#but she had her hair done up with a foulard in a way that seemed 50s-inspired to me

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

Got told today by a ridiculously beautiful woman that I have a ‘vintage face’. Not sure what she meant by that but she also made me the best lemonade I’ve ever tasted so we shall have a June wedding

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 18

Here it is!

“Corpus Christi in Texas?”

“Yup, seems your boy’s mobile.” Fred was playing with a toothpick while sitting on the Frenchman’s couch, in his suite. 

Lucien sighed from his bedroom.

“Do we know if he intends to settle there or is his US tour going to last any longer?” He asked. 

“Apparently he had to meet with some folks in New Mexico but intends to settle for real in Texas. Some of his henchmen were spotted there already, but the man himself still has to join his goons.”

“Very well.”

Lucien walked to the telephone and composed a number. 

“Allô? Oui, please let the driver of Agent J know that his stop should not be in New Mexico but at Corpus Christi, in Texas… Many thanks.” Lucien hung up the phone and went back to his room, leaving the door open.

“So you’re goin’ there too or it’s too easy for the great L to take care of, huh?” Fred asked with enough disdain for Lucien to frown from his bedroom. He had laid a suitcase open on his bed and was packing his essentials.

“I am joining him. He is still in training and has no idea how to even dress. How could one expect him to capture an everything-trafficker?” Lucien's voice said from the bedroom. 

"Well, he's still technically in trainin' but you just called him 'Agent J', as if he was official…" Fred took a chocolate from the bowl on the coffee table. Lucien came out of his bedroom with a briefcase in his hand. “Think he has potential?”

"Thank you for letting me know where Mordankovich is." The Frenchman coldly answered and Fred raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t wanna answer?”

“Non.”

“Fair enough…” Fred took another chocolate from the bowl on the table and tossed the wrapping on it. Perle jumped on the table and started playing with the shiny bit of plastic.

“Perle, non.” Lucien came and took the wrapping away from her. “Chocolate is no food for you.”

“Meow!”

“C’est malpoli de répondre.” The Frenchman gently answered.

[It is impolite to talk back.]

Lucien threw the wrappings in the bin and Perle followed him around. 

“What are you gonna do with it?” Fred asked.

“With what?” Lucien answered.

“With the cat? You gonna go to Texas with it? Also, I didn’t know you had a kitty… C’mere…” Fred extended a few fingers to Perle who came to sniff them. “Ouch! She slapped me with her claws!”

Lucien couldn’t help but smirk.

“Perle, ne lui fais pas de mal, s’il te plaît.”

[Perle, don’t harm him, please.]

The American sucked on his bruised finger and frowned. 

"To answer you, Perle is coming along." Lucien said and crouched down next to the cat's travel box. He put a little soft blanket inside and dropped a few treats on it. "Viens, ma belle." 

[Come, my beauty.]

Before obeying, Perle brushed herself on the Frenchman. 

"Oui, tu viens avec moi. Je ne vais pas te laisser toute seule, non?" 

[Yes, you are coming with me. I will not leave you on your own, will I?]

He gently scratched her head and Perle purred. She appreciated the scratches for a while before she decided that she had enough and the smell of those tuna treats inside the travel box was divine…! 

"Never thought you were the pet ownin' type." Fred helped himself to more chocolates. "Hell, you couldn't even bear with people who wanted to work with you…! And now you got a kid and a fuckin' cat!"

"Well, if we are done, Fred…" Lucien walked to the front door. He put his coat on and wrapped a scarf around his neck. "If you don't mind, I need to leave." 

"Oh, sure." Fred took an extra handful of chocolates and left. “Oh, before I forget…” Fred turned from halfway through the hotel corridor. “We’ve got a guy in Texas, E, he’s good with machines and stuff. G'luck!"

A few hours later, Lucien was aboard a plane. He stretched his legs in front of him and sighed as he looked through the window. He was thousands of miles above the ground and as late as it was, he couldn't even see the clouds beneath him. It gave him the impression that he was floating in space, far from the Earth and its problems, in a business class bubble, far from targets, ministries and intelligence agencies.

The lights dimmed out in the plane and most passengers slowly fell in Morpheus' arms. Lucien looked through the infinite darkness.

"Meow?" 

"Dors, ma chérie. Je suis là." 

[Sleep, sweetheart. I am here.] 

Lucien had put Perle in the seat next to him, still in the box. 

"Meow…" She complained. 

"Je sais, c'est moins confortable que dans mon lit, sur le coussin à côté de moi. Mais on est dans un avion." 

[I know, it is less comfortable than my bed, on the pillow next to mine. But we are on a plane."

"Meeeoooow?" She begged and Lucien sighed. He opened the box's door. 

"Tu restes près de moi, d'accord?"

[You stay next to me, understood?]

Perle curled in a ball of fur on her master's lap. He scratched her and she gently purred, blinking slower and slower. 

"Meow." 

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux?" Lucien smiled. He could barely admit it, but he grew fond of Perle in a way he never thought he could. 

[What do you want?]

When he left his suite in his hotel, he had taken a last glance at the living-room, and smiled. That cat had transformed his days as much as it had his environment. Now he had to commit to a routine to feed her, to change the water from her bowl, even though she preferred to drink from a tap, to take care of her. And he had to invest money in toys, scratching posts and even in a soft satin bed that she decided wasn't good enough for her. She preferred to sleep with him and wake him up in the morning, sweet headbutts and rolling purrs. 

"Meow?" She asked. 

"Fine, Fine." Lucien smiled and Perle rolled on her back, looking up at her master with her deep blue eyes. Lucien cleared his throat. 

"Ne m’oublie pas,

[Don’t forget me.]

Je vais devoir m’en aller.

[I have to go.]

Ne m’oublie pas

[Don’t forget me.]

Tu ne dois pas pleurer.

[You must not cry.]

Même quand je suis très loin de toi,

[Even when I am very far from you,]

Tu restes dans mon coeur

[You remain in my heart.]

Je chante en secret chaque soir

[I sing in secret every night]

Pour que tu n’aies plus peur.

[So that you don’t feel scared]

Ne m’oublie pas,

[Don’t forget me,]

C’est à regret que je pars.

[It is with regret that I leave.]

Ne m’oublie pas, 

[Don’t forget me,]

Quand je chante, tu es dans mes bras.”

[When I sing, you are in my arms.]

Lucien smiled. Perle had fallen asleep, just as Jérémy used to when Lucien used to sing this to him, in bed. 

"Sir?" 

Lucien's head swooshed to the feminine voice. It was an air hostess. 

"He is adorable." She said. 

"She is a female, but thank you."

"Oh, I'm sorry. What's her name?"

"Perle, or in English, Pearl."

"Beautiful name you gave her…" 

They exchanged a smile. 

"I'm sorry but uh, you're not supposed to let her out of her box for the duration of the flight." 

"I apologise, Mademoiselle. Although, I suppose it doesn't cause too much of an issue if she is asleep?" 

[Miss]

"Ah, I'm sorry, Sir, but…"

"Tell me, Mademoiselle," Lucien cut her. "Most people are asleep now, non?" 

[Miss]

"Oh, uh…" The air hostess looked around them. "In business class, yes, I guess you're the only one awake." 

"Non, I am not, for you are too." He gave her a smile and a twinkle of his eyes that only women could understand.

“Yeah, I’m on night shift duty.” She answered. 

