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#body heat 1981
falsenote · 2 years
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zabadimilk · 10 months
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Body Heat 1981
Lawrence Kasdan
مشاهد الحب في الفيلم ده من احسن مشاهد الحب اللي شوفتها في الافلام, تجسيد للرغبة وسخونة الاجساد وتفاعلها مع بعضها بشكل حقيقي
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istitutofemminile · 2 years
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Domandare è lecito, rispondere è cortesia.
Onore e gloria a 7Gold che giovedì sera 28 luglio alle 23.30 trasmetterà 'Brivido caldo', noir anni '80 diretto da Lawrence Kasdan
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miguelmarias · 2 years
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mudwerks · 1 year
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(via Greenbriar Picture Shows: Film Noir #16)
BODY HEAT (1981)
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randomcapz · 9 months
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Body Heat (1981).
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al3mda · 4 months
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Body Heat (1981) - Lawrence Kasdan
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llhmua · 8 months
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voguefashion · 2 years
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William Hurt and Kathleen Turner in a publicity photo for Body Heat, 1981.
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rustedhearts · 1 year
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Severed Lamb Part I: Blessed Be (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)
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summary: your visit home for the summer comes with a handsome new preacher, who takes a special liking to you.
uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.
♰ the steve collection ♰
♰ part ii: poor thing ♰
warnings: religious imagery/trauma, manipulation, abuse of power, age-gap (reader is 19, steve is 35), allusions to child abuse (you gotta squint, but the mom does some icky shit), mention of death/parent loss.
author's note: some dark stuff happening in this series, y'all, so read the warnings and take them seriously! i’m not responsible for your internet-intake. for the sake of this fic, i’ve given you (the reader) the name delilah (because 'y/n' just looks ugly and ruins my vibe). also delilah is a ballerina.
♰ Wyndgate, Georgia June 1981 ♰
The Georgian heat was insufferable.
A stiff, sticky heat that swells in your hair and bloats your cheeks. It made wading through the overgrown field of your childhood backyard a miserable task. But your mother requested fresh cherries from the tree, and you weren't one to deny your mother of her needs. You carried the old porcelain bowl, hand-painted with delicate lilacs, toward the tree in the distance, smacking off mosquitos and shooing away flies as you went.
When you reached the tree, you set the bowl on the ground and began to climb. The bark of the trunk felt just as it did when you were a child: solid, rough, mossy sandpaper against your palms. You wiped off the bark fragments on your denim shorts and began to pluck. Years of picking cherries gave you a keen eye for the ripest selections: plump, gleaming swells of red. You shoved a few into your cheeks before sliding down to fill the bowl.
The bowl was half-full and your stomach was full of cherry stem knots by the time you headed back toward the house. Birds chirped their evening goodbyes in the trees chasing the horizon line. Cicadas shook their wings and crickets rubbed their legs to make a chittering symphony. Just beyond the looming oak trees, the sun began to fade into a blur of gold and pink. The clouds looked like they were delicately etched by hand.
"Those for anybody?"
You jumped, hands slipping around the porcelain bowl clutched against your stomach at the sound of a deep voice before you. You steadied, tightened your grip, and settled your gaze upon the figure standing in front of you—a man. A handsome man. A crop of fluffy chestnut hair, a set of round copper eyes, a perfectly-sloped, straight nose, and a set of properly pink lips. Around his neck, he wore an intricate silver chain. Within the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you spotted the glint of a small cross.
The man raised his brows, and you licked over your cherry-stained lips.
"N-No, sir, these are...these are for my mother. I got them from our tree, just there," you explained, turning to point toward your tree a few feet back.
The man followed your direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown slacks. Your throat bobbed with a swallow when his eyes roamed back toward you—your cheeks burned at the way they rolled over your skim-clothed body.
You weren't expecting company today, and usually the field behind your house was empty, seeing as it was private property. Nobody ventured into each other's properties...except him. Your denim shorts and thin-strapped camisole gave way to the shapes and curves of your body not suited for a man's eye. But what really caught this man's eye was not the way your breasts spilled from your top, or the way your thighs strained against the denim squeezed around them—but the cross resting below the dip in your collarbone. Gold, elegant, clearly hand-crafted for you.
A child of God. A beautiful lamb.
"Surely you can spare one for a lonesome stranger? I've traveled a long way," he cooed.
His voice was smooth and sweet. He had a way of talking and tipping his head all at once that made you feel like he was telling you a bedtime story. You found your fingers dipping into the bowl and plucking two cherries before your mind could catch up. Your hand brushed his as he collected them in his palm, and you followed his fingers as they approached his mouth.
"Mmm," he hummed around the sweet juices in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth and the inside of his cheek. "Sweet."
But his eyes were on you. They twinkled against the low-setting sun, golden light washing over him. You weren't entirely sure he was real, in that moment.
"I'll see you around." He passed by, curling two fingers gently around your elbow before he walked off toward the property next door.
♰ ♰
But that Sunday, you knew for a fact he was real.
The man from the field, the man that left you two cherries short and the recipient of a scolding from your mother, was standing just below the podium at the old evangelical church on Mulberry. Clasping the hands of bright-eyed women bearing crosses, bending into a gentle, respectful bow. Firmly returning the shake of balding men that were already sweating through their nicest shirts, still greased from a day's work at the auto shop. Crouching to cast a straight-toothed, dazzling smile at children not yet tall enough to reach the pews without climbing.
