Latest Posts by formalsweatpants - Page 3

The way people treat Megan thee Stallion's bisexuality is so annoying like... it's all 'bi women don't owe you a detailed history of your relationships' until you Black and in the public eye

hi this picture drives me insane

Love the boots

Me: *making a new blorbo to play dolls with* haha wee Woo hoo! A male coquette that's a totally new guy haha weee

Me: ........I have made Lestat

“He has this kind of general youth in his features and the contrast with the old-soul quality in his eyes—it’s a kid that knows more about life than his age”. -Denis Villeneuve

"Your art matters," I whisper to myself as I pack as many sex scenes as I possibly can into a 4 chapter fic.

when is a gift not a gift?

The historical break between Roman Catholicism and the Chuch of England bears many likeness to the historical break between the Lorax original cannon and the Onceler fandom. In this essay I will…

not me giggling and kicking my feet while reading this ☺️🥰

Theirs.

Summary: Preparing to spend another of their endless nights in each other’s arms, Timothée and Saoirse are interrupted by an unexpected knock at their door…

Pairing: vampire!Timothée Chalamet x black!fem!reader x vampire!Saoirse Ronan

A/n: well this has taken me long enough lol glad to finally post it tho! Originally inspired by this prompt. Thank you to @siwokann and @get-your-fics with help with this one!! 🤩 5.6k words, tell me what you think and happy pre-early spooky szn 😘 smut ahead, 18+ only. Minors, ageless and blank blogs dni.

It was a well-known song and dance the two moved through, pleasurable and familiar. Decades together, exploring not only each other’s bodies but other partners in between and different kinks. It was nothing new to them but they found a sensual comfort in that. Timothée moaned into Saoirse’s mouth as she pulled his shirttail from the waistband of his pants, sliding her hands over the planes of his lower belly. 

Her smirking lips had descended to his neck when a tentative knock from the door downstairs could be heard clear as a bell to them. They paused to meet each other’s eyes with confusion filling each pair. It went without saying that they weren’t expecting company. They don't get visitors... ever. Their old estate was in the middle of woods now, the footpath to it overgrown and barely visible. They parted, setting their clothes to rights before moving with effortless speed to the front door. Saoirse opened it to reveal a woman. 

Mortal. The scent of your blood, made stronger by the nerves that caused it to beat strong through your veins, heralded your humanity with a wild sweetness that made Timothée run his tongue over his teeth. There was a hiking path a few miles away, but this was the first time someone had come so far off-trail.

They didn’t really need blood at this time, they could probably go another couple of days before they needed to seek someone out. But your delicious little self had wandered right up to their doorstep, looking like a stray kitten and a potentially good time all wrapped in one. Under all of that dirt and thick cotton, bright pitiful eyes stared up at them despite the clear exhaustion in your frame. And perhaps it was because Timothée was already in a certain mood that he happened to really take notice of that frame. But by the way Saoirse hummed beside him, he knew his eyes weren’t the only ones wandering.

“Can we help you, lovie?” Saoirse said.

“I-I hope so? I’m sorry. I went on this hike and got off the trail and lost my way back to it, but then I saw this, like, broken cobblestone path that was overgrown a bit but figured it’d be better than walking aimlessly anymore especially since the sun is setting soon and…”

“You hiked all the way here by your lonesome?” Saoirse cut you off, dirty blonde eyebrows shooting up.

“How strong you must be,” Timothée followed up.

“Such stamina.” 

“And endurance.”

Saoirse stepped back and made room for you. “You must be tired, why don’t you come in? We can get you feeling brand new again.”

Timothée smirked to himself as he stepped aside as well. A scent like spice, undercutting sweet florals hovered in the air as you passed by them. Mouth watering, fangs throbbing in his gums, he wanted nothing more than to sink them deep in the lovely thumping line he could see below your perspirant brown skin. But then, he ached to taste the skin as well. The pouty lips and the beckoning cleavage the sports bra provided. He met Saoirse’s gaze and twin smiles found their ways onto their visages. 

Two vampires inviting a human into their home. Now, there was a particularly novel setup. Morbidly curious, they were eager to see how the scene would play out.

“You must be terribly parched, lovie. I know I can barely think straight myself when I’m thirsty,” Saoirse said with a gentle smile, one slender arm coming up comfortingly behind you.

“Here you are,” Timothée offered the tall glass of water towards you and you blinked at it. He couldn’t help the amusement that curled his lip at your reaction, like he’d just done a magic trick, producing the water out of thin air. He had just gone and returned before you noticed. 

“Um th-thank you. How did you–?”

“Let me take this bulky old thing from you,” Saoirse cut you off, slipping the hiking backpack from your shoulders.

“And don’t forget to drink up,” he said, placing his pointer right under the cup and tipping it up into your mouth. He smiled his approval as you began to drain the glass. “I’m Timothée and this is Saoirse.”

“I’m Y/n.”

“Y/n,” Timothée repeated after you, trying it out like a new flavor, letting it coat his tongue. He grinned. “Follow me up to the bathroom. I’m sure a nice shower will get you feeling better, hm?”

“Oh, yes, and I’ll prepare a little something to fill you up in the meantime.”

Timothée reached for your hand just as Saoirse plucked the empty glass from your other before guiding you up their stairs with an old world chivalry.

“Now tell me, Y/n, do you make it a habit of getting lost in the woods or are we special?”

You snorted. “Special, I guess, if those are the only two options. I’ve never hiked in this area before. Maybe I was too overconfident in exploring.”

He hummed. “It is a beautiful area. I could see how one could get lost trying to take it all in. I imagine it’s even prettier in the daylight.”

