#tfd zeffirelli

[growup-thatbeautiful]

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

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

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

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

zeffirelli masterlist

ensoleillement (sunshine)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean math?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Onwards we go.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only about my manifesto.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I like being around you, connasse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of course, he doesn’t hear.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To make something worthy of a manifesto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#tfd #you may be asking me why he’s using french endearments if he’s american and the answer is bc i like them more and also we were cheated #(lovingly bc i adore the movie) from timmy speaking french <33 #the french dispatch #french dispatch #zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #tfd zeffirelli #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x you #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet fic #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfic #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timmy #nova writes

[beautifulcinephile]

Oh of course I'll send something to you!!!! Small accounts supporting each other!!!

I saw Asteroid City a couple of days ago and I was very excited because I like Wes Anderson's style and movies. However... I was disappointed. Movie felt boring to me and I read some reviews saying it was better than The French Dispatch and I almost lost it 🤣 I think TFD is a great movie and I loved all the stories!!!! Which one was your favorite?

Awwww, thanks 💗

Zeffirelli’s story is my favorite, of course! I think Timmy shone in this role, and this movie gives me a huge sense of comfort.

I also like Rosenthaler and Simone’s story, I think Roebuck Wright’s story is my least favorite but I still like it. “The French Dispatch” is one of my favorite Timmy movies and I plan on rewatching it pretty soon.

Aw, I’m excited to watch “Asteroid City” and I’m sorry you didn’t like it. When I watch it, I’ll let you know if I share the same opinions as you or if I enjoyed it.

#Beautiful Cinephile Replies #@livresjaunes

[chalamet-noir]

timothée in trailers ~

#timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet edit #little women #the king #beautiful boy #the french dispatch #call me by your name #cmbyn #elio #zeffirelli #nic sheff #timothee chalamet edits #movies #greta gerwig #wes anderson #david michod #tfd edits #cinema #films #filmblr #black and white aesthetic #text art #tchalamet #huei

[teemychalchalchalamet]

BTS of Timmy as Zeffirelli in Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch

#Zeffirelli #TFD #TFD BTS #BTS #🤘 timmy

[growup-thatbeautiful]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would beat you anyway, amor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, there are worse things to be.

taglist: @shawnieeboyy @itshellinthereitshorror

#nova answers #zeffirelli #tfd #french dispatch #the french dispatch #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #nova writes #short fic #timothee chamalet #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fanfiction

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Birthday wishes to @uhh-cogitoergosum !! this is for you, babe. all my love on your special day <33

taglist lovelies: @shawnieeboyy

Birthdays

You wake up to sunlight streaming in from the white curtains, casting a morning glow over the room. Your first thought is that in this moment you’re perfectly content to lay here all day. The sheets are silky against your skin and the pillow is at the perfect level for you to rest your head. Next to you, Zeffirelli is snoring softly, his hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. The arm that isn’t trapped underneath his head is lying loosely on top of you, thrown there without a second thought in the middle of the night. Because of the beautiful weather of late, you left the window open overnight and the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wafts in from the street below, along with the telltale sounds of a new morning’s start. There are bicycle bells and merchants calling out prices, as well as the low hum of conversations between neighbors and the laughter of children leaving for school. Small city sounds that you can’t get anywhere else, as familiar to you as the cobblestone of the streets below.

Your second thought is that there was something different about today. A reason why, for some reason, Zeffirelli isn’t off scribbling in one of his journals or in class. Usually, by this time in the morning, the two of you are doing your early morning rush, making coffee and packing messenger bags to take all of your books to school or the library or a coffee shop to study. It’s a dance you’ve long since perfected with him, an unspoken schedule that he wakes up first and goes down the street for pastries from the sweet old man that claims Zeffirelli is the new Shakespeare. While he does that, you make coffee and gather all of the things for the rest of the day, setting plates on the table and getting out your respective favorite coffee mugs. He returns and breakfast is accompanied by sleepy conversations about late-night poetic thoughts he had or a new idea you have to write about.

With a barely stifled groan, you realize why you’re here in this bed and not somewhere else. The culprit is-

“Good morning, ange. Happy birthday,” mumbles your suddenly awake boyfriend from his spot next to you. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of your face fruitlessly. It falls right back in front of your eyes, just like both of you know it will. Instead of trying again, he places a gentle hand on the side of your face, and you immediately lean into the warmth of it.

“You know I don’t want a lot today, right? I was clear about that?” you reply, meeting his eyes for the first time today and kissing the palm of his hand gently.

“Yes, love,” Zeffirelli laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You were very clear about that. Don’t worry, I have the perfect day planned for us.”

“Meaning no plans at all?” you ask hopefully.

“Exactement,” he confirms. “No plans to leave this apartment for the whole day.”

“Dieu merci. No one else seems to believe that I want to do absolutely nothing on my birthday.” You can’t count the number of times you’ve been unwillingly dragged along to shops and surprise parties only to talk with people you have no interest in and eat food that you don’t like. It sounds ungrateful, and maybe it is, but it truly and simply stems from the fact that your ideal and perfect birthday is one without the hassle and stress of doing anything at all.

