Starring Role

"I am just a small girl in a big world trying to find someone to love." Saskia Vanderbilt. 24. Actress.

[king-windsor-blog]

He had been subjected to the mouths that couldn’t quite close and the questioning eyes and the whispered ‘oh my god’s since the moment he took his first steps out of the palace, but there was still nothing, nothing, for an ego like bringing a complete stranger to stuttered silence. Andrew inclined his head in lazy acknowledgement, smiling wryly. “That depends, who do you want me to be?” He had a line. He always had a line, whether he intended to or not.

The girl next to him wasn’t exactly his type, but desperation and boredom had settled in and he couldn’t possibly care less about something so… trivial. But— it had been a while since he had brought a girl back to his flat, especially one he had met in a club, even one as prestigious as the one he sat in now— primarily because he had gotten so bored of getting what he wanted. He would have to find his entertainment some other way. If she wouldn’t be his toy, he could still toy with her.

Subtly, he repositioned himself to face her, taking another sip of his gin, teasing smile still on his lips. “No rudeness, you haven’t posed any security threats or screamed so you’re leagues ahead of a few.” The prince reached out for her hand, to shake it. 

“Andrew, it’s a pleasure to meet you…?” he waited for her to fill in his silence.

[saskiavand-blog]

Royalty. She can’t believe it. It’s easy, still, to be disappointed with her life. It isn’t moving quickly enough for her: she’s in a movie, but she wants to be in more; she’s in the magazine, but she’s not on its cover; when they interview her—if they interview her—they ask her how it was working with Nadia Rousseau. 

But finding herself sitting next to The Prince in a bar—(on Valentine’s Day, no less!)—helps it recapture that spark of magic she’d felt when she first moved here, her first day on set, the first time she touched Nadia.

She’s in the process of making herself, she’s being reborn. She’s stepping out from Marina’s shadow and her parents’ benign neglect. She can’t be a princess, but she will be a national treasure. She’ll give herself to a nation other than the one she was born to, if only they’ll have her—if only they’ll love her.

The light is low, hopefully low enough to hide her flush. You’re an actress, for god’s sake, she chastises herself, pretend to be anything but silly and starstruck! “Just—yourself. Of course,” is what she says, and she wishes it came out with even a fraction of his self-assured confidence. But, of course, Saskia doesn’t have that. On her best days, she can only fake it. Now, she’s too effusive, almost manic: her enthusiasm bubbles over.

She has to look at his hand before she can shake it, like she’s making sure it’s actually meant for her. “Oh—it’s Saskia. Saskia Vanderbilt. And—likewise. It’s a pleasure, too, I mean. To meet you. An honor, really.”

[saskiavand-blog]

Honey Trap ⊰sv&mp⊱

—&(madison porter)

The crowd tonight is magnanimous: they assume that because she’s been invited to be here, she must be someone worth talking to. It’s nice, but she can’t help but daydream about what this very same event might be like two months from now, or six months from now, or a year from now: the crowd will be fevered instead of polite, she’ll be a headline instead of and footnote.

If only, if only, if only.

But for now she finds herself at the fringes of the room instead of at the center of it: the crowds push her to the side in their single-minded effort to get closer to people that aren’t her, that are all the things that Saskia wishes she could be—no, all the things she will one day become.

So she sighs, and she sips. It’s her second glass of champagne of the night, and she already feels like her head is filling up with bubbles: they fizz and they pop, lending the night an additional haze of magic, of almost-dreamlikeness. For all that she covets, and wishes, and wants, she’s already somewhere she never thought that she would be, back when she was just a girl in the Netherlands, flipping through magazines and living in dreams.

Her latest conversational partner has floated away, but she clutches his card in triumphant hands: he’s a magazine editor, and he’s looking forward to seeing Saskia’s movie. She fumbles at the clasp of her clutch to put the treasured piece of paper away—she’ll email him tomorrow, and he’ll be charmed and flattered by her prompt-follow-up—when her prize flutters from her fingers. 

“Oh!” she exclaims, but it seems to be lost underneath high heels and trailing hemlines. Hoping—(for once)—that no one is watching her, she casts about for it, trying to look only slight crazed—but, alack, comes up with nothing. 

[king-windsor-blog]

It took four minutes sitting alone in the Mayfair club before he heard it: “Happy Valentine’s Day!” A girl who looked too young and beautiful kissed a man who looked too old and wealthy, and they drank their champagne with their arms intertwined. It took restraint for him not to roll his eyes, still not free of the utter foolishness of the ‘holiday’ even after graduating and entering the world of so-called adults. 