All the air in your lungs seemed to get caught in your throat as you approached him, arm looped through your mother's. Your Mary Janes clunked against the floor of the aisle, and your eyes sought something, anything, other than his handsome face waiting for you ahead.
"Ah, you must be Loraine."
His voice. It sounded just as it did that day in the field—sweet, smooth, like honey from the comb.
"Well now, how did you know that?" your mother giggled, reaching up to fluff her hair beneath her elaborately atrocious hat.
You curled your fingers into a fist behind your back, blunt nails digging into your palm. Your dress, pale yellow and dappled with embroidered daisies, suddenly felt too tight around your waist. Your mother tied it herself in the mirror this morning, pulling until it cinched so tightly that you could practically see the waistband of your underwear. There, now you look like a young lady.
"I've heard such wonderful things about your fashionable hats." He didn't have an accent. At least, not like the Georgians did.
He sounded more like they did in Pennsylvania, where you went to school. They had a certain way about over-pronouncing their vowels that made it clear they were Yankees—
"And this must be your daughter."
His eyes set upon you, and a full-bodied shiver ran down your spine. Your stomach clenched, and your mother squeezed her arm around yours a little tighter until you turned to meet his eye. She grinned toothily beside you, leaning to press your heads together. Her soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek. You could smell the cigarettes still on her teeth from the car ride over. The man was looking at you with a half-mouthed smile that made you swallow.
He was so handsome. Too handsome for a preacher. Too handsome for Wyndgate.
"This is my baby girl, Delilah. Ain't she pretty?" Your mother reached behind your neck to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her pink nails scraped against the nape of your neck like a chalkboard.
"She's a ballerina, up in Pennsylvania. Came back to visit her Mama for the summer. Ain't that right, Lilah?"
You let your eyes touch the man's chin. The faintest collection of stubble gathered around his jaw. A mocha-colored mole kissed his neck. He watched you intently, hands suddenly returning to his black slacks like they did that day in the field. He donned all black today, and it made his eyes look golden. Under the fluorescents of the church, he glowed like something divine. He looked so young.
"Yes," you whispered.
His hand slipped from his pocket, a gentle whooshing sound. First, he clasped your mother's hand, giving it a delicate bob—and then he reached for yours. You didn't wait for your mother to nudge you, reaching out and slipping your fingers along his palm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles and your spine straightened. A terrible ache gathered between your thighs. You hadn't felt an ache like that since prom night, when Tommy Baker kissed you against his truck in the gymnasium parking lot.
"It's lovely to meet the both of you. Everyone's been so lovely to me, welcoming me into your congregation."
He spread his arms, palms upended, and motioned toward the church. Everyone was getting seated, shuffling about in the rickety old pews, murmuring amongst themselves about the handsome new preacher and his funny voice. In your periphery, you could see the young girls fanning themselves with pamphlets frantically. Mid-morning light blared through the stained glass and cast a violet rainbow over his cheek.
A kiss from God. Wyndgate talked for weeks about how God delivered His handsomest angel to them by hand.
You slipped away from the preacher and wandered toward your designated pew, sliding in beside your mother, tucked against the end. You carefully placed your bible on your knees and adjusted your dress, just as the podium creaked against the man's weight. He spread his arms again, like he was waiting to ascend and welcome in Heaven.
"Welcome, all, I'm Pastor Steve. What a beautiful day to celebrate our Lord, isn't it, church?"
And as the pews murmured their joyous agreement, Pastor Steve's eyes cut over to you. He grinned a half-cocked grin. You didn't know, if standing there behind the podium, was a gift sent from God, or a trick from the devil.
♰ ♰
Before he died, your Daddy converted the old hay barn in the backyard into a dance studio. Floor length mirrors covered nearly every inch of the wooden walls, hand-sawed lengths of log through their middle for balance bars. He hand-crafted all of it for you as a birthday gift just before you went to high school.
When he died, it became your only solace. A place of solitude, of lulling quiet—it was the only place you could think. Twirling on the top of your pointe shoe, watching the room spin and blur while you snatched armfuls of air, fingers delicately tapped together—it was your form of relaxation.
You left the barn door open today, letting the sticky heat billow in. It breezed over your bare arms and legs like a gentle whisper as you rotated and pranced around the room. Your elegant gold cross, a permanent token fixed around your neck, swinging in the air with every turnout.
"You always dance like this?"
A shriek left your mouth like a siren. You shot your foot out to put you at a hard stop, heaving for air and staring Pastor Steve straight in the face. He was leaning on the barn door, arms crossed, the toe of his leather loafer pressed to the shiny wooden floor. His church clothes abandoned, he donned a pair of brown slacks and a blue button down—crisp, pleated, rolled at the elbows. His silver chain glimmered in the soft glow of the evening light behind him.
"You alright?" he asked.
You blinked, hands finding your hips, cheeks burning. You swallowed, bobbing your head. Wisps of hair flounced against your forehead. From across the barn, Steve's eyes licked over your pale pink attire, your sweat-slick limbs, naked and bared for him. He found the cross resting above your breast and tipped his head to admire it.
“Y-yeah, m’ alright. Can I…what are you doin’ here?”
Steve took his lip between his teeth. His chin tipped down, eyes blaring through thick lashes to watch you reach for a water bottle on the floor. Your gold cross caught the sun like a beacon. He couldn’t look away from it. It glowed around your neck. You were divine beauty, a perfect little lamb. He knew it the moment he saw you scaling that cherry tree the other day. He knew it the moment he saw you floating down the church aisle like a bride. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.
