GUYS I JUST WATCHED TOTAL ECLIPSE (1995) AND I CRIED FOR AN HOUR I'M BEGGING ON MY HANDS AND KNESS PLEASE GIVE ME SOME REQUESTS ABOUT THEM I'LL WRITE ANYTHIING ANY CHARACTER JUST PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WJO LIKES THIS FILN PLEASE I'M BEGGING
"How funny," you murmured, eyes narrowing at the man before you. "They say, before death, the person you wish to see the most appears before you." Your smile faded into something bitter. "Yet here you are, Arthur. Mocking me, even in death."
Arthur tilted his head, his smirk lazy yet piercing. "And even in death, you remain as cold as ever."
The dim candlelight flickered across the small, desolate table where they sat, facing each other for what felt like the final time. The air was thick with something unspoken, something inevitable. (Name) let out a sharp breath, her lips curling slightly—not in amusement, but in sheer disbelief.
"Put your hand on table." Ahh the classic. You know about this scenario through you don't quite remember who told it, Arthur or the victim himself.
You hesitated, but curiosity—or perhaps resignation—won over. Slowly, you placed your hand on the table.
Then, without a word, Arthur reached for the knife resting beside his hand and tapped its dull edge against the wooden table, pressing its tip lightly against your skin. Then, ever so delicately, he began tracing invisible patterns along your fingers, your wrist, the delicate bones beneath your skin.
For a moment, you simply watched him, the steady glide of the blade never breaking the surface, only skimming like a whisper. Then, Arthur stilled. His gaze lifted, staring straight into yours like he wanted to find what was hiding beside those eyes.
"Do you love me?" His voice was quiet yet full of innocence like a child who wanted to hear what he desires.
"I like you." You lowered your gaze. Your breath caught.
Arthur said nothing. He merely resumed his tracing, as if your answer was neither unexpected nor sufficient.
Not moving your or gaze you said something, in a low, soft voice too.
"Tell me [,] you love me [?]"
A question laced with uncertainty. Have you asked him to declare it, or have you questioned the sincerity of his own heart as he had questioned yours before?
Arthur did not hesitate. "I love you, (Name)."
Answer was so unexpected, your eyes shimmer with suprised as you look towards him. Before you could react, he lifted your hand from the table and pressed a lingering kiss to the back of it. Your eyes was full was of aw as he give you a sly smile in response.
That's why people are so eager to meet death? Cause it gives them feeling of happiness that they might not have even experience in living life.
Was this it? God's last cruel attempt at happiness? A fleeting, impossible joy before the end?
End of the book I have yet to write but already got oscar in my mind.
Writing for 5 fans along me and the one who will reach for this content after 10 years or so. I mean movie came out in 1995 and this is getting written in 2025, internet and time-together are sure interesting stuff.
The room is dark, the only light a faint glow filtering through the curtains. You’re asleep, your body at rest, the silence wrapping around you like a cocoon. But that calm is soon shattered. The door creaks open, a shadow slipping through, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps.
You feel a touch, light and teasing, fingers brushing against your skin. The sensation pulls you from sleep. Your eyes open in a sudden jolt, your heart skipping a beat as you almost scream. But then you see him. Arthur. His smirk plays on his lips as he hovers over you, enjoying your vulnerability, basking in your moment of weakness.
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare up at him. "Arthur," you manage to whisper, your voice sharp,"Don't you think your sudden presence can give someone a heart attack." While you were serious, Arthur as always find it humourous and states that you are not the type that can die from heart failures.
"Correct. And it's not my preferred type of death anyways." You state in a monotone tone, thinking Arthur once again might give some sadistic repose but shockingly he was interested in what kind of death you preferred.
You didn't hesitate. "Strangled," you reply, your tone flat, almost detached. "That’s how I’d prefer to go." One might think this lead to a deeper conversation though that wasn't case here.
There’s silence between you, thick with tension. And then, without warning, his shoots out, wrapping his hands around your neck. His grip is firm but not yet suffocating. His eyes lock with yours, a cruel glint flashing in them as he leans in closer, his voice a low growl. "Like this, (Y/N)?"
He envisions you panicking—your nails digging into his skin, your face twisting in terror, begging for breath. He imagines your body writhing beneath him, your life slipping away as you fight to stay alive. But as stated, it was all part of his imagination cause reality doesn’t match his fantasy.
Instead of desperation that all he saw was a calm face. Your hands rest still at your sides, not reaching for him, not fighting back. You just stare at him, your eyes unwavering, your breath slowing under his grip. And in your gaze, there’s something that unsettles him—a quiet, chilling acceptance.
