’ two fellers at once.”

You redden, burying yourself into Arthur’s chest to avoid making eye contact. You feel, along with hear the chuckle emanate out from his ribcage as he tightens his grip around you.

“I’m a possessive sonofabitch. You ain’t ever takin any feller but me-”

He squeezes your ass covetously.

“But think we just found a way to remedy that.”

[padfootagain]

Only an Almost (XV)

Chapter 15: Aftermath

Hi! Here comes a new chapter!

We’re still dealing with a lot of angst! Sorry (not sorry)!

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

*************************************

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 2387

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

You had called a dozen times, and Andrew had refused to answer.

After a night spent at his parents’, he felt better, although he was still devastated. He reckoned he would need a long time to get over this. Over you…

His brother stopped by the next day, just to check on him, but Andrew put on a brave face and played it off. Jon was everything but fooled. He stayed for dinner and well into the night. Sam was the one dispatched the next day to keep an eye on Andrew, who was beginning to be seriously annoyed at this game of babysitting.

Sam had been trying to get a conversation going for the last twenty minutes, but Andrew wasn’t in the mood to socialize and make an effort to fight his introverted tendencies.

Besides, there was a question on the tip of his tongue he was afraid to ask. He didn’t want to be angry at his best friend…

“Have you heard about the next rugby match? They say we’re up for a proper challenge against the French!”

“Hmmm…”

Sam finally heaved an annoyed sigh, but his voice was still gentle when he spoke.

“Come on, Andy! Say something! You haven’t spoken more than three words since I’ve arrived.”

“I’ve never asked you to come in the first place.”

“I’m just trying to be supportive. And a good friend. So… talk to me. Cry on my shoulder, I don’t know…”

A heavy silence followed, while Sam stared at his friend, sitting on his comfortable couch, the crackling of a fire in the hearth and the distant chanting of birds the only sounds to disturb the silence. Andrew was staring at the pine trees on the other side of the window, how their branches swayed in the wind.

“Did you know?”

Andrew’s question came out of the blue, making Sam frown. He was still staring at nothing as his deep voice cut the air like a knife. Calm, cold, deadly so…

“When you called me the other night to tell me to speak with Y/N… did you know that she wanted to dump me to date someone else?” he went on.

Sam didn’t answer, it was only then that Andrew turned his gaze to him again.

“You knew,” he let out in a bitter chuckle.

“I didn’t,” Sam defended himself. “I didn’t, I just… She told Daphne that someone had asked her out, but we didn’t know if she had accepted to go or not. I just… we just wanted you to have a chance to tell her how you felt before she would take a decision.”

“A little late for that.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t put the blame on me, that’s unfair! You’ve known Y/N for years, you’ve been head over heels for her for so fucking long, and you’ve been sleeping with her for months! You had plenty of time to tell her…”

“And I shouldn’t have!” Andrew answered with anger shaking his voice, turning it into a booming sound that echoed through the living room. “I shouldn’t have kissed her that night, and I shouldn’t have slept with her, and I should have kept my bloody mouth shut!”

“Of course not, you were right to finally act on your feelings!”

“Was I? Look where it got me!”

He heaved a frustrated sigh, almost a groan. Damn, he wanted to tear his own lungs apart…

“Talking to her was never the problem, Sam. She doesn’t love me. My feelings aren’t reciprocated. That’s the problem.”

“She’s making a mistake…”

“Didn’t you hear me? She doesn’t feel anything for me. She doesn’t want to be with me. She only wanted a fling, I was around, and she got one. End of story.”

Sam shook his head, but didn’t know what to add.

“I’m sorry, Andy. It makes no fucking sense to me. I was certain she felt the same… it was obvious.”

“She doesn’t want to be with me. She doesn’t want to wait around while I’m gone touring. I’m not good enough…”

“Now, stop it! You’re just wallowing in self-pity and indulging in some self-deprecating bullshit! You are good enough.”

“If I were, she wouldn’t be dating someone else,” Andrew spat back, and Sam wasn’t sure how he could counter that remark.

“You should have told me the truth,” Andrew went on after a short silence. “You should have told me there was someone else.”

“We didn’t even know she had accepted that date!”

“You should have told me. I went there hoping we could be together… that we could change it all to a proper relationship. And the next second, I’m out of the goddamn picture. It’s like… like my whole world crumbled down. You… you should have told me.”

Andrew blinked tears away, averting his eyes to hide his reaction. But his voice sounded more like a croak than a composed tone. Sam nodded.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. I just… I’m sorry. Do you want to tell me how it went?”

“I went there. I wanted to talk, but instead we had sex. And the pillow talk that I thought was going to turn into an invitation for a proper date ended up in me running away so she wouldn’t see me cry.”

“Damn, Andy… that’s brutal.”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t understand why she acted like this. It doesn’t sound like her, it���s…”

“Cruel. Disgusting. Unfair.”

“Yeah… kind of…”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand anything. I haven’t understood a thing since we’ve started this.”

“Maybe she’s scared…”

“Stop. Stop trying to see something where there’s nothing at all. She wanted sex, and I was around. And I was foolish enough to think she cared. That’s all.”

Sam heaved a sigh, but nodded anyway.

“Have you talked to her since that night?”

“No.”

“Has she reached out?”