Andrew was less than resigned to the idea of a day for love. He turned slightly, content with the anonymity of being one well-dressed and powerful man among many, to the person sitting next to him, mouth turning up at the corners as he held his drink. 

“Is there anything as sad as being alone today?” He said it rhetorically, to himself, but really, he expected an answer. A conversation. Anything to drown out the words on everyone’s lips.

[saskiavand-blog]

Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers: for romantic candelit dinners and candy hearts, stuffed bears and giggling kisses. It’s no surprise that Saskia wants it all.

With envious eyes she watches couples as the walk down the street, hand in hand or with arms wrapped around each other. Their smiles, their laughter, she can’t quite bring herself to look away. Such are the privileges of couples that are allowed to be couples: to celebrate their love publicly, on this, a day for decorations of love and grand displays of affection.

She doesn’t care if it’s commercial. Commercial is all Saskia wants to be.

Is there anything as sad as being alone today? A voice asks, and it could have been her own. Is there anything as sad, she could reply, as having someone to be with today and still being alone?

But as she turns, the face she meets stops her short. She knows it from years spent enthralled by the British Monarchy, even when she was nothing more than a Dutch girl with dreams, not knowing at all that she would one day call this country home. Her mouth half opened on a commiserating reply, she pauses—she gapes—and it’s long seconds before she’s able to gather herself again.

“If there is, I can’t seem to think of it. I’m sorry, you must think me terribly rude, but aren’t you — ?”

She trails off. She wants him to say it. Valentine’s Day without her girlfriend, and she runs into the Prince. It seems entirely too fantastical to be real.

[nadiarousseaus]

“I’ll hand it into the Police on my way out. They have ways of tracking it - and unlocking.” 

Nadia would be doing no such thing. It would be kept close to her heart, buried away, too far for her girlfriend to reach. And its discovery would remain a secret. Nadia had seen how ruthless the Coalition could be, when a problem stood in its way - and she still had failed to eliminate all of the members of being Damien’s potential murderer. If a man like that could fall, then Saskia would be swept away without a seconds notice. Nadia didn’t want to wait and see whether her girlfriend would survive that or not.

Yes. Her heart wanted to say. If this had been just a few short years ago, she would have said yes without hesitation - the reaction be damned. Her career would have been worth risking, alienation from fans - although she had heard that some would be oddly perceptive towards it - and who knew, maybe it would have done both of their careers well. But Nadia wasn’t the girl who would allow herself to be held up as a role model. She was not a poster child - her past had made that one clear enough. And the Coalition would not be nearly as kind as the world.

At least she had stopped centering on the god damn phone.

Carefully, Nadia removed it from her hands, stroking the delicate skin and pocketing it. Before Saskia could comment on its removal, she took her girlfriends hands into her own, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen loose from behind her ear and tucking it behind.

“We won’t get caught. We’re too careful for that. Besides, sneaking around is kind of hot. Don’t you think?”

Intentional manipulation - it was a step too far in the direction of darkness. And God knew, it was a boundary she had never wanted to cross. She wanted to stay in the light, to kiss her girlfriend and display her proudly for the world to see, mark her as her own. But when the contest was a toss up between head and heart, her head wold always win.

“And I don’t want all the press to be about us - when it should be about you. This is your big break - you’re the rising star. All the press should be about you and not what you’re doing with me.”

[saskiavand-blog]

The phone is easily forgotten, relegated to nothing more than a slight tickling unease in the back of Saskia’s brain. It’s easily replaced with something more immediate: Nadia’s hands in hers, Nadia’s touch on her face—and Nadia telling her that, for now, she wants them to remain a secret.

Saskia thinks about this often: what if her life were a movie? And she sees now the triumphant denouement: her and Nadia on the red carpet in couture made just for them, kissing as the flashbulbs go wild. Saskia, the heroine of her own story, finally has it all. She has fame, she has love, and she has them both at once, both together. She has Nadia, for Nadia is both.

She knows that Nadia is private, more private than Saskia by far, but it doesn’t mean that she really understands it. Saskia has been made to hide all her life, not by her own choice, but by a kind of invisibility that seemed to be her birthright: she didn’t hide because she wanted to, but because, no matter what she did, it was like no one saw her. Like she was unremarkable by design, something eyes just skipped right over on their way to more pleasing sights, easily disregarded.

It’s Nadia who has changed that for her: who has made her feel seen, and known, and cherished. She wants to show that to the world, wants them to see that Nadia has chosen her, see how beautiful Saskia can be come in the light of someone like Nadia’s love. 

