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whatstruthgottodowithit · 2 years ago

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The Girl He Left Behind [Part Eighteen]

Fandom: American Actor, RPF, Elvis Presley, Elvis Movie 2022

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Original Female Character

Characters: Elvis Presley, Addison Goodwin, Gladys Presley, Vernon Presley, Minnie May ‘Dodger’ Presley, Red West, Sonny West, Gene Smith, Billy Smith, Original Female Characters, Colonel Tom Parker, Billy Smith, Marci Cunningham, Steve Cunningham, Jerry Schilling, Mary Jenkins, Alan Fortas, Marty Lacker, Original Male Characters, Mona Goodwin, Joe Goodwin

Word Count: 7720 // Rating: Mature

Summary: When Elvis returns home to Graceland from the Army he’s followed by the headlines ‘The Girl He Left Behind’ but what the media don’t know is that Priscilla wasn’t the first. No, that title belongs to someone Elvis will never forget.

Tags/ Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Graceland, Poverty, Friends to Lovers, 1950s Elvis, Bad Parenting, Surprise Surprise the Colonel Is a Colossal Prick, Parental Loss, Grief, Fun Fairs, Kissing, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Movie Nights, Arguing, Tension, Denial of Feelings, Age Gap Romance, Underage, Addison is 17 Elvis is 22, Guilt, Betrayal, Extortion, Blackmail, Jealous, Army Elvis, American Draft, US Army, Lying, Time Shift with Elvis moving to Memphis, Flashbacks, Caught Addison’s Dress for this Part, The Necklace,

Notes: What more could you ask for on Easter Sunday than these two finally fckin?

LINK TO ALL PARTS // AO3 LINK // PINTEREST LINK

@girlblogger2002 @sania562 @caitlin1996 @literally-just-elvis-fics @notstefaniepresley @artlesson8892

‘You’ll be fine,’ Addison mumbled to herself as she nervously wrung her fingers in front of her. She couldn’t believe how anxious she felt even though she’d had ample practice over the past few months. A knock came from the door but she didn’t have time to answer as Elvis popped his head in and quickly ducked inside coming to stand in front of her and wrapping his arms around her waist. Addison leaned into his chest for comfort just for a moment and when she pulled back he was looking down at her with concern as he said, 'nervous?' ‘A little,’ she said though it was followed by a sigh as he raised a sceptical eyebrow, ‘okay so maybe more than a little. What if I mess up?’ ‘What’s there to mess up? It’s one measly driver’s test. You’ve done enough practice and got enough driver’s ed hours in. Not to mention you’re a natural. And if you get nervous just pretend it’s you and me drivin’,’ Elvis said. ‘Yeah I guess,’ she said unconvinced. ‘And there’s still time for me to bribe them,’ he joked. ‘Not funny,’ she said rolling her eyes. ‘Okay no bribes but you could tell them they have to pass you otherwise your new car will go to rust and nobody wants that,’ Elvis said. ‘You haven’t,’ she chastised swatting him hard on the chest. ‘Ow, Jesus Addie,’ he said rubbing his chest, ‘no I haven’t. I listened to your rules.’ ‘Good, because-’ ‘You’re not a charity case and I’ve spent too much on you already,’ Elvis said finishing her sentence for her with a roll of his eyes. Addison smiled though she could see the slight upset behind his banter. ‘You know I appreciate the offer though, right?’ she asked.

Elvis pondered that for a moment. He knew she wasn’t rejecting him out of spite it was just that she was proud. Aggravatingly so in his opinion. He wanted to spoil her. It wasn’t charity. He loved being able to provide for his family and friends as he could do now. He’d seen struggle and strife before so why shouldn’t he be allowed to give to those he wanted to? It wasn’t as though she was some fame-hungry phoney looking for a handout. Yet she was stubborn, exceedingly so. So he had to be careful which is why he’d planned his next move carefully. He wasn’t going to let her get her way entirely.

‘I know,’ he said kissing her forehead. ‘Because I really am,’ she said with a soft smile. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I have got you something.’

He let her go for a second and Addison watched as he fished in his pocket and produced a sleek long box. He opened it and placed it in between them. Inside it was a dainty gold chain with a small garnet heart attached to it.

‘Elvis,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I know you said no fuss but if I can’t be there then I wanted to do at least something,’ he said clearing his throat nervously, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Elvis it’s gorgeous,’ she said softly making him smile. ‘Turn around,’ he said. Addison turned around and allowed him to drape the necklace around her, his fingers ghosting the nape of her neck just a touch before she turned around, glancing down at it as best she could. ‘Looks good,’ he said. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. Elvis nodded and then cleared his throat, ‘uh, we should get a move on. Otherwise you’ll be late.’

Addison nodded feeling a guilty feeling wash over her as he singled her out with his words and headed to the door. They headed to the living room where they found his parents and Dodger sitting watching TV. When they entered Vernon shuffled out of his seat, grabbing his jacket off the arm of the couch.

‘Ready to go?’ Vernon asked. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Addison said, ‘thanks for taking me by the way.’ ‘It’s no trouble,’ Vernon said with a smile, ‘besides you’ll be able to do it all on your own in a couple of hours.’ ‘Daddy you’re making her nervous,’ Elvis said noticing Addison’s weak smile. He had been loitering by the door but came towards her, placing his hand on the small of her back discreetly. ‘I’m just being positive,’ Vernon said. ‘Yeah, a little positivity won’t hurt besides she can do anything she puts her mind to and then some,’ Dodger said with a smile that made Addison blush. ‘We know that,’ Elvis said sensing his girlfriend’s further discomfort. He didn’t try to fight his family though this time, instead he changed tact and steered the conversation away from Addison, ‘anyway you better get going. Don’t wanna be late.’ ‘And when are you ever on time?’ Addison said with a smirk. His diversion pulling her out of the uncomfortable funk she felt coming over her. ‘Always. I’m never late everyone else is simply early,’ Elvis said. ‘Sure, sure,’ Addison giggled. ‘And the way my daddy drives you better get going or you’ll definitely be late,’ Elvis said. ‘Oh thanks,’ Vernon chuckled as he donned his coat. ‘I don’t know why Vernon is taking you anyway,’ Gladys interjected pulling everyone’s attention to her, ‘I mean he’s not going to sit still until you get back you might as well take Elvis with you. It’d put me out of my misery.’ ‘Mama I ain’t that bad,’ Elvis said. ‘And roosters lay eggs,’ Gladys joked though her joking made that guilty feeling return to Addison as she thought about leaving him behind fortunately Elvis didn’t pick up on it as they all wished her a final good luck.

He watched her and his daddy head out the door and then, in an effort to seem casual, he took a seat beside his mother on the couch though it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to at least walk her to her car. Say goodbye properly. Or more than that he wanted to drive her to the test centre, celebrate with her when she passed and bring her home to a great big party and a shiny new car just for her waiting on the driveway. As he heard the car pulling out of the driveway Elvis sighed earning a suspicious glance from his mother. He smiled at her and then quickly turned his attention to the TV set. The colours and noises emitted from the screen should’ve been enough to distract him but he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, his mind was on a couple of weeks ago when he had been in the exact same situation.

Elvis sighed as he flicked through the TV channels. There was nothing to watch but then again he wasn’t keen on watching anything as it was. He was waiting for Addison which was something that had been happening most of the week. In the afternoons he’d sneak over to the apartment and she’d come after school with the illusion that she was in the library hitting the books for exams coming up just before winter break. As the key turned in the lock he sat up straighter, running a hand over his hair as she came in with a beaming smile.

‘Hey,’ she said as she came to join him eagerly. She kissed him quickly and then sat beside him dumping her bag on the floor by their feet. ‘How was class?’ he asked. ‘Boring,’ she said, ‘what have you been up to?' ‘Not much, would’ve been better if you didn’t have to go to school though,’ he mumbled leaning into kiss her and then down her neck as he mumbled, ‘missed you this morning.’

Addison smiled as she recalled his angelic sleeping face as he crept out of his room. She didn’t like sneaking around like they had been doing but the temptation had been too much. Though he still refused to go any further they had spent every night in Elvis’ bed. It was mostly just talking, about anything and everything, though it was interspersed with tender touches and long dreamy kisses as they both tried to fight off falling asleep just to spend as much time as possible together. It was wonderful yet exhausting as the late nights were coupled with the fact Addison had to drag herself out of bed an hour earlier than normal in order to dodge Mary catching them. Still, she’d take the exhaustion to keep those moments. It had been the safest and happiest she’d been in years, if ever, and she loved every second.

‘Didn’t want to wake you,’ she said pushing back so she could see his face and stopping his lips from working their magic, ‘besides I know how grumpy you are at that time in the morning. I didn’t want to poke the bear.’ ‘Oh I’m a teddy bear if anything,’ he scoffed, ‘and I’m sure I would’ve been very welcoming.'

Elvis leaned forward and kissed her pulling her into his lap more. It was deep and sensual and just what he’d been yearning for all day. When he pulled back he watched her for just a second unable to comprehend just how much he loved her. If anything the past few days had been a struggle weighing heavy on his mind. He wanted to stay true to his word. To remind himself that she was more important than the others, that to be with her in the way his body urged him to was immoral. Wrong. Yet his mind was caving to the idea. Every night she spent beside him he longed for more and every morning he woke up to an empty bed his body taunted him forcing him to yield to those desires in her absence. He was only human after all.

‘What?’ she asked, her hazel gaze falling on him. ‘Nuthin’ just thinking about how you’d wake me up,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Oh really?’ she giggled. ‘Except I have to share you with those damn nuns,’ he grumbled. ‘Well it’s winter break soon and there won’t be a nun in sight,’ she giggled. ‘Hallelujah,’ he chuckled. ‘And you might have me a little sooner anyways,’ she said. ‘Oh?’ he asked. ‘I’m not in school on Fridays anymore.’ ‘How come?' ‘I’m taking driver’s ed,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a test booked in for a few weeks’ time, a cancelled slot, so they’re letting me have Fridays off to get in my ‘legitimate hours’.’ ‘Are you saying taking Dodger to church isn’t legitimate?’ he asked. ‘Well I’m not but if we tell my instructor just how much I’ve been doing unsupervised I don’t think they’d be too pleased, do you?’ ‘What do you need teaching? Put it in drive and point where you want to go,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll be sure to lead with that.’ ‘Hey if all else fails we can pay him off,’ Elvis said laughing with a hiccup when he saw the scowl on her face, ‘kidding. I’ll just tell him you need to pass because who else is gonna drive the car I’m gonna buy you.’ ‘You are not buying me a car!’ she chastised. ‘Who says?’ he asked. ‘I do!’ she protested. ‘Oh come on once you pass you’ll need your own wheels,’ Elvis said. ‘I manage perfectly fine now,’ she reasoned. ‘Addie come on,’ Elvis said with a groan. ‘Not a chance,’ she said shaking her head, ‘I owe you too much already.’ ‘It would be a gift!’ Elvis protested. ‘An unnecessary one,’ she said. ‘That’s what gifts are,’ Elvis baulked. ‘If you get one I won’t use it,’ she said folding her arms across her chest. Elvis’ eyes narrowed as she looked at him defiantly. She infuriated him but he couldn’t deny the tingle in his lower belly as she met him toe to toe.

‘You wouldn’t either,’ he grumbled in defeat noting the smirk on her face, ‘god damn hard-headed woman.’ ‘You love it,’ she smirked. ‘Can we at least celebrate in some way?’ he asked with his best puppy dog eyes. ‘We don’t even know if I’ll pass yet,’ she said. ‘Of course you will,’ he said leaning up to kiss her cheek. ‘And if I don’t? What then? We have one party banner that says ‘Congratulations’ and another that says ‘sorry you failed’ prepared just in case? No thank you,’ she snorted. ‘One banner for a party?’ he joked rolling his eyes when he saw her challenging look, ‘fine but we’re doing something when you pass,’ he grumbled.’ ‘Simple and understated is all I ask,’ Addison countered. ‘You really know how to ruin my fun huh?’ he grumbled. ‘If this driving thing doesn’t work out it’s always nice to have skills to fall back on,’ she joked. ‘It’s not a skill it’s natural talent…but okay. We don’t have to have a party, but you can’t stop me from bringing a banner to the test centre,’ he joked though Addison’s smile dimmed.

