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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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February 18, 2021: The Danish Girl (Review)

Before I go into ANYTHING else...let’s talk about the actual Danish Girl, Lili Elbe, or Lili Ilse Elvenes.

Oh, uh, full warning, this is gonna be LONG, so skip to the bottom if you’re just here for the Review! OK, history time!

Now, what the film The Danish Girl notes about the beginning of the transition is pretty spot-on, from what I can tell. After marrying portrait painter Gerda Gottlieb in 1904, the two lived in Italy and France before moving to Paris in 1912. Yeah, that’s over 14 years before they’re shown doing so in the movie. Inaccuracy #1. In 1908 (here comes number 2), Elbe (Einar at the time) painted this portrait of trees along a fjord in Denmark.

Yeah, NOT in 1926, as the film says. But, yeah, that’s a nitpick, I recognize that. Anyway, the revelation came when model Anna Larssen (not “Ulla”, which is Inaccuracy #3) was late, and Gerda asked Elbe to fill in. When Larssen eventually showed up, she suggested the name “Lili”. Basically, this scene from the movie was pretty goddamn accurate.

Except for the dates, anyway. Because while the movie mostly takes place around 1926 and afterwards, this probably happened closer to 1920, in Paris. So, yeah, Lili spent a LOT more time as Lili in real life. Additionally, Lili was pretty goddamn public about the whole thing, inviting guests and hosting parties as herself, rather than as Einar. At the same time, Gerda was getting pretty goddamn famous for her paintings of Lili, like this one.

Which, yeah, are really good! Also, they were considered lesbian erotica by many! YEAH! And here’s a fun fact: Gerda may not have been straight-up straight. Yeah, the film and the book (we’ll get there) kind of ignored the fact that their marriage was annulled by the Danish government, not by the two of them. Inaccuracy #4. Now, obviously, their relationship ended, and Lili ended up getting together with a man (we’ll get there, too), but there are a LOT of unanswered questions about Gerda’s sexuality, and views of sexuality (which is barely hinted at in the “male gaze” speech in the beginning).

After the annulment, the two just...drifted apart. Their relationship dissolved, and the details on that are fuzzy. By 1930, Lili was headed on a completely different path. She wasn’t a painter like Einar (and it turns out that she thought of them as two entirely separate people, like two souls living in the same body, which the movie got mostly right), and she was mostly unsatisfied with her career, life, and other things. And that is where Drs. Erwin Gohrbandt and Magnus Hirschfeld come in, NOT Kurt Warnerkros...yet. He’d come in for the other five (YES FIVE) surgeries, but wouldn’t be involved with the first. Inaccuracy #5, and also #6, while we’re at it! See, the film would make you think that Lili was the first complete gender reassignment surgery, but she was actually the second. The first would be Dora Richter, in a procedure that was performed by Dr. Hirschfeld from 1922 - 1931. YEAH. BIG-ASS INACCURACY THERE. Here’s Dora, by the way:

Anyway, Lili had her first procedure, to remove the testicles, performed in 1930. In the same year, the divorce between Lili and Gerda was finalized, and Lili legally changed her name. Two more procedures were performed, the first to implant an ovary, and the second to remove the penis and scrotum. Inaccuracy #7, by the way. And, hey, let’s go for number 8! Let’s talk about Henrik, a dude who didn’t exist. He and Hans were both very loosely based on an art dealer named Claude Lejeune.

Claude was an art dealer (there’s the Hans part), and was indeed in love with Lili. They got together around early 1931, and he’d actually been in love with her for a good, long time. He proposed to marry Lili, and she accepted, also hoping that the two would be able to have children together. But to do that, it was believed that Lili would need a uterus. And, obviously, having children would be MILES more complicated than that in basically EVERY way, but this was early in medical science’s understanding of some of that biology.

In any case, however, Lili would need both a uterus and a vagina to feel whole. And so, the fourth surgery was scheduled. And she had that surgery in 1931, a couple of weeks after Dora Richter successfully had the same surgery performed. But, sadly, Lili wouldn’t be so lucky.

Lili’s body rejected the uterus, and while transplant rejections of any kind wouldn’t necessarily be fatal now, they definitely were back then. They attempted to remove it, but that subsequent 5th surgery caused infection, which caused a fatal heart attack three months later. Lili Elbe died on September 13, 1931, at the age of FORTY-EIGHT. Yeah, Inaccuracy #9.

By the way, you may be wondering: what about Dora Richter, the first successful person to get these surgeries? Well, she disappeared...in Germany...as the Nazis were coming into power...yeah. Fuckin’ YIKES.

And so, that’s the true story of Lili Elbe. And there are far more differences than that, I’m sure, but those 9 inaccuracies aren’t insignificant, that’s for sure. Although, it probably doesn’t help that the movie was based on a fictionalized book.

Oh, uh...did I not mention that? Yeah, this movie is based on The Danish Girl, by David Ebershoff, which means that this film is essentially a cinematic game of telephone. Which, uh...not great. Granted, Ebershoof made some other...interesting changes, which the film didn’t inherit. In the book, for example, Gerda is named Greta, and is American? Um...why? I dunno, it’s kind of weird. Oh, and that’s not including one more issue with the movie. But, you’ve waited long enough, huh? Recap of the film is here and here if you wanna check that out! Let’s get to the Review already!

Review

Cast and Acting: 8/10

I am...conflicted. So let me start here by saying that the acting in the film in and of itself is fantastic, all-around. Not a weak actor in here, that’s for sure. Let’s start with the side-roles, for once. Ben Whishaw, Matthias Schoenaerts, and Amber Heard are all good. Heard’s accent is a little shaky, but they’re still all solid performances. OK, how about Alicia Vikander? She’s great! And she won the Oscar for...Best Supporting Actress. Um...wait...Supporting? But not Best Actress? Uh...OK. That’s a little weird, let’s be honest here. But, Alicia Vikander did deserve that win over...oooooooh, Rooney Mara in Carol? Maybe not...damn.

And OK...let’s get into the elephant in the room, huh?

Eddie Redmayne is fantastic as Einar Wegener/Lili Eber, and I genuinely think he had a great shot to win Best Actor...but, yeah, Leonardo DiCaprio definitely deserved it, I think that goes without saying. Hell, that year had a SOLID line-up for best actor. And Redmayne had even won it the year before for The THeory of Everything, another biography where he played Stephen Hawking. But ALL of that said...HNNNNNNNNNG, there should have been a transgender actor cast in this role, ideally. Now, I’m fully aware how difficult that would be, as Hollywood isn’t extraordinarily diverse in terms of including trans actors in massive mainstream projects. It’s better now, but it’s nowhere near ideal. But if anybody knows an actor who would’ve fit this role and performed it well, I’m DEFINITELY interested. So, despite that controversy, Redmayne was pretty goddamn great in this role. But, uh...that doesn’t mean everything is perfect...

Plot and Writing: 5/10

OK, that seems low, I know. But it’s pretty goddamn damning that this movie was based off of a heavily fictionalized book instead of the actual life story of Lili Eber and Gerda Gottlieb. And because of that, there are not only some missed opportunities, but some straight-up damning inaccuracies. That’s a set of pretty poor decisions, I tell you what. Not sure why Lucinda Coxon came to that decision when adapting this screenplay, but it wasn’t exactly nominated for Best Screenplay. And the writing certainly isn’t bad, but it is...overly saccharine sometimes, especially for a film based (loosely) on a true story. I dunno...just not the best set of choices here, sorry to say.

Directing and Cinematography: 8/10

Tom Hooper shouldn’t direct musicals. However, since this wasn’t a musical, directing and cinematography here is pretty damn good! Real talk, this is a gorgeous looking movie, and the way shots are framed are fantastic. Perfect? Weeeeeeeell...given the fact that painting is a main focus of the film, for both Gerda and Einar, there should’ve been more painter-quality shots in here, I think. And while the cinematography by Danny Cohen is pretty fantastic, I can’t say that it’s perfect. Still, in terms of lighting and general skill, it’s still quite a good looking movie.

Production and Art Design: 10/10

But the deficiencies in the direction are EASILY compensated for by the production design! Like, hot DAMN, this is a good looking movie, like I said! That goes from the construction of the sets, to the gorgeous outfits all over the place, especially Lili’s outfits. Some iconic pieces of wardrobe there, that’s for sure! But if I have ONE complaint...this movie never once felt like the 1920s. Yup, good old anachronistic complaints from me again! Yeah, I’ll change the record one of these days, I promise. But even with that, it’s hard to ignore just how good this movie looks, to be honest. It’s just...gorgeous.

Music and Editing: 8/10

As I type this, I’m listening to a track of the film on YouTube, and it is a beautifully delicate tune. I’m not sure that I’d be able to associate it with the film if presented to me on its own, but it’s definitely a nice track to listen to by itself. Playlist worthy? For somebody, almost certainly, but not for me. One of these days, a film like that’s gonna pop up, I swear. But for now, Alexandre Desplat and his score are gonna stay off my iPhone. This really is a nice score, though, I promise. Editing by Melanie Ann Oliver is pretty good as well, and I’ve no complaints about it, to be honest. Overall, this side of things was quite nice, if not the most notable thing I’ve ever seen or heard.

I might have been a little harsh, but it’s still got an 78%.

This is a good movie, but...I dunno, the inaccuracies do bug me. Hell, there are WAY more than what I’d mentioned, and I mentioned a lot. Not to mention the other glaring issue: no trans people at any stage of the production? Really? No script consultants, no writers, no NTOHING? That’s...egregiously bad. Like, holy shit, guys. And, yes, this includes Redmayne, because even though he performed admirably in the role...I dunno. I’m no expert on ANY of this, as a cissexual dude with cissexual experience, but it feels a little...reductive, is all. Like I said, if any other actors have been suggested for this role, I’d love to know. The whole thing feels...I don’t know, just not great.

And by the way, that’s without even TOUCHING the question as to whether or not this film is authentic to the trans experience. Again, I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA, but I’ve also heard that this film isn’t universally acclaimed in the trans community, so to speak. And I’m definitely interested in the reasons for that. All I know is this: from the perspective of a complete outsider, I was intrigued by this films view of the transgender experience, specifically as seen in the earliest days of those realizations happening and being publicly known and reported on. And that’s all I can really comment on, in truth.

WHOOF. That was a goddamn topic, huh? And now, I’m going to continue on the the month of romance with...wait, the 19th is my 5-year anniversary with my GF, pictured here:

Ravishing. Anyway, I think I’ll let her pick from my choices for this next one. Hold on a sec...OK, then. Sing it with me now! AND DO I DREEEEEAM AGAAAAIN, FOR NOW I FIIIIIIIIIIIIIND...

February 19, 2021: The Phantom of the Opera (2004)

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lost-in-the-80s · 4 years ago

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Winter Memories

Pairing: Axl Rose x reader

Words: 3,808k

Summary: The pressure of making a new album is finally hitting Axl. To get rid of some stress he decides to take a trip to Norway, however, he did not expect to meet a mysterious woman there. (smut + angst)

A/N: Hey guys! I hope you like it! Tell me if you want a part 2! There will be a few lines in norwegian, but the translations will be below in italics ;)

Warnings: Mature content, swearing and unprotected sex. (Use a condom, guys!)

Tag list: @roger-taylors-car @ladieswttda @teasid @metalheartofgold @slashscowboyboots @ginny-rose-sixx @rumoured-whispers @normatural add yourself to my tag list :)

Part 2

It had been a busy week and Axl's frustration was reaching extremely high levels.

Making an album was not an easy task, it required a lot of work and dedication, especially when the bandleader was Axl. Known for being a perfectionist, Axl expected nothing less than perfection for the band's third and fourth albums.

He understood why his bandmates were so tired, Axl had made them redo each song countless times and that was exhausting, but it was even more exhausting for him, who stayed in the studio for hours after his friends left, doing the vocals as many times as he could.

Axl realized he needed to relax when he ended up taking all his anger out on the supermarket attendant last week. She hadn't done anything much, just asked for an autograph, but the stress accumulated in his body made him be rude to her.

That night he decided that he needed time away from it all, that he needed time just for him so he could calm down.

It was December and the clear California sun was starting to get paler, accompanied by a cold breeze coming in the late afternoon. But he knew it wouldn't get much colder, after all, Los Angeles was one of the hottest cities in the United States.

Furthermore, he would not find peace in such a busy place. The chances of someone showing up at his door out of nowhere or calling insisting for him to go out were too high to risk.

Following the advice of a friend, Axl decided to go north, to Norway, more precisely. He wanted to see the snow again, wanted to feel the cold winter wind and visit a place he had never been to before.

After notifying the band and advancing some things in the studio, he left. Catching a plane on Friday afternoon, lusting to reach a small isolated town in the center of the country in the morning.

His assistant had managed to rent a room in a small, comfortable cottage near a mountain, where he could learn to ski.

After spending countless hours on the flight and two more hours driving a rental car to the place, he finally arrived.

The view was incredible, the contrast of the snow on the ground and the blue of the sky baffled him.

Entering the reception of the cottage, Axl was greeted by an old lady, who took him to his room while telling him about how the cottage had been built by her grandparents and that the house used to creak with the wind at night.

His room was very spacious, the walls and floor were the same types of wood, in the center of the room, there was a double bed with white sheets and a thick red plaid blanket. In front of the bed was a large fireplace, already lit by someone from the cottage.

The bathroom was on the left, next to the entrance door, it was small, but it had a large bathtub and the lady had assured him that the water was very hot. To his right was a large glass window that overlooked a vast field of snow-covered pines and a large mountain in the background. There was a small sofa under the window, accompanied by a small wooden table, the same color as the bedside tables.

It was different from what he was used to, but he liked the location.

After leaving his bags in the room and putting on another blouse, Axl decided to go down to the cottage's dining room for breakfast. Taking a large cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, he sat down at a table in the far corner, next to a window.

He hugged the cup with his hands, hoping the act would warm them up. He heard footsteps on the stairs and it was at that moment that he saw her coming. She was beautiful as an angel, her eyes looked like a cat's, which told him she was unpredictable, but her smile was sweet when she greeted the owner of the place.

"God morgen, Anna!" She waved to the lady.

"Good morning, Anna!"

“God morgen, Y/N! Du våknet endelig!”

“Good morning, Y/N! At least you woke up”

She laughed and Axl felt like he was in a trance. He didn't understand what she said, so he assumed she was a local.

Sensing his gaze, she finally looked in his direction. Her expression changed, the sweet smile disappeared and her eyes began to transmit lust. She looked him up and down before picking up her breakfast and sitting at a table.

Axl ate, but every little bit he found himself looking in her direction, only to realize that she was already looking at him, like a predator looking at the victim.

After eating, Axl got in his car and drove towards the mountain ski station, putting on the right clothes and getting a ski board, an instructor taught Axl the basic moves and instructed him to stay in a specific area, where the beginners stayed.

After a good 30 minutes, Axl realized that perhaps skiing was not his thing. He fell numerous times and was unable to move properly on the board. Irritation started to form inside his body and when he was about to damn everything to hell and go back to the cottage, he heard her voice near him.

"Flytt deg!"

"Get out of the way!"

He looked back just in time to see that she was approaching him at high speed, trying to get out of her way as fast as possible, Axl tripped on his own feet and ended up landing face first in the snow.

He heard her laugh again and when he noticed a small hand covered by a glove was being extended towards him. Axl looked up and saw her face, she was still laughing.

Accepting the offer, she helped Axl to get up again.

"Unnskyldning." She gave a small smile, trying to contain her laughter.

"I’m sorry."

"What?" Axl frowned, trying to understand what she had said.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you were from here!" Her accent made Axl smile, he found the sound cute.

"Well, I'm not."

"I am, Y/N, by the way." She offered her hand for him to greet her.

"Axl!" He shook her hand.

"I liked your name! Is this your first time here? ”

"It actually is." He scratched the back of his neck.

“I live in Oslo, but I come here every year at this time. It's nice to relax. ”

"I hope so!" He gave her a small smile.

"Having trouble skiing?"

"To tell the truth, yes."

"Do you want me to teach you?"

"Would you do it?"

"Sure, what kind of Norwegian would I be if I saw someone here without enjoying the best part of winter?"

He smiled at her.

For the next few hours, Y/N taught Axl as best as she could, always encouraging him not to give up whenever he fell or fell out of balance.

When Axl finally came down a small part of the mountain without difficulty, she clapped her hands and shouted at him, celebrating his victory.

"Now nobody else can say that you are a tourist." She laughed, making him smile.

We should go back to the cottage, it's almost three o'clock, it's going to get dark soon.

"Is it getting dark so early in here?"

"It's December baby, from now on the days will get shorter and shorter."

The nickname made him smile again.

"Are you driving?" He asked when they were returning the clothes and equipment to the company.

“No, I came by bus. I don't trust the roads much at this time of year. ”

"Do you want a ride to the cottage?"

"It would be great!"