It was fun, she can’t deny it, to sneak around on a movie set, finger pressed to her lips to quiet the giggles that wanted to spill out as they retreated into one of their trailers while the production hummed and bustled around them, none the wiser. But now, but after this long, she can’t help it—she wants more.

“I don’t care about that,” she says, with a small frown, though she squeezes Nadia’s hands as she holds them. It’s imprecise wording, Nadia should know better than most how much she’s hungered for press and fame and all eyes on her, but — “I’d rather share it with you.”

Her protests are soft, she’s too soft for ultimatums. She can’t make Nadia do anything she doesn’t want to do. She can only ask: “if not now, then when?”

[robaratheon-deactivated20201001]

[nadiarousseaus]

Lying is always so much easier than telling the truth.

As an actress, your profession is to lie. Your very career depends on your ability to do so - and how talented you are at selling the story. Unfortunately, no one understood that more than the woman before her eyes - dedicated to the same craft as she. The audience believed those lies, because they wanted to fall into that story, to come to love deception. But deception comes at a price. And that price is destruction. Of the very fabric that constructs a relationship. And sometimes, the relationship itself.

She has two choices.

She can lie. She can brush it off and pretend like it’s nothing, pull her girlfriend into her arms and kiss her so hard she’ll be forced to forget. That would be dishonest, that would be cruel. That would be easy. If she did that, she wouldn’t deserve a thing she had. If she did that, the Coalition would have molded a real weapon out of her.

She could tell the truth. She could spill the beans about the Coalition - trust that Saskia won’t say anything. But she would still be lying to her fellow members and she would be placing the one she loves in danger - and that is a sin beyond redemption or forgiveness.

And so she chooses option three.

More than anything else - she strives to be casual. “I must have picked up someone elses by mistake. Or some creepy press guy planted it on me - hoping to track me or record our conversations.”

[saskiavand-blog]

She can’t help the feeling: like she’s just a half-step off, like it just doesn’t add up. Nadia hadn’t looked confused upon seeing the phone, she had looked—something else. Sharp, maybe. Worried, maybe. Something that Saskia can’t quite put a finger on, but it hadn’t been confused.

Is it intuition or is it just unfounded fear that leaves Saskia feeling suspicious even after Nadia offers an explanation? The tickle of unease stays: the feeling of the world ready to fracture under her feet, the sky ready to fall on her head. It isn’t anything new, except for that the fact that she’s feeling this way in Nadia’s presence instead of in her absence, which is where Saskia’s doubts usually besiege her.

She frowns at the phone instead of at her girlfriend, fiddles with it in the silence. Saskia hates quiet, though, always needs to fill it with pleasant chatter. Sometimes, with Nadia, she’s more comfortable being quiet, sure that Nadia’s gaze won’t slip away the second she isn’t drawing it close with her words. But now, the silence just feels recriminating. 

“It’s locked,” she says, finally, when pushing buttons has been to no avail. “If it’s someone else’s, I don’t think they’re getting it back.”

But the suspicion isn’t the only thing that sticks. Something in Nadia’s words sinks into her, and she lifts her gaze with a considering expression. “Do you think they suspect something? The press, I mean.” Nadia might be worried about that possibility, but the second that Saskia thinks it, she realizes that it must be a blessing in disguise: she wants Nadia to acknowledge her, doesn’t want to have to hide this away, wants it to be made real in the public’s gaze. She’s waiting, she’s patient, but—if something were to force Nadia’s hand, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Nadia would even be glad of it, once she got over the initial shock.

“Do you think that—“ she starts, choosing her words carefully, paying no attention now to the phone that’s in her hands, even as they fidget with it, turning it over and then over again in her grasp. “—it might be better to just—tell everyone? Before some tabloid rag can do it for us?” She doesn’t mean to, always, but she can’t help it: she wears her heart on her sleeve. In this case, it reveals a cautious hope. It beseeches, it pleads: love me, please, make this real.

[nadiarousseaus]

Nadia didn’t think twice before flinging her phone across from her at the sofa. In hindsight, she probably should have paid a little more attention as to which phone it was she was so absentmindedly flinging across the room.

The Coalition burner phone was supposed to be a secret. Its prevalence varied across the members. Those with dark dealings or family members aware of the situation might not bother. Those with a professional reputation that might come under threat or people around them who remained innocent of the knowledge of their significant others darker dealings preferred a burner phone. Given the situation with both her brother and her girlfriend, Nadia preferred the latter approach.

