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Anne Hathaway

2023 Met Gala

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"What is it about men?" Vera wonders just as the thought enters her head. The grey matter was hardwired to despise the genetic makeup of the very thing standing before her. It wasn't her fault. She blamed her mother and her hapless, helpless, hopeless choices around them. Perhaps if just one had held out his hand and offered a softness instead of brute force, Vera could allow herself the whimsical possibility that there were kind men out there. The only evidence she had proved otherwise. There was one expectation, however. A long lost maybe who crashed and burned when he got too close to the sun in Vera's chest. All that pining and passion chalked up to a notch on her bedpost and a story she wouldn't dare share until the bottle of tequila was empty. Thankfully, there was no tequila in sight. There was just him, Finn. She knew his name; of course, she did, but it was so much more fun to feign ignorance around something so simple. Especially when he was so devoted to feasting on shrimp. There was something delightfully Freudian about the display. Vera's curious smile tracks him, lingers just shy of her eyes as she allows him to call her uninteresting. Not for long.

A shadow of a pout forms on her full lips, her gaze dropping down to his mouth as she takes a step closer and then another. Her voice is softer, taunting and tempting all at once. "So you are interested", she confirms as she searches his antagonizing face before settling on his eyes. Two of Vera's fingers march up the lapel of his suit jacket, toy soldiers on a mission. "Is that what you want? For me to make up a grand story for you. Paint you the knight— no, the king of all that is good and holy. The north star while the rest of us stand among the rubble, tattered and desperate for a saviour to chase the monsters away?" Her hand curves over his broad shoulder, and she sighs, a sound so coquettish and sweet even she is impressed. "Do you want me to bow down to you? Get on my knees and— worship at your altar?" Vera slips her hand easily down his arm and then away to lift the cocktail napkin from collecting condensation beneath her drink to dab at his bottom lip as if it were an everyday occurrence. Something she longed to do on nights when she found herself alone. She licked her lips, "Am I right?"

He had left behind too many things    —    a piece of his heart,    some ribs,    his spleen.     Things that he felt the absence of,    but ultimately survives without.       The evening was routine.       A consistency in security measures had developed over time.    Brutally so,    and without any option of breaking that paranoid habit.      Sleep hadn’t truly shown its full body in three nights,    and he lingered in limbo   —     watching a moth fluttering against the dangling chandelier above the giant hallway.      Trapped,    and yet determined to beat its tired wings against dead air.          The money-hungry crowd will continue to walk around them,    vultures of the modern day    —    so neglectful of the way the streets are run now.     The underbelly of crime has turned belly-up.       There is something on the horizon and there’s very little that caviar and tax-free donations can do to stop it.          “I’m a glutton for suffering.”        He’s watching her kill the distance between them,     the piranha lured to the sinking ship    —    looking for wreckage,     looking for a neck to latch onto.      He’s seen them all before.      The women who look like they hide monstrous appetites.      The women who drag their past behind them like a stained wedding gown.        Try all their might,    their teeth look familiar to the ones before them.      He’s seen it all,    has the wrinkles to prove it     —     has the heavy heart in his palm to prove it.       “Are you curious about my reason for being here?       You made up my name,    why not make up my story?”       He leans closer,     broad shoulders lazily rolling back as he does so.      A casual air of importance,    if not for the firm grasp of genuine playfulness on his face.      Arrogant,    but not so much in a drowning sense    —      he has as much entitlement as a dead man choosing his gravestone.       There’s no room for leg stretching,      no other options besides the coffin and the burning pyre.         “Just because I’m interested,     doesn’t mean you’re interesting.       But you’ll be the type to think that,   won’t you?”     Plainly speaking,    no games,    no frills     —    he’s back to his gruff nature,       groggy-fed voice like a man in a dream.    Or a nightmare.       Instigation is met with instigation. Another bite into a thick shrimp,     juice coating his bottom lip.       “Like I said:     the shrimp’s delicious.”