In the first few minutes, an awkward silence came over the car, to break the mood, Y/N turned on the car's radio and turned up the volume when A-Ha started playing.

Axl glanced at her. "Do you listen to this shit?"

"They are Norwegian, we are crazy about them." She laughed, thinking about it. It was funny with her people, they had a habit of liking anything that was national.

He shook his head, but let a small smile take over his lips.

"I like your hair!" She said, staring at him.

"Thank you, I think!"

“No, seriously, I really like it. I think the color is beautiful. ”

"Thank you very much then."

He looked at her and his eyes met hers. A shiver went down his spine and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe for a moment, so he focused on the road again.

After a few minutes, he decided to start a conversation.

"What do you normally do here when you're not skiing?"

“I drink hot chocolate, read and go for a short walk in the city. They have some cool stores here. ” She shrugged.

He nodded in response.

After arriving at the cottage, the two agreed to go down to have hot chocolate together in half an hour.

Axl took a hot shower, letting his muscles relax with the warmth of the water. He contemplated shaving but changed his mind after thinking it over. His beard was slightly long, red hair adorned his face.

Down the stairs he saw her sitting on a couch, wearing a pair of black leggings and a red sweatshirt, her hair was tied up in a bun and she was using a pair of slipper boots.

"You Americans are always late." She noted when Axl sat down next to her.

"Sorry."

She gestured with her hand, as if to inform him that it was okay. "I already ordered the hot chocolate, Anna was supposed to bring it after you arrived."

He nodded in agreement.

"So, what do you work with?" He wanted to know more about her.

"I'm a lawyer. I deal with divorces. What about you?"

"I work with music."

"What kind of music?"

"Rock."

"Nice!"

Anna arrived with two large mugs, interrupting the conversation.

"Takk, Anna!" Y/N smiled sweetly at the woman.

"Thank you, Anna!"

"Thanks." He picked up his mug carefully, as he knew it would be hot.

"No problem." She smiled back at them both.

The two stayed there for over an hour talking, finding out more about each other.

Axl couldn't say why, but he felt comfortable around her, almost as if they knew each other for decades. He could tell that she felt the same way because after a few minutes she put her legs on his lap.

"You were right, her hot chocolate is delicious." Axl said after taking the second mug that night.

"I told you!" She smiled proudly.

Getting closer to him, she whispered in his ear. "I'm going up to my room now, if you want to stop by later, I'm in room 22." She rested her hand on his chest.

He looked into her eyes, they were both close enough to kiss, but there was a family with two children in the room, so he decided not to.

Nodding his head at her, Axl kept his gaze fixed on her back when she got up and went upstairs, leaving him alone.

The simple image of what he could do with her later made his member throb with anticipation. And he decided that after it was late he would knock on her door.

Returning to his room he realized that her room was two doors from his, on the same side of the corridor.

He tried to entertain himself at night, he went down to dinner and then tried to read a book he had brought, but he couldn't focus on reading, his imagination was running wild and all he could think about was her.

Glancing at the clock in his room, he saw that it was just after nine.

"Fuck it!" Getting up and locking his door as he left the room, he walked in quick steps to room 22, knocking three times on the door and waiting for her to open.

When she opened it, Axl's member pulsed again. She was wearing a black wool sweater three times the size of her, covering up to half of her thighs. Her hair was still tied up in a bun.

Before she could say anything, his lips crashed against hers, hugging her waist with one of his arms and pushing her slightly into the room, closing the door with his free hand.

She responded on the spot, her arms circling his neck while her tongue asked for permission to invade his mouth.

Allowing the intrusion, their tongues began to move as if in an aggressive ballet, fighting for dominance. She moved one of her hands to Axl's hair, lightly pulling the strands at the top of his neck, causing a low growl to leave his throat.

Her hands started to remove Axl's jacket, who broke the kiss for a second to remove his white shirt as well.

She admired the muscles in his abdomen, biting her bottom lip with desire.

Axl pulled her close by her hips, letting his hands find her butt cheeks and squeeze them tightly, making a small moan leave her lips.

He brought his right hand to her hair, removing the elastic that held her strands and letting her hair cover part of her face. Axl guided her to the bed, stopping when her legs hit the furniture slightly, creating a distance between them and removing her sweater, revealing the black lace lingerie she wore.

His member started to stiffen. Letting her fall on the soft mattress, Axl stayed on top of her, dropping his kisses to her neck, where he left light bites that would surely leave marks. She sighed like an angel when Axl lowered his kisses further, making a trail between her neck and the bar of her panties, taking off her bra in the process.

He propped her two legs up on the bed, kissing her right thigh, higher and higher, letting his beard run lightly over her skin and watching her sigh with the contact.

His cold fingers touched her skin, slowly pulling her panties down, making her shiver at the touch.

She leaned on her forearms, watching Axl closely.

Axl approached the center of her, licking her folds before spreading her legs further, granting him more access. His tongue started to make circular movements on her clit, at first they were slow and calm, but after a while, they started to get stronger and more accurate.

She grabbed the covers with her fingers, letting her head fall on the bed again allowing small moans to leave her lips.

"Axl" She whispered his name.

Seeing this as an incentive, Axl slowly penetrated one of his fingers into her, while his other hand came up and squeezed her breast firmly, causing a loud moan to come out of her throat.

After a few minutes, Axl inserted a second finger, curving them and reaching a different point inside her that made her moan louder.

"Right there!" She said between moans.

Axl started to feel her walls tightening, giving a sign that she was close, he applied more pressure to her clit, making faster movements with his tongue.

At that point she was already a mess, her left hand tightly gripped the cover under her, while her right hand was in Axl's hair, pulling his strands lightly and whimpering with pleasure.

He hit her point a few more times and was static when he saw her legs shaking slightly while a loud moan accompanied by a strong tug on his hair told him that she had reached her climax.

After receiving all the juices she had given him, Axl lifted his kisses, stopping at the level of her right breast, where he sucked with ease, lightly biting her nipple while watching the long, heavy breathes come out of her lips.

Going up a little further, he captured her lips in a hot, ravenous kiss. Her hands began to entertain with the buttons on his pants, telling him that she wanted him to get rid of them.

Breaking the kiss Axl removed his pants and underwear at the same time, freeing his already hard and completely erect member.

She licked her lips with desire, watching him as he stroked himself while walking towards her.

"Are you going to be a good girl and take everything?"

She nodded and he pushed her by the shoulders on the bed before pulling her closer to him by her legs.

He climbed on the bed and used his left hand to support himself, while his right hand guided his member to collect some of her juices. Axl moved his cock slowly over her clit, making her moan softly.

Slowly, he began to penetrate her, pausing for a moment when it came to an end, waiting for her to adjust to his size. The pressure created by his dick against her tight walls made them both moan in unison before they shared a lush kiss.

Moving slowly, he started to get in and out of her. His eyes locked with hers as the room seemed to get ten degrees warmer. Her hands tightened on his biceps tightly as he leaned down to kiss her again.

“Fuck, you look so hot taking my cock inside of you.” He groaned.

After a few minutes, Axl's thrusts became stronger and faster and Y/N's moans got louder and louder. She murmured things in her native language that Axl was unable to understand as her nails scratched the skin on his back, making him grunt and bite her neck hard.

"I think…. I’m going to…." She managed to utter between moans.

"I know baby, cum for me!" Axl ordered in her ear, making her even more excited than before.

She let out a loud moan, before shouting his name, reaching her climax. Her eyes rolled and her mouth was open, her mind was blank and an orgasm twice as strong as the first took over her body.

The image was a work of art in Axl's eyes. When she said his name again, this time lower, almost like a plea, he could no longer contain himself, reaching his own climax and pouring his liquids into her while letting out a loud grunt.

He collapsed on top of her and she hugged his waist with her legs while removing some strands of his hair from his face.

The two let the last moans leave their bodies, low and disconnected, due to sensitivity.

Axl stood up and slowly withdrew his member from inside her, watching their mixed liquids leave her body. His member shook with pleasure, but he could tell that she was too tired for another round.

After cleaning her, the two fell asleep in bed, Axl wrapped Y/N in his arms and admired her in the light of the fireplace when she slept. He didn't want to leave tomorrow, he wanted to have more time with her.

----

The next morning Axl woke up and the bed was empty. Sitting up quickly, he realized that she was sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"I thought you were gone." He said as he approached, wearing nothing but his underwear.

She was wearing the same sweater as last night.

"Your smell is on my sweater." She said casually.

"Good to know!" He leaned down to kiss her lips again.

She didn't want to kiss him, she knew she was already too involved. He was from another country and the two would probably never see each other again. But there was something about him that made it impossible for her to resist.

One of her hands touched his face lightly, caressing him.

"Last night was incredible!" He sat across from her, lighting a cigarette for himself.

She nodded slowly while looking through the window.

"What's it? Did I do something?"

"No, it's just ... I'm leaving today." She didn't look at him.

"Yeah, me too!"

She looked at him and felt her eyes well up with tears, but she was not going to allow herself to cry. She had just met him, it was ridiculous to feel that way.

"Do you think we could exchange our numbers?"

“I don't think it's a good idea! You live on the other side of the world, it’s not good to feed that kind of thing. ”

He felt a tightening in his heart, but he understood what she meant.

"Yeah, you must be right."

He looked at the bedroom’s watch and realized it was close to ten. The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon, its timid rays illuminating the room.

"I have to get to Bergen by one."

"You should go then, or you'll be late!"

"Yeah, I should."

They looked at each other for almost a minute. Their looks saying what their mouths lacked courage.

Axl leaned over and kissed her one last time, his hands pulling her closer until she was on his lap, while her hands played with his hair.

They tried to keep the kiss as long as they could, knowing that when they separated, Axl would have to leave. But the oxygen came to an end and they had to separate.

Both stood looking at each other for several seconds, trying to record every detail of the other's face in their memories.

She got up and allowed him to do the same.

Axl put on his clothes and started walking towards the door, stopping before opening it. "Am I going to see you before I leave?"

"I think not."

He nodded and left, heading for his room.

She sighed, pulling the sweater close to her nose and taking in his scent.

----

Later that morning, Y/N saw Axl leaving the cottage and storing his suitcase in a black car.

A sense of sadness took over the body, but she couldn't say why. It was impossible for her to love him, wasn't it? After all, they had only known each other for a day.

Axl turned towards her window and saw her sitting in the same place as before. He waved at her and waited for her to return the gesture before he got in the car and left.

When he left the place he couldn't help feeling that he had left something very important behind. He knew what it was. It was her. But she was right, it would be fruitless to feed something like that.

Watching the car leave, Y/N touched the window and waited until the car was out of sight.

A single tear fell from her eyes. "Hvis det er ham, vil skjebnen få oss til å møtes igjen."

"If it's him, fate will make us meet again."

#axl rose #axl rose fanfic #axl rose smut #axl rose fic #axl rose x reader #axl rose imagine #guns n roses #guns n roses fanfic #guns n roses fic #guns n roses imagine #guns n roses x reader #gnr #classic rock imagine #harley writes

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lovelyirony · 4 years ago

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Hi! “If I fail, I’ll fall apart/Maybe it is all a test/because I feel like I’m the worst / so I always act like I’m the best” -Oh No! This is one of my favorite lyrics ever, and I'd really like to see what you bring out of it :) You're amazing, ily! 💞

what if maria had more of an effect on tony’s upbringing than most? howard’s still a dick but make it funny

Tony has known he was probably not the best human on earth ever since he was five and his dad made a bigger deal out of a dead man’s birthday than his own.

At age five, you don’t really know a lot about the world yet. There were about two things that Tony didn’t know that he wishes he did know:

1.) The word “fuck.” It would have helped with a lot of his situations.

2.) The concept of jealousy. He probably could have gone to a child therapist or some shit, he’s not sure if those even existed back then, or if his parents would have even let him go.

(After all, he’s supposed to be their perfect little boy, just the right amount of precocious and the other amount being something like genius or respectability.)

It is actually his mother who takes the reins on his life. Howard has effect, he has huge effects.

Maria is a socialite who absolutely refuses to let her son succumb to Howard’s devil-may-care attitude that he’s so infamous for. Her son is going to be well-mannered, respectable, and know exactly how to treat a lady of high social standing.

This involves training at a young age. Six would be a fine age.

It’s not Howard who sends him to boarding schools, it’s Maria. She ensures that he goes to the finest schools available, most abroad in Europe. She trains him out of the American accent, into something a bit more refined.

He spends summers learning different languages and different skills. He learns how to fence by the time he’s ten, and becomes quite proficient at it.

She quizzes him on established families, up-and-coming families, and never keeps him far from her sight.

Anthony Stark is not going to be a wild-child, she decides.

Anthony isn’t, for the most part. Sure, he usually stays up past what is acceptable for the night to work on some mechanic stuff and uses the word “damn” a bit too much for his mother’s liking, but that’s the reason make-up and apologies were invented.

He follows rules and is known to smile like his mother and enjoy listening to quartets play out in the open air during the summer months. He travels to Europe and participates in various activities and is the talk of many socialites who eagerly await his arrival.

He’s a portrait, holding still for all’s approval, and he’s not quite sure how to move.

That’s troublesome, he thinks.

The problem is this: Anthony Stark doesn’t have any interests outside what is required. He loves working on inventions, and they are necessary for the company to survive, but his father hates any robotic invention he pushes for, and mother thinks that if he tells people he’s rather fond of AC/DC then he’s a plague to society and will be shunned.

(He doesn’t say it to her face but they haven’t shunned Sunset yet, and she’s a whole world of problems, so rock music is the least of their problems.)

There is one thing that he pushes for: university in the United States. He’s been traveling to Europe since he was a child, and he honestly needs to do something for himself.

Maria is not pleased.

“So after I sacrifice so much for you, this is how you repay me?” she asks him over dinner.

He places his fork to the correct side.

“Yes. This is how I am repaying you. By getting a perfectly respectable college degree from a critically-acclaimed university that anyone would be lucky to attend. Not to mention it might reflect badly on Stark Industries if I don’t go to an American college. Do I not trust American institutions to run an American business?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Anthony laughs.

“Mother, they cannot teach me anything that Europe can’t. Let me go to college in the United States. Please.”

“No.”

It takes Howard to convince her, and a.) Howard doesn’t even like Anthony that much, and b.) he also doesn’t like his wife that much.

“He’s going to a damned college here, Maria. We don’t need him to go to any more of that fancy bullshit you call school over there.”

“Fancy bullshit, Howard?! Bullshit?! You mean what has gotten him this far in life and will make him a better man of social standing than you?”

“My god, is social standing all that matters to you? What are your little friends going to do, choke on their silver spoons when they find out that your son is going to an American college?”

Jarvis also convinces her.

“It will be easier to monitor his progress from a shorter distance,” he advises. “And you can visit frequently.”

Anthony gives him a very dirty look. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to mention that.

Oops.

But, Anthony gets his way. He’s going to MIT, and he has a roommate.

(Okay, so mother doesn’t know that. But he supposes she will if she ever visits. Or maybe not considering if Tony can successfully convince his roommate to “disappear” for at least a day.)

Rhodey does not give a singular shit about high society anything or anyone. Anthony Stark is a name he registers, but doesn’t recognize.

“Anthony’s a mouthful,” he says a week into their cohabitation. “You have a nickname or something?”

“Ah...no? I mean, not yet,” Anthony says.

“How do you feel about Tony?”

“I...I suppose that that is alright.”

“Are you from Europe?”

“No, from New York.”

“Well holy shit, you sure as fuck don’t sound like it.”

Anthony--well, Tony now--learns quite a bit about American schooling and what he’s actually supposed to be doing to pass off as normal.

Rhodey (yeah he got a nickname that ended in ‘y’ too, Tony said he wouldn’t be the only one) takes him to the thrift store and tells him to pick out some clothes.

“...there’s a shirt that’s advertising a restaurant from Montana.”

“And? Does it look hilarious?”

“Is that the point of this?”

“Fashion is supposed to make you like what you’re wearing or like yourself. I swear if you say that those boring black suits make you feel better about yourself, I will be dragging you to any therapist that will take us for at least five dollars.”

“Five dollars?”

“Maybe less if I can negotiate.”

“Hey!”

Tony learns how to have fun. He loves it.

Rhodey makes him go to record stores and find the bargain bin, and they play the warped records and laugh as voices go up and down in pitch. Tony blasts Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden until the RA begs him to go to bed and Rhodey throws all of his pillows off of his bed.

In return, Tony teaches Rhodey how to read other’s facial expressions, dress for any occasion and be the best-looking there, as well as avoiding any sort of conflict by bringing up past embarrassments.

“Are you serious about the color of my shoe affecting my social standing?” Rhodey asks, trying to shove his foot into a shoe that was a brown color that Tony had described as a “golden mahogany.”

“Yes, I’m dead serious.”

“No fucking wonder everyone says eat the rich all of you are so fucking pretentious. It’s brown, Tony.”

“Tell that to any high society woman over fifty.”

“I will.”

