#but in the dream it's heavily implied we r married . scream .

[elvisabutler]

caught in a trap 3/10

fandom: elvis ( 2022 )

relationship: elvis/living past 42, past priscilla/elvis, current priscilla and elvis loving each other too much always. brief mention of linda thompson/elvis. i did say that some parts of irl elvis were going to be in this fic.

word count: 2.7k on the dot.

rating: R, mostly because of quite a number of curses and the obligatory prescription drug use.

tw: drug use, the usual bullshit with elvis. use of the word alien to describe parker. as someone married to an immigrant and born of one, i know it's a derogatory term. potential implied endangerment of a child. that might be it?

author's note: it's been a long time, baby. no excuse, i kind of hate this part minus some really nice lines i wrote in it. it's also been rewritten about five times so i'm putting it out here before i rewrite it for a sixth. please enjoy and tell me if you do because i really enjoy interaction/comments.

"What in the hell?!" 

Elvis wakes with a start, trying to figure out who had shouted those words before his eyes settle on Jerry. The other man starts to rub at his eyes, startled awake by his friend's shout.

"You alright, EP?" He asks once he focuses his eyes and looks mildly more awake. 

No is the first response that comes to mind because it's the truth, but he knows that if he gives that answer they might actually have to talk about why he woke himself up by shouting. That was a conversation he had absolutely no intention of having with Jerry despite him being one of his best friends. Priscilla on the other hand, she might be the perfect one to listen to it but he needs to get her on a plane to do that. He has to give a better answer than just no.

"Tired." He answers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Weird dream, it's nothing." 

If Jerry finds that answer to be complete and utter bullshit he doesn't say anything despite his raised eyebrow and a slow sigh. "You sure? I don't think I've ever heard you scream like that- even after Priscilla left."

Elvis purses his lips, it's times like this that made him regret having friends that know him as well as Jerry and Joe and George do. They may not always be around each other, they may be living their own lives here and there but they can always see through his bullshit. Fuck, even Steve and Bones had him read just after that bit of time working on his special. It's half the reason he still keeps in touch just in case he wants another one of those specials. 

"Schilling, if you don't drop it I'll kick you out of this room." His tone is supposed to be menacing but it’s undercut by the slight tremor in his voice and the cough that follows. If anyone asks, he’ll blame it on the ice water bath they had given him to wake him up after passing out.

“I’ll drop it, but you have to answer my next question then.” He shrugs before muttering under his breath. “Acting like you can even kick a mouse out of the room.”

“I heard that and I’ll turn you into one just to do it.” His eyes narrow before he exhales and inhales heavily. “What is it?”

Jerry runs his hand through his hair almost like he’s trying to figure out the best way to word the question. Elvis knows it’s serious then, because him and Jerry have known each other for a long enough time that it shouldn’t matter how he asks the question. Elvis isn’t gonna care if it sounds insulting or if it’s something he doesn’t want to answer. He’ll just tell Jerry that and it’ll be done with. “You can spit it out, man, I’m not gonna-”

“Why the hell did you pass out? You know I’ve seen you on some stuff, man, but you don’t- we were talking in mid-sentence. Just-” He clears his throat and attempts to imitate his friend. “‘What’re ya talkin’ about Jerreh.’ and then you hit the floor, I couldn’t even catch you properly.”

He had been dreading this sort of question after all he hadn’t told anyone what he was trying to do because every time he did they tried to be helpful and damn if half the time it didn’t defeat the purpose of him trying to get clean without anyone’s help. Still, a deal was a deal and Jerry had dropped asking him why he screamed out in his sleep so it was the least he could do. Can’t have his mama haunting him for being rude now could he.

“I’m off my amphetamines.” He pauses. “I scared Lisa Marie the last time I had her when I took them. ‘Cilla- she told me if I didn’t try and quit those I might see her less. Dr. Nick doesn’t know. I’m cold turkey. Guess my body doesn’t like that idea.”

Jerry looks mildly proud for a moment, because there’s his friend taking steps to do what literally everyone has been telling him to do and yet- he’s still managing to go about it in a way that’s just slightly wrong. It’s probably for this fact and this fact alone that he lets out a hum of disapproval. “Does Linda know at least? I haven’t called her yet, by the way-”

Elvis’ response is quick and growled out in a way that startles Jerry with its fury. “No, and you’re not gonna call her. She doesn’t- I’m not bothering her with this, not right now. She- I’m trying to keep her away from this for a bit. She doesn’t- it’s not her problem to be dealing with right now. She deserves some time to herself, not worrying about my tired self.”