“I only believe you do to your complete insistence on the schedule of today,” admits Zeffirelli. “But also because I know you do not say things you don’t mean. That is the appreciation of truth in you that I admire so deeply.”

“It’s too early for talk like that.” Despite your protests, his words fill you with an indescribable feeling that only he can draw from you.

“It’s nine in the morning,” grins Zeffirelli. “I’ve said nicer things earlier, I’m positive of it. Come on, we have things to do. A very busy day is ahead of us.” Your glare is enough to make him surrender. “D’accord, mi amor. A busy day that consists of nothings. Meilleur?”

“Better,” you agree, taking his hand and rolling out of bed. In comfortable silence only achieved by the highest level of intimacy, you get dressed alongside Zeffirelli, opting for comfort. A pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt of his that’s worn to holes are your choices, the only jewelry is a simple ring that he got for you that you never take off. He’s similarly dressed.

“Magnifique,” breathes Zeffirelli, taking you at arm's length to look at you. Overcome by emotions as he usually is, he spins you around, the music his laugh.

“You always say that.” You’re blushing anyway.

“I will continue to do so until you believe it.” You’re willingly pulled past the kitchen and into the living room, Zeffirelli’s hand firmly in yours.

“Or until it’s not true anymore,” you tease. “When I’m old and grey and all my tomorrow were yesterday, as the song goes.”

“That day will never come.” Zeffirelli’s tone is completely serious, nothing like the joking one you used. “You will always be the focus of my attention and the most beautiful thing in every room. The stars and the flowers should be envious of the attention you rightfully steal from them.” The only reply you can muster is something insufficient about it being too early for his words again.

And just like that, his smile returns easily. It’s one of the things you’re proudest of, the fact that you can make him smile with such small words or glances.

“So, what’s first on our agenda?” you ask, jumping onto the counter, the cool marble underneath your palms.

“I got Monsieur Pereot to deliver us some of his pastries to the door, so we don’t have to go anywhere. Also, I ordered coffee this time so you don’t have to fight with the beans yourself.”

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“You’ve been very clear about that, yes.” Zeffirelli opens the front door, and sure enough, there’s a basket waiting there, freshly baked goods and coffee nestled in the middle. He puts them down on the table and you give him a kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

When you pull back, he asks, “What was that for?”

“Just in case I don’t tell you enough today that I love you.” A blush rises to his cheeks, one that thrills you.

“Such consideration towards me on your day.”

“I’m working on my sharing,” you say solemnly. “Especially with beautiful, poetic men who give me baked goods in the morning.”

“Don’t think that’s the only thing you’re getting today,” warns Zeffirelli. “Finish that and follow me.” He points to the chocolate croissant in your hand. With a flourish, you eat the last bite and he leads you into the living room. He grabs something from the table.

“This, mon ange, is for you.” Zeffirelli hands you a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a white string. Its simplicity is stunning to you, as you’re sure he knows.

With his nod to continue, you carefully unwrap the paper, laying it to the side. Inside, is a journal-sized book, immediately recognizable to you. It’s Les Fleurs du Mal, your favorite poetry book, but not the basic one that sits on your nightstand. This copy is special. The edge of the pages are painted with a startling silver, contrasting the dark blue cover. On the front there’s what looks like a wax stamp in the shape of a tulip, also silver, that sticks out with a smooth texture. The title is written in sprawling cursive with flowery details surrounding it. The pages are well worn, and the edges of the cover are bent inwards, obviously well loved.

“It’s not new,” he apologizes softly, “but I wanted to buy you something with money of my own.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you assure. “It’s beautiful.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of making some annotations in it. I know it’s one of your favorites, and I thought you might like my thoughts. If not, I will go this instant and get you a different one.”

You interrupt his rambling with a gentle kiss. “That makes it all the more special, ma chérie. Your thoughts are always wanted by me, especially in the realm of things I love such as this book.”

With that, you grab his hand and pull him onto the couch beside you, settling in to read the book. You stop for a light lunch, tomato and basil salad with fresh veggies and bread from the market a few streets away. Then, back to reading.

At some point, upon the rather loud insistence of your stomach, Zeffirelli stands and grabs your hand, pulling you off the couch. “I made you dinner.”

“How? You can’t cook? And you’ve been with me the whole day,” you laugh, following him easily. You would do anything he asks of you, even if it means horrible-tasting food he inevitably burns or undercooks. You have plenty of experience pretending to like his cooking from when you first started dating and didn’t want to tell him how bad it was. Eventually, he started seeing through the grimaces and hiding food in your napkin, and you were the designated cook when you wanted to stay at home for a meal, seeing as your level of cooking is above the inedible bar he set.

Zeffirelli shrugs and gestures around. “I got the ingredients yesterday while you were studying at the library, and I thought we could do it together. Like you always want to.”

You don’t have any words to say to him, opting to jump into his arms instead, which apparently he isn’t expecting based on the surprised laugh and stumble.

“Before we start, I have another gift for you.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“I did,” he interrupts. “If you won’t let me take you out to dinner then I’ll spoil you as much as I can here.”