There was a beat of pause in the conversation. “Do you only… explore after sundown?”

“Yes. Saoirse and I have grown spoiled with our privileged lives. Not having jobs to answer to, we’ve bucked a few societal norms. A diurnal lifestyle is one of them.” Timothée rested a hand on a doorknob and winked at you. “There’s much to be said for embracing nightlife.” He pushed open the door to reveal one of the guest bedrooms, fit for a princess in its grandiosity. It was all french blues and toile, creamy ropes of pearls and artisanally carved sugar maple. Despite your disheveled and haggard appearance now, he felt the princess title would suit you well. They’d be sure you felt like one before the night was through.

“Help yourself to the bathroom, Y/n. Take all the time you need to freshen up and get settled. The hot water will do wonders for your tired muscles, I’m sure. Feel free to use the oils as well. I’ll lay something out for you to put on afterwards.”

As you disappeared into the bathroom, Timothée turned his attention to the wardrobe. Conveniently, this was also the room he and Saoirse housed all of their lingerie over the years. He thumbed through the catalog of robes, running his fingertips over lace, silk, buttery leather, plush cotton, delicate fishnets... His imagination ran wild sampling each of them on your body in his mind's eye.

Finally, he decided on a vintage aqua robe of raw silk. It was modestly immodest, with two high slits nearly to the hip, fluttery sleeves, and a cheeky tassel tie that wouldn’t keep your body a total mystery for the two vampires. Cream, hand-embroidered flowers flowed from one shoulder down to the opposite hip. The color would look amazing on your skin and he couldn’t wait to see it flowing over the curves of your figure. The robe itself would be a tease for both him and Saoirse at the secret parts of you they already couldn’t wait to uncover.

Timothée entered the kitchen again to a cacophony of pleasant scents. Saoirse was easily handling multiple parts of a decadent meal. Lamb and mushrooms and spring peas and scalloped potatoes out and being worked on nigh concurrently. He came up behind her and kissed her cheek, wrapping his arms low around her torso.

“Is our guest washing up?”

He hummed an affirmation as he rested his cheek on her head. “She’s a singing-in-the-shower type,” he said absently and they both listened to the sound of you humming to yourself over the sprinkling of water. “It’s nice. Laid out a robe for her too.”

“Oh Lord, you won’t frighten her off with your choice, will you?”

He sighed as he unraveled from her, gathering plates and wine glasses. “It’s only slightly scandalous, don’t worry. We haven’t even had our fun yet.”

He set the grand dining table for one. The table was long enough to fit two people lengthwise and sturdy enough to support four adult bodies. Tried and proved.

The water had stopped upstairs and he poked in on Saoirse’s progress.

“Unfortunately, I can prep everything in a matter of minutes, however cooking takes bloody time,” she sneered at the lamb searing in butter and herbs as if it was its fault her inhuman speed couldn’t affect its physics. “It won’t be medium well before she gets down here.”

“Don’t pout, I’ll make her something quick.”

Timothée methodically sliced thin cuts of a green apple before tossing it with walnuts, feta cheese, and a light honey vinegar dressing. The two of them loved cooking and kept iron rich foods well stocked for obvious reasons. They didn’t need to eat but often enjoyed it and having a properly stocked kitchen definitely came in handy that evening with their unexpected guest.

He was just placing the bowl down when he heard your light footfall approaching. He looked up at you at the top of the stairs and mentally patted himself on the back. You did look absolutely ravishing in that robe. And he ached to ravish you.

“There she is! Much more comfy than those hiking clothes, huh?” Timothée openly admired you as you descended the curved stairs. You had overlapped the robe as much as possible over your torso, gripping the top closed at your chest for further modesty. But there was little you could do for the slits up the side of the floor length cloth, brown skin peeking out up to your thigh with each step you took. “Doesn't she look lovely, Saoirse?” 

Saoirse drank you in from head to toe and you fidgeted bashfully. “Stunning. You must keep it love, you wear it so well.” 

“I couldn’t keep something like this! It feels like it costs more than my rent.”

“Nonsense! Consider it a gift. Now, here,” Timothée said, holding out a hand for you again. He led you to the place he’d set and delighted in your little appreciative hum.

Timothée sat next to you, chin in his palms as he listened to you speak and eat, occasionally snagging a slice of apple or walnut to nibble on. He gently encouraged you to drink the lemon water he had poured as well. After getting lost in the woods in all that heat, he didn’t want you dehydrated. Especially if things continued going well tonight. 

“Finally, finished!” Saoirse announced as she brought the immaculately plated meal over, placing it right in front of you as Timothée moved the remnants of your salad to the side.

“Holy shit! I knew it smelled good but I still wasn’t expecting this!”

Saoirse preened under the praise and Timothée piled on. “She is horribly accomplished, isn’t she?”

“Oh, stop,” she said in a voice he knew meant to keep going as she ducked back into the kitchen.

“Will you be using that wonderful taste of yours to select a wine for us?”

“I’m ahead of you, darling,” she said as she returned with an open bottle. “Y/n, love, I do hope red is fine? We’re partial to it.”

Your attention finally strayed from the tantalizing plate to where Saoirse was leaning over and pouring a glass for each of you. Timothée caught the way your eyes fell to the flawless pale skin of his lover’s chest, to the teasing dip of her decolletage into her blouse. You cleared your throat, tearing your gaze away from the view. “Sure, I don’t know much about wine. I trust your expertise.” 

Saoirse took her seat across from you and Timothée. A little frown settled between your brows as you considered the setup. “You two aren’t gonna have any?”

