#french dispatch fic

[illiana-mystery]

On the set of The French Dispatch (2021)

[growup-thatbeautiful]

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

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

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

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

zeffirelli masterlist

ensoleillement (sunshine)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean math?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Onwards we go.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only about my manifesto.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I like being around you, connasse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of course, he doesn’t hear.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To make something worthy of a manifesto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[drivestraight]

has anyone ever told u that ur writing style resembles wes anderson

many times actually 😭😭😭

[persephones-journey]

Inspired by this post, I give you a smutty Porthos/You/Aramis fic. All spelling mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

You didn't mean to follow them.

In your defence, your small village in the French countryside, just outside of Avignon did not get to see many strangers.

Let alone musketeers.

They were not dressed as musketeers, but you saw their pistols and their swords. You also saw how one of them; the smaller one of the two, who looked more Spanish with his thick dark curls under his hat and slight accent, had dispatched of Gaston, the local drunk and harasser of women in minutes.

That had told you all you needed to know.

And so, you followed them as they moved around the village.

They disappeared around the corner, in between two old buildings down the only cobblestone street in your village. The nicer part of town, most of the villagers called it.

You moved slowly, waiting a couple of minutes before following them. You looked around before turning down the same street. You barely made it two feet before your arm was grabbed and you were yanked into an open doorway. You yelped and a hand was placed over your mouth. The door slammed shut and you were alone in the room.

Alone with the two musketeers you had been following.

“It's a girl,” the one had his hand over your mouth said.

You kicked him. “Woman,” you answered; or tried too. It came out all muffled from the leather gloved hand against your lips.

The other larger one laughed. “She's a woman, Aramis,” he said. “Can't you see her attributes,” he added as he gestured to your chest and the cut of your bodice.

Aramis, the one who looked Spanish with the large hat hummed and nodded as he stared at the top of your breasts. “Ah, yes, Porthos, I see them now.”

The hand dropped from your mouth and they stood side by side looking at you. Your mouth went dry as you saw how their eyes were undressing you; not that you had much on to begin with. Just a thin cloak over your threadbare skirt and corset. The chemise under your corset was also thin, almost translucent. Aramis stepped closer.

“Why were you following us?” he asked.

You swallowed and licked your lips. “You are musketeers,” you said wishing your voice was stronger and did not tremble.

Porthos stepped closer and loomed over you. “Well, aren't you a smart one,” he said.

Aramis stroked your cheek with his gloved hand. “Pretty too,” he said. He sighed. “A shame that we'll have to kill you,” he said.

“What?!” you exclaimed.

Porthos sighed. “Yes, sadly, since you know we are musketeers. We are meant to be on a secret mission for the King,” he said.

“I will not tell anyone,” you said noticing how Aramis stepped closer to you, his side pressed against yours.

Heat. It filled you at the feel of him against your side. Desire followed quickly as well. Aramis smirked and you felt your cheeks grow warm. You felt more desire for this unknown musketeer than you had when the baker's son had touched you.

Your first and only sexual encounter and you wished to forget it.

“I don't know if we can trust you,” Porthos said as he also stepped closer to you. That desire that had began with Aramis's side pressed against yours, got deeper when Porthos pressed against your other side.

“I,” you stumbled over your words, “I am very trustworthy.”

“She says she is trustworthy,” Aramis said as he looked at Porthos.

Porthos hummed. “I don't know if we can believe her.”

“Please, I will do anything you want,” you said.

Aramis looked back at you. “Anything?” he asked as he leaned in closer.

You took him; his dark eyes, his moustache, his beard. You nodded as you felt your core get wet. Aramis reached out and began to play with the ties on the front of your corset. “Anything,” you said again.

Aramis smiled. He glanced at Porthos, his fingers undoing the ties on your corset. “Anything,” he repeated to Porthos.

Porthos smiled as he stepped closer to you as well. “I heard,” he breathed out. You sighed as he pressed his hand against your ass cheek. You jumped when he pinched it. “It's been a while since we've shared a girl,” he added.

Aramis huffed as he pulled the corset ties open more. You felt the corset loosen. He reached up and bit the finger tip of his glove pulling it off. “Yes, well, the last girl we attempted that with, you kept to yourself,” he said.

Porthos snorted as he rubbed your ass cheek. He gave it a hard slap and you yelped. “Not my fault she liked riding me more than you.”

“I will have you know, she liked riding me just fine. She told me I filled her beautifully,” Aramis said.

Your corset loosened more as Aramis yanked the strings out. You did not stop him; instead you found yourself helping him. You pulled the strings from the bottom and soon your fingers tangled with Aramis' as they met in the middle. He smiled and grabbed your corset, yanking it off of your torso, tossing it aside.

“She only told you that to not hurt your feelings,” Porthos said to Aramis. You find yourself whining as he pulled his hand from your ass cheek. He looked at you and smiled. “Don't worry, pet,” he said as he leaned in closer. “I will touch you some more. I am just going to get more comfortable while Aramis has his fill of tasting you.”

You kissed him back when he pressed his lips to yours. You heard the sounds of a jacket being taken off and tossed aside. Porthos deepened the kiss and you focused on him alone. Even when you felt Aramis' hands on your skirt undoing the hooks and yanking it off. You stepped out of it as Porthos' tongue licked your bottom lip demanding entry.

You gave it.

His tongue stroked yours as his hands grabbed your cheeks, pulling your face towards his. You moaned as you felt Aramis' bare hands on the back of your knees, lifting your legs from your skirt before the sound of it being tossed aside echoed in your ears. You whimpered as Aramis pressed his hands to your bare thighs pulling your legs apart.

“Porthos, she is wet for us already,” he said.

You felt Aramis' breath on your mound and moaned. You pulled away from Porthos' kiss and he smiled. He licked your lips before letting your face go. He stepped back and you couldn't help but watch as he pulled off his sword belt and tossed it aside along with his jacket.

Aramis, apparently not wishing to be forgotten, pulled your attention back to him by his tongue licking your folds.

“Oh god,” you moaned as you reached down and grabbed his head, knocking his hat off his head. Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pressed yourself up against the post.

You closed your eyes as Aramis grabbed your right leg and placed it over his shoulder moving closer to your core. You whimpered as his tongue licked up your wetness. He moved his mouth and you felt him lap at that little nub of pleasure you had touched yourself occasionally. But it felt so much better with Aramis' warm tongue pressed against it.

“So beautiful,” Porthos said as he stepped closer to you. You opened your eyes and looked at him. He had taken off his jacket and his shirt. You saw his muscular chest and could not help yourself. You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest. You felt his warm skin under your palm and it turned you on even more. He smiled and reached up pulling your chemise open. “I need a taste too,” he said.

You watched as Porthos leaned down and wrapped his mouth around your nipple. You held his eyes as you felt his tongue lick your nipple, his tongue swirling around it over and over. You whimpered and moaned as you felt Aramis' tongue do the same thing around your pleasure nub. You got the distinct feeling that they had done this before.

It made you wetter and warmer to think about how many women had been in your very position before.

You raked your nails across Porthos' chest as you tugged Aramis' hair with your other hand. Aramis continued to suck and lick your folds and you felt the pleasure rising and building. Porthos began sucking on your nipple and nipping at it gently. You moaned more and whimpered when you felt Aramis slid two fingers inside of you.

“I can't,” you whined as Aramis crooked his fingers inside of you and pressed them into a soft spot inside of you that had your legs trembling.

“You can,” Porthos whispered. “Just let go,” he added as he licked your nipple again before he pulled his mouth from it completely and kissed you hard.

You moaned into his mouth as you pressed your hips forward, pressing your core into Aramis' mouth. Porthos pulled away from your lips and kissed along your neck. He growled in your ear as his hand grabbed your other breast and kneaded it.

