Are we human, or are we dancer?

Close your eyes, clear your heart, cut the cord.

Stocking gives no fucks.

Mélanie: Wake up!
The city of Paris was only just waking up, stretching and yawning and breaking its fast like it would on any other day. Morning, at least, was something the Gestapo could not control.

Shoshanna Dreyfus did not rise.

She never went to sleep.

Instead, she stood by the window by turns, sometimes breaking away, to turn, to watch Marcel where he lay sprawled across the bed they shared. His sleep undisturbed, his breathing even, his bare chest shimmering dully in the half-light, rising and falling like the tide.

Instead, she paced the empty lobby, already draped in swastikas. already filled with filth.

(She had wanted to spit out the bitter taste in her mouth as they had hung the bunting, the banners; she had refrained. It wouldn't do. She must wait. She chewed the soft flesh of her lip instead, trying to appear blank, clueless.)

Instead, she drank a glass of something without taste. Whether wine or water, she had no recollection. It didn't matter. And so, at dawn, when the rest of Paris was waking up, Shoshanna collapsed into her bed, cheek pressed into the cool pillow, curled up atop the sheet.

Tonight she must burn everything. Burn herself, burn Marcel, burn the life out of those bastards. The Nazi swine who would swarm into her cinema.

It was like burning bridges to light the way.

fanmix time!
Stocking gives no fucks.
So I never make fanmixes anymore??? So I made a fanmix.

medium RP
fandom Inglourious Basterds / Yu Yu Hakusho
subject Kurama / Shoshanna
title Love So Quiet

sometimes your love is so quiet I don't even need to speakCollapse )
Tags: ,

Stocking gives no fucks.
+ + +Collapse )

drabbles and things
Hans Landa: my pipe brings all the boys
1. Hans Landa - Stars and Boulevards - Augustana

Sometimes, he wondered whether this was all worth it. The coercion, the lies, the smiling, gregarious facade behind which lurked a monster of the worst kind. The people he had killed, the heinous acts he'd committed—and he felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt, not a hint of emotion. At times, he thought he might have even enjoyed some of it. But in the end, Hans Landa would always be numb. In that respect, he was probably perfectly suited to the career path he'd chosen.

With that thought in his mind, comforting though his mind required no comfort, he raised the pistol, resting the cold barrel to the temple of the man he'd been ordered to kill, and pulled the trigger. Landa smiled.

2. Audrey and Pavel - Miley Cyrus - Can't Be Tamed

"Pavel, maybe you should just—oh, sod it." Her coworker was already beyond earshot, especially considering how crowded the pub (bar) already was. Why she had agreed to accompany him to Boston for St. Patrick's Day was beyond her, especially since she wasn't even of age to drink in the States, something dear Pavel had conveniently neglected to tell her.

Her hulking, hairy compadre was already in the middle of a throng of very drunk women, making a complete drunken arse out of himself. At least he looked like he was enjoying himself. There was a loud smack, and Audrey winced. "Smooth, Pavel," she called, laughing at the sight of him rubbing his very red cheek.

3. 19th century Evie and Edgar - Sunday Best - Augustana

Edgar Hunt—Lord Hunt, he supposed he was now—had a very important errand to attend to today, and it was with a quietly nervous demeanor that he gave his name to the Hollingsberrys' man at the door. As he was led to Lord Hugo's drawing-room, he removed his black top hat, if nothing else for the luxury of having his hands occupied. He did hate to be seen fidgeting.

Half an hour later, and the quiet young lord emerged, looking faintly triumphant. A light tripping of slippers against plush carpet drew his attention, and he was somehow unsurprised to see the youngest Hollingsberry and the object of his affections drawing nearer, a curious look on her face. "Lord Edgar, what brings you to my family's home today?"

Edgar smiled faintly and bowed low. "Lady Evelyn." Straightening, he studied her for a moment, trying to decide how best to go about this, before offering his arm. "Would you do me the pleasure of a turn about the garden?" Now came the difficult part.

in which Jo writes smutty things while drunk
Stocking gives no fucks.