Timothée simply sipped from his wine glass before responding. “We’ll get our fill later, Y/n, don’t worry about us.”

“I feel like you two are plumping me up to eat me.” You chuckled and they joined in even as Saoirse shrugged.

“That can be arranged.”

“In a number of ways,” Timothée continued as he laid his head on his folded arms, eyes fixated on you.

“Take a bite, love.” Saoirse’s insistence hung in the air between them all poignantly before she smiled. “I want to know what you think of the meal.”

You sent her a shaky grin, half anxious and half appeasing. Finally with the silverware in hand, you cut a piece of the juicy lamb. A dribble of blood and butter pooled from the slice. And when you placed it between full lips, moaning around the morsel, Timothée shifted in his seat. The sound had shot straight south to his lower belly. A bit of the juice glistened at the corner of your mouth, a red little droplet that your tongue swept up faster than he could even think to thumb away himself. But seeing your tongue lick along your lip was temptation enough.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you finally remarked and Saoirse tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, all false modesty and humility. She raised her glass in cheers.

“Well here’s to this,” she started as you and Timothée raised your glasses similarly. “To a night of the best things we’ve ever tasted.” 

He could hear the way your heart sped even as you shakily brought the glass to your lips. You drank a deep gulp, belying nerves and making it more than obvious that you were aware of their heavy-handed advances. They had never hinted so strongly at their nature before. Timothée knew they were coming on strong; the subliminal messages that you were in the presence of two vampires who wanted to fuck you were practically written in the scalloped potatoes. 

But you were still there.

As your meal went on and conversation flowed with the wine, Timothée was acutely aware that there was nothing under the silk robe you wore. His eyes ghosted casually down your chest, taking note of how your nipples pebbled against the expensive fabric. “Is it cold? You should have told us. Let me get the fires going.” Blood rushed to heat your face and it caused a fresh, delicious wave of your spicy floral scent to waft off of your skin. Saoirse distracted you from covering your chest again by resting her cool hand on yours. Timothée breezed away to light the parlor fireplace as Saoirse spoke.

“Awful drafty this place is, suppose we’re just used to the chill ourselves. The house is old but has so much charm. It’s been in our family’s names for decades and we can’t part with it. Sentimental saps, we are.”

“Did you and Timothée grow up together?”

“Not quite but we’ve been close for years.”

You sighed, sated and content as you looked over your finished meal. “I’ll just clean this up,” you said, pushing back from the chair.

“Absolutely not!” Saoirse said as Timothée tutted, him having swept back into the room at the perfect time to scold you and take your plate from your hand. 

“But you both cooked, I should at least clean!”

“You are a guest, angel,” Timothée cooed, easily balancing both your salad and main course platters in one hand, letting the other settle on your arm. He relished your reaction to the pet name, a shiver that quieted whatever further argument you were going to make. He smiled as you finally acquiesced. “We’ll take care of this.”

“Here!” Saoirse said as she swept out of the kitchen with another bottle of the same wine. “How about you top all of us off and get settled in the parlor, hm? Get cozy and enjoy that fireplace.”

“Okay,” you demurred, following her instructions.

The two settled in, cleaning everything with a casual speed.

“She knows,” he smirked and Saoirse chuckled. .

“She definitely does. Yet, she’s not running for the door and the hills beyond. You know what that means?”

He felt the hunger set in, both lust and bloodlust.

“Means we don’t have to hold back.” He dried his hands off on the tea towel on the stove, ducking down to kiss Saoirse’s cheek. “Should I be stereotypical with my record choice?” 

She shrugged. “If it ain’t baroque…”

When they swept in, you were sat in the middle of the couch like you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself. He and Saoirse grabbed their drinks off of the coffee table as they sat down, bracketing you in. Saoirse sat on her knees facing you like she was getting close for a good gossiping session, elbow coming up to the couch’s back to prop her head up. Timothée sat with one leg tucked under him so he could angle his body towards you too, leaning in with his hand on the seat between you both. His cream button-down slipped off of one shoulder as he did so and he made no moves to correct it. Your heart fluttered adorably as you took another swallow of wine. 

“So…” you started and looked around the room as if you’d find a topic of discussion. Timothée took a bit of pity on you, though not without an indulgent smirk.

“Tell us more about yourself, Y/n.”

“Yes, please do.”

And at both of their prompting, you did. You poor thing, you were really caught in a web; prey of two predators who lived for the sound of the blood rushing up to heat your face and ears. Each time you’d turn to talk to one of them, the other was touching you. You would turn to answer Timothée’s question and Saoirse would tuck your hair behind your ear, fingertips light on your skin. When you’d look towards Saoirse, Timothée would trace the lace flowers on the robe over your knee. 

Your hand shook at an inopportune moment, some of the sip of wine you were taking slipped past the crease of your mouth and dripped down. Saoirse’s hand shot out and secured your chin, smoothing her thumb over the trail slowly.

Then she held out the digit for Timothée, who ducked down and licked up the droplet with a drag of his tongue.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, flashing his fangs the tiniest bit. And you definitely noticed. Your breath hitched in your lungs and that heady intoxicating scent of your blood permeated the space as your heart rate cantered. Your fight or flight was kicking in, tingeing the red wine and floral aroma. And yet, you fought it. You resettled back into the cushion, muscle by muscle. It felt like the final test to him, he could wait no longer. Timothée dropped all pretense as he tilted your face up to his.

“You know what we are.”

You gulped before nodding minutely. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what we want?”

“My…” your voice dropped to a weak whisper. “M-my blood, right?”