“Let go,” he ordered.

And you did.

You moaned loudly into Porthos' mouth as he pressed it to yours again, feeling his lips curl into a smile as your body trembled. You squeezed your eyes shut as you tugged on Aramis' hair and dug your nails into Porthos' chest. It felt like you were floating. You whimpered as you felt Aramis' tongue gently lap at your folds over and over. You felt his fingers dig into your thighs after he slid them out of you. You blinked, blinded for a moment before your vision returned to you. You saw Aramis stand, the smug look on his face. Porthos stood beside him and you saw a smug look on his face as well.

“First time?” he asked gruffly.

You nodded your cheek ablaze with heat as you blushed. “Y-yes,” you stammered.

Aramis smirked. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he said softly.

Porthos hummed as his dark eyes never left you. You squealed as he grabbed you and carried you over to the bed against the wall. He tossed you on it. You laid across the bed, your legs dangling down, body still trembling from your climax. Your chest heaved as your eyes watched as he undid the buttons on his trousers and pulled them open. He shoved his pants down to undo the ties on his undergarment. You heard Aramis undressing as well but for the moment, your eyes were focused on Porthos.

You took in his chest and stomach, his muscles and scars. Your eyes raked down from his belly button lower to his cock. Your mouth went dry as you saw how long and thick it was once it was freed from his undergarments. He spit in his hand and stroked his cock. You looked up and met his eyes.

“I promise you, you will enjoy this,” he said as he stepped closer to you and in between your legs.

You looked down, sitting up on your elbows. Aramis walked over to the bed, naked and confident. He climbed on the bed beside you and wrapped his arm around your shoulders holding you up. He leaned in and kissed you. You hummed against his lips and moaned as you felt Porthos' tip press into your entrance. Aramis took one of your hands and placed it on his own cock; it was also hard, long, and thick. You whimpered as he nipped at your lips.

“Let's watch as Porthos takes you,” he whispered as he pulled away. “It's always beautiful to watch his cock claim another woman.”

His accented voice paired with his hand wrapped around yours around his cock, stroking it gently, made you all the wetter. You turned and looked down.

The scene that met you obscenely beautiful.

Porthos' tip was notched inside of you, stretching your folds open. He held your legs up against his chest as his hands held your hips down, pinning you to the bed. Aramis' hand went to your breast and squeezed it as Porthos pressed his cock deeper into you. You whimpered as you felt yourself stretch more the deeper he slid into you.

“Oh god,” you moaned as you let your head fall back.

“He prefers Porthos,” Aramis answered as he leaned down and kissed you again.

You whimpered into his mouth. He let go of his hand around yours that was stroking his cock. You stroked it at the pace he had set, slowly and gently. You hoped you got the chance to feel it buried deep inside of you as well. You moaned as you felt Porthos push deeper and deeper into you. Aramis placed his hand on your stomach and ran it, palm down on your soft skin.

“I love this part,” he breathed against your lips.

You whined missing his kisses. Your whine turned into a deep moan as Porthos jerked his hips and filled you. You cried out and tears came to your eyes.

“It's too much,” you whimpered as your nails grabbed Porthos' arm and dug into his skin.

“Shh, pet,” Porthos said. “It's all right, give it a minute.”

You whimpered and held on to Aramis' cock. You looked down and watched Porthos moved one of his hands and placed it where you were joined. His fingers stroked your nub and you clenched around his cock. You moaned at how full you felt. Aramis ran his hand lower, to your lower abdomen. He pressed down and you cried out as you felt his hand pressing Porthos' cock inside of you.

“He gets so deep and fills you out so well, love,” Aramis whispered as he kissed your nose. “You take him so beautifully,” he added.

You understood the words he was saying but you couldn't focused on them. You were focused on Porthos' cock buried deep inside of you as he gently rubbed your nub. Your legs trembled and you whimpered. You arched your back pressing yourself against him more.

“Better?” Porthos asked as Aramis leaned down and took a nipple into his mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed out as you let go of Porthos' arm and buried your hand in Aramis' hair.

You began stroking Aramis' cock again at the slow gentle pace. You sucked in a breath as Porthos dragged his cock from you, so very slowly. You felt every ridge and vein of his cock as he pulled it from your warmth. You ached and felt empty as he stopped, his tip barely inside of you. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you bit your bottom lip. Aramis continued sucking your nipple, his lips wrapped around it, and every tug of it seemed to go straight down to your core; every tug caused pleasure to rise and your walls to clench.

“Please,” you found yourself begging as Porthos seemed content to just hold his tip right there, not pushing into you again.

“Please what, pet?” Porthos grunted. He pressed forward a bit but pulled back. You cried. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Both of you to have me. I need you,” you cried out. “Please.”

Aramis pulled his mouth from her nipple. He glanced at Porthos as his hand stroked her skin. “She is being so polite,” he told her.

“She really is,” Porthos sighed and thrusted hard into you. The breath was pushed from your lungs as he filled you quickly again. “And polite girls get rewarded,” he grunted.

Aramis pressed down on your stomach again as Porthos filled you. He leaned over your chest and took your other nipple in his mouth. Porthos continued to rub your nub as he dragged his cock from you slowly and slammed it back in. He did it over and over.

And soon your brain stopped processing words, the only sounds you could focus on was Porthos' cock entering your wet core and Aramis' mouth sucking on your nipple. You squeezed Aramis' cock as Porthos' thrust pushed you back on the bed. He wrapped his arm around your legs, moving them so they were over one shoulder as he bent you over. Your knees pressed into Aramis' back and Porthos just began pounding into you.

Drool pooled in the corner of your mouth as your mouth fell open in a voiceless moan. Your body began shaking and your nails dug into Aramis' scalp. You clenched around Porthos' cock as his fingers moved faster on your nub. You let go of Aramis' cock and wrapped your arm around him as he sucked and nippled at your nipple. You whimpered and whined as Aramis pressed down on your abdomen over and over as Porthos filled you.

You felt the pleasure building and building. You shattered as Aramis bit down on your nipple, Porthos' fingers pressed hard on your nub, and he slammed into you hard, pressing deep into you. He held his cock deep inside of you as you clenched around him. A white blinding light burned your eyes as she squeezed them shut. You whimpered Porthos' name. You felt Aramis chuckle as he pulled his mouth from your nipple and pressed soft kisses to your face.

“Love, you aren't finished yet,” he whispered.

You sighed and blinked your eyes as your body felt like it was floating away. You whined and blinked your eyes more as tears rolled down your cheeks. Porthos rubbed your thighs and pressed kisses on your ankles as he slowly slid his still hard cock from you. Aramis pressed a soft kiss to your lips and hummed as he moved off the bed. You blinked as your body continued to tremble as Porthos lowered your legs. You heard them talking but you were focused on your own body; how it suddenly felt so empty. You began to cry.

“Hush, pet, what's wrong?” Porthos asked as he sat on the bed and rubbed your side as he leaned over you.

“I feel so empty,” you cried.

“I can fix that, love,” Aramis said as he moved between your legs. He rubbed your thighs as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your stomach. “I just need you to roll on your hands and knees. Can you do that for me?” he asked.

You looked at him. He was beautiful. Just like Porthos. His body not too lean, not too muscular. He had scars on his chest as well and chest hair that tapered down his chest and stomach to his cock. You nodded gently and he smiled and moved, pressing soft kisses to your thighs and knees. Porthos stood as your slowly rolled over. Your arms felt weak but you sure that you would hold yourself up long enough to have Aramis have you.

You felt nervous as you placed your knees on the bed. Aramis' hands grabbed your hips and gently moved you over more so you were almost diagonal on the bed. Porthos moved and stood in front of your face as he brushed the hair from your face. You closed your eyes as you felt Aramis kiss down your back, along your spine.

