#it was supposed to be Giselle in Paris

[strechanadi]

So it is true.

He’s leaving before he’s 42. 41 even.

And I hate it.

I was supposed to have two whole seasons at the very least.

[ohmynabiii]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 ; 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈

He leans in, impossibly closer, the sudden traces of what had to be his cologne; smoke, musk, sandalwood overtaking your senses. “Ever been to a live show?"

“Does watching my friends drunkenly butcher ‘Bikini Kill’ in karaoke count?” you tease, sucking in your bottom lip for a second. Minho's eyes briefly flick down to catch the movement, his smirk deepening.

“I was thinking something a bit... louder.”

────୨ৎ────

𝐜𝐰 : substance use (cover your drinks, don't accept anything from strangers, know the risks, etc...)

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : romance, tension, rock/band au, aespa cameo :)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 2.1k

𝐚𝐧: hi !! this is kinda a feeler for a series I'm looking to do in the future... if you want more parts, interact pretty please !!

if you aren't an aespa fan, no worries!! the fic is abt minho, the aespa members just play side-characters.

metalhead minho is my roman empire.

AND HE'S TATTED 🥵🔥

────୨ৎ────

The amber glow of the restaurant’s lights pours over your table like molten gold draping everything in a soft, velvety haze. The hum of conversation undulates in the background, weaving through the occasional clink of silverware and the low murmur of distant laughter. Yet within your booth, nestled in the plush leather seats, the world feels intimate, almost suspended in time—just you and your closest friends, insulated in your own little cocoon. Half-finished plates are scattered across the table, and in between bouts of laughter, you absently reach for another bite.

Karina leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curling into a smile that threatens to pull everyone else into her orbit. “Remember that time in Paris?” she begins, her voice soft yet brimming with amusement, as though the memory itself is a secret she’s about to unveil. “You got us hopelessly lost searching for that underground record store.”

A laugh escapes you, shaking your head in protest. “I was aiming for spontaneity. It was supposed to be an adventure.”

“Adventure?” Winter cuts in, swirling the ice in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist. The glass catches the light, refracting it in delicate shards as she points it your way. “We ended up in some back-alley labyrinth, and you were the only one not remotely concerned—determined as ever.”

Giselle nudges you with a playful jab of her elbow, her grin infectious. “But it all worked out! We stumbled into that adorable café, and you totally charmed the waiter with your flawless French.”

A flush rises unbidden to your cheeks, the memory warm and effervescent, like the alcohol bubbling in your veins. You sip from your glass, feeling the familiar burn glide down your throat, its heat spreading through your chest in a slow, pleasant wave.

Ningning, lounging back in her seat with an air of theatrical satisfaction, flips her hair with a flourish. “Please. Nothing compares to Tokyo. The impromptu karaoke session? Birthday Girl over here killed it.” She punctuates the memory with a grand, exaggerated bow in your direction, prompting the table to erupt in laughter that fizzes like champagne—light, giddy, impossible to contain.

You raise a brow, heat creeping into your cheeks under their teasing. “Oh, come on. You’re overselling it.”

Karina’s grin softens, her eyes locking with yours, her voice slipping into something more sincere but still tinted with tipsy mumbling. “Hey, I– we only speak the absolute truth.”

Before the moment can tip into something overly sentimental, Giselle raises her glass, her smile radiant, cutting through the dim lighting like a beacon. “To birthdays, to unforgettable nights, and to us,” she proclaims, her voice bold, lifting the atmosphere. “Happy birthday.”

The crystalline sound of clinking glasses resonates, cutting through the hum of the restaurant, marking the moment like a delicate chime. You drain the last of your drink, the warmth settling deep into your bones, sinking further as the night deepens. The laughter dies down, but the air remains thick with the joy of the evening.

Pushing yourself up from the booth, you announce with a playful smile, “Alright, I’m getting us another round.”

Winter pouts immediately, her lips curving in mock protest, her tipsy indignation palpable. “No way—it’s your birthday! Someone else should do it!” She casts a playful glance at Karina. “You’re the oldest. Go.”

