RPF: oh camelot
SO. I’m pretty sure you knew this was going to happen. I’m also sure that I’ve somehow pulled myself into another obsession that makes me want to write more epic sagas, but that’s okay. THERE’S PILLAGING AND SEXING AND STUFF. What can I say? I’m easy. And I want a James Purefoy tag. Next up ScarJo and Renner. And TRON. And something about rpf and vampires, which is still making me laugh nine hours later. W/E.
oh camelot
rpf ; eva green/james purefoy (daniel craig) ; 2,515 words, r
fair warning: there is no good guy in this one. this is trouble and it’s always about trouble.
-
Daniel throws a party. A terrible party. It's an odd crowd of actors and directors alike, one that has Eva sneaking back out onto the balcony, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her cigarettes in the other.
There is a chair close to the railing. She sits and her dress folds out, spilling onto the floor and dangling off the some of the open ledge. She's annoyed, and maybe tired - to be honest, Daniel has no business throwing parties. Mostly it's because he's convinced that cocktail affairs somehow are the key to wooing and feeding his addiction to brunettes. She's here because she has to be. Solidarity, or something rather. He did guilt her into this.
When she lights her cigarette, the sliding door behind her opens. The lock is loud and there's a cough. Someone behind her clears their throat.
"James."
She blinks, craning her neck back.
"James," she repeats. There is a man standing over her. He's amused. Her brow furrows. She should recognize him, but she doesn't. "Erm, hello?"
"We met earlier," he offers. "I was about to tell you my name, but Craig went in and cockblocked me, the proper gent that he is."
Her mouth twitches. "Of course, he did."
He makes a motion with his hand to her cigarette. She nods in kind, opening the box and offering him one. There's no other place to sit and he moves - James moves to leaning against the railing, stretching out in her company.
He has his own light. This is how they meet first.
It's rather uneventful, their friendship - it's not so much as a friendship as it's really just knowing a person, running in the same circles, and having the ability to share a conversation that doesn't touch any sort of boring. When Camelot comes around, Eva sees his name and sort of smiles, half-surprised, more-so pleased, and that carries her to their first day on set.
"Sex," he says. He's delighted, handing her a coffee. "Lots and lots and lots of great sex with a beautiful woman. I must've been a fucking saint in my last life, for sure. Or a monk. Whatever."
She laughs, rolling her eyes. She takes the coffee, murmuring her thanks. The weight of her crown presses into her forehead and when he bows down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, the cover of his fur rubs against her cheek.
"Are you flirting with me?"
"And why not?" he winks, and she wants to call him a cad, simply because it seems entirely too appropriate. But he seems of the sort that would enjoy it.
So instead her mouth twitches, her fingers brushing against the top of his cape. They slip into the fur and he's watching her, curiously. She doesn't know why she's just reacting. She prefers laughs. The occasional dry comment. It's easier than falling into the expectations people have of her, as strange as they are.
"You're a strange man," she declares suddenly, her voice warm. She likes him, oddly enough. "I'm not entirely sure as to why."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Do you want one?"
His grin is wide. She forgets their meeting, of course. The shared cigarette. She'll blame Daniel eventually.
But James leans forward, over her, and his mouth grazes his jaw, his grins spreading against her skin. She can feel herself flush. Her fingers curl deeper into the fur cape and she finds it odd that no one, no one is watching.
"I'll get it myself," he says.
The sex, it's sex, is so strange, too fun, and when she digs her nails into his back, he laughs against her throat.
"What?" she breathes. "What?"
But there is nobody calling for the scene to cut, and their lines, her lines, aren't there quite yet. She turns her hips into his and he makes this sound, oh god, that doesn't belong here.
"You like me," he murmurs. He's delighted, again, and nips at her jaw. She turns her head, her mouth catches his, her teeth snapping at his lip. He laughs again and she gasps, sucking lightly. There's a line, of course there's a line, and she sort of mutters it out, turning them so that he's on his back.