“Many times. I’m hesitating to block her number.”

“You should talk things out, though.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You ran away, you said it yourself. Perhaps… perhaps if you talked, you could understand why she did this to you. Not why she doesn’t feel the same, but… why she acted like that. Why she hurt you like that.”

Andrew weighed his friend’s words. They sounded wise, but promised a lot of pain too.

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

Sam nodded again.

“Can I do anything to make you feel less terrible?”

“Not really, no. I just… I just need to process everything that happened.”

Sam rested a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder, but he didn’t react.

“You’re a good man, Andy. I know… I know it’s hard. But… don’t let this make you feel bad about yourself, okay? It’s not your fault. And you’re a good man.”

Andrew’s gaze followed the branches swaying back and forth with the wind.

Not good enough for her to love me…

Two weeks passed, and it was time to buy the suits for the wedding. Andrew was doing his best to smile and look the part of the perfect best man, but he was nothing but numb with pain.

You shouldn’t be there, Sam had promised that; even though the same shop was taking care of the dresses and the suits, they had different areas, to make sure that the future bride and groom would not be able to see each other. Anyway, Daphne’s appointment had begun almost two hours ago, Andrew expected that she and her bridesmaids – including you – were long gone by now.

It was a fancy place, all wooden walls and shelves of silk and wool. The style of an old, traditional tailor. The carpet was a deep shade of green and blue, leathered seats around a large room with a set of mirrors and a long wooden table at the centre. It could have been a set for some old spy movie.

If all his friends knew that something was off with him, Andrew was grateful that they didn’t insist when he answered that he didn’t want to talk about it. Sam was the only one who knew about you and him, and Andrew was set on keeping it this way.

Sam was nervous as he tried on different suits. Andrew couldn’t hide that he was entertained by it, while a tailor was taking his measurements as well. They had all agreed on some colours and models, and Andrew had answered with a polite smile to the usual joke about his height.

It was an emotional moment when Sam stood in front of a mirror, wearing the suit he would wear for his wedding. A few adjustments were necessary, there were tiny colourful pins here and there, but it was the suit. Andrew patted his shoulder with a fond smile on his lips.

“Congratulations, Sam,” he said softly, voice warm and sincere. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, mate,” his friend answered with tears in his eyes. “God… it’s really happening. I’m really going to marry the love of my life. What a lucky bastard I am, huh?”

They both laughed. Their three other friends who were there were chatting behind them, comparing a set of belts.

“A handsome fellow too,” Andrew complimented.

“Right? Not ugly enough to make Daphne run away?”

“Nah… you look sharp. Besides, she’s smitten with you… for some weird reason.”

“She must be out of her mind.”

“Without a doubt.”

Sam brushed a tear away.

“God, I’m so fucking happy…”

Andrew gave him a warm smile, an honest one, the first earnest smile he had given to anyone since that night.

“I don’t know about that thing, though…” Sam added, pointing at the blue pocket square.

He had chosen a deep shade of burgundy for his suit, while his groomsmen would be wearing brown. Andrew and Sam were to share the same shade for the pocket square though, as Andrew was his best man.

“Green could be nice,” Sam mumbled, trying to picture another colour.

“You want me to go ask for another sample?”

“Could you? That would be grand. Thanks, Andy. We should compare it to your suit too.”

Andrew merely nodded, walking out of the room in search for the tailor. He walked down a corridor, reached the hall and easily spotted the man he was looking for. He was talking with someone…

… and as he walked closer, Andrew recognised you.

Your gazes met before he could turn around and leave, and all he could do was stare with an agape mouth and a shocked expression. You froze as well, and your sudden silence made the tailor turn in Andrew’s direction.

“Can I do something for you, sir?” he asked, and Andrew forced himself to swallow so he could summon back his voice.

“Yeah… erm… sorry to bother you, we wanted to see other colours for the pocket squares, if it’s possible…”

“Of course, sir. I’ll fetch them right now.”

He added a few words to you, but Andrew had stopped listening. What the hell were you doing here? Daphne’s appointment was three hours ago…

You were so fucking beautiful… in a simple pair of blue jeans, an emerald shirt, and the sun coming in through the large shop windows. His heart was going a thousand miles a minute and he hated himself for wanting to kiss you. You had broken his heart, his soul, him… in a million pieces and his first reaction was still an urge to kiss you, and hold you, and never let go…

The tailor was gone without Andrew noticing. You took a couple of steps towards him, and he tried to walk away, but he didn’t have the strength for it.

God, he missed you so fucking much…

“Hi,” you breathed, looking quite stunned to see him there.

“Hi.”

 “How is Sam doing in there?”

“Good. Daphne?”

“Grand.”

“I thought you would be gone by now.”

He saw you clenching your jaw, noticed how this must have sounded… but he didn’t apologise for it.

“Yeah… well… Daphne and her mother are taking forever,” you joked. “And you can’t just ask a future bride to hurry, so…”

“Yeah…”

He cleared his throat, tried to look away. If he looked away, perhaps he could remember what you had done to him, and then he could go back to wanting to never see you again…

“Look, I… I know that now is obviously not the right time but… do you think that we could talk? Like… properly. You… you kind of stormed out last time, and I’m not blaming you for it,” you added in a hurry, as if to hold him back. “I… I understand. But we should talk about this. Could we do that?’

