Title: I'll Take the 'A' Train Someday
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mélanie Laurent/Daniel Brühl
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,076
Summary: Though Fredrick died with his beloved, there were times where Daniel could not help but feel as though he was trapped in that smoke-filled auditorium, the flames rising to meet him as he stood before that screen where he beheld her gorgeous, laughing face. And yet, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.
Notes: Because I can't not do this. Mélanie, as always, is partly to blame. Title inspired by this song.



Hurry, get on, now it's coming
Listen to those rails a-humming


Time was of the essence. He had finished filming in Spain, and soon enough, he would be off filming with another Very Important Film Director in the U.K., taking him further away as she would soon be in New York. It was but another occasion where the German actor was most grateful for the invention of the locomotive, as yet again, he found himself at the station, readily awaiting the advent of his French actress.

For that night (and the following morning), the soon-to-be FBI Agent and the future Formula One race-car driver were to have all that they could of one another; all of the give and all of the take in vast, equal amounts.

~

She had spent a fair amount of time in a train car from Paris, France to arrive in Madrid, Spain - and, more specifically, to his apartment, where ultimately, she would be both under and atop him (along with every other possible position the two could feasibly manage).

"Mon amour, je m'ennuie."

There was an edge of impatience to her voice, a kind of nerviness which betrayed her relaxed demeanor. She was laid out on the perfectly made bed, her body fully bare; it was a sight he was all too well-acquainted with, yet no less tired of. The first time he had been blessed with such a vision was in Paris, France, shortly after she had won the role of Shosanna Dreyfus. He had recognized immediately that she was the perfect actress to fit the part of the film's heroine, and - most importantly of all - the object of affection for his German War Hero.

That first time, Daniel was certain he had never seen a more beautiful sight than Mélanie: Golden-haired with large green eyes and skin as fair as fine porcelain, she was utterly striking; and in the lighting of their hotel room, she positively glowed. Just as the sight of her made him instantly hard, she responded in kind to his touch seemingly instantaneously. His mouth upon her breast with his hand between her thighs, and she was undone, unraveling beneath his gentle touch and careful ministrations.

Clutching at him with a ferociousness he had never before experienced with another, she came quickly that first time, with her body tightening, hips bucking, and her voice hitching.

"Mon amour," she gasped. There was an urgency to her voice, of something fervid and wanting. He knew then that it was something he wanted more of, something that he knew he could never do without - not after this.

With the traces of her arousal and climax still lingering upon his fingers, he brought them into his mouth, tasting her. As cliched as he had realized it had sounded, he almost expected her to come honey.

Nearly as sweet.

He laid down beside her, watching her through completion. He was entirely enraptured with her; he was - and always would be - awed by her.

But it would be the second time following on the heels of the first, with the joining of their bodies when both were made aware of the sheer immensity of their coupling.

Mélanie practically sobbed that time. Something overwhelmed her. It went beyond the full, hard length of Daniel's cock within her heated wetness, and it surpassed the press of his slick, naked flesh against her own. He knew that she, like him, had involvements with fellow actors previously.

However, what the two were sharing within that moment was something different.

Something distinct.

He learned the taste of her, the feel of her; he knew then, within that moment, that the both of them had already surpassed the unattached involvement of an on-set liaison.

"No ploris," he told her in Catalan, "Si us plau, no té llàgrimes."

She was trembling underneath him, and his firm, muscled body, in contrast, served as a solid anchor to her slight, supple form. He could feel she was on the edge. She clung to him, and she was wet; so, so wet and so very ready. More than ready. And yet, she cried. He wasn't certain of what could be done, of what to give to assuage her. He attempted to slow his movements, but she only held on even tighter, her body curving to meet his.

"Harder," she begged of him in French accented English,"S'il vous plaît."

He could not - nor would he ever - refuse her. Together, they found their rhythm; both purposeful and voracious, giving the two all that they needed of each other.

When she came that second time, it was even sweeter than the first. It was then she had enveloped him, engulfing him within her pleasure and thus ensuring his own. There was a shared force between them; hungry and demanding, it threatened to consume them both. Overtaken with tremors, they embraced one another; grasping and holding on to each other. He almost felt large and clumsy in comparison to her: every motion of her arching, quivering, lithe body and each soft sound that escaped her parted, sensual mouth was exquisite.

Within his own release, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder as his hips pushed erratically into her, with his subsequent groan - deep and heavy - reverberating through her. As their bodies relaxed, nestling into each other, Daniel managed the strength to raise his head to face her. She was smiling, but her eyes still glistened.

Neither yet spoke.

Threading fingers through her hair, he cradled her face.

"Pourquoi pleurez-vous, mon amour?"

She gave a laugh, both melodic and throaty.

"Have you never seen a French film before, Daniel?"