“Have you been taken like this before?” Aramis whispered against your skin. His hands stroked and rubbed your thighs and hips.

“No,” you breathed out.

Porthos chuckled. “Oh, you are in for a good time, pet,” he said as he gathered your hair in his hand and holding it in a fist pulling your head up. “And I am hoping you can help finish me off with your mouth,” he added. He reached out and brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Have you ever done that before?” he asked.

You nodded. You had done that before; more than you would ever admit to anyone. Not even the village priest. You had never taken one man in your mouth though while another filled you core. No, this would be something new.

And something you knew you wouldn't do again with anyone else.

You opened your mouth as you felt Aramiss lips reach your lower back. His tongue licked your skin as his hands grabbed your ass cheeks in his hands. He kneaded them as he had kneaded your breasts earlier. You found yourself moving your knees, opening your legs wider as Porthos stepped closer to your face, his cock in hand. He tapped the tip on your bottom lip as Aramis' lips left your lower back.

“And swallow every last bit of my seed,” Porthos answered.

“Yes,” you breathed out.

You felt Aramis' cock tip press against your folds as he rubbed it up and down. He swirled the tip around your nub and your moaned. Porthos took that moment to press his cock into your mouth. You tasted your own wetness on his cock as your held your mouth open. Your tongue rubbed on the underside of his cock and your felt the vein that ran from the base of his cock to its tip. Aramis took that moment to press his tip into you and fill you with one fast thrust.

You closed your eyes and moaned as you felt how deep Aramis got. He filled you perfectly; not as much as Porthos did but still more than the first boy you had let inside of you did. Aramis did not wait for you to adjust to him being inside of you. He dragged his cock from you and slammed back in. He held your hips tightly and he began moving in and out of you at a hard and fast pace.

You opened your eyes as you grabbed the blankets under your hands. You looked up at Porthos as you held your mouth open. He was using your mouth like Aramis was using your core; fast and hard thrusts. You kept your tongue flat as Porthos moved his cock in and out of your mouth. His tip pressed deep into the back of your throat as Aramis' tip pressed deep inside of you. You could feel Aramis' balls hit your sensitive nub. Tears came to your eyes as you felt the pleasure growing again.

“She feels so good,” Aramis groaned as his fingers dug into her hips. “So warm and tight,” he added.

Porthos hummed as he tugged on your hair. “I know,” you watched as he looked at Aramis. “We might have to bring her back to Paris with us and keep her filled all the time.”

You got wetter at that. You closed your mouth a bit and began sucking on Porthos' cock as he slid it into your mouth. You were drooling, it dripping down your chin. It was the same with the wetness between your thighs as Aramis' cock moved in and out of you. Your body began to tremble and shake as your felt the first splash of seed on your tongue. You clenched around Aramis' cock and he groaned.

“Are you close, love?” he asked. You felt him move his hand along your hip and stomach. He pressed his hand on your lower abdomen over his cock as it pressed into you. He moved his hand lower as you moaned, the sound muffled as Porthos continued to thrust into your mouth. You felt Aramis' thumb rub your nub. “Come for me, love. I want to feel you strangle my cock with your warmth.”

Porthos thrusted into your mouth and held his cock there. You swallowed rope after rope of his seed as your body shook, harder than it had before. Aramis pressed harder on your nub with his thumb and pressed his hand harder on your lower abdomen. You closed your eyes as your slumped forward. Porthos grabbed your shoulder and held you help but your body crashed into it's climax hard.

You went limp, blacked out almost as you clenched around Aramis' cock. He grunted and moaned. You felt Porthos pull his cock from your mouth and he let go of your hair. You slumped down to the bed, face first, as your whole body shook. You whined as Aramis pulled his cock from you. You ached and missed it. You felt his seed splash on your ass and back moments later. You blood pounded in your head as you still shook. You felt Porthos' fingers dance along your shoulder and back.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

You hummed and huffed. You blinked and looked at him as you felt Aramis lay on the bed beside you on the other side. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder and skin.

“I think so,” you muttered.

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed. “Let's get some food and wine,” he smacked your ass. “And maybe we can go again later.”

Porthos laughed. “Who's room is this anyway?” he asked.

You rolled on your back. You reached behind you and wiped Aramis' seed with your hand. You brought your hand to your mouth and licked your hand. You tasted Aramis seed; it tasted like Porthos', salty. Aramis groaned and leaned forward and bit you on the neck.

“She is perfect, Porthos,” he said as his ran his hand around your stomach. “We need to keep her.”

You looked at Porthos as he moved and laid on the bed beside you on the other side. He leaned in, with his hand on the back of your neck and kissed you deeply. He pulled away and looked in your eyes.

“Yes, I think we do need to keep her,” he growled.

“Please,” you whispered. “Keep me. For both of you.”

“Again, she is so polite,” Aramis sighed. “We must keep her.”

“We must,” Porthos agreed.

You turned your head and kissed Aramis and reached up to rake your fingers through his hair. Porthos leaned in and kissed your neck, leaving love bite behind.

Yes, you needed to be theirs. No one else would ever do again.

[thestalwartheart]

20 questions for fic writers

Thank you for the tag, @aniron48 ❤️ This was such a nice way to wrap up this year, and to remember what I'd written!

Tagging @cicerfics @dixkens @dassandre-00qpidsarrow @boffin1710 @samanthahirr and whoever else wants to play along!

Answers under the cut!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 82! I feel like I blacked out and blinked and woke up with a horrifying number of fics!

2. What’s your total A03 word count? 385,997 😨

3. What fandoms do you write for? James Bond mostly. Also Glass Onion/Knives Out. I don't write for The Witcher anymore, but I have in the past. On my laptop is a lot of unfinished Star Trek fic - mainly Kirk/Spock - and a crack at some Arthur/Eames (from Inception).

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

being with you (is the best of all)

date, interrupted

the places you leave in the dust

a rank above

by any other name

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I do try to, and I mostly succeed. I like to thank people for investing their time with my work, and I also like getting to know people in fandom. There's still 100+ comments I need to get back to, and some of them are very old. I will get to them though!!! I promise!

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Anything involving the MCD tag. There was also a short called garden that was very sad for other reasons.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Either being with you (is the best of all) or dispatches from the division.

8. Do you get hate on fics? Not really, though I've had a few rude comments and bookmark notes. One person let me know across three chapters that they hated my characterisation of Bond so much they were tempted to rewrite the ending! But most people are lovely. The Bond fandom is small and most of us have our heads screwed on the right way.

9. Do you write smut? Frequently and without shame. There are 29 E-rated fics in my backlog for your reading pleasure.

10. Do you write crossovers? I have a Knives Out/James Bond crossover series where Bond and Blanc are detectives competing for Q's attention.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes and I am endlessly grateful for people who are more talented with languages than I am ❤️

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Just a team poem for 007 Fest, though I have worked with beta readers.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship? Kirk/Spock forever.

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I had a multiverse fic I posted a chapter of that I don't think I have the energy for anymore. I was so undecided about the ending that I lost interest in writing it.

16. What are your writing strengths? I think I'm good with characters and details. My writing has been called immersive by a few people, and I do really pride myself on building atmosphere. I think I can turn a good phrase occasionally too!

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I need to get better at proofreading for typos. I'm quite lazy with plotting and planning as well. I definitely need to work on that for an original novel I'm writing!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? I only do it if it's necessary, and I'm so glad AO3 now has a hover feature for immediate translation. One of my pet peeves at uni was how often scholars used random French and Latin words or phrases when they didn't need to!!!