‘Actually,’ she said clearing her throat. ‘Let me guess, more fun gone?’ he asked. ‘It’s just…I’ll be nervous enough as it is… I don’t need a stampede at the test centre you know?’ she mumbled. ‘You don’t want me there,’ he said trying to hide the hurt in his voice though it was evident. ‘More than anything,’ she corrected placing her hand on his chest, ‘but honey you’re quite the attraction. Think of all those girls coming to do their test all in a brain fog because Elvis Presley is hanging around.’ ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ he grumbled. ‘So you’ll stay home?’ ‘If that’s what you want,’ he said with a half-hearted smile. ‘It’s for the best,’ she said cuddling into him. Elvis wrapped his arm around her and placed his cheek on her head. ‘Fine,’ he said watching her fingers trace along his own, ‘but now we’re definitely having a banner at home.’ ‘Deal,’ she giggled.

Elvis wasn't the only one not coping so well either. On the drive to the test centre Addison tried to remain polite, talking with Vernon who seemed keen to give her pointers and tips, but her nerves were building and soon enough conversation dwindled to nothing. Eventually, they pulled up to the test centre and she and Vernon climbed out and headed inside. It wasn't too busy given the time of day but there were several young girls about which reassured Addison about her choice to leave Elvis at home. As she headed towards the counter Vernon did too, in fact, he went ahead of her taking the lead as he moseyed on up to the desk and leaned on it smiling at the pretty blonde behind it.

‘Hi there, uh Patty,’ he said as he checked her name badge. ‘Hi, how can I help?’ she asked looking up at him from behind her desk with a flirtatious smile. Addison watched him carefully. She had never noticed it before. Vernon had always seemed a fatherly figure to her but watching him talk she realised Elvis was every bit his son’s father. They had the same alluring smile and oozed natural charm and charisma. ‘We’ve got an appointment for a driver’s test,’ he said ‘What name is it?’ she asked checking her diary in front of her. ‘Goodwin,’ Vernon said. ‘Ah yes, I can see you booked in here. I just need you to sign some forms and then your instructor will be with you shortly,’ she said handing a clipboard over the counter which Addison took obediently. ‘Thanks sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a smile.

Addison mumbled thanks and headed to the waiting area where she plonked herself down in a hard plastic chair and started looking at the form. Vernon took a seat next to her as she started filling it out though he was still looking over at the blonde woman. Once he tore his gaze away he looked over her shoulder, glancing at the form, and produced a low whistle, ‘I thought the test was the hard part. Never seen a form with so many questions.’ ‘At least I know the answers to these ones,’ Addison said with a smile. ‘True,’ Vernon chuckled, ‘you’ll be fine you know.’ ‘I hope so,’ she said nervously. ‘And I know I’m not your dad or anything,’ he said quietly, 'but I’m proud of ya. You’ve come a long way…he’d be proud of you too.’

Addison didn't say anything for fear her voice would crack though she did offer him a small smile and a nod of her head. Vernon sensed her awkwardness too and cleared his throat, standing up and offering his hand out for the clipboard she had completed. As he headed to the desk she looked out of the window to the parking lot with Vernon’s words ringing in her head. He was right. It was hard to believe that this was her life now. In August she would never have dreamed that she’d be here. She was staring down the path of being homeless or dropping out of school so she could keep her head above water. Now she had a home and a job that meant she could keep up with her studies. Even being able to do her driver’s test was something. Whilst her friends had done theirs she had not seen the point. She’d never be able to afford a car, even the cost of the test itself was off-putting, so why bother?

But that wasn’t even the best part about it. In those short few months, she’d gotten a family. Not just the Presleys but the boys and Mary too. And of course Elvis. She couldn't believe all of this had come from him being hell-bent on apologising to her. She thanked her lucky stars he hadn't taken no for an answer. Otherwise who knows where she’d be today? Certainly not here.

‘Addison Goodwin?’ an older heavyset gentleman said, pulling her from her thoughts, as he came out into the waiting room, looking up from his clipboard as he called her name. ‘That’s me,’ she said standing up. ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ she said.

✵✵✵

‘Blue back pocket,’ Sonny said clearing his throat. Elvis looked towards him and then back at the pool table in front of him where he could now see the obvious shot laid up for him. He had been trying to focus, he’d even asked Sonny over in the hopes he would provide ample distraction, but he couldn’t keep his mind off Addison. ‘Aren’t you trying to win this game?’ Elvis asked leaning down to take his shot. ‘It’s fine,’ Sonny chuckled resting on his cue, ‘you need all the help you can get.’ ‘I can play a better game than you even when I’m distracted,’ Elvis ribbed. ‘You wish,’ Sonny chuckled though he sighed as Elvis’ ball sunk into its destined pocket. ‘Not bad huh?’ Elvis said. Sonny shook his head and moved around the table looking for his next move. Elvis watched him, resting against his own cue as he did.

‘Am I interrupting?’ a voice said from the doorway making Elvis whip around where he found Addison watching them. ‘What happened? Was it okay? Did you pass?’ he said practically throwing his cue at Sonny as he rushed towards her grasping her by the elbows as she looked at him with a small smile. ‘Am I answering these in order or?’ she giggled. ‘Last one first,’ he said eagerly. ‘Yes,’ she said which was followed by a squeal as he lifted her off the ground spinning her around until he placed her down gently. ‘I knew you could do it,’ he said turning towards Sonny who was watching them both, ‘hey Son we’ve got ourselves a fully-fledged driver.’ ‘Congrats Addie,’ Sonny said with a smile. ‘So come on tell me what happened,’ Elvis said walking them over to the couch which he dropped down into, pulling her with him close enough that he could have his arm around her but not enough to look untoward should anyone come in.

‘It was okay. I mean the instructor looked so mean and he barely spoke to me other than to direct me where I was going so I was sure that I failed so I just sorta tuned him out,’ she said. ‘Smart move,’ Sonny chuckled, ‘ignore the guy telling you what you need to do.’ ‘When does she ever listen to anybody?’ Elvis smirked making Addison roll her eyes. ‘Actually, I was listening to you,’ she said prodding his chest, ‘I pretended it was just you and me.’ ‘Ain’t she sweet,’ Sonny cooed. ‘Oh shut up,’ Addison said launching a pillow at him. ‘You better watch your mouth Son otherwise her first trip behind the wheel will be mowin’ you down,’ Elvis chuckled. ‘Yeah you might have a point,’ Sonny chuckled. ‘Actually I have an idea about where I want to make my first drive to,’ she said looking at Elvis. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’ Elvis asked. ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said making Elvis’ brows knit together, ‘but I’ve changed my mind about the no-fun rule.’ ‘Really?’ Elvis asked excitedly. ‘No fun rule?’ Sonny asked. ‘Yeah,’ Elvis said, ‘I wanted to get her a car. She said no. I wanted a party. She said no.’ ‘I said it was unnecessary,’ Addison corrected. ‘I disagree,’ Elvis said. ‘Which is why I’m compromising,’ she shrugged looking at him. He was watching her with the giddiest expression she had ever seen on his face which made her heart swell.

She still had a point when it came to the gifts. She didn’t need a new car or a fancy party after all he had already given her so much. It was over the top and unnecessary but she knew it only came from a place of love. She could see that on his face that morning when he’d given her the necklace she had been fiddling with all day, the only thing that had calmed her nerves even a little. She could see that now on his face now, his boyish features adorned with pure excitement.

‘And what exactly does compromising look like?’ Elvis asked. ‘Nothing extreme,’ she warned as she interlaced her fingers with his resting them on his lap. ‘I don’t think restrained is in his vocabulary,’ Sonny chuckled. ‘Well it’s gonna have to be,’ she said. ‘So no party?’ he asked. ‘No,’ she giggled, ‘maybe a dinner or something.’ ‘Well, I’m sure we can throw something together huh Son?’ Elvis asked. ‘Maybe,’ Sonny chuckled. ‘And lemme guess you’re not gonna tell me where,’ Addison asked. ‘Hey if I have to be put out of my comfort zone so do you,’ Elvis said.

That was yesterday and now Addison was in her bedroom as she had been a day ago wondering how her day was going to go. Elvis had told her only that it was going to be happening the following day and all she had to do was be ready by seven thirty on the dot. Of course she had been ready for half an hour and spent that time pacing in her room about where she was going. There was a knock at the door and Elvis came in his face going to one of awe when he took her in. She looked beautiful.

Her hair was curled around her face and her body was wrapped in a gorgeous red satin dress that cinched her in at the waist forcing her cleavage upwards and providing a perfect cushion for the small gemstone she was now sporting. It made Elvis’ engine rev.

‘You look beautiful’ he said trying to ignore the feeling stirring below his belt. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she said sidling up to him and placing her hands on his chest as his fell on her waist caressing it softly making goosebumps form under the thin satin fabric. ‘We don’t have long,’ he said morosely as she leaned up towards him inviting him in to something he so wanted to succumb to. ‘A minute,’ she whispered. ‘My mama-’ he mumbled though it was cut off as her lips met his. He knew it was foolish. His Mama had sent him in here to tell her to come through so they could leave and she wasn’t one to wait around when there are places to be. He didn’t know why the threat of her bursting in and catching them wasn’t enough to bring him to earth but it was like always was with her, he was lost. Unmoored and clinging to her like she was a life raft and he was a man lost at sea. Her fingers knotted in the hair at the base of his neck pulling him closer to her so much so he could feel the contours of her body flush against his which made him feel heady. When she pulled back there was a smile on her face that grew as he placed his forehead against her.

‘Come on we’re gonna be late,’ she said pressing a quick kiss to his lips before she pulled out of his grasp, taking his hand in hers as she led him to the door. ‘You’re gonna kiss me like that and then expect me to be able to function?’ Elvis chuckled as she pulled him out into the hall. ‘If tonight’s good there’s more where that came from,’ Addison giggled.

✵✵✵

Never let it be said that Elvis Presley doesn’t know how to meet expectations. Whether on stage, on an album, or in a film he delivered, and tonight was no exception. It was just what she wanted. Even though he could give her anything and everything he had kept it to her request giving her a night that was simple and understated though it still had that Elvis flair of course. He had picked an elegant restaurant though of course they were the only party in attendance. He had invited his family, some of the boys and their girlfriends and of course Marci, Jerry and even Mary on her behalf. And the only decoration was a lone banner that said ‘Congratulations’ as he had teased her about.

She had enjoyed herself though he had stayed at a distance and though she wasn’t sure why, she was okay with it. After spending so much time together they had become a lot more attuned to one another which only made it harder to restrain themselves when they in company. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t enjoyed having time with her friends even if her gaze did keep flicking down the table to him. She could feel that familiar feeling in her core every time he smiled at her. He hadn’t relented on his beliefs just yet but she could feel a change in him. It felt as though something was going to give and the way he was eyeing her up all night made her think that his beliefs might have been changing quicker than ever. She had also thought that from the way his thumb had been stroking her thigh as they drove home after dropping Marci and Jerry off. She leaned into him placing her head on his shoulder with a sigh.

‘You’re not fallin’ asleep on me are you?’ he said glancing at her before putting his eyes back on the road. ‘Must be all the excitement,’ she giggled. ‘Well don’t go dozin’ off on me just yet. We’re still celebrating,’ he said. ‘Oh yeah?’ Addison asked, ‘and how exactly are we doing that?’ ‘Well I thought we could head over to the apartment,’ he said, ‘I mean I think I’ve shared you enough tonight don’t you think.’ ‘Oh definitely,’ she said trying to ignore the flutter inside her as she thought about the pair of them alone.

It was exciting but the prospect of it was also nerve-wracking. She hadn’t been lying to him when she’d told him it was what she wanted but that didn’t exactly mean she was prepared. It would be a daunting prospect with anyone but he was Elvis. Someone who girls dreamed of being with and for some people, it wasn’t just a dream. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that before her he’d been a saint but it didn’t help that some of her predecessors were movie stars and beauty queens alike. She stayed in that headspace for too long so much so that the first thing she did when they got to the apartment was excuse herself to the bathroom to try and calm herself down.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to talk herself down. After all she had managed to get through her driver’s ed test by just pretending it was the two of them. That had put her at ease then, so why wouldn’t it now that it was a reality. After a quick pep talk and a once over in the mirror she headed back into the living room. He was on the phone when she entered and he smiled at her as she came in but turned back towards the wall as she dropped onto the sofa, sliding her heels off onto the floor with a thud, so she could tuck her legs underneath her. She wasn’t really paying attention to him, her eyes wandering around the apartment, but she could still hear half of the conversation.