“I really don’t know what we could discuss,” Andrew shrugged, his voice growing harsher even if it was still low. “You’ve met someone else, there’s nothing to add.”

“You haven’t answered a single phone call since that night.”

He let out a long exhale through his nose, clenched his jaw. Still, his voice was soft when he answered.

“I… I don’t think we should see each other for a while, Y/N.”

“But I…”

“Please, just…”

“We should talk about this! Before taking any decision, we should talk about this! Andy… please…”

There were tears in your eyes and he was so angry by the sight. He was the one with a broken heart in this, with the unrequited feelings and the shattered self-esteem. Not you. Why the fuck were you crying when he was the one who felt betrayed and used?

“Look… Just one time. Let us talk about this, just once. And then, you can never see me again if you want.”

Andrew averted his eyes, buried his hands in the pockets of his trousers. But he nodded still.

“Alright.”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

He nodded again.

“Alright, then… come to my place tomorrow, okay? We can talk this through.”

He nodded, unable to look up at you again, he knew he would start crying if he did.

And then the tailor was back, talking about the colours of pocket squares, and Andrew followed him in silence back to Sam, and the happiness of a friend Andrew was determined not to taint with his own sorrow. He was smiling when he looked at the green fabrics the tailor had to offer.

[kmgkmg]

KISS ON THE TRAIN - CHWE HANSOL

word count: 0.7k...

pairing: hansol x gn!reader

synopsis: you and your boyfriend hansol are riding the train home, how will the commute go?

genre/s: fluff, non-idol!au, bf!hansol, established relationship, domestic

warnings: slightly suggestive

rating: pg-13

a/n: no editing done :O just in my feels for vernon! title is from the song kiss on the train by araya!!

“No, I can’t kiss you innocently, babe.” Hansol whines as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“And why’s that?” You laugh, amused at your boyfriend’s unexpected clinginess. 

You were both seated on the train, waiting for the doors to close again. Several days ago, Hansol stumbled across a video detailing a film festival taking place in your city and excitedly bought tickets for the two of you. You didn’t take much convincing to go, you loved movies as much as him seeing the films together was just the icing on top. But, the video failed to mention that the festival was an 80 minute train ride from your place and that there were about six different events taking place today. So, nearly four hours after the festival finished, you and Hansol were still crammed on the train. You asked him for a quick peck on the lips, needing to recharge after the long day but he firmly shook his head no. 

“I mean, unless you want me to makeout with you on the train…” He trails off, not moving his body an inch from yours. His fingers were softly entwined with yours. 

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!” You jokingly scold, “A simple kiss is all I asked for. The rest…well we can do that when we’re back home.” You finish, squeezing his hand that was interlocking with yours. 

Hansol shifts from his position next to you and stares into your eyes, “You mean it? I thought you would be angry with how crowded the commute back is.”

“Why would I be angry with you? I mean sure it’s hot and musty right now, but you couldn’t have predicted that. Plus, the movie festival had so many up and coming BIPOC directors. It was nice to see such a wide range of films! I mean the way that they’re breaking genres is inspirational, right? Especially that last one, Fireworks from Space? That one totally reminded me of Sorry to Bother You with LaKeith Stanfield.” 

Hansol listens intently to your ramble, happy that you enjoyed the festival as much as he did. He loves your shared passion for movies. He loves the way your eyes lit up — without fail — whenever you were excited about something. Sure, he’s dated his fair share of people, but never someone as big of a cinephile as him. 

“Fireworks from Space was super underrated! Y/N, I can’t believe we were two of the only ten people that went to that showing. And I definitely see what you mean by it resembling Sorry to Bother You. I think it also has similar aspects to Wes Anderson’s cinematography with the attention to detail, specifically symmetry.”  Hansol went on an equally long tangent, relieved that you weren’t upset with him. 

“Yes! I think I read in the interview with Director Jeon that he was heavily influenced by Anderson’s movie The French Dispatch when storyboarding for Fireworks from Space.” You elaborate, having your stomach loudly rumble at the end of your sentence. 

Before you could play it off, Hansol was scavenging through his bag trying to find anything to curb your hunger. 

“Hansol, I’m fine, really!” You tap his leg, trying to get him to stop his rummaging. 

“No, here at least eat this to tide you over. Then we can pick up some takeout at that Korean place a block from our place on the way home, yeah?” Hansol was holding a granola bar in front of you. He already opened the plastic packaging and was waiting for you to take a bite. 

“Wait, so a quick peck is too much to ask for but you’ll feed me?” You frowned. 

Without batting an eye, Hansol leaned in, rubbing your leg with his free hand and kissed you deeply. Each time he kissed you, you felt as if single handedly knocked the wind out of you and gave you air simultaneously. Nearly half a year of dating him and he still left you a mess. 

“There. Now eat, Y/N.” He instructed, holding the granola bar up to your face once again. 

“O-okay, but I can feed myself.” You replied, taking the snack from his grip. 

He returned to his original position of resting his head on your shoulder, satisfied with himself.

You watched several films, but the scene that just played out was undoubtedly the most memorable of the night.