Lucien removed the cat box from the seat next to his. "Please do take a seat." 

"But, Sir, I-"

"Please." Lucien insisted and the woman eventually yielded. 

"Right…"

"It must be poetic." The Frenchman started, still lazily brushing Perle, asleep on his lap. 

"What is, sorry?" 

"Your position. Air hostess… Ah, you travel high in the skies, borders mean nothing to you."

"Well, that's a way to put it. And uhm… What do you do, I mean, apart from singin' lullabies to your kitty?"

"Ah, so you did hear me?" Lucien lowered his eyes to Perle who was sleeping soundly. 

"I did, yeah." The hostess blushed. "You got a great voice, I mean, it's soothin'." 

"Thank you."

"I can understand how she falls asleep that fast with ya."

Lucien raised his eyes to the woman sitting on the seat beside him. Through the dim lights, he saw her hat, assorted to her uniform, the twinkle of her brown eyes, the bright red lipstick and white and red foulard around her neck. Her jacket dived along her shy cleavage and as she crossed one leg over the other, the edge of her tight skirt grazed her skin, revealing her porcelain thighs. 

“Why would that be?” He asked, half whispering, both to not wake the passengers around, even though the Frenchman had a booth for himself, but also for the thrill of it. He stared in her eyes gently, his front lock of ashen hair falling poetically between his eyes. 

“You… You’ve got a beautiful voice.” She answered and looked away. As she swooshed her head, a lock of her hair fell from under her hat. 

The Frenchman put Perle back in her box and put it opposite him. 

“Mademoiselle?” He then asked. 

[Miss?]

The young woman turned to face him, her eyes still lowered. Lucien guessed that her cheeks had turned pink even though, in the dimness of the low lights, he could not see it. He pushed the lock of hair behind her ear and she raised her head, slowly. She looked around, quickly. Everyone was sleeping soundly.

“Sir, I…”

“Oui?” Lucien answered with a dreamy smile. He knew where this was going, he could see it in the woman’s nervous breath as if he had been the one pushing her. In all fairness, he had been exactly that. He was one of these men that could whisper in people’s souls straight through his eyes. And he loved it. He felt nothing for the woman, even though she was far from repulsive. But it wasn’t his heart that wanted to see her breath hitch and her eyes flutter, it was his ego.

As impulsive as a blink, the air hostess bent on her side and pushed her lips on the Frenchman, who made all the efforts in the world not to smirk, not now, it would make her stop. Instead, and to encourage her, he gently slid his hands on her waist and pulled her closer to himself. Her hands found Lucien’s face and she kept on touching, her eyes closed. Soon, she removed her hat and Lucien started touching the collar of her jacket. She unbuttoned it herself before hungrily opening Lucien’s shirt. That was when the Frenchman looked deep in her eyes. Ha, she looked like a deer flashed by the lights of a passing car, thoughts racing but not fully hitting her head.

The hostess moved from her seat to sit on Lucien’s lap and that’s when he knew he had won. Not against her, he would never fight or compete with a woman, but against himself, against his old age, against all those years of remaining faithful to one woman despite her dancing on her own vows, trampling them with her stolen stilettos. 

The hostess bit her lip to contain her heavy breathing and her moans as Lucien felt her hips grind against his crotch. He spent more time nibbling her neck, filling his lungs with the scent of his trophy, of his victory, he let his hands run on her golden sides, such a pretty cup… She wrapped her arms around his head, slightly ruffling his hair while he kissed her chest, chaste pecks just to push her to show her eagerness; because at the end of the day, Lucien was not particularly in the mood for more, nor was he against it. He was just proving a point to himself. 

Oui, Marie, you thought only you could have anyone at your mercy with a blink of your eyes, hm? Well, I can too, and maybe I played with you too? Maybe I sometimes faked a few things with you too, huh? Who told you that I was that head over heels for you? Look at me now, my head in this woman’s chest. Mind you, I have barely met her and don’t even know her name yet, but here she is, begging for more of me. Do you see this, Marie? Do you? Do you see how I am playing now? Do you see this? Watch carefully, I will make her scream my name, as you used to, I will make her scratch my skin until she draws blood, as you used to, and who knows, maybe I will feel content and satisfied with her more than I ever was with you, you insolent, lying-

The air hostess had unbuckled Lucien’s belt and her hand was exploring the Frenchman’s lower stomach. As it slid down, more and more, wet kisses pressed to whatever corner of skin both could reach-

“MEEEEOW!”

Lucien and the hostess both froze on the spot, the woman pulled the panes of her open shirt back together. 

“I-I should go back…” She said, as Perle jumped on the seat that the woman previously occupied, and showed her fangs.

Perle’s hissing screech left Lucien confused. The hostess left his lap and the Frenchman remained in a state of blank and utter confusion for minutes. The kitty hopped on her master’s lap and started to knead his bare chest. Lucien still had his shirt and his trousers’ fly open. His hair was a mess and on his lips, the taste of the hostess’s lipstick lingered.

“Comment es-tu sortie de ta cage?”  He lowered his eyes to meet Perle’s.

[How did you come out of your box?]

“Meow.” She ignored him and brushed herself on him repeatedly.

Lucien sighed. He had got used to Perle’s presence, he had accepted her and adapted to her, but if she was going to “intervene” whenever he least needed it, well, that was something else!

“Meow?” She asked, tilting her head. 

“J’étais occupé, Perle, et j’aurais apprécié que tu sois restée sagement dans ta cage. Pourquoi es-tu sortie? Et pour crier en plus?”

[I was busy, Perle, and I would have appreciated it if you had stayed put in your box. Why did you come out? And yelling, at that?]

Lucien looked away from her, visibly annoyed, even angry at her. He buttoned his shirt again and looked down to zip up his trousers when he noticed something that pushed him even deeper in frustration. 

The Frenchman had spent so much of his energy being furious at Mary, releasing all kinds of anger against her ghost, that he did not even notice that his body did not show any signs of wanting to proceed with the air hostess. 

Or was it just his advanced age and he needed a bit more… help for his body to show some eagerness?

The rest of the flight was spent inconsequentially. He landed, took a taxi and was driven to his hotel where he settled. A few phone calls later and Perle found a litter box, a few toys and a cat tree had appeared. That, and of course a piano.

Lucien had taken a shower and went to sit on the black, velvet seat, wearing his pyjamas and a gown. A cigarette was slowly fuming from his lips.

“Meow?” Perle jumped on the keys and then on top of the grand piano. 

“Quoi?” He asked, the tiredness and annoyance taking away his usual politeness.

[What?]

She looked at him pleadingly with her round, deep blue eyes, as she slowly made her way to stand in front of him, before offering her head. The Frenchman sighed and bent his head forward to meet her with a soft headbutt. 

“Non, je ne t’en veux pas. C’est juste… Bah.”

[No, I am not mad at you. It’s just that… Bah.]

He brushed his head against hers for a while and ended up closing his eyes, running his fingers through her long fur. When she backed off and he opened his eyes again, he felt like a different man, as if that incident in the plane had happened decades ago, or to a different man altogether.

“Merci.” He smiled at the cat who reciprocated by blinking slowly. Perle lay down on the varnished black piano in front of him and Lucien started playing.