She supposed she could have blamed her long day. Or the fact that their premiere was just around the corner - and she was going to somehow pose for photos and walk the red carpet pretending she wasn’t very much in love with her co-star. Luckily, she was a good actress - but Nadia still knew that the torch she carried for her girlfriend burnt brightly.  

Ducking out into the kitchen to fetch a snack - her heart skipped a beat when she walked back into the living room - her burner phone in Saskia’s hands. Upon reflection, she probably should have acted more casually. But it was instinct that drove her words.

“What are you doing?”

[saskiavand-blog]

She doesn’t mean to snoop, just like she doesn’t mean to be consumed with worries about the future: both her future and her future with Nadia. What happens after this movie? Will it be the kickstart to her career that she needs? Will this thing with Nadia fizzle out of existence when they aren’t shooting together, doing interviews together, walking the red carpet together? Will it go out with a bang, or will it die a slow-agonizing death as Sas waits by her phone for texts that become fewer and farther between?

(For a girl made up of dreams, Saskia has just as many nightmares, so many fears about too-good-to-be-trues—which, surely, Nadia must be.)

She’s greedy. She wants all the pieces of Nadia’s life that she keeps carefully separate from their relationship. Meeting Evan was a start, but it wasn’t enough, and Saskia doesn’t know how to make it so, make herself want less, make herself be content with their lives not in total overlap.

Saskia knows Nadia’s phone, just like she knows Nadia’s apartment and all of Nadia’s little mannerisms. Saskia has always been a quick study of her favorite subjects, and Nadia is one she’d memorized long ago. Her phone buzzes in the couch cushions, but when she fishes it out—it isn’t Nadia’s phone. It isn’t her case. The number that flashes on the screen is unlisted.

Saskia doesn’t even know what she thinks.

She doesn’t even have time to make a decision. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but now it looks like she’s found something she wasn’t meant to find. (And doesn’t that justify it? It wouldn’t be snooping if Nadia didn’t have things she didn’t want Sas to know, didn’t have secrets.) But before she can decide to put the phone back or hold onto it, Nadia appears again. Is she angry? Is she guilty? Sometimes, with Nadia, it’s just so hard to tell.

“This isn’t your phone,” she says, holding it up higher. She bites her lip, guilty even though she doesn’t want to be, but she forges on ahead, forcing herself to meet Nadia’s eyes. “What is this, Nadia?”

[littlemisswright-deactivated201]

An actress. Somehow, that didn’t help explain her hair obsession anymore. Her continued explanation helped, but Vaughn still didn’t see the importance of it all. Why were people so concerned with being liked? Dumb question, he supposed. After all, wasn’t he pretending to be something he wasn’t? A good father, a loyal assistant, an all around good guy? Everything he had no desire to truly be. But his true personality wasn’t one that would gain him favor, and so he’d put on a mask. Much like the one this young woman was fumbling with.

“I apologize, I didn’t recognize you. But, don’t let that deter you. I’m not a fan of movies, in truth. I’ve always preferred books.” He let the comment fall with a shrug. “It might not be my place, especially seeing as I know next to nothing about celebrities and fame and the like, but aren’t the most well liked celebrities the ones that are themselves? I’d give examples, but most of their names slip my mind.” Vaughn shrugged again, his briefcase knocking against the side of his leg.

Looking around them, he watched as people brushed by the two of them, some were completely oblivious to them, others huffed in annoyance for their being in the way. He didn’t care about any of them, and his gaze shifted back to the girl. “I didn’t think people took the phrase ‘fake it ‘till you make it’ seriously.” He cracked a smile, letting her know it was a jest. “You want my opinion? Grow your hair back out, be yourself, enjoy the roles you take. You’ve got a lifetime ahead of you, why waste it being miserable?” That was the exact question Vaughn had asked himself before leaving behind his small town life and traveling to the city.

[saskiavand-blog]

“It’s okay,” she says, and it is. She’s hardly recognized, yet, because the movie that’s supposed to jumpstart her career hasn’t come out yet. She invents a story for this man, a wild flight of fancy: six months from now, Saskia will be well-known and adored—(the length of her hair in this scenario is uncertain)—and he will see her, on a magazine cover or a late-night show, and he will remember this moment. Feel lucky for having been able to speak to her before she skyrocketed to fame. 

“I’m co-starring in an upcoming movie, it’s my first real work in the UK—with Nadia Rousseau?” The tone she strikes is a little hopeful, she can’t help it, name-dropping her girlfriend to borrow a little bit of her starpower for herself, someone she’s sure this man must have heard of her, every bit the national treasure that Sas wants to make herself into.  