[lizbethborden]

Hi again! Yeah, from your bookshelf! You seem well informed and I wanna know the type of stuff you read and might recommend. I don't even know what to tell you for my interests because I feel like I'm just begining. Sorry I'm young and dumb still haha.

#1 you're not dumb and #2 nothing to apologize for :)

Here's some books I've got on my shelves or that I've read:

Men Who Hate Women: From Incels to Pickup Artists, Laura Bates

Pro: Reclaiming Abortion Rights, Katha Pollitt

Women, Race, & Class, Angela Davis

American Girls, Nancy Jo Sales

Lesbian Culture: An Anthology, eds. Julia Penelope and Susan J Wolf

Lesbian Studies, Margaret Cavendish

Hood Feminism, Mikki Kendall

Against White Feminism, Rafia Zakaria

Sister and Brother: Lesbians and Gay Men Write About Their Lives Together, eds Joan Nestle and John Preston

Another Mother Tongue, Judy Grahn

Aimee & Jaguar, Erica Fischer

Mouths of Rain: An Anthology of Black Lesbian Thought, ed. Briona Simone Jones

Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe, John Boswell

The Mary Daly Reader, eds. Jennifer Rycenga and Linda Barufaldi

Hidden from History: Reclaiming the Gay and Lesbian Past, eds. Martin Duberman, Martha Vicinus, George Chauncey Jr.

Testosterone Rex: Myths of Sex, Science, and Society, Cordelia Fine

Speaking Freely: Unlearning the Lies of the Father's Tongue, Julia Penelope

The Resisting Reader, Judith Fetterley

The Double X Economy, Linda Scott

Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture, ed. Roxane Gay

Home Grown: How Domestic Violence Turns Men Into Terrorists, Joan Smith

Intercourse, Andrea Dworkin

The Trials of Nina McCall: Sex, Surveillance, and the Decades-Long Government Plan to Imprison "Promiscuous" Women, Scott Stern

The Politics of Reality: Essays in Feminist Theory, Marilyn Frye

Only Words, Catharine A. Mackinnon

Everything Below the Waist: Why Health Care Needs a Feminist Revolution, Jennifer Block

Witchcraze: A New History of the European Witch Hunts, Anne Llwellyn Barstow

Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Frontlines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture, Peggy Orenstein

Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World Designed for Men, Caroline Criado-Perez

Lesbian Ethics: Toward New Values, Sarah Lucia Hoagland

We Were Feminists Once: From Riot Grrrl to CoverGirl, the Buying and Selling of a Political Movement, Andi Zeisler

Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution, Adrienne Rich

On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose, Adrienne Rich

Feminism, Animals, and Science: The Naming of the Shrew, Lynda Birke

The Female Body in Western Culture: Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Susan Rubin Suleiman

Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Gloria Anzaldua

Flesh Wounds: The Culture of Cosmetic Surgery, Virginia L Blum

Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment, Patricia Hill Collins

Pornland: How Porn has Hijacked our Sexuality, Gail Dines

Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women, Susan Faludi

From Eve to Dawn: A History of Women in the World, Marilyn French

This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, eds. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua

Seeing Like a Feminist, Nivedita Menon

With Her Machete In Her Hand: Reading Chicana Lesbians, Catriona Reuda Esquibel

The Disappearing L: Erasure of Lesbian Spaces and Culture, Bonnie J. Morris

Foundlings: Lesbian and Gay Historical Emotion before Stonewall, Christopher Nealon

The Persistent Desire: A Butch/Femme Reader, ed. Joan Nestle

The Straight Mind and Other Essays, Monique Wittig

The Trouble Between us: An Uneasy History of White and Black Women in the Feminist Movement, Winifred Breines

Right-Wing Women, Andrea Dworkin

Woman Hating, Andrea Dworkin

Why I Am Not A Feminist, Jessica Crispin

Sapphistries: A Global History of Love Between Women, Leila J Rupp

I tried to avoid too many left turns into my specific interests although if you passionately want to know any of those, I can make you some more lists LOL

I would suggest picking a book that sounds interesting and using the footnotes and bibliography to find more to read. I've done that a lot :) a lot of my books have more sticky tabs or w/e in the bibliography than in the text so I don't lose stuff I'm interested in.

Hope this helps!

[thesoftdumbass]

lost in your current like a priceless wine

Ezra (Prospect) x reader, pirate AU

Word count: 2,200~

Warnings: piracy, mentions of death and murder (because pirates), swearing in general, no Y/N

Summary: When the crew of The Queen's Lair boards and dispatches the crew of The Harvester, there is one person on deck that Captain Ezra hadn't accounted for, a teenage girl. It takes some convincing, but the fiery Cee comes along as the crew sail onward.

Just some things to mention: The reader is pretty much neutral, I don't describe her, but she does have a backstory and a nickname (Moony). I took heavy influence from both Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death, so you might see little pieces (or characters) from both of these shows. I just...I love pirates and I love Ezra. Something like this was bound to happen.

my masterlist

Below deck, The Queen’s Lair is quiet as you use your unoccupied time to take stock of meal reserves for you and your shipmates, writing the inventory on a spare piece of parchment to share with your captain. Supplies are on the low side and you note that the crew will soon need to make a stop to gather more. Since the evening meal isn’t due for a while, your hammock looks pretty appealing, and just as you decide to take an afternoon nap you hear the call go up.