God sent him to Georgia for you.
“Your mother,” Steve said, straightening up. He’d been staring too long. “I heard she’s the only woman in town that knows how to fix my robe the right way.”
You nodded along in agreement. Your mother was a talented seamstress—she could fix even the worst tear and make it look brand new. But you didn’t see a robe with him, and as your eyes flickered around to find it, Pastor Steve cracked a smile.
“It’s in my car,” he said.
You flashed a small, tight-lipped smile. Your cheeks swelled with more heat. His voice was so smooth and soft. It tickled your ears like a melody.
“Oh,” you murmured meekly.
Silence filled the barn. In the yard, birds twittered, and the chickens in your neighbor’s pen a few yards down clucked nosily. Steve continued to tip his head and inspect you. You swallowed again, bringing your hands to clasp together behind your back, and tapped your ratty pointe shoes together on the floor. Your good shoes were back at school, on rental for the semester. You scrubbed floors and cleaned the mirrors every night after class just to afford to keep them. Without the scholarship you earned, you wouldn’t be able to afford to dance at all.
“Um, I should probably head inside,” you piped up, rising to the tops of your toes only to press back down again.
Steve watched you closely for another moment. Everything about the way you moved made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was thrilling, the way you spun and twirled, the way you walked like you were airless. You were graceful, just like a swan.
You clutched your water to your chest and shuffled toward the corner where your sneakers waited. You opted to hook your fingers in their soles instead of changing—something about the way Pastor Steve followed your every move made you tremble and squirm, and you were desperate to get into the cool confines of your room and avoid his pretty stare.
You lifted your head and cast another small smile that had him clenching.
“Have a nice day, Pastor.”
Oh and your voice. Hushed, delicate, meek. You always sounded like you were delivering a line written by Shakespeare himself. It sent shivers down Steve’s spine, that voice.
You brushed past him in a breeze—a whiff of sweet sweat and rose soap—and Steve broke out of his daydream to catch a glimpse of the nape of your neck. With your hair pulled away from it, your neck looked enticing—a patch of clammy skin, braced with the fragile, glimmering golden rope of your necklace.
“Mhm,” Steve hurriedly hummed, lifting off the door of the barn as you sweepingly turned the corner toward the house. “See you inside.”
And as hard as you tried to avoid it, you did see him inside.
You hurriedly showered and scurried into your room as your mother extended her southern hospitality—soon, the lace dining cloth was covered in glasses of freshly-brewed sweet tea and bowls of cherries.
You sat down at the cushioned stool of your vanity and smoothed cream over your damp face, listening carefully to the murmur of your mother and Pastor Steve’s voices on the other side of the wall. Her laugh was over-joyous and sickeningly sweet, and you heard your name mentioned far too frequently for your liking.
Dressed in a breezy sundress, you settled down on your bed beside the open window, letting in a warm wind that fluttered your drapes, and cracked open an old favorite from your tiny shelf—Anne of Green Gables. You turned to the bookmarked page, letting the breeze from the window and the wind from the ceiling fan cool down your skin, still buzzing with thrumming warmth from your spinning in the barn and Pastor Steve’s heavy gaze.
But every turn of the page came with a glimpse of his eyes in your mind. A hazel color, big and round and penetrative. They followed you like they were pinned to the back of your head. You felt the weight of that gaze all through Sunday’s sermon, and again while you fidgeted in the barn. He was always watching. And something about the way he looked at you made you feel…special. Special in a way you didn’t feel back at school, or anywhere previously in Wyndgate where all the girls who got attention were slender and blonde and giggly.
But to Pastor Steve, you were something worth looking at. And a man of God’s approval, his praise, mattered most of all.
“Lilah! Lilah, come set Pastor Steve a place for dinner!”
Your mother’s voice washed over you like a cold drip, and your book fell from your hands to your floral quilt. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again, cursing under your breath as you shuffled toward the edge of the mattress. Bare legs dangling over, your hand flew to your chest to rub the cross between your knuckles in search of comfort. In the living room, the deep rumble of Pastor Steve’s voice made your stomach squirm.
“Oh, Lord,” you whispered pleadingly, eyes turning toward the portrait of Jesus in a frame above your bed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me.”
Don’t make me go out there. He’s so handsome.
“Lilah Anne! I’m not callin’ you again,” your mother’s voice was just on the other side of the door, and a harsh knock followed after.
The door flew open, and you bounced off the bed. Flustered, you watched your mother sigh and ease the door into a crack behind her. She tiptoed toward you, checking over your appearance as she went.
“Lilah, he’s a very important man. I want you to use our nice plates. The ones with the bluebells, alright?”
You bobbed your head furiously. The back of your dress started to cling to your spine. You reached behind to pluck it away, give your skin some air to breathe, and your mother grabbed your arm. She leaned in close, and you knew by the purse of her lips what was coming next:
“Make yourself real pretty, alright? Pastor Steve is such a nice man,” she gushed.
She pinched your cheek and patted the skin, and your chest tightened as the back of her head disappeared through the door. When it closed, you spun around and walked toward the mirror, standing tall in the corner of your room. There you stood, pulling at your pale blue dress, frowning at your bare arms and legs. But Mama would want them like that, on display for Pastor Steve to see. Just like all those times when her friends came over. She’d bring them home from the bar and introduce you in the living room, and you always sat in a chair in the corner, pretending not to understand what it meant when they kept calling you “a sure thing.”