“Fine,” you assent. “But only because it obviously makes you happy.” With a grin, Zeffirelli leaves the room and comes back with a flat package, handing it to you while getting out the supplies for dinner.

You open the brown paper to reveal a record, Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers. It’s been a recent obsession of yours, and you know you’ve been driving Zeffirelli crazy with your constant out of tune singing of You Make Me Feel So Young.

“I know you think you’re being subtle about your obsession with that new American, Frank Sinatra, but you, mon amor, are not. The blue eyed man has captured you as well as the rest of that country, so I thought to give you a chance to share him with me. His love songs can be our love songs now. His words, our testimony and adoration and devotion.”

“You hate American music,” you wonder out loud, running your hands over the cool vinyl.

“Not if you love it,” he insists. “What you love I am determined to love as well, because what is yours is mine. All of those places in your heart for the American music are places I want to explore with you.”

“How lucky am I to have you as mine,” you murmur, looking at him. “Tout mon couer.” Your whole heart. He truly is.

“And you are my dreams and my life and my stars. A day without you is worse than a day without sun because while cloud’s have beauty, your absence does not,” he replies earnestly. “Happy birthday.”

#zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #tfd #the french dispatch #french dispatch #zeffirelli the french dispatch #zeffirelli french dispatch #french dispatch zeffirelli #the french dispatch zeffirelli #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x you #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee chalamet fanfic #timothee chalamet fic #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fanfiction

[growup-thatbeautiful]

What do you think Zeffirelli would be like as a father?

Also, just want to say thank you for all the Zeffirelli content you blessed us with, I honestly thought I would find nothing on him after I watched the film, so having the abundance of quality content you made is absolutely amazing. Thank you! 💕

OMGGGGGG THIS MADE ME SO SOFT i just love him so much *cries* and you’re so welcome!!! i honestly don’t feel like it’s a blessing to anyone, but you’re words are appreciated so much <3333 fr, thank you

i just wanna start this off by saying that Zeffirelli would be understanding to his partner not wanting to have kids, wanting to adopt, wanting cats or plants, and anything in between. he would love you no matter what your choice about the future is (because yes, it’s a conversation between the two of you, but it’s ultimately your choice. he respects that. he doesn’t understand anyone who doesn’t respect that. period. moving on the the prompt)

now, assuming he did choose to have kids with you and you become parents:

he would be extremely nervous. he grew up in a supportive family, had lots to be thankful for and has loving parents around. that doesn’t, however, stop the worries that he has.

what if he’s not a good father? what if it turns out he doesn’t know what to do? so many what ifs running through his head that he sometimes needs a reminded of his own value.

you try the best way you know how

“mon amour, do you have any doubts about my common sense?” he would answer no very quickly, shaking his head almost violently.

“then trust yourself the way i trust you. i don’t know anyone who will be more loving, and supporting of our child. not mine, not yours. someone who’s wholly ours. someone we’re going to get into fights with and tell horrible jokes to and love unconditionally. you already do those things to me, i have no doubts you can do it to them to.”

you would decorate the kids room with soft colors and hanging plants. he would spend hours looking through poetry to find the perfect quotes to paint all around the room.

my personal favorites are “how lucky i am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard” and “i will love you if i never see you again and i will love you if i see you every tuesday.”

he would be so cute holding them for the first time. also, so scared of dropping them, but he would be a natural.

i think he would be such a great dad to a little girl. you would name her something poetic

some ideas i have are Jules like Juliet, Emily like Dickinson, Slyvie like Plath, Angel/Maya for Maya Angelou

he would love her so much y’all. he would have zero impulse control when it comes to her asking for things, and would encourage whatever she got into

sports, writing, school, theater. if she does it, he’s going to be there for her.

he learns how to paint nails on you and then makes it a whole thing with her. he would call it “going to the spa” and paint her nails all of the colors she wants

he shows her all of his favorite kids movies like sleeping beauty and peter pan and tells her adorable stories that you can’t help listening to them too

you actually start having whole story nights with pillow forts and soft blankets

you’ll lay on top of each other and try to make her laugh as hard as she can, calling her more and more ridiculous nicknames that you flick him on the nose and he does the same to you, earning giggles from her

shadow puppets. he would be so proud of the shadow puppets he learned. you would laugh almost as much as Little Girl. it would be so dreamy, evening light and the fairy lights he got for himself her

he wears matching clothes with his Little Girl. there’s this red jacket that he and her both have and the make you take pictures of them together.

you’ve never seen them smile so much.

he’s always there to kiss her scrapes better and dance with her on his toes in the kitchen, you eventually joining in, a happy tangled family mess

as she grows older, he and you get more scared of her drifting away, but that’s just how things are

she still comes to you when she’s hurt, he still tells her stories after breakups or bad grades

she has his poetry and shows them to you two sometimes when shes proud of them

you get to watch her grow up and get hurt, learn who she is and see how she always, always comes back for a second hug from her dad

those red jackets are dusty in the closet, but their pictures are hanging on the wall.

