Requested - Tommy imagine based off Cherry by Lana del Rey
Thomas Shelby - Giving to the Devil
You paced back and forth in your room anxiously, checking your watch every two minutes to be sure you were right that Tommy was due to arrive soon. You could hear your father’s prestigious party in full swing below you, the great hall full of all his posh and important guests dancing accordingly and sipping on their champagne gracefully from dainty glasses, as they had been taught to do so.
You let out a sigh, dropping to your bed as you became impatience until you heard the rattle of your door handle, causing you to jump up and straighten down your dress in an attempt to look presentable, pushing a few loose strands of hair behind your ears as he slipped round the door.
who is a better dancer? I think Draco is the one that dance all night long, and Harry is at the bar, looking at him, but then Draco goes to Harry, asking for a fucking dance, potter is not so horrible, they dance and Draco can't understand how Harry have two left legs, but he knows he's boyfriend is giving his best so just kiss him.
Draco’s good at posh ballroom dancing and Harry’s good at club dancing once he relaxes. Draco thinks “frotting isn’t dancing, you uncouth scarhead”, Harry (and his ass in tight jeans) change Draco’s mind quickly enough.
Prince Simon Snow has been struck down by an inevitable curse, only reversible through true love’s kiss. But when his betrothed, Agatha, is unable to break the spell, all measures are taken- including calling in renowned magician Basilton Pitch.
The ball is lovely, but Basil has other plans for his evening.
You are surrounding all my surroundings
Sounding down the mountain range of my left-side brain
You are surrounding all my surroundings
Twisting the kaleidoscope behind both of my eyes
And I’ll be holding onto you
The lights were dim and music was rising in waves from some unseen orchestra behind well-placed curtains. Baz thought perhaps the sound came from somewhere above, and he glanced up, but was greeted only with high, white ceilings. He took a deep breath and fiddled with the collar of his suit. It was scratching him, so he popped it up. Walking past one of the many windows, he caught sight of himself and gasped. His hair looked sleek and posh. The suit was a lovely color on him, as promised, and the popped collar gave him a little bit of extra edge, an air of cockiness he wanted to hold onto. The room was sparsely populated, and he was one of the only people in it, but he knew that with a thousand people there, he’d still be the best looking man. Not in a vain way- in fact, the thought shocked him, and he tried to shake it from his head. He stared into the mirror, steadying himself against the constant flow of people now at the door.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” a pretty young girl with a ridiculous amount of hair cascading down her back in frighteningly long, ginger waves said, examining Baz’s widened eyes. “I’m Elspeth.” She held out her hand for a shake. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he mumbled absently, kissing her hand out of pure habit. She giggled.
“I do so like your suit.” Her voice had a strange, foreign lilt to it. Baz wondered vaguely if she was from some other country. He found he couldn’t make himself focus on the details of her face without wanting to yawn, and he felt a bit bad about it. Still, he tried to keep his face impassive.
“Thank you,” he replied with a bob of his head. He felt his ribbon loosen, but didn’t bother tightening it again.
“Would you care to dance?” Elspeth asked, a blush rising to her cheeks. Baz stared a minute before the words hit him. He shrugged, uncaring, and then nodded. Why not. He took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor, trying to ignore the abundance of ogling eyes.
“You know,” she said, leaning in. Her tone implied gossip. “All my friends wanted to ask you to dance. But I was the only one brave enough to do it. They all said you looked too posh to dance with any of us. Are you a prince?”
Baz was stunned. “No, I’m not.”
“Surely you must be!” Elspeth seemed shocked. Baz shook his head, intrigued for a moment by something he saw out of the corner of his eye. A recognizable princess, Trixie, her dark hair piled atop her head, dancing with some other girl quite intimately. Both their eyes gleamed, and Baz held back a chuckle. He resisted the urge to give her a salute. She was bolder than him already.
“Oh, don’t bother with them,” Elspeth said dismissively, following his gaze. “I’m sure they’ll up and marry each other.”
“If that’s what they’d like to do,” Baz said, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He felt his cheeks burn with shame.
“You can’t mean that!” She protested, but the song was over. Bas shrugged. “Again?” Her tone was hopeful. Baz explained that he had something to attend to, ignoring her crestfallen face, and sauntered off to clear his mind.
Why had no one cared how openly Trixie was dancing with her partner? It was obvious that they were more than just friends. He recalled the desperate clench of fingers on Trixie’s waist, frilly fabric gathering in folds between them, and the adoring smile playing on Trixie’s own lips. They’d gotten a few coy glances, but other than that, no one seemed to care. And Trixie was high up in royal standings, too! She’d be next in line for some kind of throne after her older sister. Why wasn’t she held to the same standards as Prince Simon? Why was the prince in such need of a female companion if Trixie wasn’t being forced to attend the ball with a male suitor? Were they all just in denial about Trixie’s true feelings? But no, there had to at least be rumors. Elspeth had said so.