‘Yeah, sure…. yeah thanks man…okay bye,’ Elvis said placing the phone back in place. ‘Who was that?’ she asked as he sat down beside her. ‘Red,’ he said. ‘Something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Nah I just told him we were gonna be staying here tonight,’ Elvis said, ‘in case anyone starts wondering where we are. So if anyone asks you stayed at Marci’s.’ ‘Noted,’ she said with a smile, ‘so…’ ‘So…’ Elvis said. ‘We’re staying here tonight?’ she said as her fingers danced along his shirt collar making goosebumps form where her fingertips touched. Elvis cleared his throat and nodded, ‘yeah I mean unless you wanna go home.’ ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘R-r-right,’ he said, ‘what do you w-wanna do? I mean w-we can watch TV or listen to some music-’ ‘El,’ she said quietly. It seemed he was on a similar ledge she had been on, his stammer coming out as he spoke due to his nerves. ‘Or we can just go to bed if you want, I know it’s been a long day,’ Elvis said climbing off the couch away from her. Addison didn’t let him flee though and instead, she jumped up, taking his hands in her own and wrapping them around her. His cerulean gaze fell on her as he went quiet.

‘I don’t want any of that,’ she said leaning up to kiss him. Elvis was stiff against her but then he relaxed into it. ‘Addie,’ he breathed as they pulled apart, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ she said quietly making his eyes open properly. ‘How did you?’ he asked confused. He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious. That the internal struggle he’d been having throughout the night had been just that, internal. ‘I know you too well,’ she smiled. ‘But I want it to be right,’ he said. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘But-’ he protested. ‘Look I’m not gonna argue with you,’ she said making him chuckle. ‘First time for everything,’ he mused. ‘Exactly,’ she giggled pulling back, ‘but I mean it. If it’s tonight great. If it’s not I’m okay with that. But just go with what feels right okay? I’m gonna get ready for bed.’

And before he could answer she headed out of the room and Elvis flopped back down on the couch as he mulled it over.

He didn’t know how to feel about it. Before her he hadn’t really been fussed about the idea of waiting. His morals and beliefs had only come around because she was more special to him than anyone he’d ever met before. But even with them being newly developed did he really want to turn on his morals and beliefs because his body was a swamp of hormones begging him to? Or was she right? She knew him well enough to know that tonight it was different. He’d had ample opportunity to act on his impulses over the past few weeks and he hadn’t done. He picked himself up off the couch and headed towards the bedroom, standing in the doorway where he watched her for a moment. She was facing away from him, now dressed in just a slip as she removed her makeup and in that moment he knew the feeling he was having today was not only different but right.

He knew he wanted her but it was more than that. He needed her to know how he felt about her. For her to know how much he loved her.

She turned when he cleared his throat and smiled gently at him before she climbed off the bed. He strode toward her, wrapping his arms around her as she placed her hands on his biceps.

‘You were right,’ he mumbled. ‘Always am,’ she smiled. ‘But you’ve gotta promise me something,’ he said moving them towards the bed. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If you change your mind you’ll tell me,’ he said. Addison nodded, ‘same for you.’ ‘Honey it’s gonna take my entire being to hold back,’ Elvis chuckled. ‘So don’t,’ she said moving until she was straddling him. Elvis’ breath hitched in his chest as she stroked his cheek tenderly and then leaned down to kiss him. It was tender and languid for a moment but then her fingers started undoing the buttons of his shirt and it was like a switch had been flicked. He stood up lifting her with him as he moved around the bed until he threw her down on the mattress quickly meeting her lips once more as he draped himself over her. Addison was in just as much of a frenzy as she pushed his shirt off, her fingers roving over the tanned toned contours of his back muscles as his mouth migrated slowly along her jawline and down her neck, his hands caressing her sides through her silk slip, stopping to caress her breast. As her hands move around to his belt buckle hastily undoing it his lips left her neck.

‘What? Am I doing it wrong?’ she asked the panic in her voice evident. ‘No,’ he said with a reassuring smile, ‘but I wasn’t kidding about holding back and if we go that way I ain’t gonna make it very far.’ ‘But how are we gonna…y’know,’ she said feeling a blush creep across her face. She could feel him straining against his pants against her thigh. ‘We’ll get to that,’ he said, ‘but first, we gotta make sure that you’re ready.’ ‘I told you I am,’ she said sitting up with him as he moved off her until they were both sitting in the middle of the bed. Elvis smiled at her eagerness as well as the hint of naivety that came along with it. He knew it was silly but for that moment he loved that he was going to be the one to teach her. She was such a self-assured independent person but for this she needed him to lead. And he liked that.

‘Addie, can I ask you something?’ ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Have you ever. I mean has there been anyone that uh,’ Elvis said suddenly unsure as to why he was now struggling to get his words out. He thought he knew what her answer would be but the prospect of her being with another man still wounded him. ‘No,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Have you ever,’ he said making a vague gesture to her lower half. She looked at him confused for a moment before it twigged what he was insinuating. ‘Oh, no,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Not at all?’ he asked the thought driving him wild. He was going to be the first. In every stance. ‘Is that bad?’ she asked. ‘No, no,’ he said quickly, ‘it just means we need to take it slow that’s all.’ ‘Okay,’ she said. Elvis shimmied to the edge of the bed and shirked his pants off before clambering back on it towards the headboard and beckoning her up to join him. She did so, straddling his legs as she waited. Her confidence was gone now the momentum had been lost and she was awaiting him to lead her unsure of the next steps. He watched her closely, trying to ignore the fact his cock twitched at just the sight of her, as his hands landed on her hips.

‘You look beautiful you know that,’ he said. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she giggled noting the way his lips were now cherry red from remnants of her lipstick and the fact his hair was splayed in all different directions against the headboard from where she’d knotted her fingers through it. ‘Can I see more?’ he asked, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her sides. Addison bit her lip and then nodded. Elvis leaned up from the headboard so he could kiss along her shoulders as he pulled each of the thin straps down her arms until he could pull the sleek satin up over her head in one fell swoop. She watched as he marvelled at her, his hands falling back into place as his mouth attacked her chest, the slip now long forgotten by the side of the bed. It was the first time anyone had seen her this bare but she didn’t have time to be self-conscious. She couldn’t even if she wanted to as the way he was watching her was like he was a man in the desert and she was the first drink of water he’d had in days was enough to bolster her confidence. As his tongue swirled her nipple she felt a familiar bolt of lightning shoot down her spine, adding to the ever-growing ache between her legs. She wasn’t lying when she said she’d never touched herself before. Until she’d met Elvis she hadn’t really had the thought about it either. That ache between her legs only seemed to start coming around the same time he did but now she could see why people did. The allure of it.

Her eyes had been closed as she enjoyed the sensation of him kissing her body but they snapped open as his long thick fingers moved off her hip and shifted her panties aside teasing between her folds. She couldn’t see what he was doing as his mouth was still attached to her breast but as his tongue swirled around her nipple it only added to the sensation between her legs.

She knew he was an expert at this. That his moves have been perfected over time but at that moment it didn’t feel like that. It felt as though he’d been crafted for her and her alone. That the way his fingers worked deftly around that little bundle of nerves down there was because he knew her so well. And for Elvis, it felt the same.

He knew what to do. He knew how to get a girl going so he could crack on with chasing his release but at that moment he wasn’t interested in that. He could feel the way his cock was screaming to be touched. How the coarse fabric of his boxers was rubbing his glistening head raw but he didn’t care. He wanted to make sure she was ready. That she had come undone at least once from his touch before he even contemplated fucking her because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. That once she was wrapped around him his mind would go blank and he’d be a lost cause. Unmoored.

Addison’s eyes fell shut as he worked at her, his thumb playing with her clit as he slipped a digit inside her. Elvis watched her in front of him, trying to commit the way she looked right now to his memory forever. The way she whimpered when he changed pace or added another finger to the situation. This is what he’d longed for and yet any fantasy he’d ever had about it didn’t even come close to the scene in front of him. He could tell she was close by the way her face scrunched up, her breath coming in little whimpers. He kept going, pumping his fingers in and out of her and curving them to add to the slew of ungodly noises she was making.

‘Oh Elvis,’ she cried digging her fingernails into his shoulder as she moved against him. ‘That feel good?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she panted, ‘oh god, oh god-’ ‘That’s it, baby. Cum for me,’ he said as he felt her start to flutter around him. ‘Oh god,’ she cried as a wave of pleasure washed through her making her tense up around him until it ebbed out flowing through her, departing via her extremities and leaving her floppy in its wake. As he removed his fingers from her, her eyes opened and she found him watching her again with a smile. He used his free hand to bring hers to his lips where he kissed it tenderly for a moment and then yanked her forward until she was fallen on his chest, his large arms encircling her. The manoeuvre had pulled her closer meaning their hips were now very much aligned and he could feel her hot and wet against him even with the fabric keeping them apart.

‘That was,’ she said breathlessly making him smile. ‘Good?’ he asked moving a strand of hair from her face. Addison nodded. ‘Better than good,’ she murmured. ‘Good because I don’t think I can hold out much longer,’ he said and with that, he moved her onto her back his lips attacking her in a frenzy. He was right. The way he was moving now was undeniably fast but he couldn’t hold back. He left her only for a moment so that he could discard their underwear before he came back into place suckling on every bare piece of flesh afforded to him. With newfound confidence, Addison’s hand reached down to touch him, making him hiss in appreciation.

She’d never even seen one before now but her hand wrapped around it expertly, her thumb running over the gooey tip as she moved her hand slowly. She didn’t ask for directions as his moans were enough to hint that she was doing something right as was the way he bucked up into her hand. The tide that had ebbed away from her after her release was now back bringing with it excitement as he writhed under her touch.

But it was not enough. He needed more and so he reached down and met her hand directing her movements until his tip was teasing through her slick folds.

‘Fuck Addie,’ he said, ‘I need you.’ ‘You’ve got me,’ she said as she leaned up to kiss him tenderly. As her fingers cupped either side of his face he moved into position and gently edged the tip inside her. It was different from before but not unpleasant. As he eased in she tried to ignore the sting of it by kissing him and it worked as he was more than responsive. He had to be. Focusing on her was the only thing stopping him from busting a nut right then and there. It’d been all he’d thought about for months. Yet the fantasy could never live up to the heaven he was feeling at that very moment.

He was gentle at first. The first few strokes gave her a chance to adjust to his size before fervour took over. It was spurred on by the fact her face went from one of masked discomfort to one of pleasure once more. He could see that the feeling he was chasing was back on the cards for her as well and that only added to the sensation of it. His fingers met her sensitive little bud again, playing with it as she ground her hips against him. To his surprise, she had hit the ground running quicker than he expected and soon enough she was a whimpering mess below him once more.

That was when he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He buried his face in her neck as his hips started to stutter. He could feel it coming and though he knew he should pull out he couldn’t force himself to and so he came inside her mumbling her name incoherently against her soft skin until he was too spent to say anything. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Elvis was still pressed against her, his cock softening by the second inside her, yet he was unable to remove himself. Eventually, he pulled out his head still resting in the crook of her neck as his gigantic body folded against her small one. His brain was so foggy with lust, love and exhaustion that he didn’t even notice just how long they had been laying in silence until he heard her whisper, ‘are you okay?’ ‘I’m better than okay,’ he chuckled as he pulled back to look at her. Her face was neutral but he could see the concern behind her hazel eyes, ‘are you?’ ‘I’m great. You were just quiet that’s all,’ she said moving until she was sitting up. Elvis moved too and pulled her into him, allowing her to put her head on his chest. ‘Just happy,’ he said pressing a kiss to the top of her head. ‘Me too,’ she said. They felt silent for a moment, both their minds whirring about the other, as Addison gently played with the sparse hair that littered his chest before she said, ‘thank you.’ ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘Saying yes. I know you weren’t sure but I’m glad you change your mind,’ she said. ‘Me too,’ Elvis said earnestly.