Karina feigns a glare, already starting to slide out of the booth, but before she can rise, you place a hand on her shoulder, gently halting her. “No, really, I’ve got it. I need to stretch my legs, anyway.”

With their drink orders filed away in your mind, you make your way through the maze of tables, weaving between chairs with an easy grace. The bar’s honey glow envelops you as you lean against the counter, the polished wood cool beneath your fingers. In the reflection of the liquor bottles, you catch a glimpse of yourself—cheeks flushed, eyes slightly glazed with contentment, hair tousled from hours of laughter. You smile to yourself, the warmth of the evening thrumming through you like a quiet pulse, wrapping you in its languid embrace.

Then, the bartender turns your way.

His presence pulls you out of your thoughts as though gravity itself has shifted. And wow, he’s like something out of a dream; The kind of man who looks too flawless to exist outside the confines of a renaissance painting—his chiseled jaw, the curve and gentle pout of his lips, his eyes with a depth and darkness that seem almost feline in the dim light. His black t-shirt clings to his broad chest, the neckline a little too low for your heart to keep steady, and dark-washed jeans hug his frame in a way that should be illegal. The amber glow of the bar’s lights only enhances the ethereal glow of his skin, casting golden flecks along his cheekbones. You wonder for a split second if this man was sculpted out of marble, crafted by hands too talented for this world. He’s too surreal, too perfect to have just... walked up to you in the middle of your birthday.

For a moment, you wonder if touching him would feel like running your fingers over polished marble. He’s too perfect, too unreal, like something the universe conjured up just to mess with you. The kind of guy you only meet in your wildest dreams or movies with all too-high production values. Broad shoulders, cat-like eyes that glint in the light, and a subtle smile that hits like a slow burn.

As he approaches, your brain scrambles for the right words—poetic, sophisticated words to match this moment. Celestial, maybe. Or mesmeric. Anything to capture the feeling of him coming closer. But the alcohol muddles your thoughts, and before you know it, he’s right there in front of you, breaking whatever spell you’ve been under.

“What can I get you, birthday girl?” His voice is smooth, rich, and velvety, as intoxicating as his looks.

You blink, thrown off by the title. "...How’d you know?" you ask, tilting your head in curiosity, attempting to ignore the way your pulse speeds up as his gaze meets yours.

He smirks, nodding toward the sparkly ‘birthday girl’ crown Winter forced you to wear earlier in the night. You let out a soft ‘ahh,’ feeling a little sheepish, before rattling off your friends’ orders, tacking on a drink for yourself.

He nods, grabbing bottles from the shelves behind him, and when he turns back, it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time again. His features—so sharp and beautiful—still take you off guard. Sharp yet soft in a way that doesn’t quite make sense, and his body moves with the kind of grace that seems too deliberate for someone just casually making drinks.

Then you notice the tattoo.

It snakes along his left forearm, lines of inky black running from his elbow to his wrist—straight, thin, mesmerizing in their simplicity. But as your eyes trace the design, you see how the lines break, shifting into jagged shapes, forming a waveform—Like little mountains extending in different shapes toward his elbow or the asymmetrical rise and fall of lines on a heart rate monitor. The longer you stare at it, the more the sight of it uproots memory deep in your mind. Music stores, underground record shops — this design was the cover of an album. 

Without thinking, the words spill from your lips. “Unknown Pleasures.”

The bartender glances at his arm, like he’s forgotten it’s even there, pausing mid-pour. It’s not fresh but not faded either. Maybe not professionally done. It’s one of the coolest tattoos you’d ever laid your eyes on.

His brow quirks up in surprise, and he shoots you an impressed look. “You like Joy Division?”

“I know some of their stuff,” you say, leaning on the bar, the alcohol loosening your tongue. “But that album cover is iconic. Anyone who knows good music would recognize it.”

He hums, a low sound of approval, and resumes pouring. “You have taste.” His eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s something magnetic in his gaze, like he’s trying to read between the lines of your casual small talk. “I’m Minho, by the way.”

