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Remember when I was a smart girl who didn't ship actors or watch tweendom shows?
No, neither do I.
Blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
un_amico (especially ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
butchiemcgee, that enabler!). And Mélanie and Daniel for being so fucking gorgeous.
TITLE: Black Cats
FANDOM: RPF (Mélanie Laurent/Daniel Brühl)
RATING: M (a bit of swearing and sexy tiems)
DISCLAIMER: This isn't true. I do not own these people.They should have babies, however
Black Cats
RPF-verse, 25th September 2009
---
NOTES: Man, this has been stewin' for a while. And it's not very good, let me warm you all right now. One might say really bad. But I had to write it, man!
Thanks to the gentle nudges frombutchiemcgee and the gang at un_amico, especially this post (which helped finally put some pins in place), I was able to word-vomit this out. God help me, they're just so damn gorgeous not to be together. Seriously.
Facts not mentioned in the before linked post: Daniel's dinner with QT is via his interview in Filmink magazine, and all mentions of Wikipedia reference real pages. My German is pretty rusty, and my French non-existent, so bare that in mind. Oh, and I'm already going to Hell for Top Chef RPF. And Criminal Intent RPF. And Die Ärzte slash. And Shannon Noll/Farin Urlaub.
Forget it. I'm a lost cause. On with the show!
---
For theun_amico gang, who just get it.
---
Swimming
Are we?
Camille, 'Waves'
---
He's eating a sandwich when he first meets her - his hangover, huge, left from the night before when he'd tried pretty damn hard to get Tarantino to think he was a Very Serious Actor with Very Serious Film Tastes (with a vast knowledge of said films to boot), because he's not wanted a role so much since - well, the last time he'd read the script that was now sitting in his lap.
It doesn't get him far, because Tarantino knows every film ever and Daniel had Wikipedia and one night; so here he was, eating a sandwich and waiting to audition for a part that may or may not be the most perfect he'd read.
"Attendez-vous?"
It can't be helped - he winces, thanks to last night's wine and his lack of trivia about Zombies Versus Shark - and he suddenly has a large pair of blue eyes in his face speaking French.
"Uh," and he tries to find the right word in a foreign tongue, but he's just thrown for a moment. "Non? Oui."
She closes one eye and her mouth pulls up at the corners. "You are German, I should speak German, yes?"
Except she's speaking cracked English, words sounding full and new, and he can't help but laugh a little. "Your German is excellent, Mademoiselle."
"And yours, Monsieur." She taps the script under her arm that's just like his. "J'espère que vous me tuez."
And, like that, she smiles and walks away, and suddenly Daniel doesn't feel like his sandwich anymore.
---
They're pretending to be a French Jewess cinema owner and a German Nazi officer, Tarantino telling them far too much information for either of them to handle, and it's raining.
"Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and fucking Juliet!"
It's like that, a click-and-shuffle, and they both just know.
"It's her," Daniel mouths to the director.
"Bon. Bon!" Mélanie says, lighting a cigarette.
"Fuckin'-a," and Tarantino throws his hands in the air, leaving the two of them to pack up and walk through the air heavy with expectation like it was no big deal.
There's nothing, really, to say. "I hope you get the part," or "hope to work with you soon!", sure. But honestly?
They're the sum of their parts even though neither of them has the official word - so they exchange phone numbers like they're going to walk into an empty room filled with silence and play Shakespeare's lovers with a gusto neither of them quite understands.
---
He hires a stack of DVDs and watches them over two days with the Eiffel Tower shadowing his hotel room.
She listens to a Yann Tiersen soundtrack and wonders what good it is to waste her money on films she'd probably never watch again.
They both get the call, and both wonder if something as simple as a congratulatory text message could be misconstrued.
It's decided twice over that she's too French and he's so German, so they both delete each other's names from their phones - just in case.
---
The scene is heavy, like the blood packets sown into the back of his white jacket. She's not spoken to him all day, avoiding his eyes and listening to the advice coming from Quentin's mouth like gospel. Red dress, fair hair, and she's so fucking beautiful he has to pull himself up from falling on the ground.