It was true. Whatever doubts or fears he’d been having didn’t matter now. He loved her. More than anyone he’d loved in his entire life and being with her felt right. Like his own personal slice of heaven. Something that good couldn’t be all that bad, right?

#my writing #the girl he left behind #elvis #elvis presley #elvis presley fic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #elvis presley x oc

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whoslaurapalmer · 2 years ago

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look. I love good things come in threes and I packed a lot of stuff in it and it's like quietly one of my fav twin peaks fics I've written because of all the little world building things and I have notes I've held on to about how I wrote it

-sometimes I do think the fic is a little slow -- but not. In a terrible way?? In a sweet way. It's supposed to be a slow little afternoon. Just a little time

-ed has a tammy wynette tape bc he and norma listen to her in the pilot.

-there was a line I really wanted in there – “so you’re gonna stand by your man her into a prom date?” but it didn’t really tonally hit anyone’s dialogue, which I was having a hard enough time with. harry and hawk and ed are out there sharing a braincell and hawk has it 100% of the time

-the Fall Football Game Of Some Renown, where, according to the access guide, hawk ran the wrong way, and according to the secret history, hank fumbled a play, took place in fall 1968, so this fic takes place a couple weeks before that. I was imagining it as like a, thanksgiving game or something, bc the schools where I live always have a high school thanksgiving day game (or they USED TO), and the fic takes place like, early october.

-the mod squad (which also had peggy lipton) had indeed just started airing at the end of september that year, and the fugitive (which also had a one-armed man) had indeed started airing four years previously (and ended in 1967).

-oh! so i wanted them watching unsolved mysteries, but that aired too late in the timeline. then i wanted them watching the untouchables, but that would've just ended right before fall 1964. so that was how they watched the fugitive, because it started airing fall 1964. they're likely watching the first ever episode.

-oh, was that a weekend? i don't think it was, but. that's where my attention to detail conks out.

-okay the thing about time here. harry and hawk and ed are born in 1950. the fall football game is 1968. that makes them 18, seniors, and they will graduate in june 1969.

-frank is harry's older brother.

-FRANK IS INEXPLICABLY LISTED AS AT THAT FOOTBALL GAME.

-BUT HE CAN'T BE???? BECAUSE HE WOULD'VE GRADUATED?????? I'M???????? i'm still screaming. anyway in this fic frank is in college.

-hand to god I probably attended at least one “under the sea” themed dance in my school career, although I never went to homecoming. i don't even remember what the themes were. i think one prom was like???? a night in paris????? do NOT remember.

-the point is also that time repeats.

-i have never in my life seen the good the bad and the ugly, but it has that Classic Whistle-y Theme, which I figured they’d know. didn’t know if peaks was big enough to have a movie theater or drive in?? and I wanted to pull in the nearby town of newport (where hawk buys a car during high school).

-i picked the 1960 chevy impala bc it’s a cute ass car. love a good old car. that interior?????? to die for.

-guys just Loving their super inexplicably terrible cars is one of my favorite things. Ed's car is inspired by like 3 men I've known I swear to god who were just THAT into their terrible sad little cars. It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing, you know!!!! It's the car!!!! It's the memories!!!!!! You can't put a price or value on sentiment and what even a not well working car means to you. and.....it still WORKS. just needs a lil love.

-a group of guys banding together around their terrible little car and having a ROUTINE to get it to work is also. so good to me

-there's a lot of 'just needs a little love. Is it enough' in the fic bc that's how Harry feels about the town. That's what the town does. The love is not enough. But these friends love each other and are doing their best

-shout out to my mom for coming up with ed fishing out the cassette tape from inside the seat

-I cannot resist mentioning Diane Shapiro. I think it's a fun idea, if she and hawk are vague high school sweethearts and write letters to each other.

-harry has this vague deja vu (???) feeling of s1e6, where coop and hawk and harry and doc hayward go into the woods to find jacques renault’s cabin and find margaret’s first, bc I can’t resist some good time shenanigans

-harry thinks the cabins change because that was the only way I could rationalize them going into the woods in s1e6 and NOT RECOGNIZING MARGARET’S CABIN.

-you wanna tell me they'd never seen her cabin before??? they'd never been there????? really????? in all the years they've lived in twin peaks, of all the years harry's been sherriff????? they don't know that's margaret's cabin?????????????

-especially bc like, look at harry's face in that scene. he and margaret have looked each other dead in the eye and shenanigan'd before.

-anyway.

-the cabin that harry thinks is missing is jacques renault’s.

-the road with the controlled burning on one side and the forest fire remains on the other is 100% real. they do controlled burning where i live in late winter/early spring, to decrease the amount of stuff around in the event of a fire. and you can always see remnants of it for months after, just these scorched little baby trees and the bottoms of tree trunks. but over the summer there was an enormous forest fire, burned for like, three, four days?? smoke lingered for WEEKS after. (no structures were hit, which was good. and i think it did manage to jump the river??) and if you drove through the area, you could see this distinct split where the fire had hit, where stuff was just burned, leaves dead, everything orange and brown. and then just on the other side of the road, there'd be the controlled burn remains, these black branches against the most lush summer green leaves.

-my fav part is harry's flashback to the other fires -- just my favorite parts to write, I think there's a lot in there about. The town and the bookhouse mentality and failures that don't read as failures and. Everything, yknow

-fuck hank, btw, he's just. such a fucker. Harry loves him such a terrible amount here

-the 'good things come in threes' is bc the good things are harry and hawk and ed. They mean a lot to each other. Not you, hank. And harry is gonna have to learn that and it's gonna suck

#lulu talks about peaks #sorry i cannot readmore i am mobling

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libelula202 · 6 months ago

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(Not sure if this is what you’re looking for, but it’s my best answer.)

I watch the show Call the Midwife, about midwives in 1950s-1960s era East Side (ie poor working class) London.

In an episode, a woman has cervical cancer and has been told she needs radiation as well as a full hysterectomy. Which means she can never have kids.

This character then has a bit of a breakdown, because being a mum and having a family are all her and her husband wanted.

And she says “the only women I know who don’t have kids are nuns and feminists. I don’t want to change the world. I was happy with a small life.”

And that stuck with me. It put a different spin on how I thought about my life. I don’t need to find greater meaning or any sort of larger purpose.

I have dogs. And my purpose is to feed them. And cuddle them.

I have friends. I am happy when I talk to and spend time with them.

I enjoy cooking and eating. So every day I get up, is another day I can eat and another day I can cook.

I enjoying crafts/fiber arts. Nothing I’d ever sell or monetize, but stuff I make to keep busy. When I wake up I know I get to work on my latest cross stitch. Not a whole lot, but usually one small section a day.

My work isn’t anything super important. Nothing I’m especially passionate about, and it’s not gonna change the world. I work at a grocery store. But I make sure shelves are stocked so people can buy what they need.

I keep living because I can see my friends. Because I want to start growing plants, so I need to find some pots. I have some fanfics I’m reading, and I really want to know how they end.

I keep living because even a small thing to look forward too, is still something to look forward too.

——

I am disabled, with chronic pain and major depression. Honestly, looking at it that way, my life sucks.

But I can’t just look at that. My life is more than that.

My purpose is to live a small life. To do the small things that make me happy. To go to my job, stock store shelves, talk with coworkers, come home to my dogs, call my friends, and do some crafts. I have no greater purpose to my life than that.

And I think that’s great!

I hope things get better for you fish. And if you’re able to find a professional to talk to I hope you do.

(Because I used to have a lot of bad days. Never attempts, but ideation for sure. Being in talk therapy has helped me personally.

Even telling someone irl might help. When I finally told my friend how I was feeling, it felt better to share the load. And finally gave me the push to do something to actively help myself.)

I'm very sorry to ask something like this, I've really been struggling with this question, and I wanted to ask the combined wisdom of the people on this site

I would like to know why you keep going, and what drives you to keep living. I know there are a lot of reasons to stay alive and enjoy life, I can think of a few that personally resonate with me, but I really want to know what your reasons are

You do not have to comment on this if that's too big of an ask, and I'm very sorry for asking something like this, I really need someone's help, I feel like I don't have much purpose

Also if I may ask, please don't post any suicidal ideation in the comments of this post, I really can't handle something like that right now

#tw//#suicide tw #suicidal ideation tw #my purpose is #to live a small life #I won’t change the world #and won’t do anything the history books will remember #and that’s ok #imagine how insufferable the world would be if everyone was trying to make history

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ahopkins1965 · 1 year ago

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BLOG FEED HIDDEN

MARKED BY GRACE

WHAT IS A STUMBLING BLOCK?

What Is a Stumbling Block?

I am really excited to answer this week’s question on Marked by Grace; it’s a really important, truly relevant question for all of us. And the question is, what is a stumbling block? I love the way the question has been phrased. To me, it’s what is a stumbling block, really? What is it really? This person is suspicious of what they’ve been told about a stumbling block in the past. And they are asking me to really level with them and tell them what a stumbling block is. And so I’m going to really level with you this week and truly, really, honestly tell you what a stumbling block is. One of the reasons it’s a great question because a lot of people talk about being a stumbling block, and when I hear them talk about it, I don’t think they fully understand what it is. The way I hear Christians talk about this, a lot doesn’t indicate a full understanding. Maybe that’s this week’s question. Or maybe that’s their problem. They want to know what it is really because they’re not persuaded by the way they hear Christians talk about this, either. The way it comes out when you hear most Christians when I hear any way most Christians talk about it, is they’re talking about controversial things like cards, movies, liquor, dancing, things that are just fraught with difficulty in the Christian life and in Christian thinking. They say I don’t do any of those things. Because I don’t want to be a stumbling block to anybody; when they talk about that stumbling block, they mean I don’t want anybody to get upset. I wouldn’t want somebody to see me and be upset about what I did or upset with me because of what they saw me doing. So I don’t do those things to avoid being a stumbling block. Well, I think there are some issues with that that I’ll make clear.

A Biblical Concept

So the issue of a stumbling block is a biblical concept. It’s not something somebody made up in the 1950s. It’s a biblical issue. And we read about it in the Bible in the book of Romans 14. And in Romans 14, the first place that comes up is in verse 13, which comes up a couple of times, but Paul gives a lot of attention to it. In Romans 14:13 it says, “Therefore, let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother.” So a stumbling block is something that gets in the way of a Christian’s growth or progress. But we need to say more about that. In fact, I think we can say, in the context of Romans 14, that it takes three realities to create a stumbling block or the kind of hindrance that Paul is concerned about in Romans 14.

Here’s the first reality that has to happen for us to create a stumbling block in the bad kind of hindrance that Paul is talking about. First, someone has to see you doing a behavior that is not wrong but which they believe to be wrong. So in the larger context of Romans 14, Paul is talking about weaker brothers and stronger brothers. And here he’s giving instructions to stronger brothers about how to treat weaker brothers. The problem with weaker brothers in Romans 14 is that they have sensitive consciences that believe things are wrong, which are not wrong. So the first reality for a stumbling block to be created is that someone has to see you doing one of these behaviors that is not wrong but which they believe to be wrong. So we’ll go with cards. There’s nothing in the Bible that says it’s a sin to play Go Fish or to play bridge or something like that, to play hearts or spades. You’re not committing a sin when you engage in those kinds of games. But we can imagine somebody, and in fact, I know people who do think that’s wrong, and I’ve lost them at this point. Oh, my goodness, I do think it’s sinful to play cards, but we believe what we believe because of what the Bible says and not because of people’s preferences. The Bible never says that it’s a sin to play a game of hearts or to play a game of bridge or something like that. And so, if you’re playing hearts, and someone who believes it’s a sin to play cards, sees you playing hearts, then the first reality for a stumbling block has taken effect.

A Second Reality

Here’s the second thing. That person has to be grieved or troubled at the sight of the behavior. So we read about this in Romans 14:15. He’s talking about food and sacrifice to idols. But that’s the example, which we can apply to other things. “If your brother is grieved by what you eat, you are no longer walking in love by what you eat, do not destroy the one for whom Christ died.” So what your brother sees you doing that he believes is wrong. This isn’t something that he blows off. He doesn’t say, oh well, he is grieved. He is cut to the quick. And this is a reality that, as I was talking about at the top of the podcast, when people talk about a stumbling block, and I think they don’t quite understand it, they say, well, I’m grieved, or I’m upset about that. Well, I said that’s not enough. But here, we learn in the Bible that it’s part of it. So they see you doing something first point that they believe is wrong but which is not wrong. The second point, they are aggrieved by it, they are troubled, they are hurt, they are wounded, and they wonder why you would do such a thing.