“I’m a little self-destructive.” He tells her one time and only one time. He told Priscilla that too and yet he thinks they all forget it. Hell he knows he’s told Jerry this too. Ann Margret that one time he was a little punch drunk and tired on set. He tells them this and yet everyone always seems to forget when it comes to this situation, if he wants to be self destructive he’ll do it. If he wants to take his pills that are prescribed in massive doses, he’s going to and nothing's gonna stop it but himself. If he wants to go onstage and maybe drink like his mama used to before firing his boss- well he would have done that had he been forced to go on stage last night but that wasn’t the point. He would destroy what he wanted that was his and that included himself.

“EP, she’s your girlfriend, come on, you can’t leave her-” Jerry starts before Elvis cuts him off again.

“Is she your girlfriend? Stay out of it, you know you’re one of my best friends, but I’m not kidding, you call her and I will fire you and take back the damn house.” Elvis practically snarls as he pulls himself up in the bed, trying to seem far more intimidating than he is right in that moment. Jerry can see through it and has to force himself not to roll his eyes. Elvis won’t take back the house because it was a damn gift but he really is serious if he’s trying to threaten it.

“Fine. I won’t but the second you’re feeling up to it you’re calling her, man. She’s gonna find out from the news anyway, we can’t hide out in the hospital forever.”

Elvis for his part does roll his eyes because he’s aware they can’t hide out forever but it’s not going to stop him from probably trying. He looks around the room for a moment before his eyes settle on a pitcher of water. “Get me some water, I feel like I got a whole plant of cotton in my damn mouth.”

Jerry obliges and hands it over before pouring his own glass. He stares at Elvis for a minute. “You remember what I was telling you last night? About the Colonel.”

Truth be told there’s a part of Elvis that wishes he could say no. That he doesn’t remember anything about what Jerry said in relation to the Colonel. He almost wishes he was still blissfully ignorant to why the Colonel turned down Japan and Germany and why it was go to the International, go on the grueling tour, maybe take the small vacation, then rinse and repeat ad nauseum but he remembers what Jerry had said before he passed out and what he had said after he had woke back up on the way to the hospital, as short as that distance was. The Colonel clipped his goddamn wings because he didn’t have any of his own, stuck him in this gilded cage for gambling debts and made it so hard for him to just slip away to Hawaii or Graceland to just recharge because if he did that then Kohn might just cut off his unlimited line of credit. Hell the last time he was in Hawaii it was to do that damn concert that they broadcast with the satellite. He lets out a soft exhale before his face scrunches up.

“You mean how I’m stuck at a hotel I hate at this point working day in and day out two damn shows a night, barely see my daughter, my ex-wife, or my girlfriend because I’m always here or in the Lisa Marie heading to a city? Because that goddamn vampire doesn’t have a passport? That he’s an illegal alien and that it’s probably the reason I got shipped off to Germany and-” He says that last part with a growl, pinching at the bridge of his nose trying to calm himself down. His head hurts. “Yeah Jerry, I remember. And I oughta shoot him between his eyes. Or in his fat gut, I’m not goddamn picky. I’ll apologize to his wife later.”

There went his temper. He was just so livid. All he feels like he can see is red. All he can feel is his pulse thump thump in his head and he just wants to get his revenge on this son of a bitch who’s helped make him who he is but has completely started to demolish him bit by bit. It’s exhausting just like everything right now. It's so goddamn exhausting and he doesn’t have the energy for it, he knew he shouldn’t have gone off the meds, there was a reason he was prescribed them. Now he’s so tired that- no, no he went off them because they make his temper worse and “baby girl daddy’s sorry, he didn’t mean to scare you, no daddy would never hurt you”. He doesn’t remember what he did, only that when he came to Lisa was crying and holding onto his legs for dear life. 

Jerry is at this point used to how Elvis acts. You don’t stay friends with the man as long as he has and not discover how he acts and how to deal with it. He lets him rant and rave and when it’s out of his system then he talks. “As much as I agree that he deserves that, I don’t have bail money and you don’t either. Since we’re not murdering him, EP, he’s- look I know you tried to fire him before, right when we were going to start this international tour, you remember back in 70?” He waits for the answering hum Elvis gives him. “And you took him back and we have this now. We have to actually fire him this time. No backing out, no backroom deals. Just straight firing him and then we’re free. You’re free. We can take the vacation and figure out from there. See if RCA wants to do a record right now, maybe get you to Japan since they are dying to see you man. You should see the fans-”

Elvis gets real quiet at the mention of his fans and Jerry realizes he might have said the wrong thing before Elvis just rubs at his eyes. “That was always the plan for me, not the plan for him. I’m gonna see them Jerry- that’s gotta be the first stop we do. Absolutely.” 

“You got it, you’re the one who’d set the schedule. I- I’ll take over for Parker. Since- and I mean no disrespect to your dad-” Elvis waves him off. 