She laughs, and it’s brighter, because for once she feels like she knows something he doesn’t. “The best celebrities aren’t the ones that are themselves, they’re just the ones you think are genuine. Marilyn Monroe was never herself, and she’s one of the most iconic stars of all time." (And she died, and maybe it killed her, but that has no place in Saskia’s personal fantasies.)

People are boring, or at least, Saskia is. To be a star is to be bigger than a person, larger-than-life, a tall order for a girl that kept getting lost in her sister’s shadow, spent so long there that she forgot the feeling of sunlight on her face. To be more than that girl, she will have to be more than she is, and she’ll pretend at whatever she must in order to get the camera to land on her and stay, to not be able to take its eyes off her.

“Thank you,” she says, “you’re very kind. But I’m not, I’m not miserable, I’m just—adjusting. Haven’t you seen America’s Next Top Model? They all cry when their hair gets cut. It’s a girl thing, I think.”   

[sirxusblack]

[adelaidewindsor]

The paparazzi had been following her all day, nipping at herheels like incessant little Chihuahuas begging for a moment of her attention. ThePrincess wore an oversized sweater paired with tight jeans and pumps, a scarfover her head and large sunglasses covering her eyes. Her attempts at keeping alow profile were unsuccessful at best, but it was a curse she had learned tolive with; there was not a soul on this island who did not recognize AdelaideWindsor. And who was she kidding? She was born to soak up the attention.

Adelaide had met a former close friend for lunch – though sheused the term friend very loosely. Since becoming a member of the coalition,the girl had actually needed to make an effort to network, make importantcontacts. Future queen or not, without the proper influence the throne was buta fancy chair and the crown an overpriced headpiece. So she played nice withthe many “friends” she had played with and quickly recycled – and they had lether. Who, after all, could afford to turn down the invitation of a royal?

After lunch, Addie had been able to sneak out the back ofthe restaurant, beyond the watchful eye of both the paparazzi and herbodyguards. Her youthful days of slipping away unnoticed paid off on occasion,though it was only a matter of time before someone found her. She walked thestreets alone, discreetly hiding her face from passing strangers, though shewas sure soon enough photos would surface of her earlier today and she would beswarmed.

As expected, no time passed before she was stopped by awoman and she did not try to suppress her eyeroll, though hidden behind herglasses.

Oh, excuse me — I justwanted to ask—what do you think of my haircut?

Surely this girl was not serious. She looked vaguelyfamiliar, but Adelaide wrote it off as just “one of those faces.” As sheregarded the girl, it was painfully obvious that she was anxious for approval.The desperation seeped from her like wax from a candle. Unsurprisingly, the Princesshad a fair amount of run-ins with these types, and she could recognize themfrom a kilometer away. It was a level of insecurity Adelaide herself wasentirely unfamiliar with, and she found such self-doubt repulsive.

Lowering her glasses to reveal her identity, Adelaidepretended to truly consider the inquiry. Whatever words she relayed to her nowwould likely determine the rest of the girl’s day; not that this could persuadethe Princess to mince her words.

“Quite honestly, you resemble a poodle striving to be edgy.”

[saskiavand-blog]

A child of a monarchy, Saskia had always dreamed of being a princess. When her parents eyes would slide right over her only to find Marina without fail, she would imagine—(as many girls did)—that she was some long-lost princess placed among paupers, and any day she would be whisked off into a life of fairytale: ballgowns, tiaras, renown. 

The princesses of her dreams, the princess she wanted to be, were not the royals of her native Netherlands, who didn’t even wear crowns, who took normal jobs and went to normal schools, as if they were determined to be ordinary rather than extraordinary. No, even before she’d moved to London she’d set her eyes on the House of Windsor, for they were all that young Saskia thought a royal family should be.

She followed them in the papers: graceful Queen Diana, enigmatic Princess Adelaide, charming Prince Andrew. She knows now that she’ll never be a Princess, not by birth, and instead of dreaming of becoming a modern-day Anastasia, she strives to make herself another kind of princess: a darling in the public eye, a national treasure in her non-native country, a Dutch English Rose—but something she’s earned. 

The woman lowers her glasses and speaks, and Saskia recognizes her instantly. 

And Saskia feels small, faced with royalty she’d watched from afar. She is a Princess, without a doubt, there’s a poise and regality to her that Sas can feel. It was her birthright, while Saskia’s was to be unasked for, looked over, ignored. She will never have this royal bearing, she will never have this assurance, she will never know with the certainty that a Princess must have, that she is loved and adored by a nation.