“Sails!”

There goes your chance for rest, you sigh to yourself as you open the door of the large pantry below deck and make your way up the stairs and onto the bow. You encounter the captain and quartermaster, the two passing a long glass between them as they determine a course of action.

“-merchant ship will have plenty of valuable cargo, and any profitable items that we do not use for ourselves will be passed along the trading route through Nassau.” At the tail end of his sentence the captain meets your eye, and with one nod to his partner, dismisses them silently to begin preparations.

As the captain turns to face you, his eyes squint against the overhead sun but he meets your gaze all the same. “This is your chance, Moony, what do you think of joining the raiding crew?

A huff of a laugh escapes you and you give the captain a sarcastic look before replying. “Not today, Cap. Maybe I’ll join next time.”

He shakes his head at you, one side of his mouth lifting in amusement. “That’s what you said when we were facing the French merchants. And the English freighter before that, and so on...I’m beginning to think that your heart is just not in a place for wanting wealth and adventure.”

“Say what you will, Captain, but I get my share whether I’m swinging a sword or making supper. And you don’t keep me on board for the former.”

“I don’t only keep you on for the latter,” Ezra murmurs and your brow furrows at the possible deeper meaning, but before you can ask he’s being called away by the sailing master. 

You squint your eyes against the sun to take a look at the ship sailing nearer into view, its flags clearly displaying a supply ship. At least your worry about supplies running low can go unvoiced for now, as you have no doubts that your captain and crew can’t capture the ship and its cargo. Leaving the men above board to their respective roles, you make your way below to secure and arrange your existing crates in the pantry, sending up hopes that your crew is successful, and that the other ship’s crew makes the smart move of surrendering.

Ezra watches through a haze of gunsmoke as his men dispatch the crew of The Harvester, effectively taking over the supply ship. When the crew of the Queen’s Lair had raised the black, their target hadn’t tried to run, letting the pirates board their ship without a fight. It had turned to shit when their captain, a rapacious man named Damon, tried turning the tables on Ezra, his threats of counterattack for recompense negating the attempted peaceful acquisition. Along with a square refusal, Damon earned himself a dagger to the gut and his crew lost the chance to join Ezra’s, each one of them meeting a similar fate as their captain. 

He’s not proud of it, the violence that haunts his days and unconscious visions. Most days, he spends drafting travel routes and relaxing with his crew until the next big grab. But sometimes, this type of brutality is necessary. Ezra’s men depend on him to provide for themselves and their families. That knowledge, as well as the fact that most captures actually go without bloodshed, keep Ezra’s head up as he continues to do what he’s good at. 

A cough near his feet brings Ezra’s mind back to the present and his unfocused gaze turns from his crew taking stock of the ship to the captain at his feet, the man’s glassy eyes blinking up at him. “Captain,” the man croaks. Getting the impression that he’s going to say more, Ezra squats down to be closer to him, an assessing eye on how much blood has pooled around his abdomen and is now starting to weep from his mouth and down his chin. Damon won’t last but minutes more.

“Please,” he coughs out, glazed eyes meeting Ezra’s umber ones. “Please don’t let them hurt her.” 

Confusion sweeps over Ezra, his brow furrowing as he tries to determine the implications behind Damon’s words, but the other man doesn’t give him much time. A hand wraps around the lapels of his coat and pulls him forward, his face drawing nearer to Damon’s, the other man’s voice as grave as his outlook. “Promise me.”

He finds himself nodding, a solemn expression sent towards his fallen adversary. “I promise.” 

This time when Ezra’s blade meets Damon’s skin, it is with mercy, the light going from behind the other captain’s eyes before he can suffer any longer.

Ezra wipes off his blade, standing from his crouched position and mulling over Damon’s words. Perhaps by “her”, he meant the ship. Not a real beauty by most standards. Instead of setting the vessel aflame like normal procedure, he supposed he could tow it back to Nassau with him and make a profit off it, though the blood staining the wooden deck wouldn’t be much of a selling point. The captain shakes himself of that thought but decides to ponder on the other man’s words before taking action.

The ship echoes with Ezra’s footsteps as he makes his way across the deck and through the stairwell leading down, his intended destination the captain’s quarters on the aft. Passing the kitchen and the crew’s communal quarters, he finds the only remaining entryway that must be what he’s looking for. 

As soon as the handle twists in his grip and he opens the door wide enough to step through, something whistles above his head as he ducks, and shatters into pieces on the wall behind him. Ezra finds shards of broken glass on the ground and tracks its trajectory across the captain’s quarters to behind the heavy desk, where his eyes pick out...a girl. An adolescent by the looks of it, and despite the fierce scowl on her face and the arm drawn back aiming another vase at his head, she’s terrified.

“Hold on now, birdie,” Ezra placates the girl with two hands raised to show a truce. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The girl’s mouth pinches disbelievingly, one eyebrow raised in defiance. “Oh?” Ezra hears footsteps as a portion of his crew makes their way to his location, the commotion drawing a small crowd. “And how would I know that?”

Several pirates pile into the hallway outside of the room, wanting to assist the captain but keeping their distance as he gives them a meaningful look, one of the captain’s hands cautioning them to move with care, while the other stays in place as a show of peace. 