But Pastor Steve was different. Pastor Steve was a man of God. He’d never stray from God’s guidance.
So, you neatly plaited your hair and swept it over your shoulder. You rubbed strawberry chapstick over your lips and nose, and delicately placed your unfinished book on the nightstand for later. The ceiling fan hummed absently over your empty bed.
You gathered the plates—the gleaming porcelain with the hand-painted bluebells—from the china cabinet, and cleared the clutter from the table to fix it for dinner. All the while, as you bent to place silverware beside each place, you gazed beneath your arm over toward the living room. Pastor Steve stood, arms out, in the center of the wood-paneled room. Your mother knelt before him, working her needle through the hole in his deep, swampy green robe. The crosses embroidered on the fabric were golden and shiny.
His head turned, a strand of hair catching over his eye, and you ducked away toward the fridge. Yanking it open, you relished in the cool air blowing from the vent in the buzzing white light of its confinement.
"...should be all ready to—Lilah Anne, what on earth are you doin' in there?"
You hurriedly slammed the fridge closed, rattling the bread box on top and the glass condiments on the inside shelf—and standing on the other side of the table, was a furrow-browed mother and a perfectly well-stitched Pastor Steve. The latter flashed you a boyish grin, and your cheek burned as you looped your fingers together behind your back.
"I set the table like you said, Mama," you murmured softly, tipping your head toward the wooden table, adorned with its white lace cloth and bluebell plates.
Steve followed your gaze, admiring your organized layout. Your mother merely glanced, otherwise focused on the neatness of your braid. She swept the end of it over your shoulder to drape down your arm as she passed by, heading toward the fridge to grab yesterday’s chicken.
"I was just gonna heat up some of this chicken, is that alright, Pastor?"
You turned to the man anxiously, teeth pulling at the loose skin of your bottom lip. His loafers clunked against the tiled floor sharply, and you followed them all the way to the chair at the head of the table, a place set just for him. He placed his hand on the back of the chair—your Daddy's old chair—and set his eyes on you: neck bent, arms tucked behind your back, a picture of obedience and grace.
"That sounds wonderful, Loraine."
The chicken plate clattered on the counter. The tinfoil rustled and crinkled. The stovetop clicked, the pan sizzled. The kitchen became stiff with hot air, and the window squealed when your mother pushed it open. Outside, the cicadas were still chittering furiously. And you stood, exactly where you were, staring at the tops of your bare toes against the linoleum tile.
"Delilah, come sit with me."
Your head snapped up. Pastor Steve stood from the table and stepped to the left, pulling the chair from the table. He motioned toward it with a sweeping hand, and with a glance over your shoulder toward your nodding mother, you took small, timid steps over. You sank down, breath hitching when Pastor Steve came behind you to push the chair back in. His stomach firm against the back of your head, his hands big and warm on either side of your shoulders. They grazed your shoulder blades before he sat back down, and your body tingled with shivers.
A mere foot away from you, Pastor Steve was the closest he'd ever been. He placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. The round face of his watch glinted in the low-setting sun, a warm yellow light. The band of it was brown leather, like his shoes, and fit him well. His robe was gone now, folded neatly and placed on the stool beside the door where you sat to take your shoes off. But he didn't seem concerned about it—his eyes were set on you.
"Your mother tells me your father passed a few years ago."
Your heart squeezed. You paused, eyes turning toward your mother's figure at the stove. She didn't like to talk about your Daddy very much. When she did, her words were usually biting and cruel. To her, he was a "lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch." But to you, your Daddy was the sun and moon.
You nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. When I was fifteen."
Pastor Steve hummed.
"That musta been hard, especially at that age. I lost my father, too."
Your head tipped up. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of your eyes, peeking through your lashes, blinking up at him. Your cheeks were the loveliest shade of pink.
"Really?"
He nodded. "Mhm. I was twelve."
Your lips instinctually pulled into a frown. Before you could reply, your mother squawked from the stove:
"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry for your loss," she drawled.
But Pastor Steve's eyes never left yours. In fact, they were glued to you. And his hand, cupped around his jaw, fell to the table with a quiet thump. Your eyes flittered toward it, watching it slither across white lace. It came to a stop beside your plate, flipping to place his knuckles against the table, palm upended.
"I understand your pain, Delilah," he murmured.
Taking a deep breath in, you slipped your fingers into his waiting hand. It closed around your knuckles, holding your fingers to his palm in a soothing embrace. You met his gaze cautiously, heart thumping in your throat. Pastor Steve's eyes were soft and round like a puppy-dog's, brows furrowed in shared sympathy.
"God understands your pain. And though loss may lead us astray, we must stay strong, and put our trust in the Lord," he preached, voice smooth like whiskey. When a small smile touched your face, Pastor Steve mirrored it. "He'll take us exactly where we need to be."
The last sentiment was whispered, a shared secret between the two of you. His smile slipped sideways, another boyish image of the man before you, and a burst of endearment flooded your chest at the sight of him in your father's chair. You found yourself clinging to his words, replaying them in your head, etching them into your memory to grasp onto forever. And while you pondered, wading in the charming ease of his demeanor, Steve brought his hand under the table, and ran the length of his knuckles across your knee.
During dinner, he conversed with your mother about the historical society, the women's church group, the annual fundraiser at the end of the summer. Every few moments, his hand would brush your knee beneath the table. Each time your head turned to question it, he passed you a lopsided smile. It was comforting, that handsome smile. God will take you exactly where you need to be, Delilah.