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Practical Magic (1998) dir. Griffin Dunne

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She breathes out a laugh, a mixture of dry amusement and absolute incredulity that she's managed to stumble her way into a sparring match outside one of the year's most prestigious galas. It certainly wasn't Vera's preference to risk making a scene where one needed to present her best self. After all, she's spent years crafting a mask for such moments. The ace of hearts tucked neatly up her sleeve allowed her to slither out of even the tightest spots. Yet, Vera had yet to walk away. How could she when he was fanning flames that were impossible to ignore?

Her imagination wandered as he spoke to her like he knew anything real about her. As her blood slowly began to roll in her veins, a low simmer that threatened to turn to a boil if she wasn't careful. She couldn't help but wonder what might happen should the evening's benefactors begin to stroll towards coat check, drunk on champagne and decadence and the pretend satiation from donating thousands to a company like Stoneage. What would happen if, instead of donning their minks and trench coats, they found themselves face to face with Vera Gauthier herself throttling... Jim. It would make for a memorable night; she was sure of that, but she wasn't sure she was willing to risk it.

So, while it frustrates her that he not only bites back at her wit with his own but also wears that smile while he does it, Vera soothes her hunger with a sip of scotch. She waits for her turn to speak, unpleasant memories swirling behind her dark brown eyes while she watches him. "Much." she finally interjects, her eyebrow arching just slightly, inquisitively. Does he realize he's admitted that he has, in fact, researched her? Vera takes another drink, allowing the silence to percolate with the rain and jazz whispering through the doors between them and the party. "For someone with such disdain for all of this—" her index finger lifts from the side of the crystal glass to swirl in the air, finishing her thought for her, then she points towards him. "you're still here, aren't you? And you're talking with me, eating your shrimp, rejecting advances I've not even made..." She takes another sip of her drink and leaves the conversation suspended between them for a moment before continuing. Her eyes never leave him even as she closes the distance by half. "It begs the question, why are you here at all? It can possibly be because you're curious about this imaginary replicant lover you just accused me of having." Her head tilts to the side, a wry smile ghosting over her lips as she lowers her voice to an almost whisper. "And we both know you would be interested— if I asked, Jim."

He,    the trickster,      the one who is almost bursting at the seams to be something other than himself.     The gala is a good cover,    however   —     for the rats of the street to come scurrying through the doors.    He is here for observation,      and while Vera is not on the CIA’s radar,     his interest in her has been piqued simply due to pettiness.       But the hunters of the world recognize other hunters.    Not that his devotion is that to anything violent in nature,      but he has been known to linger    —    half in the grave,    half in the past.     Like a memory-bound feature in the drive-in theatre,      never quite getting to the best part,     never quite feeding into the plots and schemes of characters.        She offers up a meaty piece of instigation,      he chews it   —    tears into it with a charming smile,    white-toothed grimace made polite.          “Delicious,     thanks.     Unlike the crowd here,     it still has some taste to it.”       Directed at her or a drier role of authority in this corrupted city,     who really knew.       He’s not allowing much pause between the next words,    however,     and he’s slippery in moral here.    All ethics out the window for the evening,     or at least for her.     Snake to snake.        “None of it,    really     [ … ]    was making conversation.       Forgot it had to be all about you.       Forgive me,    I didn’t research you much before I checked in here.”       A lie.    Finn knows his audience.     Knows all the records.     On,    off,    in-between.        The rain is outside,   but he wishes it were here.     Wishes a flood or a rapture or some kind of reckoning could wipe out the thieves who claim to be royals here.        Money as a god these days.     The rain is coming down harder,     it’s listening.         A roll of his shoulders,     lazy quirk of his chin   —    as if nodding at her innuendo.        She’s a good scrapper,     seems to know her way around a witty debate.      But all of those cowards up at the top ladder do.     It’s how they appear to be in control of everything.     Down to how many pebbles were underneath his boots as stands here.      “Jim,   sure.      You attached to that name?      Name of a replicant that you cozy up to sometimes?     I’m flattered,     really,      but not interested.”    

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Anne Hathaway living her best life at the 2022 Cannes Film Festival

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It wasn't that Vera had a distaste for galas. On the contrary, the glitz, the gowns, and the jazz music simmering beneath the roar of conversation soothed her. Being surrounded by people eased the loneliness that loomed at the end of the night. But even she needed a sanctuary from the chaos. A brief reprieve before she waltzed back in to kiss both cheeks and flirt with the evening's largest benefactor until he was ready to pop like warm champagne and his wife had to drag him away. She should have known she wouldn't find peace.

