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shuahoonie · 3 years

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holidays with tom [tom holland]

PAIRING: tom holland x female!reader

SUMMARY: life isn’t exactly back to normal. with another lockdown in place and the holiday season is vastly approaching, you and tom are stuck in quarantine with each other the problem? there was supposed to be at least 5 of you in that house and tom is the last person you want to be with. shouldn’t be too bad right?

WARNINGS: in no particular order swearing—err foul language lmao, sexual innuendos, things get heated but not that much??? exuding sexual tension but also fluff??? alcohol consumption, a series of bad decisions??? idk writing this made me experience the 5 stages of grief tbh lmao it’s not that bad I promise lmao

WORD COUNT: 6.9k!

A/N: hello and happy new year! I was supposed to post this during Christmas Day but guess who got into a writing rut—yet again. I didn’t want to abandon this because I actually had fun writing it. I hope you all had a festive and safe holiday. I know things have been hard but I still hope you guys enjoyed the holiday.

2020 has finally came to an end and we’re all ending it the same way when the pandemic started—staying at home, hopefully following the appropriate health measures. I can only hope that 2021 is a brighter and hopeful year for all of us.

stay safe, sending u all my love.

gif credits: @underoos-shield

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Two hours. It’s been two hours since you found out that you were going to spend your holidays alone. You were aware that you weren’t going to spend your holidays with your family as you normally would, embracing the fact that working in a different country whilst in the middle of a pandemic was going to be challenging.

Working in the film industry, constantly visiting sets while still living in a pandemic means that you threw away your chances of being home for the holidays. However, you weren’t entirely the only one who shares a similar struggle.

“We should still do something for Christmas, you know,” Tom muttered as he watched you lay down on the sofa, your head is supported by the armrest.

See—it should’ve been you, Ophelia, Alex, William, and Tom in that AirBnB, not just you and Tom.

The five of you reside abroad, however, you all had to fly to Los Angeles for work. You all collectively knew that it would be irresponsible to fly home for the holidays and it wouldn’t make any sense as you would all fly back for work anyway.

The five of you had a brilliant idea of renting an AirBnB for the holidays since you were all in each other’s personal and work bubble anyway. Obviously, the three of them bailed as they’ve decided to stay with their partners instead, leaving you and Tom alone—which is the last thing you’ve wanted.

“There’s just us two, Tom,” You replied as you sent a lengthy text to Ophelia, telling and reminding them about what happened between you and Tom. “I’m not entirely sure if it’s worth anything if we did plan on doing something remotely festive.”

There are four more days till Christmas and if you were being honest, the last time you felt festive was on the 18th of December...of 2019.

“Surely there’s something we can do, right?” Tom’s optimism still shined beneath him. “This year has already been shitty enough, we don’t need to feed more into that.”

The three dots bubble immediately popped up on your message thread with Ophelia as soon as you sent your passive-aggressive rant. Your focus was now on your phone.

Suddenly, Tom’s face appeared on top of yours—his face was definitely close enough that it’s not CDC approved. He was standing on side of the sofa, both of his palms planted against the armrest as he loomed over you.

“What do you and your family do during Christmas?” He dared to ask as if he wasn’t towering over you.

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Uh—give each other personal space?” You answered out of sheer reflex. You always had a problem with keeping your mouth shut, especially when it sounds rude to other people. In your defence, being unable to do so has helped you put people back in place.

To be fair, you were used to people standing at least 6 ft away from you ever since the pandemic started.

Tom’s cheeks went bright red. “’m sorry,” He apologized, giving you a shy smile and scratched the back of his neck. You muttered a quick apology too, for acting so rashly.

You rose from your position and sat upright instead. “Well, we never do anything special during Christmas,” You said as you threw your hair into a bun. “We usually just go to the movies on Christmas Day because that’s the only thing you can do back when life was normal.”

Tom nodded understandingly as if he was taking this into account. Now you were curious.

“Do you guys do anything special for Christmas?” You asked him.

“Well, on Christmas Day, we would usually just lounge around the house and use it as a chance for me and my family to catch up,” Tom replied. “However, on Christmas Eve, my mum always made sure my brothers and I would have this scavenger hunt to look for our gifts—It’s really fun, actually.” Tom smiled sadly.

You could easily see how Tom was genuinely broken about not being able to be around his family over the holidays. Heck—he really just misses his family. But who wouldn’t? Britney Spears didn’t sing the line “my loneliness is killing me” for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say. Aside from biting your tongue, being able to easily comfort people was one of your weaknesses too.

“Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about, darling.” Tom quickly dismissed the genuine heartbreak he was trying to hide. “We’re all making sacrifices and we chose to be responsible for the benefit of other people.”

“Yeah, I know.” You said softly. “We’ll just try our best to make something out of this holiday season. I mean—we have to or else we’ll welcome 2021 with a fresh face of misery.”

“I’m sorry!” Ophelia pouted at the screen as they mindlessly walked around their partner’s place, something that most people do when they’re on the phone with someone. “I genuinely forgot about what happened between you and Tom.”

“Well, Ollie, it seems like you weren’t the only one.” You replied, adjusting your glasses. Tom seems to be genuinely fine around you, no awkward tensions or anything. If anything, it’s just you who feels weird around him. “But I guess that’s a good thing right?”

Ophelia forced a smile but they couldn’t, for the life of them, say anything about it.

“Oh my god,” You sighed “Seriously, Ollie?”

“It’s just—how could he forget?! You were literally on top of him as I recall and that very much left a permanent image on my mind. I—You know, I really tried my best to forget that ever existing in my mind. So really, if anything, it’s your fault.” Ophelia rambled on.

“I—I wasn’t on top of him. That’s absurd! I was merely pressed against him” You said defensively, in which Ophelia just laughed atrociously. “Why am I friends with you again?!” You asked rhetorically, bewildered by the fact that you two lasted this long.

“First of all, that is a hate crime. Second, I’m cool—like everyone wants to be my friend and you should be glad that I gave you the privilege to be even on a nickname basis as me.”

You rolled your eyes at them. Despite the never-ending banter, you were grateful to have Ophelia as your friend.

“But seriously, Y/N,” Ophelia said, “You can always just stay with me and Ericka. She’ll be glad to have you over for the holidays.”

“Ollie, as much as I love spending time with you two—I can’t stand being a third-wheel, especially when it comes to the both of you. You two are inseparable when you’re together.” You replied. “I appreciate the offer though.” You smiled at her.

“I’m just saying—” Ophelia replied, shrugging her shoulder. “Unless you and Tom really want to have the house by yourselves.” They sang teasingly.

“Ophelia!” You gasped.

“What?” They feigned innocence. “I gave you an option to stay with us! Plus, I know Alex and Will are would’ve asked you to stay with them if they had any idea what happened between you two.”

“I can’t leave him!” You started to whisper “Tom seems genuinely bummed being here. I can’t just do that to him.”

It’s as if a light came on inside them. Ophelia started to smirk and you recognized that smirk from anywhere. For christ’s sake, their eyes twinkled like Christmas lights. It drove you nuts. “I fucking knew it.”

“What?”

“You like him don’t you?!” They teased, but all you could do was blush.

“I do not!” You denied it as you could still feel the burning heat emitting from your cheeks.

“His tongue is that good huh?” Ophelia decided to pry even further. They clearly find enjoyment as you squirmed your way out of this conversation.

“Bitch, I am ending this call.” That was all you could say. Even if you did find a smart retort, it was no use, especially with Ophelia. They can see right through you and there’s no point in trying to hide it.

“Honestly, Y/N, we’re living through a pandemic. If there’s any time to make any rash decisions, it’s now. Go get that dick, bih—”

You drowned out whatever Ophelia was trying to say with your goodbyes and proceeded to end the call. The one time you asked your friend to be serious and they come up with this.

So—what really happened with you and Tom?

It was two years ago. You were at a party that you didn’t even plan on attending. However, you were dragged by Ophelia and their partner, Ericka—your new friends in the area. You couldn’t say no to them, they were your first friend in LA!

You thought about it though, saying no. But when you got a message from your friend back in Canada sending a photo of your boyfriend ex-boyfriend (the same guy who had ghosted you ever since you moved to LA), swapping spits with another girl, you suddenly had the strong urge to drink until you die of alcohol poisoning.

You were burning with anger that you really felt tears pricking your eyes. You were so close to crying or punching someone—whichever comes first.

One thing’s for sure, though, you weren’t going to cry over a man. So what did you do? “Ophelia, where’s the booze?!” You asked your friend whose eyes nearly popped out of their head.

Well, you weren’t really going to punch a stranger. Though you felt this burning sense of violence, it’d be much more satisfying to punch the living daylights out on your ex.

“Y/N, honey, are you alright?” That line always puts on the waterworks, no? Ophelia was clearly concerned about your newfound thirst for alcohol.

You furiously wiped the tears off your face. “Um just found out my boyfriend—er ex-boyfriend, who stopped talking to me as soon as I moved here, is seeing someone else now? I don’t know, am I allowed to feel angry when I don’t even know if we’re still together as soon I moved? Fuck—” You tried to explain as you wiped every tear that left your eyes.

“Oh—of course, hon.” Ericka who handed you a drink. You weren’t exactly sure what it is, but you knew it has alcohol in it and that’s all that matters. You gulped the entire thing and you wanted more. “Y/N, you need to slow down.”

“Are you sure you want to stay? I mean we can crash at our place, eat take-outs, watch movies and be totally disconnected from the world.” Ophelia suggested, but you shook your head furiously.

“No, I—I’m ok.” You answered “I can’t let the both of you be stuck in misery with me. I need this. I’ll get drunk and if I'm up for it, I’ll hook up with someone. It’s not a healthy coping method but I really want this night to be a series of bad decisions. I don’t want to be myself, even just tonight.”

So that’s what you did. You were going from one drink to another in record time. Both Ophelia and Ericka kept an eye on you, just in case someone tried to take advantage of your drunken state.

You were talking to some guy you met in the kitchen, one thing led to another and next thing you knew, you were making out with this dude in someone’s bathroom. Ophelia and Ericka were drunk enough to pester the guy you were making out with but not drunk

As you were propped on top of the sink and your legs wrapped around his waist, you felt every bit of his lips explore the side of your neck as his hands explored every inch of your body. With his hand under your shirt and his fingers tracing every part of your skin, it just reminded you of how lonely you were.

Here you were, a thousand miles away from home, all alone just so you could do the one thing you really love. Your family would sometimes call to check up on you but it just wasn’t the same. Your ex tried to guilt you into staying in Canada, but you couldn’t do that. You love what you do and you love yourself too.

You were willing to risk everything, even if happiness came at a price.

Now you were crying, and the guy you were making out with definitely noticed.

“I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?” He asked as he pulled down your shirt.

“No—no, I’m just—” You tried to calm yourself down. “I’m not sure if I want to do this anymore.”

“That’s alright,” He mumbled wiping the tears off your face. “Do you want to talk about it? You seem rattled.”

“It’s just I’m so tired of pretending everything is alright—that I’m okay being alone, that I don’t need anyone. But it’s just so hard because I’m—” You sobbed “I’m so fucking lonely. I’m so tired of being alone.”

The guy tucked the stray piece of hair behind your ears as he carefully wiped your tears with his thumb. He was just silent as he listened to you sob.

“I’m sorry, I know you definitely didn’t come to this party to watch a complete stranger cry over something stupid.” You couldn’t even look him in the eye, you were embarrassed as this was the first time you felt really vulnerable—especially in front of a stranger.

“No, you’re alright.” He tried to console you “I think that’s the beauty in strangers, no? You can act and do whatever you want in front of them because there’s a slim chance you’ll ever see them again.”

You were definitely drunk enough that trying to make sense of who the person was a struggle enough of itself. You tried your best to look at the guy but your vision was getting hazy and you could feel your head thumping that focusing made you feel like you want to crack your head in half.

A loud knock on the door caused you two to jump. “I’m coming in,” Ophelia yelled and opened the door. Ophelia looked at the guy for a while, trying to make sense of who he was before their eyes widened. “I remember now—You’re Tom Holland.”

Imagine your surprise when you found out that you were going to work with Tom Holland for a while. You tried your best to avoid Tom at work but of course, that didn’t work out. He never brought up what happened between you two and you assumed he probably forgot all about it.

You tried to rationalize that he meets a lot of people every day. Surely, one failed hook-up wasn’t worth remembering (especially with alcohol involved) and you held on to that.

At least that’s what makes you sleep at night and also one of the reasons why you considered spending the holidays with him. However, you were also expecting your crew friends to stay with you and not just Tom.

“Y/N, did you like the gift? It’s from me and Ericka!” Ophelia asked. It was the next day and you two were just chatting on FaceTime. You were sorting out your closet out of sheer boredom. You figured if you were going to stay here for three weeks, the least you could do was sort your clothes out.

You stared at the neatly wrapped box that Ophelia and Ericka dropped off earlier this morning. “I haven’t opened it yet.” You said as you showed them the box. “I wanna open it till Christmas.”

“Oh my god, just open it. Christmas doesn’t exist this year, babe.” Ophelia waved their hand, encouraging you to open it.

“Fine,” You gave in. You opened the box and saw a very lush and well-made lingerie set. “Ophelia, what the fuck” You gasped. You held out the lingerie in front of the camera.

“Y/N, I definitely outdid myself this time.” Ophelia sighed happily, staring at the screen. “Try it on!”

“Ollie, this is gorgeous but when am I ever going to use this?” You asked holding it out on your body and looking at the mirror.

“Uh—you’re stuck at home with your failed but also potential hookup,” Ollie suggested, wiggling their eyebrows. “Who knows what might happen?”

You rolled your eyes at them. “Bold of you assume that something might happen.”

“Something won’t happen if you don’t try that one,” Ophelia said. “C’mon, I wanna see.”

You shook your head and went out of frame in order to strip off your clothes. You tried on the lingerie—it’s a black lace teddy with a very exposing back. IT fit you perfectly—it accentuated your figure and definitely showed off your boobs. You weren’t really fond of showing off your body but you still tried your best to show it to your friend.

“What do you think?” You asked, stepping back to the frame.

“You look gorgeous, babe!” Ophelia squealed. “I knew I made the right choice with black.”

“I still don’t know where I should wear this though—” You were stopped mid-sentence when your door swung open.

“I know what we’re doing this—Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” Tom stood there, frozen, his eyes widened and immediately shut the door.

You couldn’t even say anything. You were frozen in shock.

“Was that Tom?” Ophelia asked from the call, briefly forgetting that you were talking to them through FaceTime.

You nodded slowly, unable to talk.

“What did he think?” Ophelia asked excitedly.

You snapped out of this haze. “Ollie,” you groaned. “I think he was mentally scarred.

“What do you mean scarred? You look great!” Ophelia said, appalled. “If he doesn’t think you look banging in that lingerie then it’s his loss.”

“I gotta go, I need to change.” You said, bidding Ophelia goodbye. “Thanks for the gift, Ollie. Tell Ericka thanks too.”

You ended the call and changed into comfier clothes. You couldn’t help but wonder how on earth you’re going to face Tom now that he’s seen you practically naked. Well, it’s not like that’s a new sight. He did see you with your bra on when you were making out in the bathroom that one time. But still!

Are you actually going to spend your Christmas in your room?

It was the next day and there are only two more days till Christmas. You spent the entirety of last night in your room after the incident between you and Tom.

You were about to make yourself some coffee when you found Tom in the kitchen, making tea for himself. You stood there frozen, wondering if you were going to proceed to the kitchen or just run back to your room since Tom hasn’t noticed you—

“Oh—good morning, Y/N.” So close.

You smiled at Tom and said, “Good morning, Tom.”

You grabbed a coffee pod and waited for the Keurig to make your coffee. You leaned back against the counter and fiddled with your phone—all in the hopes that things move quickly and for this awkward tension to be over.

Honestly, why were you so worked up about it? People have seen you in a bikini before and that’s no different from lingerie. If anything, lingerie is itchier and has lace. You should be able to feel confident in your own body and you shouldn’t have to mind what other people think of it. It’s yours alone and it’s your opinion that should matter—

“I’m terribly sorry about last night, Y/N.” Tom apologized, sincerity was written all over his face. “I should’ve knocked and I just got so bloody excited about what we can do over Christmas—but that’s no excuse for what I’ve done. What I did was incredibly intrusive and you deserve a proper apology.”

“Tom, I—”

“I wanted to apologize last night—over dinner—but you didn’t come down to eat, so I figured you didn’t want to talk. “ He rambled on.

“Tom—”

“But even then I should’ve asked you to come down and eat dinner because that’s what any decent human would do! And yet I didn’t. God—I’m just doing one wrong thing after another—”

“Tom, listen to me.”

“Hm?” He finally snapped out and looked at you in the eyes.

“It’s okay. It was an honest mistake and you sincerely apologized, and for me, that’s enough.” You smiled softly at him. “So—what’s this thing you planned over Christmas?”

“I was thinking we could do both our family traditions over the next two days. My family and I usually do a roast dinner and open our Christmas stockings on Christmas Eve. Then on the 25th, we can watch movies all day just like you do with your family.” Tom grinned, clearly satisfied with his plan. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” You smiled “However, I don’t think we have any ingredients for a roast dinner and we don’t really have Christmas stockings. Well—I don’t have any Christmas stockings and stocking stuffers.”

“That’s true,” Tom mumbled “But I have to do the food shopping anyway. We’re running low on food and I couldn't really book one of those online delivery things that most groceries now offer.”

You nodded. “Okay, so I guess I have to get the house sorted then.”

When you two first arrived in this AirBnB a few days ago, it had already been decorated for Christmas. It had a massive tree in the living room decorated with stunning and intricately-themed ornaments. Christmas garlands were wrapped around the stair-bannisters and foliages were placed by the fireplace and the tables.

All you really had to do was clean the place—do a bit of vacuuming and get things nice and neat for Christmas. It didn’t take you too long to do it too. It had only been a couple of minutes since Tom left to do the food shopping and you prayed to the gods that he doesn’t get too much attention whilst out.

You figured you might as well do some last-minute shopping while Tom was out, so you can grab gifts for him as well. After all, this whole thing was orchestrated by Tom and you don’t even have anything to give him for his stockings.

You arrived at your AirBnB a tad later than Tom. He was in the kitchen putting things away when he saw you walk through the door.

“Ah, I was wondering whether I spooked you with my plan,” Tom commented, making you chuckle and roll your eyes.

“Trust me, I would’ve made it very obvious if you did.” You replied, earning a laugh from Tom. “I went out to do my last-minute shopping. Granted, it’s not ideal since we’re still living through a pandemic, but there’s not actually that many people where I went to considering it’s the Christmas rush.”

You made sure to hide the stuff you bought using the handmade tote bags that a friend gave you for your birthday. No retail bags, no clue. “How did you survive the groceries? I bet it’s busy out there.”

“Yeah, it was.” Tom chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Remind me to never do that again for Christmas.”

“Sure,” You said, “That is if I spend another Christmas with you.” You said jokingly, hoping that Tom didn’t find that rude.

“You’ll never know,” Tom shrugged. “What if you liked our Christmas this year and you’d be begging to spend Christmas with me and my family in London,” Tom smirked, playing along.

“Yeah, right.” You scoffed playfully, crossing your arms. “If anyone’s begging, it’s going to be you.”

Tom stepped closer, “Wanna bet?” He whispered, a teasing look in his eyes. “Whoever has the most fun during our respective holiday traditions would have to spend the holidays with them next year.”

“Oh, you’re on, Holland.” You took a step closer. “We will both film our holidays for the entire two days and then we’ll ask Ophelia, Alex, and Will to vote whoever looks like they had the most fun.”

“Okay,” Tom nodded “But no editing! We’ll give them raw footage so there are no chances of tampering.”

You laughed but you agreed anyway. “Of course, we’ll give them hours of footage. The least we could do is make them sit through hours of content after they ditched us all alone on the holidays.”

Tom gave a broad smile. “Let the festivities begin.”

It was the 24th of December—Christmas Eve. You spent the entirety of last night wrapping Tom’s presents for later. Not that you despise Christmas, but it’s been a while since you were actually excited to celebrate it. It was pretty clear that the magic of Christmas dies once you grow up.

Today was different; you were looking forward to whatever Tom has installed for tonight.

You went downstairs to make some breakfast only to be greeted by Tom blasting Christmas music and preparing some ingredients for breakfast in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Y/N, happy Christmas Eve,” Tom greeted with a huge grin. “Say, hi to the camera.”

“Oh, we’re starting this early, huh?” You asked, putting your hair into a loose ponytail.

“Why of course, we have to make the best out of this,” Tom said, holding the camera to your face. “I made you coffee.” Tom handed you a cup of coffee.

“Are you using my love for coffee as an advantage?” You tried to hide your smile while drinking your coffee.

“Obviously not,” Tom feigned his innocence. “I obviously did not know you were obsessed with coffee—it’s not like I don’t see you on set without one.” He mumbled in which you definitely heard, giving him a smack on the head. “Ow! I’m kidding.” He laughed.

You rolled your eyes at him. “So, what’s for breakfast?”

“We’re going to make french crèpes,” Tom replied and propped the camera on the kitchen island, facing the two of you.

“Do you know how to make french crèpes?” You asked, washing your hands.

Tom blinked, almost trying to decide whether he wants to be honest or impressive. “Do you know how to make french crèpes?” He returned the question.

“Oh honey, my mom resents me in the kitchen.” You replied, taking a sip from your coffee. “But you know, I manage.” You murmured.