But that’s not enough. You have to have one more reality of having a stumbling block biblically defined to have the kind of hindrance that Paul talks about in Romans 14. To get a stumbling block, the person who sees you doing the thing that they believe is wrong but which is not wrong, who is grieved that you are doing it, now crosses their conscience and engages the behavior because they saw you do it. So in Romans 14, a person who has tripped over your stumbling block didn’t just see it. They’re not just upset, but they decide to do it. In Romans 14:23, “whoever has doubts, is condemned if he eats, because the eating is not from faith, for whatever does not proceed from faith is sin.” A stumbling block happens when they see you doing this thing that they believe is wrong but which really isn’t. They’re grieved, and then their conscience gets all twisted up. And instead of being convinced that, well, I guess the behavior isn’t wrong, after all, they decide because you were doing it, they’re gonna do it anyway, even though they think it’s wrong. So your behavior has not persuaded them of the rightness of behavior of the behavior. Your behavior has persuaded them that since you’re doing it, they should do it, even though they think it’s wrong.

Closing Thoughts

To stick with our card illustration, you’re playing a game of hearts. And somebody who believes it’s wrong to play cards, sees you doing it, is grieved by it, and then decides, well, I think they’re sinning, and I think what they’re doing is not a good idea. But because they’re doing it, I guess I’ll do it too. They haven’t been morally persuaded, but you have roped them into the behavior just because they saw you do it. The person (Romans 14:23) should not be doing what they think is wrong. But you also should not be creating a stumbling block for them. So if you’re listening carefully, you might be frustrated at this point and wondering, well, my goodness, how are you ever going to enjoy a lot of things because there are a lot of things that anybody out there could think is wrong, and you’re not going to do them? In other words, how do you enjoy good things that others believe are wrong but which aren’t? Well, the way you do it is by keeping your brother in view. Before you do anything, before you enjoy anything out there, you should keep your brother in view. And Romans 14:16 says, “Don’t let what you regard as good be spoken of as evil. The kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking but of righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. Whoever thus serves Christ is acceptable to God and approved by men so that then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding.” I don’t need to do the things I like. I need to do the things that help you, and so if you’re in a community of believers where there are people who think it’s wrong to play cards? Well, play cards in your living room with your wife and your kids. Don’t play cards in the front lobby of your church where people could see you and be offended. What Paul is doing, as he’s saying, is to be careful and love people more than you love what you do. The idea is don’t flaunt your freedom but place love above liberty. Whenever you flaunt your freedom and whenever you place liberty over love, you’ve created a stumbling block, and you’re sinning.

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xfriki26 · 2 years ago

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I really enjoy your LM3 headcanons! Do you have any headcanons about the boss ghosts? Whether it be how they lived, how they died, etc.

I really need someone to talk to about LM3 because none of my irl friends like it that much lol.

Be ready, because I have TONS of headcanons.

Steward:

Died arround 1950 ,he worked in life in a hotel, he had pretty bad times and never sleep very well, he also was always overworking, one day he fell down the stairs and broke his neck and lots of important bones, killing im immediately.

Chambrea:

lived in the 19 century. She was always a sweet person and a lovable friend, she liked to read love novels and imagine she was the protagonist. The man she worked for was secretly a psycopath and when Chambrea discovered this by accident he din't hesiate in killing her.

Kruller:

His only dream was to be a true police officer, but only could became a simple mail cop, he was often bulied cause his weight and died one night when a robber shoted him in the chest.

Chef soulfle:

The chef only had one rule, nobody could enter the kitchen while he was working, he din't trust anyone and always thought they could backstab him in any moment, but when he a accidentaly locked up himshelf in the freezer there was nobody that could help him.

Amadeus wolfgeist:

That man was a prodigy of music, for years he was number one in clasical music talents, but when they told him that a young mussician started to gain more affection than him he snapped, he had the strongest rage feeling ever seen and exactly that caused a deathly heart attack to him.

King Macfrights:

He never expected a revelion, he thought his kingdom loved him, what a fool he was, the town reveled against him, they humiliated him in front of everyone, insulting him in the worst way posible only to cut his head as the end of the torture.

Dr. Potter:

A lot of people know his great sucess in botanics, a brilliant man surely that thought the plants as his true friends, but the time passed and the people started forgeting him, leaving him alone until his hour finaly came.

Morty:

In most people opiniones Morty was the worst director you could ever meet, they always told him his ideas din't "fit with the brand" or they were just ridiculous, he thought the pills was the faster way to end his miserable life.

Ug:

The older one in the hotel he belonged to a group of hunters that formed his family, he was killed by a t-rex in an attemp to save his tribe from the attack.

Clem:

Clem was dirty, lazy, and the list continues he was the clasical weirdo you wouldnt want to be arround you, he worked and lived in the sewers, what a same he wasnt able to scape the day they flooded.

Serpci:

She was the most respected queen in her family line, an strict but fair monarch that always protected their people, when the invasors came she quickly took her army into the batlefield, but an infortunate sandstorm came and drowned her and everyone else, the invasors ended up destroying her kingdom.

Nikki, lindsey and ginny:

The triple trouble triplets, always very creative and apasionate whith their fantastical magic tricks at a very young age, their show ended the day they theatre they were working set on fire and burned whith the girls inside.

Captain fishook:

The most feared pirate in the sea, famous for trowing his enemies to the sharks and turning them into fish food, but ironicaly when the royal guards attacked his ship they trow him to the sea only to see the sharks closer than ever.

Johnny Deepend:

The guy was perfect! He was strong, pretty, had the best life anyone could desire and was a master in sports, specialy the acuatic ones , obiously he dint expect getting stuck into the bottom of the pool and drown.

Dj Phantasmagloria:

A total party animal, she was the one that made the rules in the night club, but for some reason she wanted to wear a wig most of the time, in one specialy wild night some wires snapped, electrocuting her.

Hellen gravely:

"How did a woman come so far?" the people usually asked when they saw Gravely, the most powerfull women at her time in the hotel buisness, mostly despised by the other buisness mans, her live ended inside her best hotel when this one collapsed.

---------------

Really hope you liked the headcanons!

#Lm3 #Luigi's mansion 3 #Lm3 headcanons

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olderthannetfic · 2 years ago

Photo

please introduce us to your favorite mug/cup which you currently own!

Oh no! Why would you ask me such a hard question! I refuse! You get to hear about many of my favorite drinking vessels. :D

Tumblr in its infinite wisdom will not reliably add pics to my post, so I'm having to do this as a separate photo post rather than answering this ask... which also involved tumblr repeatedly refusing to give me the actual photo post interface and trying to give me a text post with embedded photos in a bad layout. Thanks, tumblr!

I can tell you what mug I use most, and that's my old British Museum Rosetta Stone mug, but I have a whole cabinet of favorite mugs. (And this is post decluttering all the less pretty ones that I only liked because they were Star Trek mugs or whatever.)

I had long craved some cute Japanese cups, but they were always more than I wanted to pay, but then I found these great fish ones and some cool triangular ones with calligraphy inside at a yard sale. I’m also a big fan of handmade-looking, irregular ceramics in colors like brown and green.

But a huge chunk of my stuff is blue glass. Vases. Bottles. Goblets. And these wonky-ass hand-blown water glasses I got for free from a rando around town. I’m pretty sure they’re the product of someone’s glass-blowing class because they really do not match in shape or height. Maybe they’re from a seconds store. IDK. My cheesy sun and moon mug is my favorite out of my more conventional blue glass cups. I feel like I should be working at some cafe with tarot readings in the back.

One of the few nostalgia mugs I’ve kept is my classic OTW mug with its super heavy construction and great shape for gripping. I also have some glassware from an estate sale that was ultimately from Kan’s, a famous San Francisco Chinese restaurant whose showman owner taught people about Chinese fine dining from 1950-1970. And last of all, I’m including my favorite frou-frou teacup. Most are from my great aunt, but this one came from a salvage store I frequent.

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olowan-waphiya · 2 years ago

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(Ocean anon) yeah I’m hoping that the Atlantic is worse than the others currently (ok that sounds hideous but hear me out). The Atlantic is shallow, historically the worst polluted, and air currents dump a lot of global pollution specifically there. So it’s low in volume and high in particulate, therefore high in concentration, and stuff that settles out to the bottom of deeper oceans gets eddied up by the currents and returned to the upper levels of the ocean there. So hopefully just because it’s bad in the Atlantic, doesn’t mean the other oceans are that bad yet. But idk :/ as you said there’s more to uncover still

Here is the abstract of the paper and I want to highlight certain parts:

Marine plants and animals should be thriving in ocean waters because of the current high concentrations of carbon dioxide and nutrients along with slightly elevated temperatures - but they are not. We have lost 50% of all marine life over the last 70 years; this decline is continuing today at a rate of 1% year on year. The GOES team has used its collective professional and academic experience to undertake analysis of peer- reviewed and published data to explore the reasons for this decline and its implications for climate and humanity. In our view, this loss of marine life is directly related to the presence of toxic chemicals and plastic which started to appear with the ‘chemical revolution’ in the 1950’s.

There is no doubt that tiny ocean planktonic plants and animals are key to regulating our climate, but this keystone of the planet’s largest ecosystem seems to be ignored as one of the tools to address climate change. Every second breath we take comes from marine photosynthesis, a process which also uses 60-90% of our carbon dioxide. Now that we have lost 50% of a key climate regulator, surely it is time to stop, take a fresh look at ocean chemistry and biodiversity and ask ourselves some fundamental questions: Why have we lost this level of marine life? Why is the decline continuing? What does this mean for our climate and humanity?

Of particular concern from a climate change perspective is the level of carbonic acid in the oceans. This carbonic acid is created when atmospheric carbon dioxide dissolves into the oceans. In the 1940’s, ocean pH was 8.2, but in 2020, pH had dropped to 8.04, indicating that the oceans are becoming more acidic. If there are not enough plants to use up carbon, the unused carbonic acid moves the pH downwards. Reports from respected institutes around the globe flag an acceleration of the ocean acidification process. This decline will result in the loss of more marine plants and animals, especially those that have carbonate shells and body structures (aragonite) based. These same reports forecast that in 25 years (by 2045), pH will drop to 7.95, and estimate that with this, 80% to 90% of all remaining marine life will be lost. The GOES team’s opinion is that this is a tipping point: a planetary boundary which must not be exceeded if humanity is to survive. No ecosystem can survive a 90% loss; the result is a trophic cascade collapse. We will lose all the corals, whales, seals, birds, fish and food supply for 2 billion people – an outcome worse than climate change.

Let’s be clear: If by some miracle the world achieves net zero by 2045, evidence from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) BIOACID report [1] demonstrates that this reduction will not be enough to stop a drop in ocean pH to 7.95. If the level of marine life (both plant and animal) is reduced, then the oceans’ ability to lockout carbon into the abyss is depleted. It is clear to the GOES team that if we only pursue carbon mitigation strategies and don’t do more to regenerate plant and animal life in oceans, we will reach a tipping point: a planetary boundary from which there will be no return, because all life on Earth depends upon the largest ecosystem on the planet. Humanity will suffer terribly from global warming, but it must be understood that the oceans are already showing signs of instability today at pH 8.04, (the start of the tipping point) and in 25 years when the pH has dropped to pH 7.95 represents the end point, the point of no return.

—

Very scary stuff—my hands are shaking as I type this. But they’ve identified the problem. And highlighted a solution. I am confident there are no shortage of solutions. Human ingenuity and nature …We just have to act and that often means regulations and direct action.