“He could do better with my numbers, I know. He’s-” He starts before the door opens to reveal Colonel Parker- or more accurately it reveals his cane first then the man himself followed by his assistant. The only feelings Elvis can muster up are anger mixed with a healthy bit of dread. It’s one thing to go toe to toe with the man when he’s healthy. But when he’s in a hospital bed and the man can tower over him? Well, it’s a power imbalance that Elvis can’t stand. He ends up pulling himself up on the bed, trying to appear as big and as strong as possible. If his foot is trembling just a little under three blankets? Well that was his business wasn’t it?

“You blood sucking son of a bitch. You’ve got some nerve coming in here-” Elvis doesn’t even manage to get more than that out before the Colonel is waving his hand. 

“My boy, they wouldn’t let me see you last night but you’re looking so much better. Good enough to do your shows tonight. Maybe add a midday one so we don’t have to refund the last two shows.” The Colonel says without even pausing to honestly ask if Elvis was feeling better.

It’s not that Elvis had expected to be asked and at this point he honestly just felt as if he wanted the man out of the room- out of his life- out of every little place in history he had wormed his slimy little way into. Still, the fact that the colonel didn’t even think to ask makes Elvis simultaneously so angry he feels as if could launch himself out of bed and murder the man while so let down that he’s suddenly that little kid from Tupelo whose daddy wrote a bad check. You’re like a father to me. He had said once and wasn’t that just hilarious how both his fathers did something to hurt him and the family.

“Oh no, you’re refunding them and tonight’s shows.” Elvis smirks just a little before his voice lowers an octave. “Actually, no, I’m refunding them. Because you’re fired.”

The Colonel looks at Elvis and narrows his eyes. “You’re not- You’re not well. You’re talking nonsense, firing me.” He looks at Elvis for confirmation and finds none.”You. You are being serious.”

“As a heart attack.” A pause and Elvis chuckles. “Sorry, as serious as a hurt back.” 

The Colonel’s eyes widen as he looks between Jerry and Elvis and realizes that they’re serious. He had expected far more of a fight when it came to this- not that he had ever planned for Elvis to try and fire him after the incident with his back before The International but still, a Snowman must have contingency plans. He should tell Elvis more, should fight for his job, but- he knows what he must do next. It’ll take a few hours but he has a way to make Elvis reconsider his decision. “I see. In that case, when you’re better we’ll iron out the details, yes? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Elvis is on edge at how the Colonel doesn’t seem to be fighting. It feels like a trick, another snow job but he’s desperate to be free and to be able to not have to worry about the shows every day. He’ll make sure everyone who’s been performing with him is set and maybe talk to the Sweet Inspirations about joining him specifically and not just because he thinks Lisa and Whitney could be good friends if him and Cissy could just get them in a room together. 

“Tomorrow.” He pauses and his lip curls up into a bit of a snarl. “Now get out of my room, you alien.”

The Colonel looks like he's going to say something before he stops and just takes his leave from the room. Elvis hears the door open immediately afterward and doesn't actually look up.

"Did I not tell you to leave? I'll get security in here, you-"

"Considering I just got here, baby, no." Priscilla's voice is light when she responds, her heels making the same sort of click that the Colonel's cane would. "You passed out before the show. Do I need to worry?"

Elvis looks at Priscilla long and hard before he motions to the chair next to Jerry. "If you got a minute, you can sit next to the idiot who called you- bastard- and I'll explain."

"For you? I'll make the time." She sits down and crosses her legs in her pantsuit. "So, talk."

#elvis 2022 #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #austin butler #ally writes #i am so concerned about this part. #fix it fic #elvis movie

[t-o-m-hollands]

PARIS PART II of III

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

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

R E A D    P A R T   O N E    H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what can I do for you, madam?”    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah    

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

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

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

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

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

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

  *  

February 12th, 1953  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”  

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

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it hits him then, like a collision.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what choice did he have?  

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

Bur you are miles away.

*    

February 14th, 1953  

Timothée writes a new letter.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One day at a time.    

Yours,      

Timothée      

*    

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

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

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

*  

1st of Mars, 1953  

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

It is the first day of spring.  

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.  

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

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

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.  

“How- how?”  

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

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

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

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

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

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

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.    

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

“Yeah?”

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

 “Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

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

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

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

Nearly.      

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

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

*

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

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

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

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

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

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

It’s you.  

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

Then you look at Lucy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.  

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

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

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

“See what?”

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

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

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

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

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

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

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

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

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

You look surprised as he flings the door open.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Lucy?”

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

Ah,

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

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

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

Something twists painfully in his chest.  

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

And then you kiss him.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* 18th of April, 1953

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence for ten long seconds.

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

“Is she not in?”