Saoirse hummed as she moved in behind you, one pale hand coasting slowly from your knee up the meat of your thigh, letting the aqua silk fall away with her touch. “Lovie, we’re aiming for far more than just a taste of your blood.”

“We have a little theory that you taste good everywhere, angel. Will you let us test that?”

Your answer was breathless but sure. “Yes.”

No sooner was Saoirse’s lips on yours. The tentative press of soft kisses gave way to exploratory licks and tugging teeth. If Timothée wasn’t already hard, the sight of you and Saoirse definitely would have gotten him there. When you two parted, Timothée didn’t dive in for his own kiss. Instead he gathered you up in his arms and left the couch.

Running at a preternatural speed to the bedroom, he kissed you so your eyes would close against the disorientation of their house blurring past. 

Then he was dropping you with a small bounce onto a luxurious king size bed.

“Don’t worry darling, just relax for us. Let us enjoy you. We’ll make you feel so good.”

He parted the robe, something he had been practically itching to do since he first saw you in it. He cupped the weight of your breasts in each hand before ducking to lick along the curve of one, pulling your nipple into his mouth. You arched sharply into him and he took advantage of the space to snake one arm under you and secure you close. Nails gently trailed up his back, a tantalizing sensation through his shirt.

“You’re overdressed, darling.”

Timothée glanced back to see Saoirse crawling onto the bed deliciously bare. He groaned into your skin before parting from you. As he disrobed, his lover took his place between your thighs as you sat up. She kissed up the brown skin of your calves, letting the robe completely fall to pool around your body as she made her way to the side of your knee and tempting thighs.

He rejoined the pair of you by settling behind you, pulling you to rest back against his chest as he let his hands explore every inch of you he could reach.

“Should I set about testing this theory of ours then?” Saoirse asked. You only whimpered, face tucking into Timothée’s neck as he sensed the flush of your blood, flustered and aroused.

“Hey,” Saoirse said as she sat up a bit, pulling your chin down and locking eyes. “When we ask questions, we want them answered. Understand that, lovie?”

“Yes,” you responded, a thin rasp that ended with a hint of a whine, but it earned you a reward from them each. Saoirse kissing down from your belly button and Timothée’s large hands massaging your breasts. You threw your head back onto his shoulder. 

His hands left your chest to hook under your knees, pulling them back towards your chest and spreading them as far as they could comfortably go.

“There, now you can take everything Saoirse has to give you.”

Timothée couldn’t foresee a day that he wouldn’t marvel at the sight of Saoirse pleasuring someone else. Especially with that blessedly skillful tongue of hers. He’d seen her reduce others to writhing messes under it, succumbed to its talents himself many nights more. Her pale pink lips glistened with your wetness. Between the view he had and your responsive body shuddering into his, Timothée couldn’t wait for his piece of you. Your moans blended with Saoirse’s in a song prettier than the one that still spun on the gramophone downstairs. Timothée pressed his lips up and down your damp neck, cooing praises in your ear.

“Just listen to your heart, love. Are you gonna cum? You gonna show Saoirse how good she’s making you feel?”

You nodded as best you could. “Yes.”  Good, you’d learned your lesson on talking.

He plucked gently at your nipples as Saoirse wrapped her lips around your clit. And beautifully, sonorously, you unraveled for them like the decrescendo of a violin.

They didn’t give you much time to recuperate. Timothée wanted in. He lifted you up by the hips and Saoirse caught your high pitched moan on her tongue as he lowered you down on his cock.

“Big, isn’t he, darling? Do you feel full?” 

“Uh huh,” it was as best as you could do and she accepted it with a sound kiss. 

“You prepped her so well for me,” he moaned as you finally sat fully on his cock. “You feel absolutely amazing around me, Y/n.” 

Saoirse passionately reclaimed your mouth as Timothée got lost delving into your depths. He clung to your back, stirring his hips as he fucked deeper and deeper. Moans broke from his lips over your skin, hazing it with adoration and praise. He pressed a hand to your lower belly and savored your whimpering whine. Saoirse’s fingers brushed his on their way down to your sensitive clit.

“Oh God, it’s too–. I’m gonna– again.” You struggled to speak up.

Timothée hummed. “I know, angel, I know. I feel you. Fall apart for us again.” It only took a few more thrusts before you were clenching around him. Your whimpers tangled with his groans.

He laid back with a content sigh, letting you take a few moments as your pussy fluttered around him with aftershocks. He tapped your hip after a time. “Ready?”

You shrugged weakly. “Sure.” He and Saoirse giggled at your tiredness. Poor mortal. You weren’t quite at their stamina level, but you were being a good sport about it. Timothée lifted you gently by the hips and he slipped out of you. He could admit to already missing your warmth around him. You plopped down beside him, catching your breath.

“How do you feel?”

“Wrecked,” you deadpanned to which they both laughed.

“Do you want to continue?” Saoirse asked as she lazily stroked Timothée’s cock. His eyes fluttered closed.

He didn’t see your frown, but he heard it in the unsureness of your next words. “But… you guys haven’t... y’know.”

“That’s not what she asked you, angel,” Timothée said before he looked at you again. “Do you want to continue?”

He could see that you were taking the question into more careful consideration, deliberating the out you were being given. After a few internal moments, you nodded emphatically.

“Yes, I want to.”

“Good. Then come sit on my face, I haven’t tasted you yet.”

The thrum of your heartbeat was a steady backdrop to the moans from their mouths and the wet sounds of bodies moving together. It was a perk of being undead that Timothée technically didn’t have to breathe. So technically, you didn’t have to ever leave from where you trembled against his greedy mouth. Saoirse slid her wet pussy over his hard cock, grinding in a languid rhythm. Timothée unlatched his mouth from your lower lips, licking along your femoral artery that pulsed beneath supple skin. His fangs elongated and he grazed them against you, feeling you jolt and gasp.