“Well, you don’t,” Ezra finally answers the girl, but as his eyes meet hers across the room he pours all the sincerity he can find into them. “But I suppose that you’re the one who Damon has entrusted me to protect.”

The girl’s eyes drop to the floor, the vase she had intended to use as a projectile weapon in her hands resting at her side in resignation. Ezra takes this as a sign of progress, moving his eyes back to the crew around him and nodding to his man closest to the door. A serious expression takes over the captain’s face as he doles out this task. “I need Moony here”

“You need to come with me,” Billy tells you when he finds you below deck. When all you do is look up from your book with a raised eyebrow, the man huffs impatiently. “Captain asked for you specifically, he wants you over on the Harvester.”

“Why, did he find some cargo he couldn’t wait to show me? Or maybe he’s just trying to get me in on the action again,” you mutter, turning the page in your book.

Billy’s response is flat but urgent when he replies. “There’s a girl on board.” 

“Fuck,” you mutter, marking your page before jumping out of your hammock and reaching for your coat, pulling it on as you rush out the door. “Why didn’t you say that first, Bones?!”

Billy fills you in as he follows you up and over the boards to the other ship’s deck, taking the lead once you’re across until you arrive at a doorway surrounded by men on one side. A few steps inside the room is the captain, and as you make your way around the corner you can see the girl that Billy told you about. She’s a skinny thing in traditional boy’s clothes, blonde hair pulled back from her face to allow for less distraction, keen eyes twitching toward every sound and sign of movement.

Ezra watches as you take in the girl’s appearance, and her fearful suspicion of the men surrounding her. He gestures his head toward the door and his men take the cue to leave, heading back to the tasks they were previously drawn from. As he clears his throat and you meet his eyes, an understanding passes that the girl would be coming back to the Queen’s Lair with you, and he’d rather it be on her terms. At the nod of your head, he leaves, closing the door behind him and you hear his footsteps stop just down the short hallway. 

Unsure where to start, you bring your hands together in front of you, fidgeting with the cuff on your coat, the girl’s eyes following your movements. “So I hear you made quite the impression on my captain,” you settle on.

Her eyes narrow and a noncommittal hum travels to you, but she says nothing.

Deciding on a different approach, one less casual, you clear your throat. “I assume you know that the crew of the ship-”

“They’re all dead,” she cuts you off, her no-nonsense tone a bit of a surprise, but you welcome a change to the silence.

“That’s right,” you murmur, your voice coming out small and the girl notices, her head tilting to the side as she observes you closer. You move past it, hoping that she will as well. 

“I’m also assuming you know what happens to a ship that has been ransacked by pirates, and no longer has a crew to pilot it.”

Her brow furrows as she thinks for a moment, “I’ve heard rumors, but I don’t know for certain.”

You nod, taking a step further into the room, and you notice it’s the captain’s quarters of the ship. “It gets left behind.” You reach a bookshelf taking the space up along one wall of the room and bring one hand up to run along the titles there. Ezra already has most of them on board, and he lets you raid his collection when you’re inclined to do so. “That is, until the fire that the pirate crew sets eats up the sails and everything under them.”

The room is filled only with tension for a moment as you let your words sink in. “It would be best if you’re not aboard when that happens.”

The girl meets your eyes then, and briefly, you can see through her hard mask to the sadness setting up home underneath. “Dad says that a ship is no place for a girl. He says that he wouldn’t risk bringing me with him if I had another place to go. Well, he…said.” Her eyes meet the floor at the realization that her father no longer exists in the present tense. 

“You don’t have another place to go. Not anymore. Not until we can get you back to land and figure out what you want to do next.”

Her shoulders are tight, her nod uncomfortable in the stifling silence of the room. You continue to look around, walking slowly about the floor for a few minutes. You find a copy of a book on the desk that you’ve not heard of, tilting your head as you open the front cover to read for a moment. The girl watches the entire time, wondering what you will do next. It’s no wonder that she’s apprehensive. She’s just had her ship attacked by pirates and lost her father in one swoop. You can guess what she’s dealing with, meanwhile you parade around her father’s office as casually as if you’re browsing a shop at home. 

You want to make her comfortable around you, or at least as close to it as she can get. A small sigh leaves your lips, talking to people has never been your strong suit, even before you were surrounded by pirates whose emotional vulnerability couldn’t always fill a room. Turning your gaze once more to meet that of the girl, you soften your expression, the corners of your mouth even lifting into a gentle smile.

“Well since we’ll be traveling together for a while until we get back to land, we’ll have to get to know each other a little better. They call me Moony,” you offer your hand and your given name as well. 

“My name is Cee,” she returns, not accepting your handshake but meeting you halfway with a nod.

“It’s nice to meet you, Cee.”

next

So, I haven't flushed out everything that happens yet in this fic, but I have about 16 pages of this universe in a google doc I've been sitting on for over a year! Plus, @fuckyeahdindjarin posted a Jack Daniels pirate drabble this morning that pushed me over the edge.

If you like my fic so far, please leave a comment or reblog and let me know what you liked about it to give me inspiration to continue. Thank you so much for reading!