You wait, your eyes locked on his, as if challenging him, daring him to go further. There’s no fear in you, no panic. Only a calm, resolute strength. It unnerves him in ways he didn’t expect.
His fingers tighten for a brief moment, just enough to feel your pulse beneath his touch. But it’s not enough to scare you. Instead, it’s him who feels the tension, the pressure of your gaze weighing down on him. He expected fear, he wanted resistance. Instead, you give him nothing but quiet defiance.
His grip loosens. His hand slips from your throat, retreating in frustration. You don’t move, don’t flinch. You just keep staring, your eyes holding that same unreadable expression, as if you see through him, see past his cruel games and into something far deeper, far more fragile.
He stands, watching you for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest, his control over the situation feels hollow, as though you’ve taken it from him without even trying.
He loosen his grip on your throat as he let out a comment that was supposed to be taunt to you but sounds more like a cover to hide his lack of power in situation.
"Do you really think I will let you die this easily?" A smirk dancing on his charming face.
Paul Verlaine sits back in his chair, a glass of wine in hand, his eyes scanning Arthur, who lounges with that familiar air of mischief and arrogance. The candlelight flickers across the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. Paul raises an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity crossing his face.
"So, Arthur… has anything actually happened between you and that fiancée of yours? I mean, you don't exactly shy away from… intimate moments." His words are suggestive, the memories of their own history still hanging in the air.
Arthur pauses, his gaze narrowing slightly, but he doesn't brush off the question. Instead, he leans forward, a strange, almost unreadable glint in his eyes as he speaks.
"(Y/N)? That girl behaves like she hate breathing same air as me." He scoffs lightly, but there's something beneath his usual mockery, something lingering.
Arthur mocks her somewhat more before narrating a particular memory. Paul watches him intently, sensing that Arthur is about to reveal something deeper than his usual taunts.
"I have this habit of sneaking into her room whenever she stayed with us." He chuckled for one it may look innocent but Paul knew better than to think it's something innocent.
He then glances at Paul, daring him to comment, but Paul remains silent, intrigued.
"I knew, despite that ice queen facade of hers, that she'd still get flustered when I got too close. So I’d trap her… in her own room, her own bed, she had nowhere to escape." Arthur's voice softens as he recounts the scene, his eyes distant, lost in the memory. Paul leans in slightly, fascinated.
"That night, I did the same. Slipped into her room. Found her half-asleep, but as soon as she saw me—those walls went up. But this time…" His voice lowers "…I wasn’t satisfied with just teasing her like usual." Arthur smirk while narrating the moment. Paul raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Arthur's smirk fades, his expression becoming more serious as the memory deepens.
"She told me my little games didn’t affect her anymore." He mimicks a female voice and then chuckles darkly. "So I asked her… what about this?" His voice suddenly low.
"I leaned in closer. She tried to move back, but she couldn’t. She was trapped. And I…" He pauses, almost savoring the memory "...I kissed her." Paul wasn't suprised afterall Arthur wasn't the one who to shy away from these things but that hidden tenderness in his voice made him rise a brow.
"She didn’t protest. But she didn’t respond, either. She just… stayed there, staring at me, as if waiting for me to back down." He smirks faintly. "But I didn’t. I kissed her, if we can call a lip on another lip that..." He humour as Paul out of instinct let out a chuckle too. "We just… stared into each other’s eyes." Arthur continue once again,"She was just still. Almost like she didn’t know what to do."
There was brief silence. Paul felt like there was more to this story─an important aspect of how Arthur's feeling, which of course he would never shared.
"Did that kiss made you something for her? Something like love?" Paul ask hopefully, maybe this was the point Arthur would understand why he can't let go of Matilda but Arthur break his slightly hope by laughing at question like some tickled child.
"Love? Me? With her?" He shakes his head, his laughter dying down, though the glint in his eyes remains sharp and dangerous. "As if I could ever. No, Paul, it was just another game. And she… well, she was just another piece on the board."
Paul watches him, the tension between them fading back into familiarity, but a lingering question remains unspoken. Arthur, though deflecting with laughter, seems momentarily lost in thought, the memory of (Y/N) still hovering in the back of his mind.
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So Leonardo did not play a historical character in a movie and now I am love with it, reading wikipedia and writting the scenario's about him. . . . Really need to be engaged to a toxic artist; writer to be specific.
Paul had leaned over the table that night, eyes glazed from too much absinthe, his words slurred, but his curiosity sharp as ever.
“So, Arthur,” Paul asked, a wicked grin playing on his lips, “you ever even seen her body? Your finance, I mean.” He chuckled darkly, half-mocking, half-goading, like he always did when he felt Arthur needed to be pushed.