“Can we, angel?”

You nodded. “Yes, please,” you panted, excitement in your breathy tone.

Timothée gave one more kiss to your soft thigh before sinking his teeth in. You groaned once, then again and he looked up to see Saoirse feeding from your neck. Your body trembled delicately as you came undone, overwhelmed by the sensations. Your pussy clenched around nothing, your essence dripping down your thighs to his mouth where he got the delicious double taste of you.

And it was official: you were the best thing he’d ever tasted. A flavor he could easily get addicted to. Your blood, a perfect marriage of roses and cinnamon, coated his tongue and slid down his throat. He could feel it empowering him, reinvigorating him. But he wouldn’t overindulge. Bleeding from two points and already exhausted from three orgasms, Timothée didn’t want you too weak. He sealed the puncture wounds with a swipe of his tongue.

They both lowered you gingerly to the pillows. Timothée left and came back quickly with damp rags to wipe you off. Saoirse was muttering to you about how good you were for the both of them and asking if there was anything you needed.

“Wait no… I wanna— for you both...”

“Angel, you’re weak and half asleep as is, we can finish each other off as you nap.” Timothée reassured you.

“No,” you frowned petulantly. “I want to.”

And really, it forewarned exactly how wrapped around your finger they already found themselves to agree to your demand. He vaguely recalled the princess status he’d envisioned for you earlier this evening. Already, you lived up to it. Saoirse helped you get on top of him, with you pushing him down when he tried to sit up. And then you just… slowly rode him into oblivion. It was like a dance, the sensual way you grinded on his dick. Hands in your own hair, breasts proudly displayed and bathed in moonlight, the bite mark Saoirse left on your neck, the one his own fangs made on your thigh. God, had he ever seen anything more enticing? 

You were driving him mad, his body’s sensitivity reaching critical levels faster then he anticipated. He’d never been so out of control of his body since his heart stopped all those decades ago. When the pleasure became too much he grabbed onto Saoirse so he wouldn’t accidentally squeeze any breakable part of your mortal body too hard. 

Timothée gasped as he came, heightened senses shorting out to where he could only hear the sonata echoing downstairs and the lone heartbeat in the house. He hadn’t came that intensely in a while. Which was saying something for a being like him with so much free time to be as hedonistic as he desired. He’d had more sex in the last five years than you probably had in your whole life. 

“Well look at that, love, you’ve fucked him speechless. Well done. Usually can’t get this one to shut up,” he heard Saoirse complimenting you as his hearing came back to him fully. Timothée couldn’t even defend himself. There was no defense to the truth she’d just said.

“I want to make you feel good too, like you made me feel,” you said, pleading eyes boring into Saoirse’s clear blue ones.

“Aye, then darling, how can I say no to that?” She said, stroking her fang mark on your neck once with her thumb before laying back against the pillows.

He assisted your dismount, whimpering as he left your wetness and narrowly suppressing a shudder. He sat up and kissed your temple tenderly, still not trusting his voice to actually produce a coherent sound.

Timothée watched as his long time lover was slowly undone by this intriguing, attentive young woman. He knew his mouth was gaped open as he watched, rapt attention on where your mouth wrote filthy sonnets on Saoirse’s wet sex, on where your two fingers thrusted inside her. It wasn’t long before your mouth latched on to her clit, puffy lips engulfing her pussy as Saoirse cried out. She clutched the sheets, her strength unchecked and the satin ripped like tissue paper. Her eyes rolled back as she soared, back bowed as you slowly worked her through it. 

Saoirse blinked rapidly as she settled back on the bed and you laid your head down on her lower stomach with a contented sigh. Saoirse panted out praises as she stroked your hair back, earning hums that sounded like purring from you nestled between her legs. Saoirse looked as affected as he had been, like all of her senses needed to file back in line. As her crystal blue eyes met his, Timothée read in them the exact resolve he had come to.

They were keeping you.

When you woke the next morning, it was to the distinct feeling of a Barbie doll with no leg joint mobility. You ached; your lower half held the memory of every action of the night before. But what a delicious and productive ache it was, like after a good workout or, well, the best sexual experience of your life. You knew since you first entered the house that something was up with these two. But you liked your chances better with the hot strangers than the creepy woods and figured if you died, just put ‘Disaster Bi’ on your tombstone. But last night had turned your world upside down in the best way possible.

Another thing you noticed upon waking was that you were encased by two bodies on either side of you, though still not exactly warm. The thick comforter over you all helped to cocoon the heat only you provided. The two were whispering over your head, barely perceptible to your ears even as close as they were except for the faint hiss of their s’s every now and then. The conversation stopped suddenly and cool lips met your forehead.

“Morning, angel,” Timothée greeted you, voice low but tender. You could only grunt back as Saoirse wrapped her arms a little tighter around your middle from behind. You pushed back to fully be spooned by her, tangling your legs with Timothée’s long ones as well.

“How are you feeling?”

“Boneless.”

They giggled at your answer. “A good boneless, we hope?”

“A great boneless. The best boneless.”

“How about a bath and some breakfast?”

“I doubt I can make it to the bath much less downstairs to the kitchen.”

“Silly girl, I’ll carry you to the bath,” Saoirse said as she found your hand and twined your fingers.

“And I’ll bring the breakfast to you,” Timothée tacked on as he left your embrace. He dashed in and out of the bathroom, the water starting in his wake and he was out the door, presumably getting some nourishment for you sorted.