“That’s giving me a lot of hope, darling, thank you.” He said half-heartedly.

“Shut up,” You nudged him playfully, rolling your eyes. “Tom, honestly, most of the footage is just us bantering for 20 minutes.”

“To be fair, that’s part of the fun.” Tom smiled. “Okay, I think you just mix all of these in a bowl. Start with the dry ingredients first.” He said, looking at the recipe on his phone.

“Okay, that shouldn’t be too hard,” You commented pouring the ingredients into the bowl. As you started all of the ingredients together, you noticed small lumps forming in the batter. “Tom, did you sift the dry ingredients by chance?”

“You were supposed to sift it?” He asked, completely clueless.

You nodded slowly. Panic was now clearly painted on his face. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” You tried to reassure him.

It was not fine. The first time you two tried to pour the batter in the pan, you burnt the entire thing. It’s not even the cute, lightly burnt crepe. It was activating the smoke alarm-burnt crepe.

The next one was pancake-like. The next one after that had pocket flours on the crepes because you two didn’t sift your dry ingredients beforehand. You ran out of the batter when you two finally got the consistency right—you managed to get one proper crepe from the entire batter.

“I feel like Sam would probably curse me out as soon as he finds out I fucked up a simple crepe,” Tom said, delicately filling the crepe with creme and berries. “My brother’s done so well in culinary school.” He cut a piece with his fork and brought it to your mouth.

“Well, you can’t have everything.” You said taking a bite out of the crepe. “This is better than the last one.”

Tom nodded, taking a bite of it himself. “It’s not as tasty as Sam’s but I’ll take it.”

“Now, I’m curious as to what your brother’s cooking tastes like.” You commented taking another bite from the crepe.

“I guess I’ll just take you home to London to find out,” Tom teased with an annoying grin.

“As long as I’m being fed, I’m fine with it.” You remarked. What in god’s name are you are you two playing?!

The day rolled by very quickly. It was already evening when you finished wrapping the presents for your friends. You plan on dropping it off tomorrow before you persuade Tom to glue yourselves on the couch for the entire day.

You grabbed all of Tom’s gifts—Christmas stocking included— when you went downstairs, only to be greeted by someone yelling at Tom through his phone.

“I did everything right, Sam. I don’t know why you’re yelling.” Tom yelled back at his phone. His back was turned against you as he was putting away the pots and pans that he used.

You quietly walked up behind him and said calmly, “Why are you yelling?”

Tom probably jumped six feet away from you, making you laugh. You always forget that he gets scared easily. “Holy shit, don’t scare me like that, Y/N.” Tom breathed out, putting a hand over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” You said whilst laughing. “I promise I won’t do it again.” Tom rolled his eyes, murmuring something about you being insincere about it.

“Please do it again!” You heard, whom you assume is Sam, say from the background. You looked at Tom’s phone that’s propped on the island and saw his brothers on FaceTime.

You beamed at them. “Any recommendations?” You asked, hearing Tom groan behind you.

“Well, he hates—”

“This is the last thing I want in 2020, for my brothers and Y/N to conspire against me,” Tom said loudly on purpose, drowning his brothers' voices.

“Tom, don’t be rude. Let your brothers finish—” Tom put his hand against your mouth.

“I’ll call you guys later,” Tom said “Wave goodbye, Y/N.” He used his free hand to grab your hand and forced a wave towards his brothers. The call soon came to an end and you could only roll your eyes at Tom. You seem to do that a lot around him. You also do a lot of that when you try to hide your feelings towards a person you like but that’s beside the point.

“So are we going to have dinner first or are we going to do presents first?” You asked fixing your Christmas sweater, a gift from your parents since you and your family usually wear matching sweaters for Christmas. “Or are you the type to wait until Christmas Day to open presents?”

“We can do the Christmas stockings after dinner tonight, then do the presents tomorrow, if you’d like,” Tom answered with his arms crossed.

You shrugged, telling him it doesn’t matter since you don’t really go all out on Christmas. Your family on the other hand—the house is always full of people, especially since most of your extended family are usually around during the holidays. You had this ongoing game you made for yourself whether or not you’ll be able to greet everyone with the number of people in the house.

You could only guess how quiet your family’s Christmas is going to be. You definitely needed to call your parents later.

“Is the sweater that itchy, Y/N?” You heard Tom ask, breaking away from your thoughts.

“Huh?” You asked, confused. You didn’t even notice that you’ve been scratching yourself subconsciously.

“You’ve been scratching yourself since I saw you.” Tom said, chuckling. “It’s a cute sweater on you.”

You smirked. “That reminds me—I got something for you, Tom.” Tom raised his brow as you grabbed the bag you stashed behind the tree. “Actually my parents got this for you. A little thank you gift apparently for having the tolerance to stay with me over the holidays—as if you had a choice.” You mumbled the last part.

Tom curiously opened the bag and there revealed a matching sweater such as yours. This year’s sweater was green and had red tinsel all over it, probably the reason why you’re itchy. The real kicker is that—

“No way,” Tom gasped “It lights up?!” He asked laughing. It lights up.

“Yeah, I don’t recommend turning that on. I did it earlier and I’m pretty sure I was about to combust—it’s a real fire hazard.” You replied, enjoying the genuine joy that Tom is showing on his face.

“Oh but we have to turn the lights on when we take pictures,” He commented as he put on the sweater. “Thanks, Y/N.” He said softly, surprising you with a hug.

It’s the first real physical contact that you two had ever since that night when you made out and you were pretty adamant that people were just making up this notion of having butterflies in their stomach—they weren’t.

Tom’s roast dinner went surprisingly well. You kept teasing him that it’s Sam that you had to thank because you knew that Tom wouldn’t last in the kitchen without his brother’s instructions. Tom pouted the whole time. You eventually had to tell him

“It was sweet.” You told him as you helped him clear out the plates.

Tom was confused.

“I don’t think I’ve known someone that went through hell and back just to make a great effort Christmas dinner —even if it means getting yelled at by your brother.” You said, smiling softly at him. “I mean it’s just us two, really. We don’t even have to do this.”

“Think that’s the reason why I wanted to do it,” Tom replied. Now you’re confused. “It’s because it’s the two of us—that’s why I wanted to do it.”

As soon as you heard those words come out of Tom’s lips, you tried your best to stay calm. To say that you weren’t overwhelmed with emotions would be a huge lie. For someone who couldn’t hold their tongue, you were speechless. Tom’s giving you a run for your money and you weren’t exactly thrilled about it.

After dinner, you and Tom opened your stocking presents. The presents were pretty tame at the start—you both got each other socks, which was hilarious but greatly appreciated. You love socks, especially comfy and cushiony ones. You came to learn that Tom does too, which prompted you two to wear the socks immediately.

You got him candy canes, he got you chocolates. You also snuck in those small, in-flight alcohol bottles in there too—which he ended up loving. He got you those 10-pack skincare face masks, in which you let out a huge gasp, making him laugh.

“Oh, we have to use this at some point!” You exclaimed happily “Like, we need to have a spa night—where we just watch movies, doing face masks, eating takeouts. Oh, that’s the dream!” You sighed happily.

“We still have two weeks left till we go back to work, I'm sure we can find the time to do that,” Tom said with a permanent smile on his face, watching you with pure joy made him feel like he accomplished something big.

You got him one of those Instax polaroid cameras—true, it was a bit too much for a stocking stuffer especially since the box definitely stood out against the stocking, but you figured he’ll like it.

“Darling, this is too much but I’m thankful,” Tom commented as he took out the camera from the box. “I can’t wait to use this and keep memories using it—why don’t we start right now?! Let’s take a photo of us and our matching sweaters!”

Tom took a lot of photos of you two, in the end. A couple of overexposed photos, one with the matching sweaters, one with your faces pressed against each other, one with your faces way too close to the camera, and one where he gave you a kiss on your cheek (he asked if that’s okay, of course, you said yes. it’s not like he hasn’t kissed you before— still no conversations about that, by the way). It was a good thing you got him at least 3 boxes of those 20 pack films in his stockings as well.

The real kicker was Tom’s “small” stocking present for you. He got you this dainty, gold necklace with a crescent moon charm. You were pretty sure it was expensive because of the teal box it came with.

“Stop,” You gasped “Tom, now this—this is too much.” You stressed out. “I can’t have this. Nope, you have to return this.”

Tom shrugged as if it was nothing. “You deserve it. Darling, you deserve something nice after this shitty year.”

“Tom, I’m serious. This is too much.”

“I’m serious too, Y/N. Keep it, please. I’d be offended if you don’t.”

After the roller coaster of emotions due to the stocking presents, you gave your parents a call to wish them a merry Christmas. They insisted to do a video call because they wanted to see Tom in the family sweater—which your mom wouldn’t stop gushing about.

“I think your mum loves me,” Tom whispered closely in your ear. He didn't have to try too hard. With the laptop propped up on top of the coffee table, you two were sitting close together on the living room floor—knees touching, maximum close skin contact. CDC would never approve.

“Yeah, I think it’s the accent,” You mumbled jokingly.

Tom moved his head to take a good look at you, smiling. You could feel his eyes burning your skin. Why does he have to look at you like that? Why does he have to be this close?

The initial video call with your parents turned into a whole family reunion when you found out they set up a group call with your extended family. Imagine the dread and fear in your eyes when you heard your one aunt ask,

“Finally, Y/N, is that your boyfriend?”

Your eyes widened as you stuttered to say your defence, making Tom chuckle. You frowned at him and nudged him saying, “Don’t laugh, tell them no or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“No, unfortunately, I’m not,” Tom replied, laughing. “However, I do believe we make a cute couple, don’t we?” He teased, earning an earnest yes from your mom.

You could only wish for the floor to swallow you whole.

As the clocks rolled to twelve, it was officially Christmas. You and Tom figured you might as well start opening gifts again because Christmas Day is going to be a drag for the two of you.

“Okay, start with this.” You said as you handed him a gift bag. You didn’t give him a lot of gifts for the actual Christmas Day because you went all out on the stuffers.

“Pyjamas?” He asked with a grin. You made a signal for him to give you a minute. You ran to your room and changed into pyjamas.

“Not just pyjamas, Tom, but matching pyjamas!” You exclaimed, laughing. “I saw it and figured we should do this for my day.”

“Sick!” Tom laughed. Tom got into his pair of pyjamas as well and of course, he didn’t forget to pull out his new polaroid camera to take a photo of you two. “Shit, I forgot to film our entire Christmas Eve.” He said as he saw the camera that was still sitting on the kitchen island from earlier that morning.

You shrugged. “I’m pretty sure you’ll win either way. Just that content from the breakfast crepes was enough to secure your place.” You said jokingly.

“All I’m hearing is that you’re going to spend Christmas with me in London next year.” Tom sang teasingly.

“Yeah, maybe bringing you to our big Christmas holidays is a bad idea.” You wondered out loud.

“I like your family,” Tom commented with a smile “and I think they will love having me there for the holidays.”

“That would be a nightmare.” You mumbled to yourself.

The rest of the night dragged on. You and Tom finished the rest of your gifts—you got him a watch, he got you a vinyl player. You two managed to watch the first Harry Potter film before you called it a night.

You were about to head into your room when you heard Tom say, “Mistletoe.”

“Hm?” You hummed, confused. He placed a finger under your chin and gently tilted your head. There you saw a mistletoe hanging by one of the light fixtures.

“How did that even—”

“Can I kiss you?” Tom asked, cupping the sides of your face.

“Hm?” Tom was definitely giving you a run for your money. How can a girl with a speech turn speechless?

“Can I kiss you?” He asked more softly. All you could do was nod. For if you even dare to open your mouth, all of this would cease to exist.

His lips gently touched yours and then soon moulded into one. It was soft, sweet—familiar. His lips were something you never thought about—at least not a lot but you craved it. You crave his lips, his touch, him. You were riding a new high and you thanked every single god that you were sober to remember this—because this, this is something you want to cherish.

“You told me you’re tired of being alone,” Tom whispered against your lips. “You don’t have to be anymore. Not when you have me, not ever.”

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#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x fem #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fluff #tom holland fic #tom holland blurb #tom holland and reader #tom holland and you #tom holland angst #tom holland imagines #tom holland x y/n #tom holland au #tom holland and y/n #tom holland x you #the girl writes i guess #txmhoellandwrites

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new-sandrafilter · 4 years

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The Making (and Re-Making) of Timothée Chalamet

BY DANIEL RILEY / PHOTOGRAPHY BY RENELL MEDRANO

He found superstardom and artistic acclaim instantaneously. Now, with unique candor, the actor of a generation reveals what it’s like to come of age in our very upside-down era.

The day after the Oscars in 2018, everything that had changed, changed back again. Timothée Chalamet had spent the previous months becoming known. He had acted in a film, Call Me by Your Name, which was critically acclaimed as well as an instant object of cultish admiration—and his performance had made him, at 22, the youngest person nominated for best actor in 80 years. He had, simultaneously, been transformed into the rarest of pop confections—fawned over by younger women, older men, and every demographic in between. And he had traveled without pause on the awards circuit since early autumn, back and forth from New York and Los Angeles, practically living out of the first-class lounge and the lobbies of the Bowery Hotel and the Sunset Tower.

But the day after the Oscars, the moment the clock struck midnight and his carriage turned into a pumpkin, Chalamet was right back where he'd been before the whole fantasy had begun: in New York, with no credit card, no apartment, and no longer any structured demands on his time and attention. Outsiders who had witnessed the arrival may have regarded this 22-year-old as being in possession of wealth and clout, but he was suddenly back on his own dime, which amounted to maybe five or six dimes, reticent to stay with family and friends whose lives he felt he was disrupting with all his new baggage. Of course they couldn't possibly comprehend the chemical reaction that had just transpired. They were still hydrogen and oxygen, and Timothée Chalamet was all of a sudden water.

And so, for three weeks, he disappeared into the wallpaper of the Lower East Side. Specifically, the wallpaper of a little apartment that the French street artist JR kept for visiting collaborators. Chalamet holed up against the ugly New York weather of late winter, and did the only thing he could think to do: learn lines. The King would be his first film since his pivot into fame, and he was anxious to get back to acting after such a long stretch of merely talking about acting. Even more, he needed to blot out the unrecognizable icon the internet was already beginning to make of Timothée Chalamet.

I met Timothée for the first time at the onset of that initial blush of fame, when all of us were being introduced to an actor who had both rare talent and the un-engineerable it that chings like an audible sparkle off a jewel in a cartoon. I wrote a story for this magazine about that first chapter in the arrival of a film star. This is the second chapter, the story of what's happened since. It wasn't evident yet, but those three weeks in New York in 2018 were the starting line of what would amount to a 30-month stretch of four new films, two new Oscar campaigns, some refreshing romance, an incessant awareness of the confusing image of himself as—what else to call it?—an emerging global movie star, and a constant concerted effort to figure himself out as both a young actor and a young person in the unceasing spotlight.

This summer, we were talking about all this on a little screened porch out back of a modest cabin in Woodstock when Chalamet recalled those three weeks. “My world had flipped,” he said. “But if I kicked it with my friends, things could still feel the same. I was trying to marry these two realities. But I don't even think I knew that was what I was doing. That dissonance was real. And thank God. Because I feel like if I'd caught up to it immediately, I would've been a psychopath or something.”

Out on that porch, I asked him a version of the same question over and over: What had the last two and a half years been like for him, as a human being? His response was a multi-hour monologue that I would characterize as: intense. He expressed unadulterated gratitude for his great good fortune. But he also expressed confusion and tension. He is firmly in a moment when he is concerned that everything he says or does or thinks will look or sound wrong. He backtracked a lot (“Wait, let me try that again”). He jumped on and off the record (“Sorry, sorry, sorry, this is just for you…”). It was important for me to know, he said, in order to communicate the context of his experience, if not the specifics.

“I want to get back to the undefined space again. I'm chasing a feeling.”

He lives in the same world all of us do—only with the potential for adoration and blowback turned up to 11. He seems, at once, to trust his own instincts while also second-guessing most thoughts the moment he's convinced of them. It is an exhausting way to be. At times, when he was up on his feet, in his T-shirt and shorts, pacing around the little screened porch, hands tugging at his mane, I could feel the gears grinding to the point of smoke. He wanted so desperately to get this right, to express what he really meant, to feel the right feelings, to live the right way, to be the right kind of man for the people in his life that he knows he can and should be, despite everything else, despite the noise. He's doing his best.

Timothée had rented the house for the month of July, as a little escape but also as an opportunity. He was slated to play Bob Dylan in a new biopic. No telling when it might film, given everything, but for now he had more time to himself than he'd had in years, which meant time to maybe huff the vapors of some Woodstock Dylanalia. “It's not like I'm suffering from lack of connection otherwise,” he said, “but it just really feels like I'm connecting to something here.” When he arrived, he discovered that his little house had a wall devoted to Dylan—to the albums he'd recorded in the run-up to his timeout in Woodstock in the late '60s. Timothée relished happening upon that wall his first day in the Airbnb. The universe offered signs if you nudged it toward coherence.

He knew what the cabin might seem like—like some young actor taking himself way too seriously, “treating himself like an artist.” But he was back and forth between Woodstock and New York all month, bombing up and down the interstate in the Honda sedan he'd rented from Enterprise. (He learned how to drive on Beautiful Boy.) All the while Dylan was top of mind. Timothée was late to the party but helplessly obsessed. He quoted him generously. He fixated on both the art and the persona. He marveled at the way the artist could be out there so much, making such an impact, while also keeping the real person obscured behind the music, the characters in the songs, the language. In the city, we spent time walking around Greenwich Village, Timothée in an identity-concealing face mask and bucket hat and sunglasses, able to search out old Dylan addresses in an invisibility cloak. He ran from site to site, with notes he'd kept while reading Dylan's memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, barreling up stairs and peering into windows. He was a 24-year-old actor, taking advantage of the pause between the second phase of his career and the third and thinking hard, daily, about how to play the next few years.

He rented the house in Woodstock, too, so that he could have a little space all to himself. He craved the privacy to try things and to fuck up. To make small mistakes now, out of view, when it was just him, when he was still young, so that he didn't have to worry about it later. At one point, he stood up and slapped an empty water bottle off the table so that it clattered against the screen of the porch. “I want to know what that sounds like!” he shouted. He hadn't taken many missteps yet, and it made him uncomfortable, wary, that he would someday. The month felt like a controlled burn. In the most innocent way, that was what Woodstock was about. He got to practice his guitar and harmonica in peace, cook himself his “shitty pasta” without judgment, permit himself space to keep growing up. So much was in the spotlight now. But in that cabin, he could sit on the couch for a while and re-familiarize himself with “the crease in the cushion” that he'd lost touch with over the past few years. The quiet. The stillness. That sunlight there coming through the trees. He could breathe a little. Sleep a little. It had all been so good for him so far. But the goodness made him anxious. When will the other shoe drop? Not there. He'd deleted Instagram off his phone. He'd stopped posting on Twitter. He was reading again. Listening to albums all the way through. Slowing down. What was it like to have lived these past two and a half years? It was like a lot of things, but here at the end of it, it just felt good to sleep.

Back at the start of the 30-month run that led to Woodstock, Timothée turned over the keys to JR's studio and went to Europe to shoot The King. The role was like none of the films he'd just received notice for. “Here I am on set with all these Hungarian men with scars on their faces, and they're like, ‘You're the center of the shot, you're the badass! And we know you tried to put on all this weight, but like: You're wearing all the chain mail.’ If they took the chain mail off, my throat is still this big…” There he was trying to keep in perspective this new fame, this new validation, this new temptation toward ego, all while being thrust into the center of “something called The motherfucking King.”

When he returned to New York that summer, he skipped off the atmosphere again with another awkward reentry. One moment he was on the battlefield of the biggest-budget drama he'd yet experienced, the next he was “back in New York, on the A/C/E at Port Authority, just like, What the fuck is going on?” It was a pattern over the past few years. The calmly intense immersion into work, the “thud of lost purpose,” as he called it, when the work ended. It happened the same way in the fall of 2018 with Little Women—reunited with Greta Gerwig and Saoirse Ronan and the crew from Lady Bird. There was just an ease with which he plugged in with them, “a vocabulary of friendship” that existed there.

Timothée's career thus far has been filled with these sorts of friendships, notably those across generational lines. Even a casual observer may have picked up on it. Those glommings-on to older people in his life. Armie Hammer. Kid Cudi. Greta Gerwig. When I asked Gerwig to comment on the arc she's witnessed up close, from Lady Bird to Little Women, she wrote a note about “my friend Timmy”: “It's hard for me now, because I'm his friend, to see him strategically.… I love talking to him. We can get on the phone and talk for an hour or more without even realizing it, just skipping from subject to subject, making jokes, me feeling old and happy and him being funny and anxious and delightfully all over the place.” It's an odd gap he finds himself in—forced to be more accelerated than most 24-year-olds while also having not lived enough life yet to fit in absolutely with the people he enjoys spending time with most. On a recent visit with his grandmother in New York, she surprised him by saying, “I wish you would hang out with people your own age more often. It must be so weird.” It made him chuckle. Even she'd noticed. She might be right. But how could he resist the orbit of these creative geniuses he'd so long admired and who were filled with so much knowingness?

“I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles.”