Everything tags: @greeneyedblondie44 @kickingitwithkirk @mad-girl-without-a-box @feelmyroarrrr @rosie-posie08

Pedro Pascal Character tags: @aficwhore @annathewitch @trickstersp8

Lost in Your Current tags: @fuckyeahdindjarin

[hoe4wesanderson]

hi do you still write fanfic?

Of course I do! Send me some requests. Platonic, cutesy puppy love, angst. (I’ll write anything 😻)…I think you can guess what anything means. It means smut 🤫

[starlightsuffered]

We’re Under the Same Moon

Info - potential love bombing, unrequited love, some mentions of sex, using quotes, exchange student Zeffirelli

I knew he wasn’t interested in me now. He was off in France. Our whirlwind romance in America hadn’t meant as much as I’d hoped and prayed.

Zeffirelli was a French heart throb. He’d come over to America for a study abroad program. Though I was in art classes and he in politics, we’d favoured the same study area in the library.

The connection had been instant. We’d had sex on the third day we’d met. It was hushed and quick, up against the book stacks.

He was adoring, giving me all his attention. He even confessed he couldn’t focus on his studies. He began calling me “ Mon Immortel bien-aimé” as he thrust into me. I was flushed with chills and possessed with smiles. I had always said of myself that I desired violently. I had been waiting for a love like this. Everything had slotted into place so perfectly.

I felt so foolish when I had cried the whole night before his flight. In the morning I’d gotten up early. I had done my hair and perfected my makeup and outfit. I had bounced up to him to say goodbye. I had such same high hopes. I was positive he’d say yes.

I had been planning to ask him to be my boyfriend. This was such a beautiful love story. Two people from different places falling desperately in love. I had a smile on my face as I’d come up to him. He dipped me and kissed me. I’d come up giggling.

“Of Zeffirelli, I’m so glad we met,” I’d said.

“I am too darling,” he’d purred. I’d felt myself melt completely.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you as well.”

“I wanted to ask you to be my boyfriend,” I’d looked at him with a beaming smile. His face had fallen.

After that he’d explained to me he was never looking for a relationship. He was much to focused on his future career. He agreed that we could be friends but he had never felt deeply for me. I’d felt my fairytale shatter.

I knew I was supposed to get over it quickly. All my friends told me it had only been a few months. I felt differently. I had finally felt like what I had to give had been appreciated. I hadn’t felt dumb for moving quickly and falling fast because it had seemed like he was as well.

All these many months later I still felt down. I felt like my one chance at that magical moment was gone, wasted on someone who didn’t feel the same about me.

I was even foolish enough to still write him letters. I never sent them. I wasn’t that pathetic. Sometimes I dreamed I got drunk and sent them to him, and then he wrote me back saying he’d made a huge mistake.

“dear dear

my most distant love—

when i dream of you i wake in a field so blue i drown.”

I rubbed my arms. I wasn’t cold, just lonely. I’d been trying to sleep for hours. I’d tried sounds of the ocean, an audio book, and music. Every time my mind kept wandering to our kisses, his mumbled words into my skin, the last look on his face. Even though my eyes were closed in an effort to sleep, tears kept welling.

I was finally, wondering what I could do or use to get to sleep and stop thinking. I just wanted to sleep. I wanted the racing thoughts to stop. I missed his hands and his laugh and his attention. I missed his smile and hearing his opinion. I missed and missed and missed.

Were under the same moon and I'm sick with that knowing.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[elioslover]

Hiii! I've been meaning to do this for a while, so here's a little info about me! I'm Emmy (Emma) I'm 27, the messiest Virgo, a far-too dramatic INFP, born and living in South Africa. Here's a little Face Claim. I'm a creative writing & literature graduate and I've been on this hellscape for the past 11 years posting under @cheap-packof-cigarettes.

You can check out my Masterlist. Currently working on two series:

Grapejuice (Harry Styles x reader - a story of the brothers best friend, and a trip to Italy.)

Employee of the Month (Steve Harrington x reader - a story of a summer job, and enemies to lovers.)

Some unnecessary lists of my interests hehe:

Fave face claims/ fandoms: Harry Styles, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Bucky Barnes, Aemond Targaryen, Joe Quinn.

Fave artists: Phoebe Bridgers, Mac Miller, Still Woozy, Wet Leg, Harry Styles, Boygenius, Arctic Monkeys, JID, Led Zeppelin, ABBA.

Fave movies: Aftersun!! Boogie Nights, The French Dispatch, The Grinch, In Bruges, When Harry Met Sally, Anatomy of a Fall, CLUE, There Will Be Blood, Scooby Doo: Spooky Island.

Fave series: Bojack Horseman, Modern Family, Arrested Development, Orange is the New Black, House of the Dragon, Haunting on Hill House, Archer.

Fave books: One Hundred Years of Solitude, American Psycho, Love in the Time of Cholera, Purple Hibiscus, Like Water for Chocolate, Equus, 12 Angry Men.

I have another blog where I do things like film reviews, free-form poetry, creative writing, think pieces, etc. if you're interested, you can check that out here!

Drop me a message, I'd love to chat about fic ideas, or even just casual interests! 🍇

[growup-thatbeautiful]

zeffirelli x m reader where reader is zeffs muse.Reader can't do anything without being stopped by zeff.Anything reader is stopped.Getting a book, eating, playing chess,sleeping, bathing, changing clothes.Whatever zeffs boyfriend does zeff tells him to stop and pulls out a sketch book.