#climate collapse #ocean acidification #ocean pollution #plankton #ecological collapse #ocean preservation and conservation

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cempasuchilpodridos · 3 years ago

Note

💔📌 :3

I'm gonna start with least favorite:

I want to say Alma as a joke, but I really don't dislike any of the family members. However, there is a character that I am not horribly fond of and.have ranted about several times (It's more me being frustrated with her dw)

Pezmuerto. I just can't with her. this lady keeps a goldfish, a hecking GOLDFISH in a small bowl and then has the nerve to get mad at Bruno for it. I know that you could argue lack of filtration since the movie takes place in 1950's rural Colombia, but that aside, it's still a bad setup. Golfish need 20+ gallons to live a happy life and having a small area will keep them small, but it also hurts them and shortens their lifespan. Golfish can live for a similar time to cats and dogs, people! not to mention, that in a container that small, it would be difficult to keep the tank clean from it's droppings so that fish could very well have died from ammonia poisoning.

(a while ago I was talking to my ex about Encanto and they were like "dang, you're still thinking about the fish?" YES. )

Also I know WDTAB takes artistic liberyy and isn't supposed to be all literal, but I can see this lady making the same mistake and not learning from it.

How did I find Encanto

*deep breath*

Okay, so depending on how much detail I let myself get into this, it can be a long one!

In general I am very much a fan of Disney content and animation as a whole. My parents met at a Disney Park and generally incorporated it into my life a decent amount. Lilo & Stitch was one of the first things I was outright obsessive over (Think how I am about Encanto but a child who draws fanart of the characters, plays the games on the site, watches the movie, has a plush of stitch as a comfort item, and ritualistically comes home from school and rushes to the tv to watch the TV series). I also had many 6hour periods in the car to visit family so a lot of that was spent watching Disney movies and even as a kid being fascinated by all the deleted scenes and how there were like, real people making the cartoons. I also very much liked 101 dalmatians, 3 caballeros, Cinderella (ngl it was mostly bc Jaq the mouse was my fave), and Dumbo, nome of which I loved like I loved Lilo&Stitch though I did like dumbo to the point where when I went to disneyland as a child I would insist on riding the yellow elephant, which is like a little inskde joke/ref

So anyways, with that background out of the way, I tend to see Disney animated films not too long after their initial release. Though the movie in general I saw in a physical theater I saw was Onward, I did go to a Drive in to see Raya and had plans to do the same for Encanto, but was kinda underwhelmed with Raya and didn't push to go see Encanto as a result (though it has since closed the theater was like 45 minutes away with very limited showings so not very convinient). I ended up seeing it on Noche Buena when it dropped to D+, and loved it. I regret not seeing it theatrically though and honestly would have exploded inside if I could have seen it at the El Capitan theater.

I love getting these asks! ^-^

#encanto asks #asks #sorry this one is a big ramble about personal stuff #seriously this was back when a day pass was like $30 and the current day price could get you an annual pass #def different times

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afterthegreatunknown · 3 years ago

Text

personal headcanons a go-go!

Widdershins Family Book-Verse Edition

VFD/Schism/General World Building Headcanons

The World of ASOUE is an alternate world that first diverge during World War I, and again around World War II. That divergence brought in “VFD’s golden era”. It’s really a subjective term. Still, for the late 1940’s to 1950’s the world was “quiet”. VFD members of this era are ‘The Golden (Quiet) Generation’.

The VFD United States branch in 1960 started to have internal conflict. It spread to other VFD headquarters/locations around the world because they found the same arguments. The Schism happened in the 60’s, just in different ‘phases’ that make it one whole.

Via a butterfly effect, the world enters a strange apocalyptic world until the mid-1970s where stability came back. The new world leaders look at the first half of the 20th century through rose tinted glasses, leading to the present ASOUE period of being “timeless”.

The City is located in a former state of the once United States, now know as the Land of Districts (the once former state is the Land of Districts, not the former country); the Kingdom of Arizona is one of its neighbors.

Captain (V.) Widdershins

Captain of the VFD Submarine Queequeg. The Queequeg was built by him and most of the STEM members of his generation, with Kit Snicket being the main one.

His decade long apprenticeship on a VFD submarine gave him navy skills. Captain isn’t referring to his rank. It’s referring to how he’s in command of a submarine.

(French) Chinese Cambodian on Father’s side, native Cambodian on Mother’s side; neither are part of VFD. The V is the initial of Widdershins’ first name; if anyone asks him what the ‘V’ stands for, he says not to bother, telling them to call him by his new surname instead.

Left Cambodia as a refugee with his mother. When he came of age, Widdershins applied for citizenship. He is a proper citizen by the time of ASOUE.

Due to a long apprenticeship, Widdershins has a habit of sneaking off to land to visit a few of his friends associates. He took a risk on informing Lemony what happened to Kit, as Widdershins got caught sneaking off last time (he got caught this time around too).

Alongside a minor interest of poetry, he has a minor interest in fringe science and mythology/folklore. Widdershins knows more about the Great Unknown than he lets on.

Widdershins was a former ‘patient’ of a VFD eye-doctor akin to Dr. Orwell’s. As it was the early years of hypnotism, it didn’t took hold of him, but it did left side effects. The main one that never went away is his inability to remember people’s names and events.

Near the end of his apprenticeship Widdershins was given the (non-paying) job of Fernald’s babysitter (later ‘chaperone’). Widdershins had a collection of poetry books he and Fernald would read together whenever Fernald’s parents were at work.

Parenting Skill Level: ‘Decent, Doting Stepfather’ to ‘Stepfather Who is Struggling; Why You Trying to get your Kid take a Minor Interest in your Job’ to canonical ‘You’re Not Going to Win Stepfather of the Year You Know That Right?’.

Widdershins realizes off-screen during the events of TPP he hurt his stepchildren many times in the past. As such Widdershins put family first for the first time in years over VFD, for he didn’t want to lose family again, and realize VFD gave him bad priorities.

Post-Canon, Widdershins takes a job at the docks in the Fish District, as well as delivering seafood to restaurants and other places. He has an expired driver license, so he had to get it renew upon returning to land.

Fernald (Jules Marie) Fernald

The Baby-Sitting Charge of Nightmares; Fernald was the (then) child of two working VFD member parents. VFD didn’t elect to kidnap recruit him but sent babysitters, and Fernald would drive them away after a week or two. Three days was his best record.

Fernald once upon a time liked Widdershins; Widdershins survived Fernald’s antics, leading to Fernald to treat him as an older brother figure. When Mom and Widdershins began dating each other, Fernald was freak out at first, but soon calmed down.

Discovered his interest of poetry via Widdershins; the two would read poetry together. When it was time for Fernald to enter his “apprenticeship”, he managed to convince his parents to convince Widdershins to be the ‘chaperone’, stating VFD may not have one available (which was correct because VFD at this point is becoming a bigger mess).

Was absolutely excited when getting told by his parents they were going to have another child. Fernald hated being an only child and wanted a sibling who he can teach things.

His fashion senses of a [trench] coat came from admiring Jacques Snicket (from afar). Despite the article written about him and the broken pedestal, Fernald never did change fashion senses until surviving the Great Unknown (he ditched the trench coat).

Blames Widdershins for indirectly killing Mom in the Anwhistle Aquatic fire. He also believed at one point Fiona is his half sibling. At least until Post-TEE Pre-TVV, when Fernald accidentally learns something of Widdershins that has Fernald going, “Oh. Well fuck.”

Post-Awhistle Aquatic Fire, Fernald “agreed” to put up an act of ‘all is well’ when visitors show up, as well dance around the issue themselves. It’s only until Fernald turns 17 did the fights happened, as Jacques bringing up Gregor accidentally set Fernald off.

Fernald hates his surname. He had to deal with people going ‘Oh there’s Fernald Fernald!’ He blames his misery on his parents, who Fernald knows they consider the name ‘Friday’ for him. Granted, Fernald can’t see himself as a Friday.

Lost his hands after joining the fire-starting side: he had to set another fire to get rid of evidence (a body), and in the explosion, Fernald’s hand got injured to where they had to do a fast amputated. The hooks were used because it was what they had at the time.

Annoying had to fake a resume for TEE to pose as the 667 Dark Avenue door-man. But as luck would have it, he gets another door-man job Post-Canon.

Fernald’s ‘favorite’ Baudelaire is Sunny because he was amused with watching her struggle to bite or not bite his hooks in the cage. Fernald’s ‘favorite’ Quagmire is Duncan, for Fernald enjoys his spunk. Isadora is a close second due to her interest in poetry, but things got awkward when he almost accidentally stabbed her eye out.

Fiona (Una) Widdershins

Fiona as an infant never needed glasses. But when she became six, Fiona did needed glasses. Her stepfather allowed her to use the frames she got from him as an infant.

Lived the first five years of her life on land. The Queequeg during this period never went out to sea. At six, the Queequeg went out to sea, but always return back to land fast.

Likes to steal the grass from the sand playground to have a ‘garden’ on the Queequeg as a child. Fiona Post-Canon gets herself a green thumb in gardening.

Fiona has few memories of her mother. The memories Fiona think she recollect are a mixture of Fernald, her stepfather, and her own memories mix-match together.

Fiona had a VFD tutor who lived on the Queequeg to teach her, starting at six, ending at fourteen for her technical-apprenticeship (which is also when the Queequeg fully went out back to sea). Fiona’s interest in mycology came from reading mycology books she found hidden onboard when she should be listening to her tutor.

Did not like The Woman Who Turned Out to Be a Spy. The Spy join the Queequeg when Fiona was ten. The Spy was pleasant at first, but after a few days, the Spy begins trash talking about Fiona’s mother in the most passive-aggressive way possible (leading to Fiona doubting the manatee story) that’s almost borderline insulting to Fiona.

Fiona’s 13th and 16th birthday were wild. Fiona at 13 finally got evidence of the Spy being awful and the Spy trying to steal important VFD documents, leading to everyone play a game of hide and seek to find the Spy and throw her out. Fiona at 16 had her birthday cut short, as during the party the news of Gustav’s confirmed death broke out, which all happened during a storm out at sea.

Fiona has no idea how to socialize with her own peers since first grade. This resulted in her being rather shy and quiet around those her age. With most of her company being adults, Fiona ends up learning a few swear words (mostly via Stepfather), but she rarely uses them unless she feels it’s truly appropriate + actually wants to swears.

Fiona loves shore leave because she is allowed to visit the City (or Lake Lachrymose) for fun. She’s upset it shrinks with each passing year. Before, it was the whole month of April and September. By ASOUE, it just became one week in April and September.

Fiona genuinely likes Klaus, but it’s only after she and Fernald double-cross Olaf, did she finally asked herself if she like Klaus romantically or as a friend (with Fiona scared she may have just ruined his life if he didn’t like her romantically with their kiss).

Despite the mass complications between Fiona and her stepfather (not truly approving about her mycology interest, lack of peers her own age, keeping secrets from her, etc), Fiona still loves her stepfather (he just gets a nickname of trashcan and variations Post-Canon). Fiona honestly think he shouldn’t have left in the first place (the swimming woman is an explanation, not excuse), but the fact is, Fiona is glad he came back (and that’s important to her).

Bonus: The Once Happy Couple That Is...

Mrs. Widdershins (F) and Thursday

Mrs. Widdershins’ first name is Frigga (not Friga), maiden name McAlister. Thursday’s full name is Thursday Fernald. Fernald and Fiona’s naming scheme came from their mother.

In-between members. Both were 14 when the schism broke out

Both were 19 when Fernald was born (Frigga got pregnant at 18). They didn’t marry until Fernald was two. They were perfectly fine with staying girlfriend-boyfriend, but eventually had to get married or else Thursday’s mother (Monday) wouldn’t give him his inheritance

They originally wanted their son to be name ‘Friday’. ‘Fernald’ is a misunderstanding.

F has a lot of jewelry, and she prefers necklaces more than anything else. In fact, Thursday proposed via necklace. F never took said necklace off until after she and Thursday started the process of their divorce.

F was a mycologist; Thursday is a dendrologist (he studies trees; he hates getting calling a botanist). Before that, F was a teacher in the City, while Thursday was the principal’s secretary at Prufrock Prep.

F being a mycologist led to a rumor she went all ‘mad scientist’ and made psychedelic mushrooms. It’s true, but it was an accidental experiment. Said accident later got her involved in the creation of the Medusoid Mycelium, co-creator with Gregor Anwhistle.

Another (nasty) rumor is F cheated on Thursday with Gregor (work romance affair), and Fiona is Gregor’s daughter. This led to the divorce between F and Thursday.

Thursday believed the rumors because after Fernald’s birth; the couple swore to never have another child again because VFD’s recruitment methods could lead to their death and tried to take precaution since (mostly via condoms).

