Work Text:
So. This writing lark. What a very strange place in my head. I’ve never had any inclination to write fiction at all before the last year, when suddenly this uncontrollable urge has taken over my head, my imagination. I haven’t written much in the last (mmphh) years really, not since college papers, and letters to university friends, the occasional political opinion piece in the newspaper, or blog. Husband, career, babies, tragedies, life… You all know, or you will know…
Then, this last year. The fucking voices in my head! It’s a form of madness and a weird mind expansion. Suddenly I’m hearing women, characters, in my head, telling me their stories, demanding that I write for them. My pen scratching, scrabbling, racing across the paper catching her words verbatim, as she tells me what to write. My ass wriggling in my chair, goose bumps running up my spine, down my arms with the urgency and excitement of her story unfolding in my head, flowing down my arm, my pen an extension of her thoughts.
And then HE enters my head, standing and listening with intent curiosity, arms folded, legs spread in that power stance, eyes hooded, watching as she’s telling me exactly how it is for her, with hand gestures, facial expressions, interior monologue, sensations, and all.
He steps up and interrupts. "Excuse me, darling,“ he says calmly, "I think you’ve made a mistake there. Here, let me help you fix it…”
And she’s all, “No! Excuse ME! This is MY story, Thomas! It’s not all about you, Hiddleston!”
Then the two of them are going at it hammer and tongs, all flashing eyes and raised voices, arguing with each other about perspective and motivations, backstory and conclusions.
“Hey!” I shout, “Excuse the fuck outta me!! Do you mind?! I’m trying to write, here! What the fuck is the matter with you people??”
“Seriously??“ she asks me. "This isn’t your story, it’s mine, bitch!”
“There’s no need to be rude, darling,” he says, “ She’s doing the best she can…”
“Yeah? Fuck you, Hiddleston! Patronizing, much?” I say, “Think you can do a better job writing this bitch?”
“Frankly, darling, yes. I do. You’re letting her get away with far too much exposition. Where’s the action? The romance?? If you let her, she’ll talk you in circles, and we’ll never get anywhere! I haven’t got all damn night, you know!” he fumes.
“Petulant fucker,” I mutter to myself. “What the fuck do you want from me Thomas??”
“Just watch, darling, I’ll show you how it’s done…”
He steps up to her, looming over her. "This is where you went wrong…“
"Oh, calm your tits, Hiddleston! You think you can tell my story better than I can?” She steps further into his personal space, and jabs her finger into his chest.
His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. His hands grasp her shoulders, his fingers flexing into her flesh, yanking her into his chest, and his mouth crashing down on hers, lips moving, devouring her, tongue forcing into her mouth, tangling with hers.
Her body goes limp, a whimper slides out around his tongue, her eyes fluttering shut as she melts into his kiss.
He leans back, looking down into her eyes, eyebrow raised, holding her body up with his grasp on her upper arms, a smirk on his lips.
“And that’s how one wins an argument, darling…” he murmurs
She gazes up at him, her mouth red and swollen, eyes hazy from lust.
“Okay…”
“Oh, fuck you both,” I say, “I need a damn drink…”