And then it's all her, all of her, her hips stilled over his, her hands rising to cup her breast. She's ridiculously naked under the green shift - sheet, she thinks. It's just a damn sheet. Save for the thin, nude cotton underwear. Her hands push off of his chest though and she sinks them underneath the dress, throwing her head back and cupping her breasts for him and everyone else to see.
It's different, this is different, and there's a part of her that's getting off on all of this, of knowing that he's watching, that she's letting him watch, and she can hide behind the vulnerabilities and the anger of an old legend. It's still James that jerks into her, James that feeds her a line about loyalty, and then turns them, buries her into the bed. His mouth is at her throat again, and her head falls back. She gasps and it's too real, but it's suddenly very, very easy to pass the point of just not caring.
She tells first. This is true.
"Say my name."
There's dinner, over a beer, over a late beer, well after Fiennes gleefully declares that this is beginning because it's a set and someone always has to go and say this is the beginning of something. But it's just Eva and James after, just the two of them sitting knee to knee at some awkward table left outside the food trailer. There is a car coming, but neither of them mention that.
"I'm fun," James tells her. "Actually, I think I'm quite the delight. And I think you're falling for the magic."
She laughs. It's partly true. Or it's partly because she thinks he's funny. "You've been waiting days to say that to me, I gather."
He shrugs.
There is a bottle of beer by his elbow. Her cigarette has long since died, the smoke filtering off lazily. She's almost convinced that he's told them all to go off.
"So," he says, and he brings a hand to her shoulder. His fingers dig into her skin, gently under the sweater she wears. It starts to loop off her shoulder too, and the air is a little too cold for her liking; she still turns into him, watching him curiously. "Well?" he asks.
She snorts. "Well."
"You've said nothing, of course. And here I am, trying to figure you out."
"Trying desperately," she points out.
"Which amuses you."
"No." But she laughs anyway, shaking her head. "But it amuses you."
He grins and she grins, and it's a strange sort of thing, where she's not entirely sure if this is supposed to be happening. His hand doesn't leave her shoulder and she's leaning forward without thinking, brushing her mouth against his.
This isn't her. She doesn't do these things. His mouth opens lazily against hers and it's hot and bitter, his knuckles nudging her jaw up. It forces her to deepen the kiss. There's a gasp and a growl and she's taking that from him, all so selfishly. It feels too good not to think -
and it happens slowly, really, where he's between her legs without even asking. She has a fist in his hair and her back is arched, her eyes tightly closed. She is too, too aware of him, of his tongue over her clit, of those stupid words that he's telling her, something about how she tastes, how he likes how she tastes, how this is going to happen again and again because he wants to drive her absolutely mad. There's no part of her, no coherent part of her, that can respond back and it's really that, that inability to speak that keeps her safe.
(They fuck in the car on the way back. The window's pulled up and she's sure the driver can hear him, her, but Eva doesn't care. She's always loved dangerous things.)
After, much later, Daniel invites himself to her flat, buys her tea and brings her dog treats. He's wrapped his hand around flowers and when she answers the door, her smile is strangely genuine.
"You're not annoyed with me," he says.
"Not today," she says.
You have to understand that there's the two of them, and only the two of them, and that's an entirely different avenue of things that she's learned, buried, and has just stopped touching. He is the only one that calls her Green. She's learned to just let him.
But something's different, or maybe she's just different, today, for weeks, and he follows her back into the flat, his eyes glued to her as she walks. She can feel them. She doesn't tell him and takes the tea from his hands before debating over the flowers.
The flowers, the flowers are lovely - they're always lovely, never her favorite strangely enough. Today they're lilies. In the next couple of weeks, they might be roses. Daniel never remembers that she's never liked roses.
"Something's different," he tells her, and he leans against her counter, putting the flowers in the sink. Her hands are wrapped tightly around her tea and she can't bring herself to look at him, for whatever reason. She's not uncomfortable. She feels careful.
Eva sits at the table. She doesn't answer.
"I mean, usually you regal me with stories from your projects. I was looking forward to calls."