His name rolls off his tongue like honey, and you can’t help but smile at the sound of it. God, everything about him is so effortlessly cool. "Nice to meet you, Minho," you reply, a smile overtaking your features.

Minho slides the drinks across the bar, but instead of stepping away, he leans against the counter, his forearms resting on top. It makes the muscles in his arms stand out even more, and you have to consciously avoid staring for too long. “...And you are?” His voice is even softer now, laced with something playful.

"Ah, but I like ‘Birthday Girl,’" you tease, your heart fluttering as you hold his gaze.

Minho chuckles, tilting his head, and a few strands of his dark hair fall over his brow, catching in the light. “Gotcha.” He flashes a grin before raising his brow in mock seriousness. “So, birthday girl, are you a diehard rock loyalist?”

You laugh, the sound a bit breathless. "I like it well enough, but I wouldn’t call myself a ‘diehard.’ Not any more than you, Mr. Joy Division." You gesture toward his tattoo again, earning another one of those perfect, disarming laughs from him.

“Right, right.” He nods, setting the tequila bottle down on the bar. 

Minho’s grin lingers, and for a moment, there’s only the soft hum of music in the background and the clinking of glasses at the busy bar. “Joy Division’s a bit of a gateway,” he admits, tapping a finger on the counter like he’s keeping the tempo of the conversation with an imaginary beat. “People always get stuck on the ‘Unknown Pleasures’ cover, but if you really listen, you feel something raw. It’s dark, but it’s honest, you know?”

You nod, feeling the weight of his words. "Yeah, it's like they put all the messy parts of life into their music. There's a beauty in it, though, in the way it’s all laid with intensity."

Minho’s eyes spark with something unspoken, and he leans in a little closer. "That’s the thing with rock. It’s not just music; it’s an attitude, a way of seeing the world. Joy Division, Bowie, The Clash… they all seem to dig into something real."

The conversation feels intimate now, like you’re peeling back layers of the noise around you and finding something genuine. “So, what’s your go-to?” you ask, curious to see where his mind wanders next.

He hesitates, the playfulness dropping for a beat as he considers the question. “Right now? Velvet Underground, especially their early stuff. There’s this raw edge to it, like they weren’t trying to make everyone happy. They just... were.”

You smile at that. “That explains the tattoo then. You’ve got a thing for the underappreciated, the overlooked.”

Minho tilts his head, that grin returning with a soft edge. “Maybe I do. Maybe I just like what sticks with me long after the song’s over.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken. There’s something about him—the tattoo, the casual confidence, the way he talks about music like it’s tied to his soul. It’s intoxicating, and you’re not sure if it’s the tequila or him making your head spin.

He leans in impossibly closer, the sudden traces of what had to be his cologne; sea, musk, sandalwood overtaking your senses. “Ever been to a live show?"

“Does watching my friends drunkenly butcher ‘Bikini Kill’ in karaoke count?” you tease, sucking in your bottom lip for a second. Minho's eyes briefly flick down to catch the movement, his smirk deepening.

“I was thinking something a bit... louder.” His gaze holds yours for a beat too long, and he shifts slightly, reaching beneath the counter for a shot glass. “There’s a show tonight at 10. Over at the venue on Cedar, few blocks from here. You know it?”

You nod, the name sparking recognition. “The place by the Seven Eleven?”

“That’s the one. I’m off at nine, was thinking of going.” His eyes gleam in the low light as he shifts his weight, gaze momentarily flickering behind you. “You should stop by. Bring your friends, if you want.”

You glance back at your table, where your friends are obviously watching your interaction with the hottest bartender on earth, their heads darting down the moment you catch their eyes. With a soft laugh, you turn back to him, the pull of his offer heavy in the air. “I’ll think about it, bar man.”

His smile widens, a flicker of something mischievous dancing in his eyes. "I’ll take that as a yes."