In the winter of 2019, another Oscar campaign left him feeling disoriented all over again. Everything, Timothée said, was exactly the same as the first time except him. He'd put in this undeniable performance, but maybe one that sparked a little less for Oscar voters than that first kiss with a stranger. Now he was in all the same rooms as before, the same lunches and dinners and cocktail parties, shaking hands with the same Academy members who showed up at everything to get a little nibble of the freshest biscuit, growling ominous things at him, like: You don't have my vote yet.… “I really don't know how to talk about this stuff, man,” he told me, “because my experience of it is at the center of it. There's just some dark energy at these things, and this time around I felt like I could see it. And yet I'm thinking, Why isn't this going the exact same way?”

He wasn't nominated for Beautiful Boy, but the fresh air came, as it always seemed to, on the set of the next film: Wes Anderson's The French Dispatch. The movie is about a fictional English-language magazine (based on The New Yorker of the midcentury) and is structurally organized like the magazine itself, featuring short pieces at the “front” of the movie and a triptych of long features at the back. Timothée costars in the second feature, about a May '68-style student-protest leader named Zeffirelli and the middle-aged magazine journalist (Frances McDormand) assigned to report on his cause.

“I had seen Timmy in Lady Bird and Call Me by Your Name,” Anderson wrote to me, “and I never had the inconvenience of ever thinking of anybody else for this role even for a second. I knew he was exactly right, and plus: He speaks French and looks like he might actually have walked right out of an Éric Rohmer movie. Some time around 1985. A slow train from Paris, a backpack, a beach for 10 days in bad weather. He's not any kind of type—but the New Wave would have had a happy place for him.”

The privilege of early fame that Timothée most appreciates is the ability to choose the directors he works with. His role in The French Dispatch is a minor one, but it's a Wes Anderson movie—it's as simple as that. Due to the episodic nature of the film, some of the other “stories” were already being shot when Timothée arrived in Angoulême, a town that reminded him of the one he spent time in growing up, “so French it was like a caricature,” he said. Timothée had the opportunity, then, to hang with some of the elders he doesn't act with, like Jeffrey Wright, Bill Murray, and other seasoned members of the Wes Anderson troupe. “It was immediately as if it wasn't his first time with our group,” Anderson explained. “He was somehow already part of the family. The youngest member.”

Timothée had seen McDormand around for years, but he'd never felt like she was someone he could approach. “We'd shared an agent,” he said. “And it was no disrespect to me, but I hadn't been in any movies yet. What business do I have talking to Frances McDormand? But now, and this is the gift of acting, I really feel myself coming into my own as a community of thespians, as opposed to actors. And man, that sounds pretentious, but I just mean it's not about the fucked-up ladder of success and un-success, and being the guy or the girl, and then being off the list… That's not what I'm talking about with her on set, that's not what she's espousing to me. She's talking about a long career. She's talking about marriage with a creative partner and consultant. So to be able to have conversations like that and then a story line in the movie where they're kind of on an equal field? Even if she's an experienced, wise woman and he's an idealistic, naive boy? That's the exact relationship of exchange I want with my intergenerational peers.”

There's a particularly memorable scene in The French Dispatch, reporter and subject having fallen into bed together, when there's a knock at the door. Timothée looks at McDormand, anxious about who's there, mortified when McDormand informs him it's his mother. There, in that scene, we see all the desire of Zeffirelli—this energetic young man with all the right intentions, who strains to be intellectually and emotionally riper—clash with the reality of his age. It felt familiar to me, and no doubt to Timothée. It was some of my favorite acting in the film. I asked McDormand if there was anything in their scenes that struck her as particularly mature for someone his age. “Maturity is not something a fellow actor is the most concerned with,” she said. “Playfulness, discipline, and rigor. I do recall, during our scene in bed, the crew responding to his work with true respect for his focus. He was bringing it and we sat up and paid attention.” Anderson added: “I think my favorite moments with Timmy during a scene were the ones where I saw him pause and find a new attack. A new angle, which he does very clearly and assertively. What I love is how he will surprise you with something new, completely unexpected and perfect.”

One night, while McDormand was shooting a scene without Timothée, her husband, Joel Coen—he of the Brothers—asked Timothée if he wanted to go out for a steak. Over dinner, Timothée grilled Coen about Dylan. He knew Coen was a fan and had steeped in it on Inside Llewyn Davis. “He almost seemed weary of even talking about this stuff, it was so big and potent,” Timothée told me. But Coen noted that the truly incredible thing about Dylan was not so much the quality, which was obvious, but the quantity—the rapid amount of work in short succession, one groundbreaking album after another, in those early years. That takeaway resonated deeply with Timothée. Especially as he reflected on it from summer 2020, during the pause, during the moment of no work. That gush from Dylan made him want to work—harder, longer, better, more.

A week after our conversation in Woodstock, Timothée and I were in New York City, sitting on a bench along the Hudson, talking about what he's looking for when work resumes. “I want to get back to the undefined space again,” he said. “I'm chasing a feeling. When you think you're doing some great thing, it's probably something you've done before, and when you really fucking have no clue, that's when you're doing something on the edge, good or bad.”

Timothée's mask had slipped down his face as he was saying this, and two young women, about his age, approached cautiously. “Would you mind if we got a…,” they asked, and he hopped up without hesitation. “How'd you recognize me?” he said, friendly, but genuinely curious, as if he hadn't just been shouting about art in a voice that sounded a lot like Laurie from Little Women or Timmy from late-night shows.

“Was it the scrawny limbs or the hair?” I asked him as he sat back down.

“Definitely the first.”

From France, last spring, it was straight to Hungary—right back to the exact apartment in Budapest he'd stayed in while shooting The King—to start work on Dune. Very few actors had become as famous without a blockbuster. And while he'd really gotten it down how to act on an indie set, how to make every second and every take count, he knew this would be something altogether different. It wasn't just the shoot that would prove taxing. A film of Dune's scale would likely be the can opener to a whole other stratum of Hollywood prominence.

Director Denis Villeneuve told me Timothée was his “first and only choice” to play Paul Atreides, “the one name on the page.” When they met to discuss the prospect, Villeneuve told Timothée how happy he was to finally meet the young actor. And Timothée had to remind him that they'd met before, when Timothée read for Villeneuve's Prisoners. “ ‘Of course!’ ” Villeneuve remembered. “He did a great audition, but he didn't physically fit the part. He was probably swearing at me because I didn't take him.” Timothée was party to so many stories like that one—glancing interactions with these heroes of his before he'd broken through. It reminded me of the relationship between freshmen and seniors in high school. The freshmen remember everything about the seniors; the seniors hardly notice the freshmen. But we all become peers eventually.

“I felt there was one being on this planet right now that would be able to portray Paul Atreides,” Villeneuve said—referring to the hero of the 1965 Frank Herbert novel, who transforms from an unassuming heir into a messiah figure, a charismatic outsider and commander of men and women (and sandworms). I read Dune for the first time this summer and was shocked by the source material, how much I'd consumed in culture that had borrowed from it. Star Wars. Alien. The Matrix. Game of Thrones. Paul, therefore, is a type we're familiar with but also possessing singular characteristics Villeneuve wanted Timothée for: “He has a deep, deep intelligence in the eyes. Something you cannot fake. The kid is brilliant. Very intellectual, very strong. And you see that in the eyes. He also has a very old soul. You feel that he has already lived through several lives. And at the same time, he looks so young on camera. Sometimes he'd look almost 14 years old. He has this kind of general youth in his features and the contrast with the old-soul quality in his eyes—it's a kid that knows more about life than his age. Finally: He has that beautiful charisma, the charisma of a rock star. That Paul will lead the whole population of a planet later. Timothée has that kind of instant charisma onscreen that you can find only sometimes in the Old Hollywood stars from the '20s. There's something of a romantic beauty to him. A cross of aristocracy and being a bum at the same time. I mean, Timothée is Paul Atreides for me. It was a big relief that he agreed, because I had no plan b.”

“If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.”

I asked Villeneuve if he noticed Timothée struggling at all to adjust to the larger-scale production. “It didn't show when he was on set, but I think for him the big thing was to learn how to create his own bubble on set. So that he would not have to try to be the friend of everyone. When you're on a smaller set, when there's 25 people, you can be friendly with 25 people. When there's 800 people around, you cannot be friends with 800 people.” He chuckled. “It's too much. So how to save your energy, how to focus, how to give himself permission to be in his bubble and make sure that his bubble is respected.”

As ever, Timothée had a special affinity with those people on set who were a little older, a little wiser. Villeneuve said Timothée was constantly speaking with him and his wife in this open, vulnerable way about his concerns, his fears, how to deal with certain pressures. Villeneuve also described for me Timothée's relationships with his fellow actors, particularly the trio of Josh Brolin, Oscar Isaac, and Jason Momoa. “I felt like Timothée was deeply seduced—or maybe not seduced, but I just felt it was like a kid being with older brothers,” Villeneuve said. “He was younger, he was the little one on set, and everybody loved him. There's a scene in the movie where Timothée runs into the arms of Jason Momoa, and Jason grabs him like a puppy and lifts him into the air like he was a feather. And that's real! They really loved each other. It was very beautiful to see this young man being influenced by these people he admires.”

“His positive energy is infectious,” Zendaya, his nearest peer in the film, told me. “He really is so much fun to be around. We have very similar humor, and we can keep a joke going for a long time, but when the cameras start rolling and it's time to work, you can see it's game time, and he just taps into this brilliant intensity. It's awesome to witness.” Villeneuve underlined the energy as well, describing for me just having seen Timothée the night before we spoke, and marveling at “that beautiful, strong candor.”

“I will say that looking at Timothée working, I had a deep feeling that I was watching the birth of something,” Villeneuve added. “Not that it's for me—I say that with humility, because I feel that birth in all the movies he's done so far. I'm feeling it's someone that has insane potential. When I say potential, I don't want to reduce what he's doing right now, not at all. It's just that sometimes you are in front of somebody and you have the feeling you are in contact with a strong artist and that artist, his identity is still growing, building itself, learning its boundaries, learning how to protect some part of it. I think that we are witnessing something beautiful right now.”

At the end of summer 2019, Timothée finally resurfaced from Planet Dune. He had been on social media only sporadically while shooting for most of 2019, and so, for his vast base of fans, it was an overdue glimpse of the object of their affection. First up was the Venice Film Festival and the premiere of The King. There were clothes and Kid Cudi cameos and charming red-carpet interviews. It was an example of the sort of stretch, in the gaps between shoots, when Timothée could indulge his passions for hip-hop and fashion and all these things he'd loved all his life that were suddenly accessible. It was another of the delirious disorientations of the past few years—the way that people who were once subjects of his intense fandom were suddenly a part of his life as friends or acquaintances happy to have him around. He might still embarrass himself at times, helplessly rapping back lyrics to his hip-hop heroes or gushing like a broken dam about new music or clothes or art made by the makers in his life, but they were cool with him so long as he actually kept his cool.

Timothée also spent the end of last summer promoting The King, alongside his costar Lily-Rose Depp, whom he'd been dating for about a year. He is serious about keeping his former relationship with Depp to himself, but he did share one very sweet, very funny, very sad anecdote that encapsulates the spectrum of great and terrible that accompanies the private life of someone new to mega-fame like Timothée.

After Venice, he and Lily-Rose took a few days for themselves in Capri, where they were photographed by paparazzi. One image, in particular, circulated in which they were making out on the deck of a boat. Timothée is contorting himself into the kiss and looks a little awkward. Many people had their laughs. And some even suggested that the photo was staged for publicity. “I went to bed that night thinking that was one of the best days of my life,” Timothée told me. “I was on this boat all day with someone I really loved, and closing my eyes, I was like, indisputably, ‘That was great.’ And then waking up to all these pictures, and feeling embarrassed, and looking like a real nob? All pale? And then people are like: This is a P.R. stunt. A P.R. stunt?! Do you think I'd want to look like that in front of all of you?!”

This was how things worked now. He'd disappeared into those four straight films and emerged into a new paradigm—one that followed him into the holiday season of last year and a whole new level of exposure with Little Women. Here was this film about sisterhood, female intimacy, and a feminist critique of art and commerce. And yet Timothée was still the shiniest object in the set for so many fans. “I'm very used to answering questions about Timothée's hair from 15-year-old girls,” Saoirse Ronan joked with me. “I imagine that's probably what you're going to ask me about?”

Ronan has the unique perspective of having filmed and then promoted two movies with Chalamet during the past three years, and has as clear an eye as anyone onto this early phase of his career. “He's had such incredible opportunities, and he doesn't let the reality of that pass him by,” she said. “He's incredibly gracious and grateful in relation to his work and the people he works with. I think he's become more open as an actor. He knows his instrument more. I think he works even harder now because there are projects that are on his shoulders in a way that they weren't before. And of course he's been totally catapulted into this whole other realm of attention and notoriety. So he's also having to balance the incredible fame and attention, which would completely freak me out if it was something I had to go through.”

“I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

When Timothée and I were sitting by the Hudson that afternoon back in summer, there were those two young women who approached him for a photo. But there were also two other young women who caught an eyeful of his profile as they strolled by and then surreptitiously positioned themselves out of his sight line but still in mine. They did that thing where one pretends to take a picture of the other while actually shooting back over her shoulder in selfie mode. That charade went on for five minutes or so while Timothée exercised his guts about reuniting with Gerwig and Ronan on Little Women, and though I was nodding along, I was also marveling at the lengths to which those two fans were willing to go to get a picture of him.

I asked Ronan what she's noticed about that level of attention, sitting beside him for so much of it. “I'm always kind of shocked by those things—when any one person can just completely take over people's lives so much,” she said, laughing a little incredulously. “But I'm also not surprised. There just aren't many other young male actors out there like him, who are able to hold an audience in the way that he does. His look is so magnetic and beautiful. One of the things that we spoke about a lot when we were doing Little Women, in terms of our characters, but also in terms of myself and him as people, is that we both have this masculinity and femininity equally. And I think that that's one of his strengths, is that he can be incredibly sort of feminine and sensitive and sensual, and also he's a guy that, you know, girls fancy. So he covers so much ground in terms of popularity. But at the end of the day, he's always gonna have this skill. He can be cute, but that only gets you so far.… And so I've seen him learn how to separate himself from all that other stuff when he's on set, when he's working.”

In Woodstock, Timothée had described to me with greatest admiration the way that Ronan can act in these films, at this highest level of acclaim and attention, but also remove herself, uncomplicatedly, from all the fuss: “She is like a superhero when it comes to this sort of thing, going through it so healthy—with the asterisk being excellent work across the board and four Oscar nominations. I think her, like, DNA of self is really morally right.” She knows herself extremely well, he said, and has the confidence to give up only so much of herself. Whereas he feels he is calibrating constantly how much of his true self to reveal. “Saoirse's one of my best friends in the world—at least I think we're best friends. And she's never judged me for…the Coachella of it all.” That is, the part of him that can't resist fanning out backstage with his favorite musicians or occasionally allowing himself to be in the spotlight even as he talks about preserving his privacy.

“He's 24, and he's gonna have a great time, and I would never judge him. I've been to Coachella; I just never got photographed at Coachella,” Ronan said, chuckling. “But yeah, we talk about that sort of stuff all the time. We've weirdly gone through this together for the last few years. We've both become more accessible. But he's had one sort of attention—I do feel like boys get it on a whole other level. I know that ultimately what he wants is to be good at his job. And that will always steer him on the right path. I've always let him know, and he's always let me know, we can talk to each other, and we do. He has good people around him, and I'm one of them, and Greta as well—we all kind of look out for one another.”

Timothée spent late May and early June asking questions of himself: What can I do? What is my role in all this? He felt conflicted when he sprang to action and conflicted when he stood still. But never did things feel less uncertain, less self-conscious, than when he was marching, anonymously, alongside hundreds or thousands of others in Los Angeles in the wake of the murder of George Floyd. It was an active way to participate—meaningful action, without being showy, without flexing any of the levers of fame or power. He was going to get hit no matter what he did, so he tried to follow his instincts of what felt humble, responsible, right.

“This idea,” he said, “that power is the mass body politic organized—and how many bodies can you get together—that makes sense to me.” He didn't disappear but, rather, stripped himself of his him-ness and became one body, among many, taking up space and participating in an unequivocal statement. “With a mask, a hood, a hat, glasses—my face is deleted,” he explained, “and I'm literally presenting a physical form, you know?” A single body in space that, like a vote cast in an election, is democracy embodied, but anonymous. The same unit of power as anyone else. “People might find it disingenuous, but I found it really grounding,” he said. “It was Oh shit, I don't feel out of place—and yet I haven't been in a crowd like this for years.”

He spent much of the summer talking with others about how a person should be in a cultural and political moment such as this one. “After a day of protests,” he said, “I'd ask friends if they ‘felt good.’ If we do, is it a good thing to feel good, or does that mean we're doing it for the wrong reasons? How much do I want to put on social media? Is it a virtue signal to put it on social media? But all social media is performative, right?” I heard him ask dozens of self-interrogating questions like these. He cares so genuinely about doing the right thing, about doing well by his family, his friends, and his fans. But he didn't want to misuse his privilege or his platform, to overreach so that the gravity of his fame sucked up anything from anyone else whose moment it was to speak. He didn't want to take up room; he wanted to help center other voices. On Instagram, he posted videos each day during the first week of marches in Los Angeles—no directives into camera, just an implicit charge to his followers: Show up. Listen. Be a body.

“I have so many thoughts on so much of it,” he said, “but I don't see the benefit of putting it down for consumption until I've really worked out exactly how I feel about it all. Who benefits from my half-baked ideas?” Who cannot relate to this in 2020? Who would want any of their dinnertime conversations with family and friends these past months chiseled into the stone of the internet? “I care so much about this stuff. But I would never want my caring to be misconstrued. I don't want my caring to be about me in any way.”

God, this stuff twisted him up. He knows how much has gone his way. But from the summit of good fortune and power, is it better to speak constantly—or to shut up, put on the glasses, pull down the hood, and live and act according to one's convictions as one individual among many individuals? To march. To vote. To speak through action rather than words. Staying in motion, showing up, being a body—it's a good place to start while he works out the rest of how he's meant to live a life true to his values with everyone watching.

He's seeking out the right path, the right people—with help from his “intergenerational peers” and Dylan and anyone else he can find. He wants the benefit of their knowledge and experience, and he's okay if it's slow going to accrue it. He's open to playing the role of the novice still. But there have also been things in his life these past of couple years that have made him realize, as he puts it, “adults are just kids a little bit older.” When he returned to New York from Los Angeles this summer, it wasn't to his childhood apartment or to a borrowed living space of an acquaintance. It was to his very own apartment, his first, in a little wedge of Manhattan he loved for being nowhere, but on the edge of several somewheres. He relished the mundanity of setting up his own place. To hear him talk about a first trip to CB2 was like hearing another person talk about their first trip to a movie set. “But I think if people saw what my apartment looked like, they'd be like, ‘Oh! This kid has no fucking clue what he's doing.’ ” He is so young and he is so old. It is his gift. He is so patient when he can suppress being so restless. So careful with the long arc of a career when he can resist obsessing over the instant. He is so confident when he centers on the work and so searching when he gets sucked down into questions about the rest of his life. Will he always be this way? This pliable and open? This self-reflective and intentional? He trusted so little of his new life, but he trusted his talent. That was the key. He knew he was as good as anyone at playing other people, even if he was still figuring out how to play himself.

We spent a good amount of time in Woodstock and in New York City and on the phone talking about where his career might take him from here. With great humility, he acknowledges his skill. But he has been thinking a lot about the difference between preternatural talent and mastery—the work that's required to ascend from that floor of young greatness to the ceiling of realized potential. That said, he's wise enough to know that his career could pivot in an entirely different direction—that the world could change or the opportunities could dry up or “eventually there's gonna be an Oscar Isaac in his 30s who's gonna bust out of Juilliard who's gonna be the next great actor and make me feel like a piece of shit. But right now…”

He told me, “If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.” To show up with Call Me by Your Name—he knows that that film was a unicorn, the sort an actor works his whole life to find. And the immediate Oscar nomination had freed him up to not spend the rest of his career chasing a certain kind of role that might lead to a certain kind of validation. “I'm not gonna be bashing my head against a wall trying to prove that I'm an actor,” he said. “The train can run over my leg and leave a track forever, and yet the point of entry for me…,” he said, trailing. “That's a good feeling.”

He looks at all these careers—all the careers you might expect: DiCaprio, Bale, Phoenix, Depp. And he does his best to separate the strands of each of their careers that might still apply to his. But all of the rules for acting success that those performers played by, for how to be in the public eye, for career arcs and longevity—those rules are irrelevant now. Hollywood is different, the media is different, fans are different, movies are different, the world is different. “I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

And so it's occurring to him that the next few years will be Timothée finding the path that's right for him. Lately, he's thought about this next phase as shining a flashlight into the dark. There are potential projects that excite him considerably, some of which he's had a greater hand in engineering. There is, of course, the Dylan movie. But there's the question of how to spend the rest of the year, when most Hollywood productions are still paused. “The rest of the year,” he says, “I'm just thinking about Trump, man.” But after that…maybe Europe for a while? The Woodstock experiment did what he'd hoped it would—a little space, somewhere else. He would love to just breathe some different air again.