As his fingers drummed the keys, his brain dwelled on the events a bit longer. The truth was that he had been completely indifferent to that air hostess. She was pleasant to the eye, oui, but… But Lucien was proving a point, not making love to her! There! He said it! His ego wanted to make love to her, not his mind, not his heart and not even his body.

He didn't realise it but his fingers were playing the same piece on loop, The Bard, by Brad Mehldau. 

Even his body didn’t want to make love to that woman. 

“Mon Dieu.” 

His eyes snapped wide open and his fingers hung in the air as the realisation hit him. 

His body had not been remotely interested in anyone or anything since… Well, not since he had left Marie and Jéramy all those years ago, non. God knows he had had to sleep with this or that, and he did, and his body happily played along. Non, his body had fallen disinterested in anything since he had learnt the truth about Marie.

“Mon Dieu…”

Lucien repeated as the last note he played still hung in the air.

[madamspeaker]

It’s not a “gate” - The hair/salon thing

I’ve addressed the salon thing in a couple of asks, but I wanted to take a moment to just go through the whole thing separate of those because what this saga has highlighted is a complete failure of journalists to do their work, and the undercurrent of misogyny that perpetuates both journalistic discourse, and how women must present themselves, especially if a public figure.

(This is long, so to spare your dashboards it’s under a cut)

Let’s start with the facts. Nancy’s usual stylist wasn’t available for Monday, so she/he recommended someone else. Nancy’s office contacted him last weekend (Nancy only returned to SF some time on Friday), and asked if it was possible to do her hair. The thing to note at this moment is that the rules governing salons in California started to change from last Friday. The governor had announced limited indoor openings, but to confuse matters some localities were still imposing tighter restrictions. Nancy’s office checked with the stylist, who told them that the rules permitted one person in at a time. He then asked the salon owner who he rented a chair from if he could go into the premises and do the appointment on Monday. The owner agreed to his request on the Saturday. Fast forward to Monday afternoon - Nancy gets her hair done before doing a television interview on MSNBC, and then on Tuesday the owner cries “outrage!!!” to Fox News, bringing along with her a seconds long bit of footage that shows Nancy with her mask around her neck. Naturally the whole thing explodes on Twitter and then across other media (several versions of the story made the top ten shared links on Facebook).

What followed was a failure of journalism to ask follow up questions about the clearly odd parts of the salon owner’s account as relayed by Fox News (a red flag in of itself). In her interview with Fox she admitted she had known about the appointment in advance, but no one thought to ask why she let the appointment go ahead if it so offended and outraged her - she did own the place afterall, it’s not like Nancy had keys or barged in. Likewise, no one thought to ask where the rest of the salon footage was. Why only release seconds worth which rather conveniently showed Nancy with her mask down, and partially hidden under her chin? Could it be that she had worn the mask the rest of the time. No one in the media thought to ask this. It seemed fairly clear to most sensible people on Tuesday night that something with off with the salon owner’s tale of outrage, but the media pretty much took the Fox News version of events at verbatim. Only USA Today raised the points I just did, but alas, they buried them in their write up.

Wednesday saw Nancy fight back, acknowledging that she took responsibilty for trusting the salon (when perhaps she should have had someone else verify what they had been told), but ask yourselves this, would you have verified it elsewhere? She had been to this salon before with a stylist, they were local, she trusted them, and in a situation in which the law was changing, it makes perfect and reasonable sense to ask the professionals in that industry what their status is. On this point there have been plenty of indignant people and bots on Twitter up in arms that Nancy didn’t apparently know the regulations in SF, but a) she didn’t make those regulations (as some seem to think), b) she spends just as much if not more time in D.C., and c) she has about 100 other things on her plate in any given hour, that salon regulations in SF are probably somewhere near 120 on her list after deal with Covid-19, Trump, win the election, save the USPS, try to get a stimulus bill, deal with the federal budget which will need a CR to prevent a shutdown (minutes after I hit publish on this it was announced she had reached a deal with Mnuchin to avoid a shutdown), restore in-person inteligence briefings, file an appeal in the McGahn case (again), Bill sodding Barr,, Russian bounties on US soldiers and so on. She has an insanely stressful job at the moment, her staff too, and it seems more than reasonable for staff/her to ask a professional in the industry about the regulations on salons, when such regulations were pretty confusing to most people last weekend anyway. Nancy’s only apparent “crime” in this instance was to trust the word of the industry pro.

Then of course we have the “she’s not wearing a mask” portion of this debacle. Not one journalist has asked where the rest of the footage is. We see Nancy walk from the bowl to another room, wet hair, phone in hand, and the mask around her neck (slightly hidden by her chin), but we never got the footage of her walking to the bowl, or any other footage from what was definitely more than a 4 second long appointment. Could it possibly be that she had indeed been wearing a mask the rest of the time - that she wasn’t just wearing it around her neck as some sort of foulard meets choker fashion statement. People have asked, “Why did she pull it down?”, and to that I will say, probably any one of three or four reasons. She uses a clip at the back of her neck to secure her masks rather than the ear loops. Maybe it was in the way and the stylist asked her to pull it down. Maybe she had trouble breathing with her face covered and head back. Maybe she didn’t want to get it wet. The point here is that it was around her neck, suggesting that she had been compliant until that fateful video captured moment. The media again though have run with the Fox News narrative that she had no mask. For one, it’s actually visible in the footage, and two, they are blatantly disregarding what they themselves know to be true - that Nancy has been wearing a mask for the last five months. We have the footage and photographs to prove it, not to mention the press also know that she takes down her mask to talk at her pressers etc. The press are playing stupid on this point to satisfy some both sides need in an election that so far has Joe Biden with a good lead. Their wilful obtusity is purely to inject some drama into things on the Dem side for clicks because nothing at present is sticking to Biden. All this leads to me to the misogyny.

I caught part of a radio interview yesterday in which two male hosts had to have it explained to them as to why a woman in the public eye might need a hair stylist more than once a week. One of the men had been perplexed as to why if Nancy needed her hair done she hadn’t just got it taken care of in D.C. were salons are open. It never entered his brain that no amount of hair spray is going to keep a hairstyle in place for at least 3 days (when Nancy was last in D.C.), or that she might need to lie down to sleep, or that hair does actually need washed. Likewise, it never occured to either of them that Nancy turning up to an television interview with anything other than styled hair would be a news story in itself, because here’s the rub, women are damned for makeup and hairstyling and thought vain and shallow, and they’re damned if they don’t put makeup on and get their hair done, especially for television (we all remember the “omg” reactions when Hillary turned up to an event days after the election in 2016 with a bare face). The last couple of days have been full of this crap, with men (looking at you Don Lemon and the SF Chronicle editorial board) especially saying Nancy should apologise for the salon episode. Why should she? She did what any reasonable person would do and asked about the rules. Her error was to take the salon at their word, but by today’s logic the salon’s lie is Nancy’s fault. I have seen more than one man on Twitter admit the facts of the case and still say “she should take the hit”. Would they say this of a man who had been lied to, framed, and the footage sold to a hostile media company? I think not.