He's teasing her and she shakes her head. Her mouth opens and closes. There are a million different ways to say this isn't about you. But they don't talk about that, they don't ever talk about those things.
Her lips curl. It isn't for him.
"It's not for you to know," she says.
(The truth is, and it's there, but that's between James and Daniel, or Daniel and James, and for her to be between them, it's just something she's not supposed know and if she did, oh god, if she did, Eva would kill them both. One knows, the other just doesn't care.)
But it's also James that meets her in Sundance, after the beginning of the press tour. Fiennes says something about him asking about her, but she doesn't believe. James is the kind of man that asks later, or after, or underneath layers and layers of words that have nothing to do with the situation. She can appreciate this.
He stands at the door of her hotel room, just as she fumbles out of her dress, her fingers caught in her zipper. She is surprised to see him. He shrugs himself inside and she has to laugh.
"Calling would be the polite thing to do," she says, shaking her head. The zipper comes undone with a loud snag. The two flaps of her dress split open at the back. She feels shy and doesn't pull it off just yet.
"Like Craig?" he asks. His nose wrinkles. She raises an eyebrow. "Sorry," he says, but there is no sense of remorse. He drops to her bed, stretching out. "Had a bit of a break, wanted to see you."
"Ever the stranger," she says dryly.
She flushes. She's not used to this. She's never used to this. The tights on her legs pull against her skin and he's watching her, waiting. She moves carefully to stand between his legs.
"Why are you here?"
"Wanted to see you," James repeats.
"Really?"
He chuckles. His hand brushes her hip. "King and queen," he says solemnly. "No kingdom, no villages to burn - and yet, still, it remains entirely too romantic. You're French, you like romance."
"I'm complicated," she corrects. She leans into his touch. Her stomach twists into knots. "Sometimes it just happens."
"Cop out," he tells her.
He tilts his head up, expectant. It earns another laugh from her and she brings her hand down to his face. She smiles, maybe genuinely, maybe more, her thumb rolling against his mouth. She feels a little guilty. But that, that is always there, always waiting, and she's accepted it quietly. He doesn't need to know, if anything at all.
But she doesn't kiss him. No, no. Not yet. She drops her forehead to rest against his and he reaches behind her, tugging her hair loose. The gesture seems to easy. His fingers flutter against the back of her neck.
"You're trouble," he tells her. His voice thickens and it rolls out into a growl. "I like trouble. I tend to follow it around."
She makes a sound, not quite a laugh. She kisses him too, light, maybe too soft, nothing of what he wants. She knows because he reaches behind her. His fingers slip underneath her dress, spread against her back, and start to travel against her spine.
"Say it," he nips at her lips. She laughs again and doesn't. "I want - I have never wanted anyone to say it."
"But do I mean it?" she asks, and she's teasing him, again. She lets him peel her dress off. She lets it fall to the floor and pool around her legs, her heels. She stands in front of him in just tights. Against her hip, there is a bit of lace from the top. It sticks, prints against her skin and his mouth breaks away from hers to touch it.
She moans a little when his tongue touches both skin and fabric. Her fingers press back into his hair. They twist and he sighs.
"You mean it," he tells her.
Her knees are getting heavy. They both know he wouldn't be here.
The BAFTAs are silly, the parties even more. She has fun. Tom Ford takes her arm and they talk too long about shopping for art and Truffaunt and her dog who, really, is the only accountable part of her life at the moment.
There are no calls yet and she's glad, maybe for once, to just sit by Jamie and his girlfriend, watching them settle carelessly at the table without any investment in the surrounding event. James is there too, alone and with his son. They smile at each other over Fiennes' head, a mix of strange delight and secrets that makes her feel different. It's odd and uncomfortable and unfortunate, really, because she doesn't know what to do with it quite yet. There is no one to take the blame.
It's complicated and she's not about to say that, tell anyone, or start anything that holds no sense of certainty for her. When she escapes for drinks, James follows in kind - or maybe it's the reverse, unintentional and trying. The dance floor is heavy and the music is confusing, running against her ears and really, maybe for a moment, she just sneak out for a cigarette.