19. First fandom you wrote for? HP, probably. Or Glee. Those fics have been purged from the internet now 😂

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written? Either dispatches from the division or the WIP I'm in the process of posting now, called the age of change.

Shout out to everyone who has made it to the end! As a reward, please enjoy this picture of my cat flopped over in her cat tree ❤️

[milfhandholder]

Random Grell thingz I've accumulated in my head bcs I'm delusional but without context bcs I am going to write a legit novel abt this woman one day

Idc what anyone says, I am an avid believer of the fact that Grell has always been considered beautiful by her peers even in her human life

LIKE SHE'S THE MOST SOUGHT AFTER SUITOR OF HER SEASON, SHE WAS AN IT GIRL BEFORE THEY KNEW WHAT AN IT GIRL IS

She's so beautiful that the Victorians could've started kpop PC first bcs of her and trade them like actual kpoppers

Grell always knew about her being queer (minus actual label bcs Victorian era duh) but not about her gender

"Wait so you people don't fantasize about having boobs? Not at all? No?"

It was maybe 6 years into her reaper life when she finally got the memo that "hey girlie, you're actually a girl"

Her crisis went a bit like this: straight man -> gay man?? -> 'oh no I like girls too' bi man -> died LMAO -> 'I hate everyone and I hate my gender' questioning -> 'maybe I have no gender at all. I like girls though' (she was exclusive to girls only so I guess??lesbian?? Who cheered) -> transwoman questioning -> !! transwoman bi !!

Was in a 'lavender marriage' with a closeted lesbian for maybe 2 - 3 years before her suicide. Grell sort of fell in love with her but understandably never confessed. Fast forward to present time AND GRELL IS HITTING THE FLOOR, SCREAMING, CRYING

She had a lot of rage as a young reaper because she never really got over 'my parents suck' mindset that stood by her as she died

HATED WILLIAM. As much as I love the OVA, I will stand by my words that it would’ve been so much more interesting if Grell buried / was embarassed about her crush and acted like a dick towards him BECAUSE WHY, OF ALL THE MEN IN DISPATCH, DID IT HAVE TO BE WILLIAM T SPEARS

Mellowed out eventually and cool character development happened

Has more experience with and confidence in dating girls, she's very anxious (and perhaps frightful) about men reciprocating her advances

Being made "an experience" does that to you

Fun fact: she's the first and only woman William ever had a crush on. Good taste dude

She was projecting her ex wife A LOT onto Madam but it's ok bcs it was vice versa you see, Madam projected too BUT THEN THESE BITCHES TALKED IT OUT and everything is all ok and cool and OH GOD GRELL NOOOOOOOOO 😭😭😭😭

Speaks German and French, is the go to translator for German Dispatch businesses until Ludger (and eventually Sascha joined in as a bonus and a translator) was forced to sharpen his English

Now for the E discourse.... someone made a typo one day and she went with it

Grell: You see, when you go to France, they make you get a name in French. That's why I can go by Grell Sutcliff or Grelle Sutcliffe

Ron, an idiot who has never been anywhere except his hometown: oh shit fr??

Eric's her first ACTUAL reaper friend which is sad ngl LMAOOO

Firm believer that the reapers have mentorships for gifted students that started in Ron's year and that Grell was her mentor READ MY RON FIC, IM OBSESSED WITH THEM

Mentoring Ron (aka a few years before Jack the Ripper) was the moment where she was the healthiest, mentally

Then she divorced Madam, had a falling out with William and oops she regressed el em ao. Don't tell any of her friends though, they'd start annoying her to get better

People older and the same age as her are wildly terrified of her. This is in contrast to (most) juniors who are so in love with the idea of her

Harbors a lot of guilt, grief, rage, anger, jealousy, insecurity, narcissism, etc. She's just a good actress

Her butler persona was her mocking three people at once: her father's (brunette) appearance, her mother's wish for Grell to be more obedient, and Grell's old self that let people walk all over her for the sake of maintaining her family name

Her family is rich rich though she can't remember for what. She doesn't really care eitherway so

Can be very insensitive!! It doesn't help that she's friends with people who'd give the same energy back (Eric and Othello) or people who just don't care enough (William)

She learned how to hold her tongue when she realized Ron was genuinely upset with her rude comments. Ironically, Ron learned how to have thicker skin because of said comments

Likes dogs, sorry Sebastian

Good at fencing! Not much else in other sports!!

She hates sports sm, they make her sweat and they are tedious and they're exhausting and THEY'RE BORING

The only ranged weapon she'd try out is a gun.

She's no wuss

Yeah that's all that I can think of lmao

[witchybiitchy]

c’est ça l’amour | l.n

fic masterlist

chapter 8

Lando hated to admit it, but he was definitely the jealous type, although he tried to keep it on the down-low. He knew it wasn't some masculine territorial thing, or stemming from a deep rooted insecurity. He knew that his jealousy had come from always getting everything he wanted, and always wanting to be the best.

In karting he would beg his father for new helmets, new suits, better wheels, and he would win because of it. Yes he was talented, because you had to be, but the deep, deep jealousy he would feel when he would even come second was so intense that, over the years, he had forced himself to smile and clap and say congratulations, because otherwise he would live in a constant state of envy.

That’s why, on the morning of the French GP, the hot rush of jealousy that raced through him when he saw Sydney talking to Timothée Chalamet was terrifying, if not shameful.

Usually, celebrities would be a common sight in the US or England, but the Cannes film festival being less than a month away meant that a few famous faces were floating around the paddock, including that French bastard. “His movie’s called The French Dispatch, could you be any more pretentious?” Lando whispered to Carlos, leaning against the wall of the Ferrari garage.

“Tranquillo Lando.” Carlos chuckled. “She is not your girlfriend yet, no?”

Lando rolled his eyes. Carlos had been trying to convince him to just rip off the bandaid, but there was some fear within him that refused to do so. It was mainly the fear that, despite her denial, there really was something between Sydney and Pierre, even if she hadn't admitted it to herself.

Plus, watching her converse in French, laughing and smiling and creasing her eyes up at the corners, hair shining in the French summer sun, her shoulder leaning ever so slightly in towards the actor, he realised that she was so far out of his league it wasn't even funny. Who was he to believe himself so above every other driver, mechanic and engineer to deserve to go out with the only female driver who also happened to be pretty and funny and French.

“Maybe you should talk to Pierre about your little green friend. I think he could relate.” Carlos said before being beckoned off somewhere to do a bit more work than stare through red eyes at a man who seemed to actually be quite nice.

Lando managed to pull his eyes away from the pair, and it didn't take him long to find Pierre, chatting half-heartedly with Max a few metres away at the Redbull garage. His eyes were half-trained on Sydney and half trying to look as if he was paying attention, although it seemed as if Max was giving up on trying to keep his focus. Max gave him a pat on the shoulder before walking off, and Pierre smiled before looking around for a moment to find something else to occupy him with. His eyes met Lando's, and although he didn't really know what possessed him to do so, he beckoned for him with his head.

“Hey mate.” Pierre said, seeming to be less cold towards Lando now that he wasn't the object of Sydney's attention. Being of the same upbringing, Lando assumed he probably had the same jealousy issues and didn't want to judge him too hard for how he acted in Baku. To be fair, Pierre was much closer with Sydney than he was.

“Hey, you think that guy's gonna make a move?” Lando said, trying to sound nonchalant and also as if ‘that guy’ wasn't one of the most famous and sought after actors in the world.

“Probably, but I hope not for our sake.” Pierre laughed, sounding slightly forced.

“Oh, I’m not, if you're, like, she's yours, I mean, I don't-” Lando stammered, uncomfortable with anyone other than Carlos knowing his feelings.