Your mother packed him a Tupperware container of cherry pie to take home, and he gathered it atop his sewn robe as he headed toward the door.
"Thank you again," he cooed to your mother, whose smile was blinding.
"Oh, don't mention it, Pastor, we're lucky to have you. Lilah, why don't you walk Pastor Steve out, it gets real dark out back this time a' night."
Your mother pinched the back of your arm when you turned to protest, and you hurriedly stepped toward the door to obey. Pastor Steve flashed a tight-lipped smile at your mother, and swung the door open. The screen door groaned on its rusty hinges when he pushed it, and the sticky heat instantly sought home in the kitchen. You floated through the open doorway past his waiting figure, hands clasped behind your back once more, bare feet scuffing over the chipped paint of the porch.
You walked languidly, but with a refinement to your posture and an upturn of your nose that Steve adored. He watched you as you trailed along beside him, rustling through the grass like rabbit, quiet and small. His car was waiting in the drive around the barn. The license plate was from Indiana.
"Why'd you move away from Indiana?"
You don't know why you asked. The words came tumbling from your mouth like they were exorcised, wretched from somewhere deep inside. It must’ve been the Southern meddler swarming inside you. But Pastor Steve just smiled that boyish, sideways smile, and shrugged.
"I wanted a change of scenery."
You nodded approvingly, coming to a stop at the hood of the car. Pastor Steve scuffled to a halt right after, turning to gaze down at you, still clasping his chicken and green robe. You swallowed, and he watched your face twist with worry. He frowned, brows furrowing.
"What's wrong, Delilah?"
You chewed on the inside of your lip, gazing down at the tops of his shoes.
"Mama...did she say anything cruel about my daddy? They...didn't always get along."
Steve inhaled deeply. Your father. That was your soft spot. Like every fruit, you had a bruise—a soft spot, where he knew, if he pushed with just the right amount of pressure, you would burst.
Pastor Steve took a step closer.
"Don't worry, Delilah, I don't believe a word. I can see how much you loved him."
You nodded, tipping your head back to find his gaze again. His lips were plump and red from the pie.
"You know," he said, cocking his head again. "If you ever need to talk or just get out of the house, you can always come visit me at the church. I'm a great listener."
You grinned shyly. "Thank you, Pastor. I...haven't been to confession in...too long," you admitted lightly.
Steve shrugged airily.
"Oh, that's alright. God leads us exactly where we need to be, remember?"
You nodded quickly. "Right."
The sky had darkened to an inky indigo. In this great big clearing, flanked with bushels of dense oak trees, the stars were on full display. Steve could take count of every single one if he wanted to. But all he could do, in this great Southern expanse, was look at you.
His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed.
"You're a beautiful dancer," he mused.
You flushed, ducking bashfully. In the back of your head, your mother's voice rang: men like weak and fragile. Men like women that bend to their will. Maybe if you bent, if you weakened, Pastor Steve would see how good you are, and in the eyes of the Lord, that was all that mattered.
All that mattered was that you were good, and kind, and lovable. That's all you wanted.
"Thank you, Pastor."
Pastor Steve's watch caught the moonlight as he brought his hand to your forehead. There, he swiped a stray wisp of hair from your lashes, shaken loose from your braid. He guided it behind your ear, where his hand slipped to fondle your delicate braid. The length of it glided through his palm like a snake. He watched it fall through his grasp while your breath became shallow.
"God's finest work."
Your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You beamed at the praise, glowing beneath his approving gaze. Steve, noticing the way you perked at his gentle, murmured tone, how you leaned into his coaxing validations, gave it a little push. His hand came to your chin, which he cupped in a gentle hold to pull you up. You allowed him to guide you, bringing your forehead to his mouth. There, he placed a gentle kiss.
When you settled back down on your heels, you gazed up at him dazedly.
"You are blessed, Delilah. God has a very special place for you in his heart."
Your throat bobbed with another swallow. His thumb pressed into your chin. His eyes roamed your parted lips.
"And I think," Steve whispered, chest heaving, "he sent me here to make sure of it."
♰ ♰
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mcflymemes · 6 months
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PROMPTS FROM BODY HEAT 🔥 *  assorted dialogue from the 1981 film, adjust as necessary
my god, it's hot.
i want you with me.
i got a serious question for you. what the fuck are you doing?
i have to be with you.
i've lived so much of my life with nothing.
i'm going to make it up to you tonight, but you must behave.
you and me. your body near mine, close. i'm not right when you're not with me. i get the shakes.
i wouldn't mind having breakfast.
you've had your fun.
don't test my patience for even five more minutes.
i think i've underestimated you. i don't know why it took me so long.
this is beneath even you.
i would have gladly come to the house.
i'm not looking for company.
you're not too smart, are you? i like that in a man.
how about i buy you a drink?
i would have noticed you.
me? i need tending. i need someone to take care of me. rub my tired muscles. smooth out my sheets.
i just need it for tonight.
i asked you not to talk about the heat.
you don't want to lick it?
look who's here. isn't this a coincidence?
do i remind you of hot air?
i'm not that eager.
how'd you know i drink?
you shouldn't have come. you're going to be disappointed.
you must come here a lot.
maybe you shouldn't dress like that.
i don't like my body much. it's never been right.