You and Saoirse remained in bed for a few more minutes as the water ran in the next room, snuggling close and listening to the birds chirping and the leaves blowing outside the dark room. Heavy drapes were still drawn, blocking out all sunlight. You were about to doze back off until you registered being pulled into a princess hold. Saoirse carried you to a bathroom with a grand jacuzzi tub slowly steaming and teaming with citrusy scented bubbles.

Before she could lower you in, you’re in a different set of arms. Saoirse scoffed beside you.

“That’s all you did for breakfast?”

Timothée sniffed at her tone. “I was impatient.” He climbed into the bath with you and settled you on his lap. Saoirse moved in behind you to secure your hair up with a clamp, kissing your exposed neck as Timothée dragged over a plate overfilled with fig halves, prosciutto slices, and cubed white cheddar. He also handed you a glass of what looked like champagne. “Pretend there’s orange juice in this.”

There were no longer puncture wounds on your neck or thigh but the massive bruises there still marked their memory. Especially when Saoirse’s lips brushed over the one she had caused.

“Don’t worry, love, no biting today. Though you indeed are the best thing I’ve ever tasted, we have to take good care of our precious girl.”

“Absolutely,” Timothée agreed as he held up a fig half to your lips, coaxing them to part.

Their precious girl, huh? You could totally be theirs.

Saw this and forgot to send to you. Do you think Armie is on a redemption tour?

https://www.usatoday.com/in-depth/life/health-wellness/2022/09/15/johnny-depp-shia-labeouf-armie-hammer-redemption-arcs/7941514001/

If he's trying, he's not putting much effort in 🤷‍♀️

i'm losing my mind, the tiger beat / teen beat vibes are off the charts

THESE PICTURES OMFG HE LOOKS SO GOOD

https://twitter.com/caladanarrakis/status/1571305869114998785?s=46&t=SebwTCfpAjWIso7XbpOPwA

OMG!!!!! I'm having such flashbacks to my collection of Tiger Beat magazines lol

the face of a winner.

The Chalamet Effect: Timothée Talks Fate, Fashion And Being An Old Soul

At 26, Timothée Chalamet is already a consummate, cool-as-they-come movie star. As he gets set to become the actor of his generation, Giles Hattersley goes in search of the real boy wonder. Photographs by Steven Meisel. Styling by Edward Enninful.

BY GILES HATTERSLEY

15 September 2022

He arrives, a princeling in jeans and a rock-metal T-shirt, bounding sprite-like from one of those blacked-out Cadillac tanks preferred by the famous (reluctant or otherwise). It’s June in New York and Timothée Chalamet’s hometown is gently sweltering. But, for once, the paps are nowhere to be seen and so his body language is a joy to behold, as he bounces into Champs, a vegan diner in Brooklyn, somehow channelling both a street-style star and Buster Keaton.

We’re shooting a Vogue video. He enters with curls un-frizzed, a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes and a head to shoulder ratio rarely glimpsed outside of children’s drawings. In a swift half-decade, this publicity-averse, sensitive, ambitious, inscrutable dreamer has become both art-house stalwart (Call Me by Your Name) and box-office king (Dune). Then something odder (certainly rarer) occurred. A baton was placed in his hand, passed down the decades by dint of James Dean and River Phoenix, David Cassidy and Leonardo DiCaprio: Chalamet became boyfriend to an entire generation. In fact, it was DiCaprio (in a moment of near-literal baton passing when they first met in 2018) who bequeathed Timmy his career rule: “No hard drugs and no superhero movies.” So far, so good. Give or take. Oh, to be 26 and Hollywood’s most wanted.

Timothée wears vintage T-shirt, Contemporary Wardrobe. Leather trousers, Balmain.  Steven Meisel

And wow do they want him. “I…” he says, laughing, unsure what to do with that information. It should be noted that Chalamet’s default setting is uncertainty. Thoughtful, courteous, smart? Absolutely. Able to articulate a definite opinion about anything? Absolutely not. Never mind. The charm is very real: “We met before,” he says, recalling some 3am dance floor-adjacent small talk we had a few years ago. Far from the navel-gazing “f**k boy” the internet occasionally likes to paint him as, he’s checked my Instagram and read some past interviews. Immediately he wants to talk about Lady Gaga, who he doesn’t know but finds “fascinating!” He is a rare interviewee – albeit a classic deflector – in that he much prefers to ask the questions: “Where are you staying?” “What did you think of [the London production of] Cabaret?” “How are you feeling?” Of course, once the recorder is running, the fidgeting begins in earnest. “But for Luca, anything,” he says of Luca Guadagnino, auteur supreme, in whose Bones & All Chalamet stars this autumn as cannibal drifter Lee. Part road movie, part addiction allegory, he plays opposite Taylor Russell on a bloodied, nomadic flee through America. It is a performance so pristinely heartbreaking, so tenderly horrific, so violent and vulnerable, it feels – as his work so often does – like he’s carved out a new genre of man.

Call it the Timothée effect. It’s everywhere, bewitching fans, directors, fellow actors, fashion houses and now British Vogue, for whom the half-French, half-American, fourth-generation New Yorker becomes the first man to appear solo on the print cover. We meet again the following day in SoHo. He keeps a rental apartment in the city, and his parents only live uptown, but he prefers staying in hotels, so we head up to the pool deck of The Dominick, his current bolthole, where the hostess leads us to some lounge chairs, her eyes bugging silently at the celebrity angel who has touched down to earth in the middle of her shift.