As it turns out, he ends up doing it much sooner than anticipated.

Tony’s parents come to visit.

They call him Anthony. Which is gross. Rhodey hasn’t used the name “Anthony” in about six months.

“I wasn’t aware that you were his roommate,” his mother says.

“Well, here I am,” Rhodey says. “Name’s also on the information they sent out to the parents about the living situations.”

Tony tenses as his parents brush off the obvious comment on how little they actually know about his situation and move right into the room.

Maria stops at the huge poster of a rock band.

“I assume that this is...James’?”

“No,” he says timidly. “It’s...it’s mine. Their use of movement on the guitar strings-”

“Take it down,” Maria demands. “It’s unsightly.”

“Oh give the kid a break,” Howard says tiredly. “For once he’s not listening to you talk about the merits of paisley prints.”

“I’m training our son for a more successful life than yours,” Maria hisses. “Of course, you’d have to stay away from your friend Jack to understand that.”

“Rhodey, leave,” Tony says. “Trust me, it gets messier from here.”

He does think about it. How easy it would be to walk out and check in with a couple of his other friends and talk about how crazy Tony’s parents are. How he could check back in near dinner time and then Tony could tell him all about how terribly it went.

But Tony already looks terrible, and he’s doing that weird thing with his hands where he wrings them and then remembers he’s not supposed to wring them and makes it worse.

“No,” Rhodey says. “I am staying until the bitter end. Who knows? Maybe I can give your mom a heart attack when I ask her the difference between kelly and forest green.”

Tony grins.

“You can leave any time, it’s about to get...interesting.”

Tony’s family is quite dysfunctional. They can put on a good front in public, for what it’s worth.

Howard is impressed that Rhodey’s planning on going into the Air Force and then talks about Captain America for a lot of the dinner. Rhodey is very uncomfortable and then asks about business and Maria rolls her eyes and orders another glass of wine.

After Howard finishes up talking about some contract and making vague threats against businesses that Rhodey thinks might actually be in trouble, it’s Maria’s turn.

“So, Rhodey, where is your family from?”

“We live in the Boston area,” Rhodey answers.

“And what do your parents do?”

“Dad works as a consultant for a local construction company, and my mom works as a high school history teacher. They both like their jobs.”

“Hm,” Maria remarks, and it’s so light and casual and yet so cutting. Tony can see how Rhodey squirms, and he can’t just let it stand.

It’s one thing for Maria to cut her own son down until he’s nothing. Still fucked up, but Tony can handle it. He’s been handling it for years.

“Rhodey, how did your mom come to want to know she liked teaching?” Tony asks. “That sounds like it could be really hard to figure out.”

“Oh, well it all started when she was in high school and wanted to change how one of her teachers treated students. It was a really inspiring moment for her.”

“That sounds really cool,” Tony says. “What does she like most about her job?”

“Probably the kids,” Rhodey says.

The conversation carries on about Rhodey’s family until their dinner arrives and his mother manages to cut in with more questions.

“So, what else does your mother do?”

“She volunteers at the local food kitchen and helps some of the younger kids at the after-school program,” Rhodey answers. “She also makes a mean Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Would you look at that,” Tony says. “Mrs. Rhodes sounds like a fine cook, I wish I could say the same for you, mother.”

“Oh?”

Howard actually laughs at that as he signs for the bill.

“The kid is right, Maria. At some points I think your kitchen is only used for decoration.”

“Oh, and you know how to cook, Mr. Stark?” Maria asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to see you make anything other than coffee.”

“I’ll make toast.”

Rhodey laughs, and so does Tony.

“Ready to go?” Tony asks, and part of it is a way to get away from an isolated conversation, and part of it is to make his parents leave for their hotel room sooner.

“Tony, I want to have a talk with you before we retire for the night,” Maria says, and Tony tenses up.

Rhodey can’t protect him from that, and he squeezes Tony’s hand as they walk behind his parents.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers.

“Maybe,” Tony says. “Maybe.”

Rhodey goes into their building, and Howard waits in the car. He nods to Tony on his way out.

“You’ve...changed,” mother says.

“Well, that’s how humanity goes,” Tony says dryly, looking anywhere but her eyes.

“Rock music? These snappish remarks towards your own mother? I don’t know if this college was such a good idea.”

“It is,” Tony says. “I just...learned new things and incorporated it into my life. Nothing the matter with that.”

“Nothing wrong with that?” Maria reiterates, surprised look on her face. “Rock music is for other people, you know things that others don’t know! You can perform violin and piano, you don’t have to listen to the personal manifestation of a headache!”

“And if I like that headache?!” Tony asks. “If I like something that’s outside of what you approve, why so angry about it? Is it because you finally can’t control every single aspect about my identity? Is it because I’m not like your perfect little toy that you can make walk and talk how you like?”

“You know it’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?” Tony asks. “Because you want me to change every single interest that I’ve found I like by myself. I bet you want me to listen to Bach for fun.”

“I do not want you to change from who you are,” Maria says. “You have eaten at the finest restaurants in the world and now you brag about making something called ramen in a microwave. A microwave?!”

“A surprising amount of families in America have them,” Tony says. “And I’m a college student! I’m supposed to eat crappy food and then laugh about it in twenty years!”

Maria turns red, and her lips screw up into a tight line.

“I don’t think you should be here,” Maria says. “You’re forgetting your place. Your roommate is...”

“My roommate is what,” Tony starts, glaring at her. “My roommate is what, mother? You want to honestly finish that sentence?”

“He’s not good enough!” she yells at him. “You are a Stark!”

Tony stares at her for a moment. And then another moment.

“Leave,” he says. “Get the hell out of here.”

“You don’t tell me-”

“I do,” Tony says, using his full height to his advantage. “You can tell me how many times I’ve fucked up as many times as you want, but you never talk about James that way ever again.”

He twists on his heel, forcefully opening the door to the dormitory and not once looking back.

Rhodey finds Tony back in his room when he gets back from getting ready for the night, and Tony is clutching a pillow and laying face down on the bed.

“You know, you’ll have to turn over eventually to get some fresh air.”

“Leave me to die, Rhodey. Oh my god.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. She’s probably going to try and put me in a prestigious college or some shit.”

“Oof. Wanna fake your death and run away?”

“Please.”

“Well, too bad. I have a test next week, and you need to do your poetry notes.”

“But poetry sucks.”

“It only sucks because you don’t like modern poetry, suck it up and pull it out of your ass or something.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Maria is trying very hard to get her son away from MIT and towards a fancy school in Europe. She doesn’t even care where, just away from his roommate and his classic rock posters and the dormitory. Anthony needs an environment where he can focus on networking, meeting more people.

Howard says no.

He can’t even bother to remember her son’s birthday, and he says “no.”

“We need Anthony to go to an American school, and nothing is better besides maybe Cal Tech, and he’ll have to finish another year of college and Hammer Industries can use that as a sign of an unsteady heir.”

“Well then get rid of his roommate.”

“I’m not doing that, you’re asking for a PR death sentence.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

“No he’s not,” Howard says tiredly. “The kid is finally standing up for himself, and you hate that.”

“I don’t hate that he can be his own person.”

“You just wish he were his own person under your specifications,” Howard drawls. “He’s staying at MIT, that’s final.”

“Hmph.”

Howard rolls his eyes.

“Go back to planning whatever charity gala you’re hosting this week, honey. I’m sure things will be fine.”

Maria doesn’t speak against her husband, just fumes and decides she’s going to try to get Jarvis’ opinion.

Edwin is also a flat no.

“He will not forgive you if you do this,” he says, pouring her tea and adding in one sugar cube. “He loves his school, he talks about it all the time.”

“And what, he calls you?”

Edwin Jarvis realizes he shouldn’t have mentioned this.

“At times, madam. At times. Will that be all?”

“...that will be all.”

Jarvis does bring up a good point. Besides her, of course, he knows Anthony best, even if he does keep calling him Tony. Anthony will grow out of that nickname soon enough.

She has hope for her boy. He will most likely grow out of this silly little phase in life and finally appreciate her lessons.

Tony Stark doesn’t.

Well, he learns her lessons. Can appreciate some of them and how much he hates that he uses them.

But he learns a far more important lesson from Rhodey, and it shapes everything:

“You’re your own person, and you’re far better as your own person,” Rhodey says. “I wanted to kick the shit out of you when we first lived together.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did!” Rhodey explains, gesturing with his coffee mug and getting yet another stain on the pillow. (Laundry again. Ugh.) “You talked like you were from a movie from the forties, it sucked.”

“Oh, you mean the transatlantic accent?”

“It’s pretentious, just ditch it. You’re interesting enough to listen to on your own. I listen to you talk about how much you hate Picasso sculpture, don’t I?”

“You do,” Tony admits.

“So then be yourself. Use what your mom taught you sometimes, but otherwise don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, I’m a fucking genius.”

Tony snorts.

“Okay, Mr. ‘I Forgot to Run the Dishes Again.’”

“I already said I was sorry!”

Tony takes Rhodey’s advice into account when he walks into any board room. He wears the worst possible shoes with every single suit, usually uses all sorts of cultural references that fly over the old board members’ heads.

He does things his way. It’s unconventional, it’s unpredictable, and it earns him a reputation.

He’s in an interview in a suit and patterned tie (patterned with tiny robots), and the woman is smiling in a plastic way on the other side.

“Now, a lot of people are saying you’re taking the business world by storm with your unconventional methods and personality. What helped you formulate this, your father?”

“Oh god no,” Tony says, laughing. “He’d probably curse me to hell and back for even wearing this tie. My mother would drag me back down to hell again for this.”

“Then who helped you with this?”

“Rhodey, who else?” Tony asks. “He always gives the best advice, even if I’ll deny that about fifteen minutes later. He really is the reason that I’m who I am today.”

“Seems like a great guy.”

“He is. He always is,” Tony says with a grin. “Except, of course, when he doesn’t fold his laundry, that bastard.”

The interviewer laughs and moves on, but Tony smiles to himself.

He doesn’t have to be the best, he just has to be Rhodey’s. That’s all that matters.

#lovelyirony writes #maria stark #howard stark #tony stark #rhodey #ironhusbands #kind of #i'm hinting at it and i didn't outright rlly say shit but y'all know me so you should know this #anyways tony DOES develop his own personality and rhodey hates him for like three months

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revengeoftheantichrist · 3 years ago

Text

Such Selfish Prayers

Warnings: Blasphemy, Catholic high school setting, teasing, inappropriate use of a chapel AO3