sometimes... i don't know. i get so sick of everything. i'm not sure i care anymore. do you know what i mean?
i'm not looking for trouble.
i mean it. i like you. but my life is complicated enough.
i think you should go now.
i don't think you want me to go.
there's nothing to be afraid of.
you're not so tough after all, are you?
i didn't want this to happen. but i didn't try hard enough to stop it... because i wanted you.
i wanted you here, like this. this is bad for me.
now nothing's going to be the same anymore.
jesus, i think you're right. you better be on the bottom.
no one must know. promise me, [name]. no one.
hey, wanna make love?
what do you take me for?
don't you like it?
i want to be in bed.
is that all you ever think about?
you've never been shy about that stuff.
please don't say it if you don't mean it.
tell me the truth, please. i'll understand. i swear to you.
from now on, when it starts coming down on you... i'll be there to protect you.
come to me.
it scares me to talk about these things.
that's what you want, isn't it?
maybe you should let me do it for you.
that's the way it is. there's nothing we can do about it.
i'm going downstairs. do you want anything?
all that matters is we're together.
no, darling. don't talk that way.
get the hell out of here and don't come back.
i don't blame you for thinking i'm bad.
you must believe one thing. i love you. i love you and need you. i want to be with you forever.
you imagined it.
i tried to make it up to you.
is there something wrong with your phone?
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istitutofemminile · 2 years
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C'è una qualche possibilità di vedere 'Brivido caldo' in TV?
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kiwi2229 · 7 months
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Reaching for
(Sirius Black / Remus Lupin | 896 words)
CW: Sirius' trauma from Azkaban
Sirius is wearing Remus’ jumper and trousers. Remus had to lend them to him since he doesn’t own anything anymore. Not even clothes. Not after Azkaban. He is sitting on the floor his back pressed against the sofa. Remus is right next to him. Both of them are breathing heavily as the silence stretches between them. They’ve been arguing for days since Sirius showed up at Remus’ flat. The arguments were vicious. Anger and pain are powering every word, every raised voice.
When the rage subsides, Sirius is left empty. He is tired of fighting. Fighting to escape Azkaban, to live on a street for almost a year, to look for his former friend. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He just wants to sleep. He is so tired. Everything in him screams to give up. But one look at his friend, the love of his life, keeps him going. He will fight for Remus. To have him in his life again. It’s worth it. He is worth it.
Remus looks at him and sights. He gets up silently urging Sirius to do the same. He has no idea what is happening. Usually, their fights end up with one of them storming out. But today it was different and Remus waited for him. “I’m tired Sirius. I don’t want to fight, we’ve both given up so much already, been through too much. You just got back after twelve years. And I don’t want to fight. I just want to be with you.”
They both know that this is not how it works. But it’s what they both want and maybe that’s enough. “Me too, Moons.”
Remus gives him a tired smile. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” He stretches his arm out offering his hand to Sirius to take it. It’s the first time Remus suggested they will share a bed. Until now Sirius was sleeping on the sofa alone.
He stares at the hand. Aching to take it but terrified at the same time. No one touched him in thirteen years. Not without the intention of hurting him. Not, accept the embrace with Remus in the shrieking shack a year ago. But that’s tainted by Peter being there. Everything happened so fast that Sirius doesn’t even remember the embrace. Not fully, not how it felt to be held by someone.
Since the Halloween of 1981, every touch was meant to punish him. And Remus is standing here with sincerity in his eyes waiting for Sirius to do the simple thing and take his hand. But what if Sirius is so broken that even this touch will hurt? It would destroy him.
“Pads?” Remus asks confused taking a step closer. Sirius hates he instinctively takes a step back. “What’s wrong?”
Sirius bites his lower lip keeping it from trembling. “You don’t want to sleep in the bed with me? I’m sorry, I just thought… never mind.” Remus says quietly.
“I want to,” Sirius whispers his voice on the verge of breaking.
“So, what is it?”
Sirius wraps his arms around himself, one hooking over his elbow and the other on his side. Holding himself together. Protecting the only thing he has left, his body. Destroyed and broken, but still his. He is swiping his thumb over his skin in an attempt to soothe himself. It never really worked, but it was his only option. Remus is observing him. “Sirius?”
“No one touched me in thirteen years without hurting me,” Sirius admits embarrassed. He thinks how pathetic it sounds.
“I won’t hurt you,” Remus says, and Sirius can hear the hurt in his voice. He tries to smile at Sirius, but even Remus can’t hide the sadness. He holds out his hand once again and waits. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
It takes Sirius a long time to get his breathing under control. As he takes a step closer, his whole body is screaming at him. When he reaches for Remus, all he can hear in his mind is run. He pushes through. His fingers are hovering only inches above the palm of Remus’ hand. He can feel the heat coming from the other man. He holds his breath and lets his hand fall onto Remus’ who immediately closes his fingers around it.
Sirius was right. It hurts. It hurts so much he thinks he will die. His breath is caught in his throat turning into hot steam. It’s different from the pain he is used to. That one came from outside. This one is tearing him from the inside. It’s his broken soul crying. He forgot. He forgot how gentle touch feels.
His legs stopped working, and he is falling, his vision blurry. He feels a strong arm catch him right before he hits the floor. He knows it’s Remus. He flinches anyway.
“Sirius, Pads. I got you, okay? I won’t hurt you.” Remus keeps chanting. He holds Sirius close. His body is shaking. Every time Remus touches a new part of his body, he flinches. Remus tries to put some distance between them in worry he is making it worse for Sirius this way.