A/n: hey! thank you for the idea ♥️ i just did gender neutral no pronouns, hope that’s okay! no other gender related stuff.

“Hold that pose,” Zeffirelli says. You hear it every day from him, that phrase, but it never fails to make you grin. He’s sitting across the room from you in a green velvet armchair that you’re sure his parents bought for you, and he looks every bit the part of an artist. His hair, usually wild, is somehow sticking up even worse than usual, and there’s pencil marks all over the pads of his fingertips. You know the callouses on his hands well, and you can see the angry red blisters forming where old ones were peeled off. It’s a habit of his you’ve been trying to break to no avail.

“I’m reading a book,” you remind him, “I wasn’t planning on moving, love.”

He huffs an annoyed sound before reaching for the sketchbook that he keeps in his bag. “You don’t have to be smart about it.”

“I do if you keep asking me to pose for you. I can’t do a single thing without you stopping me.”

“That’s not true,” he defends, his eyes switching rapidly between you and his sketchbook. When he’s drawing, his hair flops down in front of his eyes and his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. It’s endearing, and you have it memorized from the amount of times you’ve watched him like this.

“Zef, you drew me while I was cooking breakfast and we almost burned the apartment down.” Despite your protests, you don’t move like he told you to. As annoying as it can get, you don’t hate being drawn by him anymore. “And we’ve never made it through a game of chess.”

“I would beat you anyway, amor.”

“I know you would.” You continue flicking through the pages of your book in comfortable silence, the only sound being the occasional scratch of his pencil against the paper. You tell yourself to stay put and look as natural as possible, which you’re still working on.

“I’m done,” he says after a while. You mark the spot on your page with a slip of paper (Zeffirelli refuses to call it a bookmark) and make your way over to sit on the arm of his chair. “What do you think?”

It’s a lovely drawing. The light, made of black and white shadows, catches your eyes in an enchanting fashion, and the pattern of your pajama top looks so incredibly soft and textured. It makes you look like a vision, sweet and still and beautiful.

It’s the way he sees you when you aren’t paying attention. Before you get dressed and before you’ve tried to care about what you look like.

Through the drawing, you see why he’s in love with you. Through the drawing, you remember why you’re in love with him.

“It’s beautiful, Zef,” you whisper with a kiss to his temple. “Thank you.”

He leans into your touch. “No, love, thank you. What would I draw without you, hm?”

There are a lot of things he could draw- you’ve seen his drawings of buildings and animals and cups of coffee- but the idea is flattering.

It’s not so bad to be his muse. Especially when it ends like this; you, curled up next to him, listening as he talks about your plans for the day, your fingers carding through his hair.

Yeah, there are worse things to be.

taglist: @shawnieeboyy @itshellinthereitshorror

[theharddeck]

watcha up to tag game

thanks for the tags @bradshawsbitch and @antiquitea 💙

currently reading: arsenic & adobo, by Mia P. Manansala, for my book club with my bestie!

last song: in the kitchen, by renee rap

last movie: the French dispatch and I was delighted by it

currently working on: fandom related, it’s the last half of Cross x Coyote! I’m also trying to get a manuscript of mine out to a beta reader, so that’s taking up time out in the real world…should really start on the Jake Valentine’s Day fic

no pressure tags: @laracrofted @rhettabbotts @wildbornsiren @javihoney @roosterforme just sayin’ hi 💙

[darkmaga-returns]

Trump will never forget what they said, and he’s not one to forgive his enemies, so his personal problems with Tusk and Sikorski might worsen to the detriment of the Polish-US Strategic Partnership.   

Conservative-nationalist Polish MEP Dominik Tarczynski, who cooperated closely with Trump’s 2024 campaign, confirmed that the returning president has received proof of top Polish politicians’ irresponsible past statements about him. Interested readers can reference Polish analyst Zygfryd Czaban’s thread on X here compiling the most provocative claims, which include Prime Minister Donald Tusk calling Trump a Russian agent and Foreign Minister Radek Sikorski smearing him as a proto-fascist.

Furthermore, Vice President-elect JD Vance called Tusk out for his authoritarian crackdown against the opposition early this year long before he became Trump’s running mate, so it can be taken for granted that the incoming administration already has negative views about the incumbent Polish one. This will certainly influence the political dynamics between them in spite of the shared geostrategic interests that bring their countries together. Trump might even go as far as vindictively bullying Tusk and Sikorski.  

To that end, it can’t be ruled out that he’ll pressure Poland to take the lead in dispatching peacekeepers to Ukraine to patrol its side of the 800-mile demilitarized zone (DMZ) that the Wall Street Journal reported that he might propose as part of a compromise for ending the conflict. An unnamed member of his team was quoted by them as saying that “We are not sending American men and women to uphold peace in Ukraine. And we are not paying for it. Get the Poles, Germans, British and French to do it.”

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yourusername

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yourusername 🖼

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entertainmenttonight

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entertainmenttonight And just like that, Timothée Chalamet and Y/N L/N are officially dating! After sharing pictures of their date at the MET, the couple were later seen at a restaurant, showing PDA. 💕 ⏭ Link in bio for everything we know about the newly couple. (📸: Getty Images)

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