Anger curled in his stomach like a knot, and he worked the strings to try and get it out. He seemed only able to pull it tighter. Was it because they were girls, and Simon was a boy? Not just a boy, a man- capable of making his own decisions. How come it was so wrong if his decisions merited ruling with another king by his side? But Baz was getting ahead of himself. Simon was, after all, straight, as far as he knew. Any rumor otherwise he would have heard, he was certain, and he’d heard no such thing.
Baz tried to go back out to the main part of the ball, but the pretty music seemed headache inducing, the high ceilings dizzying, the sparkling dresses blinding. Even the handsome men and the good food seemed rather unappealing. He didn’t realize he was headed to his and Simon’s room until he was at the door. He wondered if he should knock, then decided he didn’t need to.
What he saw did not make him feel any better.
This was all wrong, all wrong, Simon decided. This wasn’t his Dream Boy, for sure. The lips on his own were too full and too soft, the hand cupping the side of his face to small. Hair fluttered onto his face and reeked of strawberries. Dream Boy smelled distinctly like cedar and bergamot, with a hint of woodsmoke. And this kiss was too eager, too inexperienced, yet too rehearsed. He wasn’t at all disappointed when the kisser retreated.
This had been happening all night. Unfamiliar people all kissing him, intrusive and alien. He disliked it. It had been a little while since he admitted to himself, a bit reluctantly, that Dream Boy was the only one he’d like to be kissing.
And just like that, here he was. Simon’s heart soared somewhere near his throat, and he fought not to choke on it. Was it possible that Dream Boy would be among the kissers? He held his breath with anticipation.
It was like their minds worked in synch. Baz needed an excuse to clear the room, and Simon gave him one. “Everyone out,” he shouted, shoving aside the disheveled and greatly disappointed girl, as well as the shocked overseer. “He’s not breathing. Let me take care of this, I’m a doctor.” The room was vacated quickly, but for a lone courtier, who asked if Baz wanted him to send for more help.
It was almost like Simon’s voice was telling Baz no, a soft whisper in his ear. “No need. This is standard protocol, just leave me to it and he’ll be fine.” The courtier nodded, unconvinced, but left.
Everything was still. Time seemed to have ceased, and silence hung in the air like it had been draped there on purpose. Baz felt himself holding his breath as well, just as Simon exhaled. He had to try this, if only once. He had to at least see what would happen, confirm what he already knew- that Simon wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly wake up. Baz didn’t know much, but he knew one thing at this moment- there was no alternative. If he didn’t kiss the golden boy, his insides would burst into flames.
It was no use either way, because he melted anyway when he leaned his forehead against Prince Simon’s and the prince let out a happy little sigh. Shaky, ever so shaky, Baz brushed his fingertips against the prince’s face, letting himself trace the moles from the corner of his nose to his jaw to his earlobe and his neck. Simon shuddered. Goosebumps trailed his arms and legs. Baz kept his one finger moving steadily, up and down his constellation-path, as he got a bit closer. Their noses touched now.
Simon seemed to be trembling, though he didn’t so much as move. Perhaps the entire world was simply trembling with the weight of what Baz was about to do. He placed his other hand on one of Simon’s broad shoulders and rubbed against the fabric of his dark blue top. It was gorgeous, as deep as the night sky. Baz imagined that was exactly what Simon’s eyes would look like- deep and mysterious and romantic, with twinkling lights hidden behind them for the people he trusted to see them.
Baz inhaled, deep, catching the apples-and-sweat scent of Simon’s hair. Even his lungs felt unsure and tense. The air he sucked down was made of desire. His lips quivered. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t make himself-
Simon jutted up his chin.
Done in one’s sleep, it would be an innocent gesture. A tick, a twitch, an inconsequential bit of nothing.
It had to be an accident.
Simon couldn’t have wanted their lips to be touching now.
Certainly he didn’t intend for it to happen.
It didn’t matter now, anyway, whether he’d done it on purpose or not. Because it had happened. It was still happening. Simon’s lips were soft as butter, Baz’s hard like ice. They molded into each other like two separate pieces of the same broken thing. It was a moment Baz could have held onto forever- perfect, unchanging, immutable. Brilliant.
And then he felt Simon’s hand clutching at his hair- and the moment broke open and spilled.
I was trying to explain to my father about how epic British comedy is, and I used this as an example. Though, it’s something you have to actually watch to get the full effect. My English major friends will also like this.
The Doctor held Rose tightly to him as he navigated their way through the gaps on the ballroom floor, afraid that if he let her go she’d stumble over her own feet. Her arms were looped around his neck, and his were around her waist, and they weren’t strictly speaking doing the same dance as everyone else. He bent his head, resting his cheek against hers. “You’ve completely forgotten how angry you are with me, haven’t you?” he whispered in her ear.