Her pronunciation - Dan-yell - and how son nom fit so well within her mouth and rolled off her tongue would've made him hard if she hadn't exhausted him so stunningly just moments earlier. He couldn't even find the words to reply; all he could offer was a smile, wide and genuine. She was almost maddening in a way, yet it was a divine madness. Surely, she would be the death of him, and if that had to be so, he determined, then there would be no better end than to die by her hand (and her mouth, and her breasts, and between her thighs… ).

Lowering his mouth to hers, their lips met. Softly, lightly.

She had just been cast as the Juliet opposite his Romeo in an American mad-man's film and already, they were a tangle of limbs and emotions.

Ah, c'est la vie.

~

Then there was Italy.

The festival they had attended in Capri was much different, as neither were yet accustomed to their eventual ritual of Daniel biding his time at a train station in anticipation for Mélanie's return. That time was better spent in a hotel room (his room, to be precise), with her back pressed into the mattress and her legs wrapped around his hips, urging him on and into her; hard, fast, furious, perfect.

Later, in an interview, Mélanie would say that their time together in Italy was, "where we finally discovered each other and had fun." Daniel could find no fault in her statement; not with the memory of her smooth, lissome body writhing beneath his hands and mouth so spectacularly etched into his mind. But such details were not for public divulgement, and neither, for that matter, was all that occurred in his home, in his room, and in his bed after the Berlin premiere of their film. Though Daniel was there to see her off at the train station the following morning, whether or not he gave her a passionate kiss goodbye - and if, eagerly, she reciprocated - would never be disclosed in any interview (or, even, on wikipedia).

~

For every time he would see Mélanie after that (the many times after), Daniel always thought he'd be better prepared. That each time, be he clad in a finely tailored suit or expensive jeans, he wouldn't be struggling with an aching hardness when in her presence. That the scent of her imprinted upon his bedsheets and the stray strands of spun gold on his pillows wouldn't be left to loiter. And especially, he always told himself that she wouldn't take a train from Paris just so that they could lounge in bed and smoke and fuck. But she wouldn't, because she would. Each and every time.

And here, now, with her spread out before him (and for him), was no exception.

"You're so French," he mused.

Stretching her sleek form, Mélanie's voice was a sigh,

"You're so German."

But after all the time lost in order to bring her there to his apartment and in his bed, she had tired of waiting; and so, her hand slid down, settling upon the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. Then, fingers flexing, she stroked herself. Her skin prickled, her hips rocked, and green eyes half-lidded with desire, she looked to him. His jaw clenched.

She was absolutely merciless.

Then, the coup de grâce,

"Dan-yell."

Frantic and starved for her, he was immediately upon her; hands and mouth traveling all over. She was away, filming as an assassin, an actress navigating her way through life and love, and as a rejected daughter. Meanwhile, he was in the Alps going blind, bringing soccer to Germany, and as a priest battling the supernatural. Now the assassin laid with the blind man, the man who so loved sport loved the actress, and the rejected daughter found comfort with the priest.

If only all our films could end like this.

~

He comes.

Always, with Mélanie, he comes. But his focus was always on her release. Every time - much like this time - she came, he would swear it was even better and more compelling than the last. From the flush of her fevered skin, her high keening cries, to how her already large eyes widened even more, as if in disbelief; there was always a moment wherein it seemed as though all that they had shared was almost too much for her. And if he was honest with himself (and he generally tried to be), he, too, felt the same as she did.

She frightened him sometimes - that is, the power she held within her delicate little frame did. Though Fredrick died with his beloved, there were times where Daniel could not help but feel as though he was trapped in that smoke-filled auditorium, the flames rising to meet him as he stood before that screen where he beheld her gorgeous, laughing face. But yet, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way. And as Mélanie traced over his features with her fingertips, he knew that she wouldn't, either. Now it was, at long last, his turn to cry.

"Pourquoi pleurez-vous, mon amour?"

"May-leh-knee," he simply answered, her name a gilded inflection, "Have you never seen a German film?"

Falling silent, she took a moment, as if his inquiry were a confounding riddle for the ages. And then, a smile spreading across her face,

"Oui. The ones in which you are naked."

He laughed; rich and vibrant. He could not do anything else but laugh and she, too, joined in his reverie. The two of them, being so German and so French, held onto one another, their bodies entwining; both knowing that yet again soon enough, he would be hard for her, as she would be wet for him. He would taste her thighs and the junction which lay between them, and she would cling to him, her nails trailing crescent-shaped marks along his skin as she returned his every ardent thrust and fervent touch.

Afterwards, as both work to catch their breaths, with his body curled into hers, he would look upon her resplendence and smile; for this was all that he could want, all that he could ever desire. In turn, she would take his face into her hands and bring his mouth to hers; like so many times before, and like the many times yet to come.

This would be followed by smoking, lounging, and even more impassioned fucking. Later, she would return to Paris, leaving only her scent and strands of spun gold behind.

Without a second thought, he would go to her, taking a train to see her. And she would be there at the station, expectantly awaiting his arrival.