James grabs her hand. Neither of them mention the bar at the other end of the room.
Roses greet her at home.
oh camelot
rpf ; eva green/james purefoy (daniel craig) ; 2,515 words, r
fair warning: there is no good guy in this one. this is trouble and it’s always about trouble.
-
Daniel throws a party. A terrible party. It's an odd crowd of actors and directors alike, one that has Eva sneaking back out onto the balcony, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her cigarettes in the other.
There is a chair close to the railing. She sits and her dress folds out, spilling onto the floor and dangling off the some of the open ledge. She's annoyed, and maybe tired - to be honest, Daniel has no business throwing parties. Mostly it's because he's convinced that cocktail affairs somehow are the key to wooing and feeding his addiction to brunettes. She's here because she has to be. Solidarity, or something rather. He did guilt her into this.
When she lights her cigarette, the sliding door behind her opens. The lock is loud and there's a cough. Someone behind her clears their throat.
"James."
She blinks, craning her neck back.
"James," she repeats. There is a man standing over her. He's amused. Her brow furrows. She should recognize him, but she doesn't. "Erm, hello?"
"We met earlier," he offers. "I was about to tell you my name, but Craig went in and cockblocked me, the proper gent that he is."
Her mouth twitches. "Of course, he did."
He makes a motion with his hand to her cigarette. She nods in kind, opening the box and offering him one. There's no other place to sit and he moves - James moves to leaning against the railing, stretching out in her company.
He has his own light. This is how they meet first.
It's rather uneventful, their friendship - it's not so much as a friendship as it's really just knowing a person, running in the same circles, and having the ability to share a conversation that doesn't touch any sort of boring. When Camelot comes around, Eva sees his name and sort of smiles, half-surprised, more-so pleased, and that carries her to their first day on set.
"Sex," he says. He's delighted, handing her a coffee. "Lots and lots and lots of great sex with a beautiful woman. I must've been a fucking saint in my last life, for sure. Or a monk. Whatever."
She laughs, rolling her eyes. She takes the coffee, murmuring her thanks. The weight of her crown presses into her forehead and when he bows down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, the cover of his fur rubs against her cheek.
"Are you flirting with me?"
"And why not?" he winks, and she wants to call him a cad, simply because it seems entirely too appropriate. But he seems of the sort that would enjoy it.
So instead her mouth twitches, her fingers brushing against the top of his cape. They slip into the fur and he's watching her, curiously. She doesn't know why she's just reacting. She prefers laughs. The occasional dry comment. It's easier than falling into the expectations people have of her, as strange as they are.
"You're a strange man," she declares suddenly, her voice warm. She likes him, oddly enough. "I'm not entirely sure as to why."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Do you want one?"
His grin is wide. She forgets their meeting, of course. The shared cigarette. She'll blame Daniel eventually.
But James leans forward, over her, and his mouth grazes his jaw, his grins spreading against her skin. She can feel herself flush. Her fingers curl deeper into the fur cape and she finds it odd that no one, no one is watching.
"I'll get it myself," he says.
The sex, it's sex, is so strange, too fun, and when she digs her nails into his back, he laughs against her throat.
"What?" she breathes. "What?"
But there is nobody calling for the scene to cut, and their lines, her lines, aren't there quite yet. She turns her hips into his and he makes this sound, oh god, that doesn't belong here.
"You like me," he murmurs. He's delighted, again, and nips at her jaw. She turns her head, her mouth catches his, her teeth snapping at his lip. He laughs again and she gasps, sucking lightly. There's a line, of course there's a line, and she sort of mutters it out, turning them so that he's on his back.
And then it's all her, all of her, her hips stilled over his, her hands rising to cup her breast. She's ridiculously naked under the green shift - sheet, she thinks. It's just a damn sheet. Save for the thin, nude cotton underwear. Her hands push off of his chest though and she sinks them underneath the dress, throwing her head back and cupping her breasts for him and everyone else to see.