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

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

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

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

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

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are?” he asks, confused.  

“My family”  “Why?”

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

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

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

The rain keeps falling around them.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[spicy-dunkaroo]

Taking Power Back (One-Shot)

♫Now Playing: “Taking Power Back” by Spicy Dunkaroo…♪

❀ Word Count: 5k

❀ Rating: Mature, 18+, Minors Do Not Interact (please)

❀ Genre: One Shot (Not sure how to explain this haha)

❀ Summary: (Writing Prompt) Mora’s job was to take away the powers of supervillains as they’re admitted to jail. For a few years, she’d been reselling these powers to interested bidders on the side - no questions asked. Today, a prisoner showed up with a power so unusual, she decided to take it for herself.

❀ Warning(s): Please read!! Dark Content ☠, Mentions of Murder, Attempted Murder, Implied Childhood Abuse, Implied Bullying, Swearing, etc.

❀ Author's Note: Hello everyone!! This will be my first story/one-shot of hopefully many other more positive ones lol. Credit for the prompt goes to u/totoropengyou on reddit for the writing prompt!! Just want to warn you all once more if you skipped over the warnings, this is a dystopian world that's fucked up. Please read with caution.

☟❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀☟

Everyday seems the same as the one before it. Same coworkers at the same job, not to mention the same shitty work Mora has to do to get paid.

Her job is to extract the powers of crooked criminals that somehow ended up in the nation's most secure penitentiary. Why? Well, if it weren’t for her, most of these monsters would have probably destroyed the government and Gods know what else.

Somedays, Mora finds it easier to sleep at night when she doesn’t think of the ‘what-if’s’ of not taking on the government position, if she screwed up, and what if she was any less moral than she already was.

That’s not to say that she was any sort of ‘holier than thou’ being that had mankind's well-being as top priority. The job doesn’t pay her enough to be so kind to the shitty world she’s lived in for the last 19 years. There probably isn’t enough money in the world for Mora to change her ways now, now when the temptation has become that much sweeter.

Sure, maybe she could be helping the world out by not selling the quirks to the highest bidder every Friday night. But in all honesty, who gives a damn? Yes, the government would and probably would punish her to the highest degree, and most citizens wouldn’t be too pleased. Why be mad at her though? It’s the buyer's fault for throwing hundreds of millions of dollars for just one of the many powers she extracts from those crooks everyday. Most of them aren’t too bad, they at least seem nice with the weekly gift baskets and extravagant gifts they throw her way in hopes of getting a nifty power before it’s on the floor the following Friday night.

Then again, you’d never expect those who were begging to be in Mora’s favor to be in the positions they are.

If it’s any consolation, most of those bidders can’t even infuse the power within their own bodies without risky surgery and the high chance of dying.

See, nearly 70% of all humans born in this ‘age of power’ are gifted with one of the four types of abilities. There’s fight, flight, freeze, and then there’s the unknown fourth type, probably the most rare of them all, mutants. As they are listed, 43% of these humans have the fight type, 32% have the flight, 20% have freeze, and less than 5% have the mutation type. Despite this, research says that you have a good chance of walking past a human with the mutation type of power at least once in your life without knowing it. Since there have always seemed to be so few ‘mutants’ as they call them, there's not much information on the different variations of the ability outside of that they don’t fit in the category of the other three.

Lucky for Mora, she happens to be one of the very few with the mutation power. Her’s happened to be perfect for her government assignment as well as for her side business.

The government took it upon themselves to name this “company” Vera. Mora wasn’t too sure why this was outside of the Latin meaning of the word (truth), like some sort of ‘holier than thou’ complex she presumed.

Though there have been struggles with her ability. Since there has been little research done, nobody knew how to teach her to hone her skill. Not her teachers, advisor, biological parents, or her other parents in the past. Despite this, Mora feels that she has a pretty good idea how her power works now.

Did she ever dream about extracting a part of most humans' identity as her ‘ideal job’? Of course not, when she was growing up she dreamed about being a rockstar, firefighter, or a damn teacher, anything but the hell she’s had to live through day in and day out.

Since she was assigned her power type, she moved from one home to another, left one school after the next, and was always called a mutant. Although she wasn’t sure exactly when the government began to really lock their sights on her, she was heavily reminded of the fucked up world she lived in once she graduated high school. There were only ever two options for her. Look out for everyone else, or look out for herself.

When you’re asked if you’d be willing to become a human lab rat or work as an official government officer, just about anybody wouldn’t have thought twice about that choice. Though there are a few poor motherfuckers that wanted what was best for humanity. To that Mora thanks them for giving her the ability to have a choice. Besides that, screw humanity. The criminals on the street aren’t the monsters you’re told live in the darkness, the ones in your closet, or the ones hiding under your bed. No, sometimes those monsters are a lot closer to you, and they’re not there to protect you.