he gives her one of those pictures when she goes to college, a note tucked in the back that has the quotes from her bedroom

shit this is making me sad i’m gonna go think about the new S&B cast okay bye

#zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fanfic #tfd zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #tfd #the french dispatch fanfic #the french dispatch #french dispatch #french dispatch zeffirelli #french dispatch fic #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #timothee x y/n #timothee x you #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet #timothee #timothee chalamet fic #timothee chalamet fanfic #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee chalamet writing

[growup-thatbeautiful]

I feel like you have a Zeffirelli marriage theme going that started with a proposal & now I wanna request a hc for a honeymoon with him. Thank you so much bestie 💖❤️💗

there’s definitely a theme going on lolll

Zeffirelli’s Honeymoon

(why does that sound like a bad comedy movie)

i don’t really think he would want to go somewhere super crowded, and he wouldn’t want to go to the beach because i feel like he doesn’t like the water that much

somewhere secluded and romantic

romance is definitely the main thing he would look for

but also scenery

a place that i specifically know of that has both is Verona, Italy

just hear me out. a) it has a really pretty town b) there ar every nice places to stay that overlook said town on a vineyard or land c) ROMEO AND JULIET (aaand my obsession with R&J comes out at last. feels good)

there’s urban and country options there and you decide to do both of course

you start in the city, seeing all the romantic spots

he insists that you take a picture with Juliet’s balcony

and you get to watch the nighttime lights from a very expensive hotel rooftop where they have anything you could want

then you go into the country. there are homemade meals, endless walking paths, and not very many people!

his love struck side really gets to show there because he can do all the pda in the world and not bother a single soul

you lay out in the grass together on a hill overlooking the city and talk for hours

and you do more than talk

as it’s your job to be helplessly in love with each other, you also climb trees (that zeffirelli gets stuck in), try cooking together (you burn the cookies), and make out in every corner (you get caught so many times)

it would be altogether a fairly calm honeymoon because you really just want to be with each other and bask in the fact that !you’re married to the most wonderful man ever!

taglist loves: @shawnieeboyy @timmyslover

#zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fanfic #nova writes #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #tfd #zeffirelli timothee chalamet #zeffirelli tfd #tfd zeffirelli #tfd fic #the french dispatch fic #the french dispatch #the french dispatch fanfic #the french dispatch x y/n #the french dispatch x reader #the french dispatch x you

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Hi love, could you do Zeffirelli writing you a love letter please?

ooooh, i love this idea! i took a short brake from all the wonderful song requests to write this lol.

———————

he sits down at his desk, cigarette in one hand and coffee with cream and sugar in the other. there’s already paper on his desk. it’s been sitting out for a few days, begging for him to write to you.

he starts his letter.

mon amor,

the revolution is going well. i think there’s a chance that we might come out on top of this.

i wish that you were here to see it. i know that you would be if you could, and i am happy that you got such a good opportunity as a journalist. ms. krememtz really took to you when she came in town. i’m glad she did. you deserve all of the opportunities.

there’s not a lot of news here. it snowed the other day, and everyone took a break from fighting to look at the sky. it seemed like something that you would like. it really was a beautiful moment.

there are a lot of things here that remind me of you. one is, of course, the revolution. when we aren’t fighting with each other it seems like we make a good team. i think we’re making a real difference.

i’m also reminded of you all the time whenever a bad situation happens. i know how that sounds, but you were always so good at dealing with things like that. you would know all the right things to say. that’s why your so far away, if you think about it. weird how that worked out.

tell me all the details about your new life. is there a cafe that’s as good as the one here? (don’t answer that). have you met a charming, high-class, french man with messier hair than me? (don’t answer that either). please tell me all about the charms of life as an established writer.

note, please don’t take this as a fact that i don’t miss you. i miss you like crazy, and i cannot wait to see you, whenever that should happen. i am hopeful it is soon.

all the love in the world,

zeffirelli

he takes a long drag of his cigarette and sets the letter down. he folds it neatly in half, and looks around until he finds a envelope to put it in. last minute, he adds the petals of a rose that was sitting in a vase by his bed.

it’s sappy, but he knows that you’ll like it.

on the other side of the country, you receive his letter. the rose petal floats to the floor, unseen in your haste to read his letter. his messy handwriting looks like home.

the letter, once read, goes in it’s place tacked on the wall with everything else he’s written to you. the rose petal goes into a small, clear vial that you hang around your neck.

#zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fluff #zeffirelli writing #tfd #the french dispatch #french dispatch fic #timothee chalamet french dispatch #french dispatch fanfic #french dispatch zeffirelli #tw cigarettes

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Zeffirelli playing the piano!

as always, my inbox is open! this is short and sweet

yo

yo

this. i’m a genius

you wake up one night, wearing one of his soft school sweaters

you hear noise from the other room, something quiet and haunting

the bed is cold beside you, missing Zeffirelli’s warmth

there’s no one else at the apartment, the both of you being at his parents apartment for the holiday while they’re gone

you walk barefoot to where the melody is coming from

and there he is

somehow his hair is more wild than usual

you shuffle your feet around so bw knows you’re there and make your way towards him

“you couldn’t sleep?”