It's different, this is different, and there's a part of her that's getting off on all of this, of knowing that he's watching, that she's letting him watch, and she can hide behind the vulnerabilities and the anger of an old legend. It's still James that jerks into her, James that feeds her a line about loyalty, and then turns them, buries her into the bed. His mouth is at her throat again, and her head falls back. She gasps and it's too real, but it's suddenly very, very easy to pass the point of just not caring.
She tells first. This is true.
"Say my name."
There's dinner, over a beer, over a late beer, well after Fiennes gleefully declares that this is beginning because it's a set and someone always has to go and say this is the beginning of something. But it's just Eva and James after, just the two of them sitting knee to knee at some awkward table left outside the food trailer. There is a car coming, but neither of them mention that.
"I'm fun," James tells her. "Actually, I think I'm quite the delight. And I think you're falling for the magic."
She laughs. It's partly true. Or it's partly because she thinks he's funny. "You've been waiting days to say that to me, I gather."
He shrugs.
There is a bottle of beer by his elbow. Her cigarette has long since died, the smoke filtering off lazily. She's almost convinced that he's told them all to go off.
"So," he says, and he brings a hand to her shoulder. His fingers dig into her skin, gently under the sweater she wears. It starts to loop off her shoulder too, and the air is a little too cold for her liking; she still turns into him, watching him curiously. "Well?" he asks.
She snorts. "Well."
"You've said nothing, of course. And here I am, trying to figure you out."
"Trying desperately," she points out.
"Which amuses you."
"No." But she laughs anyway, shaking her head. "But it amuses you."
He grins and she grins, and it's a strange sort of thing, where she's not entirely sure if this is supposed to be happening. His hand doesn't leave her shoulder and she's leaning forward without thinking, brushing her mouth against his.
This isn't her. She doesn't do these things. His mouth opens lazily against hers and it's hot and bitter, his knuckles nudging her jaw up. It forces her to deepen the kiss. There's a gasp and a growl and she's taking that from him, all so selfishly. It feels too good not to think -
and it happens slowly, really, where he's between her legs without even asking. She has a fist in his hair and her back is arched, her eyes tightly closed. She is too, too aware of him, of his tongue over her clit, of those stupid words that he's telling her, something about how she tastes, how he likes how she tastes, how this is going to happen again and again because he wants to drive her absolutely mad. There's no part of her, no coherent part of her, that can respond back and it's really that, that inability to speak that keeps her safe.
(They fuck in the car on the way back. The window's pulled up and she's sure the driver can hear him, her, but Eva doesn't care. She's always loved dangerous things.)
After, much later, Daniel invites himself to her flat, buys her tea and brings her dog treats. He's wrapped his hand around flowers and when she answers the door, her smile is strangely genuine.
"You're not annoyed with me," he says.
"Not today," she says.
You have to understand that there's the two of them, and only the two of them, and that's an entirely different avenue of things that she's learned, buried, and has just stopped touching. He is the only one that calls her Green. She's learned to just let him.
But something's different, or maybe she's just different, today, for weeks, and he follows her back into the flat, his eyes glued to her as she walks. She can feel them. She doesn't tell him and takes the tea from his hands before debating over the flowers.
The flowers, the flowers are lovely - they're always lovely, never her favorite strangely enough. Today they're lilies. In the next couple of weeks, they might be roses. Daniel never remembers that she's never liked roses.
"Something's different," he tells her, and he leans against her counter, putting the flowers in the sink. Her hands are wrapped tightly around her tea and she can't bring herself to look at him, for whatever reason. She's not uncomfortable. She feels careful.
Eva sits at the table. She doesn't answer.
"I mean, usually you regal me with stories from your projects. I was looking forward to calls."
He's teasing her and she shakes her head. Her mouth opens and closes. There are a million different ways to say this isn't about you. But they don't talk about that, they don't ever talk about those things.
Her lips curl. It isn't for him.