And then of course there is the salon owner herself. The stylist released a statement last night backing Nancy’s side of events up. He also revealed that the owner, so “outraged” by Nancy’s appointment, had in fact been opening up illegally since April, had been forgoing masks, and been forcing stylists to work. What also emerged is that the owner had let her licence lapse on the premises back in May (so Nancy had not ended her business as she claimed), and was in the middle of relocating to Fresno -- something the press have gilbly ignored as they report how she has been hounded out of town because of Nancy, and forced to move. Let me say this, not even the IRA at the peak of The Troubles could get people to move that quick, and they had guns. And then there’s the gofundme - which popped up less than 24hrs after she handed the tape to Fox. Naturally the blurb is a sorry tale of woe, of a supposedly single mother forced to move because of the evil Speaker of the House. No mention that she owns three salons, that she’d let the licence lapse on one anyway, is opening one in Fresno, loves her guns (and those ain’t cheap) and took a PPP loan of $12,000 wihilst operating illegally. By the way, at the time of writing this, the gofundme has raised over $80k for her -- which shows you how Trumpers will buy into any bullshit, and how Nancy is a fundraising powerhouse regardless of your party affliation lol.

I appreciate this has been a rather long read, and if you made it this far, thanks! Nancy didn’t do anything wrong other than take the word of a salon in good faith. Should she have known the regulations herself? Maybe, but she has the kind of crazy and stressful life most of us can’t even begin to imagine, and unlike the Presidency, the Office of Speaker doesn’t come with personal maid services thrown in, or a whole West Wing of staff. End of the day, once out of that office, Nancy has to do all that normal life stuff that the rest of us do - shop, go to the post office, buy clothes etc., and now in the Covid era get ready for tv interviews herself rather than a studio stylist do it. Her mistake was to trust someone who has it turns out saw a chance to have a moment of fame, stick one to the woman she ignorantly blamed for the lockdown, and make some money from gullible Trumpers. I don’t know how this story will play out in the coming days. Ice cream lasted a week, spurred on by the far-left and then the far-right. This may have more staying power as Trump desperately seeks some kind of mud to stick to Dems, and with nothing sticking to Biden at present, his 2016 playbook (and the even older GOP one) of blame a woman (in this case Nancy) has been deployed. The problem of course is that Trump isn’t running against Nancy -- but as the press have so depressingly showed, that fact hasn’t stopped them from elevating one trip to a salon above 180k+ dead, Melania using a prvate email server (!!!, I mean come the fuck onnnnnnn, this after 2016!!!?!?!?), or Trump telling people to committ a felony and vote twice.

[celestica-1988]

Material Girl

Desclaimer: TheDirt!Vince x Female Reader

You were a rich bitch and you knew it damn well.

Your family was one of the richest of L.A, you lived your entire life in Orange County, attending exclusive schools and with a selected group of friends that were just like you.

You were a spoilt kid, everything you wanted you have, your parents gave up at every tantrum and so you felt that the world not only was yours, but that you were superior to the world itself.

In your golden world nothing ever changed and you were all right with this: you were the princess of the castle. All the rich boy tried to hit on you, but you didn’t want a random rich guy: you wanted the richest man ever. Someone who could keep spoilt you till death.

If you loved him or not didn’t even matter, money matters.

Until there were money a relationship could work according to you.

So you were putting some mascara to complete the make-up and then going to the club and haunt for a while. Your blonde hair were done in perfect curls, the light smokey eyes make-up and red lip stick were perfect for your new Chanel white dress.

Suddenly the phone rang, you answered annoyed.

“Hello?”

“Y/N? It’s me, Rose!”

Rose was your best friend and a pain in the ass.

Instead of living the life of rich and famous she ran away to Los Angeles to work as a bar tender on Sunset Strip.” “Fuck, Rose! What do you want? I was about to go to the club to see if it’s true that the rich son on a family from New York was there.”

“Well, hello, Rose. Nice to hear from you.” “Fuck off, why do you call me?” “I’m homeless for a few nights, can I stay in your basement?” “Okay, but just for few nights and be careful.

My parents will kick you out in a second since they are so friends with yours.”

“Oh, thank you! You are the best friend in the world.” “Cut it off. Where are you?” She told you an address on Sunset Strip, next a place called Whisky a Go Go, so, hissing like a cat, you took the keys of the car to go and help Rose.

The city was too hot and the traffic was terrible, but you managed to arrive at Sunset Strip, you looked around annoyed and finally found Rose. Black hair, black t-shirt all ripped, a non-existent jeans skirt and boots: she was her.

You stopped the car and walked towards her, but suddenly you heard a motorcycle that came up beside you, you sighed and ignored it completely.

“Hey, beauty!”

You turned to the driver: it was a blonde guy who wear a white leather jacket, black jeans and a red foulard. Nice, but not enough for your standards.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, you know I’m talking about you, doll.

Wanna go for a ride.”

You gave him a cold look.

“No, sorry. You are too low for my standards. You need more money if you want me to go for a ride with you.”

And then you ignored him again and reached Rose.

Rose was shocked.

“Do you even know who is the guy you turned down so harshly?”

“No ad I don’t care. I don’t need a punk like him, I want my rich prince, I want money.

Now get in the car.”

Rose didn’t say anything, soon life would teach you not to judge from the appearance and that money are not everything in life. Because the guy you turned down was Vince Neil and he didn’t take no as an answer, and if it happened the girl ended up regretted it.

 ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 Vince was livid.

Never, in his entire life, he met such a cold bitch. Sure she was beautiful: a perfect ass, tits that talk, long blonde hair, blue eyes placed on a face with perfect make-up. Upper class shit.

But her attitude… He treated him like she was a queen and he was a peasant.

Didn’t she know who he was?

Vince fucking Neil from Mötley Crüe.

He was in a famous band, he lived in a mansion in which sometimes he got lost because it was huge, and had a lot of money. That girl had no right to act like this, to turn him down like his.

He was boiling.

The girl needed a lessons and he was willing to give her one.

Something she would never forget, something that will stamp the name of Vince Neil in her brain forever,

Did she wanted upper class shit?

She will have it, but she will pay a price not in money.

Vince grinned devilishly.

 ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 One day after Rose was living in your basement a big bundle of red roses arrived at your house.

You took it and something fell off from it, you called the waitress and tell her to take care of the roses, when your hands were free you picked it up.

It was a thin necklace with a snowflake as a pendant, it was made of diamonds.

You stared at it in awe and turned it around in your hands: it was a really rare piece of Cartier.

There were not even a note with it so you had no idea about who sent it to you.

Still in shock you went in the basement and showed it to Rose.

“It’s really beautiful, dude. But be careful. You don’t know who send it to you.” “Who cares, Rose! Have you got any idea about how much does it cost and how rare it is?” Rose made a strange face.

“Gotcha, but still be careful.”

You didn’t understand why Rose was so worried, an insanely rich man was interested in you, it was something to be happy.

You started to dream a wedding in Notre Dame, Paris, and living in a mansion like the one you grew up if not a better one.

The mysterious man sure didn’t lack in money and that was all that matters.

“Y/N, money are not everything. Don’t dream over this stranger.”

“Oh, shut up, Rose!”

The next day another bundle of roses arrived and this time there was a bracelet with elegant snowflakes made of diamond. It was like it was made to be worn with the necklace.

Rose told you again to be careful, but you didn’t listen to her.

Your dreams got bigger and bigger. You and that man could have a house in New York, Paris and London too. Maybe also one in some Caribbean country for the holiday.

Who was your mysterious prince?

There weren’t no notes this time too.

Maybe he was shy or an old fashioned gentleman who is good to court a girl in the right way.

Could it be the New York guy from the club?

But you weren’t sure because when you met him he seemed annoyed by you.