“no,” he answers, scooting over on the bench

you slide next to him on the bench, facing away from the piano

his fingers dance across the ivory keys, the golden signent ring you gave him last year. glinting from the golden light

you head against his shoulder, he keeps playing

it’s simple, and he misses some notes. the first time he does you can feel him tense up

he always cares what you think, maybe too much

so yo give him encouragement by wrapping your arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair

“i haven’t played in forever,” he says when he finishes. he kisses your forehead softly, so softly

“you should okay more often, amour.”

“i will for you.” he lights a cigarette, and pulls you closer to him, up and into his lap

“i will play every night for you.” you lean forward, your forehead against his, looking into his eyes

“and i’ll listen.

#zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #tfd #french dispatch fic #timothee chalamet french dispatch #french dispatch x reader #french dispatch #the french dispatch #timothee x you #timothee chalamet writing #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet characters #timothee chalamet fluff #timothee chalamet fic #wes anderson fic #wes anderson #timothee chalamet #chalamet #hal chal #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee #timothee imagine #timothee blurb #zeffirelli headcannons #zeffirelli hc #french dispatch headcannons #french dispatch hc #tw! smoking

[growup-thatbeautiful]

I can't get the turban Zeffirelli has in the bathtub out of my head. Do you have any ideas on what it would be like to take a bath with him?

i’m not a huge bath person unless i’m freezing cold, but with zeffirelli…… istg i would do anything for this man

i have it in my head that he likes all the bubbles and nice smelling things

of course, he doesn’t know that until after he meets you and you take your first bath with him

you ask him if he wants bubbles with his bath

he’s like a little kid “bubbles? like the ones that have rainbows and are for outside?”

his eyes are super big and amazed

so you put in the soap and add some nice scenes, probably lavender or rose

something he would be able to recognize and light up about because you can’t help yourself

you make the water almost scalding hot because he told you that’s the way he likes it

(he stays in too long for it to start off warm. it’s where i do my best writing.” you can’t disagree)

the mirror is fogged up, the tile is slippery with water, and fluffy towels are waiting by the tub to be used

its so hot when you first get in. it burns your skin and hurts, but zeffirelli is there and you just laugh it off together

there’s water dripping from the tips of his hair and it’s so pretty, reflecting the colors of the bubbles

you’re sitting facing each other, legs intertwined between you

maybe you two start a splashing war and get water all over the floor and have go clean it up later, who knows

you tell each other about your day, and just generally relax with each other

he tried to catch some of the bubbles and style his hair with them and gets you to do the same

his hair is spiked up in a row of spikes and it’s adorable

just imagining that is making be blush omg

you just….melt

he’s adorable about the whole thing, for realzies

let’s be honest, you could sit there and talk with him for hours

so you stay there until the water is cold and you’re basically shivering

now he asks for it every time you’re going to take a bath

even when he’s just taking a bath alone he’ll come up to you and ask you if he can use your bath stuff no matter how many times you tell him that he doesn’t have to ask

he loves it and now whenever you two have a bad day it’s a tradition to take a bath together to talk about it and feel better :)

this is just so soft aaaaaa

#zeffirelli #zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli the french dispatch #the french dispatch zeffirelli #the french dispatch #french dispatch #tfd #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #the french dispatch x you #french dispatch x y/n #french dispatch x you #french dispatch x reader

[growup-thatbeautiful]

I had a cute little idea with Zeffirelli bring in love for the first time and just kinda smitten because he’s a romantic. I thought you’d be good at writing it if it interests you :)