It’s a real dog-eat-dog world on both sides of the door. So look out for yourself, that’s the only way you can survive. Despite learning this throughout her whole life, Mora lived by the only saying she could remember from her time with her father.

‘Don’t let anything in this world tear you down. It’ll be tough, sure, but you deserve to pursue your happiness as much as anyone else because you’re a fighter- a winner! Never let anyone make you feel like anything less than the champion you are.’

Though she never understood what her father meant when she first heard it, now it’s one of the only few thoughts that seem to brighten her day as she looks back on her more fond memories of growing up.

Even now, as Mora sits in the holding room, it appears to be the only thought that can take her out of the mindfuck that was currently her train of thought as she regretfully remembered her last patient.

If Mora had the freedom her fellow peers had back in high school, she always thought she might have wanted to go to college to become a doctor. These happier possibilities help Mora to separate herself from her gruesome work. So regarding these scum of the earth beings as ‘patients’ helps to block off the blood-curdling screams that echoed in the walls many hours after they were moved to their prison cells.

As Mora begins to think of her perfect life, a knock is heard at the door, quickly followed by the door swiftly

“You okay in there Spe?”

“Oh, it’s just you Timentes. You scared me for a second there, also, please stop with the formalities. You know how much I hate my birth-given name. At least call me Griseo if you have to.”

“You know the rules, officially I can’t call you by your revised name, at least in front of others that is.”

“Then could you at least call me Mora in private?”

As she says this, Mora pats a spot before her at the small table, deciding to sit herself in the patients chair as she sees what they always saw before she conducted her ‘surgeries’ on them.

“Fine, fine, but only because you’re the most tolerable person in this hell hole.”

“Damn right I am! Ain’t nobody gonna take that title away from me haHA!”

“You worry me sometimes, Moralis.”

“Aww, is that your secret way of telling me you’re thinking about me? I’m touched, really, but I don’t think I can say the same about you, no offense.”

Timentes dramatically gasps as he places his right hand onto his bullet-proof gear, leaning back as he begins to speak once more.

“Offense completely taken. And here I was about to ask you out.”

“And by ‘ask me out’ you really mean make some instant ramen as we binge watch another anime this weekend? Because you know I can’t say no to that.”

“Which is why I always ask. You know you love our marathon nights! We- we might as well be a married couple with how often you stay the night.”

As Timentes says this, Mora notices the sudden change in demeanor, his cheeks becoming a brighter shade of pink of his stubbly face, the way his blue eyes dart away from her direction, and how she can clearly see how awkwardly cute his eyebrow quirks at his own words.

“I don’t think we fight enough to move that fast.”

‘If he won’t get the balls to actually ask me out, clearly we aren’t meant to be.’

Despite thinking this, Mora knew the real reason she was writing off her adorably shy co-worker. Mora knew she had to keep everyone at arm's length, regardless of her happiness in order to make it out of this world alive.

Mora rolls her eyes as she decides to change the topic.

“So...What did you come in here for? I know I’m a nice piece of eye candy, but you can’t let my womanly charms distract you from work. There’s only so many times I can cover for your ass.”

“R-Right...The next inmate will be coming in soon.”

“Okay? What’s wrong with him? Is he deranged? Violent? Or did he murder his family? Usually you don’t come to tell me about them in person either way.”

“The thing is… From what I’ve heard through the grapevine, this guy is something else.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Well that’s the thing, I think it’s something about his power that nobody can figure out. We had to pull out all the stops just to restrain him. Who knows if he’s deranged or violent, apparently he took out 8 officers before he was apprehended.”

“Well, how’d they end up arresting this guy?”

“That’s the weirdest part, they didn’t.”

“They didn’t?”

“Well- they did but only after he surrendered.”

“You mean to tell me that this guy had more than enough man-power to escape, and yet after he was done screwing around he just- gave himself up?”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re telling me to be on high alert because you guys don’t know this guy's deal?”

“Yep. Everybody here knows how strong you are. But- you know the guys and I care about you, don’t you?”

“Yea yea, more like you’re worried this guy might catch my eye.”

“I’m being serious Mora… He's code 10.”

Despite feeling her nerves begin to creep up, Mora attempts to keep her composure as she blows Timentes off.

“I’m sure he’s not-”

Before she can finish her sentence, she hears a sudden thud, making her jump in her seat as she looks back over at the man before her.

“You and I both know there are no other inmates that are code 10. Hell, there hasn’t been a code 10 in years!”

Mora crosses her arms in disgust as she turns her head away without an answer.

“Oh Gods- Mora, I’m so sorry I just- I’m just worried about you-”

“Leave.”