Friday morning mass had to be the most boring part of the school day. Listening to the priest go on and on about some bullshit parable made you want to run into traffic. You had zoned out until your head of year got up to make an announcement. “Ladies, those of you in Mr. Jones’ theology class are expecting some new students. Due to timetable clashes, some of the boys from Holy Cross will be joining your lesson until your exams. Please do give them a warm Sacred Heart welcome, and do not forget we are good catholic schoolgirls, so behave.” You rolled your eyes and tried not to huff. That was your theology lesson that was about to be invaded. The boys of your brother school were known for their abhorrent behaviour. Of course, the girls in your school weren’t angels, but you knew when you needed to behave; you had a reputation to maintain. You hoped they wouldn’t be too disruptive; you were already re-sitting final year and could not afford any fuck ups. //// Catholic theology; final period. The last hour between you and spending the weekend stoned or drunk, whichever came first. You were stopped by Sister Catherine on your way up to the lesson. “Y/N if I have to tell you one more time to pull your skirt down, that’s two weeks of afterschool detention, you know the rules.” You rolled your eyes and muttered a quick ‘yes sister’ and pulled your skirt down. As you walked into the classroom, you noticed that your friends were sitting in different spaces than usual. Mr Jones explained that he had rearranged the seating plan, to immerse the new boys into the classroom, and prevent a divide. You knew what he meant, you Politics lesson had a clear split between boys and girls, hurling insults at each other across the central aisle. You would be sat one boy and one girl; your seat being in the back corner, just behind your best friend Claire. You sat down and began to chat to the girl in front of you, the lesson couldn’t start without the boys and they were late. 15 Minutes had passed before they decide to show up. “Ah gentlemen, I’m glad you could make it,” said Mr Jones. “We’re sorry we’re so late sir, we got lost,” said the boy. The conversation in the room stopped at hearing his honey like voice. An American accent? Rare in your small English town. There weren’t any official government offices here so he couldn’t have been a diplomat’s son. Strange. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his uniform pressed to perfection. He looked so much more put together than the rest of his peers. You should know, it was the same school your younger brother went to, they never enforced uniform rules. You were surprised the boy wasn’t bullied for how nice it looked. “Well, don’t let it happen again, I can enforce detentions,” finished Mr. Jones. He started reading names and assigning them seats. The American boy was the last one standing and the seat next to you was the only empty one. You knew already he would be difficult; you weren’t here for it. “And finally, Mr. Langdon you will be sitting next to Miss. Y/LN. She just has a resting bitch face but I’m sure shell take good care of you,” said Mr Jones. The boy smirked at you and sauntered over. He sat down and unpacked his bag, taking over almost the whole desk. He finally turned to you, holing out his hand for you to shake. “Michael Langdon, nice to meet you.” You stared at his hand before shaking it, it was surprisingly soft. “Y/N,” you replied, tuning your attention back to the teacher, taking back your half of the desk by pushing his things to the side. You felt him staring at you. This was going to be a long lesson. //// Finally, the lesson was over. Michael had spent the whole time elbowing you and loudly bantering with his peers. If it wasn’t for you being in class, you would have hit him. You began to pack your stuff to leave, Mr Jones mentioning homework for Monday. Fuck, you’d have to see them first thing on Monday too. You resisted the temptation to leap through the window. The boy sat next to Claire turned to you,” your brother said you’d be a colossal bitch.” You furrowed your brows, “I haven’t even said anything to you, where’s this coming from? Also, my brothers in year 10 what the hell are you doing talking to him?” “You’re sat next to boy wonder over here and you haven’t said a word, he can pull conversation out of anyone,” replied the boy. You shook your head, “this is by far the stupidest conversation I’ve had in this classroom. Even stupider than the ‘is the anti-Christ sexy?’ one that we had last week.” It was Michaels turn to speak, “and what was the conclusion of that one.” Claire replied, “okay so, we thought ‘yes’ because he’s supposed to lead people into sin, right? So, you have to be sexy if people are lusting after you. Also, Satan was an angel so there’s that factor too.” “Girls!” shouted Mr Jones, “do not start that debate again we wasted a whole lesson on it already, go home its Friday I have shit to do.” You both laughed and left the classroom, not paying any mind to the boys behind you. //// Monday had arrived; the worst day of the week. To say you were hungover was an understatement. You walked in just before the lesson started, saying your good mornings before taking a seat. “you look like shit,” said the new boy. “I didn’t ask,” you replied. Mr Jones started talking to the class, “as the boys were late last week, we didn’t get to do introductions properly, so turn to your partner and tell them three things about you. Not including your name.” You rolled your eyes. “If you keep rolling your eyes, they’re gonna get stuck to the back of your head.” “again Langdon, I did not ask,” you huffed. She shot you a sarcastic smile, clearly annoyed by your short answers. “well then, what three things do you want to know about me?” “preferably nothing, but to make it go faster, where are you from?” “Los Angeles,” he replied. “ooo, California beach boy, are we? What brings you to this little catholic school in England then?” you asked. “My father sent me here, as for what he does, that’s classified.” “I wasn’t going to ask. Anyway, what’s your favourite food then?” “French toast,” he smiled. These three answers told you nothing about him, you didn’t want to admit it, something made you want to know more. “what do you want to know about me then?” you asked, not really wanting to give him any personal information. “what’s your favourite food?” “fettuccini alfredo.” “here’s what I really want to know,” he started, moving closer to you. “Who shoved that pole up your ass?” You raised your eyebrows and blinked slowly. Who did he think he is? “Why? Do you have something better?” “I might,” he replied, trailing his tongue over his teeth. “sorry. I’m not into blonds,” you finished. Turning back around to face the board. “I’m not finished asking questions,” said Michael. “I’m done answering them.” Mr Jones interrupted the class before he could argue. You hoped the class would fly by. You sat resting your chin on your hand, trying to listen to Mr Jones. Suddenly, your arm was elbowed out from beneath your chin, making you smack your chin off the table. Michael had elbowed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” “MISS Y/N!” “Michael elbowed me!” you said. “actually sir, her hand slipped,” Michael interjected. Mr jones looked pissed, “You know what? I really don’t care. Both of you are going to clean the chapel after school on Friday.” You sat there; gob smacked. You really did not want to spend any more time with Michael at all, but this was your final behaviour warning. Michael seemed surprisingly giddy; he was enjoying this far too much. //// Throughout the week, it seemed that Michael was doing anything he could to piss you off. Pushing you in hallways, taking your usual seats at lunch and in the library, even sitting behind you in mass, kicking your seat. “listen here you little blond bimbo bitch, if you don’t stop kicking my seat, I swear to god I’m gonna kill you,” you seethed. “Y/N! turn around were in the middle of mass!” your head of year whispered to you, trying not to disturb the priest. Michael kicked your seat even harder for the duration, even pulling your hair on occasion. How old was he? This wasn’t primary school. //// You were dreading the theology lesson today; it was the beginning of the two hours you would have to spend with the boy wonder. You took a breath to calm your nerves before walking into the classroom. ‘Revelations’ written on the board in red ink. You thought this was the most exciting book in the bible. Michael was already seated, grinning at you as you made eye contact. You moved to the other side of the aisle so he couldn’t attempt to trip you over. “Are you excited Y/N? you get to spend the next two hours with me you lucky thing.” “As soon as I see you outside these school gates it’s on sight mickey,” you replied. “Mickey?” “You look you’re an intellectual property of Disney,” you argued. “so, you think I look like a Disney prince then. I’ll keep that in mind princess.” “More like a prince of darkness, you’d be the villain actually.” He looked at you like you’d told him the funniest joke in the world, “you’re not far off,” he finished. What the hell did he mean by that? You decided not to press any further. “How do we think the world will end? Using biblical references,” Mr Jones’ voice broke through the silence. Michael had a glint in his eye, as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t. “how about Y/N? what’s your answer?” Had God decided that you were going to spend the rest of the year getting picked on? It seemed like it. “Erm well, the revelation about wormwood could easily refer to a nuclear bomb or something, looking at it in a modern context,” you gave your answer. “That’s a really good answer, nice to know your listening,” Mr Jones turned back to the class, leaving you be for the rest of the lesson. //// The lesson had ended. Mr Jones was walking the pair of you to the chapel in the convent that was connected to the school. It was silent. Just before you could walk in, Sister Catherine had spotted you again, “Y/N! SKIRT! PULL IT DOWN!” she shouted at you. You looked her in the eye, and slowly pulled it down, finishing with a smile. “This is a catholic school, I don’t know where you girls got the idea that short skirts were now acceptable,” she huffed, before leaving you alone with Michael and Mr jones. The chapel was beautiful. It was all white marble, stained glass and hardwood pews. Fresh flowers and statues of the virgin decorated little alcoves. Above the alter, the image of the crucifixion. You felt judged under his sombre gaze. Mr Jones handed you both the materials and gave you instructions on the cleaning. He’d be back in an hour. You were left alone with Michael. He made his way to the pews and sat down, putting his feet up and his hands behind his head. You rolled your eyes and got to dusting your side of the chapel, no way in hell were you going to do his work for him. You could feel his gaze on you as you dusted away. You stopped briefly to remove your blazer. You bent over to pick up a prayer card dropped by the alter. The prayer to Saint Michael. Unfortunately, the Michael in the room was anything but. “wow, your skirt really is short,” he said. You tried to get up to pull it down, but he was behind you. “Don’t be a perv and do your tasks!” He pulled you back against his chest, his arm around your waist and you head on his shoulder. “what the fuck Langdon!” you shouted. “You are far too mouthy princess,” he brought his hand around your throat, squeezing as a warning. He started to trail his fingers up from your knee. “You know,” he started. “I never got to ask that third question last week.” His fingers reached the hem of your skirt, slowly making their way underneath, making you shiver. You swallowed. “w-what did you want to know?” He had bunched your skirt up around your hips, exposing your legs. His fingers started to trace the hem of your panties. “I want to know if you’re a virgin y/n? Is he the only man you’ve ever gotten on your knees for?” he asked, nodding to the image of Christ. You had had ‘almosts’, but never the whole nine yards. His palm came across your ass and you squeaked. “Answer the question princess.” “Y -yes,” you replied, your skin heating up. He let go of you and you breathed a sigh of relief; reaching to tug your skirt back down. He gripped your wrists before you could, turning you around to face him. “I’m not finished with you yet.” His face was so close, you could smell the mint gum he liked to chew loudly. Something made you want to lean in a little further and kiss him, but you hesitated. “I’m going to be your new messiah from now on Y/N,” he said, pushing you onto your knees. His thumb stroked your cheek, before putting it in your mouth. “Don’t bite, or there’ll be consequences,” he warned. He ran his thumb along your tongue, before replacing it with two of his fingers; thrusting them in and out your mouth. You were too captivated by his eyes to respond. The low lighting of the chapel illuminating his golden hair like a halo. He finally pulled his fingers out, connecting to your lips with a string of spit. “Keep your mouth open,” he ordered. He reached for his belt, unbuckling in. You started to shift around, the marble hurting your knees and your arousal begging for attention. He said a quick ‘sit still’ before finally pulling his cock out. It was actually really nice to look at. He gripped your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth even further, before slowly sliding it in. He hissed at the sensation of your warm mouth. “This is the best was to shut you up.” He pushed until you gaged, the sensation so foreign to you. “C’mon princess, use your hands, I’m not here to do all the work,” he said. You took the base of his cock in your hands, moving it in time with your mouth. Michaels moans echoed throughout the chapel, adding fuel to your own arousal. You felt him twitch in your mouth. He grabbed your head and pulled you off, panting. You watched his wet cock bob against his clothed abdomen. “Get up” he ordered, so you did. He pushed you back, so you were lying on the alter, looking up at the frescoes on the ceiling. The image of God looking at you in disgust. Michael put his hand around your throat, “Look at me, I’m your god now.” He peeled your panties off, pocketing them. Pervert. His hands held your thighs apart, inspecting the wetness of your folds, before running his finger through. The sensation made you jolt and whine. “Keep quiet or they’ll hear you.” You nodded. He brought his fingers up to show you your arousal, you tried to turn your head away in embarrassment, but he had gripped your throat again. He continued to toy with your clit, bringing little gasps out of you. You cried out as he thrust two fingers inside. It felt so good, his touch was electric. “You’re so tight, I think I might break you,” he grinned. He noticed the prayer card still in your had, getting an idea. “Read that little prayer out while I defile you on the alter, your final prayer to your old god,” he commanded. “I- I can’t,” you managed to squeak out. Tears were welling in your eyes. He pulled his fingers out of you, licking them clean before humming. “You will,” he stated. He lined himself up, looking at you, waiting for you to start. "S-Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us i-in battle.” He pushed in, groaning as he did so. “Be our protection against… against the wickedness and snares of the d-devil.” He began to move, thrusting into you, making you forget your words. “You’re so tight, like you were made for me,” he panted out. “May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,” you managed to get out. Michael squeezed his hand around your throat. “And do thou, O Prince of the H-Heavenly Host.” He gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises, picking up the pace. “By the power of God,” you couldn’t think anymore. The only thing on your mind was him. He slapped your ass, “by the power of god? Finish it.” He brought his hand down, rubbing circles around your clit, you squeezed around him. “Thrust into hell S-Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the r-ruin of souls.” Michael grinned, his eyes turned black and his skin pale. You were too far gone in your pleasure to scream at his demonic face. He reached under your shirt collar, yanking your gold crucifix off your neck. You could feel your release coming on fast, Michael could too. “Let’s finish the prayer together hmm?” “Amen,” you both moaned at the same time. Your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. Michael wasn’t too far behind, coating your insides with his seed. Slowly pulling out of you, watching your mixed fluids drip onto the alter. Coming out of your haze, you finally realised where you were and what you had done. “What are you Michael?” you whispered. “You read about me an hour ago,” he said, tucking himself back in, his face back to its normal state. Your eyes widened, it finally clicked. The Anti-Christ. You looked up to the crucifix above you, the statue crying blood. The faces in the stained glass twisted in sorrow. The statues of the virgin weeping blood. A wave of nausea hit you. Michael pulled you up, putting your skirt back in place. He smirked at you and pulled you in for a kiss, his tongue invading your mouth. He took your hand and placed your necklace in your palm. The cross had been inverted. “I’ll be over tomorrow, just introduce me as your boyfriend. You still have some more repentance to do.” With that he left you in the chapel. Leaving you clean up the mess, alone.

#my writing #Oneshot #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader

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slugtranslation-hypmic · 4 years ago

Note

Your thoughts on the anime made me smile like an idiot bc i can relate to it sm ToT

I watched the first episode with subtitles (and a friend - it’s always more fun with a buddy) so I am back with MORE thoughts: Subtitle Edition. Idk if they will be interesting to anyone, but here’s a sampling from the notes I took.

The Hypnosis Mics are not treated as proper nouns. They’re also called solely “mics”, never microphones. I thought this was a really unusual choice (and fwiw, although you can’t usually tell because of the fonts we use, the Hypmics are proper nouns in the manga).

It turns out an “act” and a “law” are not perfect synonyms of each other, so “H Law” (Funimation) is technically more correct than “H Act” (me). Oops.

Not sure how I feel about “Brother Ichi”. It certainly works for “Ichinii” and is pretty cute, but I do really dislike having siblings call one another “Brother” or “Sister”. While this is not always the case (especially in Asian-American households), it’s atypical for Americans to call their siblings that. I know there’s no exact reason Japan has to stick exactly to American English (and I’d REALLY like to talk sometime about some thoughts I’ve had in regards to removing my natural regiolect (regional dialect) from translation and/or creating a “new regiolect” purely for J -> E translation), but it does stick out like a sore thumb in otherwise American English.

Speaking of Brother Ichi, “Brother Ichi’d never lose” made me make this exact face:

I was surprised by how much characters in the MTC sequence used the word “fuck”. I’ve been learning (slowly - I have a natural potty mouth) that excessive swearing can very easily lead to your translation sounding quite childish, even if it would fly quite naturally in real life. This certainly didn’t sound childish, but I kept going, “Oh my god. Can they get away with that?” Loved the “fucking maggots” from Samatoki.

Juuto has a catchphrase in Japanese (やれやれ) that I’ve been using as either “Good grief” or “Good lord”. He didn’t say it in Japanese as far as I heard, but I did see the translation use “Oh my” for him at one point. I wonder if they’ll continue to use that going forward.

I take character voice very seriously for Hypmic, which means I will occasionally make some fairly arbitrary decisions in order to have each character sound unique and not simply various different shades of “me” speaking. (For instance, Sasara uses “man” rather excessively in English mostly because I started writing him that way due to a casual tone of voice and then it stuck. There’s nothing really in Japanese that suggests he should use that more frequently, but it’s there because it served me a purpose in English.) It’s veeeeery interesting for me to see someone else approach these characters and create their own voices for them, especially because the voices we’re writing match up a lot. Ramuda’s use of “pretty please” made me think of this, but other characters kind of surprised me too. Their Jakurai sounds a lot like mine (albeit a bit more forceful, which is a bit closer to the original imo) too, so much that I was kind of surprised when he said something I normally think of as a Gentarou line. I had to remind myself, “Duh, it’s not me writing this.” Still, it’s fascinating to me to watch someone else start out on their own and end up with relatively similar conclusions.

That being said. The elephant in the room. Gentarou. I’m kind of on the fence on whether or not I liked those choices. Gentarou speaks in Japanese with occasionally archaic language and (almost always) formal language. The archaic language he uses is called bungo, aka literary Japanese, which hasn’t been widely spoken or used since the early 20th century. Gentarou uses it because he’s - ding ding, you guessed it! - an author. Now, I know that I’m just biased... because I translate for another series which is written in a much more obnoxious hybridization of bungo and modern Japanese... but I don’t think Gentarou is that heavy of a bungo user to really necessitate the entire “thee” and “thou” thing. I also don’t particularly enjoy using these excessive archaisms for bungo because 19th - 20th century English literature doesn’t sound like this. It sounds more like extremely formal and verbose modern English, so I prefer to use that and throw in some outdated words from time and time again for similar effect. Of course, one could argue that 19th/20th century Japanese literature isn’t necessarily an exact approximation of 19th/20th century English literature, but bah, humbug. I don’t think anyone but me gives a damn about this anyway. Overall, I liked his speech style quite a bit besides that.

Also really enjoyed the use of “wee bit leery of lending more”. The “wee” almost suggests a British accent, and I will be the biggest advocate of British English Gentarou until the day I die. The choice of dialect can make or break a translation (would love to talk about this sometime too), and using British English for him among an otherwise American English-speaking cast would be STELLAR and BRILLIANT.

I was not at all fond of the use of “D’oh!” as one of the little “Gh!” or “Urp!” noises. Sound effects don’t tend to make, but they can absolutely break a translation. (Also know that I criminally awful at sound effects, so this is the pot calling the kettle black.) “D’oh!” brings to mind Homer Simpson, which is okay for Dice, but not... not good at all for Hifumi. Funimation subber, if you are reading this... I’m sorry... I don’t... I don’t like it...

slaps the table with both hands GOD, “COFFEE AND CHILL” IN THE FLING POSSE RAP IS SUCH A BRILLIANT LINE. (Original was “珈琲タイム” iirc - lit. coffee time) (Also while I’m here, I love the fact that “coffee” is written in Gentarou’s bungo whereas “time” is written in the style of Ramuda’s English loan words. Even the way the lyrics appear onscreen is a mixture of FP’s various styles.) This is such a quick and easy way to provide background about Ramuda’s flirtatious nature and put in a bit of harmless innuendo that often appears in Ramuda songs. This also handily explains the entire “Want to go grab a bite to eat?/How about we get a cup of tea?” thing that appears often in Japanese but is less natural in English. Who thought of this? You’re a genius. You deserve a medal.

I have Jakurai use phrases containing the word “I” a lot (in phrases like “I suppose that x”, “I’m afraid that y”, etc) as a way of softening his speech and making it sound like he’s more ... personally responsible for the words coming out of his mouth, I guess. The translator used quite a bit of those similar phrases, as I mentioned previously, which surprised me a good bit. They also used the phrase “I assure you” which is AN AMAZING line for Jakurai. It gives him a much firmer tone than I normally write him with but also suggests by way of similar sounds “reassuring” the listener and overall making him sound more confident and capable. This is so good. I’m going to steal it.

Overall, I thought it was a really solid translation with a lot of thought clearly put into it. I’m excited to see more work from this subber. Mr. Josh Cole, you are killing it. Huge shoutout as well to Kotonoha Consulting and Sarah Alys Lindholm for their work with the lyrics. Incredibly strong effort. Loved it.

On the other hand, it was a bit affirming to me to see that the quality wasn’t vastly different from some of my latest efforts. There were none of the awkward lines which are still prone to crop up in my work, and it was a good bit more creative than what I can normally produce. Additionally, Hypmic is, relatively speaking, fairly easy to translate if you ignore the god damn raps. All that being said... of course I won’t have the same experience as someone who has quite literally been working in Japanese teaching or translation for as long as I’ve been alive, but it’s enough to make me think that I can, conceivably, start selling my work for money in a couple more years. Whoo. Have to celebrate the little victories.

I’m so sorry to anyone who started reading this in the hopes that it would get interesting. It didn’t.

#not a translation #asks #translation essay

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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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winterxwidow27 · 4 years ago

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Star Crossed Lovers

1. Longing.

A WinterWidow Drabble

Natasha’s POV.

Have you ever felt so alone, that your whole world feels as if you were sinking and you couldn’t find anything to hold onto? That was Natasha Romanoff for most of her life, for as long as she could remember she has been forced to do things she never thought that she would be able to do. But it's strange the lengths we will go to if it meant our survival, she did everything they asked of her and after the first couple of years she learned not to ask questions; asking questions was bad in her line of work and she was conditioned to shoot first – always. All of her days melted into one so she had no idea how long she has been doing this, her routine never changed and she spent everyday training or just pushing herself to see what it would take for her body to break but sadly it never did because I guess if she can feel pain that means she’s not broken right? She has the ability to feel, to bleed. I guess you could say she was on a path of self-destruction and for a while she was sloppy in her work, hoping to get caught or hopefully killed on the field. The higher ups in the KGB noticed a change in her and decided to push my training even more, they hired another assassin to come work with the girls in the red room but she was first to meet them.

So after several hours of her practicing her American and English accent it was time to go and hit the gym, they made the girls wear the most impractical outfits so they would always be combat ready so most of the time they would be wearing evening gowns and high heels and today was no different. A sleek black number she could barely breathe in yet alone fight and six inch stiletto heels that were hard to even walk in and she would struggle until the fight or flight mode kicked in. Entering the gymnasium she was the only one there yet but always prided herself on being early and organised. Time always moved so slow in this place so to try and distract herself she started throwing punches and kicks at one of the several punching bags hanging from the rafters. Maybe about fifteen minutes later she heard footsteps that triggered all of her training, her fists pulling up to protect her face but he was too fast and a swift kick to the stomach knocked her to the floor and made her gasp for breath. It was exhilarating, a small smile must of appeared across her lips without her knowing and exposing the fact she was enjoying this.