He was at another pivot point, as he had been when he and I were first together for Chapter 1. In the winter of 2018, the work had been validated, the public profile had developed suddenly. But the temptations, the confusion, the money—those were all lagging indicators. By mid-2020, all had caught up. And the money, in particular, was on his mind one afternoon in New York. We were talking about how a person might stay true to one's roots with that sort of thing when the reality, for him at least, had changed with Dune. I told him that one of the things that seemed to differentiate him from young stars of the past, and perhaps was a feature of his generation, was the way that material possessions didn't consume him. He didn't buy much stuff. He didn't own a car or a house. He liked borrowing clothes, but not necessarily keeping them. He agreed with the characterization, but then got immediately twisted up about a potential future hypocrisy: “But Dan, what if I do grow to like fancy shit?!”

Boomeranging back home after the surreal adventures out in the world—that was a good and grounding thing for him. Over the weeks we were talking, he spent time with his folks, delivered some COVID groceries to his grandma, and was in touch with his sister daily. And in New York, he and I kept running into ghosts. One afternoon, when we crossed the West Side Highway at Houston Street, he gestured at the athletic complex at Pier 40, where he played soccer growing up. He scampered over to a vending machine there to grab a bottle of water. When he pulled open his wallet to pay, he had only twenties. “Bad metaphor! Bad metaphor!” he screamed, jumping away from the vending machine, as though it were one of the great threats to his selfhood. This was the sort of innocuous moment that will hum with outsize resonance for me when I think about Chapter 2 from the future. All the things that one would expect to happen had happened in the first two and a half years since the arrival of a comet, and yet he was suspicious of so much of it.

Here is another way I will remember him from this moment: sitting on that porch in Woodstock—breeze and birds in the trees, sunlight in the leaves—looking for a higher power. Or at least expressing openness, as a nonreligious person, to the idea of some central organizing force in the universe—because, given everything lately, there has to be or we're fucked, right? Some of these searching things he said to me could be mistaken as a person spinning out a little. But that wasn't it at all. There was such calm. There was such contentment with the grace that had been afforded his life and career thus far, and where each might take him next. He was questing, yes—but he was firmly at the controls. The flashlight in the dark. Someone moving forward with great confidence into the unknown, with eyes wide, mouth shut, and ears listening more than they ever had before. There were no models for how a person like him should be anymore. There were no longer any adults who weren't just kids a little bit older. There were no blueprints for how to shape a career—so much had changed. There was only a head and a heart, his, and a feeling for the moment. “Maybe I'll never do a great work of art again, but I just feel like I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles,” he said on that porch in Woodstock. “When you think about Dylan. When you think about what Joel Coen said about the rapidness of the art, I'm just like: Trust the beat of your own drum. Give this its best shot. Give your artistry its best shot.”

Daniel Riley is a GQ correspondent and the author of ‘Barcelona Days,’ which was published this past summer.

A version of this story originally appears in the November 2020 issue with the title "Wild Heart."

PRODUCTION CREDITS: Photographs by Renell Medrano Styled by Mobolaji Dawodu Tailoring by Ksenia Golub Produced by Wei-Li Wang at Hudson Hill Production

#timmy #timothee chalamet #gq interview #super long post

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mymelodyheart · 3 years

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All I Want For Christmas Is You Chapter 4 ~Revelations and Snogs~

Previously in A Christmas Request ...

"Claire?"

"Hmmm?" Her voice was like a breathless whisper, and he wasn't sure if he imagined the yearning look in her eyes. It took all his self-control to keep from kissing her right there and then. Instead, he locked down all his muscles and willed himself to think of animals that start with the letter D. And all his damn brain could summon was the word dragonfly.

"May I ask ye a favour?"

"I don't kiss on the first date," she said too quickly, but her words contradicted her manner as she stared at his lips.

"That wasn't what I was gonnae ask ye."

"Oh!" Her eyes flew to his, and she blushed profusely. "Oh, well, that depends on the favour then."

He swallowed hard and leaned forward, taking her hands in his. "Will ye spend the rest of yer holiday with me?" He cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to ask of ye is, will ye stay here until the Three Kings ...until it's time for ye to go back to London?"

She blinked thrice.

"Alright."

"Alright?" A lungful of air whooshed out of him.

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

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Alrighty Beauchamp, what have you just done?

Grabbed life by the balls? Isn't that the mantra?

Nope!

What do you mean nope?

Those are not your words. Not our words.

Yes, they are. You know, live in the moment and la-di-dah!?

Nope, definitely not.

Whose are they then?

Annalise's.

Ah, well ...

Claire mentally shrugged.

"Sassenach?"

She snapped out of her tunnel vision, then looked at the big hands still holding hers. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea of agreeing to spend the rest of her holiday with a total stranger. Who are you and what have you done with the ol' Beauchamp? "I'm sorry. I was thinking of Annalise. This is our holiday together, you see. I just agreed to spend the rest of my holiday here without consulting her." She shook her head and laughed despite the conflicting thoughts floating around her head. "I'm quite sure she'll be fine with it. She's the one who's always pushing me to be more spontaneous."

He squeezed her hands. "I'm flattered to be the reason for your spontaneity."

Her face heated. "I've never done this before ...just so you know."

He tried to catch her eye, and when she returned his gaze, he gave her a lop-sided smile. "Neither have I."

Oh, he's so good. Claire blew out a breath and stilled her heart. "That's comforting to know," she said, trying not to look too flustered. Knowing so little about him, she knew she should be wary, but for some reason, she felt safe. Everything about him was brand-new and familiar at the same time. It's as if there had been a melody playing in her head for her entire life, and he'd finally given it words.

"And Analise is welcome to stay too," Jamie quickly reassured her. "Ye said ye're booked at the Airbnb until Boxing day, but I dinnae think there'll be any guarantee ye'll be able to extend yer stay there with it being high season and all. But we have a family cottage that we rent out for the long term, and it was recently vacated. With all the Christmas fuss and work during the past few weeks, we never got around to letting it. Ye and Annalise are welcome to stay there for the rest of yer holiday." And then he grinned. "I'm quite certain my brother would be thrilled with the idea of yer friend staying too."

Claire laughed. "You're probably right. They seemed to have hit it off."

"Ye could say the same for us, don't ye agree?" he asked in a low voice.

She stared at him. How could he looked so calm and collected when she hadn't figured out how to articulate what she was feeling? On top of it all, it seemed he'd perfected the art of persuasion with finesse, so much so, she'd immediately jumped at his invitation to stay in Broch Mordha without a second thought, surprising herself. When it came to the dating game, she would have equated over-confidence to smugness which as a rule turned her immensely off. But there's a sincerity to Jamie's flirting that she found all too endearing and very charming.

She searched his face. Ready or not, she was curious to explore the unfamiliar emotions this beautiful man was drawing out of her. In her history of dating, no man had ever moved her to make her take the leap of faith. Deep down, something always seemed to be missing, and she'd simply put it down to her inability to know what she wanted. To say her hope of finding herself in a romantic relationship had taken a hit would be an understatement.

When her last date had ended in a blaze of abject embarrassment after she was accused of being a cock-tease, she'd decided she was done with men, at least for the foreseeable future. She had a concrete five-year plan, and getting involved with someone when her heart wasn't a hundred per cent into it, wasn't one of them. Annalise continued to hassle her to dive back in into the dating pool head first, but she'd been content to wade in the shallow end. It may have been frustrating to never take the plunge, but at least, there was a nil chance of her drowning in a sea of mistake. But now?

"Baby steps," she whispered.

"Sorry ...I didn't quite catch that."

She pulled her hands from his hold and drank the rest of her already cold Dutch coffee. When she finally placed the mug down, she looked up and smiled at him. "That rental cottage you were talking about, can I at least give you some money for it?"

He shook his head. "No way. In case ye've forgotten, I invited ye to stay."

"But you've been paying for everything all evening. Hardly seems fair."

"Spending my hard-earned quid for the pleasure of a gorgeous lass' company? Every penny spent is worth it if ye ask me."

When he talked like that, she knew her blush wasn't going to fade anytime soon. "Annalise will disapprove, and I'm pretty sure she will want to have her say in the matter."

"And so will Willie."

"Are you always this stubborn?" she countered.

"Only if I want something badly."

They have a stare-off for a few heartbeats before Jamie tore his gaze away and cleared his throat.

He glanced down at his watch. "So, the last horse carriage ride around the village is in about twenty minutes. We should probably get going."

"Horse carriage ride?"

"Aye. Part of the Christmas night tour." He got up from his seat and gallantly offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

It's so old-fashioned and chivalrous, she laughed out loud. "Well, I guess we shall." As soon as she linked her hand into the crook of his elbow, he sucked in a quick breath. "Are you alright?"

He looked down at her hand on his arm and smiled. "Aye. I'm just concerned I might have trouble adhering to yer nae-kiss-on-first-date rule."

They headed out of the cafe and into the frosty air, and she was acutely aware of the low voltage electricity buzzing around them. "Would it help if I put my retainers on? I have them in my bag. I usually put them on at night."

"No, not really. I just have to remind myself of the promise I made to Annalise before we left the pub earlier."

"What promise was that?"

"I promised her I'd behave otherwise ..."

"Otherwise?"

"I have to face the consequences."

She laughed. She knew Annalise's threat so well and by heart as the same lines had been often used to warn her dates in the past. "Well, let me see ...did she say if you misbehave she's going to show you the end of the world up close. And she's going to let you see the kingdom come with your own eyes by sending you straight to the southern hemisphere and letting the ashes of death rain all over you."

He grinned at her. "Something like that. How she's going to achieve that, I have nae idea."

"Never mind how. If you keep on focusing on Annalise's threat, that should be deterrent enough."

He gave her a sceptical shrug. "If ye say so." And then he looked down at her and winked. "But then again, ye're worth tempting fate for."

..........

Claire found herself being hoisted into a festively decorated horse-drawn carriage with twinkling garlands, gold & white berries. To her amusement, even the shire horses were wearing faux antlers. As she sat down, she felt their buggy dipped low as Jamie followed and settled next to her, putting the gift bags on the floor and pulling the woollen blanket over them. As their transport rumbled and creaked into motion, he put an arm behind her, resting it the edge of their seat's backrest, leaving her no alternative but to lean against the curve of his body. His closeness and the motion of their carriage added another layer of tension to her already overworked adrenal glands.

"Comfy?" he whispered, leaning into her, his warm breath on her ear.

"Uh-huh," she managed, licking her lips that had gone suddenly dry. It was a challenging feat to ignore Jamie's presence when his sheer size encroached her space, his thigh brushing against hers and the motion of the ride, sinking her deeper under his arm.

She forced herself to focus on the sounds of the hooves and bells, and admire the trees wrapped in lights, wreaths adorning almost every window, and Santas or nutcrackers standing guard outside front doors. For once, Jamie didn't speak, and she allowed herself to relax, revelling the clean, crisp air of the Highlands. Although Broch Mordha was nothing like London, quieter and had a slower pace of life, the atmosphere in the village was electric. It was almost magical, more natural and everything seemed to make more sense, instead of the rat race that occurred daily and nightly in the big city.

Every year, at around Christmas time, she came back to the Highlands in search of some peace, and every time she returned to London, she always felt like a brand new person, invigorated, well-rested and ready to tackle the New Year. But there was something different about her visit in Broch Mordha compared to the other places she'd been to in the Highlands, and she had a feeling deep in her guts, she'd have trouble leaving this place once her holiday was over.

"Ye dinnae look tired at all, Sassenach. Ye're used to staying up late?"

She glanced up at Jamie and smiled. "I sleep very little. I don't know, maybe I have insomnia."

"Really? Perhaps it's just a consequence of living in the city. I mean it's loud there, and I presume ye live in a flat where ye can hear the comings and goings of yer neighbours."

She sighed. "Yes, there's that. The flat Annalise and I live in is not really the most tranquil setting. It doesn't help that I am an overthinker."

"What do ye think mostly about when ye cannae sleep?"

"Mostly about work," she shrugged, glancing at the lights overhead that were hung above the streets. "Don't get me wrong. I'm happy, and I'm grateful for the good life I have. It's just that sometimes I think about the day when I would stop searching for ..."

Jamie waited for her to finish her sentence, but she couldn't find the words. "For what?" he finally asked, his hand squeezing her shoulder, urging her on.

"More," she replied candidly, surprising herself with the unguarded utterance that came from her very soul, ragged with honesty and desire for something she didn't have a name for. Yet. Suddenly, the empty place inside her reared up, seeking company. "How about you? What do you think most of at night?" She paused, trying to tamp down the sudden curiosity that flared up, but it was out before she could stop herself. "A certain lass perchance?"

To her astonishment, she felt him tensed beside her, and after a few seconds, he let out a sigh. "I have nightmares," he confided.

Her head jerked up, and she twisted in her seat to look into his eyes. He was probably waiting for her to ask a torrent of questions, but she remained silent, allowing him to set the pace of their conversation. She nodded her head to continue.

"I used to be with the SAS. It's a special force unit for the British army. The unit I was in was responsible for a number of roles including covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, and hostage rescue. My best friend, Simon MacKimmie, was captured while spying behind the enemies' lines. He was a valuable informant for both sides, and my team were under direct orders to get him out of there alive and as swiftly as possible." She watched as his throat worked as if he saw the scene replaying in his mind. "We found him quickly enough and thought we were out of the woods. But the enemy fire broke out just as we were about to board the helicopter. Simon and I were hit, but my wound was superficial, whereas my friend's injury was fatal. I promised him everything would be alright and would make sure he stayed alive for his family. Before he slipped away, he made me promise to take care of his wife, Laoghaire, if he didn't make it. She was pregnant at the time. I didn't hesitate and made a vow to keep that promise."

"Oh, Jamie ..."

He pressed his lips into a determined line. "Months later, I was discharged from the army after I was diagnosed with PTSD. I resigned myself to a quiet life as the flashbacks from the horrors of the war and friend's death worsened. Laoghaire and I became close, as we talked a lot about Simon and I helped her with the things she needed. That was when I found my purpose in life again, and even though I wasn't in love with her, I loved her like I loved Simon so I asked her to marry me so that I could take care of their child. It was a sacrifice, aye, but it was a small price to pay, considering I get to live, and my mate will never get to see his unborn child. So we planned to marry after the child was born. So while we were waiting for the big day, I bought a house for us, and my brother helped me restore it."

"But Laoghaire didnae want to live here. She wanted us to move to Liverpool because she couldnae stand the quiet and the remoteness even though she was born and bred here. I told her we would talk about it after the baby was born. But I was worried that living in the city would make my PTSD worse. Meanwhile, rumours were going around that Laoghaire has been seeing another man when Simon was still alive and that she would often disappear to Liverpool weeks at a time. I ignored it as I didnae care for idle gossips and dismissed it as such. Ye see, she lived and worked in Liverpool before she married Simon; hence, I thought, that was where the rumours had stemmed from. She's a very ambitious lass and has this dream of making it big one day. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I later found out from a reliable source that not only had she cheated on Simon, but she cheated on me while were engaged. I began to wonder if the child she was carrying was even Simon's. While I was building her a house and funding her trips to Liverpool, she was seeing the same man she'd been meeting up with when Simon was still alive. When I confronted her, she admitted to it. So the wedding was cancelled, and she went to Liverpool to give birth to her child and to be with the other man ."

He shook his head at the memory. "She reminded me of someone I used to pursue. She'd rather be with a man wearing a five grand suit than be with a labourer like me. I guess it's the lure of the city. Sometimes I feel like I failed Simon and his family. I made him all sorts of promises that I couldnae keep and the memory of the glimmer of hope he had in his eyes turning to death, keep recurring in my dreams."

Claire knew the last things Jamie needed were apologies and pities. He seemed like a proud man who didn't shy away from responsibilities and was unapologetically himself. "I guess we both have demons that keep us up at night," she finally said.

Jamie shrugged and waved his hand. "Dinnae fash. I didnae take ye out so ye could watch me wallow. I've done enough of that myself."

She took a deep breath. "I'm not going to pretend I wholly understand everything you've been through, but one thing I know is that you being part of the SAS means you were trained with the elite. You were drilled to save lives, and with that comes, precision and no room for error. So when something goes wrong, and someone dies during your watch, it becomes your fault."

He looked at her as furrows deepened on his brows.

She placed a hand over his. "You tried to absolve your guilt of not being able to save your mate's life by taking care of Laoghaire, who was so undeserving of your kindness and generosity. God or a higher power or the universe, or whatever you wish to call it, is trying to show you something important. You don't get to choose, Jamie. At the end of the day, you can only do your best, but you can't save everyone. No one can. Right now you're learning to live with that, and all you can do now is make sure you get to the other side. You can't take responsibility for everyone's action but yours."

Something lit up in Jamie's eyes. Emboldened by the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, she grinned at him. "No wonder you won at the caber toss and your team trashed the opponents at shinty today. You have so much pent up emotions dying to come out."

Jamie suddenly laughed out loud and pulled her against him. "I think I need to fire my therapist and hire ye, Sassenach. All this time, we'd circled around the realisation, always walking on eggshells. But ye ...ye just gave it to me straight. I think I'll need ye to stay longer past three kings."

She poked him on the ribs. "Be careful what you wish for!"

..........

A couple of hours and a glass of mulled cider each later, they walked in silence as Jamie guided her down the path that led to the bed and breakfast cottage. As it turned out, he lived three minutes walk away from where she and Annalise were staying.

After spending a whole night out with him, her body was still buzzing with so much energy. She'd never had such a powerful reaction to a man before. Nor enjoyed the company of one as much as she did tonight. She felt like she could uproot all the trees that stood on her path.

"I had a really grand time," he said.

"Me too. Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"And thank ye for the company."

As they neared bed and breakfast cottage, she realised they were exchanging lame small talk, but there's nothing lame about what's passing between them. Either way, she couldn't care less as she'd never laughed so hard in her life.

When they finally reached the small gate, she stopped and turned around to face him. "Well, here we are," she smiled, trying to conceal her reluctance to go.

He hooked the giftbags onto the wooden gate and nodded tensely, the tightness in his jaw quite evident. "Aye. Here we are at Mrs Fitz's place. I ken the ol' dear. She used to feed me and my brother jam piece and milk when we were bairns." He took a step forward and cleared his throat. "I ...um ...tonight was really special."

"I think so too. Thank you again for everything."

He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. "I'm no' tired yet, so I'm just going to take a walk some more until I'm ready for bed," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Yes, you do that. Fresh air is good for you. And I ...ah ... I'll talk to Annalise about extending our stay here. Ah well ... that's if she's still awake." She rolled her eyes and let out a nervous laugh. "Or if she's home. So ... I'll see you around?"

"Aye, I'm just down the road if ye need anything."

"Yes. Got it. Down the road. A hop, skip and jump away."

He stared for a few heartbeats, then ran his hand behind his neck and gave her a crooked smile. "I meant it, Sassenach. If ye cannae sleep, ye can drop by anytime. I'm a light sleeper. Apart from personalised packaged-tours, I also specialise in making a mean toddy to help ye sleep. And a wicked mushroom omelette if its breakfast ye want. Oh, aye, I'm good at foot massage as well."

She stifled a giggle threatening to burst as a ball of warmth bloomed in her belly. "I have no doubt you're good at those things. I'll bear what you said in mind if I need anything or if I have trouble sleeping. And if I have a sudden urge for a foot massage, I'll pop by."

He shook his head. "Ye're not just saying that to spare my feelings are ye?"

"No. Of course not. I enjoy your company. So ..." Claire took a deep breath. "...this is it. Good night, Jamie. And thank you again for everything." Oh, dear God, I keep saying thank you! She stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on his cheek just as he offered his hand. Their sudden awkward movement made her lose her balance, bumping her nose on his jaw. They both took a step back and laughed. This time she held out her hand, and he shook it.

They continued to stand there and shake hands, neither of them letting go, their smile slowly ebbing away as they stared at each other.

Jamie was the first to speak. "Right, this is the part where I watch ye walk away."

"Yes. I'll go now. It's getting late." She smiled as she took a tentative step away from him, but he didn't let go of her hand.

Her bottom hit the wooden post behind her as Jamie took another step forward. His height and breadth blocked out the street light, and in the shadows, his expression looked almost pained. She'd had men looked at her with desire before, but nothing like the way Jamie was doing right now. The way his jaw and muscles tensed and his breathing shallowed, she knew it was taking him a lot of effort to hold himself back. Her eyes travelled down to his throat and watched his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Sassenach." His voice cut through the haze, and her eyes flew to his as he leaned down and cupped her face. "Maybe ye could stay for just a wee while more."

Her heart began to thump wildly against her ribs as the air between them charged. "I really should get going," she whispered, the blood roaring through her ears almost deafening. She willed herself to move, but she remained fixed on the spot.

"Or perhaps ye can just stand here for a few minutes more and let me do this."

She stopped breathing and time stood still as he softly brushed his lips across hers. Then he pulled away for a brief second waiting for her to object, and when she didn't, he kissed her again.

Her brain seized, and her eyes automatically closed. She'd never felt lips so soft nor been kissed with such gentleness. She once read an Oscar Wilde quote, and it said, "A kiss may ruin a human life." It had puzzled her then because up until now, she'd always thought, although some kisses were sweet it was nothing more than two people putting their faces together and exchanging spit. But Jamie's kiss? She knew it had ruined her for any future kisses. This was the type of kiss she never even knew existed. It was the kind of kiss that inspired stars to climb into the sky and light up the world.

She waited with bated breaths for more, but nothing happened.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. "I've wanted to kiss ye from the moment I laid my eyes on ye," he whispered and grazed her lips once more. "Ye've nae idea how beautiful ye are."