“W-What? Lo-look I know I screwed up but-”

“I said leave. Go before you piss me off.”

Without another word between the two, Timentes stands up, hearing the metal chair scrape against the dull concrete floor, quietly turning to open the door behind him, the metal eye-sore loudly scratches against the frame and floor as it screeches open, and soon after slams back into its frame.

Mora can feel the tears begin to trickle down her cheeks as she refuses to look forward again. The memories of her past begin to flood in slideshow form as she feels a panic attack start up.

‘Damnit- Keep it together Griseo!’

As she thinks this, she wipes away the few tears that escaped her lids.

In the little time Mora had in isolation, juxtaposed to every other day, she’s able to calm herself down as she regains her composure once more.

Before she has a moment to breathe, the signaling of five knocks at the door are heard through the metal barrier as she is quick to stand up and move back over to her chair. She coughs in an attempt to drown out the dejected tone in her throat that was previously gripping at her vocal chords.

“C-Come in.”

Hearing this, three men step into the muted turquoise walls of Mora’s ‘office space’.

Two are wearing the familiar dark uniform, while one appears to be restrained in a black straight jacket.

Outside of the workers uniforms, most of their gear and restraints are color coordinated based on the risk factor code. Usually Mora only ever saw the white, orange, even the occasional red, but the most heavy duty of all was always.

‘Black? Timentes really wasn’t kidding when he said this guy was code 10.’

Mora begins to feel on edge as she stares at the man who appeared…average. The man stood at 6ft as he was seated in his chair, umber bangs seemed to be askew but still were able to hide his eyes completely. Minus a blistering red scar on his neck, the man before Mora looked like any other law abiding citizen. Although, based on the look of it, the scar appeared to be fresh.

As the two officers restrained the man further into his chair, Mora props her foot on the top of the table between them, waiting for the sound of locks to cease in its continuous echo.

Once the officers were finished, Mora waved them away dismissively, speaking up once she heard one of the two grip at the handle.

“Stand by and guard the door for me? I’m sure this won’t take long.”

As Mora looks back, the men both nod as they exit the suffocating room, leaving her with her newest patient.

Grabbing the clipboard that was left by one of the officers, Mora glances over at her patients health information, zeroing in toward the bottom of the page that listed his allergies, blood type, and ability type.

“Allergic to: None. Blood Type: AB-, let’s hope you don’t lose too much blood then.”

As Mora reads the final section, she notices there are many unprofessional scribbles with many question marks behind the possibility of what this man’s ability type was.

“So tell me, since you have nothing better to do, what is your power categorized as?”

Mora looks back up toward her patient as she waits for a response. After a moment if awkward silence fills the room, she speaks up once more.

“Here, I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours, okay?”

Without a verbal or physical sign of agreement, Mora quickly gives in, but not before she has a bit of fun with him.

“I’ll give you a hint, it’s the reason why I have no chance at another job. Why I’ll be stuck under these assholes' thumbs till the day I die. Why I always hate it when my patients don’t cooperate. It just makes my job so much harder. Think that gives you an idea?”

There’s another moment of silence as Mora flimsily flips through the other pages of paperwork she’ll have to fill out after the surgery.

“Here, I’ll give you one more hint, but if you don’t answer this time, we’ll, you’ll feel soon enough how painful I can really make it.”

Mora sighs as she continues on once more.

“Kids used to call me ‘mutant’ back in school. I was always looked down upon because nobody knew who or what I was- no, more like they didn’t know how to scare me because I knew what they were capable of, while they were afraid of what I was- what I am.”

Hearing this, the man before her finally reacts, slowly moving his head up, for the first time looking Mora dead in the eyes.

She would be lying if she didn’t say that his stare didn’t scare her. It felt like he was carving her up with just his eyes as his mouth began to stretch into what appeared to be a smirk.

“So we’re the same then?”

Mora was taken aback by his sudden answer, noticing his voice was hoarse as he spoke. It takes her a moment to sort through her thoughts as she walks over toward the door, knocking twice.

In a matter of moments the red blinking light on the camera pointed at the man cease, signaling that nobody was watching them now. Mora walks back over toward the table, moving closer toward the man as she drops the volume of her voice to a whisper.

“So you’re a mutant type? No wonder those guys couldn’t handle you back there. Dumbasses don’t even know how to hold a gun half the time, much less deal with people unlike themselves.”

The man turns his head eerily as he looks back at Mora, seeming to drop his guard for a moment. This causes Mora to relax as she responds once more.

“I’m sure those guys haven’t been treating you well, are you thirsty?”