omg yes send me all of the zeffirelli thoughts, nonnie! i love him so much aaaaaa. i absolutely adore writing about him, and i personally think i’m good at getting him right?? even better to know that other people think that too lol. anything zeffirelli interests me :))

~~~~~~~~~~~

if anyone asked you who your first love was, you would say owen j’ema in high school. he had been your first kiss, your first i love you, your first love. it hadn’t worked out of course, being a young love filled with teenage drama and angst, but you hold no hard feelings anymore.

it wasn’t the same for zeffirelli. he had never been in love before you, poetic as he was. you were clueless as to how no one had come around and fallen in love immediately with him.

he was just so lovable, and he didn’t try to hide himself in “manly emotionless stares” as your mother would put it.

you don’t know it it’s a result of him being in love for the first time. part of you thinks that it’s just the way he is, simple as that. he’s a romantic, and being in love has only made him more so.

he’s the picture of a perfect partner. he wakes you up with kisses and love declarations some days, and loudly sings opera on others just to keep you on your toes. no matter how he wakes you up though, he always has coffee ready. you’re not necessarily a late sleeper, but he gets up early. even he didn’t know why before he met you, but when he did he had a good reason. he could wake up and make your morning better. he could watch you sleep serenely, the way you unknowingly scrunch your face up as you wake up. it had been an easy choice.

he brings you flowers on wednesday nights and baked goods from the bakery down the street saturdays because he can. and because he loves the flower store and the old lady who tells him stories, and the bakery always smells like chocolate and fresh bread.

when you’re sick he’s there with whatever you need, and you have to insist that he goes to his classes instead of staying with you. when your sad he holds you close and whispers lovely promises into your ear, and if that doesn’t work he just holds you. when you’re mad, he’s patient and rarely raises his voice. when he does, it’s usually when you’re wrong or you’re saying something about his revolution.

oh, but when you’re happy. when the world seems like it’s on your side and you want to dance in the kitchen. then he’s glowing. he’ll sit and watch you, laugh lines prominent while he smiles at you over a mug of something.

when you eventually pull him in to dance a laugh bubbles out from him. his hair dances around with him, and you get lost in the moment. he twirls you around, socked feet gliding on the cool tiles. it’s messy and uncoordinated and absolutely perfect.

after you get tired you sit on the kitchen floor, facing each other, talking for what seems like hours. it’s uncomfortable, but neither of you wants to move. you don’t even want time to move.

when you eventually do move, he walks with you, holding your hand close to his heart, making promises about a ring on your finger.

he’s an octopus when he sleeps. yeah, he’s always awake when you wake up in the mornings, but you’ve woken up more than a few time to one of his limbs splayed over you. even in your annoyance, you find it endearing.

on sundays, when you never go anywhere, he leaves his hair completely unbrushed, somehow more unruly than usual. he lets you play with his hair and you put small parts in braids.

he looks adorable on those days, braided hair and sweater sleeves covering his fingers. those are also the days when he tells you the things that he loves about you.

“i love your smile.” a kiss on the lips.

“i love your heart.” now one on the cheek.

“i love the way you look when the sun streams in from the window and you do look like a cat and tilt your head to lean towards it.” he runs his finger through your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers.

“i love your stupid fluffy boots and your terrible handwriting.” he kisses your shoulder through your shirt.

“i love the way you stomp in the rain and twirl in the grass.” your neck this time.

“i love that you’re my first love.”

#zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x y/n #french dispatch zeffirelli #french dispatch fanfic #french dispatch fic #french dispatch x reader #french dispatch x you #french dispatch #the french dispatch

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Im not sure if requests are open but sending one anyway (if youre not accepting im sorry pls trash this!) But if you are, how about a zeffirelli x reader where reader always beats him in chess? Like y/n is super good but also our boy zeffy gets distracted just looking at y/n when she's thinking? 👉👈🥺

NONNIE I SAW THIS AND HAD TO SCREAM INTO A PILLOW THIS IS SO SWEET <333333

please tell me it’s not to obvious that i know nothing about chess

Pretty

“Zeffirelli, it’s your turn,” you say. There’s only so much stating that you can reasonably tolerate. And he’s been staring for the whole game.

Not that that’s unusual at all. In fact, most of the time he’s staring at you. He makes a move, and you’re quick to make your next one, taking one of his knights.

“You know, usually you make it harder for me to beat you than this. It’s almost like there’s something distracting you,” you say lightly, playing with the ends of your hair in the way you know drives him crazy. If he notices, he tries to cover it up with a cough.

You spin one of his chess pieces in between your fingers, twisting it around. It’s a habit you just can’t seem to get rid of. You look up as discreetly as possible, noticing that Zeffirelli is yet again staring at you. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that shows you how much he loves you. You have no resistance to that look. You hope you never do.

“I never get distracted,” he says. You motion for him to move, which he does. This time, you have to think about what to do next.

“Are you going to make your move, flower?” he teases, raising his eyebrows. You flip him off with on hand and play your turn. Once you’ve gone, Zeffirelli doesn’t immediately make his move, opting to look at you a little while longer, the moving chess piece between your fingers.

“Come on, Zeff, we don’t have all day. I distinctly remember plans for a movie night and promises for popcorn.”

“I’m only going to do that if you stop judging me for getting lost in your beauty,” he says, moving his piece, which, again, you take.

“Sap,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies with a grin.

“I definitely know that’s not true. You’re like this to everyone. Even that dying flower outside your window.”

“Darlene is a beautiful soul,” he defends. “But I don’t stare at her while I lose at chess. Which, by the way, doesn’t happen normally. You’re too distracting,” he whines.

“Not my fault,” you say. “And, checkmate. Good luck getting out of this one.”