Oh, sweet Jesus! He'd barely touched her. It was merely a light brushing of their lips and the slightest sensation of his breath on her face. But it was enough to cause the static crackling between them to be ignited, and she was left wanting more.

Before she could reassemble her thoughts and make sense of her emotions, he stepped away from her and tunnelled his fingers through his hair. "May I please have yer phone, Sassenach?"

"Oh! Wot for?"

He smiled at her. "I'm giving ye my number."

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and handed her phone over. She watched him dial his own number on her screen, and after a few seconds later, his own phone rang.

"There, now I have yers too." He pushed her phone into her back pocket and blew out a breath. "I'll see ye tomorrow?"

"You want to see me again?" she teased, smiling.

"I dinnae even want to leave ye tonight."

She dropped her head down to hide the heat creeping up her face. "I'll see what's Annalise is up to and we'll take it from there. I'll either call you or send a message."

He placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. "Ye're not mad I kissed ye? I havenae forgotten yer rules about first dates."

Claire picked up the gift bags, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. And then she smiled. "I'm starting to believe the rules don't apply to you. Good night, Jamie." And with that, she turned around and walked towards the cottage without looking back, knowing full well Jamie was still stood there waiting for her until she'd safely made it to the house.

Once inside, she allowed herself to slide down to the floor and relived the memory of their first kiss. And she sat there for a very long time.

Dear Readers,

Here's a little story about this chapter. I got stuck at the beginning of writing this one. So what did I do? I started writing from the middle, then the conclusion and finished the opening in the end. It's common to get stuck in writing, so I thought I'd share this wee tip with you. So just in case, the latest update lost some of its fluidity, you now know the reason why. 😀

Anyway, thank you for reading and your feedback from the previous chapter. It's something I truly appreciate. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to reading your thoughts. Meanwhile, sending you all best wishes and hope you're taking care of yourselves and your health. x

#melodyheart #all I want for christmas is you #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

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thorsstorms · 3 years

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Abroad Pt.21

Summary: Being the Hemsworth Kids’ Nanny, you were vowed to keep it strictly professional for their sake, but do the stolen glances go unnoticed between you both?

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: anxiety. SMUT y'all. this shit get nasty. 18+++

A/N: ok soooooo y'all should know I am not capable of not writing angst. everything has to be angst all the time. it is what it is. anyway, shit gets nasty. also I didn’t proof read this, my b

Masterlist

Only a few steps down the hallway and you heard Chris shutting the boys door, telling them goodnight for the last time. Deciding to wait for him, you stop and look back while he catches up to you.

“What do you say, it’s bed time for us too?” You smiled up at him, catching his arms with yours. He watched you reach up on your tiptoes and wait for an answer, chin on his chest like you didn’t have all of his attention already. You just couldn’t help it though, feeling on top of the world and having yet to come down for four days.

“Of course, but first I want to show you a few listings that were sent to me by Thomas today.” He watched you perk up with a different excitement. “Did you come across anything while you browsed on Zillow?” He asked, tugging you in the direction of the master bedroom. You followed in tow, only two steps behind, telling him what you came across.

“I did, I found two that I like in the hills, and one in Beverly Park. And I know we didn't really talk about this area but I found a place in New Port Beach that I loved. It just right near the water and it doesn't have as much land as we hoped but I want to show you anyway.” He pushed open the door and you walked to the dresser to pull out sleep clothes.

“I even looked through Venice, but not for us obviously, but it used to interest me so much. Maybe because it is right on the water, but New Port is too, and it is more family friendly. Like for years I was intrigued by Venice beach in movies and stuff and gravitated towards pictures of the area and stuff,” you continued, walking into the bathroom to dive into your skin care products. “Every single home was so cute, especially those on the canal! Gosh they were so perfect but they had been sold a few weeks back, only the two of them that were listed.”

“You really liked Venice didn't you?” He commented from the bedroom, showing he was still listening. He could just hear your voice through the bathroom doorway as you continued a nighttime routine.

“I mean, it’s not ideal for the kids, with no yard I think they might end up a lil’ stir crazy. But! If it was just me and Bri, I would want to snatch a place up so quick. Did you know we - Bri, Ty, Chaz, and some other friends of ours - we used to hangout at the skate park not to far from our high school. I wasn't the best on a board, but we still had fun. Ty was the best. Obviously I could still use some work,” you laughed, referencing to your tragic fall. Maybe it was too soon to joke about. Sighing, suddenly wetting your face with water and reaching for the face wash. “There was a three bedroom place just one block off Abbott Kinney that was newly renovated and had a tiny home - guest house thingy in the back that the previous owners rented through AirBnb. It sounds pretty nifty, not gonna lie.” You silence for a moment, dipping your head down to the water to rinse the suds off your skin.

“But of course, it’s not kid - or family friendly for that matter. And it’s not the nicest place to raise a family. But ya know, what can you do?” There wasn't much excitement in your tone anymore, but almost a twinge of longing that he couldn't tell if he was actually hearing, or if he was making it up.

Chris in the other room stopped mid-dress to listen to you talk more about Venice Beach. After you added the comment about if it was just you and your friend looking, he froze to listen more, head tilted in the direction of the open bathroom door. There was no denying the area wasn't the most kid friendly of the Los Angeles neighborhoods. It’s filled with young adults and carefree residents who the majority of - dont have large families to worry about.

It had sounded as if you had put some thought into it, searching for homes in the area. Even if it was out of curiosity, or longing - whatever it was, he furrowed his brows at the thought. Just over a year ago, you could have easily moved to Venice. Spur of the moment. But that wasn't the case anymore because you would be toting along a man and three young kids and soon a baby. He found himself in the middle of the room half dressed, frozen in thought.

“Hello?” The sing-song draw of your voice broke him from his trance. He shifted his gaze to see you peeking your head around the door to look at him, rubbing a cotton ball with product on your face all the while. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Uh, um yes.” He stuttered, completing the task of pulling up sleep pants.

“Do you think it would be too far, or a weird area?” you questioned.

“Where? Venice?” He questions, resting his hands on hips, giving you his attention.

“Uh no, I was talking about Glendale. Were you listening?” You turned back into the bathroom and furrowed your brows, tossing the cotton ball in the trash. He came into the bathroom doorway as you pressed the moisturizer into your cheeks. You glanced at him in the mirror before turning around. “I said I saw a listing in Glendale but didnt know if you would consider it. It’s on a 8 acre lot and has a trail with small hills through a wooded part that I thought the boys would get a kick out of with their bikes. And it has raised garden beds, I thought that was nice,” you trailed off. “I saved it just in case you wanted to see.”

“Yea, ofcourse,” he commented as you walked past him pulling your shorts off and climbing into the bed. He had completely missed whatever you had said previously because he was still stuck on the “if you were still free & single” thing. Okay. He couldn’t call it that but that was what rang off like alarms in his head.

Sitting up with a leg tucked up under, you pulled the phone from its charger on the bedside table and opened the app.

“Can I see the places you saw Venice?” He threw out there.

“What? Really?” The slight spark in your voice was just because it caught you off guard, you didn't really want to move there. You couldn't anyway.

“Yes,” he shrugged with an urge of irritation in his tone. You click your head in his direction to see if you had heard that wrong but his face had annoyance plastered on it as well. The undertone of excitement in your voice had just encouraged his feeling of strange unease. He became aware that the neighborhood was, or would have been perfect for you under different circumstances.

“Uh. How about not,” you slowly stated, sensing his mood, ready to click on the other three you saved. “They are not available anyway.”

“No, I want to see what it is that you want. You spent the time to search for it, you must be drawn to it for some reason.” His passive tone was quick, but drawing nearer to the surface. His tense shoulders told you what you needed to know.

“What? No, I’m not- what the hell? I thought you wanted me to look? You told me that we would find something together. Just cause I looked there doesn't mean I want to move there now.” He huffed like a child realizing he was in the wrong, eyes looking away to the wall behind you. “I’m confused about your attitude here, so please, lay it out for me.”

His eyes drew to the ceiling to avoid your completely confused stare. “I just wanted to see what you were looking at,” he sighed. “That’s all-”

“No that’s not ‘all’ Chris,” you urged, waiting for him to come up with some elaboration. “Your words say you want to see what I have but your tone doesn’t.” He rubbed his face after hearing your hometown drawl kick into place, something that tends to happen when you get in over your head with emotion. He was silent a moment longer. Perhaps a moment too long. The blankets flew off your lap as you stood up. “I’m gettin’ a drink.”

He watched you walk out the bedroom door with his shirt caught up over your hip. The red lace peeking through practically waving him goodbye, due to his own doing.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the bed to walk towards the laptop sitting closed on the desk. He pulled the chair closer while pulling up the listings that were sent to his email by the realtor. He really did want to see what you had saved and he did want to have the conversation, but it was an underlying self-conscious thought that caused the moment to spiral.

Once the email was completely loaded, he followed in your footsteps to find you behind the counter with a glass of water to your lips.

The cold water you gulped down only encouraged goosebumps to cover your bare legs. The laptop was gently positioned for your viewing as he lent his elbows on the countertops, screen facing you. After giving it another moment, flicking between the screen and the eyes of sulking man behind it, your finger found the touch pad and clicked open the first link. The presenting picture was beautiful, every home you had searched was but this was much different than what you were searching for. Not because of the cosmetic details or the location, but because of the asking price written in bold above the description of the property.

You choked back the water and looked away to set the glass down on the marbled counter top. Obviously there was some amount of disconnect between the two of you when it came to looking at real estate.

“What is it?” He worriedly spit out, standing up straight when you showed obvious signs of shock.

“Nothing, nothing.” He stood in silence, micro analyzing your expressions behind the screen as you closed and opened the next four links quickly. Of course they all only varied by a very little amount. Clicking back on the first you had opened, the one that had initiated the reaction, you decided to take a look at the details listed. The 6 bedrooms and 9 bathrooms and 15,000 square feet caused a visible face scrunch. That he immediately needed to know the reasoning behind.

“What?” He said again, losing patience. The computer screen snapped closed at your own doing and you backed away to lean against the sink. A stress rub of your hand came to your chin as you thought about it for a moment. “What are you-”

“I- i just. What- I can’t,” a sigh escaped while gathering your words. There was a cloud of embarrassment that climbed over you and iced your veins. You didn’t exactly know what to say or what you thought. Other than you were glad you hadn’t shown him the homes that you had found first. He eyed you with impatience as you picked at your eyebrow for a second not even knowing what to say. It just wasn’t something you were prepared for. Home in Byron could not have been more than 5,000 square feet but with a huge lot. You didn't know exactly but it seemed like a pretty good guess. And yes, now both of you and the kids could use more home space but it seems like too much, or it seems.. there is not even a word for it.

Speechless - was how it rendered you.

“Just tell me what you are thinking. ‘Can’t’ what?” he pleaded, pulling out a barstool to sit.

“It’s just, just not what I was expecting,” you admitted from across the kitchen island.

“Ok,” he muttered, pulling the computer closer to himself. “Ok I can work with that. Let’s talk about it for a second.”

“It’s just a bit much Chris, I wasn’t ready for that. I don't know that I'd ever be ready for that,” you exasperated.

“Ok, I get that, I get it. Could you show me the ones you saved then?” He questions you sharply as you walk around the island to pull out another barstool. His exasperated blue eyes watching you tail around to the seat beside him.

Taking a deep breath as you sat down. You felt a sense of unease reeling to the surface and worked on keeping it locked away. Your mind was thinking too fast. Finding a house together? Building a home together? Bringing a new baby into a new home together? That kind of home? Would that ever even feel like a home? Moving when you felt like you were supposed to be nesting?

This was in the wrong order.

All of this felt like it was happening at the wrong time. Your hands twitch a moment as you flicked a look from the ring, then back to the closed laptop where the listing had been. Your breathing slowly increased as you told him that looking at what you had saved wasn’t a good idea.

“Why? I just want to see (y/n),” he repeated.

“Because it’s not the same! I didn’t know that’s what you wanted.”

“Ok just forget that for a second will you? This has to be what you want, too. I want to see what you want!” He said quickly.

The metal legs of the bar stool scratched across the ground as you shoved it back and reached across the cold marble for your cup of water. His hand grasped it first and brought it closer all while keeping his gaze locked.

“Stop,” you let out. His hand had trapped your own but all you could sense was the feeling of your shoulders rising and falling with your breathing. Maybe you needed that drink of water to ground yourself. The cool temperature could clear away some of the unease.

“Stop what? I don��t even understand what is happening right now,” he spit out. “So it's not what you want, okay. Well, tell me what it is you want so we can find something together.”

“Just stop Chris! I'm having a hard time thinking about how that would ever be our home, it would be yours. Feel like yours!” He stood abruptly from the stool and turned to walk a few feet away. “I don't even feel like my life is my own right now, how am I supposed to make a home?”

“What are you talking about?” His stature deflating.

“I - I don’t even know. It’s like I blinked and all the sudden I’m engaged and have four children, and I’m, I’m supposed to be buyin’ a house. And all the while these things are happening. Yet, it feels like the person I’m supposed to be doin’ these things with, is 10 levels ahead of the game and won’t let me catch up!”

“Princess…” your ranting was only urging on his feelings of inadequacy. He knows what he was doing at your age, and this definitely wasn’t it. You should be able to have your dream home in a place you yearned for. With who you wanted it to be with.

“I don’t need a house like that Chris. I just- when I’m with you, everything is perfect. Life makes sense, but making decisions together? We haven't had to do that. Nothing like this at least! And it’s just so different. It’s overwhelming me because things keep changing so fast and I can't keep up. I don’t know how to fit that mold. I don't know what to do. I don’t - ” His heart was breaking at every confession you laid out for him. With shaking hands you wiped your eyes and he stepped closer noticing the signs of distress. He was quick to move and grab a hold of you. He could practically see your mind racing as you tried to keep it all from spilling out of your mouth.

“Oh Jesus, Princess.” He held you close, holding your head to rest against his chest. He was angry, he felt sick.

“I can’t have a baby. What am I doing?” You cried against his shirt, him questioning if he heard you right. Your words hit him hard, not expecting you to say them. He could hear the worry in your voice. If you had looked up to him you would see the shock on his own features. You’d kept all of this in, the feelings of anxiety and fear. He could hear the pain and frustration. But there was just so much fear.

“Baby just tell what I can do, how we can fix this,” he pleaded, the tears and shaking beginning to really eat at him. This stress and emotion was not good for you. He panicked to find a solution, resulting in him walking you to the couch, held tight in his arms all the while. Your hands were clenched tight around his shirt in fear of him pulling his arms away from you. The cage he provided felt safe. And that was what you needed at the moment. Safety.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, trying to flush out the racing in your chest. Chris felt each tear like a knife to the stomache. He wanted nothing more than to make it better, but this was your life now and he didn’t know what to say. Couldn't think of a single word to say that would help you, or even help him at the moment.

“Look at me. Hey, look at me,” he stated sternly. Tears welling up in his eyes as he tried to speak. “I’m right here,” he assured. “You are my now and my future Princess. You will never do any of this alone.”

He cursed himself for not catching the signs of your panic faster. He was too caught up in his own mind to mind yours. He laid back as your hands clenched tight around his torso, frame racking to catch your breath. You shut your eyes to manage the migraine that was being exacerbated.

He didn't know what more to do than hold you tight until you evened out and hands went slack. His hand rubbed across your back, moving back and forth between that and running his hand over your hair.

“Im sorry,” you whispered. “I”m so stupid.”

“No, you are not. You’re not, okay?” His lips pressed a kiss to your forehead. After another minute hearing his heartbeat against your ear, his chest rumbled as he spoke. “We don’t have to look at them right now. Lets just go lay in bed and turn on a movie? I don’t want to look at houses right now either. But we will talk about this. We can, I don't know, make a list. Things we both want. We will do this together but just not right now.”

You followed him into the room and under the blanket, watching as he pulled the streaming service up on the screen. You remained silent, feeling incredibly embarrassed. Under your shirt, your hands rested upon the growing bump, running your thumb across the skin. You were unreasonably scared to have a baby of your own. Everything that you feared, you were also excited and ecstatic for. It was an uneasy medium that you had yet to digest.

He returned to his side of the bed and wordlessly encouraged you to cross the invisible median in favor of comfort. FRIENDS played on screen while you genuinely wrapped your arms around him, taking a deep breath.

“I love you,” you said, cheek pressed against him.

“And I love you,” he retaliated. Your head picked up to look at him. Chris met your eyes, ignoring the show that was flicking light across the dark room. You kissed him earnestly, your hand coming to rest on his neck. His fingers found the hem of his shirt that was already riding up against your skin. They pushed it up as his hands spanned across your back and pressed you ever closer.

It was a short moment later when your hand left his neck and trailed down, whimpering a “please” into the kiss. His response was instantaneous, palming your cheeks under the red lace, grinding your hips into his own. You kissed him hard, your tongue dancing with his as his hands were glued down.

“Need you, please,” you mewled against his kiss. You rocked your hips, your wet core rubbing against his hard on through the underwear. With just the rubbing pressure you could already feel the need for release building strongly inside. It edged you on further. “Please take me, please.”

He gravelled as a primal urge struck. The move was fast, rolling you on your back, his body quickly covering yours. He slipped down the thin lace and threw them aside and pulled the restricting shirt away before pulling off his own clothing. Your glistening core was mouth watering and he took a hand to it, feeling the slick against his fingers to spread the juices over his thick cock. Finger returned to your core, rubbing the velvety skin and slowly sinking a finger inside.

Your chest fell with a heavy breath of pent up energy. The curl of the tip of his finger pressed into the spongy tissue, shooting an electric current through your body. Gasping at the shot of pleasure he added another finger, watching our eyes fall shut and feeling your walls clench.

Pulling away, he gave himself a pump or two before you were moaning in wait at the sight of him, reaching your hand to his, guiding him to your opening.

His head rubbed around the opening for a moment causing a sound of frustration to leak from you. He started to press deep into your depths, your juices sliding as he stretched your hole, both moaning.

“Yes,” you mewled, finally getting what you had been wanting. You gasped in surprise after two thrusts, your walls clamping hard around his thick cock, pulling him in and snapping the coil that was wound tight.

“Did you just-”

“I told you, I needed you,” you moaned out a sound that he felt deep in his belly. Both of you were surprised that you came so fast that you hadn’t seen it coming. “Don’t stop. Please fuck me,” you frantically whispered.

He stayed inside, slowly starting to drive into you and grinding out your orgasm. He kissed you again before picking up his pace, sliding in and pressing deep against your sensitive walls. You squealed at the deep prodding, feeling his thrust catch a spot that produced stars in your vision.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, leaning his weight over you, pressing his lips against your neck. His hips pistoned his cock into your depths as your hands clenched around his back, legs shaking. His mouth kept busy at the sensitive skin of your neck, fanning out hot breaths and grunts reaching your ears.

“Oh god,” you chanted, your belly springing with sparks deep inside. “I’m gonna come again.”

He lifted his face to find yours, your eyes filled with pleasure. His mouth covered yours as you cried out with your orgasm reaching you. He let out a guttural moan as he shot his load inside of you, marking you as his. His hips thrust deep, shoving his seed around against your walls.

Heavy breathing filled the room and you both came to. He kissed you, holding you in place, “I love you” he said, “So much.” His mouth was hot, deepening his kisses in a never ending fashion. It never had to end.

#I didn't proof read this #chris hemsworth x reader #abroad feels

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

Text

Feeling As Good As Love

Emma is excited about this weekend.

It's always good — this thing they do, with the house and the ocean and the friendship that seems to stand the test of time. But now, there's an added bonus. Because this year she and Killian aren't just coming to the house on the beach with that friendship moniker hanging over them. They're coming as a couple.

A real couple. That kisses. Regularly. And Emma's excited about that too.

She just didn't expect her friends not to believe her.

----

Rating: Teen, with kissing and some friendship-type swearing Word Count: 5.8 K AN: Listen, this is absolutely the fault of @shireness-says who I realize I keep blaming for things, but she keeps sending me prompts and like...it’s her fault. So basically the prompt was “Okay but like what about a reverse fake dating trope? Like, two people who are together and go home to their families at Christmas but can’t convince anyone that they’re really a couple & everyone thinks it’s a joke.” It’s not Christmas, because it is May right now, but no one believes Emma and Killian want to kiss each other right on the mouth. At all times. I’m me, so naturally they set out to prove otherwise.

And I think this puts Panic! At the Disco in the lead for lyrics as titles.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll

----

“You know, you don’t actually have to do this.”

Emma doesn’t let go of the plate in her hand, but her eyebrows furrow slightly and Mary Margaret actually has the gall to blush. There are soap suds on her elbow. “Wash the dishes?” Emma quips. “Nuh uh, I’m totally doing this, then I won’t have to do it the rest of the weekend.”

It’s a thing, this annual thing they do — renting a house out East, after Memorial Day, but a few weeks before the tourists descend on the Hamptons and the beaches and the vineyards on the North Fork. And it’s fun, it’s always been fun, college friends and an almost ridiculous amount of alcohol, although none of it ever comes from those vineyards on the North Fork because they’re not actually made of money.

It’s also the first time Emma has brought someone with her.

Kind of.

Killian always comes with them, has been part of the group for as long as she can remember, because he’s been friends with David for as long as she can remember, but this not-so-annual thing the two of them are doing, is pretty new and even more exciting and she might actually be in—

They’ll get there, she’s sure. Presumably after she finishes washing the dishes.

And once Mary Margaret stops staring at her like that.