The third  day, the usually rose arrived and this time there were long earing, so elegant and with the usual snowflake in the design.

Now you were sure: he chose the jewelry to be worn all together in some special occasion, could it be a date?

Your heart started to beat faster and faster, imagining what kind of date could it be, surely it would be refined and elegant, the one you dream since you were a kid.

You couldn’t contain the excitement, like a child. You think about the mysterious man all day, trying to picture his face, his body, everything.

You thought of him like a prince and you were more than willing to be the princess of the castle.

The fourth day you screamed after the usual waitress took care of the roses: there were a ring with a snowflakes of diamond and the central piece was a blue one and most important a note.

It was written on a parchment color cream and there were a short message, the calligraphy was elegant: “Dear Miss Y/N,

I would like to meet you at “La Neige” this Saturday at eight o’clock.

We could enjoy a meal and get to know each other.”

You ran to Rose, she was smoking happily, but once she saw you so happy she became instantly worried.

“What’s up, Y/N?”

“Read!!” You handed her the note, she read it and frowned.

“Y/N, don’t go. You don’t know who is this person. You think he’s a prince, but he may be a psycho.

Please, listen to me. I think it would be dangerous.”

“But he sent me roses and jewelry!”

“But, he never told your name and I think I know who he is.”

“Who?” You were genuinely surprised, since when Rose the rebel knows such people?

“It’s Vince, the guy you dumped.” “Don’t be silly. He’s just a punk ass, he hasn’t got so much money to waste.” “Well, I tried to stop you.”

She sighed.

You came back in your house, you opened the wardrobe and looked at all your dresses, nothing seemed good enough or appropriate for the date. You were about to go crazy, than you figured out that since snow seemed to be so important you should wore the white dress that you were dressing the day you went on Sunset Strip.

You took a shower, shaved, wore the dress and the right make up.

You chose carefully your shoes and then grabbed your bag.

At half past six you were out of the house, because you didn’t wanna be late because of LA traffic.

You arrived at the restaurant in time and entered happy like a child.

Suddenly you froze, the room was empty except for the guy you cruelly rejected not even a week ago.

“What are you doing here?” “Surprised, princess?”

“Yes, I have a date with a man.” “I am that man.” You felt your heart sank into your feet.

“What?”

“I’m the one who send you the roses and the jewelry, cold bitch.”

Your heart exploded in a thousand of pieces, that’s why there were always a snowflake!

Vince got up with  a mean smile.

“Sorry, you are too low for my standards.

I don’t like cold rich bitches who judge people because of what they wear or the money they have.

I already eat so, could you please pay the bill?

I’m sure you have enough money, sweetheart.”

Vince left the room, you don’t feel anything.

You haven’t got an heart anymore. Or a soul. Or the part of brain that create feelings.

You paid the bill and went out the restaurant.

It was on the ocean so you find a way for the beach.

Just there you let yourself cry your heart out.

All the dreams and fantasies were useless.

Rose was right, it was dangerous, there were that Vince behind everything.

And the worst part of this is that some parts of you found him sexy and wanted to know him better. You were on half way to fall for him, because he was the freedom you never had.

Yea, now you learned that money weren’t everything, but it was too late.

And you just kept crying.

[rhaellatully]

Strings’n’Drums Chapter 5 (fanfiction)

Fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12814422/5/Strings-n-Drums

AO3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991202/chapters/36607086

Summury: AU. In 1969, Lucy runs from home and becomes a journalist for the magazin Strings'n'Drums, this will lead the young shy girl in the world of rock music, to meet the colorfull caracters that populates it. In between running from her father and living new experience Lucy will make friends, gorw into an adult and maybe have some romance. Will include Nalu and mentions of other parings

Beta: Reliena Artemis Rockfeller

Chapter 1:https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/170156396003/stringsndrums-fanficition

Chapter 4:https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/176550445438/stringsndrums-chapter-4-fanfiction

Lucy was climbing the stairs toward Natsu Dragneel’s apartment. He lived on the seventh floor, and the more steps she took, the more she regretted to have worn her high heels. To be honest, the closer she got to his apartment, the more she regretted her entire choice of attire. Levy had told her that Natsu Dragneel didn’t like people who were too serious and she had to dress down. She was wearing a zaffre circle skirt that ended much above her knees with a white short-sleeved notched collar shirt. As much as she wanted Mr. Dragneel to see her as someone he could trust, she had a hard time believing he’d take her seriously with a skirt this short. She had told Levy about this worry of hers, and her friend had answered on a dismissive tone, “Natsu doesn’t take anyone seriously.” This hadn’t made Lucy feel better. Her mind was filled with the different remark that could be made about the skirt. Mini skirts were the trend, almost every girl wore them in London, but back at home, they had always been forbidden and shamed. She was raised in a conservative home, after all.

Her legs hurt with every step she took, as she looked up for the hundredth time to see if she was getting closer. She cursed the architect who made the steps so wide. And it was also just her luck that the lift was under maintenance today. It was hot inside the building, but not as much as it was outside. Lucy, who had grown up more at the north, was not used to this heat and it showed. She wiped some sweat from her brow and tried to look under her armpit, where she could feel dampness. She could only hope it didn’t spread too widely or what would she look like?

When she finally reached the right floor, she took a moment to catch her breath. She shouldn’t be this affected by just a few stairs, but she was truly out of shape and the heat was just agonizing. Lucy took out her powder compact from her bag and used its mirror to look at herself. Her hair was a bit messy and she tried her best to put the stray strands back in place, but without a comb, this was an impossible task. She looked inside her bag and found a blue foulard, that she tied around her head, tying it under her left ear in a big noose that she hoped would keep the attention away from her hair. She retouched her make up the best she could, then took a deep breath and walked to where Natsu Dragneel’s apartment should be.

With her still sweaty finger, she rang the bell. She heard the sound echo through the building, and the moment it stopped, the door opened. On the other side, stood a man who she recognised to be Natsu Dragneel, his messy hair as well as his signature unbuttoned black leather waistcoat were the giveaway. He didn’t wear anything underneath it, apart of course, from his white pants. Lucy was made quite uncomfortable by the sight of his bare chest. She gulped as unnoticeably as she could, and immediately looked away.

“Hello.” He said with a nice voice.

“Hi.” Said Lucy, as she looked at him in the eyes, trying to look professional, “I’m Lucy Heartfillia, the Strings’n’Drums journalist, I’m here for the interview.”

“Oh yeah, right! Do come in!” He said with a smile and there was excitement in his voice.

Lucy entered the apartment and was met with a wave of heat, which would have surprised her if she hadn’t immediately spotted the large window that allowed an incredible amount of light in, the white walls reflecting it. As she glanced around, she noticed the tremendous mess that was this flat. While the furniture were correctly placed, the couch across from a television; a small wooden table in between them; several chairs were also in place to accommodate guests; underneath the expanse of this area was a large carpet; and against the wall, was a console shelf full of vinyl records, and sitting atop of it was a state-of-the-art record player. There were also uncountable amounts of small objects scattered around the room, and mostly at places where they didn’t belong—such as guitar strings on the television, a mug on the carpet, what seems like a recently-used toothbrush on the couch, an opened bottle of alcohol on a chair, a pile of clean clothes folded on the floor, and many more other things.