Arthur, in his drunken haze, smiled back. A sadistic gleam flickered in his eyes, a reflection of the reckless man he had become. He tilted his head as if considering Paul’s question seriously.
“Seen her body, Paul?” Arthur mused, his voice low and taunting. “I’ve seen something more. Her true self—something more profound than the physical or sensual."
Paul stared at him, a bit stunned by the reply, and Arthur laughed—a cold, hollow sound—dismissing the moment with a wave of his hand.
But the memory that followed was no laughing matter.
Arthur had been at his desk, papers strewn around him in a mess of incoherent thoughts, words failing him for the first time in what felt like forever. Arthur had been at his desk, papers strewn around him in a mess of incoherent thoughts, words failing him for the first time in what felt like forever.
You noticed his confused rage while most of time you preferred to ignore his tactics, this time it looked he was affected internally.
You were concerned for him.
“Arthur,” you said, your voice steady but with an undercurrent of concern. “Are you okay?”
He snapped. It wasn’t like the other times when he would simply tease her, this was something deeper, more vicious, a reflection of the frustration burning inside him.
"Why do you care?" he snaps, throwing the quill down onto the desk. His voice is laced with irritation, his anger barely concealed. "You wouldn't understand. You never do."
Your eyes narrow slightly, but you didn't back away. "I’m trying to understand, Arthur. If you would just talk to me—"
"Talk?" He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He paces, running a hand through his hair, as if the physical act might untangle the knot in his chest. "I can’t ‘talk.’ That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t say what I’m feeling, I can’t put it into words!" He gestures to the blank page, his voice rising with every word. "I can write about anything—love, lust, rebellion, chaos—but this—" He stops, his hands curling into fists. "This… whatever it is, this thing I feel, it slips away every time I try to grasp it. To understand materialistic or spiritualistic, what matters to me, what should matter to a human."
"Then find it now." You state as Arthur was suprised at your confidence. What makes you think you can help him to put those mysteriously feelings into words.
Before he could respond, you moved toward the bedroom, your footsteps light but deliberate. Without a word, you walked in, leaving the door slightly open as if daring him to follow.
Arthur, still reeling from his outburst, hesitated for a moment, but curiosity—and perhaps something else—compelled him forward. As he entered the room his eyes fall on the trail of clothes going further into room before they finally stop on your body that was still in the process of removing your tight clothing.
Your dress slipping off your shoulders, revealing the undergarments that still clung to you frame. You untied you hair, letting it fall loose around her as you made a eye contact with him. Your expression neutral, detached, as if this were nothing more than another intellectual exercise. You didn’t fully undress; a mere layer of fabric still clung to your body, enough to cover you, but not enough to hide the intimacy of the moment.
Arthur stood frozen in the doorway, caught off guard by your calm audacity. It looked like you were offering yourself—physically, yes—but there was something more, something deeper in your eyes. Something he had never understood before now.
You moved to the chaise longue, laying on it in a fancy position, your eyes never leaving his. “Write, Arthur,” you said softly. “Write whatever you feel right now.”
For once, Arthur didn’t argue. He didn’t mock or tease. He swallowed his nervousness and walked toward his desk, grabbed a pen, and sat down, staring at your figure in front of him.
Despite the suggestive nature of your actions, despite the vulnerability of your pose, all he could see—really see—was the bravery of your soul. The one who didn't even like breathing same air, was the one laying in front of him, giving him all sorts of freedom.
You had stripped yourself of more than clothes in that moment. You had laid bare your pride, your control, and your fear. And yet, there was no shame in your gaze, no fear of his judgment. You were telling him to see you, not as a body, not even as a muse, but as a human being—someone who stood on equal ground with him.
Arthur’s hand moved across the paper, but his mind wasn’t on your body. His thoughts weren’t on lust or desire. Instead, all he could feel was a deep admiration—admiration for the strength it took for you to reveal yourself to him like this, to offer him her vulnerability in a way that transcended the physical.
He wrote furiously, the words pouring out of him for the first time in days, though not in the way he had expected.
When he finally looked up from the paper, you were still watching him, your expression unreadable, but there was something softer in your eyes now.
"I think I am done." He state in a nervous voice as you just lay in more comfortable postion than previous one.
"So what do you choice right now? Soul or body?" You asked as Arthur feels the weight of both choices. Either way things will be different from now.
"Just that?" Paul questioned as he felt Arthur once again left him on cliffhanger. You both sure shared some physical moment after this, didn't you? Like how can a man let a chance like this go but knowing Arthur he knew conclusion was left for his imagination.