We continued to spar, he didn’t have a mark on him even though I'm sure I got several clean shots to his face, maybe the mask he was wearing over his mouth protected him somehow? His eyes observed my every move but he never spoke or gave me direction. I had to learn to adapt to his fighting style, he was a hard hitter and my usual training was much different but I held my own. It wasn’t until he managed to get me in a head lock, I felt the coldness of metal but never expected that to be his arm, he released me just before I lost consciousness and I finally got to look at him properly. My eyes scanned his body, scanning the threat stood before me and I tried not to focus on his arm but it wasn’t like anything I had ever seen before but I could tell something about him was different – beside the arm. He still hadn’t spoken a word to me so while I rubbed my neck in the hope to prevent bruising I decided to speak, praise him if you will. “Where did you learn how to fight like that? No one usually gets the upper hand with me.” It might of sounded obnoxious but it was true, Natasha Romanoff was on a different calibre to every other girl here. Except maybe Yelena. It looked like he was about to finally respond but someone else called him over in Russian. They called him soldier and just like that he was gone.

That night it was harder than usual to sleep, not only the faces of her past haunted her – the visions of the fire and the screams of people she could no longer remember but her entire body ached which was different for her. After several hours she finally fell asleep from pure exhaustion but the air raid alarm was blaring to wake the girls up at 5am ready for another day of training the perfect assassins, who suspects a beautiful girl to be their end? Breakfast was sloppy porridge oats that made her gag but the punishment for not finishing her meal ensured that everyone cleaned their plate. Then it was time to hit the showers, the only time the girls were not under some form of surveillance but of course these were limited to fifteen minutes. Natasha stood underneath the warm water, letting it soothe her bruised flesh from the night before and she could hear some of the others gossip about the new trainer, she just listened. She learned his name was James and that he was a cold blooded killer but part of her thought that no one is born like that, maybe he was like her? Maybe he was forced into this lifestyle? Another alarm went off and the water shut off automatically, thankfully she had managed to rinse off her hair while getting lost in her thoughts.

It was dark now, everyone was getting ready for bed but she heard a guard call her by her last name, that’s how she knew it was important. She nodded over to him and was told she was needed in the gym. Had he returned? This time she skipped the ridiculous dress and heels and went in just some yoga pants and a sports bra, she could put up an equal fight now or so she thought. When she entered the room he was there again, his eyes still fixated on her but no words. He caught sight of the bruises on her abdomen which he had given her and if she didn’t know any different she could swear she saw a flash of regret in his eyes until he just went right back to sparring. She had managed to wrap her legs around his arm and get in more punches to his face but he just slammed her against a wall to get her to break the hold and it worked, all of the air being forced out of her body again she laughed a little. He didn’t like that and his metal hand wrapped itself tightly around her throat, cutting off her air supply instantly and she was fading fast, she managed to mumble something.

“James..” He dropped her instantly, his face full of confusion and while she coughed a couple of times he just watched her. Like an alien learning about a new species, his curiosity was peeked with the redheaded female. Natasha finally dragged herself back to her feet, standing before him but his tall frame overshadowed her. “That’s your name right? James?” He turned away from her then, left some distance between them before she finally heard him speak, his voice fit his whole aesthetic – cold and calculated. “I don’t know who that is anymore.” Those words seemed more vulnerable than he probably realised, it pulled at something deep inside Natasha. Something that the KGB had spent years burying. She slowly approached him again but rather than speaking more and pushing a subject she knew he didn’t want to discuss she gently touched his metal arm, just showing a single second of understanding before they went right back to sparring. She always gave as good as she got but James gave her the fight of a lifetime. At one point she managed to get the upper hand, he seemed to get distracted at the mere mention of his name again which allowed Natasha to jump onto his shoulders and use her own body as leverage to flip James over and onto the floor before she pinned him down too. Her red locks dangling in front of her face as she smugly smirked down at him. “C’mon darling. You’ve got to be ready for anything.” He quickly over powered her, pinning her down against the wooden flooring, the bang echoing around the whole room. Her eyes glanced up at him and she watched as he removed his mask – he was breathtakingly handsome and she felt her breath hitch but hopefully she hid it well. “I’m ready, Natasha.” For some reason her name sounded so much better coming from his lips and without warning he got off her, put the mask back on just in time for his keeper to come and get him again just like the night before.

#buckynat #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #redroom #kgb #marvel #star crossed lovers

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missjanjie · 4 years ago

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Hold Me Tighter (Even Closer) | (6/?)

Title: Hold Me Tighter (Even Closer) Summary: A sequel to Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer. Brooke Lynn and Vanessa are back at NYU, but with new and improved positions. Brooke’s ready to start her career as a professor when, as fate would have it, she realizes her TA, Jackie, might have the hots for a student named Jan. The couple just might see it as a sign to give two new girls the love story they found in the same place. Word Count: ~3k (this chapter) / ~18k (total) Relationship(s): Branjie (Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo), Jankie (Jan Sport/Jackie Cox) Rating: E

read on ao3 | ko-fi

Chapter Summary: Jan gets closer to a flirty, French castmate, and it awakens a green-eyed monster in Jackie. Meanwhile, Brooke and Vanessa are readily and eagerly working to avoid ‘lesbian bed death’.

Jan had thrown herself into Heathers rehearsals as soon as they began. This was her element, when she was at her best. Simply practicing her songs on stage gave her a serotonin boost, it was addictive, always has been.

Having a great cast helped perpetuate that positive energy. Jan usually got along with everyone she acted alongside, but she’d butted heads in the past. But everyone seemed genuinely relaxed and fun. One castmate she had gotten particularly close to was the girl playing Heather Chandler, a French student named Nicky.

Initially, Jan was intrigued by how easily Nicky could switch her fake American accent on and off. Being terrible at accents herself, that had been the catalyst that’d gotten them talking. Then she allowed herself to acknowledge how attractive Nicky is – it was hard to ignore, considering how openly and casually she flirted with her.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Nicky asked out of the blue during one rehearsal.

Jan cleared her throat and looked down. “Well… Short answer, no.”

“And the long answer?”

She let out an awkward laugh, toying aimlessly with the hem of her shirt. “No, but I have a friend who I’m, you know, hooking up with. And no one ever believes me when I say that’s all there is to it,” she explained.

Nicky nodded as she listened. “I believe you,” she offered. “I’ve hooked up with plenty of my friends. I do not see the big deal of it.”

Jan clasped her hands together and nodded quickly. “Yes! Exactly! Finally, someone gets it.” The vindication she felt was immediate and intense. That was precisely what she had been swearing up and down, mainly to Gigi, but to anyone that questioned her as well.

“How long has this been going on?” She asked, amused by the dramatics in Jan’s response.

Jan paused to count on her fingers. “Um… a couple weeks, give or take.”

Nicky tried to hold it in but burst out into a fit of giggles. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just… You’re this worked up over a girl you’ve been fucking for two weeks? Have you considered this to be why people think you are more than friends?”

“You don’t understand,” she insisted, “our whole relationship is complicated.”

“Is she married? Inside the closet?”

“No, but, um, she’s my TA.”

Nicky’s eyes lit up in interest. “Oooh, comme c’est scandaleuse!” she gasped and pressed her hand to her chest, then leaned closer to Jan to urge her to go on. “Which one is it? Is she hot?”

Jan’s gaze returned to the floor, this time fidgeting by running her fingers through her ponytail. “Of course she’s hot, give me some credit here,” she giggled. “Do you take History of Dance?”

She shook her head. “No, but I wish I did now, damn. I guess you’re both lucky,” she winked.

------

“Remember, we’re working on the traffic light system,” Brooke Lynn was saying as she tied a silk blindfold around Vanessa’s head, covering her eyes. “Red is stop, yellow is slow down, green is go.”

“I know how traffic lights work. I’ve gotten enough tickets for running them,” Vanessa chuckled. While they had relied on safe words in the past, they decided to try something different, something they thought would be more effective and allow for clearer communication.

Brooke laughed softly. “Every day I thank God that you don’t drive anymore.” She waited a beat, allowing herself to shift into the ‘domme mode’ her wife was patiently waiting for. Sure, they couldn’t be as spontaneous as they’d been in the past, they were both excited for the quality intimate time they’d carved out. “Now, go lay on your back.”

Vanessa readily obliged, laying on her back with her head nestled in the pile of pillows that was always on their bed. She listened to the sound of the bedside drawer opening and closing, then let Brooke manipulate her arms until she got them in position. Her heart started beating faster as her wife tied silk rope around her wrists, the other ends secured around the bedposts.

Once the ropes were firmly secured, Brooke took a step back to admire just how perfect Vanessa looked. They had picked out the lingerie set together – a strapless red bra with matching panties, garters that connected to knee-high fishnets. She loved how Vanessa looked in red – she could stun in any color, but something about red against her golden-brown skin was just perfect. Her outfit was similar, though her lingerie was black and her bra had thin, lace straps.

Brooke crawled on top of Vanessa, her hands dipping under her to unhook her bra, tossing it aside. She kissed her languidly, hands roaming the expanse of her body, then moving one to pinch and tweak her nipples while the other teasingly rubbed over the front of her panties. “You’re being such a good girl for me,” she praised, pressing kisses down her neck.

But as soon as Vanessa had started to get used to the pleasure, she lost the contact and just barely swallowed a whine. She couldn’t discern much noise, but she was able to tell that Brooke was undressing, and her heart rate picked back up in anticipation.

“Mommy’s going to sit on your face, okay?” Brooke got back on top of Vanessa as she spoke, moving further up her body, but stopping short to wait for an answer.

Vanessa nodded. “Yes, please,” she breathed out, adjusting just enough to get more comfortable.

Brooke shifted her hips over Vanessa’s face and held onto the headboard so she wouldn't need to rest all of her weight on her head. “Fuck…” she let out a soft, pleased gasp when she felt her wife’s tongue ease into her, but stayed still until Vanessa picked up a steady rhythm.

Vanessa’s instinct was to try to hold onto Brooke’s thighs, but with her wrists bound, she had to trust that Brooke would ride her face with the right amount of pressure and fervor. The bit of risk it brought, the way her other senses were heightened with her sight gone, it sent an intense wave of arousal through her body. She had to squeeze her thighs together just to keep herself from getting too distracted from the task at hand.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Doing so well,” Brooke moaned, her hips rolling steadily, keeping time with Vanessa’s movements. Her grip on the headboard tightened, knuckles turning white. “Shit, gonna make me come,” she warned not long after.

Vanessa nodded the best she could, thrusting her tongue faster, sucking on Brooke’s clit harder. She could tell when Brooke came by the way her body trembled and eagerly fucked her through it, only stopping when she sensed her getting off the bed.

“You did so well,” she praised, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Mommy’s gonna reward you now, baby.” As she spoke, she reached into another drawer, this time to pull out her strap-on and hook it around her hips. She sauntered back to the bed, taking her time running her fingers up Vanessa’s legs, sliding off her panties. “Soaked already, my eager little slut,” she cooed. She pushed Vanessa’s legs apart and moved between her thighs, pushing forward just enough for the head of the silicone toy to rub against her slit, conveying what her intentions were. “Color?”

“Green, fuck, please,” Vanessa couldn’t get the words out fast enough. She kept her legs propped apart, waiting in desperate anticipation until she finally felt Brooke ease into her, eliciting a loud moan.

Brooke was slow at first until she was certain Vanessa was comfortable. Then she began thrusting harder and faster, pushing Vanessa’s legs back and holding onto her thighs to get a better angle. “Mm, there we go, you take Mommy’s cock so well,” she praised.

Vanessa arched her body towards Brooke, fervently writhing in time with her thrusts. She moaned and cursed and babbled to the point where Brooke couldn’t discern what language she was using.

But Brooke loved it, she loved being able to fuck her wife into a hot, moaning mess. She kept one hand on Vanessa’s thigh while the other moved to rub her clit in tandem with her thrusts, eyes trained on her face to watch for the second her orgasm hit.

By the time Vanessa had finished riding out her orgasm, her body was sweaty, trembling, and her head was in a blissfully dizzy fog. She let out a sigh of relief when Brooke untied her and took off the blindfold, and eagerly accepted the water bottle she gave her. “Shit, didn’t realize how badly I needed to get fucked like that.”

Brooke chuckled softly as she got in bed and pulled Vanessa close. “See? I told you we had nothing to worry about. No lesbian bed death here.”

“Oh, don’t act like you wasn’t a little worried,” she teased. “But we’re good. I love you so much,” she tilted her head up to press a tender kiss to her lips. “We might have to re-evaluate the ‘mommy’ thing once we got a kid, though.”

------

Jackie moved quickly as she packed up her things after Brooke’s afternoon class. “You have everything else covered, right?”

Brooke arched her brow as she watched Jackie scurry about. “Yeah, I’m fine. Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“Rush? I’m not rushing,” she insisted. “I mean, I thought I might stop by the auditorium on my way back home, you know, just to see if anything’s going on.”

“You mean to catch Jan when she’s getting out of rehearsal to hit her up for some totally platonic sex?”

Jackie huffed and pulled her bag over her shoulder. “No! I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to it…”

“Just embrace being horny, Jackie. It makes the sex more fun,” Brooke chuckled as she gathered her things. “Speaking of which, I’m gonna head out and pick up dinner so I have time to rail my wife when she gets home. We’re on a hot streak. Bye!” She left before Jackie could complain about the oversharing.

“Embrace being horny, Jackie. I’m gonna rail my wife, Jackie,” she mocked to herself once she was alone, continuing to mutter in discontent as she made her way out of the classroom and towards the auditorium. The door just off the side of the theater’s front row was propped a bit less than halfway open, allowing her to inconspicuously peer inside.

Jan and Nicky were sitting about ten feet away – just close enough that when Jackie peered in a bit more, she was able to eavesdrop on the two.

Nicky was sitting on the floor with Jan between her legs while she braided her hair. “What shampoo do you use? Your hair smells so nice.”

Jan beamed brightly at the compliment, only to frown as her brows furrowed. “Y’know, I don’t remember what it’s called, I just started using it a few days ago. I’ll text you a picture when I get home, though.”

“Or you could just take me into the shower with you and I’ll find out for myself,” she teased, nudging Jan’s leg with her own.

“Nicky!” Jan giggled, playfully pushing her thigh, though her hand lingered, and she found herself grateful for how warm it still was in late September, allowing Nicky to wear short shorts and her fingertips to lightly stroke across the smooth skin. It was harmless, she would remind herself. Harmless flirting. Which she was allowed to do because she was single.

Jackie, however, felt sick to her stomach. Her legs carried her away from the auditorium before her brain even told them to. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to vomit or cry or take a nap, she just knew she felt bad. But with that bad feeling came a sense of anger and frustration – who the hell was she to be upset by that? It wasn’t like she could blame Jan for flirting with a hot blonde with a French accent.

On top of everything else, Jackie didn’t even want to vent her feelings to anyone. She was sure Brooke or Jaida would be quick to say ‘I told you so’ if she admitted that she didn’t like seeing Jan flirt with someone else. Hell, she knew she would be struggling to admit it to herself for at least the rest of the night. “This is nothing, this is stupid,” she muttered to herself, “she’s not your girlfriend, you guys are just having sex, get over it.”

“Harsh mumbling to yourself. Never a good sign.”

Jackie was startled and jolted back into reality when she realized Katya was walking in step with her for at least the past few seconds. “Huh? Oh, I just… you know, have a lot on my mind. Busy times.”

Katya chuckled softly. “You don’t have to pull that act with me, kid. I know all about your situation, I went through this shit with Brooke and Vanjie too, remember?”

“This isn’t like that,” she insisted. “I was just… caught off guard when I saw Jan flirting with who I assume is one of her castmates. She’s pretty. Blonde. French.”

“Uh-huh,” Katya did her best not to laugh, but a chuckle slipped out. “I wonder how you say ‘jealous’ in French.”

“Jalouse,” Jackie answered automatically, then huffed and added, “which I’m not!” But then her expression softened into a timid, almost childlike one. “Because I’m not supposed to be, right?”

“God, you young lesbians have one fucking setting and it’s ‘hopeless pining’,” she observed, then placed a gentle hand on Jackie’s shoulder. “Look, you’re human. You’re having human feelings about the human person you’re having human sex with.”

“Please don’t say ‘human’ again. You make it sound like there’s an alternative option.”

“I mean… vampires, ghosts, possibly-”

“Katya!”

Katya cleared her throat as she got herself back on track. “Right, right. Anyway, my point is that there’s nothing inherently wrong with how you’re feeling. It’s normal, and maybe you should consider talking to her about this.”

Jackie shook her head. “I can’t do that. I don’t wanna come off as weird and needy. I’m supposed to be the wiser, more mature one. I’m kind of her teacher, after all.”

“You’re overthinking, just drop the act and work out how you feel. Yes, even if it involves talking to Jan,” Katya told her, then paused, scrunching her nose. “Wow, I’m experiencing some intense deja vu here.”

“Oh, don’t compare this to Brooke and Vanjie,” she huffed. “It’s different.”

“Yeah,” Katya agreed, “you’re much more difficult.”

------

As Jan and Gigi left class, Jan couldn’t help but feel that something was off. “Did Jackie seem… weird to you today?”