“Mate, chill, you have the wrong idea.” The way that Pierre skipped over his ‘h’ reminded Lando of Sydney, and made him feel excluded from some weird French club he never felt like existed until now.

“But, in Baku you were all, you know.” Lando said, waving his hands around.

“Yeah, I know, it was,” Pierre sucked in a breath, “embarrassing.” They both chuckled, the tension easing.

“So you're not, interested?” Lando asked, hesitating around the topic as a whole.

“I was, at first, because look at her mate. Who wouldn't be?” Lando nodded in agreement. “But then, I don't know. I thought about it a bit more, and I realised I would never do anything, you know? I don’t see her that way.” Lando continued nodding, but a lack of explanation for Baku left a confused expression on his face.

“That day, it was just a bad day. I just felt shitty, the last time I raced at Baku I was in Redbull, and I retired so that fucking sucked, and it just felt like she was the only thing I had over everyone else.” Lando made a face and Pierre scrambled to explain. “It's-I don’t see her as mine or anything fucked like that. But you can't deny that she’s not, you know, special. I like being her friend because it makes me feel special too. And she doesn't have many other friends here, so it just sort of, shocked me, I don't know man, I was acting like an idiot.” Something consoling Lando was that Pierre at least looked embarrassed and a bit ashamed.

“It's okay mate, that could've been me with that guy over there, but you've come in to save the day.” Lando smiled, and he felt so hopeful for about a millisecond until he looked forward again, met with the reality of Sydney getting majorly hit on by a celebrity, and it sent his heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach. “But you should really stop looking at her like the way you were just then.” Lando added on, and Pierre tilted his head in confusion. “You really looked jealous.”

“Does he not look like a sleazy little rat though?” Pierre said, and Lando just laughed.

“You have a point there.”

“Good luck with her Lando, I promise to be less of a dickhead next time you make your moves around me.” Pierre smiled, clapping him on the shoulder before walking back over to the Redbull garage. While now he'd at least eliminated Pierre out of the equation, he was still stuck staring between Sydney and Chalamet, not being able to ignore the way her eyes shone up at him.

----

“ No, seriously I look up to you. I don’t know much about Formula 1 but you're definitely making an impact. ” Timothée Chalamet said to her, the smile on his face nearly having the same effect on her as Lando's did. Nearly, but not quite. The fact that an actor as famous and good looking as Timothée Chalamet was giving her his undivided attention and the feeling in her body was less than half of what it was when Lando put his arm around her was a problem. Because in the 2 weeks since Baku, in between their texting conversations and small interactions in the paddock, she'd all but convinced herself that he was interested in someone else, despite her minimal evidence and zero desire to believe it. At least she could enjoy Rebull’s pull in the celebrity department for the next half an hour.

“ You should get into it, there are a couple of Canadians you could root for. ” Sydney said, squinting up into the sun.

“ I’m not Canadian. ” He laughed, and she closed her eyes fully in embarrassment.

“ Sorry, you just seem too nice for an American. Oh fuck, sorry. ” She replied, and he just laughed again.

“ It's okay, if I was fully European I’d probably say the same thing. ”

“ You basically are, Timothée. ” Sydney said, emphasising the ‘thée’.

“ You remind me of my dad when you say my name like that. ”

“ Mm, sexy. ” The two of them laughed once again, and Sydney relished in how good it felt to talk to someone outside of the Formula 1 world.

“ Where will you watch the race from? ” Sydney asked.

“ I think in there. ” he said, pointing to the Red Bull garage. “ I know it's not your team, but I’ll be going for you. ”

“ Thank you, Timothée. I feel honoured to be picked over your Canadians brothers. ”

“ What can I say, I have more loyalty to my French brothers. Or, sister. ”

“Sydney!” The invisible bubble surrounding her and the incredibly attractive man in front of her was broken, and she was brought back to the track, her race engineer beckoning her over to the garage.

“ I’ve got to go, but it was lovely talking to you. My friends will be so jealous. ” By friends she meant Daisy, who would probably meet him later on anyway.

“ Before you go, do you have any more time in France after today? I’d like to see you again. ” Timothée said, the faint blush on his cheeks nearly indistinguishable from the pre-existing heat flush.

“ I would love to, but we fly to Austria tomorrow. Unless you would like to come.” They both laughed, but there was a certain finality about it. They were both busy, they understood this kind of disappointment and Sydney wouldn't let it get her down. After all, the one boy she really wanted was always where she was, no matter what.

“ Well then, I’ll say goodbye and good luck. ” Timothée said, leaning in to give her a farewell kiss on the cheek, allowing her to turn and walk back to her race engineer who had become engrossed in one of the many number-filled screens. She felt her face stay red even after she entered the shade, and tried to stop thinking about the kiss so that she could calm down a bit.

“Made a new friend, have we?” Her engineer, Mattia said, not looking away from the screens in front of them.

“You sound unapproving.”

“Disapproving.”

“Fuck off, you know what I mean.��

“I’m not disapproving, just focused. Look, I was running this sim, and if we want to maximise speed through turn 1…” Sydney fell into a zone she loved to be in as soon as Mattia started discussing some things to change for the race. All outside noise was shut off, as if she was wearing noise cancelling headphones, and she didn't need to pause to translate what Mattia was saying in her head, because she could picture it as if she was in the car then and there.

As Mattia paused to get up a different set of stats, Sydney felt her eyes wander briefly over to the side, only to be met with a sight that sent her heart into her throat.

“ Maman, papa, I was worried you weren't going to make it. ” She gave them both a hug, before leaning back to match their gaze.

“ As if we’d miss our baby winning her first grand prix. ” Her dad said, grinning from ear to ear.

“ Papa, you can't say stuff like that before every race, it's bad luck. ” She replied, smiling anyway.

“ You look busy darling, we’ll see you again before the race to say good luck. You just focus now. ” Her mum said, giving Sydney another hug before walking back into the garage, getting given a pair of headphones and a seat. She noticed them talking to Pierre's parents, northern and southern accents clashing slightly but not doing anything to dampen their collective enthusiasm. Pierre's parents were pointing things out and leaning in close to whisper gossip, and it made her heart fill to bursting. She hadn't seen them since New Years, and she immediately felt more like herself.

“I think that will help.” Mattia said. Sydney had nearly forgotten he was there.

“What?”

“Your parents. You are just a little kid after all.” He grinned, and she gave him a pinch on the arm before going back to their screens. It was 2 hours until lights out, and she felt the type of certainty in herself that she hadn't felt since winning the final race of formula 2, the one that secured her a podium position in the championship.

----

It had been a lucky race, an incredibly lucky race. With an incident between Valterri and Lando taking them both out of the race, and with Sydney moving from 10th to 5th before turn one after an unusually good start, she now found herself in the final lap, within DRS range of Sergio but just too far behind to make her move. Mattia had stopped talking to her over the radio to let her concentrate, and all heard was the blood rushing in her ears and the revs of the car. She knew that, with Pierre behind Sergio at the last check in, the French crowd must have been going insane, but she couldn't see anything besides the Red Bull in front of her, tunnel vision searching for a gap to lunge for.

Turn 12, she nearly slipped through but had to back out in order to not get pushed off the track. Turn 13 was a long curve, and she noticed that she'd accelerated out of the previous turn better than Sergio, her front wing peaking out in front of his. Turn 14, around the outside. The was a moment where it seemed as if everything slowed, the body of her car speeding up past his, and then, like someone had pressed the play button, she shot past him to take the apex of turn 15. The checkered flag was in sight, and she could see the team hanging off the fence, waving their fists and yelling.

It took a moment for it to process, and when it did she couldn't help the grin that split across her face. “Sydney, P3! Fucking podium place! Podium Sydney!”