Eyes bug a lot with Timmy. In return, you occasionally spot a flash of kindly exhaustion in his. His manners are almost comically superb and an antenna attuned to the energy of absolutely everyone around him at all times is a terrific resource for an actor – enervating for a human, though. “I hate talking about this kind of stuff, but like the pressure of, you know, being in the public eye, whatever the f**k that means,” he says, annoyed by the concept even. He finds the world too desperate for answers to questions he doesn’t have answers for. “It’s always like, ‘Who are you?’ ‘Do you know who you are?’” It’s possible he does not. To be honest, after a while in his company you start to wonder if you know who you are either. His small talk has this habit of pulling at the fabric of time and space. “You’re the captain of your fate,” he says excitedly at one point. “Master of your fate and captain of your soul. Like those things where you can, like, draw with both knobs.” An Etch A Sketch? “Exactly. You shake it up and then it’s all gone. You can’t just keep building on the same Etch A Sketch.”

This analogy ends up haunting me for days. Not that there aren’t flashes of more earthly self-reflection: “I had a delusional dream in my early teenage years to have, in my late teenage years, an acting career,” he says. “And in my late teenage years, working on Homeland and starting to do theatre in New York, I felt like I reduced my goal to something more realistic, which was to work in theatre and hopefully make enough money doing either a TV show or something I could sustain myself [with]. And then it felt like every dream came true, exponentially. And then life is moving at six million miles per hour.”

Leather waistcoat and leather trousers, Gucci. Cotton vest, Intimissimi. Leather boots, Miu Miu. Bandana, Rockins.  Steven Meisel

“When Covid hit, it required me to take a step back and be humbled to the idea that the greatest rock star…” panic suddenly crinkles his features. “No, I don’t want to use that word, sorry, sorry. Scratch rock star. But [everyone has to] deal with, like, taxes and the dentist and real adulting, you know? I should have been trying to get my adult feet under myself a little bit earlier than I did,” he says. “I found myself having to really, you know, be honest with myself that where I’ve been able to get myself to in life was balls to the wall, like throwing everything at [it] at a young age that, by some miracle, got me to where I am. But to then transition to an adulting mindset…” Taxes and the dentist? He laughs. “I’ve always paid my taxes, I always went to the dentist, but I’m suddenly very aware of that.” It’s classic quarter-life stuff, lived at hyper-speed. “So the ways I feel older than 26 I have always felt,” he says, relaxing. “It’s not like I feel like I’ve had some mental breakthrough that has given me perspective. The perspective that feels ‘old man’, I feel like I was born with it.” Such as? “The empath thing, the thinking for everyone in the room, the sort of misplaced idea, this sort of illusion, of control based on trying to feel for everyone.” In Bones & All, reunited with Guadagnino, who directed him to an Oscar nomination for Call Me by Your Name, he wove elements of himself into the character. “With Lee, the illusion of control is based on feeling for no one and not even interacting with anyone.” That Lee’s affliction is cannibalism, not being very famous, perhaps gives some insight into the extreme head-f**k of the latter. “And I guess that’s where I’m at.”

Does the institutionalisation of a film set suit you? “Yeah. But then no, because I want experiences to be unique.” He likes the immediacy, the rough and readiness, of some social media, he says. “There’s a benefit to the TikTok generation that I feel like I’m a part of too: selfies and stuff, and the comfort with the camera.” Are you talking about the two selfies you post a year, I tease? “Oh, man,” he says, chuckling. “You know, you know.” He is of his generation and yet no two-dimensional exemplar. Confessional Instagram Live rambler Timothée is not. Manifestly shy, self-conscious, perhaps a little scared of what people think of him, he does not find a balm for his issues in forging digital intimacy with millions of followers. To be honest, he doesn’t really like to talk about what he had for breakfast.

Or, heaven forbid, his romantic life. Do you ever imagine yourself as a father one day? As a husband? There follows an almighty pause. “You know what, I’m going to get back to you on that.”

Mostly his love life has been revealed in the grainy pixels of paparazzi long lenses. The twin pillars of young celebrity – dating and deals – have not been cashed in on. Is it true he’s never shot a fashion campaign? “Yeah, I haven’t done any.” Surely you’ve been offered everything? He blinks, politely. “When [success] came my way, I felt very particular that I didn’t want people and I really didn’t want to see myself cashing in,” he says. He adores fashion, is close friends with several designers and has worn floral Alexander McQueen and glittering Louis Vuitton on red carpets to internet-breaking effect. Even today, in perfect denim shorts, a simple tee and a smattering of jewellery, he looks spot on. As for his feelings on being British Vogue’s first solo man cover star? “The nature of the world now, you know… It felt right to not make it too statement-y,” he says. He didn’t want to overthink it or overstep. He just wanted to play some characters, to live the fashion. He loved the shooting process, loved incorporating womenswear into the styling and likens working with Steven Meisel to Denis Villeneuve.

Archive chain-mail top, Stella McCartney. Pearl and palladium-plated necklace, Justine Clenquet. Leather and silver stud bracelet, Chrome Hearts. Steven Meisel

For much of the past year, he’s been living in London, filming the upcoming movie musical Wonka, an origin tale of the early life of the Roald Dahl anti-hero. Directed by Paul King, of Paddington fame (be still my beating heart), he leads a cast of Brits including Olivia Colman, Paterson Joseph and Rowan Atkinson. When a first glimpse of him in costume surfaced online – in crimson velvet, smouldering under a top hat – the internet lost its mind. “In this one, Wonka f**ks” read one memorable tweet. Chalamet starts cracking up. “You know what’s really funny about that is it’s so misleading. This movie is so sincere, it’s so joyous.” How many musical numbers do you have? “Seven!” Making it provided a perfect situation for him: escape. “I hate to say it, but the dream as an artist is to throw whatever the f**k you want at the wall, you know? And I guess what I’m realising is that one’s personal life, one’s adult life, can be quite boring and the artist’s life can still be extraordinary.”