F quickly realize her decision to date Widdershins could make the rumors worse. She was scared the ‘news’ Widdershins wanted to tell her was the ‘Fiona being Gregor’s daughter’ rumor, and he wanted to break up. F was secretly relieved hearing it was about Lemony Snicket because Snicket’s problems finally took attention off her.

Thursday is technically the only known (Original) Schism Generation member left alive; he’s 49 by ASOUE.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #vfd #captain widdershins #hook handed man #fernald #fiona widdershins #mrs widdershins #thursday #thursday asoue #headcanons #book verse #(once again)#(i honestly have lots more to say of my headcanons)#(but i'm holding back)#we all queue in a yellow submarine

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fortune-fool02 · 4 years ago

Text

Y/n Moreau diary (Moreau little sister Au)

2 October 1948 :

Some brats bullied Salvatore again today. Poor him is still in his room, crying.

Mother and Father didn't helped too; they overwhelm him with derogatory words : "Get yourself together already!", "Stop crying and be a man!", "You ashame our family!" etc.

I can't even go comfort him.

Father obliged me to have more science classes and adds economic classes as well; and Mother adds etiquette and good manners classes to my already busy schedule. Evidently, the remarks I made to Salvatore's last "fiance" weren't worthy of a "Young lady coming from a respectable family".

Good for her. Better prepare yourself for the consequences before you insult and put down others. It was really pleasant to see her run from home in tears.

22 November 1948 :

Father starts to keep Salvatore out of family matters more and more these days, and to give me more responsibilities. It's all a bad sign.

Furthermore, they stop to search a wife for Salvatore and are now searching "suitors" for me.

I should plan strategies to stop them to court/marry me.

I had enough work already...

I can't even spend time with my big brother...

Ball breakers.

8 January 1949 :

My fears are confirmed.

Big brother will be oust from the family and be relegated to the rank of secondary branch. Making me the sole head and heiress of House Moreau. To top it all, Mother and Father have found me suitors. 5 suitors all older than me by at least 10 years minimum.

Pedophiles...

I am only 10 years old and you want to marry me. Still happy that the wedding will take place when I turn 16-17.

Salvatore is even more withdrawn than ever since the announcement. I think he is thinking that it's all his fault if all of this happen.

It's not true Salvatore! It's their fault. They never try to understand you or to give you the affection you need.

Don't worry, when I will be the head of House Moreau, I will reinstate you to the main branch.

8 March 1949 :

It's been just some months since big brother was oust of the main branch and they are already treating him as a slave! How dare they!? Salvatore is their child too. He is even a good doctor at his clinic, even if he is shy and eluted when he talks to his patients.

And my suitors are constantly in my feet... Sweet talking me, courting me, wanting to spend to with me. Oh please give me a break. You have 6 years to win my heart. Even if you never will, but it's not nice to crush people's hopes.

How I wish that I already am the head of the family yet.

12 June 1949 :

My wish was granted.

Mother and Father died in an accident 2 days ago.

The funerals are today, but, I don't really feel sad. I mean, my heart hurts because it was my parents and all, but I don't have a breakdown or intense sadness overwhelming me.

Big brother on the other hand... he is devastated. Even after all they put him through, he still loves them dearly.

Don't worry big brother. I will never abandon you, I promise.

30 September 1949 :

Since I am the head of House Moreau, everything seem to be better : Salvatore was reinstate in the main branch, my suitors leave me alone, and the house's fortune is going well.

I make researches on the stange fungus which can be found near the village.

Maybe this mushroom can be use as a medicine.

5 February 1950 :

A strange woman came at the house today. She told me she was Mother Miranda, the prophet of the Black God. What crazy joke is this? The black god? Since when a cult like that exists in this village?

I told her, nicely, to go back to her god home and to never come back here again.

I must keep an eye on her, though. She smells troubles.

4 March 1950 :

MIRANDA YOU FUCKING BITCH!

This woman talked to Salvatore in his clinic and succeed into making him join her cult of degenerates. And now, he is somewhere in her underground church.

I must find him.

22 March 1950 :

Miranda you fucking witch.

You used my brother to lure me to you, to implant me your "Cadou".

Cadou... a gift? rather a curse if you want my opinion.

I must be glad though. I didn't mutated to become some of her monstrosities, and I am still alive and well.

But Salvatore...

I must check on him again. He is still suffering.

12 May 1950 :

Salvatore is...

I- I don't know what to do.

What happened to him is just... just...

I saw him suffering for days, having so much excrescences forming on him to the point of making him a hunchback.

His beautiful young face distorted to become more fish-like. He lost most of his long platinum hair, his teeth become crooked.

He looks like a mons-

No! He is my big brother, Salvatore Moreau. Not a monster.

He is already putting himself down enough. He sees himself as a monster. I can't, I must not let him down.

I promised.

Miranda. I will never forgive you for what you have done. One day I will kill you I swear.

But if I want to create a medicine to kill her, I need test subjects and incubators.

Maybe those suitors won't be useless after all.

***

This was so cool! Thank you!

#moreau's sister au #submission #moreau #salvatore moreau #resident rvil 8 #resident evil village

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iiitsnotbase · 3 years ago

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FLUFFTOBER IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[----------------------------------------------------------------------------]

Ship: Chisaki Hiradira x Tsumugu Kihara, A Lull In The Sea.

Prompt: Winning a teddy bear.

Dynamic: Idiots in love, childhood moments.

Tsumugu and Chisaki meet at an arcade as children, and then don't remember it when they grow up.

[----------------------------------------------------------------------------]

Tsumugu hadn't been to an arcade before, and it was the last time he'd ever go to one, but it was alright because he wasn't mad about it. In a last-ditch effort to get nine-year-old Tsumugu to not run away to the sea to live with his grandfather, his Mother had taken him out to an arcade on thier last trip out. There were so many bright lights and noises, the clanking of coins against the machines, the machinery working away, screams of children his age, crying babys, parents yelling for thier children to listen to them and then loosing them in the sea of people.

And the people.

Oh, god, the people. Crammed together in a tiny room like sardines in a tin, the way everyone pressed up against everyone else, his Mother's tight grip on her wrist. There was a reason Tsumugu only wore brown and soft colours, because the colours were another issue for him entirely. Bright purples, blues, greens, and even when he looked down at the carpet the kolidascope of colours hurt his eyes, so he shut them.

Which led to the smell. Greasy street food, chicken nuggets, fish, chips, potatos, olive oil, cookies, cake, soda. "Where would you like to go first?" His Mothers voice cut through the entire area, just because she had a screech of a voice and not a soft, gentle one, as Mothers should. Tsumugu raised his hand and pointed to a tiny corner where a beat up old machine was in the corner. It's soft yellow paint was peeling off of it, and its glass was frosted. The stick you used to operate it was a light blue, paint slightly peeling off as well. It was filled with old teddy's from the 1950's, all of them brown. It may have just been an aesthetic choice, but it worked and Tsumugu was very much attracted to it.

His mother sighed, gave him a coin to use it, and he forced through the crowd and into the corner. From a distance, there was nobody else in it, but up close there was a girl, around his age, with a shock of purple hair tumbling over her shoulders, wearing a school uniform. Her skin glistened in the light and she looked like a mermaid. Tsumugu joined her in the corner.

"Hullo." She said. Unsure of what to say back, Tsumugu blinked. "I don't like this." She said again. "School trips are bad. Especially the ones on the surface." Tsumugu took a wild guess.

"Culture class?" He asked, and she nodded. "My Mum wants me to stay."

"Why?" The girl asked, looking up and meeting his eyes. He noticed her eyes were blue, like that space between the sea and the sky, the horizon in the middle of the perfectly clear summers day. Her uniform was dark blue, like the bottom of the ocean, everything she did seemed ocean-like.

"Because I want to live with my grandpa in his town. Because it's by the sea." The girl laughed soft, it sounded like waves crashing on the shore, again, the sea was clearly pulling some part in this, just like it pulled itself to Tsumugu, Tsumugu felt himself being pulled to her.

"I'm from the sea." She said, and there was a pause. "I hate the city." At this grim remark, Tsumugu stood up and pulled her towards the machine. He slot the coin in and it burst to life.

"At least let me make something good come out of this day." They stared at each other, and she nodded. Tsumugu faced the machine, both of thier faces reflected in the frosted glass. One with his mouth set in a straight line, focused, and the other with her mouth hung slightly open, almost in shock. The claw lowered and grabbed a brown canvas teddy bear with a red ribbon around it's neck. It dropped into the area with the flap, and they both bent down to look at it. Tsumugu and her reached to grab it at the same time, and thier hands bumped in the tiny compartment.

The canvas was rough on thier skin, and he gave the teddy straight to her. She crossed her arms over the bear, holding it aginst her chest, and she blushed at the gesture. He offered her a smile, a true, genuine smile that he regretted when her blush only grew. "Thank you." She mumbled, when he saw his Mother storming over to them. His smile faded.

"Go. Keep the bear." He said. She nodded, kissed her fingers and placed them on his cheek and ran into the crowd, flinching slightly as she did it.

[----------------------------------------------------------------------------]

"Hm? Where did you get that bear from, Hiradira?" He asked as he entered her room.

"I won it on a school trip to the surface one day!" She exclaimed, lifting it up, "I named it 'Sal-Tee, after the salty food we had at the arcade."

Neither of them remembered more than the food.

[----------------------------------------------------------------------------]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH idiots. i love them though so its all good. @flufftober2021

#flufftober #flufftober 2021 #a lull in the sea #chisaki x tsumugu #tsumugu kihara #chisaki hiradaira #arcade #childhood memory unlocked #but not really #teddy bear #fluff #the food wasn't that good she was a dumb kid

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

Note

For the prompts number 35 fluff: “You didn’t think you’d be able to get rid of me just yet did you?” ineffable husbands

Bit of Quarantine/Awake the Snake/Nope He’s Asleep Again fluff...

(Using this wonderful prompt list - send me an Ask or an @ with your request!)

Aziraphale stood in the door of the bedroom.

The shop hadn’t always had a bedroom. It hadn’t always had a kitchen, either, but somewhere around 1950 he’d gotten the urge to do a little redecorating and had added a few rooms to make it more homey. The kitchen was the only one that saw any real use, though.

Until now.

He watched the figure huddled under the tartan blankets. They seemed darker now, more grey and black than his usual color scheme. He supposed that was to be expected, when a demon slept under them for the better part of nine months.

Now and again, Crowley shifted, just slightly. Head adjusting on the pillow, legs stretching or pulling back in. It was as active as Aziraphale had seen him in months.

He still wasn’t sure why Crowley had come over. He’d made it quite clear, in their telephone conversation, that the demon should not, under any circumstances, be going about breaking the rules. Crowley had agreed, mumbled something about setting the alarm…and not ten minutes later, had knocked on Aziraphale’s door, bottle of wine in hand.

“You didn’t think you’d be able to get rid of me just yet, did you?” he’d asked, all charming grin and tempting voice, as Aziraphale hid behind his own door.

“You can’t be here, Crowley! The rules!”

“Yeah, you said.” He’d leaned against the doorframe, tilting his glasses down just enough to let a hint of gold shine over them. “You also said you thought I’d be out breaking the rules.”

Aziraphale spluttered indignantly. “That is – I only said – you’re a demon, Crowley, of course I thought – that doesn’t mean—”

With a shrug, Crowley had stood up, stretching his arms languorously as a cat. “Well, if I’m not wanted here, I suppose I could go…wander the streets. Tempt some humans to come out. Maybe throw a party.”

And, really, what could Aziraphale say to that?

“Two meters,” he’d warned as he opened the door.

“Come on, Angel. We can’t even catch the virus.”

“Two meters, or you’re back on the street. Is that clear?”

“Whatever you say.”

And he’d kept his word, moving the sofa so they could sit the appropriate distance apart, working their way through the bottle of wine, as well as two cakes and a plate of biscuits that had been slightly burned. They’d talked, and as the hours passed, Aziraphale had even found himself laughing again.

Some time after midnight, Crowley had risen unsteadily to his feet. “Well…tha’s all from me. For me. Gotta go…sleep it off.” Aziraphale hadn’t known what to say, so with a shrug, Crowley started shuffling towards the door. “July? Yeah, July. Th’ sigkss. Siksifiss. Sixsthsthsth. Ngk. The fifth. Sounds good.”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale rose from his chair and snapped his fingers, locking the front door.