“She’s always kinda weird,” Gigi shrugged. “I thought that was part of the appeal. Like, the sexy nerd shtick or whatever. Maybe it’s just the thick-rimmed glasses that do it for you,” she laughed at her quip before refocusing on Jan. “Why, what did you think was wrong?”

Jan gestured vaguely, hoping the words would come to her. “I dunno how to explain it. She seemed distant, I think. Almost cold, like she didn’t wanna be there. And I mean, she could’ve just called in sick if that was the case, but still. It felt uncomfy.”

“You worried she’s gonna stop putting out?” she teased. “Hey, if your bed stops feeling empty, you could always hit up Nicky.”

“No, no,” Jan groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not like that, none of that. If something is wrong with Jackie, I wanna know. You know, in case I caused it or could help fix it. And… I haven’t decided if I’m gonna pursue anything with Nicky yet.”

Gigi arched her brow. “But you’re considering it?”

“I’m not not considering it,” she admitted. “Jackie and I aren’t in a relationship, she doesn’t even know about Nicky. I can have a sex life outside of what we have going on if I want to” she defended, then looked down, her voice quieting as she continued, “I just don’t know if I want to.”

“Sounds like you’re a little worried about her finding out about Nicky.”

Jan scoffed and crossed her arms as they walked. “I am not! I mean, I’m not gonna make a point of announcing anything, but it’s not any of her business. I don’t go around telling all of my friends about who I’m thinking about hooking up with. Just you, because you’re borderline unhealthily involved in my personal life.”

“Only borderline?” Gigi laughed lightly. “It’s just so fascinating to me how you’re so unwilling to admit you have feelings for Jackie. You wouldn’t even hesitate to get with Nicky if she didn’t mean anything to you, or if she was actually ‘just a friend’. I just don’t get why you’re being so stubborn.”

“Because I don’t know how I feel!” Jan finally confessed. “Whenever I think about it too much I get flustered and dizzy. Maybe there are feelings there, maybe it’s just chasing the high from the sex. The point is, I don’t wanna shake everything up until I know for sure where my head and my heart are at, it’d be too messy and someone could get hurt.”

This caught Gigi by surprise, the both of them stopping in their tracks to process what Jan had blurted out. “Huh. You know, that’s the most sense you’ve made on the subject so far. But it sounds like you’re… I dunno, afraid to take a risk. And I get it, trust me. But what’s the point of college if not to take risks and try new things? You guys have chemistry, like, it was obvious from day one. I just think that means something.”

Jan sighed and leaned against the wall. “Maybe it does,” she conceded. “Maybe I am afraid.” She looked back down the hall as if she’d see Jackie waiting there for her. “I know I can’t avoid talking to her forever.”

#branjie #jankie #rpdr rpf #rpdr fic #rpdr fanfiction

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emmy-writes-sometimes · 4 years ago

Text

Robbers

All hell broke loose when you were with your best friends, and the only way to go home is to go through. An AU based off of Robbers by the 1975.

You woke up in the arms of your best friend, Tom, facing your other best friend, Harrison, in the tent that was clearly only meant for one person. The three of you had gone through so much, though, that it was rare that the three of you weren’t holding on to each other somehow. You were in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, in a state park where you could find free lodging. You were trying to make it back to Los Angeles. That was the only flight you could catch back to England and out of his post-apocalyptic hell. If nobody caught you, that was.

Your friends and family probably thought the three of you were dead, honestly. But the three of you were determined to get home, and if that meant stealing a car and driving across the country, it meant stealing a car from some woman in Manhattan and driving across the country. You’d stolen the car and a bunch of camping equipment, trying to lay low and stay away from authorities. If they found out that you weren’t U.S. Citizens, and had just been working at the time everything happened, they would take you and separate you from one another. You didn’t think your heart would be able to take that. You even feigned American accents.

“Are we alive?” Harrison asked, looking at the two of you. You were laying on top of Tom’s outstretched arm, using it as a pillow, and you had fallen asleep talking to Harrison so you were still facing him. The only blanket you had was one the three of you had to share, so you were closer than you probably would’ve been otherwise. It was a little odd, because ever since New York happened, you and Tom had gotten closer. More than friends close, but you were too scared to say anything to mess it up, so you remained in limbo with one another. But you’d known Harrison longer and he was as close to a brother that you could have.

“Unfortunately,” Tom responded with a sigh. You sat up, letting Tom’s dead arm move a little bit. “Think we can make it to Iowa today?”

“How many hours?” You asked.

“Sixteen.” You looked at Harrison for an answer and he just shrugged. He laid back down, blinking a few times.

“I’ll go get gas,” Tom sighed. “You two can be in charge of breakfast.” You nodded and walked over to the box of food you had all collected. It was mostly just swiped from gas stations or bought with what cash you hadn’t saved up for gas. You walked out into the cold and started making a fire, while Harrison looked through all of the food to see what you had. Maybe Iowa was a little more untouched and you could re-stock. You weren’t counting on it, though. You weren’t counting on anything. In fact, if something came and killed the three of you? You’d be fine with it.

You were on the road in another couple of hours, resting your legs on the dashboard as Tom drove. One of his hands was intertwined with yours, just playing with your fingers, and the three of you were listening to an endless amount of names of missing people on the radio. The three of your names were on there, always, and upon hearing your own name you changed the station.

“We’ll get home,” Tom promised, using his real voice. Not the fake-ass American accent he’d perfected just to stay alive. “Promise, babe.” He squeezed your hand and you brought it up to your lips, kissing the back of his palm, in return. And then you turned over and took a nap.

You reached Iowa like you thought, and while Harrison was filling up the car again you and Tom were sitting in a Sunoco-owned diner. The two of you weren’t really talking. You were too busy gulping down some of the best food you’d had in ages. It was three in the morning and no one else was there, but you kept an eye on your burner phone to see if Harrison had sent an SOS into his.

“How many days until L.A.?” You asked.

“Twenty-six hours,” he answered. “I think if we keep driving we can make Colorado. Unless you want to camp out again. There’s a park somewhere around here.” You shook your head, your eyes tearing up a little. You tried not to show any kind of emotion in front of him to protect the both of you from really falling for each other, but you were way past that. And you felt a tear fall down your cheek and Tom’s thumb stroked your hand.

“I’m just so tired of this. I want to be at home, in my bed, not running from cops and trying not to get caught. I want to be with you, really be with you, without being scared someone’s gonna take me from you. I don’t want to keep thinking about what color coffin I’ll get put in if someone catches us.”

“I know, love. But if anything happens, anything, there’ll be a riot. You’re not getting taken away from me. I swear.” He offered you a small smile before seeing Harrison walk in. Harrison sat down, smelling of gasoline and a shitty travel station shower. The two of you had taken a shower while Harrison ate and then switched off. You felt bad for leaving him, but at least you and Tom were together.

“You okay with going to Colorado tonight?” Tom asked Harrison.

“Sure. I don’t think I can handle another night in the tent. I’ll drive.” Tom nodded and the three of you finished your food before heading back to the car. You and Tom sat in the back, curling up to sleep while Harrison drove.

“What if we do get separated?” You asked Tom a few hours later, laying in the darkness using his arm as a pillow again. His other hand was playing with your hair. “I’m serious.”

“Then we meet back in Los Angeles. At the house we stayed in last time. We all know where that is and we can all get there. And then we’ll get home.”

“But what if…” Tears were coming to your eyes again. You hated being such a baby, but Tom knew you were a baby when he initiated whatever kind of relationship you were in now.

“Everything will be fine, pretty girl. I promise.” He kissed the center of your forehead and ended the conversation, settling in and falling asleep against you. You fell asleep, too, only waking up when it was time for you to drive.

You made it to Colorado and rented a motel room, but it was short-lived. In a few hours the police had come to do a check of the motel and the three of you had to leave. You drove into the daylight, making sure there were no cop cars behind you. You listened to the radio for your names, again, and turned it off as a message from Harrison’s family came through. Both of the boys were sleeping in the back. They woke up when you were driving into the sunset, finally pulling the car over. You’d driven for a total of twelve hours.

“I’ll take over, babe,” Tom said as he got out of the car to get food in the gas station you were at. He kissed you as you stood at the pump before disappearing. Harrison muttered something about the bathroom and headed off.

You were seven hours from Los Angeles by the next morning. The sunrise was bright red, as red as the blood you’d seen on TV at the diner you were at the night before. Things were getting worse. The police were killing people instead of containing them, and if the three of you were caught, you were next. You just had to make it to that plane, you thought. If you made it to the plane everything would be fine.

“Flight leaves in eight hours. You think we can beat it?” Harrison asked the two of you as you sat on the side of the road, letting the car’s engine cool down. You were trying to eat the last of the food so you could ditch the car at the airport.

“We’d better. The next flight isn’t for another day. Once we’re in Los Angeles we need to be able to get out, too. They’re looking for people like us on international flights. Ones who lied to them,” you replied. You stood up and put the bag of crackers you’d eaten in the makeshift trash bag. You got back in the back seat and waited for the boys to fill the car back up with the gas they’d stolen so that you could make it at least to the airport.

By the time you rolled up to the airport’s back entrance, where your friend had instructed you to go, you were running on fumes. Tom pulled into a parking spot and looked at the clock.

“We have an hour and a half,” he said. “Do you have the fake papers?” You had gotten fake passports from the same friend that said the three of you were U.S. Citizens who were just going to make a connecting flight in London. That was a lie, of course, but you’d rehearsed it. Just in case you were caught. You knew what plane to look for, and you knew how to get onto the tarmac without going inside the airport.

You saw it in the distance, half a mile away, and the three of you started walking. You started to think you were home free, until you saw red and white and blue lights behind you.

“What do we do?” You asked Tom. He looked like he had a frog in his throat. He was as scared as you and grabbed the gun that he had kept. For emergencies. Was he really going to try to shoot cops if they got too close?

“Just walk,” Tom instructed. “I can hold them off.”

“No, they’ll hurt you!”

“We don’t have time to argue, Y/N,” Harrison muttered. You were close enough to the plane, eyeing the stairs, and you looked behind you. The police were approaching quickly as the sky started to turn dark. It was going to storm. Because that was totally what you needed. Harrison forced you to walk in front of them both, and you were almost to the stairs when the first shot rang out.

“Shit!” Tom said loudly. “Shit! They shot me!” He was still standing upright, even though the shot was in his stomach.

“NO!” You yelled, trying to get back to him. Harrison pushed you forward onto the stairs and grabbed his best friend, pulling him onto his back. The cops kept shooting and the plane started up and you realized that if you didn’t go, you’d all be fucked. And you weren’t going anywhere without them. Another shot hit the metal stairs and shook them, but the three of you were almost to the top. You made it first and held out a hand for Harrison to push Tom up.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you said as you used all of your body strength to pull Tom up. A flight attendant realized you were coming up the stairs and started grabbing Tom, too, and the plane started moving. Harrison climbed up and on just as the door started closing. He slipped inside, too, and then the three of you were in the plane. Passengers were wondering what was going on and the plane was beeping, telling everyone to put on their seatbelts, and Harrison got up to talk to the flight attendant.

“Tommy?” You asked, turning your best friend, your lover, everything you had, over on his back. The shot wasn’t that bad, but he was bleeding everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. “Tommy,” you said as the tears started to fall. Harrison was coming back with a first aid kit as the plane started to lift off the ground, but he ducked onto an aisle and sat down. You were still in the middle of the walkway and grabbed onto one of the chair arms, hooking your other arm under Tom’s armpit so he couldn’t move.

Harrison got up as soon as he could and ran to the two of you. The flight attendant helped you move him to the area hidden from passengers and Harrison started pouring alcohol all over Tom. He was fighting, hard, with the two of you like he didn’t know where he was.

“Tommy,” you said again as you brushed his hair behind his ear. It had gotten longer since all of this started happening. Your hand was stained with his blood, getting it on his pale forehead. And that was what made your tears start coming. You were too shocked at first to cry, honestly.

“Babe, you look so fuckin’ cool,” Tom grinned up at you. You cried out, pressing your lips against his for a single second so you wouldn’t restrict his breathing.

“He’ll be fine,” Harrison determined. “Just have to stop the bleeding.” He pressed all of the cloths he could find to Tom’s stomach until the bleeding had stopped. He sighed, cleaning the blood off, and Harrison tried to get you to go sit down.

“No, I want her to stay,” Tom breathed out heavily. You sat back down on the floor, taking Tom’s head in your lap, and you cried. You cried because you were finally going home, with both of your boys. You cried because that meant Tom would be okay, that you’d have him finally. You cried because you were with the two men you started with and you trusted them just as much as they trusted you. They trusted you so much that you were the one who had gotten them on the plane.

“I told you,” Tom started softly as he was almost asleep in your lap. “I told you that if anything happens, there’ll be a riot.”

“What?”

“You got me home, Y/N,” he muttered. “You look so cool.” He was delirious from pain, you decided, and gave him a blanket and covered him up. You told Harrison to go, that you’d watch him, and watch him you did. You sat there, holding his hand, his head in your lap, thanking every power of the universe that you’d survived the American apocalypse and you had Tom and Harrison and you were all okay. Maybe all of the times you’d played cops and robbers as little kids, running and hiding away from each other, had done you some good.

A/N: I literally love Robbers so much so I hope I did it and the apocalypse AU justice! Thank you so much for the request!

Taglist (if you’d like to be added, shoot me a message!): @an-adventureland, @firstangeldragonranch, @ssebstann, @winterreader-nowwriter

#tom holland x reader #tom holland au #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland x reader angst #tom holland imagine

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anthearose · 4 years ago

Photo

B A S I C

NAME: anthea rose thomas

NICKNAME(S): thea

AGE: 25

DATE OF BIRTH: 26 april 1995

GENDER: genderfluid

PRONOUNS: she/her but doesn’t mind they/them

F A M I L Y

MOTHER: dawn eddwards

FATHER: richard thomas

SIBLING(S): unknown

P H Y S I C A L

FACE CLAIM: cara delevingne

RACE/ETHNICITY: english, welsh,

NATIONALITY: english, has american citizenship

HEIGHT: 5 feet and six inches (5′6)

WEIGHT: 112 lbs

BUILD: slender, toned

SCARS: inside of arms from drug taking

HAIR: dirty blonde, medium length

EYE COLOR: blue

DOMINANT HAND: right

ACCENT: english

PHYSICAL DISABILITIES: none

MENTAL DISABILITIES: none

ALLERGIES: nuts

DISORDERS: none

FASHION: wears mostly black, has a ‘grunge’ style

NERVOUS TICS: lip biting

L I F E S T Y L E

HOME ADDRESS: evergreen dock, somerton, maine

RESIDES: small two bedroom apartment with roommate layla ferguson

BORN: london, england

RAISED: london, england

VEHICLE: chevy silverado, black

PHONE: iphone 11

LAPTOP/COMPUTER: macbook pro

PET(S): none

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: dropped out at 16, sat ged aged 20

COLLEGE EDUCATION: none

MAJOR: none

MINOR: none

CAREER: exotic dancer

EMPLOYER: dark sensations strip club

DIET: vegan

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual

MARITAL STATUS: single

CHILDREN: none

LANGUAGES: english

PHOBIAS: isolation, enclosed spaces

HOBBIES: video games, guitar, reading

SOCIAL MEDIA: uses twitter and onlyfans mostly

F A V O R I T E

LOCATION: the beach

VIDEO GAME: call of duty, left 4 dead, gta v, mario kart (she will fight dirty)

MUSIC: varying, listens to a lot of rock music

SONG: rebel rebel - david bowie

TV SHOWS: friends, stranger things, how to get away with murder

MOVIES: labyrinth, the shining

FOOD: everything

COLOR: she’ll swear its black but it’s actually pink

C H A R A C T E R

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good

MBTI: enfp-a, the campaigner

ENNEGRAM: seven

TEMPERAMENT: sanguine

WESTERN ZODIAC: taurus

CHINESE ZODIAC: pig

PRIMAL SIGN: wombat

B I O G R A P H Y

tw for non-con & underage sex, prostitution, drugs and violence

Born and raised in the bustling city of London, Anthea, or Thea as she preferred, never really had it easy. Her father had left her mother long ago, only keeping in contact with his daughter through the occasional letter and birthday card. He lived in America and as Thea understood, he had some big fancy job with a large company. Thea always daydreamed about the day her father would burst through the door, scoop her up and rescue her from her miserable life. She dreamed of what it’d be like to live with him in his home and not have to worry about where her next meal was coming from. Of course, that never happened. Her mother was barely home, always out looking for ways to fuel her various addictions. It usually meant prostituting herself and for a long as Thea could remember, her mother would bring strange men home and be locked in her bedroom for hours at a time.

It didn’t take long for her to work out what was going on - by the time she was seven, Thea understood, especially when the men made advances towards her. But she knew how to look after herself, even at that age and every time they tried, she either replied with a biting comment or, more often than not, a sharp slap to the face. It was usually enough to get rid of them and send them sulking back to her mother so they could pay what she was owed before taking their leave.