She smiled knowingly into her drink as she cursed the universe, and one plum-painted fingernail tapped idly against the side of her crystal glass. She didn't have to look over to know who was speaking to her. She would recognize that caustic tone anywhere.

Vera waited with pretend patience for Finn to stop speaking before her warm brown eyes lifted to find him standing there smug as hell with a shrimp between his fingers. She wanted to laugh. It took every ounce of self-control to keep the chuckle from slipping out as she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and looked back towards her drink. A silence fell over them, the rain cascading down to create a beautiful, hollow echo as the sound bounced off the marble floors beneath their feet. Then, when she was composed, she spoke.

"Jim, was it?" she asked with false wonder, her tongue pressing against her cheek as she observed for a reaction. She took a slow sip of her drink, her body turning toward him despite the distance. "How's your shrimp, Jim?" Vera's eyes were full of innuendo, her own smugness creeping in. "Tell me, what are you really interested in? What Stoneage has to offer, my schedule or the snacks?"

CLOSED, * ◟ : @ultraviclence

“I’m surprised you made an appearance    [ … ]       you always seem so busy,     Ms. Gauthier.”        The comment is patronizing in every aspect,     drips from his tongue like serpentine   —     a thorn meant to dig into anyone’s side.    Finn’s voice slices through the gala’s entrance hallway air with ease,   sharp and poised like a katana’s blade to the throat of a traitor.     It is not so much hatred that accompanies the vision of this marble floored walkway of corruption,     but an old longing.         A yearning that has expired and long since been burnt away,    like a wart,    or a once potential lover that was fluent in betrayal.       The noise and chatter from the reception welcoming the donors and their guests for Stoneage Industries is muffled here in the private reprieve of the coat check,   the dripping of rainwater as it falls from the sky and hits against the tall window panes being their only source of primary sound.         He doesn’t move closer,    keeping the distance between them by ten feet,     fingers clasp loosely around a large chilled shrimp.    He dips it into the cocktail sauce as he continues,      not bothering to see if Vera was even paying attention.        He doesn’t offer a hand to shake.      Political events like these made him distant.      “How’s replicant life?      Found a code to make everyone immortal yet?”

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Charlie’s Angels (2000) dir. McG

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““Of all the people you have kissed she was your favourite because she didn’t flinch when you curled your hand around her neck and tightened. She said “I break the law because I’ve never broken a heart and I want to know what it feels like to be the brick not the window pane”. When she’s drunk she’ll dress up for you, all straps & lace & stockings. When she’s high she’ll dress down for you, all skin & skin & skin.””

— Annabelle Nyst (via blowkissesnotboys)

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— VERA GAUTHIER , some say you’re a THIRTY-SIX year old lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both WILY and MANIPULATIVE, one can’t help but think of HOWLIN' FOR YOU by THE BLACK KEYS when you walk by. are you still a CFO for STONEAGE INDUSTRIES / ASSOCIATE for WHITE CROCODILES, even with your reputation as THE DECOY DAMSEL? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and INSOMNIA'S ACHE, THE BLUE MOON HIDDEN BEHIND A MELANCHOLY SKY, THE TEMPTINGLY UNAPPROACHABLE SILHOUETTE BECKONING YOU CLOSER although we can’t help but think of ODILE (BLACK SWAN) + KITTY COLLINS (THE KILLERS) + ALEX MUNDAY (CHARLIE'S ANGELS) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

STATS —

FULL NAME: vera celeste gauthier

NICKNAMES: v

DOB: april 1, 1987

AGE: thirty-six

GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis woman, she/her

AFFILIATION: white crocodiles, associate

OCCUPATION: CFO, stoneage industries

EDUCATION: BA, economics (stanford, university); MA, economics (columbia university)

LANGUAGES: english, some french

VISUALS —

FC: anne hathaway

HEIGHT: 173cm / 5'8

HAIR: dark brown

EYES: deep brown

PIERCINGS: one in each ear

TATTOOS: a small seashell on her hip

PERSONALITY —

POSITIVE: curious, daring, outspoken, confident, clever

NEGATIVE: aloof, stubborn, finicky, secretive, vain (just a little ;))