Her words cut, but Saskia can barely feel them, her hair forgotten almost completely by this near-dreamlike turn of events. The Princess here? Speaking to her? Her head spins wild fantasies of befriending the Princess, of basking in the light of royalty—a different and much bigger kind of fame than she had ever hoped to aspire to. 

“Your Royal Highness!” she exclaims, tripping over words she’s never spoken, formal in their address. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it was you, I didn’t mean to bother you with—” her hand waves, vaguely, with many possible meanings: her hair, her insecurity, herself.  “I’m so—wow—I’m so honored to meet you.” 

[fransdreschers]

[saskiavand-blog]

VAUGHN:

Vaughn took notice of the look on her face, could see she was disappointed with his response. Whoever the girl was, she appeared to be the type that took pride in her appearance, and had very likely been a bit unwilling to the haircut she was currently sporting. He briefly wondered how old she was. It wasn’t like someone could have forced the change in length, so what was it that had her so upset when she’d made the decision herself?

But then he realized he didn’t care. He didn’t care about this girl, he didn’t care about her haircut, and he didn’t care about the obvious self esteem issue she appeared to be working through as she gazed at her reflection. But every man has his roll, and Vaughn knew now wasn’t the time to break the one he was playing. He’d realized that anyone around could be a potential ally or enemy. Even someone so young.

“The thing about hair, is that it’ll grow back,” he told her, giving a soft smile. “And it’s not as if what you have now looks bad, it simply doesn’t fit the rest of you. Maybe you are going for that more mature look, but at least you know now that short hair isn’t going to do it for you.” His hand shifted around the briefcase handle.

“Not to mention, I’m just some guy you met on the street.” Vaughn knew he was the best guy she’d ever meet, but that was besides the point at that moment. “Shouldn’t you really only care about your own opinion on it?” That’s what young girls were all about these days, right? Self love, or something along those lines?

A silly girl, a foolish girl. His hand moves around his briefcase, and her eyes cut down to it. She doesn’t know who he is, he could be someone important, and she’s waylaid him because she’s worried about her hair. Because she doesn’t know how to like her new haircut until someone else looks at her and tells her it’s beautiful, that she’s beautiful—and, ideally, more beautiful than she was before.

She’s an actress—or, at least, she’s trying to be. She’s seen actresses that can slip into roles so effortlessly: whatever hair, whatever costume, whatever life it is they’re asked to wear, they do it, they become it. She’s seen Nadia do it. And she’s something different. The best friend, the sidekick, the perpetual girl-next-door. It’s not her hair’s fault, it’s hers, she can’t rise above herself.

Maybe it isn’t  her fault at all, only the fact that she’s used to living in someone else’s shadow. She’s traded a sister for a girlfriend: she’ll always be surrounded by people who shine brighter than her. But she’s warmed by the glow of Nadia’s spotlight, she loves that inner light that Nadia has. She only hopes that, after this film, she can bask in it instead of being cast further into shadow.

Her own opinion doesn’t matter. It’s not her opinion that’s going to make her a star. It’s the public, it’s his and so many others like him. She’ll only be famous if she’s a commodity that others want to consume. He looks at her and looks down on her, and she can see that he doesn’t want to consume her. If she were the face on a magazine, he would walk right past the newsstand. If she were a face on a movie poster, he wouldn’t see it. She’s nothing, she’s no-one.    

“I’m an actress,” she says, though it feels silly, when she has to say it. If he doesn’t already know, then she isn’t much of one at all. “It’s not really my opinion that matters. My agent, he—he said it’d help me get roles. I guess we’ll see,” she says, and she aims for wry, but the twist of the smile on her face is a little too pessimistic for that.   

[fuckyeahrudyfrancisco]

I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for.

Rudy Francisco (via yesdarlingido)

[seer-cressida]

Beth was asleep.

In the swirling, untouched depths of her mind, she was somewhere far too colorful. It was hard to tell up from down, left from right, but it didn’t really matter anyway. She didn’t care for direction when her unconscious took over. She didn’t care much for anything - headlines or crowns or her manuscript. This bright abyss was enough to be somehow satisfying.

Beth was dreaming.

Her body was whole before her, completed by an unmanageably thick mess of blonde hair that blocked her vision. Each time she tried to brush her hair aside to see the people before her, more flew into her face, thicker and more violently. She pushed and pushed, digging through her locks as if pushing the vines of a forest apart. And soon, her mind took her exactly there, shuffling through the humidity of a jungle in search of…something.

Beth was having a nightmare.