"In any other world, Mélanie, man. These two, y'know?"
She knows. She looks at Daniel, and he's rod-straight - boyish, manly, contradiction after contradiction and she's sorry she turned herself off from him when they so obviously have to be connected.
There's a silence, for a second, as the prop master tucks the fake pistol in his jacket pocket, and they look at each other at the same time.
For the first time, and it's also Shosanna and Fredrick's last; Mélanie feels her heart grow a little bigger, a little faster as Quentin moves into place and opens his mouth to send them both to their deaths.
"Sound!"
"Marker! Action!"
It's violent and brutal and she's feeling the death as much as he is - there's the sound of blood rushing in her ears and it's all she can do not to cry when "Cut!" is called out over them.
---
"Did you want to go for a drink?"
She shakes her head, finishes wiping her makeup off. "No."
He shrugs, turns over a foundation pallet in his hands.
"I'm not going to bite," and she screws her eyes up a little.
"That's what I'm afraid of," and with that, she walks out of the makeup trailer and he's at a loss.
---
He gets her number again from the casting director, claiming a new phone without any numbers.
She gets his from Diane's phone, pretending to check the weather. "I should get an iPhone," she mumbles, and Diane just smiles.
---
Are you going to capri? because he texts in full, perfect English.
Yes because, really, it's all she can say.
Cool, and separately, together, they both laugh a little at the stupidity of the whole thing.
---
"I read your Wikipedia," she says by way of a hello, the word 'Wikipedia' sounding strong and beautiful and toned against her mouth, and he has to clear his throat.
"Oh, yes."
Mélanie lights a cigarette. "Where is your long-time girlfriend now?"
She offers him a drag, and he takes it, feeling like a high school kid behind the toilets. Dragging deep, he closes his eyes for a moment to wonder about the absurdity of the Internet and the knowledge that you can know someone without even knowing them.
"Why do you want to know?"
She smirks. "You're so German."
Shuffling his feet, handing the cigarette back, he sighs. "New boyfriend. Got the dog, but I get visiting time."
"Oh. Did you not love her in the end?"
And it's here that Daniel leans in and brushes his lips against hers, because it's the one thing that would never - could never - be found out via Google.
---
They don't sleep, really, just eat and talk and smoke and fuck, his hand behind her head as he kisses her and she can't help but kiss him back. A tangle of sheets and last night's room service, their language skipping from English to French to hands-on-torsos and lips-on-skin and it's nothing like a tabloid cover or a script penned by a movie-mad American.
"How do you say 'please kiss me, young man'?"
"Küssen Sie mich bitte, jungen Mann," and she parrots him, falling over on the 'mich' and making it sound like 'mess' (which Daniel can't help but feel is strangely fitting).
"You're so French."
"Fuck you," and she pulls him down to her as the sun sets over Capri, like a fairytale fractured by too many gossips.
---
"You two sure do fight a lot," the director says, and it's after that Quentin begins to slip himself between them in photographs.
---
"It didn't happen," the actress says to the other, and Diane just smiles at Mélanie before taking her place next to Brad Pitt in front of the sea of flashbulbs.
---
Two hotel rooms, but only one's used. Hundreds of interviews, but no-one seems to get Shosanna and Fredrick until Tarantino tells them.
Then it's there, open and present, question after question, Shakespearian notion after notion and they both answer the same way -
"It's a tragedy."
---
September comes.
He's eating a sandwich at their very last press junket when she sits beside him, her hair a different colour to two days earlier and he spies Eli and Diane watching them closely.
"Hi."
"Hello."
A bird circles above them, and the sound of camera shutters seem to ring in their ears.
He splits his sandwich and half and gives it to her. They sit in silence and chew, their forearms touching.
"I'm glad you killed me, Daniel," and she thinks it's probably the first time she's used his name in private, and how stupid it is that it's attached to such an absurd statement.
He puts his half of the sandwich down, leans over and brushes his nose against her cheek.
And, just like that, he smiles and walks away.
---
Fin.