With that he pulls his cap down and puts his defences up, ready to weave through the busying bar area and up to his room. In a few weeks he’ll travel to Budapest to film the second instalment of Dune, then to Venice to launch Bones & All, and then ever onwards, up and up and up. But he worries a key point has been missed. “I’m grateful,” he says. He gives me a hug and asks me to be kind. A man caught in the stasis of life’s first quarter, always looking for the answers.

The October 2022 issue of British Vogue is on newsstands on Tuesday 20 September.

100k slow burn friends to lovers

thanks for the fic idea 😌

😻😻

it's the cover of the book the band named themselves after 💕

Is he wearing a Velvet Underground t-shirt?

please i just want to nibble on his neck a tiny bit

😻😻

He knows we enjoyed the nip slips at the Oscars...

Timothee Chalamet by Steven Meisel for British Vogue

hey is it cool if i clone you and send your identical copy through a series of trials and torments that changes them forever

not to be a copycat but also same, been working on a lil something all morning

this is all the fault of everyone else involved in this post, i am blameless 😌

how is this like one of his hottest looks? idk but my nose is bleeding

She lives in daydreams with me. She's the first one that I see, and I don't know why 🌹

i just need to hear timothée say “mon amour” once. then i will be pleased to leave this earth.

Lara Melchi  (thesoundcheck)

i was wondering why he's so good at the slav squat but then i remembered he's part russian on his mom's side

oh, he's got nice legs.

yes perfect i love it 😍 i need to be scraped up off the floor now

Coming Home

Pairing: Timothée Chalamet x fem!reader

A/n: blame @thestarsaregivenonceonly and @formalsweatpants and Timothée himself for this one. Smut mention but otherwise just fluff. Minors, ageless and blank blogs dni

Timothée’s long legs ate up the distance between him and home. Just three more blocks. He could even squint and see the face of the building from where he was. So close, he was so fucking close.

“I’m literally ten minutes from standing on our balcony with a lantern like I’m waiting for my husband to come back from sea.”

“I’m literally ten minutes from standing on our balcony with a lantern like I’m waiting for my husband to come back from sea.”

Laughter punched out of his chest. “Where do you come up with this stuff? I’m almost home, baby.”

“You said that at your layover in Atlanta too.”

“Don’t pout,” he admonished and smiled at your little indignant squeak. “I know you. I know you’re pouting that cute little lip out like the spoiled brat you are.”

“This is slander that I don’t have to take from you. ‘Cause you’re a liar who says you’re almost home and then three hours later have the audacity to say you’re almost home again.”

Timothée didn’t respond, just took a picture of the brownstone he was approaching. You gasped on the other end of the phone.

“You’re almost home!!” The genuine excitement, the longing, the anticipation all twined in a thick braid in your voice gave him that shot of energy he needs. It’d get him up the stairs, get him fishing around through all of his shit to find his keys, get him through every tiny trifling obstacle between him and finally arriving home.

“Yeah, babe. I’m almost home. For real this time,” he tacked on just to hear your giggle. An extra shot of motivation for him. “I’ll see you soon. And when I do, we can do whatever you want.”

“Ooo, I like the sound of that,” your voice a temptation and a promise all in one. “See you soon.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, now get up here!”

He hung up mid-laugh and the smile stayed on his face until he finally reached his door. Timothée crossed the threshold of your shared space, toeing off his boots and dropping his backpack all at once. He called out your name, because even though he’d dropped his keys in the bowl and placed his coat on the hook, he wouldn’t be well and truly home until he was holding you close. Until he could breathe you in and feel your heartbeat pounding under his.

“Timothée!”

You came bounding out of the bedroom, practically a streak of colors as you launched into Timothée’s arms. It sent you both to the couch behind him, eyes locked in alarmed stares as the couch tips back a bit before righting itself with a thud you'd surely hear about from your downstairs neighbors. You laughed as you properly straddled his lap, framing his jaw with both hands and peppering his face with little smooches. Timothée sighed contentedly, his arms wrapped around your lower back and soaking in the affection.

You pulled back for a bit and beamed down at him.

“You’re home.”

He touched your face, moving a stray wisp to the side just for the excuse to fret with you a bit. He hadn’t been able to do something as simple as that in weeks.

“I’m home.”

“So… there was mention of us doing whatever I wanted when you got here.”

“I did say that.”

“And…” you trailed off as you began to wind your hips in his lap. A subtle gentle rock that he let his eyes drift closed to savor. “What if I said… that I really want to…”

Your lips trailed up his jaw to his ear.

“…Catch up on British Bake Off?”

He barked a laugh. “Have you not watched it since I’ve been gone?”

“No, that’s our thing, Timothée!”

God he missed you. He loved you. “Yeah, babe, we can watch it.”

You nodded once and reached for your shirt. “Cool, we can do that after we fuck.”

“Jesus Christ, Y/n.”

well everyone on the timeline is parched and posting the very best pictures so you succeeded, thank you

Wreaking havoc on a Tuesday I see

keeping the timmy fandom on their toes, yaknow?? keepin it spicy

@thestarsaregivenonceonly god, exactly

how is this like one of his hottest looks? idk but my nose is bleeding

how is this like one of his hottest looks? idk but my nose is bleeding

help

i’m gonna leave this right here, and slowly walk away🥵

there is so much happening here i had to sit down