Nodding, the man smacks his lips at the lack of hydration. Walking back over to her side of the table, Mora grabs her bottle of water that sat by the legs of her cold chair. Once she grabs the half filled bottle, she walks back over toward the man as he appears to be pleading with his eyes in hopes of quenching his thirst.

“Now, since you’re restrained, I’m going to have to pour it into your mouth. If you want me to do that, I’m going to need you to promise that you won’t bite my finger or something, alright?”

The man shakes his head in response, this time appearing more eager than when he was brought in as he watched Mora’s fingers twist the cap off, titling the bottle toward him as he begins to open his mouth.

“Just to make sure, you aren’t going to bite me if I give you a drink?”

Looking back at the man once more, he shakes his head just as eagerly, giving Mora the scariest idea of ‘puppy-dog eyes’ she might have ever wished she could have unseen.

“Okay, I’ll try to be slow but let me know if it’s too much.”

Mora then places the top of the bottle onto the man's lip, beginning to pour the water into his mouth.

Despite her beliefs and her attitude toward those she called her ‘patients’, she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the bastard. Mora is a lot of terrible terrible things, but knew she wasn’t some sort of cold monster that found satisfaction in others' pain. Especially since they had one thing in common, getting fucked over by the world because of who they were. The least she could do was show empathy for someone who seemed to have it worse than herself.

Before long, the man gulps down the remaining water, releasing the top from his mouth as Mora cautiously moves it away from him. Mora speak quietly once more as she twists the lid back on to the plastic bottle.

“Good, thank you for not trying to hurt me. You’d have no idea how many of these inmates would leap at the chance to do just that. It’s- it’s fucked up. Now… Since I feel safe enough to trust you, I think I should tell you something about why you’re in here with me…”

Mora looks away from the man as she feels guilt in what she knew she had to do. In the past, all she did was touch the patient and take away their power as she tried to block out their strained shrieks that made her ears bleed.

Now, because she extended an olive branch to this stranger, it made everything moving forward begin to feel all the more gut-wrenching. Despite this nauseating feeling that began to crawl up her throat, she felt it would be best to tell him the process, doctor to patient.

“I have to remove your ability from your body.”

As Mora says this, she works up the strength to push away her feelings of guilt by staring the man in the eyes as she broke the news.

“It’s an excruciatingly painful process and there is a 20% chance you could die before the procedure is complete.”

Mora could feel her strength begin to evaporate before her very eyes as she felt the bile crawl up her throat once more.

“In the event that that happens, I will still continue to extract your power from your body as emergency services attempt to revive you.”

‘Gods, I’m gonna fucking puke.’

“A-And I know you don’t have any choice in this, but- I’ll try to make it as painless as possible, and hopefully you won’t die.”

As she spoke, Mora can feel the tears begin to form in her eyes as her vision begins to blur. Before now, she was able to block off the painful wails of her past patients, feeling some pass on as she was forced to continue on with the procedure, Gods- somehow she was able to sleep at night before now.

She never thought too much about her power until now, but somehow, Mora became the grim reaper, selling strangers' souls to the highest bidder. The more she thought about it, the more she began to feel disgusted in herself for not realizing this for years! Maybe it was for her own sanity, or it was so she wouldn’t become a lab rat, but for some damn reason, she couldn’t forgive herself for acting so selfishly.

“I’m so sorry.”

Mora was at a loss for words as she felt a few tears begin to cascade down her cheeks as she forced her gaze at the man.

The pair sat in silence for what felt like hours, Mora eventually dropping her head in shame for what she had done and would have to do. Before long, the man speaks up.

“It’s not your fault. I deserve this. So please, don’t cry.”

Her breath is caught in her throat as she looks back up at the man. There was no reason for him to talk to comfort her when he was the one about to suffer. It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair for either of them. Before Mora can speak up in retaliation, the man speaks up once more.

“Before you take it away, could you do one thing?”

Mora nods energetically as she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, wiping her eyes with her knuckle in an attempt to give him her full attention.

“Whatever happens to me, could you please tell my family that everything they’ll need is in the basement?”

“I-I can!”

“Good good. I’m ready.”

In utter shock, Mora takes a moment before she stands up from her chair, clenching her fists in anger as she trudges toward the man.

Before Mora has a chance to rethink her decision, she places her hand on the man’s shiny bald head, forcing the breath she held to release as she began the surgery. As she does this, Mora can see the man attempting to restrain his howls of agony in the indescribable torture he must be feeling.

“I’m so sorry!”

As Mora says this, the man looks up at her, exhaling his last words as the process is nearly complete.

“Bring back peace.”

Mora’s bottom lip begins to quiver in guilt as she nods in response, not understanding the weight of the man's words.

After the procedure, Mora left early, deciding to get a breath of fresh air as she put it. Taking long strides in the direction of her home, she began to think back on the man’s words.