---
Here are some GQ mofos for your time.
Work it!
No, neither do I.
Blame
un_amico (especially butchiemcgee, that enabler!). And Mélanie and Daniel for being so fucking gorgeous.TITLE: Black Cats
FANDOM: RPF (Mélanie Laurent/Daniel Brühl)
RATING: M (a bit of swearing and sexy tiems)
DISCLAIMER: This isn't true. I do not own these people.
Black Cats
RPF-verse, 25th September 2009
---
NOTES: Man, this has been stewin' for a while. And it's not very good, let me warm you all right now. One might say really bad. But I had to write it, man!
Thanks to the gentle nudges from
butchiemcgee and the gang at un_amico, especially this post (which helped finally put some pins in place), I was able to word-vomit this out. God help me, they're just so damn gorgeous not to be together. Seriously.Facts not mentioned in the before linked post: Daniel's dinner with QT is via his interview in Filmink magazine, and all mentions of Wikipedia reference real pages. My German is pretty rusty, and my French non-existent, so bare that in mind. Oh, and I'm already going to Hell for Top Chef RPF. And Criminal Intent RPF. And Die Ärzte slash. And Shannon Noll/Farin Urlaub.
Forget it. I'm a lost cause. On with the show!
---
For the
un_amico gang, who just get it.---
Swimming
Are we?
Camille, 'Waves'
---
He's eating a sandwich when he first meets her - his hangover, huge, left from the night before when he'd tried pretty damn hard to get Tarantino to think he was a Very Serious Actor with Very Serious Film Tastes (with a vast knowledge of said films to boot), because he's not wanted a role so much since - well, the last time he'd read the script that was now sitting in his lap.
It doesn't get him far, because Tarantino knows every film ever and Daniel had Wikipedia and one night; so here he was, eating a sandwich and waiting to audition for a part that may or may not be the most perfect he'd read.
"Attendez-vous?"
It can't be helped - he winces, thanks to last night's wine and his lack of trivia about Zombies Versus Shark - and he suddenly has a large pair of blue eyes in his face speaking French.
"Uh," and he tries to find the right word in a foreign tongue, but he's just thrown for a moment. "Non? Oui."
She closes one eye and her mouth pulls up at the corners. "You are German, I should speak German, yes?"
Except she's speaking cracked English, words sounding full and new, and he can't help but laugh a little. "Your German is excellent, Mademoiselle."
"And yours, Monsieur." She taps the script under her arm that's just like his. "J'espère que vous me tuez."
And, like that, she smiles and walks away, and suddenly Daniel doesn't feel like his sandwich anymore.
---
They're pretending to be a French Jewess cinema owner and a German Nazi officer, Tarantino telling them far too much information for either of them to handle, and it's raining.
"Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and fucking Juliet!"
It's like that, a click-and-shuffle, and they both just know.
"It's her," Daniel mouths to the director.
"Bon. Bon!" Mélanie says, lighting a cigarette.
"Fuckin'-a," and Tarantino throws his hands in the air, leaving the two of them to pack up and walk through the air heavy with expectation like it was no big deal.
There's nothing, really, to say. "I hope you get the part," or "hope to work with you soon!", sure. But honestly?
They're the sum of their parts even though neither of them has the official word - so they exchange phone numbers like they're going to walk into an empty room filled with silence and play Shakespeare's lovers with a gusto neither of them quite understands.
---
He hires a stack of DVDs and watches them over two days with the Eiffel Tower shadowing his hotel room.
She listens to a Yann Tiersen soundtrack and wonders what good it is to waste her money on films she'd probably never watch again.
They both get the call, and both wonder if something as simple as a congratulatory text message could be misconstrued.
It's decided twice over that she's too French and he's so German, so they both delete each other's names from their phones - just in case.
---
The scene is heavy, like the blood packets sown into the back of his white jacket. She's not spoken to him all day, avoiding his eyes and listening to the advice coming from Quentin's mouth like gospel. Red dress, fair hair, and she's so fucking beautiful he has to pull himself up from falling on the ground.