“COME ON! FUCK YES! FUCK YES BOYS, FUCK!” She screamed, and she realised that there were tears streaming down her face. She pulled into the podium place, barely securing the car before she was running towards the massive crowd of navy and white, jumping onto them the way she'd always wanted to, the rough pats on the back still not enough to let her fully appreciate what was happening. It felt like two seconds before she'd been in 10th, hoping to at least stay in the points, and here she was, a podium in her rookie season and at her home race.

As she made her way through the AlphaTauri members, hugging and shaking hands with all of them, tears still streaming within her helmet, she felt a presence behind her. She spun around to be met with Pierre's helmet, and lept up to hug him tightly, their joint elation at such a good performance in their home country causing them to grip each other so tightly. Sydney noticed her feet were off the ground, and she didn't even care. She'd never felt so consumed by happiness in her entire life. It filled up her chest and flowed down to the tips of her fingers.

“ Fucking good job Sydney. I’m so proud of you. ” Pierre said, having to yell a bit to get through two layers of helmet.

“ I couldn't have done it without you. ” She said, gripping his shoulders even tighter, and she didn't think she'd ever said anything more true in her whole life. Except for their one off day, Pierre had never faltered at her side. If Daisy was like the sister she never had, then Pierre was like the brother.

They left each other's embrace, Sydney having to walk over to the interview area. She could feel a camera following her as she removed her helmet and balaclava, and as her plaits fell out behind her she lifted her hands up to try and fix her hair a bit. Someone handed her a cap and she put it on hurriedly. It was only then that she noticed how wet her face was from a mixture of tears and sweat, and tried to wipe as much of it off with her equally sweaty hands. The crowd in front of her was yelling their enthusiasm and in a moment of pure confidence, she lifted her hand up in a fist, the yelling only intensifying.

“Sydney, I don't really have any words, do you?” The presenter laughed as she stepped up to the microphone, cheering getting louder once again.

“Not really, I think my body is still in shock.” She laughed, and then realised he wanted a real answer too. “I seriously never thought that I would get this far. It was probably a mix of a lot of luck, and being home, and having my parents here, but damn, I might cry again if I think too much about it.”

“Obviously there was a bit of luck there with Norris and Bottas out of the running, but you did some exceptional racing there.”

“I think my start was what really set me up, I shot through the group straight away, and then it was just about maintaining that position. I think my overtake on Daniel did a lot of the work for my overtake on Checo, at that point I was just pushing to get podium, I didn't have to worry about tyres anymore. I guess it worked, no?” The crowd cheered once again, and, although it felt impossible, her smile got even wider.

“Well, you should be immensely proud of yourself, first female podium in Formula 1 history, hopefully we can see some more of this for the rest of 2021.” Sydney smiled and nodded thank you as she walked back into the building behind the pit lane, immediately greeted by Daisy, Pierre, her parents and Franz.

“ Well done my love. ” Her mum said, hugging her tightly.

“ I’m so proud. ” Her dad said, and she noticed that he had been crying.

“ I didn't quite get the win .” Sydney laughed thickly.

“ You could've retired and I would've been proud. ” He joked, and then she was being shepherded up to the podium.

“You're a legend, I’m so fucking happy for you.” Daisy said as they walked, and Sydney was momentarily shocked by her swearing.

“Daisy, make sure I save you some champagne.” Sydney grinned. It felt like her skin was buzzing under her race suit, and the inside of her body was tied up in knots with excitement.

“ In third place, Sydney Laurent. ” Even though she was receiving third, it could’ve been first from the way the crowd was screaming. She barely registered the feeling of the trophy in her hands, nor the actions that somehow took her from standing on the podium to standing in her hotel room that night. Her body felt like a shell filled to the brim with joy, and yet that shell seemed to just be floating through the night, nothing going in and sticking in her brain. She popped the champagne, knowing in the back of her mind that it was dripping down her neck and drying to her skin. She shook lots of hands, hugged Pierre again, smiled her way through many interviews, genuinely this time, and semi-relaxed in the presence of her parents for a short interval which she could remember slightly more vividly than everything else.

Sydney knew this was supposed to be the best day of her life, and honestly by the next day that was probably how she’d remember it, but here, still drunk from the team party, struggling to get her legs into a pair of track shorts, she couldn’t help but feel as if the unquantifiable happiness she’d felt just a few hours before had leaked out onto the bar floor and now she was left with just the shell. She wasn’t sad, just exhausted, and she didn’t know how Lewis could have won seven whole world championships and recover enough to keep going, when she was already dreading having to wake up the next morning.

Her drunk brain suddenly informed her that she was too hot, and, finding no ice in the mini fridge, she flopped back on her bed and briefly entertained the idea of going on a walk to find some. Well, that’s what her sober brain rationalised it as, her drunk brain was flashing back to the few encounters with Lando in hotel elevators and hallways and was hoping to recreate the experience, but that was so embarrassingly childish that she couldn’t really admit it to herself. Plus, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him yet that day (or yesterday, it was now 3am).

One of the few things she could pinpoint and remember sharply from the day was his congratulations to her. It was after all her interviews and her much needed shower, and she was on the hunt for something to eat before going to a meeting about something on her car that, at the time, seemed far less important than food. She had that warm feeling of a shower still lingering on her skin, and the bustling paddock had quietened to a gentle hum. A vending machine had been erected in between the Red Bull and McLaren buildings, and Sydney felt her feet move her towards it, her brain soaking into the walls of her skull, unable to process much.

As she was fishing around in her wallet for the 3 euros she needed for a coke and a bag of chips, she heard footsteps pass the small alcove, then stop and head towards her. Turning around, she was met with Lando’s smiling face and open arms. Without really thinking, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned up on her toes to push her face into his neck. It was far too intimate for what her small, weak heart in that moment could deal with, and not to mention for the level of their relationship, but she was too tired and emotionally exhausted to care.

“Well done.” Lando mumbled to her. His previous excitement had seemed to have mellowed in her embrace as they rocked slightly back and forth, Sydney, trying to take in every point where her skin met his before it was over.

“Thank you.” She mumbled in return, loosening her grip at the thought of someone seeing them so closely entwined. “Did you feel like this after your podium?” She asked, squinting up at him as the setting sun angled itself into her eyes. The orange light back lit Lando and made him look like a golden glowing figure. Her heart felt like it was about to burst.

“Feel like what?” He asked in return. They were both still speaking quietly, not wanting to burst the insulated bubble that their conversations seemed to always be taking place in.

“I am so, so happy, like, the most happy I have ever been in my entire life. But also, I feel very strange. Like I feel every emotion but also none at all. You know?” She smiled, yet as she was saying those words she knew she was lying. Because the overpowering, all consuming sense of joy mixed with adrenaline had felt like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach that went straight to her head, and she knew that wasn’t how she felt now. She felt real joy, right in the pit of her stomach. That little seed that blossomed whenever Lando was around. It didn’t make her feel this emptiness, but it also didn’t fill her to bursting. It seemed to grow into a space within her that she didn’t even know existed.

“I do know. That’s why you go out and get pissed. Which,” He looked at his watch, “you appear to be overdue for.”

“I have a meeting first.” Sydney sighed while still smiling, and Lando rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. She giggled softly, and hated that such a girlish act felt so natural.

“That’s disgusting. You should ditch. Hang out with me.” He grinned, the gap between his teeth beaming proudly.

“I am afraid I cannot. Oh, look, I am being beckoned.” She laughed, showing her phone screen with ‘Mattia’ glowing over the call screen. “See you later?” She posed as a question.

“I hope so.” Lando smiled, and she could’ve sworn his eyes flickered downwards to her lips for a millisecond. And as soon as she turned her head, it was as if she sunk back into the whirlwind dreamscape of her evening, leaving Lando and his grounding eyes behind next to the vending machine.