"I don't normally do this." Edgar felt it imperative to let her know this. That he wasn't one of those men, only looking for what lay between a woman's legs, beneath her clothing. In fact, quite the opposite. He never did. But now, with this heat between them, with what they had been building toward for weeks and months, here he was, breathless, heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he was doing now, at least, and for that he was grateful. But that didn't make him any less nervous that he would do something wrong, cross some social border he hadn't known existed.

"I understand." Her words were breathless, probably due to the fact that his fingers hovered mere millimeters from her bare breasts. Edgar pushed past his constant demureness to study her naked form, the generous flesh of her breasts. They were lovely, soft and beautiful, everything that breasts should be, and tentatively his fingers advanced to circle one nipple slowly. He took the time to appreciate the soft pink of it, standing out against her porcelain flesh, and he let out a quite groan as the skin tightened between his large fingers. More than anything, knowing that he was inciting such a reaction in Elsa was the most satisfying thing to him. His head dipped, the mouth that was strangely poetic on such a masculine face and large frame brushing against the velvety skin softly. His well-tailored trousers were much more snug now, for as much of a gentleman as Edgar was, he couldn't help but become aroused by this.

Their lovemaking was slow, languid, beautiful. Edgar placed a gentle kiss against Elsa's forehead when it was done, and he had rolled to the side. The bright blue eyes studied the strands of flame-red hair between his fingers for a moment, before falling shut with a heavy sigh. There was no guilt now, now remorse for what had transpired between them. It had been right.


"I thought we could try out my Christmas present, non?"

His grin had merely widened, deliciously predatory, at the words. She had been waiting for him in his bedroom when he'd arrived home, dressed in nothing but a black bustier and matching panties, lacy stockings held up with a coordinating garter belt, and the handcuffs dangling from two long fingers as she stretched out on her side across his bed.

And now here she was, wrists detained above her head by the cold metal which clanged against the metal of his headboard as she squirmed beneath his lips. Her lips parted slightly but no noise but the rush of air into her lungs escaped as his tongue glided along the curve of her breast, deliciously rounded above silk and steel tightly bound against her flesh. His fingers pressed into her hipbones, delving beneath the silk of her panties without hesitation. She murmured hasty words of enouragement, not that Jean needed them.

Moments later, the scrap of black silk was being tugged aside, not down, and his lips met with her most sensitive flesh, tongue darting out to taste her, and now a cry did echo from the very depths of her throat.

"I could do anything I liked to you right now," he murmured, face still bured between Léonie's legs, his voice delicious and rough even as the words came out as a purr. "Anything at all, and you couldn't do a thing to stop me." As if she would want to. Instead, her hips jerked upward, and Jean obliged her happily, content to let her have her way.

For now.

Business and Pleasure
Stocking gives no fucks.
 So...I wrote a thingy. It's smutty. You have been warned.

WHO: Jean-Baptiste Girard and Léonie Lefébvre
WHAT: Doin' stuuuff.
WHERE: Jean's apartment
WHEN: Sometime in the near past, I would imagine.
WARNINGS: Sexy tiems. Also, possibly sketchy French. Sorry.

Je te veux.Collapse )

57 Jude Law Icons (mothafucka)
Stocking gives no fucks.
If you use:
-Credit joisaverage 
-Comments and adds are lovely~
-No hotlinking, plz.
-Textless =/= base

Jude Law,Icons Jude Law,Icons Jude Law,Icons
moar hotnessCollapse )

Looking for magic?
Stocking gives no fucks.

Check it out.

Short little baby story
Stocking gives no fucks.
Who: Edgar Hunt
What: Brooding, what else?
Where: Wales
When: 1994, immediately following
Warnings: Moping.

Normally after yet another long, relatively uneventful day at the office, Edgar would go home, make himself dinner, and kick back with a good book. Tonight, however, was a different story. No, you're passing your prime.Collapse )


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