Mr. Dragneel went to sit on the couch, across from the toothbrush, and smiled kindly at her. Lucy made her way to one of the chairs and sat. As she did, she noticed a bunch of papers folded into the seat’s crevice. She took them and discovered that they were music sheets. She spared a quiet glance in Natsu Dragneel’s direction and saw that his expression had not changed, as if he was perfectly unbothered by what she had just done. She put the sheets back where she had found them, and took out her notepad before putting her bag on the floor next to her chair. She turned her attention towards the musician she was supposed to interview. Now that she looked at him more carefully, she noticed that he seemed a bit tanned. She guessed this was due to the tour he just got back from; the last concert having been in Spain and Portugal. She also noticed the white scarf that was wrapped around his neck. The sight of the man’s chiselled chest had made her unable to pay attention to the article of clothing earlier. This scarf had black lines on it that reminded Lucy of scales, which she thought fits well with his nickname: Salamander. His eyes, his expression, his entire body language, were perfectly relaxed. Lucy supposed it came from the numerous interviews he had already given. This led her to think it would make him judge her more harshly. Levy had told her that he was very laid back and didn’t care about much, but Lucy convinced herself that someone with his influence in the musical world would see that what was part of it as someone religiously important.

“So are you ready to dive in?” she asked, forcing a smile.

“Sure!” He answered with what seemed to be the excitement of a child. Lucy almost laughed at his behaviour.

“Alright,” she said, “you just came back from your European tour, right? How was it?”

“Oh it was cool, y'know the usual,” he said nonchalantly, making small gestures as he spoke.

“Did you get to play the tourist in some of the towns you visited?” Out of habit, she started to outstretch her arm toward him, but remembering her sweaty armpit, she quickly retracted it.

“Not all of them, cause, y'know, the schedule. But there were a few I got to visit and hang around in. Like, it was super cool in Stockholm,” and he went on to explain everything he had found interesting about this town. As he spoke, he grew more excited and his movements grew wider. By the end of his speech, he was almost jumping on his seat. Lucy was very amused by his behaviour. “Have you ever been to a town like that?” He finished by asking.

“No,” she said, the ghost of a chuckle in her voice, she was about to tell him about one of her travels when she remembered that she was supposed to do an interview. “Did you find anything interesting or inspiring, musically speaking?”

This time he jumped on his seat, “Yes!” he said loudly pointing at her with his finger, “It was in Portugal, in Lisbon, I went to a bar one night to see a concert of local fado artists—have you ever listened to fado?” She shook her head no, “...well, it’s that sort of Portuguese blues, I mean I call it blues because it’s really melancholic and played with string instruments but it’s not melancholic melancholy, y’know? The melody somehow has a hint of hope in it,” there was a glimmer in his eyes as he spoke, “...and there’s that sound, it’s very unique. The sound made by Portuguese guitars. The one I went to see, they had a guitarra,” Lucy had no idea what that was and it must have showed because he immediately said, “it’s a guitar that looks kind of like a cross between a mandolin and a violao, which is another Portuguese guitar. The guitarra has that sound that really fits the melancholy of the music. And there was this singer, the way she sang, it was amazing! It really touches your soul, y'know.”

“Do you plan on including a bit of that in your next album?”

“Definitely. Though I haven’t figured out how yet, but I’ve bought myself a guitarra and a dozen of fado albums before leaving Lisbon. I’ve been listening to them on repeat. I’m going to fit that in somehow.” He said with delight.

Lucy was curious on how he was going to do that, and on how his next songs might sound. She made a note to herself to purchase some fado albums to help her write the article. In her head, she imagined it sounding similar to flamenco, but she could guess this was wrong. Flamenco was Spanish, and fado was Portuguese; the two countries did share a border, but that didn’t make them the same. Plus, with what Natsu had described, it didn’t sound like flamenco because fado sounded melancholic, not upbeat.

This train of thought reminded her of information she had acquired about the musician, so she asked him, “Did you get to spend some time in Spanish cities?”

“Yeah, I got to visit Madrid a bit, but not Barcelona, and that’s a bit sad.”

“You have Spanish roots, don’t you? Did going there feel different from other countries you’ve visited?”

“Oh yeah, well, my dad’s Spanish, I… I don’t know, it was weird,” suddenly he wasn’t making any movement anymore, “...cause I know like three words of Spanish and here I was, visiting the homeland of my ancestors, but I was a foreigner. It was cool to discover all cultures, y'know, the music, the colours, the food. The food! Man, the food was great! But it just showed that I’m not Spanish, y'know?” He finished, scratching the back of his head.

Lucy didn’t know. Her parents must have moved only three kilometres away from where they were born, where their parents were born, where their grandparents were born. By moving to London, she must have accomplished the greatest migration anyone in her family had ever made. She didn’t feel much towards her ‘homeland’, probably because to her, it had always been a prison. But she had always thought that those who had another home, one older, one carried by the stories of their grandparents, must have had a connection to that place, something that drew them there.

She couldn’t help but ask, “So, you didn’t feel any connection with Spain?”

She saw him hesitate before answering, “It’s a great place and I do like it there but… all my friends are in Great Britain, and that’s where my heart is. This is where my home is.”

A smile made its way to Lucy’s face. This was a beautiful thought, and she hoped that one day, she would share it. But for it to become a reality, she needed to make her place here, and this started by being a good journalist. “Should we expect a song about this?”

His eyes widened and he pointed at her again, “That’s a great idea!” he exclaimed, “But I can’t use fado on that one, I’ll have to go towards Spanish music. I know some Spanish musicians, I’ll have to call them.” His hands were floating in the air again. “Maybe, I can put some Spanish words in the lyrics, what do you think?”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. So your next album is going to be inspired by what you’ve discovered in your tour?”

“Well yeah, you sing what, y’know, what happens to you. I can’t discover those kinds of things and then not include them in my songs.”

“You’ve had tours all around the world before, why didn’t you do this sooner?”

“In the past tour, I never had the time to do anything other than my concerts, attend rehearsals, and appear on shows where I’m a guest. It was really exhausting. Honestly, at that time, I’d rather hit the bed than hit the town.” He let his body fall on the side of the couch to emphasize his words.

Lucy let a chuckle escape her lips. The musician smiled at her and got his body back into a sitting position. Lucy looked back at her notes to figure out what question she was supposed to ask, “What about the public, the crowd—is it really different from one country to the next?”

“Not really, y'know, music it’s… it can bring people together like nothing else. No matter where you’re from, you feel it the same, y'know what I mean?” She could tell from the look on his face that he truly was worried about his wording, but Lucy understood him completely and she nodded.  Lucy might not be a musician, but she had felt music every time she listens to it. Music didn’t need to have the same cultural base, or the same language...sometimes, it didn’t even need lyrics. Music could universally be comprehended.

“Yeah, music just get to people, it doesn’t matter where you are. Everyone understands music.” He continued, “So yeah, crowd’s the same. I mean there’s America, y’know, I was in the US before and like, over there my crowd is mostly made of girls, so I guess it’s not exactly the same, I guess.”

“How do you feel about this difference?”

“Oh, I don’t think much about it, but y’know, sometimes…it kind of gives me the impression that they’re more here for my appearance than my music.” His eyes widened, “Oh, so that’s how it feels.”

Lucy laughed and out of reflex brought her hands in front of her mouth. Meanwhile, Natsu smiled at her. When she went back to her original stance, she felt a coolness at the place where her arms connected with her sides. This reminded her that her armpits were stained with sweat, something that Natsu Dragneel must have seen while she was laughing. Yet, he was looking at her with a childlike smile, as if he hadn’t noticed anything.