Despite her unconventional home life, Thea got by. She often stole from local supermarkets to get the things she needed, but she cooked her own meals and appreciated the roof over her head. She wouldn’t say she was happy but she survived. Her mother spent her days sleeping with people for money or getting high in their tiny apartment.

When she was fourteen, her life changed. Her mother pulled her from school and gave her an outfit to change into before taking her to an apartment block she’d never been to. Thea was frightened, told her mother she wanted to go home but she was only led into a grimy apartment by a group of unfamiliar men while her mother waited outside. She heard her daughter’s pleas and cries for help but did nothing to stop what was happening. It was only when there was a fat wad of money in her hands that she took Thea out of the apartment and brought her home, telling her this was her life now. She told her Thea would have to get used to it or starve because she was leaving.

And just like that Thea was left alone, fourteen years old, no money and no job.

She was able to contact her father after several weeks. He immediately flew her to America, had her sign some forms she didn’t really understand, and told her she’d be living with him from now on. She was enrolled at a local high school and told to keep quiet about what happened in England. She didn’t understand why, not really, but made sure not to tell anyone. She kept her head down as much as she could. Life with her father wasn’t quite what she’d expected either. His job was different to what she’d imagined when she was younger. He didn’t work in a fancy office, he worked from home and had several people coming and going, purchasing things from him for a large amount of money at a time. It only took her a few weeks to realise her father, the man she’d always imagined would be her hero, a knight in shining armour, was a drug dealer. And an addict himself.

Thea stopped paying attention in school and in just two years since she moved to America, she was more depressed than ever. She dropped out of high school, even started taking drugs herself and fell in with what could be considered the wrong crowd. Maybe this was what she was destined to be. Maybe this was all there was for her. When her father was arrested for dealing drugs, she was placed in foster care. That had only lasted a couple of weeks before she ran away. Selling her body wasn’t really something she ever intended on doing but it was the only way she could get by. She had no education, no money and needed to do something. It was all she had left, the only thing she had any experience in. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been a willing participant back then and her mother had gotten the money, but it had happened. Thea had nothing left to lose.

She began to sell her body for sex. Thea hated every minute of it, but it paid. She had enough to rent a tiny apartment in an unpleasant neighbourhood, but it was hers. Sure, she still was hooked on drugs but she got by. It continued like that for several months when she was approached by a different sort of man. The people she usually slept with were often older, other addicts she was sure, and just looking for five minutes of fun. But this one was different - younger, kinder.

Thea didn’t trust him immediately. She had been looking after herself for as long as she could remember and her previous experiences told her men only wanted one thing. But she went back to his hotel room, unable to turn down the amount of money he was offering her. Thea was even more surprised when the young man didn’t immediately want her body and offered her food and a glass of wine.

She learned his name was Anthony and he told her he was planning on opening up a new business, a brothel of sorts. It was going to be legitimate, according to him, although not entirely legal and all of “his girls” would be well looked after. At first, Thea refused. She wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t prepared to put her life in danger for some fantasy that sounded far too good to be true. If she accepted she had no doubt she’d be trafficked and sold on the black market for unspeakable things.

As time went on, the man continued to visit Thea and slowly gained her trust. She met with someone who already worked for Anthony several times too and in a matter of weeks, she accepted his offer. Without a glance back, Thea left and moved across the country to work. Anthony helped her get off the drugs, showed her what there was to actually live for, and her life changed. Her every need was catered for - her new home was the brothel itself and rent came straight from her earnings. All her groceries were provided for her and she was able to decorate her personal quarters however she pleased.

Usually Thea was fine when working. Most men just wanted a quick fuck and they didn’t care about anything else. Some of her clients wanted more unconventional things but Thea didn’t shy away from these, knowing they earned her more money. She didn’t care though - sex was just sex to her, and it paid. For the next three years, Thea lived and worked in Anthony’s brothel. Her regular clients bought expensive gifts, the brothel itself had armed security for the safety of the workers. It was the perfect job.

Well, almost.

Thea had one problem, and that was in the three years she’d been there, she’d fallen in love with Anthony. It was an unspoken rule in the business - don’t fall for the boss. He had a girlfriend, Courtney, but she rarely visited the brothel. She didn’t like to associate herself with the girls who worked there, which was just fine with Thea. She kept her feelings to herself and thought everything would be fine. She was usually the one who brought Anthony his morning coffee but on one particular morning, things were different. She noticed he seemed tense and was pacing back and forth in his office. There was something about his expression that had Thea stopping in her tracks. She was almost frightened. But then he’d stopped and grabbed her, holding her against the closest wall to kiss her.

This was everything she’d ever wanted and Thea gave herself to him easily. She wasn’t naive and didn’t really believe in happy endings but there had always been a part of her that had hoped Anthony would somehow realise her feelings for him and return them. Thea had fallen head-over-heels in love with him and had hoped he would get her out of the prostitution game for good. She didn’t want to sell her body anymore, not now she knew Anthony wanted her. Maybe she could help him run the brothel. She was nineteen and she knew the business well enough, right?

Wrong.

That night it was like it’d never even happened. Anthony didn’t look at her when he told Thea her clients were arriving. She was still in his bed and here he was, telling her to return to her room so she could work. Thea was confused but she assumed maybe it was due to Anthony’s relationship with Courtney. He couldn’t let anything be too obvious, right? Not if he was still in it, and maybe he was looking for a way of ending things with her before he swept Thea off her feet. She’d just have to wait.

What Thea didn’t know was that Anthony had been filming for weeks. He filmed the two of them in bed together, filmed Thea with her various clients and posted the entire thing on the internet. It wasn’t until one night, while she was with a client, that she found out. Courtney had burst in, grabbed Thea’s hair and pulled her straight off the bed, uncaring that she was naked. Thea was thrown against the wall and Courtney screamed at her. It was like she was throwing every insult under the sun at her.

Thea couldn’t remember much of the attack. Only that her client had left quickly and that when she woke, everything ached. Thea was still in her room, still naked, and beaten black and blue. She’d pulled on her robe and staggered to Anthony’s office to seek help. The sight that greeted her when she got there nearly made her throw up - Anthony taking Courtney on his couch, much like he had with Thea just the day before. They were celebrating something and when they saw Thea, both started laughing at the sight of her.

Thea learned of the videos Anthony had secretly taken and that the whole thing had been a set up. Courtney had learned of Thea’s feelings for him and together they had hatched a plan of revenge. Anthony had seduced her, recorded everything and uploaded it to the internet. The second attack was worse than the first. Thea wasn’t sure if it was because she was already so injured or whether it was because Anthony joined in. She’d blacked out at some point and this time when she woke up, she was in an unfamiliar alleyway, her belongings in a battered box beside her.

She was in hospital for several weeks recovering. Unemployed and now homeless, Thea knew she had to do something. She wouldn’t go back to that life. She wasn’t sure she’d survive a second time. So she left, moving from town to town, doing odd jobs here and there, stealing food to survive once again. She reached the small town of Somerton in Maine just before her 20th birthday and got a job at the local strip club. Although how she got the job, she wasn’t quite sure. In her interview she had been exhausted, fed up with rejection after rejection and when she was asked the typical “Why do you want to work here?” she had been a little too honest. She told the interviewer she had worked as a prostitute since she was sixteen and knew what it was like to be at rock bottom so if she could just serve drinks to the customers here, she’d be thankful because at least she wouldn’t feel disgusted with herself.

Somehow, it had landed her the job. For the first couple of months she served drinks behind the bar but she got to know everyone who worked at the club well. It wasn’t until one of the dancers told her that they were in complete control she began to think about what it’d be like to be one of them. She had been exploited for years and some may say this job was no different. But Thea saw it a different way - she was safe here, she knew that. And if these random men wanted to give her hundreds of dollars just for showing her body and dancing in skimpy outfits, then she’d argue they were really the ones being exploited. Not her.

That was how she got to where she was now. Five years had passed since she arrived in Somerton and she was settled. She had an apartment right on the coast, a roommate that she liked hanging out with and a job where she was in complete control. No one pulled the strings behind the scenes, no one was controlling her or took a cut of her money. She was safe, she was happy and Thea could only look forwards.

#about: thea #biography #somertonintro

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kyliwrites · 5 years ago

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the exit's the other way

ship: davekat (no quadrant/all quadrants; established relationship)

prompt: "you know what!? fuck you. i'm out of here."

"*name.*"

"WHAT?!"

"the exit's the other way."

setting: earth c (canon universe/post-canon, no epilogues)

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are just the absolute god damned best at riling loud, insufferable aliens up to the brink of delirious rage. Because the way their gray cheeks flush and their eyes darken is so perfectly entertaining, you take it upon yourself to annoy them into paradox space and back.

Karkat, for example. All it takes is the bare minimum of poking and prodding at his favorite romcom actor and SHABAM. Little guy's all fuming and everything; you can see the puffs of smoke coming out his ears and the attractive way his fangs slide out over his lips. He's glaring in that wide-eyed furious way of his, anger hot enough to brand you right on the asscheek like a motherfucking cow. Moo, bitch.

You hardly insulted him, but Karkat's like that: hypersensitive, petty, an asshole, totally adorable when he's mad. He's got his flaws (who doesn't?), but with you, he doesn't try so hard to cover them up. You love him all the more for that.

Presently, he's ranting about the flaws and inaccuracies of some human film you alchemized into existence for him, and he's been doing so for approximately four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. You haven't been paying much attention, if you're being honest, because you've been too busy mentally recounting everything else about those four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Why? Narrative reasons, yo.

You tune in at the last second and catch his metaphorical hands instead of the hilariously unironic picking apart of whichever movie you picked for him (you can't even remember at this point; you've spent all three years since the game ended finding progressively shittier films, if only so you can experience the pleasure that is Karkat's ranting).

"-and are you even FUCKING listening, douchenozzle!?" Comes Karkat's infuriated, raspy interjection. It throws you bodily from your thoughts, and you blink from behind your shades in an effort to clear your head.

"Nah," you answer honestly once you've regained your bearing. "Shit got more boring than watching American football with the boys on a rainy Saturday night. Dude goes in for a tackle and skids across the field tragically. Eight jocks in a row go flying and it's like a god damn bowling alley up in this bitch. The boys start swearing like some motherfuckers, but you, a renowned Football Connoisseur, shake your head solemnly rather than go batshit insane over the slip-n-slide conga line like, you know, a normal person. Football people, bro. No humor. No sense of irony."

"I understood approximately FUCKALL OF THAT, asshole. Speak English or Alternian, thanks a whole fucking lot. What gog damn language was that!?" Karkat looks you up and down with a scrunched up expression, as if deciding where to maim you first. You straighten involuntarily underneath his gaze.

"...S'called Texan, m'dude."

He recoils melodramatically. "Texan!? Is that a joke or some bullshit? Some kind of dead language you somehow learned? Where the fuck is the TEXAN and who came up with a name that hideous and disgusting?"

"No, Karks," you wheeze. "Texas. The people from Texas are Texans."

"Why do I care about your overcomplicated alien linguistics!? Answer my question, Strider," he demands, crossing his arms. His nails, bitten down yet still sharp and threatening, dig into his sweater.

"I'm from Texas, dude. You know how there were, like, different dialects on y'all's murderplanet? English is kind of like that. Texans have huge accents and are famous for being racists, people from Jersey are famous for being the shittiest people, Alabamians marry their relatives, etcetera etcetera."

After a moment of thought, Karkat nods seriously and says, "That explains why you're such a xenophobe."

You choke. Of all the things you'd been expecting him to say, it definitely wasn't that. You reply eloquently:

"W-what!?"

"You heard me. You fucking space racist."

"Oh my jesus shit, rude," you protest vehemently. "I am not space racist." Not anymore, at least.

Karkat flashes a rare fanged grin at you, his eyebrows lifted, and you realize he's only joking. The smile is gone as soon as it came, one of those blink-and-you-miss-it gifts. "Space racist." He nudges you with one elbow. You nudge him back.

"Dude," you say, "don't make this a thing."

He pushes you forcefully, hard enough for you to have to grip the arm of the sofa you're sitting atop to remain seated, in response. Oh, it is on.

You tackle him and he lets out a paralyzed squawk when you roll off the couch and into the floor. He lands on his back with an "oof," and you pin him down by the shoulders. He bares his teeth, but the smile breaking out over his face ruins the effect.

"Get off me, asshat, I'll fucking kneecap you," he barks, still grinning like an idiot.

"You won't." You're grinning like an idiot, too, to be fair, except yours is more fond than shit-eating. Dave Strider, maximum sap. Whod've thunk.

He surges forward suddenly, without warning, and uses his legs to flip you onto your back; it knocks all the air out of you, but you manage a cackle and a "fuck you" anyway. He pins your arms above your head and sits on your chest.

"Say fucking uncle, Strider."

"That's not how that game works!" You wheeze. "You don't even know what an uncle is!" He smirks—the sight makes your heart flutter like the cat getting showered in affection meme. The thought distracts you and you briefly ponder making a Karkat version, but you aren't given the reins to think very long because he flicks your nose.

"Ow! Dickhead, that hurt—"

"Dickhead yourself! Your fucking bony ribs are digging into my ass!" He wrinkles his nose and shifts, trying to find a more comfortable way to sit.

"What ass?" You demand in jest, which is the worst thing someone pinned beneath the person they are making fun of could possibly say. He narrows his eyes and you manage a "shit wait no" before he snatches his hands away.

You've lived together for all of three years, four months, and seventeen days. He knows your weaknesses as well as he knows his own, your fears, your discomforts. He knows what you like, love, and hate. He knows when to push and when not to push. He gets you better than anyone, even your own psychoanalytic twin sister (you'll have to blame that one on the fact that she and her wife don't leave their house unless they're going to the alien procreation cave).

So, that's why he decides to tickle you. Because he knows you throw an absolute shitfit when it comes to being tickled.

You hunch your shoulders when his hands descend upon you and try to roll yourself into a tight, impenetrable ball to escape his fingers, but he's fucking relentless. He knows how sensitive you are; it's the perfect revenge.

In between your wheezing laughs, you can barely manage words, but you cough out a "dude," "bro," and "dudebro," then, finally, "Karkat," before he pauses, rasps, "You did this to yourself," and raises his hands threateningly again.

You blurt, "Uncle! I'll say uncle just don't do it please dude I have never done anything wrong ever you know this right? I—"

He leans forward, silencing you. "Take that bullshit you said first back, Strider, or your plea to your human familial figure is null."

"Fine! Fine, I take it back. Listen, bro. You definitely don't not have an ass. Like, in fact, that ass is so ripe I can't believe anyone would ever accuse you of not having one. That's so fucking disrespectful. How dare those blind motherfuckers? I'm waving my fists at them right now. I will singlehandedly smite all Karkat's assphobes, my man. I'll raise my assphobe smiting trident and pulverize all these thotass sons of bitches right here, right now. I'll do it, I will. I'm no coward. I'll protect that magnificent rear with everything I have, dude. Those glorious buns. The assnihilator—"

"Shut the fuck up oh my gog I can't believe I fucking brought this upon myself." Karkat rolls off of you and clutches said glorious buns. Apparently your ribs really did hurt his ass. Huh.

"You did bring it upon yourself," you agree. And then, because you still aren't done pushing his buttons and want to be an insufferable piece of shit, "So, you didn't say what you thought of the movie."

He opens his mouth, clamps it shut hard enough for his teeth to clank together, repeats the motion a couple of times. "I—Dave—You fucking—No. You know what? Fuck you. I'm out of here."

You burst into the horrid laughter of a hyena when he scrambles to his feet in one furious motion; he's back to grumpy scowling and cussing you out in the amount of time it takes for the underpaid McDonald's employee working the back of the store to flip a shitty one hundred percent not-beef burger patty.

He stomps heavily away—in the direction of the kitchen, you note, which only makes you cackle harder when you realize he didn't do it on purpose.

"Oh my fucking jesus god. Karkat!"

"WHAT!?" He yells without facing you.

"The exit's the other way."

He comes to an abrupt halt, slowly turns around, and begins marching back, in the right direction this time.

You're too busy flailing on the couch (you can't even remember pulling yourself back onto it) to give a shit when he throws himself down beside you. You do, however, give tons of shits when he pulls you into a very exasperated smooch that simply screams "shut the FUCK up you absolute godless heathen of a space monkey."

You are not opposed to "shut the FUCK up you absolute godless heathen of a space monkey" smooches.

He draws back and rolls his eyes. "Are you done yet, bulgemuncher?"

You are, as established many times, an insufferable piece of shit, so you say, "Dunno. Do I get to kiss you again?"

"Not with that attitude you don't."

You kiss him anyway, because god dammit he's your boyfriend and you demand kissing rights. He doesn't protest; instead, he wraps his arms around your neck and relaxes, just a little.

You could stay in his arms forever, you think.