Before you can reply, a group at the end of the bar calls for another round, and Minho gives you a look that feels like the end of something and the beginning of something else. He steps away with a “duty calls”, but not before placing a shot of tequila in front of you.

You arch an eyebrow, already shaking your head as the glass catches the low light, amber liquid gleaming beneath the bar’s glow. “I didn’t order this.”

His smirk widens, slow and deliberate, like he’s holding onto some small, secret amusement. “It’s on the house. It is your birthday, after all.”

He turns to go, but pauses just long enough to toss a final parting line over his shoulder, his voice a little softer, almost teasing. “See you at the show.”

────୨ৎ────

comment to get notified for pt. II !!

ty for reading, more soon to come... prepare yourselves for hot ass rockstar lino. yummy.

🦋

[lumiereandcogsworth]

meant to send this yesterday but I fell asleep so 😈 every now and then I think about how Robert and Giselle's lives would've gone if they hadn't found each other and it had me wondering what you think Adam and Belle's might be? I believe you've mentioned Adam knew he had to eventually marry and have kids, do you think he would've ever come to love them in a weird way, or would he have just stayed distant? and what would happen to Maurice and Belle 👁️👁️

LOOOOOVE THIS QUESTION AAHHH.

okay so for belle and maurice. i truly think belle would have stayed in the village, until maurice died. which, not to be BLEAK, but historical evidence dictates that maurice probably would have lived only another like. Maybe ten years. MAYBE. which is so sad i’m sorry!!!!! a beautiful bonus of belle & adam marrying is that both belle and maurice’s qualities of life improve IMMENSELY. they go from poverty to royalty. better food, better hygiene resources, better mental health in general like ?? Thriving. so in the Real post-canon world, fear not. maurice lives longggg and even gets to become a great-grandfather before he goes 💙

BUT OKAY IN THIS AWFUL WORLD?? WHERE MY BELOVEDS DO NOT MEET????? yeah okay so, belle obviously wants to get outta town. we know this. but she really is not going leave maurice behind. they’re so bonded, and she clearly worries about him a lot. she’s like, DISTRAUGHT being at the castle, not because of her own safety, but because her father is home alone!!!! “he’s never been on his own”!!! (which always makes me laugh endearingly a little. like babygirl what do you think he was doing all those years before you were born 😭 he has been on his own PLENTY. but from her perspective i totally understand. he’s the center of her world, he’s never been alone To Her, because he’s always with her!!!!! augh. beloveds.)

ANYWAY, belle and maurice would just continue their lives. i guess in this divergence, maurice just doesn’t get lost on the way to the market? he goes and comes back the next day and things just carry on ? and in this same universe, adam never got cursed of course, but we’ll get into that shortly. so, some years go by. gaston definitely Continues pursuing belle, which is annoying, and i fear he’d get more aggressive, but i could also see him getting bored and moving on. (maybe even moving away 😍🤞 but that’s unlikely since he’s so worshiped here. but maybe people get bored of him too! idk.) regardless, maybe some ten years post the movie point in the timeline, maurice gets sick and slowly fades away. belle’s at his bedside to the very end. maurice is constantly telling her to not fret about him, to go on, go live your life now. forget me. but she, of course, continues caring for him until his last breath. she’s devastated. père robert comforts her and the funeral is small but nice.

after THAT (i can’t believe you just made me write that. biting you for your crimes.) belle grieves for a period of time, but her father’s words keep ringing in her mind. “go live your life, go on, go live.” so she eventually finds the strength to do so. she never loved this village, and this village Certainly never really loved her, but she knew her father felt safest here, so she stayed. but now that his story has ended, perhaps hers can begin. she sells everything she can, including the cottage itself, packs up clothes and books and special trinkets in saddlebags and a rucksack, hugs père robert and madame dupont (the dressmaker) and maybe a few others goodbye, hops on philippe’s back, and takes off.