Lucy didn’t know what to make of that. Any other day, she would have immediately thought that he was pretending to have seen nothing to be polite, but with the behaviour he had shown up until now, she thought that it was possible, that he might simply not care. However, she couldn’t be sure, and even if she had been, it wouldn’t have stop shame from making its way to her mind. She could hear her preceptor’s stern voice in her head going, ‘A true lady is never seen covered with filth of any kind.’ As much as she could shut the voice down, she couldn’t stop emotions from invading her. All she could hope to do was not to let it show. So, she gave her best smile and thought of a new question.

“Are you concerned with the place of women in the industry?” Her voice had been strong and didn’t show any hint of how she felt inside. She was proud of herself, but that didn’t last long. The moment she looked at Natsu Dragneel, she saw him looking at her oddly.

“Yeah, kind of,” he said, still looking weirdly at her. Lucy started thinking that maybe her question was the problem. “I have lots of friends who aren’t treated like me, y'know. It’s like Erza, I mean—Erza!” There was an hint of anger in his voice, “She’s so much more talented than me! I would kill to be at her level but they don’t let her do her thing!” The hint of anger was gone, and only real frustration remained.

“You mean Erza Scarlet?” asked Lucy, perplexed at the idea that he could be speaking about an artist as popular as her in such ways.

“Yeah!” he said, still visibly pissed.

Lucy took a moment to think about how to phrase her question. She didn’t want to sound like she was disagreeing with him. She was genuinely curious, but seeing how enraged he was, he might take her words the wrong way. Carefully, she tried, “Could you explain to me, how…in what ways Erza Scarlet is mistreated by the industry?”

“They make her like that,” he paused a moment, then spurred out words like they were poison, “...nice little doll, that only has a pretty voice!”

Lucy would never have described Erza Scarlet’s voice as pretty; not that it sounded bad, but that word didn’t reflect the power there was in that woman’s voice. She didn’t know what to think of the words ‘nice little doll’;Erza Scarlet had always seemed like a full grown woman to Lucy. But the person in front of her knew Erza Scarlet personally, so if to him, what she perceives as a normal woman with a powerful voice was a ‘nice little doll that only has a pretty voice’, what kind of person could Erza Scarlet really be?

“She’s not that?” the words escaped Lucy’s mouth without her accord.

“She’s so much more than that,” answered Natsu Dragneel, looking out the window. It took Lucy a moment to recognise the emotion in his voice, it was admiration. Not the kind of admiration one feels for someone they’re smitten with, but the kind you have for a mentor, the kind a child has for their hero. “Erza is the most talented musician I’ve ever met. Hands down.” He paused, “What you hear is nothing compared to what she can do—what she can really do.” He let out a frustrated sigh, “All that because stupid producers won’t let her do her thing.” The drama of what he was saying was cut off by his face, which wore a big childish pout.

“You admire her a lot, don’t you?” asked Lucy, genuinely curious. Now that she thought about it, Levy had mentioned that, among the children she had grown up with, there was Natsu Dragneel and Erza Scarlet.

“Of course!” he exclaimed throwing his arms in the air, “She’s the best!”

“Did you always think of her that way? I mean, since you were children?”

Natsu stopped and stared at her, his face was full of confusion, than realisation dawned on him. “Levy,” he said under his breath, he then regained his composure and said, “Not straight away, I thought she was bossy at first,” he paused, “...and she kind of was, like every time I tried to sneak into the kitchen at night, she was there to drag me back to my room.” He whined. He sighed angrily before continuing, “But then I heard her play and I realised how talented she was, and y'know after that, I couldn’t not admire her. And y'know, I was trying to become as good as her, but she was improving at the same time, so I was always behind. I’m still behind!”

“You’re still very talented,” Lucy automatically reassured him.

He shrugged it of and said, “The only person I’ve ever met who was close to her level was Gildarts.”

“You mean Gildarts Clive, the bluesman?” Once again, she had Levy to thank for the intel.

“Yeah!” said Natsu, with clear excitement in his voice. “That guy is awesome!”

“You’ve also met him back in the orphanage. I heard he sometimes gave music lessons to the children. Is that how you learnt music?”

“No, that’s how I got better.” He tilted his head to the side, “That and playing with the others.” he admitted.

This gave Lucy the opportunity to ask something that had been puzzling her for a long time. She knew from Levy that Natsu Dragneel, Erza Scarlet, John Fool, Cana Alberona, The Strauss, and many others had all grown up in the same place, yet, they had all made their careers separately. This didn’t make sense to Lucy. She had asked Levy about it but the other girl had not been able to give her an answer. Lucy didn’t live inside their heads, she didn’t know what they thought. So she asked Natsu about it.

“We didn’t want to work together.” he said simply.

“But why?” pushed Lucy, the only reason that, to her, made sense for not wanting to work with someone you’ve known so long, would be that you don’t get along. But she knew they had chosen to live together in a tiny flat when they got to London, so they must have been more than comfortable with each other.

Natsu shook his head sideways, looking for his words, “You can’t know who’s the best, if you’re all in the same band, y'know?” Lucy didn’t understand what he meant, and it must have shown because he then said, “We had… some kind of rivalry going on, we wanted to see who was the best, y'know.”

Now Lucy got it. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was what having siblings was like. Of course she knew of many bands made of siblings or other family members, but in every novel she reads, siblings seem to have some kind of rivalry, or a need to show which of them was the best. Being an only child, the mechanics of siblinghood fascinated her. She remembered asking for siblings when she was young, and her mother would only always laugh nicely at her request. She didn’t remember her father’s reaction, either he had never been there (which could sum up most of her childhood) or she had repressed the memory on purpose.

She kept asking Natsu question about his work, mostly what he was planning to do from now on. He kept answering with much enthusiasm, causing the fall of many objects scattered on the couch or around it. Until finally, Lucy ran out of questions. She told him she was done with the interview and started gathering her things.

“Y'know, this interview was more fun than most of the ones I’ve had.” he told her.

This brought warmth to Lucy’s heart. She, who was always worried about her own capabilities. The smile on his face showed that he was sincere.

“You’re one of the nicest persons I’ve had to interview, too.” She said to repay the compliment.

“Really? Who did you get before?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Lucy stopped, his question insinuated that the interviewees she had were people excessively mean, and that wasn’t true. She had had people who clearly didn’t want to be here, but she never had anyone actually take it out on her. Still, thinking about this, she decided to say with a defeated sigh, “Rust made me uncomfortable.” Which was true. This band had remained a bad memory, probably the most uneasy interview of her admittedly short career. Nevertheless, she regretted saying those words the instant they came out of her mouth. For one, it was a very unprofessional thing to say, and secondly, with her background, she didn’t feel like she was allowed to judge them.

But before she could apologize for that sentence Natsu left out, “Oh yeah, Gajeel’s such an ass!”

“I don’t know if I would say that.” Lucy didn’t really know much about Mr. Redfox and she felt very uncomfortable insulting him behind his back.

“Every time I see him, he’s being an ass to someone! Plus he punched Droy in the face for no reason!” Natsu whined.