‘The hell did he mean by “Bring back peace”? Was he some sort of hippy that got into trouble? If that were the case then why was he a code 10?’

Mora’s thoughts continued to consume her attention as she failed to notice the looming shadow that didn’t seem to be too far behind her as it continued to stalk its prey.

‘Maybe he was a scapegoat? They didn’t really give me much information on his charges so he could have been some sort of cult leader for all we know. That- there was no way that could be it… So then, why-’

Suddenly, Mora was pulled from her thoughts as she felt a tug by her side. Before she had a chance to figure out what was happening, she felt her body being pulled away from the desolate streets and into a damp alleyway- pushed against what felt like a dirty brick wall as she felt a bit of her shirt tear.

In a mere few seconds, Mora went from walking home to suddenly being trapped in an alleyway between a brick wall and from what she could tell was a pistol as all she could see was the underside of the gun that was held against her forehead.

“Listen here bitch. If you so much as yell, I’m putting this entire magazine in your skull, ya got that?”

Without seeing another way out of this endeavor, Mora nodded as she looked toward the perpetrator, only able to recognize a scar that started at his top lip, continuing diagonally across, and ending a few centimeters away from his bottom lip. The assailant continued speaking as she felt her heart beating a mile a minute.

“Nobody has to get hurt, just reach into your purse there and give me all your money and I’ll be on my way, alright?”

Mora nods once more as she feels the metal cylinder against her temple shift in its position on her. Between this and the brick wall behind her, she’d never felt more suffocated now than all those years she spent in that stupid cell she currently wished she never left in the first place.

As she agrees to this, she slowly moves her purse straps from their comfy place on her shoulder, now sitting in her hands as she shakily reaches in to pull out her wallet.

‘Where the fuck is it?! Of all times, NOW I had to stuff it away somewhere else!? I’m so fucking dead…’

With weighted breath, she begins to speak as she continues to scrummage through her messy bag.

“I-I- heh, you’re not gonna believe this. I- uh, I can’t find my wallet.”

“You tryna fucking pull a fast one on me lady?!”

“N-No I swear I’m not, I-I think I left it at work.”

“Bullshit. If you don’t get your money out in three fucking seconds, there’s gonna be a bullet between your eyes.”

Mora began to panic as she knew exactly where she left her wallet in the locker room that morning.

The assailant began to count down, each second seeming to further paralyze the woman in fear as she couldn’t see any other way to escape her fate.

‘Is there really no way out of this? Is this where I die? Goddamnit-’

“One.”

Mora hears a shot fired from the man's gun, the ringing in her ears proving his threats were legitimate but- something was off.

As she looked up toward the gun, she could see the smoke from the firing at the front of the cylinder dissipate, but Mora didn’t feel...anything. No pain, no blood trickling down her face, nothing! She wasn’t sure what had happened but as she shakily reached up to feel the point of impact, she was met with a cool metal feeling. The thief standing before her stumbled back as he saw the chamber appeared to have exploded rather than fire off at its intended target.

“W-What the- D-Don’t think you’re off the hook just because you have a freeze type bitch! I-I’ll fucking kill you myself!”

Confused by his statement, Mora sat there stunned as she knew that this definitely wasn’t her ability at work. Suddenly, the man begins to charge at her, wrapping his hands around her neck in hopes of choking her.

Feeling her airway begin to close off, Mora instinctively reached her hand out toward the man, gripping at his arm as she attempted to remove the man’s ability in hopes of injuring him. Mora did injure him alright, just not the way she was attempting to do so as she looked to her hand and noticed it began to burn and glow a bright orange hue. In the blink of an eye, the man before her was suddenly engulfed in flames as he released her throat.

“YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!!! AHHHHG-!”

As the man frantically began to run around in circles, Mora lost strength in her legs as she slid down the brick wall, watching in both fear and amazement at what she had done. Looking down, she sat on the ground, pulling her hand toward her face as she noticed the orange hue continue to glow.

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye she saw the assailant fall to the ground, not attempting to extinguish the fire as his body laid there lifelessly. As she sees this, she notices the fire begins to burn out itself. Looking back at her hand, she notices the glow start to fade, nervously clenching it into a fist as she trembles in...excitement?

As Mora began to think that she’s lost her mind, another thought began to linger in the back of her mind.

‘I think I’ll keep this one for myself...’

#one-shot #power #reddit #reddit prompt #short story #should I continue? #Dunkaroo One Shots #tw: violence #tw: depression #tw: mentions of trauma #tw: mentions of childhood abuse #tw: read at your own digression #love to hear your thoughts #love to hear your feedback! #mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #quirk? #<3 #<3 Dunkaroo #<3 L. Dexter #lynn-dexter