“I give up,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “I’m never going to beat you. I’ve never lost to someone as must as I’ve lost to you.”

“Poor baby,” you laugh, coming around to his side of the table and ruffling his hair. “I won’t tell anyone that you keep losing to me. I will tell absolutely everyone about Darlene, though.”

��When did you start doing that thing?” Zeffirelli asks, going into the kitchen to make tea, kissing your cheek when he passes by.

“What thing?” You follow him into the kitchen and sit on the island.

“The thing with the chess piece.” He does a twirling motion and a sound effect, making you laugh. “You know.”

“Oh I don’t even know when it started. I just always have to have something in motion in order to help me think. It’s better than chewing my nails or scratching my skin.”

“So if I take your chess pieces away, you won’t win?” he asks, as evil a grin he can possibly have on his face.

“Keep your evil plans to yourself, Romeo. It doesn’t really work if you tell me.”

“It’ll work. I’ll distract you with my outstanding dancing.” As an example, he pulls you close to him and waltzes you across the tiles.

“You know, you may be terrible at chess against me, but you make me laugh, Zeffirelli B.”

“I am not terrible at chess!“ he exclaims, spinning you. “I’m just terrible at keeping my eyes off you.”

#nova answers #zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fluff #zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x you #tfd #french dispatch #french dispatch fanfiction #french dispatch fic #french dispatch fanfic #the french dispatch x y/n #french dispatch x you #the french dispatch x reader #timothee chalamet #nova writes

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Headcannon for Zeffirelli wanting to get married 🥺

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 i am so soft about this. i already did him proposing here, but this deserves a post too

we all know he’s a sweetheart

he would talk about being with you forever before he proposed

a whole lot of “that will look perfect when you move in here” and “you’re going to be so beautiful your whole life, chaton.”

he’ll ask you about what you like when you’re out shopping with him. what colors, what patterns, house decor style

when you’re talking a walk, at some time you point out a brownstone apartment that you think is gorgeous

he’ll ask you what you think about having kids, but of course make it clear that whatever you want won’t scare him away. “i’m here for you no matter what you want, beau.”

there’s ivy on the cream-colored walls, plant boxes on the windows blooming with flowers

the front door is painted light blue

you think he just passes it off as a random comment, nothing more

but right before your wedding he asks you if you want to live there, and when you say yes he tells you that he’ll make it happen

he would spend so much time making it a true home with you

it’s an important step to him that you make it with things that both of you like

an antique writing desk for him, a velvet couch and lots of blankets for you, a record player for you both to dance too

which you and him do all. the. time.

there are unpacked boxes all around you, but he doesn’t care when he spins you around and laughs when you slip and then kisses you like nothing else matters

maybe nothing else does, at least not in the moment

then he would do the most romantic proposal ever (probably like the one i described in the link above. shameless promotion on my part lol)

he would not stop thinking about actually marrying you ever

when he comes home, his first thing to say to you is how many days you have until you get married. the puppy dog eyes would be insanely successful on you

“only two more week until you won’t be able to get rid of me.” “three days, love. tu te fous de moi. i’m the luckiest in the world.”

that actual day of he would listen to all of the superstitions and warn you to fo the same.

“come on, just do them. we don’t want to accidentally curse ourselves. i’m not taking any chances.”

he’s giddy with excitement the whole week of. random times of him pulling you into joyous dancing

he’s also aware that you’re stressed a lot about the planning and all the family in town

he makes sure to tell you when he thinks you’re taking on too much, and he’s quick to tell anyone putting pressure on you to back off

in the nicest way possible of course

because he’s the nicest person possible

he’s just takes care of you the whole time and really doesn’t care how you get married because all that matters to him is you being happy and you being his :)

my beautiful taglist loves: @shawnieeboyy @timmyslover (join my taglist here)

#zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli writing #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli #zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli the french dispatch #the french dispatch zeffirelli #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli x y/n #the french dispatch x you #the french dispatch x reader #the french dispatch x y/n

[growup-thatbeautiful]

If you are not fed up with the marriage theme yet, could you write something about what the first morning as a married couple would be like with Zeffirelli, please? You write him so well.

i am not! and based on the request, sounds like you want an actual fic for this one lollll. good thing i was in the mood :) and thank you! <33 i love writing him so much, it’s a problem

Sunlight

You wake up slowly, beams of morning light streaming in. There’s a thick blanket covering you, as well as the arm of your husband, Zeffirelli.

You look over at him, seeing him asleep, normally wild hair somehow even wilder than usual. He’s facing you, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, deep breaths in a soothing rhythm. Even in sleep, he’s the most pretty man you’ve ever seen.

Pretty is one of many word words that come to mind when describing his beauty. Others filter through your mind. Angelic. Stunning. Elegant. And, last of all, yours.

It still hasn’t sunken in that you’re married to him. It all seems to be a dream, the past few days-no, weeks-passing in a blur of happiness and dancing memories. Just thinking about them make you grin widely.

You turn over onto your side, truly facing your husband. The hand that isn’t wrapped around you is curled under his head, and you take it into your hand, kissing his knuckles gently. With your other hand you cup his face gently, tracing your fingers across his features. You mind idly drifts in the morning haze.

Your first thought is that Zeffirelli has given you so much joy. Everything he does, he does with you in mind. He’s never selfish, something that you’ve been working on. He needs to know that he’s worth giving himself attention, not just others. Being selfless can be a good thing, but, like everything else, it’s only good in moderation.