Lucy knew who Droy was; he was the friend of Levy that had indeed been punched in the face by Gajeel Redfox. Natsu knew that and had apparently met with Gajeel a significant amount of time. But she hadn’t. “I’ve only met him once and I doubt it’s enough to make an opinion.”

“I’ve met him lots of times and I think he’s an ass.” he said confidently.

Lucy just smiled and said, “If you say so.”

Natsu smiled back. Lucy was about to leave when she felt something warm and hairy rubbing against her leg. Shocked, she immediately jumped on the chair, turning her eyes toward what had touched her. She was relieved to see a cat. She let out a sigh of relief, but at the same time, Natsu burst in laughter. His laugh quickly became uncontrollable. He ended up on the couch clutching his stomach. Lucy was mortified, she felt ridiculed and wanted nothing more than run out of here, but she found herself paralysed. The cat looked confused by the scene. Somewhere in between his laughing fits, Natsu managed to let out, “You’re afraid of the cat.”

This sentence should have sounded mean, but there was no malice in his voice, just friendly teasing. As if they had known each other much longer than they actually did. Able to move again, Lucy climbed down the chair. She glanced at Natsu who was slowly regaining control of himself, then turned to the cat who was staring at her. She picked him up. He had soft fur, and Lucy enjoyed giving him nice stroke on the back. The cat started purring.

“Your human is an idiot, you know.” She told him.

Natsu came back to his senses, still lying on the sofa when he told her, “You’re weird, but in a good way.”

Lucy had no idea what that meant, or in what way he could have possibly found her weird. She spent a good amount of time trying to figure that out, on her way home. She didn’t. But when the time came to start writing her article, and she asked herself how she would describe Natsu Dragneel in a few words, the first thing that came to her mind was: weird, but in a good way.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

The Milan FW Fightback: flying bags and severed heads (AKA how to seize the spotlight from LFW)

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-milan-fw-fightback-flying-bags-and-severed-heads-aka-how-to-seize-the-spotlight-from-lfw/

The Milan FW Fightback: flying bags and severed heads (AKA how to seize the spotlight from LFW)

How do you follow a PR coup like the Queen? Well, Milan had a damn good go – here’s the lowdown on severed heads, flying bags and all the other things that made us go ‘ooooh’ at Milan Fashion Week…

The Queen’s first-ever fashion show appearance, at LFW last week, had jaws dropping the world over. It was, to put it bluntly, the PR coup of the century – for young designer Richard Quinn and for London fashion in general. Huzzah! But not so huzzah for Milan, following hot on the heels of such a major headline moment. But never ones to hang back and pipe down, the Italians rose to the challenge – and we mean literally, in the case of some Dolce bags – of making us sit up and take notice. It seemed as if many designers were grappling with the idea of the future, technology, and also ways of dressing to empower ourselves in the fairly scary present. In another city, this path might have led us down the dark path of intellectual tailoring and a funereal colour palette. But this is Milano! Instead the results involved neon, baby dragons and an incoming global sequin shortage thanks to Dolce & Gabbana having used them all up for AW18. For pure spectacle and star power, there was also the latest Formula One-infused incarnation of Tommy Hilfiger’s TOMMYNOW show , starring Gigi Hadid and her last ever capsule for the brand. Here are the Milan Fashion Week moments we’re still talking about…

The Aliens Have Landed

Moschino, Dolce and Gabbana and Gucci

The epic Gucci show called to mind Game of Thrones, but set in a sinister science lab of the future – via a whistlestop tour of a few centuries and cultures (Russian folk, English tweed, Indochine…). Apparently the model cradling a baby dragon like a newborn baby and the ones carrying replicas of their own heads reflected Michele’s exploration of our relationship with technology and our ability to reinvent our own identities. He name-checked a weighty tome called “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century,” but we don’t need a degree in AI to know that this collection will provide us (and the high street) with endless inspiration for AW18.

Gucci AW18

Meanwhile, over at Dolce & Gabbana, the designers mixed even more lavishly crucifix-laden Catholic references than usual (presumably in tribute to this year’s Met Ball theme) with a high-tech feat. Their new It bag, flying along the catwalk on drones, controlled by a man in a white suit. This was the reason for the (very) late start, causing Anna Wintour to stomp out before the show began. Or did she? A little bird told us the real reason for her sharp exit was actually that she had a flight to catch to Rome, for a meeting with the Vatican, ahead of the Met Ball. And even Anna couldn’t keep a Pope waiting. At Moschino, Jeremy Scott’s ‘futuristic retrofuture’ show saw alien-looking versions of Jackie O marching along with pastel-painted faces and bouffant hair. Apparently he was thinking about the spread of conspiracy theories in times of political turmoil, immigration and the status of illegal immigrants as ‘aliens’. Who knew a pillbox hat could carry so much meaning?

Dolce and Gabbana AW18

The Future is Bright

Miuccia was on her usual mission to dissect and subvert notions of a woman’s place in the world. In the season of #MeToo, this took the form of a violent take on ‘feminine’ pink – turned up to fluoro – and a hefty dose of padded takes on high-vis workwear, layered over and under  Prada classics like tweed and Fifties flared skirt shapes. Of particular practical use in our new wardrobe of protective armour – the seriously stomping fluoro welly/galoshes. If they don’t give you power, we don’t know what will.  If you want to be the kind of girl who never gets lost in a crowd, there were other attention-grabbing neons and brights aplenty, like the sporty acid green and pink at MSGM.

Prada AW18

Prada AW18

MSGM AW18

After a rocky first few seasons, new Marni creative director Francesco Risso (who had a pretty tricky act to follow, taking over from founding genius Consuelo Castiglioni) has hit his groove. In a BIG way. That’s right, the fashion insiders’ favourite label is back on form and entering a brilliant new era. It started with the set – a typically Marni mash-up that evoked a souk somewhere in North Africa, with seating fashioned from stacks of kelims, huge bundles of old newspapers and rolls of foam (a bit like trying to balance on a Pilates ball, we found to our cost).

The collection was a dazzling melange of futuristic – high-shine coats, tech-nerd backpacks and towering trainers – and the hand-crafted. One coat was spliced together using a fabric that looked like compressed, recycled lint – a lot more beautiful than it sounds when the other half is fuchsia wool – there were trailing feather earrings that flew out nearly to the waist, and tribal tan leather belts with trailing tassels. The sequinned finale dresses – again spliced together from different colours and fabrics – were literal perfection.

Marni AW18

  Hello and Goodbye

At Salvatore Ferragamo, we were nervous for new creative director Paul Andrew, making his debut – he’s a footwear designer who’s never done clothes! We needn’t have worried. His new take on the understated luxury of the classic Italian house was cool, in a subtle way. The tailoring was still sharp, but the shoulders were on-trend-80s oversized, and he cleverly used archive-print Ferragamo silk foulards to create shirt dresses.

Salvatore Ferragamo AW18

Milan’s final hurrah was also Gigi’s final hurrah for Tommy Hilfiger. The label celebrated its brand-new sponsorship of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One team and the last Gigi x Tommy collection with a red, white and blue racetrack extravaganza. There was a stadium (well, actually a conference centre), there were sports cars, there was a shop on the catwalk, there were supers galore – Bella and Anwar Hadid, Hailey Baldwin and Winnie Harlow to name a few – and there was Lewis Hamilton. Of course.

Tommy Hilfiger x Gigi Hadid

Next stop, Paris Fashion Week…stay tuned for all the latest news and trends.