Sirius clings to him. “No, please don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” Remus reassures him, holding him close. Holding him together. For the first time in thirteen years, Sirius breaks down, and there is someone else to help put back the pieces.
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lovesongbracket · 1 year
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Reminder: Vote based on the song, not the artist or specific recording! The tracks referenced are the original artist, aside from a few rare cases where a cover is the most widely known.
Lyrics, videos, info, and notable covers under the cut. (Spotify playlist available in pinned post)
Work Song
Written By: Hozier
Artist: Hozier
Released: 2014
Alternate version included: Live in America, 2015
This is the only song on Hozier’s self titled album to have a title that is not entirely composed of lyrics from the song. The song is about the love of a worker’s life lending him strength during a hard day’s work. The song encompasses indie with strong influences on folk, blues and negro spirituals.
[Verse 1] Boys, workin' on empty Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? I just think about my baby I'm so full of love I could barely eat There's nothin' sweeter than my baby I'd never want once from the cherry tree 'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She give me toothaches just from kissin' me [Chorus] When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her [Verse 2] Boys, when my baby found me I was three days on a drunken sin I woke with her walls around me Nothin' in her room but an empty crib And I was burning up a fever I didn't care much how long I lived But I swear, I thought I dreamed her She never asked me once about the wrong I did [Chorus] When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her [Bridge] My babe would never fret none About what my hands and my body done If the Lord don't forgive me I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me When I was kissin' on my baby And she'd put her love down, soft and sweet In the low lamplight, I was free Heaven and hell were words to me [Chorus] When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her
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Lay All Your Love On Me
Written By: Björn Ulvaeus & Benny Andersson
Artist: ABBA
Released: 1981
Cover included: Amanda Seyfried & Dominic Cooper for Mamma Mia!, 2008
“Lay All Your Love On Me” explores the high emotions and passions that can emerge when falling in love, and documents one woman’s shift into erratic behaviors as she falls under the spell of her new lover. The song hit number one in the US dance charts in 1981, but has lasted in popularity over the years, becoming an ABBA staple. It was featured in the band’s jukebox musical (and its movie adaption), Mamma Mia, and in 2006 was named the 60th greatest dance song of all time by Slant magazine.
[Verse 1] I wasn't jealous before we met Now every woman I see is a potential threat And I'm possessive, it isn't nice You've heard me saying that smoking was my only vice [Pre-Chorus] But now it isn't true Now everything is new And all I've learned has overturned I beg of you [Chorus] Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me [Verse 2] It was like shooting a sitting duck A little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck I still don't know what you've done with me A grown-up woman should never fall so easily [Pre-Chorus] I feel a kind of fear When I don't have you near Unsatisfied, I skip my pride I beg you, dear [Chorus] Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me Don't go sharing your devotion Lay all your love on me [Verse 3] I've had a few little love affairs They didn't last very long and they've been pretty scarce I used to think that was sensible It makes the truth even more incomprehensible [Pre-Chorus] 'Cause everything is new And everything is you And all I've learned has overturned What can I do? [Chorus] Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me Don't go sharing your devotion Lay all your love on me Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me Don't go sharing your devotion Lay all your love on me Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me
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imaginefan · 12 days
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I'll Try *Part 6*
Damon Salvatore X Son!Reader Klaus Mikaelson X Male!Reader (Platonic)
Word Count: 1394
Requested: @emaz-0225
Request: Original Request
*Part 5*
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Damon stormed into the house he now shared with his mother and his brother, walking straight over to the bourbon pouring himself a glass. “Is there a problem?” Lily asked. “Yes there is, you know in 1981 my girlfriend got pregnant and instead of being there for her and raising a child, Dad made me and Stefan pretend that we knew nothing about that, the only help that I could give her was helping her get out of town after she had the baby. She didn’t even want my help then, I think her words were ‘you didn’t care when I was pregnant why do you care now.’ I don’t know what she did after that because I left and now (Y/N) hates me.” He explained, Lily looked at him for a second. “(Y/N) is your son?” He asked. “Yes, he wants nothing to do with me, no matter how much I try to tell him that I’m sorry and that I want to try and make it right.” Damon explained, she stood from where she was sitting on the sofa. “Damon Salvatore, you, Stefan and I are going to find your son and we are going to convince him that we want to help him because he is family and if you want a relationship with him then you have to keep trying it doesn’t matter how many times your ego gets beaten, you know that what happened between you and his mother has nothing to do with him and was the best way to make sure that everyone stayed safe.” Lily said.
You had been sitting in the courtyard with Davina, Rebekah and Freya, you were all talking and messing around when you felt a sharp heat travel through your body before the world around you began to fade, before long you were falling Rebekah caught you as Davina called out for Marcel, who found Klaus and Kol while you were moved to your room.