"In any other world, Mélanie, man. These two, y'know?"
She knows. She looks at Daniel, and he's rod-straight - boyish, manly, contradiction after contradiction and she's sorry she turned herself off from him when they so obviously have to be connected.
There's a silence, for a second, as the prop master tucks the fake pistol in his jacket pocket, and they look at each other at the same time.
For the first time, and it's also Shosanna and Fredrick's last; Mélanie feels her heart grow a little bigger, a little faster as Quentin moves into place and opens his mouth to send them both to their deaths.
"Sound!"
"Marker! Action!"
It's violent and brutal and she's feeling the death as much as he is - there's the sound of blood rushing in her ears and it's all she can do not to cry when "Cut!" is called out over them.
---
"Did you want to go for a drink?"
She shakes her head, finishes wiping her makeup off. "No."
He shrugs, turns over a foundation pallet in his hands.
"I'm not going to bite," and she screws her eyes up a little.
"That's what I'm afraid of," and with that, she walks out of the makeup trailer and he's at a loss.
---
He gets her number again from the casting director, claiming a new phone without any numbers.
She gets his from Diane's phone, pretending to check the weather. "I should get an iPhone," she mumbles, and Diane just smiles.
---
Are you going to capri? because he texts in full, perfect English.
Yes because, really, it's all she can say.
Cool, and separately, together, they both laugh a little at the stupidity of the whole thing.
---
"I read your Wikipedia," she says by way of a hello, the word 'Wikipedia' sounding strong and beautiful and toned against her mouth, and he has to clear his throat.
"Oh, yes."
Mélanie lights a cigarette. "Where is your long-time girlfriend now?"
She offers him a drag, and he takes it, feeling like a high school kid behind the toilets. Dragging deep, he closes his eyes for a moment to wonder about the absurdity of the Internet and the knowledge that you can know someone without even knowing them.
"Why do you want to know?"
She smirks. "You're so German."
Shuffling his feet, handing the cigarette back, he sighs. "New boyfriend. Got the dog, but I get visiting time."
"Oh. Did you not love her in the end?"
And it's here that Daniel leans in and brushes his lips against hers, because it's the one thing that would never - could never - be found out via Google.
---
They don't sleep, really, just eat and talk and smoke and fuck, his hand behind her head as he kisses her and she can't help but kiss him back. A tangle of sheets and last night's room service, their language skipping from English to French to hands-on-torsos and lips-on-skin and it's nothing like a tabloid cover or a script penned by a movie-mad American.
"How do you say 'please kiss me, young man'?"
"Küssen Sie mich bitte, jungen Mann," and she parrots him, falling over on the 'mich' and making it sound like 'mess' (which Daniel can't help but feel is strangely fitting).
"You're so French."
"Fuck you," and she pulls him down to her as the sun sets over Capri, like a fairytale fractured by too many gossips.
---
"You two sure do fight a lot," the director says, and it's after that Quentin begins to slip himself between them in photographs.
---
"It didn't happen," the actress says to the other, and Diane just smiles at Mélanie before taking her place next to Brad Pitt in front of the sea of flashbulbs.
---
Two hotel rooms, but only one's used. Hundreds of interviews, but no-one seems to get Shosanna and Fredrick until Tarantino tells them.
Then it's there, open and present, question after question, Shakespearian notion after notion and they both answer the same way -
"It's a tragedy."
---
September comes.
He's eating a sandwich at their very last press junket when she sits beside him, her hair a different colour to two days earlier and he spies Eli and Diane watching them closely.
"Hi."
"Hello."
A bird circles above them, and the sound of camera shutters seem to ring in their ears.
He splits his sandwich and half and gives it to her. They sit in silence and chew, their forearms touching.
"I'm glad you killed me, Daniel," and she thinks it's probably the first time she's used his name in private, and how stupid it is that it's attached to such an absurd statement.
He puts his half of the sandwich down, leans over and brushes his nose against her cheek.
And, just like that, he smiles and walks away.
---
Fin.
---
Here are some GQ mofos for your time.
Work it!
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