“Ok,” Emma sighs, shaking her hair off her shoulder for fear of her own issues with soap suds. “What’s your damage?” “Are you quoting things at me?” “Yes, because I don’t understand what’s happening and when I am confused I fall back on tried and true movie quotes. So, c’mon Winona Ryder, what’s your damage?” “Her name wasn’t actually Winona Ryder in the movie,” Mary Margaret points out.

Emma rolls her eyes. With her whole head. “I know you’re not drunk yet,” she says, “because Scarlet and Phillip aren’t back from the liquor store yet—” “—Them having to go to the liquor store at all seems to suggest that we’ve already blasted through our liquor supply. Which, you know, that’s kind of troubling. For us, as people.” “Did you say blasted?” Emma asks, and whatever sound she makes is less a laugh and more like general misunderstanding. Maybe Mary Margaret has been body-snatched. “Like that’s a genuine word you used in this real-life conversation. That the two of us are having.” “Yeah, speaking of two of us…” “Were we?” Mary Margaret grabs a glass. With maybe a bit more force than absolutely necessary, all but yanking the towel off her shoulder, and Emma’s not moving so it’s almost impressive when it feels like her mind trips over itself a bit. While trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

There are footsteps coming towards them.

“Ah,” Ruby says, leaning against the kitchen door frame. “Are we doing this then?”

Emma’s jaw cracks when it drops open.

Mary Margaret grits her teeth.

She’s totally going to break that glass.

And that will inevitably piss off Regina. She’s the one who booked this house. AirBnB, whatever. All Emma knows is that she made sure both her and Killian’s payments were Venmo’ed to Regina almost on time and that her nearly-serious boyfriend who she might genuinely be in—whatever with has a habit of over packing socks.

Killian brought no less than twenty-four pairs of socks with him. For one weekend. Four days, three nights. With her. In one room.

It’s the first time they’ve ever been away together. And now this is happening. Whatever this is.

“That’s not an answer,” Ruby continues, five steps and one jump until she’s perched on the edge of what may actually be a marble counter. “He’s playing some stupid video game with David, anyway, so it’s not like we’re going to be interrupted.” “What video game?” Mary Margaret asks. Neither she nor Ruby flinch when Emma throws her hands in the air.

Soap suds land on several different cabinet doors.

There are an obscene number of cabinets in his house.

“They’re really serious about Mario Party,” Emma says, like it’s obvious. It kind of is. She knows for a fact that David had texted Killian about bringing his DS with him that weekend, mostly because she was lying next to him when he got the text. “And seriously—what is going on with you guys? Was this conversation preordained?” Ruby clicks her teeth. “More like a discussion was had in passing, but—” She cuts herself off when Mary Margaret’s cheeks flames. “Look at you,” Ruby accuses, “you’re not helping at all. Emma is going to think we were gossiping.” “Weren’t we?” Mary Margaret counters.

“I mean—well, gossip is such a dirty word and this...Em, you don’t have to fake on our behalf.”

Emma blinks. Once. Then does it again. She flutters her fingers, which only leaves a bit of moisture clinging to her pants, and that’s a little annoying. Not as annoying as the prospect of her two best friends gossiping about something she still doesn’t understand, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Say words,” she demands. “In something vaguely resembling a sentence.”

Ruby squeezes one eye shut. “It’s just—ok, we know that there are couples up here and Regina and Locksley are in the middle of full-on wedding plans, which is—you know, it’s annoying and opulent. Is that a good word?” Emma lifts her eyebrows.

Mary Margaret’s cheeks look like they’re half a second from combusting, they’re that red.

And Ruby isn’t done.

“Plus, y’know me and Dor are obviously pretty fucking cute and M’s and David stare longingly at each other every moment of every day.” “That’s not true,” Mary Margaret objects, but both Ruby and Emma make near-identical sounds of disagreement and she suddenly seems very preoccupied with her feet.

“All we’re saying,” Ruby adds, “is that we get it if you felt like you had to show up with—you know, someone special. But...this is—” “—Silly,” Mary Margaret finishes.

Emma can’t move her eyebrows any more. If she does her actual eyes are liable to fall out, and then Regina won’t get her deposit back and that will only end badly.

Eyeballs on the kitchen floor presumably aren’t covered in incidentals.

“What” Emma breathes, “are you talking about?”

Ruby scrunches her nose that time. “It’s just—you and Jones? Really? Like, c’mon, if you were going to pick someone to play boyfriend, there had to be someone better.” Emma is going to have to write Regina a check for damages done to this house. Whatever rushes down her spine is a mix of sudden and rather jarring anger and complete disbelief at what she’s just heard, the words bouncing around her brain like they’ll be able to find a more legitimate order that way.

Head on a swivel, Emma gapes at the two other people in the kitchen, dimly aware of what sounds like an exceptionally competitive round of Mario Party.

“You can’t be serious,” Emma says, voice low and, she hopes, as threatening as possible.

Ruby shrugs. She’s running the gamut of bodily-movement reactions, it seems. “You guys have known each other forever and now you’re going to date? You hated each other when you first met. When’s the last time you and Jones spent time together alone?” “When I spend the night at his apartment. Like last night.”

“Nah, c’mon, who do you think we are, Em? Idiots?” “Apparently,” she shouts, and there goes any sense of threat. Now she just sounds a little unhinged, the word practically snapping out of her and Mary Margaret visibly recoils. Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “So, wait, wait, wait, let me get this straight. The two of you,” she waves an aggressive hand between them, “legitimately believe that Killian and I are faking our relationship because I feel bad that Robin and Regina are disgustingly in love?”

Mary Margaret lets out a breath, even as her eyes flit towards Ruby. “Not just them,” she reasons. “Everyone’s always kind of paired off here and you’re…” “Oh my God.” “We’re not trying to be insulting.” “And yet,” Emma grumbles, tugging her hands down either one of her cheeks and no doubt leaving angry red streaks in her wake. That’s good. She’s angry. And confused. And angry. And she’d kind of like to make out with her boyfriend.

This was supposed to be the weekend she got to make out with her boyfriend. And tell her friends that she and Killian had been dating for months.

There’d been a plan.

They'd talked about it.

Nowhere in that plan did either one of them expect their friends to think they were lying.

That’s a confusing sentence. Emma is very confused.

Maybe she’d been onto something with the body-snatching idea before.

“This is insane,” she mutters, mostly to herself and at some point she’s started pacing. “This is—you know Killian and I have been dating for like..a really long time. It’s not like we’ve tried to hide it. You guys are just unobservant.” Ruby doesn’t look convinced. “Name one date you have been on.” “Excuse me?” “One date. Name one date that you have been on with Killian.” “I don’t have to prove myself to you! Or my relationship.” “And yet,” Ruby echoes, expression turning particularly pleased. Emma resists the very real urge to knock her off the counter.

Emma screws her mouth shut, mind racing to find something really good, but she hadn’t been entirely prepared for show-and-tell and the noises in the living room are actually starting to get very loud.

Ruby makes a pitying noise in the back of her throat.

“No, no, no,” Emma stammers, gaping at her and a still-flushed Mary Margaret. “I just—ok, ok, I had that police officer’s dinner. Two weekends ago. Fancy dress and ties were required and all that? Killian came with me.” “As a date?” Mary Margaret asks. “What else would he come as?” “Your friend,” she suggests. “Like he’s done for the last three years.” “Yeah, but there was no ripping off of each other’s clothes those other years! It was—passionate! Heated, even. No, God—Ruby stop laughing, this isn’t funny.”

Ruby holds up a hand in what Emma can only assume is surrender, but then she notices just how much her shoulders are shaking and she’s definitely trying not to laugh so, like, game on or whatever. “No, no, definitely not funny,” Ruby agrees. The words wobble out of her. “But like—heated, honestly. You and Jones?” “We can be heated! We can be hot! For each other, specifically.” “Em, this is almost getting embarrassing.”

“I will kick you,” Emma warns. “Like, really hard.” Mary Margaret rests a hand on Emma’s shoulder before she can take another step forward, an expression that’s in the realm of motherly and comforting and it might be the worst thing in the world. At least on Long Island. Possibly the Tri-State area.

“This is not embarrassing,” Mary Margaret promises. “That’s not a word we agreed on.” Emma growls. “So it was preordained?” “We just want to make sure you’re happy. And that you and Killian don’t feel like you need to—” Another shrug. One of them is going to dislocate a shoulder sooner or later. “Put on airs for us. It’s just us. No judging.” “Say that again,” Emma challenges.

Mary Margaret exhales. “We’re not judging. We only have your best interests at heart, both of you. And it’s not as if you two have ever really showed you were interested.” Of all the things that could possibly be the last straw in this conversation, Emma is almost pleasantly surprised to realize it’s that particular sentence.

She rolls Mary Margaret’s hand off her.

“We are constantly touching each other,” she hisses, a little concerned by the red that’s started to cloud the edge of her vision. “He is always putting his arm around me. I sat on his leg when we were drinking before!” “But that’s just normal,” Ruby argues, and Emma genuinely has no idea what she does at that. It hurts, at least, the sound that races out of her and the burst of heat in her chest, which can’t be healthy and presumably is what, finally, draws Killian to the kitchen.

His eyes sweep the scene as soon as he steps on the linoleum floor, one side of his mouth ticking up when he meets Emma’s gaze.

“You ok, love?” “No,” she sneers. “Can you tell these idiots that we’re into each other?” “Wait, what?” Emma waves both her hands again, snarling at her friends. Ruby barely blinks. “We were only telling Emma that we, uh—” “—They don’t think we’re dating,” Emma finishes. Killian freezes. From the top of his head to his obviously sock-covered feet.

He stops and stares and stares some more and then—

He laughs. Loudly. Uproariously. Head thrown back and shoulders heaving, desperately trying to catch his breath while the laughter bounces off the kitchen walls and settles into Emma’s soul, which is admittedly a little melodramatic, but this has been the strangest fifteen minutes of her life and she still really wants to kiss her boyfriend.

It’s nice to know she still has her priorities straight, at least.

“What is happening right now?” Mary Margaret murmurs, as Killian wipes away the tears that have fallen on his cheeks.

“Sucks not to know, doesn’t it?” Emma snaps. “Wait, wait,” Ruby says quickly, “is this laughter at our question or at the prospect of dating Emma, because if it's the second one, that kind of seems like a dick move, Jones.” Killian scoffs, and it only takes three more steps for him to be in Emma’s space with his arm around her shoulder and his lips ghosting over the top of her hair. She widens her eyes at Ruby. “It is not laughter at the prospect of dating my girlfriend, no,” Killian drawls. “Are you double checking on us, Lucas?” “You guys can’t be dating.” “Says who?” “Us,” Ruby cries, nearly falling off the counter when her limbs flail several different directions. “That’s—M’s you’ve got to back me up on this! It’s weird.” “Weird,” Killian echoes. “That I’m dating the person I like?” “When did you start liking Emma?” “I don’t think I have to tell you that.” Ruby lets out a triumphant sound, like she’s won something and Emma can’t imagine what the prize is in this situation, but it might be the genuinely ridiculous amount of alcohol Will and Phillip have seemingly just gotten back with.

“Where is everyone?” Will yells, what looks like an actual crate propped up on his hip. He narrows his eyes when he takes in the kitchen and the half-finished dishes, gaze darting Ruby’s direction.

She curses. Loudly.

“Not exactly subtle, is he?” Killian mutters, mostly to Emma. She turns into his side, curling both arms around his middle, so he’ll kiss the top of her hair again, but maybe to prove a point and Mary Margaret may never stop looking at her feet.

“You guys going to be weird about this?” Will asks. “Now that we know you’re faking?” “No one is faking anything,” Emma objects. “Sure you’re not. Did you come up with a relationship backstory on your way up her? That’s kind of rom-com, don’t you think, Em?” “We didn’t have to come up with anything! We are living the rom-com.” “You and Jones?” “Me and Killian.” “You know you guys only have one bed in your room,” Ruby chips in, apparently missing some form of self-preservation. “Is that going to be a problem?” Killian shakes his head. “We’re definitely going to use that one bed. Thoroughly.” “My brother is here,” Emma mumbles. He smirks at her. “But,” she adds, “we’re definitely going to use that bed. With the condoms that we brought.” Mary Margaret makes a strangled noise, Will chuckling while Ruby continues to curse and David demands to know why isn’t anyone giving me something to drink so I can fuck up Wario right now?

“He brings up a very good point, Swan,” Killian grins, and Mary Margaret sounds like she’s choking now. Serves her right.

Emma hums. “Is that even how the game works?” “Only one way to find out, right?” “Something like that, for sure.” He flashes another smile, eyes bright enough that for half a second Emma forgets everything that’s happened in that kitchen and she still has dishes to watch, pressing up on her toes as soon as Killian ducks his head.

Their friends boo.

She flips them all off.

And it’s honestly not bad for the rest of the night — there are more discussions of how to properly play Mario Party and an almost alarming amount of alcohol, most of it horribly mixed by Aurora and Ruby, but no one mentions fake dating again, and Emma’s grateful for that. Until they all traipse upstairs to go to bed and there’s really only one bed and both Regina and Mary Margaret stare just a little too long before Emma closes the door behind her.

It takes her about fourteen seconds to get mad again. “Go ahead,” Killian chuckles, dropping onto the edge of that one bed so he can tug off his socks. She seriously cannot cope with his socks.

“I’m sorry, what?” “I know you’ve been waiting to curse them up one side and down the other, so let’s have your worst.” “It’s stupid that you know that.”

He nods, lips pursed as he crooks a finger at her. Emma huffs, but moves into the space between his legs almost immediately, Killian’s hands on her hips and hers on his shoulders and she takes far too much joy in how quickly his eyelashes start to flutter. His head falls to her stomach. Top-tier, peak relationship status.

“I know everything,” Killian mumbles, mostly into her shirt. “And I know that it’s ridiculous they think we aren’t in—” She doesn’t dare breathe when he cuts himself off, both of them dancing around something big and important and it’s almost an appropriate amount of time, but Emma is Emma and she doesn’t want to fuck this up and maybe that was why she’d been so nervous to admit that Killian Jones is ridiculously good looking.

Like almost painfully good looking.

She cards her fingers through his hair.

“I have an idea,” he says.

“Yeah?” “I think we should go all in. All those romantic comedy tropes Scarlet was talking about. Lean in to every single one of them.” “How many tropes could there possibly be?” Killian makes a noncommittal noise, glancing up which is really unfair because his eyelashes are almost offensively long. “We’ll make a list.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” he repeats. “Why? You have other things to do tonight?” “Oh, you’re a menace.” He nips at her hip, Emma jumping and possibly giggling. Killian’s eyes are definitely getting bluer. Maybe it’s the lighting in that room. Their room. Together.

She can’t believe he brought so many socks.

“That will be thing number one, I think,” Killian said. “Blatant and obvious flirting.” “You don’t think we flirt enough?” “Not constantly because we’re not animals, but—you know, could probably do with a bit more. Tell you that I think you’re stunning? Regularly?” Emma gags. Killian keeps going. “Bewitching? That I’m fairly certain your hair has magical properties? Regarding its ability to reflect light?” “Oh, yeah, use that one,” she laughs, and it’s not very hard to get him to lay next to her on the bed. Which may actually be made of feathers, if its overall level of comfort is any indication. “What else, then?” “Endearments, naturally.” “Naturally.” “And, uh—” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows shifting in a way that undoubtedly defies the laws of gravity. “PDA.”

“Say PDA again,” Emma challenges. Killian blushes better than Mary Margaret, she thinks. Presumably because she wants to kiss Killian more than she wants to kiss Mary Margaret.

There’s been a disappointing lack of kissing so far.

“Public displays of affection,” Killian says, pausing between every word until Emma’s whole body shakes with the force of her laughter. “I’m going to constantly touch you.” “Could be worse.” “Oh yeah?” “I mean—” Emma drags her fingers up his side, shifting his shirt until she reaches skin and the plane of his stomach and— “Shit, stop that,” Killian grumbles. “It tickles.” Emma’s eyes widen. In perfect tandem with what feels like a rather large expansion of her heart, another burst of heat that isn’t quite as jarring as it was in the kitchen. And Killian shifts half an inch backwards. “Don’t,” he warns, but Emma swipes her tongue across her teeth. “Swan, c’mon, that’s—” Pouncing is a very ugly word, but Emma is way too busy discovering other areas of her boyfriend's body and Killian stops talking rather quickly. As soon as her tongue is in his mouth.

And they do make a list. An actual physical list, with bullet points and a plan, that Killian keeps in his pocket because Emma doesn’t have pockets in her dresses and it’s easier for his hand to squeeze her knee if she wears dresses.

That’s bullet point number six.

There are seventeen.

It becomes something of a game for them — Killian making sure to call Emma love at the end of what seems like every sentence, while she alternates between babe and sweetheart, but that second one kind of sets her teeth on edge and, one time, on Saturday afternoon while they’re picking badminton teams because that’s something they do on this weekend, he calls her—

“C’mon, darling,” Killian says, slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulders. “We’re going to absolutely destroy Nolan and Nolan.”

Every one of their friends groan.

Emma very nearly passes out.

The word ricochets off her soul, or something less ridiculous. Even after Killian and David finish debating the proper terminology for the shuttle-thing. She’s never been a darling before. Darling is for committed relationships and longevity and happily ever after and her racquet nearly flies out of her hand when she tries to return Mary Margaret’s serve.

“You ok, Swan?” Killian asks, and good that’s good. A much-needed return to normal.

Emma nods. She can’t seem to do much else.

Somehow they win the match. David decrees it’s called a match.

And Killian seems to take the public displays of affection fairly seriously — pulling Emma onto his legs when they sit around the fire on Saturday night, nosing at the back of her neck or that one spot just above her shoulder blade that makes her shiver. She almost constantly has her fingers in his hair, tracing idle patterns with her nails. There are absent-minded kisses and kisses that make her toes curl, standing on sand or in the hallway or...well, anywhere really.

It’s something almost close to wonderful, which isn’t really a change of pace for Emma and Killian as a couple, but this level of couple’dom is—

“You’re laughing,” he accuses, but the words get lost between their mouths and there's not much space between their mouths.

Emma shakes her head. “I’m having fun.” “That was the point of this weekend. It always is.”

“Yeah, but I mean—” She grits her teeth, neves creeping up her spine and taking root in the back of her skull, and she hates that it happens. Emma is the worst kind of pessimist. Or, rather the best kind, depending on how you look at it.

“I like you too,” Killian says.

“Presumptuous.” “Tell me that’s now how the sentence was going to end, then.” “Well, ok yeah, but—this is just...being full-on relationship, it’s been good, right?” “Are you double checking?” “A little,” Emma admits. “I—this was the plan, and I know it was the plan. That we were going to stop trying to hide and—”

“—I really don’t think we were ever good at hiding it.” “Tell that to the rest of our friends. Mary Margaret and Ruby staged an intervention. It’s...I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you were willing to prove how stupid into me you are.”

Killian barks out a laugh, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s totally what I am.” “I knew it.”

Those same friends, however, don’t seem to get the memo.

Maybe they need new friends.

“I don’t know,” Will says, halfway through a Sunday afternoon BBQ that could feed a small army. “I’m still calling shenanigans.” “Shenanigans,” Emma echoes.

“You heard me the first time. It seems like you’re trying too hard.” “To be in a relationship?” “Yuh huh,” Will nods, flipping more than one burgers at the same time. “You see that? That was impressive as fuck.” “You’re a poet,” Killian mutters. He must have some kind of Emma-focused sixth sense too, because she feels an arm curl around her middle before she can get into any sort of pacing groove, grunting when he pulls her back against his chest.

And kisses behind her ear.

Regina quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t know, actually. There has been a pretty good amount of eye making, even before we got here.”

“I don’t make eyes,” Emma argues. “No, but he does.” Killian’s cheek brushes the side of Emma’s head when he nods. “That’s true, I’ve been making eyes for quite some time.”

“See,” Regina says, “This is—if this is fake, it’s a serious commitment to the cause.” “The cause of kissing my boyfriend?” Emma challenges.

“Yeah, that one. Ok, pop quiz. Killian, when was your first kiss with Emma?” He doesn’t tense. He doesn’t flinch. His hand might tighten a little, but Emma chooses to believe that’s actually a positive and she’s very glad for it. If only because that’s the main reason she stays upright.

“Junior year of college,” Killian replies.

Will drops the tongs. It’s patently absurd.

“Hold on, when?” David demands. He’s already half standing when Mary Margaret levels him with a look, flopping back into the plastic chair with enough force it nearly breaks. “Junior year of college. I thought you started dating a few months ago.” ��Yeah, we did.” “And?”

“And,” Killian repeats. “We’d gone out, you and Mary Margaret left early. So I walked Emma back to her apartment, it was raining. We hit all of those rom-com tropes. She even had my jacket on.” Emma can’t catch her breath. Which is really ridiculous since she’s not moving, but she was always fairly positive she was the only one counting this as their first kiss and—

“You were drunk,” she cries. “You can’t possibly remember this!” Mary Margaret audibly gasps. That’s more ridiculous than Emma’s breathing issues.

She twists against Killian’s chest, meeting his steady gaze with something that can only be described as ever-increasing and seemingly inevitable insanity. He smirks.

The bastard.

“Trust me,” he says, “I’ve spent way longer than I’d be willing to admit remembering just that. You took your shoes off as soon as we got into the lobby.” “Because they hurt my feet.” “Mmhm.” “What happened after that?” Aurora asks sharply, elbows on her knees and chin on her hands and no one has noticed that some of the hot dogs are starting to burn.