The way he dotes on you is like first-nature to him. He’s always making sure that you’re okay, asking you questions to the point of annoyance. Which, of course, only lasts about thirty seconds before you can’t keep your anger in.

There’s never a moment when you feel unseen in his presence. You try to return that affection to him, showing him that he means just as much to you as you mean to him. You know very well that people are going to start finding it unacceptable at some point, a married couple being so romantic all the time, but you don’t plan on stopping if ever. If the world is intent on seeing romance as something for children and fools, you’re happy to be part of them. It’s better than becoming jaded.

Your mind shifts to last night. You left the wedding and came straight to Verona, the place of your honeymoon. Your wedding dress is hanging over the chair, heavily fabric flowing across the arms.

Zeffirelli had insisted that he carry you over the threshold of the door. You had rolled your eyes and told him that this wasn’t even your house so it wouldn’t count, but he said that it didn’t matter. He would do it here and then he would carry you home.

After that, he had taken you to this room and whispered beautiful words into your skin, your soul. And when that stopped being enough, they turned into kisses, which turned into something more heated. His name fell from your lips as a plea, a chant, a prayer.

“What are you thinking about, ma femme?” Zeffirelli says groggily, pulling you closer to him.

“My husband,” you answer honestly. “I still can’t believe that I get to call you that.”

“If rolls of the tounge, doesn’t it?” he says softly, encasing you in his warmth with his arms.

“My wife.” He kisses you on the cheek gently, following the map of your face with his finger.

“My wife.” He kisses each of your eyelids and pulls you ever closer.

“My wife.” He leans his forehead against yours and looks into your eyes.

“My husband.”

#zeffirelli #zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli fluff #zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli the french dispatch #the french dispatch #french dispatch #french dispatch x you #french dispatch x reader #the french dispatch x y/n #french dispatch fic #french dispatch fanfic #french dispatch fanfiction #timothee tfd #timothee chalamet the french dispatch #timothee chalamet tfd #timothee french dispatch #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet fic #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet x you

[growup-thatbeautiful]

You write Zeffirelli better than anyone! all your stuff on him makes me so soft lol. Could you do an imagine/headcannon where he proposes? Thank you 😊

oooooo yes! thank you for asking :)) i totally didn’t see this and kept missing it i’m so sorry

please leave comments, tags, or just come scream at me about it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

zeffirelli is nervous about something. you can tell the moment he picks you up for your date, the stars and streetlights shrinking behind his profile against your door.

he got you pink roses, not something unusual for him to do but definitely not casual. they’re tied with a yellow ribbon in a neat bow that means he definitely didn’t do it.

he’s wearing a nice suit jacket instead of his school one, and his hair is…well he looks nice. he greets you with the usual kiss and proclamation of “you look beautiful today,” and takes your hand without a word, leading you to the firescape of your apartment. his timing is perfect, as usual, and the stars shine against the river, picturesque, out of a fairy tale book.

“i realized that for all the time we’ve spend together, we haven’t yet looked at the stars.” you don’t reply, but lean your head against his shoulders. he takes his hand in yours and kisses your knuckles gently.

“get your shoes on, we have somewhere to go,” he whispers into the night, standing up and kissing your forehead.

you shake your head, amused, and do what he says. pulling on your boots, he puts a hat on your head and ruffles your hair. you stick your tongue out at him.

he walks you to one of the bridges across the river. it’s your favorite one, covered in twisting ivy and blooming white flowers. the summer air drifts across you, bringing the smell of blossoms and night air.

you lean against the rail, the bricks cool under your hands. a petals blows away and floats on the water, rippling the stars.

he’s leaning beside you on the bridge one moment, then the next he’s down on one knee, looking up at you with his heart on his sleeve. his hair falls wildly in from of his eyes, a curtain that does nothing to hide his emotions. they’re written in his posture, his hands, his soul.

even if you couldn’t read him like an open book, his words say it all. “i’m better at speaking when things are written out in front of me, so i wrote down what i was going to say right now the second time i met you. i couldn’t help it.”

“i have loved you my whole life. i think i knew it before i even met you, that you were the one i was waiting for. the one i dreamed i would fall in love with as a kid. the one with a laugh that could make me melt into the floor and with eyes that laugh along with you.”

“there is never a moment when i don’t want to be with you, and even when i’m angry at you i’m still more in love than i ever have been before. every day that i see you you become more dear to me, and i want that to continue for my whole life.”

“my mother gave me my choice of my grandmothers rings the first time i mentioned you. she said that she could see it in my eyes that i was going to marry you. i chose this one.” you look down in between his fingers, where a beautiful ring is held. the band is a simple silver, growing with the deep green jewel that glistens with moonlight. the two green gems are shaped like leafs, and in the middle is a dark red circular jewel, engraved as a rose.

“it’s beautiful,” you whisper, not wanting to break the moment.

“will you wear it?“ he asks nervously.

“i will.” you reply.

“ma rose por toujours.” he says with awe, slipping it into your finger before standing up and spinning you around and kissing you.

you hold him back tightly, his rose forever more.

#i’m never gonna write a fic with him where i don’t describe his hair as wild huh #i want the ring now #please go the anons who keep giving me such nice messages #i love you #i promise i’m getting through all the requests #zeffirelli hc #zeffirelli #zeffirelli fanfic #zeffirelli fic #zeffirelli fanfiction #zeffirelli fluff #zeffirelli tfd #zeffirelli french dispatch #zeffirelli the french dispatch #zeffirelli x y/n #zeffirelli x you #zeffirelli x reader #the french dispatch zeffirelli #the french dispatch #tfd #french dispatch x y/n #french dispatch #french dispatch x you #french dispatch x reader #timothee chalamet tfd #timothee chalamet the french dispatch #timothee chalamet french dispatch