And that’s what she couldn’t stop replaying over and over again as she lay on her bed, too hot and too alone. Well, not too alone, just missing the one person she wanted, his glowing face looking at her from her own mind, sun setting behind him and smile burrowing a hole through her heart. God she was in deep. She didn’t know how she’d ever be able to sleep again.

[elioslover]

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

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

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

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

Some unnecessary lists of my interests hehe:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thegildedbee]

10.7 [tricks to treats]

If I could, I'd live in my favorite month ✨🍂 🥾 all year, but since I can't, I'll settle instead for celebrating by tossing the spooky season into a hat and pulling out four sets of friday fic recs. First up isn't even halloween proper at all, but tips the hat by pranking a play on words: fics with tricks that turn to treats, which, as it happens, conjures up a whole lot of rom-com fluffiness, 2012 through 2020 :-) Don't overdose on the sugar! 🎃🧡🍬

[In order of word length]

Blind Date by swissmiss (2013), rated E, 6405 words. Mike "Cupid" Stamford sets up med school mate John with a blind date whom he advertises as being "tall and slender but with 'two pert, perfect handfuls, if you know what I mean' (Mike had accompanied the comment by cupping both his hands suggestively) and the 'most intense' eyes. And gorgeous, of course, with thick, dark curls. Not to mention 'more brains than she knew what to do with." John waits patiently at the bar, but she's a no-show, and he's left with dashed hopes -- at least until a gorgeous man who could've been the missing date's twin sidles on over, chats him up, and takes him home. Coup de Foudre by prettysailorsoldier (2014), rated T, 6446 words. John desperately attempts to vault over the language barrier to connect with the dishy French boy he's met on the slopes while on holiday, hoping against hope that by patching together his few remembered words of schoolbook French, a downloaded translation app, and an improvised form of tongue-tied charades, that his English language-dependent charm will work its magic. But sweeping the swooshing vision in a blue scarf off his feet may turn out to be less of an uphill battle than he fears!

Five Times Sherlock Fell Asleep in John's Arms by Accident and the One Time He Did It – Accidentally – on Purpose by WillowGrove (2020), rated T, 7201 words. John proves to be adept at deploying sleight of hand to instigate a campaign of serial snuggling with Sherlock that, step-by-step, brings them to the brink of coupledom . . . until, that is, he brings it all to a halt. Luckily for them both Sherlock has been taking notes, and finds a way to double down on the misdirection that John had managed so well -- and although his own convoluted contribution takes them the long way round, it gets them there in the end. Bonus: There's also a wonderful podfic by podfixx of this.

The Signal by dioscureantwins (2012), rated E, 7201 words. All across 1930s London the alluring younger brother of stuffy bureaucrat Mycroft Holmes is considered to be quite the catch -- too bad that he has no wish to be caught! Disdainful of fleshly pleasures, he's a celibate creature . . . until he's turned topsy-turvy after being caught up in a comedy of errors that he himself set in motion on a lark, with a soldier fellow of many -- ahem -- talents. Sherlock bursts in upon his big brother to expound upon his predicament in this first part, and turns his world right-side up and rearranged in part 2, Expectations and Educations (E, 10447 words).

What Would Sherlock Do? by EinahSirro (2014), rated T, 9359 words. We get to live inside John's head as he decides to cross the Rubicon and declare himself to Sherlock, although in a deliciously devious way in which his carefully thought-out pre-emptive deductions check-mate Sherlock at every step of a very long day of pursuit. A clever plot, humorous and spot-on character observations, and an economical dispatching of the oddnesses of S3 in favor of an immensely satisfying fix-it. And all of this delightfulness is doubled, as part 2 covers the same events, but from the detective's point-of-view, Sherlock Holmes and the Very Strange Day (T, 7383 words). The wonderfulness continues in a clever third installment, What if They Both Had Amnesia? (T, 27,316 words).

[zablife]

Writing & Editing A Dark AU Fic

"Rats, vermin, gigolos, streetwalkers...You don't think it's almost too seedy this time?"

"No, I don't."

"Pickpockets, dead bodies, prisons, urinals...You don't want to add a flower shop or an art museum?"

"No, I don't."

"Or a pretty place of some kind?"

"I hate flowers."

-The French Dispatch

[theharddeck]

watcha up to tag game

thanks for the tags @bradshawsbitch and @antiquitea 💙

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

last song: in the kitchen, by renee rap

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

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

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

[growup-thatbeautiful]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would beat you anyway, amor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, there are worse things to be.

taglist: @shawnieeboyy @itshellinthereitshorror

[wreathedwith]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The French Dispatch (2021) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lucinda Krementz/Zeffirelli (The French Dispatch) Characters: Lucinda Krementz, Zeffirelli (The French Dispatch) Additional Tags: Ficlet, Humor, Older Woman/Younger Man, Premature Ejaculation, Missing Scene Summary:

Written after seeing the film – spoilers.

[thestalwartheart]

Hi! I saw on your AO3 profile that you wanted people to ask for translations, so here I am doing just that.

I really liked Dispatches from the division and I would love to translate it into french if you're okay with it! I'm french and currently studying translation in uni, and I kept thinking about how certain parts would work in french while reading it. Is "I think your fic would be a very interesting translation puzzle to figure out" a good compliment? I mean it as one. In any case, if you give me permission, I would post it on AO3 and obviously link back to you, though fair warning I don't think I would be very fast with the translation. No hard feelings if you'd rather I didn't, I just keep thinking about it so I wanted to ask.

Thank you for the joy you've sparked in my life, and I hope you have a good day :)

Oh my gosh, this was such a lovely message to wake up to! Please feel free to translate. It would be my first fic translation into French. And for dispatches no less! My OCs are going international. How exciting!!

I’m delighted you’re considering it a puzzle. If you have any questions, feel free to message me. I don’t know a lick of French, but I can give some context to my word and phrasing choices if you need it.

And no rush at all. Take all the time you want.

For context, I will almost always say yes to translation requests. I just prefer to know that they’re happening and to try and avoid someone going off and posting my work as their own. Obviously, you have good intentions and aren’t planning on absconding with my fic, but it happens, unfortunately.

Thank you so much for reaching out! I’m so glad my work has brought you joy - that’s the biggest compliment a writer can get. I hope you enjoy the translation challenge 💖

[anothermansjeans]

*cough cough* new fic coming out before halloween?? *cough cough* 

“…the police are still trying to find the murderer of the two Fall River locals, Alicia Stone and Maxwell Brighton. If anyone has any leads, detectives Cooper and Bradshaw are asking you to go to them immediately…” 

The sound of the news was playing in the background as Y/N turned off her stove, letting the whistle of the tea kettle dwindle down. 

It was sad, really. The two locals who were found dead had been in her classes all throughout high school and some of college. Albeit, she wasn’t on good terms with them— they were more outgoing and social while she was pushed around by those types in her school career, but it was still depressing to say the least. 

She gnawed on her bottom lip as she made her way to her couch with the steaming mug at her fingertips. Looking at their pictures on the television made her stomach sink, so she turned it off. 

Not even a second later, she heard her phone go off. Unknown Number. Now normally, Y/N wasn’t the type of girl to go around answering strange calls, but with her applying to several different jobs recently, she didn’t think twice about picking it up.

“Hello?” 

There was the sound of breathing on the other end. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

“Hello?” She tried again, but to no avail, the breathing continued. Letting out a small sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen buddy, you’re about a whole area code off from the actual sex hotline, it’s an eight-hundred number.” 

She hung up and put her phone down, but not even a moment later it rang again. “Hello”, she said in an exasperated sigh. 

“Y/N.” 