“Unnnnn.” Crowley struggled with the knob for almost a minute. “Angel. I need. M’Bentley’s outside, you know.”

“I know.” He’d been surprised to find he wasn’t actually very drunk at all. “You didn’t think I’d let you leave just yet, did you?”

Crowley’s jaw had worked, flapping in confusion like a fish trying to grow lungs. His glasses had slid down his nose almost entirely before he finally managed: “Wah?”

“There’s a bed upstairs.” Aziraphale swallowed. “You can…you can have it as long as you like.”

They’d kept two meters apart, up the stairs, around the landing, all the way to the bedroom door, Aziraphale waving Crowley through. But the demon had just stood in the center of the room, turning his head in confusion. Not seeming to notice the piles of books or dusty furniture.

“It’s just – right there,” Aziraphale had pointed helpfully, as if Crowley might miss the bed taking up half the floor.

“Yuh.” Another turn, and Cowley had finally stepped forward, placing his glasses on the bedside table, sitting slowly on the edge. “And you’ll…?”

“I’ll be downstairs, of course, in my shop. I never use this room.”

Crowley had stared at him a long time. Aziraphale had expected questions, but no. Just silence.

“Ah. I see you…you’re very tired. If you need me, I’m—”

“Downstairs. Yeah. Why?”

“That’s where I live, obviously.”

“Not that.” Crowley shifted to sit a little further back on the bed, but his eyes never left Aziraphale’s face. “Why ask me to stay? I’ll still be asleep. You’ll still be alone. And you know I always sober up before I drive, so don’t pretend it’s that.”

“Perhaps…” Even nine months later, Aziraphale didn’t have a good answer. “Perhaps I just like having you close.”

“Huh.” Crowley had leaned back, starting the long, elaborate process of kicking his boots off. They weren’t real boots, of course, and vanished as soon as they hit the floor, but he took his time all the same. “You know. Couple months here. We’ll be, what’s the term. Same household.”

“Will we? Fancy that.”

“Nh. Different rules, two adults in the same household.”

“Are there?”

Crowley had finally pulled his legs up and started to burrow under the blankets. “Well. If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”

“Now, don’t be absurd. I’m hardly—”

“Uh-huh. I know. Just.” He’d settled back onto the pillow. “I’m here. Any time you need me.” Then a smile. “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale had fled, without another word.

He’d hardly said anything, in July, when Crowley woke to scroll through his mobile and grumble for an hour before promptly returning to sleep.

In October, he’d managed a short conversation from the doorway, Crowley’s frown increasingly sour. He’d walked away for a few minutes, and returned to find the demon snoring again.

And now it was the end of January.

Nine months together. That really did make them the same household, and certainly neither of them could be considered at-risk. Quite the opposite, in fact. Which meant…

Aziraphale stepped into the bedroom.

He nearly made it to the bed before Crowley woke, jerking his head up slightly. “Wuzzzat? S’it over?”

“No, not nearly. Things got quite bad for a bit there, but…I think they’re looking up. They’ve started vaccinating, you know.”

“S’good.” Crowley lay back down. “S’what? Another month?”

“Oh, no. It’s going quite quickly but…autumn, I should think. Certainly not before June.”

“Right. June.” He closed his eyes.

“But—” Aziraphale took a step forward, fingers hovering over the side of the bed. “I just – that is—”

One golden eye cracked open, and the smallest hint of a smile stretched across Crowley’s lips. “S’your bed, Angel.”

“Ah. Yes. Right.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. “Jolly good.” Crowley kept watching him.

“Oh, alright.” He tugged back the corner of the blankets and sat, quickly removing his shoes. Waistcoat folded on the bedside table, by Crowley’s glasses. Bowtie, too, and unfasten the top button of his shirt. That should do. He pulled himself under the blankets and lay back.

Crowley had, apparently, already fallen asleep.

“Well. I see how it is.” Aziraphale felt very foolish.

Then Crowley’s arm shifted, stretching out across the space between them. “C’mon,” he grunted.

Aziraphale hesitated, until Crowley’s arm started to shift again. Panicked that the invitation might be withdrawn, he surged across the distance. Crowley’s arm guided him closer, pulling him all against the demon’s side, to rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“S’better?”

“Ah. Yes. That’s…that’s very…yes.”

“Good.” His hand settled somewhere near Aziraphale’s hip, his face turned so that hot breath rolled across Aziraphale’s forehead. “G’night, Angel.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart, the way his ribs rose and fell with every breath. “Yes. Good night, Crowley.”

Aziraphale rarely slept, and didn’t fall asleep as quickly as Crowley did. But, he reflected, studying the demon’s profile, it would still be time well spent.

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #cuddling & snuggling #quarantine fic #awake the snake #aziraphale #crowley #there's only one bed #sleeping crowley #my writing #prompt fic #tumblr fic

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mst3kproject · 4 years ago

Photo

The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues

I found this movie online while looking for From Hell It Came (which I haven’t yet found – someday I will and then you’ll all be sorry) and it looked bad, so I checked out the details. Turns out it stars Kent Taylor from The Crawling Hand, Cathy Downs from The Amazing Colossal Man, and was written by Lou Rusoff, who was behind It Conquered the World, The She-Creature, and… oh god, he also wrote Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow. This is gonna suck goat nads. I must watch it right away.

You shouldn’t picture me groaning when I write stuff like that, by the way. You should picture me giggling like a maniac and rubbing my hands together with glee.

A monster is killing people at sea near an incredibly bleak and depressing California college town, and the bodies and wrecked boats it leaves in its wake are scorched by radioactivity! Washington sends Agent Grant to find out what’s going on, and he soon discovers that the Pacific College of Oceanography is positively overflowing with suspicious characters. There’s the reclusive and paranoid Professor King, who is working on weird experiments in his locked laboratory. There’s King’s assistant George, who follows him around and hides in the bushes to watch what he’s doing. King’s secretary Ethel blames the professor for the death of her son and wants revenge, and George’s girlfriend Wanda is a foreign agent. Not to mention the visiting Dr. Stevens, a radiation expert with an unsettling habit of turning up just in time to discover the bodies. Someone among this motley crew has created a sea monster… and someone else is planning to sell it to the highest bidder!

You know how some movies save their monsters until the last minute, in order to build suspense? Or because what we imagine is always scarier than what we actually see? Or because the monster sucks and they’re ashamed of it? Or some combination of the above?

Phantom from 10 000 Leagues is not one of those movies. Before we’re even a full minute into it, the monster has appeared on screen in all its ridiculous glory. Stevens calls it a hideous beast that defies description but I think I can make an attempt. It looks sort of like the lovechild of a saber-toothed tiger and the Horror of Party Beach. There’s a ridge down its head and back like an iguana and a poorly-camouflaged window in its neck so the dude inside can see what he’s doing. The whole costume is also rather buoyant, and the actor is having to work hard to stay underwater. Sadly, this beast remains lurking in the depths and never shambles out onto the beach to menace sunbathers, which is the only thing it would have needed to make it a perfect bad movie monster.

The creature is not the only nuclear threat in this movie… or even the silliest one! During an investigatory dive, Stevens discovers a glowing patch on the seafloor which he says represents an ‘activated’ uranium deposit with the potential to form a naturally-occurring death ray! We finally get to see this in action when stock footage of a ship passes over it – and turns into a different ship that immediately blows up! I’m just sad this only happens once. The glowing stone itself is represented by a mirror with a light shining on it in underwater shots, and by the reflection of the sun when seen from the surface.

So the effects are not special and make an already silly threat even more hilarious. What about the story? Like all cheap monster movies, the focus of The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues is not the creature killing people but the investigation into it. There’s a large number of potential monster-makers here, which could have made the movie a bit messy – but by the time the words The End appear, we know who all these people are, how they’re involved, and what they hope to accomplish. Even the women are given distinct motivations and personalities, although those fall neatly into the ‘maiden, mother and whore’ tropes I’ve discussed in the past. The dialogue is not exactly subtle, but it seems like I can’t wholly blame Lou Rousoff for Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow.

It’s also nice that, despite the preponderance of White Men In Suits (Stevens and Grant both walk along the beach in suits and ties at all hours of the day and night), the characters all look different enough that I can tell them apart! None of the cast are great actors, with a lot of stilted or awkward line deliveries, but then, a lot of the things they’re saying are completely ridiculous, so I probably can’t lay that entirely at their feet.

Unfortunately, the plot of Phantom From 10 000 Leagues is rather unfocused, and like so many of these films it’s not sure who its main character is. It seems like either Agent Grant or Dr. Stevens, who are each conducting some kind of investigation into the goings-on, ought to be the protagonist… but both are introduced in contexts that make them seem potentially suspicious. Dr. Stevens is actually significantly more suspicious than Grant, because when he first turns up he gives a fake name, and later proves to have actually performed experiments with mutating sea life in the past. Yet for much of the movie, it’s Stevens we’re watching, as he cozies up to Professor King and flirts with King’s daughter Lois. He actually gets far more screen time than Grant, with the latter sometimes being out of the movie for long enough that the audience kind of forgets he’s there.

Stevens and Lois’ love story is, as is probably inevitable for a movie of this kind, completely bland. Kent Taylor and Cathy Downs have no appreciable spark between them, and one gets the uncomfortable impression that he’s about twice her age. The movie never offers even an approximate age for either character, but Lois is still unmarried and living with her father, which in the 1950s suggests she’s in her early twenties. King describes Stevens as a ‘young man’ but between his appearance and his impressive academic credentials he’s obviously not, and when I looked up the actors I learned that Taylor was forty-eight when The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues was made, while Downs was twenty-nine. That’s… well, they’re both adults, but he’s still old enough to be her father, and the younger we assume they both are, the worse the two decade gap gets.

Once we actually get to know the characters, the solution to the mysteries is fairly obvious, but this lets us spend some actual time with these men and find out what they think about the situation. Stevens, who’s been down this road before, wants these terrible experiments to stop before any more people get hurt. King, hearing about it for the first time, is more excited about what he might be able to learn by building on Stevens’ work. This represents an interesting inversion because if you’ll recall, King is supposed to be significantly older than Stevens (though actor Michael Whelan was actually born only five years before Taylor).

Usually knowledge and wisdom are both associated with age. This is a very old trope and has some fairly sound logic behind it: the elderly have had longer to learn and to experience. In Phantom from 10 000 Leagues, however, we have the older Professor King excited by the ground-breaking discoveries made by a younger scientist and wanting to learn more about them, even when the (supposedly) younger Stevens warns him about Tampering in God’s Domain. Each assumes the role their ages might make us expect of the other.

This is reflected in their respective fields: depending on how you define it, oceanography is as old as mankind. Humanity has been mapping the seas for as long as we’ve known how to sail across them, and marveling at the monsters we pull from its depths for as long as we’ve been catching fish. That is the Professor King’s domain. Stevens, on the other hand, is a specifically nuclear scientist. Nuclear physics technically begins with the discovery of radioactivity in the 1890’s, but it seemed like a new and scary field in the 1950s, as the development of atomic weapons forced scientists to take a closer look at the phenomenon’s effect on living tissues. To King, who is an expert in another field, the possibilities of this relatively new work outweigh the potential consequences.

As sloppy and poorly-made as Phantom from 10 000 Leagues can be, this contrast between Stevens and King does make it a movie with something to say. It of course has the standard moral for a fifties atomic monster piece, about paths science is not meant to tread, but it also wants us to think about that connection between age and wisdom. On the one hand, King’s interest in Stevens’ work tells us that you’re never too old to learn something new. On the other, just because somebody is young doesn’t mean they have nothing to teach. If King had taken in Stevens’ wisdom along with his knowledge, a lot of suffering need not have happened.

Even if you’re not into that, the crappy monster, the bad acting, the ridiculous science, and all the sneaking around and backstabbing that goes on makes Phantom from 10 000 Leagues plenty of fun watch. It’s much like Beginning of the End in that it ticks all the MST3K boxes, while remaining coherent enough that you can enjoy the actual story along with the badness.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #phantom from 10000 leagues #it's beginning to look a lot like fishmen #50s

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

Text

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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