Damon, Lily and Stefan had just arrived in the french quarter, they were looking for someone who might know where Klaus and the others had decided to live, Stefan was the one that caught sight of Elijah moving through the quarter looking worried. “You look concerned, is this a bad time?” Damon asked. “Damon, Stefan and…” Elijah trailed. “Lily Salvatore.” She answered. “Pleasure we’re a little busy right now, someone is threatening the family again so I must take my leave.” Elijah said as he attempted to step around them. “It’s (Y/N) again isn’t it?” Damon asked. “You're all supposed to be the strongest beings on the planet and that boy still needs to be wrapped in bubble wrap, I was here to talk to him anyway might as well help.” Elijah didn’t have time to argue and figured that it would be nice to have a few bodies to throw in front of his family members should they need to. “Come on.” Elijah ordered
When they got back to the house, they found Hayley was sitting with you, gently running her fingers through your hair as she talked to you softly and wiped the sweat from your head. You were shaking and seemed to be mumbling to yourself, if they didn’t know that you were a vampire, they would have said that you had some kind of flu. Klaus stood on the other side of the room with Davina and Freya “Elijah explained quickly.” Klaus ordered. “I know what’s wrong with him.” Lily gasped and they all looked at her. “Talk quickly, your family outstayed their welcome the moment they stepped foot in the quarter.” Klaus warned her. “Jualian must have taken some of his blood, he’s probably the one that is doing this, it will kill him eventually, I know how to cure him but you probably won’t like it.” Lily explained. “I will do anything for him, he’s like a son to me.” Hayley said standing from where she was sitting not getting very far before you reached out to stop her. “Name your price to save my little fighter.” Klaus said eyes are still fixed on your form. “You will need to find the person that turned him, was that any of you?” Lily asked. “It was Katherine Pierce.” Damon answered. “We need to find her, everything else is here, we need the blood of your family and mine as well as the magic of the two witches here. That should be enough to force the curse back into the earth and away from him.” Lily explained. Klaus turned and walked over to you, he crouched in front of you. “Mum, it’s so cold.” You muttered, your eyes were still closed and Klaus took a deep breath before leaning closer to you. “(Y/N) we’ve got a way to get you better but we need this necklace for a while.” “Save them.” You mumbled, Kol walked over lifting your body and Klaus unclasped the necklace. Klaus stood with the necklace in hand as he turned back to Lily. “This had better work.” Damon’s eyes widened as he looked at the necklace in Klaus’ hands. “What?” “We saved up for that necklace for (Y/M/N) and (Y/N), it was worth every hit that I got afterwards.” Damon explained as he looked at the pendent with the birthstone still nestled in it above the engraving of your name. Stefan walked over to you and settled, he’d stay here while the others went to get everything that they needed. Rebekah walked in with Hope on her hip, she nodded at the Salvatores before turning to Klaus. “Cami just dropped her off, Josh is going to come and get her so we can keep looking for a way to help (Y/N).” Rebekah explained. “What are you two doing here anyway? Elena get boring?” There was a small smirk on your face, it seemed that you could here some things going on in the room but you seemed to go down hill again.
It took two hours for Freya and Davina to finish the spell, in that time you seemed to have fallen into a coma-like state, the only reassurance being that you were breathing, with much arguing Klaus, Damon and Lily had managed to get everything else that they needed. Lily pointed to both of them “you both need to feed him some of your blood to help him heal and will you stop fighting, there were circumstances that led us here but now he needs you both.” Lily looks at her sons “do you love (Y/N)?” “More than anything.” Damon answered without a thought. “Of course he’s my nephew.” Stefan answered before Damon and Klaus fed him a small amount of their blood, there was a shaky truce and everything was silent for a second before someone's phone started ringing. “Can a man heal in peace, answer the goddamn phone.” You ordered in a drowsy voice, eyes still not opening. “Hey Car, we’re kind of in the middle of something, (Y/N) almost died.” Silence for a second “yeah we managed to save him, he just needs some time to heal.” another second of silence. “I’ll tell him. Caroline said that she’s glad you're okay.” “Is she?” You asked “Damon, I swear to god if you don’t answer that phone!” “Damon, where have you been? I've been texting you for like 5 hours. We have a concert in 2 hours!” Elena said. “Elena, I’m in New Orleans with Stefan, I have a chance to make it up to (Y/N) I’m going to take it, he’s my flesh and blood, I failed him once I should have been in his life a long time ago.” Damon said. “Why did you do that? I thought you were in love with her.” You muttered arm thrown over your eyes. “You're my son, if she really loves me then she will understand and move past it.” Damon answered with a shrug. “Well that’s all great but just because we’ve agreed on a truce doesn’t mean you can stay in my home, you’ll need to find yourself a room somewhere, off you go.” Klaus waved the Salvatore’s off. “Look after my son.” Damon ordered. “Obviously.” Klaus answered as they left you to heal up, with the hope that things would better from here.
Requests and general question!
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goddesspharo · 3 months
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Tagged by @somethingaboutsewing to list my nine favorite first watch movies of last year. Since I had 426 first watches in 2023 (disappointingly low compared to previous years, but Nov/Dec was busy and then I watched the Haul out of the Holly sequel and it killed my desire to watch any further Hallmark Christmas movies), I just cherry-picked from my highest rated movies on Letterboxd for last year before the list got too annoying to scroll through.
9 favorite first watches of 2023:
Spider-man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023)
Psycho (1960)
Past Lives (2023)
MI: Dead Reckoning Part One (2023) - lol, I had no idea I gave this 4.5/5 but it was a fun advance screening
In the Mood for Love (2000)
Anatomy of a Fall (2023)
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret (2023)
Sanctuary (2022)
Body Heat (1981)
Notable movies that didn't make the cut because it only asked for nine, but I think are underappreciated: Strange Days (1995), the Michael J Fox documentary Still (2023), You Hurt My Feelings (2023).
Tagging: @earnmysong, @megalong, @at-thestillpoint, @dead-end-street, @nolita-fairytale, and anyone else who wants to do it!
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