"It's not for you to know," she says.
(The truth is, and it's there, but that's between James and Daniel, or Daniel and James, and for her to be between them, it's just something she's not supposed know and if she did, oh god, if she did, Eva would kill them both. One knows, the other just doesn't care.)
But it's also James that meets her in Sundance, after the beginning of the press tour. Fiennes says something about him asking about her, but she doesn't believe. James is the kind of man that asks later, or after, or underneath layers and layers of words that have nothing to do with the situation. She can appreciate this.
He stands at the door of her hotel room, just as she fumbles out of her dress, her fingers caught in her zipper. She is surprised to see him. He shrugs himself inside and she has to laugh.
"Calling would be the polite thing to do," she says, shaking her head. The zipper comes undone with a loud snag. The two flaps of her dress split open at the back. She feels shy and doesn't pull it off just yet.
"Like Craig?" he asks. His nose wrinkles. She raises an eyebrow. "Sorry," he says, but there is no sense of remorse. He drops to her bed, stretching out. "Had a bit of a break, wanted to see you."
"Ever the stranger," she says dryly.
She flushes. She's not used to this. She's never used to this. The tights on her legs pull against her skin and he's watching her, waiting. She moves carefully to stand between his legs.
"Why are you here?"
"Wanted to see you," James repeats.
"Really?"
He chuckles. His hand brushes her hip. "King and queen," he says solemnly. "No kingdom, no villages to burn - and yet, still, it remains entirely too romantic. You're French, you like romance."
"I'm complicated," she corrects. She leans into his touch. Her stomach twists into knots. "Sometimes it just happens."
"Cop out," he tells her.
He tilts his head up, expectant. It earns another laugh from her and she brings her hand down to his face. She smiles, maybe genuinely, maybe more, her thumb rolling against his mouth. She feels a little guilty. But that, that is always there, always waiting, and she's accepted it quietly. He doesn't need to know, if anything at all.
But she doesn't kiss him. No, no. Not yet. She drops her forehead to rest against his and he reaches behind her, tugging her hair loose. The gesture seems to easy. His fingers flutter against the back of her neck.
"You're trouble," he tells her. His voice thickens and it rolls out into a growl. "I like trouble. I tend to follow it around."
She makes a sound, not quite a laugh. She kisses him too, light, maybe too soft, nothing of what he wants. She knows because he reaches behind her. His fingers slip underneath her dress, spread against her back, and start to travel against her spine.
"Say it," he nips at her lips. She laughs again and doesn't. "I want - I have never wanted anyone to say it."
"But do I mean it?" she asks, and she's teasing him, again. She lets him peel her dress off. She lets it fall to the floor and pool around her legs, her heels. She stands in front of him in just tights. Against her hip, there is a bit of lace from the top. It sticks, prints against her skin and his mouth breaks away from hers to touch it.
She moans a little when his tongue touches both skin and fabric. Her fingers press back into his hair. They twist and he sighs.
"You mean it," he tells her.
Her knees are getting heavy. They both know he wouldn't be here.
The BAFTAs are silly, the parties even more. She has fun. Tom Ford takes her arm and they talk too long about shopping for art and Truffaunt and her dog who, really, is the only accountable part of her life at the moment.
There are no calls yet and she's glad, maybe for once, to just sit by Jamie and his girlfriend, watching them settle carelessly at the table without any investment in the surrounding event. James is there too, alone and with his son. They smile at each other over Fiennes' head, a mix of strange delight and secrets that makes her feel different. It's odd and uncomfortable and unfortunate, really, because she doesn't know what to do with it quite yet. There is no one to take the blame.
It's complicated and she's not about to say that, tell anyone, or start anything that holds no sense of certainty for her. When she escapes for drinks, James follows in kind - or maybe it's the reverse, unintentional and trying. The dance floor is heavy and the music is confusing, running against her ears and really, maybe for a moment, she just sneak out for a cigarette.
James grabs her hand. Neither of them mention the bar at the other end of the room.
Roses greet her at home.