“She’s a very good kisser,” Killian replies. Easy as that. Emma’s back to not breathing. “Told me it was nice that I walked her home, I said I probably deserved some kind of reward, she glared at me, I waited very patiently and she—” Emma remembers the rest. She doesn't need to hear it. She reenacts it, instead. Her hands fly to his shirt, fingers curling into fabric that’s different than it was when they were twenty and buzzed on alcohol that was only marginally worse than what they’ve spent all weekend drinking and Killian is absolutely smiling when she kisses him.

The bastard.

Part two.

And she resolutely refuses to acknowledge any sounds from the peanut gallery, pushing up on bare feet so it’s easier to sling an arm over his shoulder and push her fingers into his hair. He tilts his head, lets his tongue sweep along her lips and she might sigh, but he might also groan and he definitely closes his eyes.

Emma’s always liked that about him. Killian closes his eyes when he kisses her — like he’s uninterested in anything else, like anything else means less than nothing when he can nose at Emma’s cheek or drop his mouth along the curve of her jaw. It also gives her half a second to stare at the overall length of his eyelashes, so it’s kind of a win-win for her.

He’s just as out of breath as she is when they pull apart, color in his cheeks and Emma’s heart threatens to burst out of her ribcage.

That’s probably not covered under incidentals either.

She’s got to stop thinking so violently. Especially about her own body.

Will whistles.

“You guys suck,” Emma announces, and that’s not the first thing she planned on saying, but nothing has really gone according to plan that weekend and she has thoughts on that.

Patent pending.

“First of all,” she says, holding up one finger. Will is trying very hard not to laugh. Ruby isn’t trying. “Killian and I have been dating for months. Genuinely months. And, ok, yeah we kissed one time in college, but we didn’t start dating for awhile, and that—”

Emma is still holding up her finger when she turns again. Killian’s smirk is going to stay permanently etched on his face. “That was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?” “Your words, not mine,” he chuckles.

“I definitely thought you were good looking in college.” “I desperately wanted to date you in college.” “No shit.” “What is happening right now?” Phillip yells. Emma doesn’t have an answer for that. It’s less disappointing than it was on Friday night.

“No shit,” Killian repeats. “You were—I don’t know, this force of nature. But you were also David’s sister and—” “—She’s still my sister,” David interrupts. Regina throws something at him. It might honestly be her sandal.

Emma doesn’t bother double checking. She’s rather busy swooning, after all.

Killian kisses the bridge of her nose before he continues. “You never take anyone’s garbage, love. Mine included and that wasn’t really why I was stupid into you, but it was a big part at the start, and then we kept hanging out and you’re—” She doesn’t mind when he shrugs. Probably because of the previously discussed swooning. Honestly, Emma is swooning so bad. “You’re the smartest person I know. And stronger than anyone else, on some existential level.” God, she hopes she doesn’t start to cry.

That’d be kind of lame.

And, somehow, there is more.

“I worry about you, you know. Every time you leave my apartment and go save someone. It’s—I count minutes from when you text me that you’re on the train until I hear the lock click. It’s insane. Might be affecting my blood pressure, really.” “She has a key,” Ruby whispers. Not very well, but something about the thought Emma assumes. “She really has a key?” “I really have a key,” Emma answers. “I wasn’t kidding about spending multiple nights a week at his apartment.” “We could probably do something about that,” Killian adds. Will whistles again.

Emma’s jaw drops. That’s kind of disappointing, really. She wishes she had some kind of sweeping something to respond with — romance on another level of romantic-type expectations, but she’s still her and she’s still a little pissed they haven’t been dating since their junior year in college.

“Em, Em,” Ruby presses, “I’m pretty sure he’s asking you to move in with him.” Killian hums. “She’s annoying, but she’s right.” Ruby sticks her tongue out. “But, but,” Emma stammers, “that wasn’t on the list.” “You guys made a list?” Regina balks. “None of you believed us! Which, honestly friendship demerits. Negative friendship standing. We are a good couple, and we like hanging out and we’d been hanging out forever, and this just kind of...happened. It should have happened before, maybe, but our first date was getting ice cream in the Village because none of you will go to the Village with me and I—Killian always will.” “That’s kind of how boyfriend’ing works,” he chuckles. “Is that a word?” “Absolutely not,” Mary Margaret says. “Should we apologize now?” “Probably,” Emma sighs. “Because it’s—none of this has been fake, and we’ve been on relationship overdrive for the last forty-eight hours and I mean...is it so shocking that we could be in a relationship?”

Silence.

None of them answer, and Killian is still staring at Emma because, she realizes rather belatedly, she hasn’t actually told him she wants to move into his apartment with a bed that’s even more comfortable than the one here or that she also counts down the minutes because she sleeps better with him than she has in years, so naturally she tilts her head up and—

“I love you,” Emma says. Killian’s eyes bug. “And I think I have for a really long time, but we were always friends and—” “—That’s not going to change, love.” “Well, yeah, that’s how good relationships work. Are you just going to gloss over the sentiment?” “Absolutely not,” Killian mumbles, gruffer than usual. And probably because half of the letters get lost in more kissing, a distinct arch to Emma’s back when he actually dips her like some goddamn romantic comedy.

Mary Margaret might take a picture.

Emma kind of hopes she does. It’d look good in a frame on the wall. Their wall.

“I’d like to move into your apartment,” Emma says, and she definitely giggles that time. There’s no way around it, not when Killian’s lips drag along the side of her neck and pepper every inch of her face.

Several people awwww out loud.

As they should, really.

“I love you too,” Killian says.

“Ok, good.” “Good.”

There’s more kissing after that. As there should be, really. Part two. “So, uh,” Will says, and he’s picked up the tongs at some point, “you guys want celebratory hamburgers or…” “If you don’t put cheese on my burger, I’ll throw your fucking tongues in the ocean,” Emma guarantees.

Killian crows. Or something. It’s nice, and that’s really all she cares about. “That’s my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruby groans. “We’ve heard. Do we toast to the happy couple?” “Absolutely,” David says, reaching into the cooler to grab wine coolers. Like they’re juniors in college. They toast several times.

And Emma doesn’t sleep much that night, but that’s something she’s willing to concede. Especially when Killian lets her pick the music on the drive back the next morning.

Like any good relationship.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #i did this instead of working #and because it was sunny outside

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fanfic-girlie · 4 years

Text

We’re just friends

A/N: I sure have to improve a lot, but I kinda enjoyed writing this one, was even thinking about doing a series, lemme know what you think. Hope you enjoy it, if so, like it please. Also, I’m having big trouble when formatting this thing, pls consider it .Sorry for any mistakes x

Summary: you’re just friends, but you feel a bit jealous when seeing him with another girl

word count: 1255 words

——-

It was summer, your friends decided that you should all go to the beach and spend a few days. You weren’t the biggest beach fan, but you sure enjoyed road trips and your friends company, so you decided to tag along. A few days before, though, your friend Marcela introduced you to Timmy, and you guys got along so well, you barely spent time apart before and during the trip. By now, your group of friends, which had also become his, got pretty used to the two of you being together all the time, and so was Marcela, even though sometimes she wouldn’t be part of your plans. So, the trip was supposed to be: going to Malibu for the week, renting a big house on Airbnb, filling the fridge with lots of beers and food, and going to the beach. Spending a week so wasted you’d barely remember anything later. Before going you guys were sorting the rooms out, deciding the couples should have bedrooms so they could have more privacy, and the rest of you would just scatter around whatever space was left on the house. In one of the bedrooms was Mike and Ashley, on another Chris and Dani, so you, Timmy, Marcela and Alejandro were supposed to share the remaining bedroom. Going on two separated cars, you had started spring break. The ride was loud, everybody too excited about going to the beach together, a lot of music, loud conversations and junk food were definitely included on the road trip. You were the first one to put on headphones, immediately getting scolded. “No, no, no, missy! We didn’t plan this together so your antisocial ass could listen to music alone” Alejandro said, making you roll your eyes. “You can always have the aux cord”, he winked at you. Getting the aux cord, you immediately put on your favorite playlist. “This is why bringing (Y/N) is always a good idea, she has the best taste in music” Mike said, looking at you through the rear mirror. “You know I got you” you smiled looking back at him. You were on your way to pick everybody up so you could head to Malibu, the first one was Timmy, he looked like a child on Christmas when he saw you, immediately sitting by your side so you could talk the entire way. By the time you got to Ashley’s house, everyone was settled and in 3 hours or so, you were standing in front of the house you’d spend the entire week in. After dropping your things, your first stop was the market, and without knowing, 2 hours had gone by when you finished buying all the things you were going to need for the house. “So, it’s our first night. You guys decide it: bonfire or a club?” Marcela asked, rubbing her hands together. Chris and Dani were the first ones to choose the bonfire option, claiming they were too tired to go out, and we’d have the entire week to do so. Alejandro, on the other hand, complained about it being a “couple’s program” and that we should enjoy every minute of it. Defeated, you all started getting ready to go to a club nearby. You were finishing your makeup and Timmy was sitting on the bed, keeping you company while scrolling on his phone. “You don’t seem too excited to go out” he said without taking his eyes off of the screen. “I’m not, really. I’d much rather stay here and having a bonfire” you answered, checking yourself one last time on the mirror “but I’m ready, let’s go.” “We could always ditch, you know”, “It’s our first night here, our friends would be disappointed, let’s just go” you answered pushing him out of the bedroom. You entered the living room already receiving funny looks from your friends, every since you and Timothée started hanging out, everyone had in mind that he wanted something more than just friendship, but every time you were confronted about it, you’d always say “we’re just friends”. Sometimes, though, you’d catch yourself thinking about the two of you being together, you had so much in common, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

At the club, everybody just went different ways, an upbeat song was playing and you went straight to the bar to start drinking with Alejandro. At some point you localized Chris and Dani dancing, and Timothée… with a girl. You don’t know why, but something inside you felt weird, the way he was laughing and touching her, just like he did with you made you feel.. jealous? You guessed you were making a funny face, because Alejandro started snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Earth to (Y/N)?, ¿Qué pasa contigo?” “Nothing, I was just thinking” you said, adverting your gaze somewhere else, trying to find Mike and Ashley, they had been gone since you arrived. “Thinking about what? Or should I say.. who?” you raised your brow at him “don’t lie to me girl”. Alejandro was one of your best friends, he was one of the few people that knew you very well, he always knew what to say and was your company for as long as you could remember. You always had a hard time making friends, but he basically adopted you and made you meet new people, so you were very grateful for him on so many levels. “What are you talking about?” you gave him a puzzled look. “Come on, you and Timmy? Are you really going to tell me there’s nothing going on? I’m your best friend. Actually, I could really be offended for being left behind, if I wasn’t so busy” he said, making you laugh. He had always been such a drama queen. “Come on, it’s nothing, really” you rolled your eyes “We are just really good friends, we just hang out and enjoy each other’s company. What have you been so busy with?” you tried to make him change the subject. “You know that doesn’t work with me. If I didn’t know you, I’d say you are pretty jealous he’s out and about with some other chick” he raised his brows at you. “That’s so not true, and I’m so over this conversation” you downed another shot and went to the dance floor, leaving an amused Alejandro behind. You’d never admit to anyone, yourself included, that you’d be crushing someone, especially Timothée. You didn’t even know how to dance, which already made you regret the show you pulled, so you were just awkwardly swinging to the beat of the song, until Marcela showed up and started dancing by you, which made you feel less awkward. Suddenly you felt a pair of hands on your waist, turning around quickly you realized it was him, you were so grateful it was dark so he wouldn’t be able to see you blushing. You put your hands around his neck and tried to follow him, feeling like a big idiot. You were about to tell him you didn’t even know how to dance when you felt his soft lips on your neck going up to your face and kissing the corner of your mouth. His pupils so dilated you could barely see the iris, your knees felt weak immediately, he looked at your lips, almost like asking for permission, while licking his own, to which you nodded, allowing him access, and letting yourself go with it. You didn’t want to know what Alejandro told him, but you sure would have to thank him later.

#timothee chalamet x reader #timmy x reader #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee chalamet imagines #timothee chalamet one shot #timothee chalamet blurbs #timothee chalamet

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legomydoggos · 4 years

Text

August 2020 camping

Another camping trip, another wall of text for my thoughts because the last one was really nice feeling to write out.

I really do have the best dogs. They make all of my outdoor adventures more enjoyable. <3 <3

Headed up Friday and added 2 hours to the drive so we could make a scenic stop+hike+ice cream. I’m normally not one for midday hikes in the summer, but we were north enough and having storms in the area so there was a cool breeze and it was overcast. One portion of the trail was rated difficult but Rogue took it with ease and I made sure he had frequent creek stops and he submerged at one point which helped refresh him.

On the way back, we stopped for a breather and Jyn and I engaged in our longest personal play session to date! Usually she starts biting too hard at my hands so we have to stop, but there was some loose dirt that had been added to the trail recently and I encouraged her to zoomie on it instead of biting and she took the direction well and we had a blast! The rest of the time both were on leash as the trail was too busy to allow for off-leash time.

Which was totally fine because they got to be off-leash the entire time at the campsite! Jennie’s friends booked the site through HipCamp.com, which seems to be an Airbnb of camping. People can rent out space on their properties so that where we were: in someone’s 32 acre section of woods and it was lovely. They provided us with tents, tables, chairs, ice, firewood, a double seater outhouse, and allowed dogs to be off leash under voice control. Their land backed right up to a state forest. Due to time and weather we didn’t get to explore as much of it as I would have liked to, but I would definitely love to visit again!

Rogue notes

Our friends brought their two rescue Boston Terriers and the first few minutes were a bit of confusion from my two pups with all the snorting that sounded like snarling, but they got it figured out quickly and all four enjoyed playing together every day. Rogue was energetic like he hasn’t been in months thanks to the cool weather.

He’s a camping pro by now. It’s his third camping trip with us. He dug a shallow bed in the dirt, plopped down by the fire, and got up when he wanted to solicit pets and food from us. He was also good about getting up when he needed to potty and going an appropriate distance away into the woods to take care of business. He did try to sneak onto the air mattress a couple times and screamed when I pushed him off. Very dramatic... The second night was cold, over 20 degrees colder than we have gotten used to in the summertime, so I layered a blanket and towel on him and he wore a light coat. That seemed to keep him comfortable. One evening he heard gunshots in the distance so I put him into the car to relax in a safe space, which he appreciated. He was still picky about his food and ate maybe one full meal per day, usually only because I mixed our food into it. (He’s been picky during the hot weather this year so hopefully he’ll go back to his no nonsense eating habits once it cools down again.) It was nice to have his CBD oil on hand for thunderstorms and any hiking aches.

Jyn notes

Jyn on the other hand absolutely gorged herself on the free fed kibble left out for the Bostons. In one day I believe she ate about 3 times the amount she normally would get. Her belly was distended, she was gassy, and oh so pleased with herself. She only needed a few reminders to stay close to the campsite, already an improvement from last time. She learned to lay closer to the fire if she wanted to warm up. She did not resource guard me or the car! But she did nearly get into a scuffle with one of the Bostons over a bully stick. My management mistake, so it didn’t happen again. Her new thing was alarm barking when the camp host showed up to check on us. He was an older gentleman, very nice and gentle demeanor. Rogue ran up to him like a beloved long lost friend. Jyn arooed like a Beagle but wasn’t aggressive at all, just suspicious. She would approach and then dart back to me but never looked like she was going to escalate more than a bark. The second time the host came by Jyn was in the car eating so I let her have her fit in there and let her out when she was calm. I will keep an eye on this behavior but since it wasn’t aggressive at all, I don’t think I really mind being alerted by her. I think it was appropriate given the situation: we were in “our spot” and a stranger approached suddenly. Jyn enjoyed sleeping in our sleeping bags. She did wake up and throw up on the outside of my bag (I shoved her out so fast the moment I woke up and heard her) the second night, probably due to all of the overeating she had done, and while I was half asleep looking for something to clean it with, she ate it all back up which was maddening in the moment and pretty funny looking back on it later. Overall, her recall was about 98% for the entire trip.

Another interesting behavioral moment I witnessed was Jyn and one of the Bostons investigating toads and their owner came over and scolded the Boston who was attempting a murder by that point. In reaction to the scolding, Jyn threw out every appeasement behavior in the book, groveling on the ground in front of the person even though the scolding wasn’t being directed at her. I haven’t ever seen her do that before, since I never have corrected her like that, so it was interesting to see. I ended up calling her over to me and boosting her confidence with some pats and verbal praise. She bounced back immediately.

On the way home, we stopped to meet @goblin-dogs‘ Kunina and Astrid. They are all sweethearts 12/10 highly recommend. The dogs got on swimmingly, as if they had known each other always. We had a nice hike, enjoyed brunch, and went to a dog park. Cannot wait to do it again, hopefully sometime soon!

Both Rogue and Jyn were fantastic in the car. It’s been a while since we’ve all road-tripped together. The last time would have been when we picked up Jyn to bring her home. I have been slow on car crate training with Jyn so she did end up in the lap of whoever wasn’t currently driving, which I know isn’t ideal safety-wise, but we will get there. By the end, I did get her to settle in her bed in the back. I love my Ryobi fan, Rogue really seems to cool off quicker with it and have a more pleasant trip overall. The battery life is great, too.

That's all for now, kudos to you if you read all that!

#legomydoggos text #dogblr #please don't eat this post again Tumblr *shakes fist at the sky*

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cantgetoutofmyheda · 5 years

Note

I love affair au but can you write a cute small town au. Best friends to lovers in the big city.

“Clarke, wake up,” Lexa shouted through the door leading to the blonde’s room, “I can’t find my neck pillow!”

“Ugh,” the blonde murmured from the nest of blankets she had burrowed herself into, “I’m sleeping, Lexa.”

The brunette took Clarke’s reply as a cue to open the door, “Have you seen it anywhere?”

“Lex!” Clarke huffed as she put a pillow over her head to block out the sound of her best friend’s voice.

Lexa pulled her lips into a smirk before plunging herself atop the blonde’s body, “Morning, Clarke.”

Clarke begrudgingly removed the pillow covering her face, “Why must you do this to me?”

Lexa stayed in her position, knowing Clarke wasn’t awake enough to have the strength to push her off, “Because it’s nearly 10am and there’s no reason for you to still be asleep. And because my flight is in two hours and can’t find my neck pillow and something tells me you’ve hidden it from me.”

“Well,” Clarke rubbed her sleepy eyes as she sat up, “maybe if you weren’t traveling so much, I wouldn’t have to start hiding things from you.”

Lexa rolled her eyes, “You hiding my things isn’t going to stop work from making me travel.”

“What if next time I hid your passport?” Clarke raised a brow.

Lexa snorted, “Then I’d tell you to have fun explaining that to Titus.”

It wasn’t that the blonde’s actions we’re just, but Lexa understood where she was coming from. After all, it had been Lexa’s idea that the pair moved from their small and quaint hometown to Polis. Lexa had a great job opportunity waiting and knew that Clarke would be able to still do her freelance graphic design work from wherever she pleased; she also knew a bigger city meant a better chance at getting more clients.

The thing is, Lexa and Clarke had been inseparable their entire lives. They grew up down the street from each other, they started daycare together, they went through middle school and high school together, they even roomed together in college. Unknowingly, they had become an extension of one another.

“It’s not fair,” Clarke let out, to which Lexa raised a questioning brow.

“What isn’t fair?”

At this point, Clarke was fully sitting up. Lexa had finally gotten off the top of her and was seated by her side. The blonde leaned her head on her best friend’s shoulder, “You made me move here with you, but you’re never actually here.”

“Clarke-”

Clarke shook her head as she cut the girl off, “No, it’s true. This was your idea and now it feels like I’m just stuck here while you’re off traveling the world. I only see you a few times a month now, Lex, and when I do, you’re running around the apartment like a crazy person, unpacking and repacking your suitcase for your next trip.”

Lexa closed her eyes in thought, “I know.”

“At this rate, we might as well get a one bedroom to save on rent since you’re never here,” Clarke let out.

“That’s not fair, Clarke.”

“It’s not fair that this was your idea and now I’m just stuck here.”

“After this trip, I don’t have to go anywhere for another three weeks,” Lexa offered, “Maybe I can take a few days off and we can go somewhere for a long weekend.”

Clarke shook her head, “The last time you said that, they put you on a last minute flight to London and we had to cancel our Airbnb. I’d rather not chance that again.”

Defeated, Lexa grounded her feet to the cold wooden floors to start her exit back to her own bedroom, “I’m sorry, Clarke. I’ll be better, I promise.”

“Lex,” Clarke called after the girl, “I’m proud of you. You worked so hard to get this job and I know all the travel is because you’re doing an amazing job. I just miss you. I miss you a lot.”

“Me too,” the brunette sighed as she leaned against the door frame.

Clarke clicked her tongue, “I hid it under the couch cushion. Have a safe trip, Lex.”

Lexa nodded as she gave the blonde a somber smile, “I’ll be home soon.”

Lexa looked down at her phone, her text to Clarke from the day prior saying she had landed safely was still unanswered.

“For someone who just sold in a solid plan, you don’t look so happy,” Lincoln said as he put their drinks down and reclaimed his seat at the table.

“Thanks, Linc,” she nodded her drink at her coworker before taking a sip, “I’m fine. Just some other things going on.”