Lost in the depth of what had become something of a nightmare, Beth turned, brow furrowed in her sleep. Her cheek pressed again into the spiral binding of her notebook, pen still in her hand. She was asleep in public, broad daylight, worn dull and ragged to the point where this table had been comfortable enough to pass out upon for almost an hour. 

Beth was a mess.

[saskiavand-blog]

Saskia dreams of becoming a household name. Of her name up in lights—and her name in newsprint. Of being news-worthy.

She’d come to England with her suitcases in hand, the contents of an entire life uprooted, and no one had paused. No one was waiting for her outside of security at Heathrow, no one took her picture. No one knew. Saskia craves the limelight, she wants it all: cameramen outside of her apartment, trying to sneak glimpses through her window; never being able to eat a meal in peace; her every step documented, her every word eagerly consumed.

She knows who can make that happen for her. But Dante Forrester seems to sidestep her every attempt to earn his favor, and so she’s set her sights on lower-hanging fruit. Bethany Tate seems more accessible than the intimidating Mr. Forrester, someone who might better respond to Saskia’s well-practiced methods of flattery and ingratiation.

Saskia’s friendship is like an assault. When she wants something or someone, it’s all she knows how to do: every time they turn around, she’s there with a smile and compliment, all with the hope that, soon enough, they won’t be able to remember a time when she wasn’t there. Bethany Tate is only the most recent recipient of this treatment. Before that? It was Nadia, and that worked out better than Sas could have ever dreamed.

Sometimes fate works to her advantage. She hadn’t even been seeking Beth out, and yet here she is: asleep. Ordinarily so gentle, Saskia pursues her dreams with all the ruthlessness of a mercenary: she will be famous, she will say or do anything to get there. She doesn’t pass up this opportunity.

“Miss Tate?” she asks, her voice soft but pitched loud enough to carry and awake. A stage whisper that could be heard to the back rows. “Are you alright?”

[dancinginthepourinrain]

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[saskiavand-blog]

Nothing lasts forever—but this is getting good now.

[nadiarousseaus]

“You know that hair grows back, right Sas?”

Nadia had never thought she would be the type to give out nicknames. Then again, she had never thought she would be in a relationship like this. When the only one you have to base off is domestic violence, a certain fear of association crops up - on a permanent basis. What if I’m too broken to love? What if I’m too dark? Protecting herself and the people she loved was a permanent concern of hers - her ultimate goal. And protecting her heart had always been a part of that package. She would watch from afar, ache for that feeling of comfort and security - but confident she could never have that for herself. Too heavy she would lament. I could never burden someone with these problems.

But Saskia was different. She teased a lightness out of her that Nadia hadn’t thought possible, made her want to be something else, someone different. She dearly wanted to dedicate herself in her entirety, pour her heart and soul into this woman. And in some ways - she had. Saskia had met both her mother and brother, hugged her when she sensed something was wrong, whispered sweet words after she awoke from a nightmare. But the Coalition kept them divided. It was the one secret she refused to divulge, purely out of love rather than malicious intent. But Saskia couldn’t sense that - couldn’t know that it was her own security she sought to protect.

Because the Coalition would consume her wholly, chew her through and spit her out at the end.

And that was a fate she would not allow her girlfriend to meet.

Secret kisses could be just as fulfilling as whole ones, she forced herself to think. Sneaking out held a certain element of excitement - passion, desire. But it kept their relationship in the present, unable to progress any further, unable to find the hope of a future. And one day, Nadia knew Sas would decide that she had enough, would move onto someone more open, someone who could love her the way she deserved to be.

Was it selfish to keep her all to herself?

“Hmm. Kensington, Chelsea or Mayfair?” 

[saskiavand-blog]

A Dutch girl, she lives an English fairytale. She’d moved to London with big dreams and wide eyes, and it wasn’t long before Nadia Rousseau seemed to fill them both. Once, she had told herself to focus on the present, on becoming known in her native country with its small, small film industry—but Saskia has never been good at moderating her dreams, they spin so wildly out of her control. 

She’d dreamed of more, alone in her room in the dead of night, a time meant for thoughts of a certain grandeur that you wouldn’t own up to in the light of day.  And now, with a major film set to release in the upcoming months with her in a prominent—  though not the leading—role, her dreams seem solidly within her reach. 

So she’s found herself another impossible dream.

Is it me? She could ask. Is there something wrong with me? There’s always something more that she wants. She’s grasping at fame, and yet now it would seem empty if it didn’t come with Nadia. Saskia would be empty, without Nadia.