The voice she heard was the creepy fucking voice from Scream. Of course. Only one person in her life knew how the hell to freak her out, and that just so happened to be her ex. 

“Oh my God, stop calling me. I have your number blocked for a reason.” Again, she abruptly hung up, but she didn’t even get to put the phone down before it started ringing. 

Hitting the answer button to tell him just one more time to stop, she put the phone up to her ear when she heard the voice with a more convicted tone. “Don’t you dare hang up again.” 

She was slightly stunned, but shook herself out of it. “This isn’t funny.” 

“I’m not trying to be, sweetheart. I just have one question.” 

“Jesus Christ,” she mumbled to herself, “what is it?”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” 

There was a slight pause on Y/N’s end as she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Okay Ben, we broke up like eight months ago, this is getting kinda stalkerish.” 

“Bzz”, the voice on the other end started, “wrong boy toy, it probably would’ve been him if he was still alive.” 

A chill went down her spine. She took a moment to herself, calming her nerves before she made it towards the front door. “Leave me the hell alone.” Clicking the lock, she then went to every other door and window in her house, making sure those were closed and locked as well. 

“But you’re so much fun to play with, Y/N.” 

“Ben, I swear to God if this is you and you’re playing some sick joke, I will call the cops and get a restraining order on your ass.” 

“How far do I have to go to prove this isn’t Ben?” The voice sounded angrier than before, causing Y/N to stop in her tracks. 

“I- I don’t know”, she said in a soft whisper. 

There was a pregnant pause on the other end before she heard the sadistic tone come through the speaker. “How about you turn around and find out.” 

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut as silent tears slid down her cheeks. Slowly turning around, she started to open them, looking out the French doors that lead out to her patio. 

The sight she saw made her drop the phone and gasp for air, letting out a strangled sob. She saw Ben. A very bloody and dead Ben sitting on the loveseat outside. Falling to her knees, she quickly hung up, and immediately called 911, getting any and all coherent thoughts out to the dispatcher. 

[glittertrail]

I posted 12.953 times in 2021

112 posts created (1%)

12841 posts reblogged (99%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 114.7 posts.

I added 251 tags in 2021

#replies - 68 posts

#personal - 46 posts

#never ending playlist - 42 posts

#attachment - 22 posts

#about both of them - 18 posts

#thanks for the ask🥰💖 - 12 posts

#prev tags - 11 posts

#about leon - 11 posts

#psoh feels - 11 posts

#aquarius - 10 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#also i grew up on arepas and they are okay but ppl in my home country can't fathom how can i survive not having one for breakfast every day

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

que el mcu en español se traduzca a ucm nunca me dejara de hacer gracia

11 notes • Posted 2021-11-10 19:40:17 GMT

#4

Tag 9 people you want to get to know better

thanks for the tag @gardenarcana (i'm sorry i hadn't seen this before)

favorite color: pink and aquamarine

currently reading: her body and other parties by carmen maria machado and all of the drabbles @junosjukebox has written in the last idk month or so?

last song you listened to: crush by seventeen

last series: rewatching the nanny for the 5th thousandth time because comfort show

last movie: french dispatch

savory, sweet or spicy: sweet

cravings: chocolate and pad thai

currently working on: the december's social calendar from hell and recovery related things

No pressure Tags: @sapphicfolch @violet-amore @stephanieschildren @msaudreyanne @woodswit (or anyone else that wants to do this ofc)

12 notes • Posted 2021-11-12 23:50:24 GMT

#3

this probably matters zero bc i always have a 300 post queue but if we're mutuals and you wonder why I'm ignoring your posts and have suddenly not been annoying, i just refuse to waste my data plan on tumblr till the wifi at home gets fixed

13 notes • Posted 2021-11-29 18:19:34 GMT

#2

I was tagged by @aquafinha to do this (thank you Katie🥰💖)

1. Why did you choose your url?:

for a long time my personal brand was the friend that loved glitter vfx and makeup in general, ofc i would go all out and leave trails of glitter everywhere lmao also i like having a url that is recognizable but not fandom affiliated

2. Any side blogs?:

yes lmao so many but the active ones are only @ellavaday for rpdr stuff, @ccantaloup for cute animal videos food and reminders to be kind to yourself (it is where a lot of... not particularly good stuff used to be documented and instead of deleting it i decided to rebrand it and keep it as a reminder to myself) and @ateneawrites for fic writing (this one's a baby and it's brand new bc i haven't written for fun in a good 6 years, i'm rusty but definitely having fun at least)

3. How long have you been on tumblr?:

2010ish

4. Do you have a queue tag?:

nope, y'all gotta figure out if i'm online or not by yourselves lmao (it's not hard i usually blog a lot of things in a row when i'm online vs one post every half an hour when i'm not)

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?:

i had just moved to a new continent and didn't have many friends and was bored

6. Why did you choose your icon/pfp?:

because i lost my old one😭 i put a cute pic of a ghost for halloween and lost the one i had before of a bottle shaped like a heart that said poison 😔 the one i currently have just looked okay with the no header look i like on mobile

7. Why did you choose your header?:

i don't like the look of headers 😬

8. What’s your post with the most notes?:

in this blog? It's buried bc this blog is old as sin but it's either a post about leon orcot from psoh or effie trinket from thg, rn it's a screenshot of choriza may's last look on the rpdr runway because this might not be the drag race blog but the stickers of a peach with "chocho" written on it definitely belongs to this blog lmao

9. How many mutuals do you have?:

probably about a hundred-ish but i am not sure since the rpdr blog is quite more popular than my main

10. How many followers do you have?:

this blog has about 1.1k and the drag race blog has about 4.8k followers (which is absolutely insane but most of those have to be inactive by now tbh.. that sideblog exploded when i first made it bc of t&k), fully have no clue about the other ones but those are the ones i frequent the most

11. How many people do you follow?:

367

12. Have you ever made a shitpost?:

have i made anything but shitposts?

13. How often do you use tumblr each day?:

i started to check it daily again just recently, kind of left it abandoned in 2017 but i'm here probably more often than i should currently

14. Did you ever have a fight/argument with another blog once?:

never, the unfollow button is right there and blocking is not hard should that not suffice

15. How do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?:

same as katie, i get annoyed, it usually just ensures i ignore it, specially, no offense, if it's got to do with the us

16. Do you like tag games?:

love them

17. Do you like ask games?:

love those too!

my favorite thing is the mutuals that will send you things to your ask box unprompted too btw or play things like "assign me a time period in history" or a dessert (@msaudreyanne @woodswit @jackredfieldwasmyjacob are probably some of my favorite people to follow bc of those things)

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?:

depends on what we consider famous, i think some of them have got def more engagement than most, if that counts as famous then @woodswit @msaudreyanne and @legallybrunette1997 qualify

if we go by "people that represent their fandom" i think I'd be remiss not to add @goldenliartrash and @sapphicfolch to the list (hello ministericos how are we doing) and then @ellanainthetardis (or hayffie fanfiction god) and @junosjukebox and @veronicasanders (for rpdr fanfiction specifically)

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual?:

a couple that i'm v good friends irl with now since i firmly believe in being a tiny bit in love with your friends 🥰

(no pressure) tags: @kindlichekaiserins @sapphicsupremacist @dykegoblins @amillcitygirl @gardenarcana @poliearbear @lissette @timelordsensate @katya-zamos @doumekiss @1-800-heller @papitati @stephanieschildren , any of the people i tagged before while answering this and anyone else who wishes to do this

18 notes • Posted 2021-11-25 17:00:54 GMT

#1

Obsessed with these stickers, i too would like a giant peach sticker that says chocho

33 notes • Posted 2021-11-01 09:48:01 GMT

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