#davekat #dave strider #karkat vantas #fluff #no epilogues #homestuck #fic

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daddydamiano · 5 years ago

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Masquerade

So, friends :)

After a loooong time, here is my expected return to writing ironwidow fics. This idea came to me while I was listening to the song Davy Jones by Hans Zimmer (from Pirates of the Caribbean OST. Go listen to it right now!!)

So I wrote it. And now, here it is!

Prompt: Natasha&Tony are a secret couple. After Natasha goes rogue and disappears, Tony manages to track her down and throws a Masquerade Ball, where they reunite.

***

Tony and Natasha have always been the strangest of people. Maybe that is why no one ever questions anything they do, or where they go – which makes it way too easy for them to sneak out, at any time, and actually start dating without anyone ever noticing.

They don’t know how any of it happened. It was the little things, at first. How she looked at him. How he would talk to her. In the beginning they would tease each other, and then they realized it wasn’t just teasing. They actually wanted each other’s company, craved to be closer. In the beginning, it was just great sex. After a while, it was more than that (for both of them).

Needless to say, when Natasha went rogue and disappeared from their map, Tony was the angriest of them all. He could not imagine that she would leave him in this lifetime without a warning. Without taking him with her.

They search for her. Weeks, months. And when they are about to lose all hope, there is something. A gun’s dealer is tortured almost to death somewhere in Texas. None of it matches Natasha’s MO but Tony feels, right in his gut, that it is her.

So, he makes good use of his money and throws a masquerade ball. Invites the poor bastard who was tortured – somehow makes everyone believe that this criminal was the one throwing the party, to celebrate his near-death experience. Tony wants to piss Natasha off – so much, to the point where she will actually show up to this stupid party just to terrify the man again.

When he arrives, the whole room feels alive. Tony looks for Natasha but doesn’t immediately see her. She wouldn’t be standing right there, anyway. If she was there, she would be hiding, even if it was in plain sight. He decides to grab a glass of champagne and drink it all in one go. If they’re gonna do this, he needs an extra shot of courage. Maybe invite someone to dance and set this mind away from her. Except, that’s the only thing he can’t do. He will always think about her.

Eventually, Tony holds out his hand to the most elegant woman in the room. Her black hair cascades down her back in soft curls, and, from the nose up, her face is covered in a black mask, with slight hints of red, and feathers just as soft as her hair. She takes his hand with a smile. Full, red lips. And he smiles, too, knowingly.

From her body, falls a long dress. Off the shoulder, metallic silver, a darker tone next to her to her chest that becomes lighter as it goes down her body. The neckline goes down in a V shape, and stops just below her navel, where the dress opens into a bouffant skirt. A piece that only a confident woman could wear, certainly. And if Tony Stark wasn’t an actual billionaire, maybe he would think she was just wearing an extravagant, beautiful dress. However, he is absolutely certain she is wearing the most expensive piece in the entire room.

The song starts off slowly, close to the sound that comes out of a music box - one of those that have a ballerina, that goes on dancing and dancing until someone gets tired of looking at it. Tony holds the woman in a tight embrace, and he leads her, and she doesn’t hold back, lets him hold her how we chooses. Almost complacent.

“A nice party.” Tony says. “Nicer now, with such a beautiful woman.” She smiles again but doesn’t blush and barely even changes her expression. Unfazed.

“A beautiful party, I would say,'' she slurs in a brief Italian accent. “Made better by handsome men, of course.” Tony laughs, and his laughter is honest.

The song continues slow, but somewhere in between tension grows and it catches on to more aggressive notes. Tony grabs the woman a bit tighter as the song becomes more enraged. An almost perfect reflection of him, in this moment. She remains untouchable, unreadable.

“Italian is not the right accent for you. Maybe something more eastern?”, he says, still smiling, as if he had said something completely different. For just a second, he could swear he saw her expression change, confusion and shock, and then back to normal. But, somehow, she looks and feels lighter now.

“Too close to home,'' she says, back to her American accent. Her voice sounds like honey to Tony’s ears. How long has it been since he heard this sound?

“Did you really think, in a room full of people, that I wouldn’t find you?” she holds him tighter, smiles, and that’s when he realizes he could never win against her. Natasha has him where she wants, and how she wants. Such a feral creature.

“I’m not hiding.”, slowly, her forehead leans against his, and Tony sighs, quietly, as he resists the urge to immediately pull her into a kiss. He isn’t about to blow her cover - not yet.

“Your hair is strangely black for someone who isn’t hiding.”

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Tony pulls back from her and stares into her eyes for what it seems like an eternity. Something - there has to be something in those eyes that tells him she misses him, the nights spent in bed or spent lazily watching stupid movies. All the dinners, the breakfasts and the jokes. He finds nothing. But that’s the thing - Natasha was trained, for years, to hide emotions. She feels, maybe feels more than anyone else. But it is a part of her to never show it.

“They are watching us.”, and she knows exactly who he is talking about.

“I know. And when this dance is over, I know you’re gonna let me go and you’re never gonna tell them it was me. Because you love me.

“I wish I didn’t, Natasha.” Slender fingers move up his arms and slowly touch her face. Oh, she does miss this.

“No, you don’t.”, she says. “I love you too, Tony Stark. And that’s all we have now. That’s why I don’t hide from you. I don’t need to.”

Somehow, during the dance, the song became more aggressive than ever and they are now spinning in the ballroom with heavy breaths. The song abruptly stops and goes back to the tiny, high notes. Slow. Natasha takes a bow and when she is back to Tony’s eye level, he swears he almost sees a tear.

“I have to go. And, one day, so will you.”

And she is right. About everything. When he meets back with the Avengers, there is no sign of Natasha. And he never even tells them he saw her. He barely speaks.

Just like she said. He let her go. And one day, when he was tired of it all, he would join her at the end of the world.

Because he loved her.

#ironwidow #tonynat #tony stark #natasha romanoff #marvel fanfics #marvel oneshots #marvel fics #otp: i want one #marvel

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mazzelloiii · 5 years ago

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Cheesy Christmas songs - TGIC gift for @fallingprincess

hi @fallingprincess, i’m your secret santa for the fantastic Thank God It’s Christmas event organized by @dtfrogertaylor ❤️ i hope you have a great day filled with many many amazing things!!!!!!!!!!!

this is your gift, a lil Ben x reader fic i wrote. hope you like it!

title: Cheesy Christmas songs

pairing: Ben Hardy x reader (but the whole borhap squad is in it)

warnings: none, really. (i just wanted to say that english is not my first language, so if there are spelling mistakes or wrong structures or whatever, just let me know)

words count: 2.2k

summary: Since you moved to England, your life has been nothing but work. With Christmas just around the corner, you find yourself hating everything holiday-related because you don’t have anyone to share the magic of Christmas with. Or do you?

Christmas was all around you. Decorations were hanging everywhere you went, people overcrowded the streets with their hands full of bags, still shopping for presents, and you could hear All I want for Christmas is you or Baby it’s could outside in every shop, café, even in your workplace and in your apartment, coming from your neighbours’ place.

It was a downright nightmare.

You hated it, and so you had been in a bad mood since the beginning of December.

To be fair, it wasn’t that you hated Christmas per se.

Actually, you loved it when you had the chance to spend it with your family and go all out, hanging mistletoe everywhere in your house and putting a massive tree up in your living room, drinking hot chocolate and blasting Michael Bublé’s entire discography at all hours of the day. Yes, you were just like all those Christmas-crazed people in the streets you had almost yelled at.

But this year… everything had changed. You had moved to another country, and that meant that you didn’t get to see your family during the holidays, and that already put you in a bad mood. Add to that the fact that even though it was the holidays you were going to work most days, because you needed as much money as possible to pay your rent, and that you hadn’t met more than a couple people since moving, and it all explained why you were acting like the Grinch.

You couldn’t help it, really. You wished you could spend the holidays being carefree and light-hearted, but it was all so much… you felt overwhelmed.

Having responsibilities really sucks, you thought while retrieving your small apartment’s keys from the pocket to open the door.

In that very moment your phone started to ring.

-One moment, just one fucking moment!-you yelled, as if whoever was calling you could hear you.

It probably was an advertisement call, or your boss telling you that you had to cover someone’s shifts.

When you saw the caller ID, your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Lucy. She was a coworker, a fun girl you really enjoyed talking to in between shifts or during breaks, but you still weren’t so close that you would dare to call her a friend. Even though the relationship you had with her was probably the closest thing to a friendship you had made since moving in that goddamn place called England.

You answered, curious as to why she was calling you. You had never talked on the phone, nor you had exchanged texts.

-y/n! Fucking finally!-she said with a laugh. You could hear other people talking in the background, as well as music. Needless to say-a Christmas song.

-Sorry, I was opening the door…-you replied, a little embarassed.

-Oh, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I was calling to invite you to the fucking-best-Christmas-Eve-party eveeeer!

She had sung the last part, and you heard whoever was with her laughing and mocking her.

-Oh yeah, she’s definitely coming after that stunt-said a deep voice, while another added:-Sorry if I tell you this, Luce, but singing is not your greatest skill.

You thought for a moment. Why was she inviting you? You weren’t even that close… and she was clearly in good company already. Was it out of pity?

-Listen, Lucy, thanks for the offer, really, I appreciate it, but I’m really tired, so I think I’ll just get in bed really early…

She interrupted you mid-speech:-Oh, stop already with that, Grumpy! Come on, you’ll have fun. My friends want to meet girls and at first I got really offended because they have me and don’t appreciate me enough, but then I thought that they would really like my amazing coworker. So just come… please?

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling.

Maybe… it wasn’t a bad idea, after all?

You had just got home from a shift, and your next one was tomorrow afternoon. You had plenty of time to stay home nursing a hangover in case things got a little too crazy at that party… for fuck’s sake, you deserved some fun.

-Yes, Lucy. I’m coming.

-Yesss! I’ll text you the address. Come as soon as you can.

Maybe your Christmas was going to be a little less shitty than you originally thought.

You got out of the uber, trying to find balance on your heels. You had been trying to find the right outfit for what felt like forever, finally opting for a simple red dress that showed your shoulders, elegant but not too much. Then you had put on a layer of mascara and a coat of lipstick.

You didn’t want to look like you had put too much effort into it, even though it was the first social event you were attending since moving to England.

You approached Lucy’s building and quickly got in, feeling a little nervous as you found the right floor and rang the bell over the tag that said Boynton.

The door opened and you found yourself in front of a guy with blond hair and the most striking blue eyes you had ever seen. He was tall and quite muscular, but he was wearing the most obnoxious Christmas jumper you had ever seen, red and green with little Santas in different positions all over it.

-Nice jumper-you grinned.

He immediately blushed at your words.

-I’m Ben, and I don’t usually wear clothes this ugly, I swear-he said-you must be y/n.

You shook hands and you felt a shiver go through your body at the contact… who knew Lucy had such attractive friends?

When you walked through the door, you were welcomed with the smell of baked cookies and the view of Lucy sprawled across a couch with another guy, plus Ben who had just joined them.

-y/n!-Lucy yelled-come here, join us, I want you to meet everyone!

You sat with them and the guy introduced himself as Rami. He seemed quiet but fun, and he and Lucy were quite the pair, him all silent and her screaming at the top of her lungs.

-Sorry for her, when she drinks she always gets like this…-Rami explained to you with a smile.

-I didn’t drink anything! Stop saying bad things about me, you meanies-she retorted with a pout, then she hugged Rami and put her head on his chest.

Ben gave you a meaningful look and stretched you his hand to take:-Why don’t we go see what Joe and Gwil are doing, y/n?

You took his hand and he led you to the kitchen just around the corner, where two other men seemed busy with a tray of gingerbread. Ben’s hand left yours, and you had to stop yourself from reaching for it again. It had felt so warm…

-y/n, you are here! Come taste our cookies-said the shorter man of the two, who had reddish brown hair, with an American accent.

You felt kinda dizzy for a moment, realizing that in only five minutes you had had more social interactions than you had in months.

You smiled and took a cookie from the tray.

-These things you baked… what the fuck are them?

Ben’s question caused Gwilym and Joe’s immediate indignation: the tall Welshman you had met in the kitchen flipped him off, while the other man blew him a raspberry.

You just laughed at their shenanigans.

The four of you were sitting on the living room floor, on the carpet right next to the Christmas tree, sipping hot chocolate and eating gingerbread cookies. Rami and Lucy were on the couch engulfed in each other’s arms, their eyes closed but not quite asleep yet.

-Really, were they supposed to be gingerbread men? This one I’m eating looks more like a rugby ball.

-Shut up. y/n likes them. Don’t you, y/n?

You nodded exaggeratedly at Joe’s question.

-Yes. They are perfect. Don’t listen to this one, he’s just mean-you said, gesturing to the blond man sitting right next to you.

At your words, Ben’s mouth gaped.

-Et tu, Brute?

You shrugged and showed him your tongue.

-I thought you were on my side-he pouted.

-Aw, but I am, you poor thing-you replied sarcastically, but you couldn’t help but smile at his petulant expression.

-Doesn’t seem like it.

You comforted him with a caress to his shoulder, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Gwilym and Joe exchanging a glance and smirking.

You felt your face heat up.

Was it that obvious that you were really flirting with him? But most importantly, was he flirting back?

-So, are they… a thing?-you said out of the blue pointing to Lucy and Rami, trying to divert the general attention from you and Ben.

-Not officially. They are making us suffer so much, for fuck’s sake. It’s so obvious that they are into each other, but first there’s Lucy coming to us worried that Rami doesn’t like her back, then Rami calls me and says he’s sure Lucy doesn’t like him like that. It’s like being back in middle school, Christ-Gwilym answered, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling.

-And you, y/n? Do you have someone special, a boyfriend, girlfriend?-Ben asked you nonchalantly.

-Oh, no. I moved here just a few months ago… I barely have any time to eat or sleep, left alone to find a boyfriend-you said, a little embarassed.

-And no one’s tried to make a move on you? Wow.

You didn’t know what to answer to that, so you just chuckled lightly. So he was flirting back with you.

-Ben, why don’t you show y/n the balcony? Gwil and I will go make some other cookies, since you ate all of them-Joe said, getting up and heading to the kitchen with the other man.

-Shall we go?-Ben asked you, extending you his hand.

You took a deep breath and took it, nodding.

-Pretty, isn’t it?-Ben asked you.

You were on the small balcony of Lucy’s house, looking down at the park just across from it.

-I mean, it’s not the greatest view, but it’s really rare to find a house with a balcony in London-he added right after.

You nodded and leaned against the white wall next to you, closing your eyes and enjoying the cold air of the night against your face.

Then you let it all go.

-Tonight seems so crazy to me. I hadn’t been around people like this in so much time… I only worked and studied, and barely took care of myself. Hanging with you guys made me realize that this is all real… I really moved and my life is continuously changing every day. And I’m so fucking terrified.

He turned and looked at you, but remained silent.

-This is all such a cliché-you laughed then. The whole situation seemed absurd.

He looked startled at you.

-What is?

-Everything. Me, my life right now, you flirting with me and taking me out to show me the balcony… I thought you would use a better excuse to get me alone, to be honest.

He snorted at your words.

-This was all Joe’s doing, actually. He tries to be a good wingman, but I would do much better on my own. Is it working, by the way?

-What?

-Me flirting with you.

You felt butterflies fluttering in your stomach but tried to hide it with a snarky smirk.

-Oh… I’ll have to think about it. Try harder, maybe?

He rolled his eyes, then his face became serious and he took your hand into his gently, giving you time and space to retract it if you wanted. You didn’t.

-And about what you said… I get it. Moving away from home is scary and hard, and you are a hero for enduring it all on your own for so much time. But you don’t have to figure it all out alone. We are all ready to help you if you want. Lucy, Rami, Joe, Gwil and me, of course. I can be your friend, before we try to be anything else, if you want to.

-Wow, I… Thank you.

You were at a loss of words, and you could feel your eyes welling up with tears. Don’t cry, don’t fucking cry now, you told yourself.

You hadn’t realized how difficult it all had become to do everything on your own and not have anyone to share your daily life with, and now you were feeling all the weight you hadn’t even known was on your shoulders leaving you, and the sense of relief was amazing. You didn’t have to do it all alone. Thanks God.

Before you could say anything else you felt loud cheers coming from inside the house, and then someone put on Mariah Carey’s All I want for Christmas is you.

Ugh, cheesy Christmas songs. Maybe you could start to like them again, after all.

-Looks like it’s midnight. Merry Christmas, y/n.

You smiled at Ben. Then you did something that surprised even yourself: you got closer to him, so close that you could feel his breath on your face, and gently put your lips against his.

He immediately responded to the kiss, putting his hands on your middle.

It was quick and sweet, just a brush of lips against lips.

When you pulled away, you both had your cheeks red.

-Merry Christmas, Ben-you whispered.

Maybe your holidays weren’t going to be as bad as you originally thought.

#ben hardy x reader #ben hardy headcanon #tgic #tgic gift #my writing #fallingprincess

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