“But it’ll take forever! And look awkward. I mean, have you seen Anne Hathaway growing out her Fantine hair?” She’s smiling and, though she’s still talking about it, her hair is almost forgotten, her gaze snapped away from her own reflection to focus rapt on Nadia, right  in front of her, instead. It’s a much more pleasing pasttime: Saskia looks at herself and can only focus on flaws, can only try on expressions to test how believable they are. But it’s impossible to have a critical eye when looking at Nadia. She’s too perfect. Sas can only drink her in.

“Hmm,” she pauses, pretends to consider, though she supposes it doesn’t matter. She still approaches London with the determination of a tourist and none of the patience of a resident: she has to see everything now or she might miss her chance—and, if she can, she’ll drag Nadia along with her, her very own tour guide. “Chelsea. Do you have plans after? We could go shopping.”

[nadiarousseaus]

Shifting her body weight off the lamp post she had been leaning against, Nadia moved to study her girlfriend. Why Saskia had gotten the hair cut was beyond her understanding - apparently it had been on the orders of her agent - Nadia had advised Saskia do whatever she wanted, screw what they said. You’ll always be beautiful to me. But sacrifice for careers was something she could understand more than most - and so her support was something she had offered up unconditionally, as she would ever, for as long as Saskia continued to be a part of her life.

With the way she was acting, that wouldn’t be long. Her girlfriend had been blessed with the patience of a saint, but even she couldn’t stop seeking for an explanation forever. The cruelest piece would be if Saskia blamed herself, as Nadia knew she was prone to doing - never believing fully, neglecting herself to a distant second. In her eyes, she was everything. But even she could admit she was the true winner here - after all, she got to love Saskia, but Saskia was stuck loving someone as broken as she.

Speaking without hesitation, her words came from her heart. “I told you that you’d look beautiful whatever you did. Even bald. Me however - “ stepping forward, she checked from side to side to see if anyone was observing. Considering the coast to be clear, she took the shortened strands of hair into her hands, tugging down on them lightly. “I had to turn that role down. Hair just takes too long to grow back.” As if in response, she stepped back and tossed hers onto one side.

One eye glancing down on her watch, ever conscious of the plans already set in motion by the Coalition of their meeting soon - she met Saskia’s eyes once again, straining to keep her tone light and casual - giving no indication she would soon have to dash off and leave her girlfriend to fend alone. “Ready to get lunch? You pick - we can go anywhere.”

Ah the perks of money and fame.

[saskiavand-blog]

When Saskia’s parents had looked away from the blinding beacon of their eldest daughter to find little Saskia hid in the shadow she cast, they often noted that their youngest daughter lived in a world of fantasy, compared to the ever-practical Marina, who had two feet planted solidly in her own perfect reality. And why shouldn’t she? She already had everything that Saskia invented for herself, when she whisked herself away into flights of fancy and make-believe.

Nadia Rousseau seemed every bit as much of a fantasy as the wild stories that Saskia would imagine for herself when she was a child. It seems just as impossibly incredible to be Nadia’s girlfriend as it would be to find out that her parents were royalty, Saskia a long-lost princess, an Anastasia of the modern age. 

But for now, her reality is almost as good as anything she could have possibly imagined. She had Nadia, for now, and it seems too good to be true. And whenever she’s left alone her head fills itself with portents of doom: she and Nadia spend all their time together now, and the public seems to love it, two girls who became fast-friends while shooting their latest film. But what about when Nadia moves onto another project? And what about when her co-star is some hot Hollywood hunk and her publicist nudges the two of them together because think of how good it would be for your career and when it would be so much easier than sneaking around with Saskia, because that’s all that Nadia seems willing to do with her—

But then Nadia’s fingers tangle in her hair for the quickest of moments. The bubble pops, and Saskia beams. But still, she can’t help but notice the way Nadia’s eyes dart to-and-fro. Saskia may not be a household name and a household face yet, but Nadia is, and any moment between them in public has to be stolen.

Smiling still, she groans, theatrical in her mock-despair. “Don’t say that, oh my god, I’m never going to have long hair again.” Nadia’s hair flips, and Saskia’s fingers itch, wanting to return the favor and touch, but the sidewalk had filled up again in the moments since, and so her hand stays at her side. 

It’s almost impossible to believe that when she met Nadia, all she’d thought of was the light that could be gained by edging into Nadia’s spotlight. Now, she has all that and more, and yet she’s not above taking advantage of the perks of having a girlfriend far more famous than she—and one of those perks is never having to wait for a table. “Ooh, let’s go somewhere fancy,” she hums with a cajoling smile. “What do you say?”