The man nodded, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Clarke’s just annoyed with me because I’ve been gone so much, I don’t know what to do to make it better.”

“For two people who are just friends, you definitely have the problems of people that are in an actual relationship,” he laughed.

Lexa clenched her jaw as she stared at him.

“Sorry, not funny,” he conceded, “But did you ever stop to think about why she’s actually upset? Maybe she has feelings for you.”

“There’s no way,” Lexa rolled her eyes, “we’re best friends.”

Lincoln nodded, “Listen, I don’t want to meddle here, so I’m just going to give you my two cents and then we can move on, okay?” He waited for her to nod before he continued, “ Think about what’s most important to you and prioritize that. If it’s work, talk to Clarke to manage her expectations. If it’s Clarke’s feelings and your guys’ friendship, or whatever this is, all you have to do is tell Titus that the travel has been too much for you and that you need to cut it down a little so you can better balance your work and personal life. You just need to decide which one takes precedence.”

“Right,” Lexa sighed, “that’s the hard part.”

Lincoln raised a brow, “Choosing?”

“No,” she exhaled, “coming to terms with my choice.”

The man smiled, “I see.”

Lexa gulped the rest of her whiskey down and stared into the bottom of the glass, “I think I need another drink.”

---

It was a handy trick, she had to admit that. Taking a photo of her room number whenever she checked into a hotel had become an instinctual thing for Lexa. With the amount of traveling she did, and after confusing room numbers on her first few trips, it had become second nature to her.

She pulled out her phone in the elevator to double check that she was going to the correct floor when she realized she had a notification for an unread text.

The first thing that popped into her mind: Clarke.

The actuality of the situation: Titus.

He wrote to her asking if she could extend her trip by an additional day and instead of returning home after these string of meetings, fly direct to the Dallas office for three days.

“Fuck.”

The moment Lexa got into her room, she stripped down to ready herself for bed and took her phone back out. She drafted a response to Titus, edited it three times, and finally sent it. She toggled to her unanswered text to Clarke who she now had to write a message to: I’m sorry, I miss you and wish that I was home.

---

The flight back to Polis had Lexa in a bundle of nerves. It was comical that she had to travel as much as she did because she really did hate airplanes. She still hadn’t heard from Clarke. The cab ride to their apartment was no better, she was playing every possible scenario in her mind of how the conversation was going to go. She had zoned so far out that the cab driver had to call out to her three times that they had arrived at her destination.

It was noon on a Thursday, Clarke should be home—likely set up at the coffee table in the living room working on whatever project she had assigned to her this week. As she turned the key through the lock and slowly pushed the door open, in anticipation to meet eyes with the person that had been ignoring her, all she found was an empty apartment.

Lexa sighed as she looked around: no Clarke and no sign that Clarke had been working from the apartment that morning. She went straight to her room, leaving her suitcase in the corner—she would deal with that later. She found a pen and paper, wanting to write Clarke a note, when she realized her closet door was open. She walked over and saw that a few things had been moved, likely from her rushed packing job, closed it, and headed to the blonde’s room to drop the piece of paper off.

When she opened the door, she was caught off guard by the sight before her. Clarke seemed to still be asleep, but peeking out between her messy golden hair, sheets, and blankets, was Lexa’s childhood stuffed raccoon: a stuffed animal that had acted like a security blanket for the brunette throughout the years.

The scene in front of her tugged at her heart in a way she didn’t know was possible, a way she couldn’t even describe. She took one more look at Clarke before climbing next to her in bed and draping her arm around the blonde’s waist.

Clarke stirred and immediately turned around when she realized someone was laying next to her, “Lex?”

Lexa suddenly lost her words, “Hi.”

“You’re home? You weren’t supposed to come back until tomorrow,” the blonde pointed out.

Lexa sighed, “Actually, last night, Titus asked if I could stay until Saturday and then go directly to Dallas for a few days.”

Clare furrowed her brow, “But you’re home?”

“I am,” Lexa nodded, “I told him I had some things to take care of, Linc is covering the rest of the meetings for me and doing the Dallas trip.”

“Why?”

“You are the most important person in my life and I never wanted you to feel like I was abandoning you. I know it was my idea to come here and that I had to talk you into it,” Lexa sighed, “You were right with what you said before I left. It’s not fair that I did this to you. I needed to apologize to your face and it couldn’t wait until after Dallas.”

Clarke’s brow was still furrowed, “You cancelled two work trips to tell me all this, Lex?”

“I told you, it couldn’t wait. You weren’t talking to me, Clarke,” Lexa started, tears starting to well in her eyes, “We’ve never not talked before, you’ve never ignored me before. It made me realize some things.”

Clarke’s eyes met Lexa’s, “Like what?”

“That I missed you, that I never want you to feel that way again, that I love you.”

The blonde nodded, “I love you too, Lex-”

“No,” Lexa cut her off, “I don’t think you get it. I love you, Clarke. This fight? Realizing how I was making you feel? It brought perspective to things. I love you, I am in love with you.”

As Lexa made her proclamation, her eyes immediately darted away from Clarke’s, utterly afraid of how the blonde would take it.

In the silence of the moment, she felt arms snake around her side, pulling her closer towards the blonde and the stuffed raccoon.

“Me too,” Clarke whispered, “I’m in love with you, too.”

#clexa #clexa au #clexa modern au #clexa friends to lovers #clexa prompt #clexa one shot #clexa ficlet #clexa fic #friends to lovers #send me the asks #send me the headcanons #send me the prompts #modern au

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mikeo56 · 4 years

Link

They Say That Discrimination Is A Thing Of The Past

A few times I’ve had a white person (BTW I’m a white male) say that a black person claiming discrimination is merely playing the race card or the victim card to cover for their own inadequacies.

They say that the reason the black person didn’t get the job or the apartment or whatever almost never had something to do with discrimination, that the real reason is that they just weren’t good enough, and that their claim of racism is nothing more than a phony excuse, a scam to blame others for their own failings.

If their opinion is challenged they usually say something like, “Oh, come on. There isn’t any widespread discrimination any more.” Maybe they add, “The Civil War was over a hundred and fifty years ago. They need to get over it.”

It’s All Their Own Fault

Sometimes these white people will continue with something like, “If they would only stay in school and stop having out-of-wedlock babies and taking drugs they wouldn’t have these problems.”

Sometimes, if the white person in question is really feeling talkative, they’ll ramble on with something like, “The real problem is that those people don’t want to work hard” or “Those people just aren’t as smart [as white people].”

I’ve been thinking about this “There isn’t any wide-spread discrimination anymore” idea and I asked myself, “What do white people really think about black people?”

What A Lot Of White People Really Think

Well, all white people aren’t the same so, I amended the question to “What do a lot of white people really think about black people?”

What’s “a lot”? 20%? 35%? 50%. I don’t know.

My guess is between 20% and 35% on average depending on where you live. Mississippi is going to be different from Connecticut.

So, for the purposes of this column, when I say “a lot of white people” I’m going to go with a 25% nationwide average but clearly that’s just a guess.

The Dog Whistle Is More Common Than The Bullhorn

I don’t often hear blatant racist statements like “White people are genetically smarter than black people” or “White people are a more genetically advanced species than black people,” probably because I don’t generally listen to people like David Duke or Iowa Congressman Steve King.

Most of the time, white people’s racism is of the “dog whistle” variety — it’s code where the words say one thing, but which other racists recognize as meaning something else.

Some people think that Trump’s tag line “Make America Great Again” is just a slogan, but a lot of white people translate it to “Make America White Again” meaning “We need to stop catering to black and brown people. They’re mostly losers sucking up our tax dollars and getting a free ride. We’re going to get rid of food stamps and Medicaid and we won’t let any more of them into the country.”

Gestures Instead Of Words

Dog whistles can be gestures as well as words.

There’s scene in an NYPD Blue episode where Andy Sipowicz is talking to Vince Gotelli, one of the old-time night-shift detectives.

Believing that Sipowicz is as racist as he is, Gotelli wants to say something about a black person and not be overheard so he runs the palm of his hand down in front of his face. Andy doesn’t understand and Gotelli says something like, “You know, shades” and he again runs his palm in front of his face in a gesture supposed to signify people with dark skin, “behind a shade.”

A lot of white people flat out believe that black people aren’t as smart, hard working, decent or honest as white people. To then, that’s just a fact, but they hesitate to say it out loud. Instead they express this opinion in different subtle but significant ways.

Subtle Discrimination

Who You Hire

Suppose one of these white people is looking for a new primary-care doctor. You read them the website particulars on two candidates, Walter Hawkins, Iowa State University Medical School and Robert Phillips, Yale University Medical School. Hawkins has five years experience and Phillips is the deputy head of the department with ten years on the job.

Naturally, they pick Phillips, but then they get a look at the candidates’ pictures and discover that Phillips is black and Hawkins is white. Suddenly, Hawkins is their guy.

“Why?” you ask, “Because he’s white?”

“No,” they’ll tell you. “I just think he looks more like a real doctor.” Or, “He seems nicer.” Or, “He looks like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

They aren’t going to tell you that the real reason they switched from Phillips to Hawkins is that they think that black people are less intelligent than white people; they think that Phillips must have gotten into Yale on a quota, and that people helped him and covered for him because he was black, because, in their mind, how else could a black man graduate from Yale Medical School?

No, they won’t say that out loud, unless they think that you’re just like them. But they absolutely believe that black people just plain aren’t as smart as white people and that a black man couldn’t possibly be a really top-notch doctor.

And they will look you right in the eye and tell you that they aren’t a racist.

“I don’t have anything against anybody,” they will insist. And they would think that was true.

Who You Rent To

Take two resumes, identical in every way except that the picture of Robert Phillips on one of them is of a white man and on the other he’s a black man. Now, have Mr. Phillips apply to rent 100 AirBNBs as a white man and 100 as a black man.

You will find a significantly higher rejection rate for the black Mr. Phillips than the white Mr. Phillips.

A Harvard Business School study (Racial Discrimination in the Sharing Economy: Evidence from a Field Experiment) found that people whose names are perceived to likely be black find it 16 percent harder than whites to book lodging on Airbnb. They found that some Airbnb hosts would rather their properties remained vacant than rent them to a black guest.

Personally, I think that Airbnb applications with actual pictures showing black versus white guests (as opposed to hosts merely inferring race from the applicant’s last name) would have black rejection rate differentials much higher than 16%.

I’m sure you would find the same thing in tests for renting an apartment or applying for a job interview.

A lot of white landlords and employers will decide that while the white Mr. Phillips looks like a wonderful candidate, the black Mr. Phillips somehow just doesn’t measure up.

“I’m not a racist,” they will swear to you. And believe it.

The Stereotype Racist Pictures That Pop Into Their Heads

I wrote a column about the little stereotype pictures that pop in our heads when we hear a word or phrase e.g. “Las Vegas” or “Wedding.”

The Pictures That Pop Into Our Heads. When I Say “Welfare” “Illegal Alien” “Businessman” “Drug Company”

For a lot of white people the words “black man” will pop up a picture of a person selling drugs on an urban street corner or a manual laborer pushing a mop or a junkie passed out in an alley or a pimp covered in bracelets and gold chains.

You think I’m making this up?

Racism Masquerading As ‘Just Being Careful’

Why do you think a white woman tried bar a black tenant from his own apartment building?

Because in her mind a black man could not possibly earn enough money to be able to afford a luxury apartment. She was convinced that he must be a criminal who was there to steal, that he couldn’t possible belong there.

Why do you think two white security guards kicked a black man out of the lobby of the Double Tree Hotel where he was a registered guest?

Because they were sure that he must have been a pimp or a drug dealer or a homeless person who intended to sleep in the lobby.

In their minds a black man couldn’t possibly afford to stay in a nice hotel because when they see a black man the pictures that pop in their little heads are of pimps, drug dealers, drug addicts, homeless people and raggedy poor people.

A black, female Yale University graduate student fell asleep in her dorm’s common room and a white, female student called the police with the complaint: “There’s somebody here who is where they’re not supposed to be.”

Why did she think that? Because in her mind black people couldn’t possibly belong in a Yale University dorm.

In Indianapolis a white, female off-duty police officer and a white, female apartment-house manager evicted a black tenant from the complex’s swimming pool even though the manager knew he was a tenant and he had the key to his apartment with him.

In Memphis, a white manager of an apartment complex called the police on a black tenant for wearing socks in the pool.

In North Carolina, a white man demanded identification from a black woman at a private community pool and called the police when she refused.

In South Carolina, a white woman attacked a 15-year-old black boy at a neighborhood pool, telling him and his friends that they had to “get out.”

This is just the tip of the iceberg. These incidents go on and on and on.

Why A Lot Of White People Assume A Black Person Doesn’t Belong Around Them

All of these people saw a black person in a place they thought a black person “didn’t belong.” Why did they think that a black person didn’t belong there?

Because they thought that black people were too poor to qualify to be in such a nice place. Or because they thought that black people were likely dirty, lazy, dangerous or criminal and they didn’t want “people like that” around them.

My opinion is that few of these white people would admit to being a racist any more than the white person who wouldn’t accept a Yale-educated black doctor or a white homeowner who wouldn’t accept a black person as an Airbnb guest wouldn’t admit that they were racists.

They would just say that they were being careful because unknown black people are more dangerous or untrustworthy than unknown white people.

They would tell you that they just wanted to protect their property and white tenants are generally more law abiding, careful and drug free than black tenants.

They would say that they just wanted to keep out trespassers, and because most black people can’t afford the nice places used by white people, they were more likely to be trespassers.

They would just tell you that they wanted the best professionals they could get and white doctors are, of course, smarter and better than black doctors.

Yes, You Are A Racist

Then they would look you straight in the eye and solemnly tell you, “I’m not a racist. I’m just being careful because black people really aren’t as smart, honest, trustworthy, law abiding, clean, and decent as white people. That’s just a fact. Recognizing that fact doesn’t make me a racist.”

Yes, it does, it really does.

So, don’t tell me there isn’t widespread discrimination in America.

It’s just gone underground. It’s language is just now more often spoken in code and with winks and nods.

But it’s there all the same in every little, bigoted picture that pops into a lot of white people’s heads whenever they see a black man who is someplace they’re sure he doesn’t belong.

— David Grace (www.DavidGraceAuthor.com)

#race #racist

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bombtimer · 4 years

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Day 13: On excitement

There have been many excitements in my lifetime. They range from (as one of my friends think of me) superficial things to perhaps philosophical ones. Here we go.

1. Entering the bookstore

While one of my earliest excitement going to the bookstore was in Gramedia Sudirman, Yogyakarta, there is no less joy when I have to spend money in a bookstore. I remembered my aunt bought me an illustrative book of volcanoes while my cousin got the earthquake one, and we ate Dunkin’ Donuts afterwards. There was also a new bookstore opening, called Social Agency Bookstore, when upon its opening, they have many discounts, particularly on manga. I prefer Gramedia to Gunung Agung, as I think the latter’s collection is less. But the favourite retail bookstore in Indonesia has to be Togamas. Not only does it give you discounts, they also provide free plastic cover for the books you’ve just bought. I developed admiration for mas mbak penyampul since they work so fast and neatly. I tried to cover my books several times but they don’t come as perfect as ones done by mas mbak Togamas.

During my undergrad, I might have not immersed myself with books. I can only remember reading Murakami’s Norwegian Woods and 1Q84 (which is arguably one of the best romantic novels ever). And, of course, Are You Smart Enough to Work at Google. These books might motivate me to read books again after high school, and sure, I tried several Goodreads Challenges every year.

In the UK, I have Waterstones just in the corner of my campus. It is a four-storey building. All floors are carpeted so you will hear people trying not to stomp and walk quietly. Books related to my field are located on the third floor, where there is no lift. But there is a small spot when you could read there and even work on assignments. It is a quiet corner where you can see people taking a smoke outside the Faculty of Engineering. There is also a cafe with delicious cinnamon rolls on the first floor.

Second bookstore that captivates me is Cambridge University Press Bookshop. I was roaming on the streets when it started raining and accidentally I was just on the outside of this gem. The building is three-storey, and it is quite small for what is one of the prominent press bookshops in the world. It is also no wonder to not see a rack dedicated to urban planning, though surely it contains the geography section.

I was definitely left in awe when I visited Blackwell’s in Oxford. Another friend told me that I should go there since the collection is humongous. And when finally I went there, I thought it’s the biggest bookshop that I ever visited and it contains a specific floor for social science. The Oxford University Press Bookshop is even smaller than that of Cambridge, and I remember I was questioning how come this university does not have what I am looking for. Yet in Blackwell’s, even two bookshelves are dedicated to urban planning and Southeast Asia. I also found Pisani’s Indonesia Etc., along with workpieces of Sir Batty. I spent almost £120 along with a tote bag that shouts for “Yes, I’ve been to Oxford but no I’m not a student at Oxford Uni”. Maria and I spent a solid 2.5 hours wandering in silence looking for what we like; she even spent £200 on five books which cover all the possible materials for her dissertation. All hails Blackwell’s.

2. Going places with close friends

The memory started in 2014, when my undergrad friends went to my hometown and tried Dieng for the first time. It was in January, so we didn’t catch the sunrise at Sikunir. Though Wonosobo has a scenic view, it’s not much to do around here except eating and talking.

I also consider the trip going back to Bandung with Bohokism after failing to say goodbye to Mira before she embarked for Stuttgart back in 2017. We had a really deep conversation where I finally did acknowledge my darkest times. It was also a start of something great because thanks to them, I also got motivated to be where I am today.

In the UK, I’m blessed to be surrounded by kind people. The one of trip memories started with a Bristol-Bath trip during the reading week in the first term. I happened to get acquainted with Hana and Aska, with Maria and Gineng also joined in. I remember the Cornish pasty that was so good I brought one to go. We wandered around Bristol and noticed the unicorn lightning rod on top of a building, and bought some Indomie and eggs to eat at our oh-so-comfy AirBnB. Afterwards we strolled on the dock and enjoyed the night breeze. The following day we went to an all-you-can-eat restaurant that gives a student discount so we could eat only for £10. We also had a photo session down in Bath Spa, as Hana is good with her camera. I also remember the bus going back to London when we sat by ourselves and did some Netflix and reading (clearly not me).

The next trip would be the Scotland trip. Some said that enjoying the highlands is better in winter (as in going to Morocco), and indeed it was true. We arrived in Edinburgh and climbed the hills and stopped by the Department of Theology of Edinburgh University and realised that every university in London doesn’t have a similar ambience. We also checked in to every Christmas market or Winter Wonderland in every city we’ve been to, as Marwa really loves mulled wine. Our mandatory photo was taken at a photobooth but we just didn’t print it.

We then proceeded to Glasgow and headed to the highlands. Like whoa. I have been seeing the mountainous scenery as I always live in the highlands but that doesn’t compare to what Scotsman see everyday. I also lived my childhood dream as finally I saw the mighty Loch Ness. It’s a sad thing that I couldn’t go to Isle of Skye, but that's alright since I remember having a really deep talk with Agita, Marwa, and Punyu at a hostel near Dundee city square. I couldn’t find Indomie so I had to eat local instant noodles which tasted horrible. We basically just read the Book of Questions and yeah I think that is what is making us closer afterwards.

There were a lot of trips in between, but I have to emphasise my Cornwall trip with Albert, Maria, and Hana in September 2019. We were dying to enjoy the beach in the southwestern part of England. We rented a car with no insurance, where only Hana and Maria were able to drive the car smoothly. We packed lots of snacks and cooked in our small but comfy AirBnB. We went to St. Ives and enjoyed the beach and the drizzle. And the famous fish and chips. I always asked to stop for a chocolate twist and Maria and Hana would just sighed. Albert is always that curious guy who would end up falling but he didn’t. We also hung out at a beach bar where it was a family night, where the three of us had cider or beer while I stuck on soda and lime. We cooked every time and had only all-you-can-eat when we stopped by Portsmouth on the way back to London. We realised that we were so lavish that during the 3 days trip we spent almost 200 quids each.

In the end, I agree that it’s not about the destinations as they will be just them. It’s always about the journey, the talk, the snack, the “e e awas awas!”, the “pake duit lo dulu dong”, and the memories, particularly with these chaps.

3. Getting called upon the stage

One thing I just realised that I will have to lower my expectations if I want to get an award or something alike. I remember seeing my seniors getting called and put in front of all students and their parents during the national exam results in junior high. Ten students were called along with their parents. I thought, at that time, like whoa they are smart. In high schools, only the top three students from natural science and social science class got called to the stage. Along with opening the result of SNMPTN and Chevening. I was thinking that I’d just be having a real good time along with my friends during the graduation when suddenly I heard my test number getting declared. I remembered that I couldn’t believe that fact and saw Eriska just congratulate me. I thought I was done after delivering a speech as I was an ex-OSIS guy, but I have to say that that day was quite specially wrapped.

Another case is when I went to Shah Alam by myself, presenting the research findings back in November 2017. I was the only Indonesian presenter there. The faculty members of the university holding the conference said that they knew some of my lecturers. As the conference was about research methods, I wondered why several presenters didn’t emphasise the novelty of their methods. But among six key tracks of the conference, I was awarded The Best Paper in Urban Planning and Development track, where I also just couldn’t believe it yet I couldn’t contain my excitement of getting my work noticed. I remember Maria putting it simply “Gue tau lo pengen karya lo yang diliat orang, bukan nama lo. Like let your works speak for yourself”. And yes, she was obviously right.

#30 days writing challenge

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