MBTI: ENTJ-A– the commander

ENNEAGRAM: type eight – the challenger

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic neutral

DEADLY SIN: lust/greed

HEAVENLY VIRTUE: diligence

ZODIAC: aries

CHARACTER INFLUENCES: jordan baker, the great gatsby / margaery tyrell, game of thrones / samantha jones, sex and the city/ witchita, zombieland / cassie thomas, promising young woman / holly golightly, breakfast at tiffany's / vesper lynd, casino royale

TW: mentions of death, grief, alcohol, smoking

LIFE —

this city is haunted...

being raised by a single mother isn’t always easy. in fact, it was never easy until vera’s mother began to work her way through the upper class of new york city. it was her mother’s job, after all. a last-ditch effort to keep little vera off the streets that soon afforded them a lavish lifestyle to which vera quickly grew accustomed.

still, watching men fall at her mother’s feet for the right price reason wasn't a genuine fairytale. behind the glitz of the champagne fountains, lavish jewellery adorning her mother's neck, the opera, and ballet, there was nothing but darkness when vera was forced to sit alone in her room for hours while her mother did whatever with whomever. she was lonely even when she wasn't alone.

the more vera saw her mother change from a man-swindling businesswoman to a swooning, fawning piece of arm candy to men who didn't care for her at all, the more she began to resent their lifestyle altogether. she felt guilt, at first, her emotions bold and fiery and unrelenting even when she was young, but as the years passed, and mother drifted further and further, vera turned hard and icy. she locked her heart away and swore never to rely on anyone else. least of all, a man.

vera was seventeen when her mother died, of circumstances vera still isn't clear on, and the whole world threatened to crumble around her. nothing could console her. nothing could offer her solace from the aching, desperate grief. not even the embrace of the white crocodiles, whom her mother was an associate of. nothing. so, vera fled. she packed what possessions mattered, photographs, a delicate pearl ring that belonged to her mother, and left new york city for good... or so she thought.

the irony was glaringly obvious when she moved back to the city five years after she left. everything felt different, and everything felt exactly the same. every street was tainted with memories that flashed behind her eyes whenever she dared to close them.

now, over a decade later, vera has remained behind the walls she built of ice and stone but found a way to mask those walls with florals and beautiful imagery. she clawed her way to her position at Stoneage Industries and cared little for the people she stepped on along the way. it's not that vera is heartless, though some (including she) may claim she is. she is like this because she has to be for survival. for vera knows what disappointment, loss, and pain feel like. she knows loneliness so well she swears it's etched into her bones. perhaps that is why vera feels so at home amongst the chaos, sitting on top of a pile of money brought in by robots and replicants. she envies their ability to feel nothing.

"mom, i am a rich man."

EXTRAS —

those she works with, and those who work for her, likely see her as professional and stoic. when she's at work, she is buried in it. CFO at Stoneage Industries is the perfect distraction from anything and everything else.

she likes to get what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it by any means necessary. scheming? she's a fan. when her plan doesn't succeed, and she's left without a prize, she can be found in her bathtub with a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

despite her insistence to never rely on a man, she will use them and can be found doing so after hours when she's looking to blow off some steam.

aside from the ring, the only connection she still has to her mother is her association with the white crocodiles.

although she can be difficult to please and impossible to argue with, vera is also a little rascally. she likes a little mischief. in fact, sometimes she pushes people's buttons just for fun. she will swindle you out of twenty bucks she doesn't even need with a smile on her face.

there is (almost) nothing vera loves more than being underestimated. it gives her an upper hand she is more than willing to take.

there is a softness to her reserved for intimate moments that truly matter to her.

CONNECTIONS —

coming soon...

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anne hathaway via instagram

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Stig Dagerman, A Moth to a Flame (Burnt Child) (trans. Benjamin Mier-Cruz)

[Text ID: “It is not true that a burnt child dreads the fire. It is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It knows that when it goes near it, it will burn itself again. Still, it gets too close.”]

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Anne Hathaway at the 2023 Hollywood Beauty Awards