i don’t think she completely knows where to go. but her heart keeps leading toward paris. she has to see. she has to know where her roots were laid. she has to know what her life was supposed to be like, had her mother lived. she had enough money to get by fairly easily, staying in inns and places along the way. meeting people, learning lots. she eventually lands in paris, and it really is a whole new world. i like to think that she finds her bearings here, somehow. maybe she’s able to get some education, since paris is more progressive than the small towns. MAYBE she gets the chance to open her own book shop. being in the city is a culture shock for her, for SURE, but she’s nothing if not determined to face a challenge.

she probably settles in paris, but definitely saves enough money to take little trips to other towns and cities, as well as maybe even getting to see italy. (MAYBE even getting to board a ship to that “america” place everyone seems so hot and bothered about.) (oh this may be obvious but batb universe is an alternate reality where the french revolution doesn’t happen. i’m not letting my babies get guillotined?? although, in This au, with adam and belle never having met… maybe it still would have. idk🤗) also i do like to think that belle would have met someone in paris and gotten married! i don’t think it was important to her AT ALL, but i can definitely see her having some cute little love story with a nice lad who kept frequenting her book shop. maybe they marry and have a couple kiddos. but also maybe not! i’m a huge fan of spinster!belle as well. and i know she’d kick ass and be content as one. (though i knoooow she longs for romance. so i’ll give her the cute bookshop guy. as a treat ❤️)

WELL WELL WELL… let’s check in with the local bitchass prince. shall we?

okay so. SO. yeah, adam never being cursed, never given an opportunity for change… he just fully becomes his father. the council was getting progressively more annoyed with him about not marrying someone, and i think within a year or two, they push on him some other laws that are like hey if you Don’t get married you’re actually subject to just fully lose the entire kingdom. you don’t wanna lose your precious ✨Things✨ do you? and adam, groaning like a child, is like “no…😒” so! the council finds some princess from an allied kingdom. i’m being vague on purpose because political history is not my speciality and i also Don’t Super Care. but hey! princess from allied kingdom! hello! adam meets his bride on their wedding day. neither of them are thrilled about it but she’s probably more willing to Do Their Duty than he is.

they get married and she’s pregnant not before too long. i can’t imagine adam feels too much about it. they have a son, (and the whole country collectively sighs in relief) and he’s probably named louis after adam’s father :/ or maybe antoine after his grandfather. anyway. gahhhh this is so tough to watch.

okay but the thing is, even if adam doesn’t feel AS connected to his son here, i still know that he’s not going to be harsh with him the way louis was with him. the reason he didn’t want to have children is because he knew how his father treated him was Wrong, but he had no idea how to be gentle either. his wife can see that he Wants to know what to do with their son, but he just doesn’t have the skills and tools. and unfortunately, his wife doesn’t really understand him enough to get through to him. he rejects any kind of emotional vulnerability with her. so, to ensure he doesn’t Harm the boy, adam is just absent a lot. he spends more and more time in paris and versailles. he has mistresses and still finds ways to indulge. he DOES his king duties but only precisely what he needs to do, nothing more.

he comes back every now and then to still “be around” and such. he and his wife probably have a few more children over time. they have daughters and sons. princesses and princes. he knows what to do with them even less when they’re children, not having ANY idea how to interact with children, and not having the complete love & care for them to even try. he’s not cruel or hateful toward them, he’s just. not emotionally present. they’re not afraid of him, they just don’t feel anything from him. it’s much of the same with his wife (unless she tries to Talk about anything too personal. then he’s vicious and argues angrily. they can sometimes talk about work subjects if he’s in a good mood (though that’s boring) and they may even have some intellectual talks too ! she’s educated and he does appreciate that in her. but overall they’re just never super close because she doesn’t get him and he never tries to get her.)

his sons go to boarding school and university to be educated young men, his daughters are taught by governesses and go to finishing school to be fine young ladies.

adam is just :/ depressed. and I’M DEPRESSED WRITING THIS!!!!!! BITING YOU AGAIN!!!! but anyway yeah he’s just kind of :// going through the motions. i know there’s another universe where he becomes just as cruel as his father was, but i really can’t bear the thought. (and that world i presented also assumes that his wife would be a nice person, willing to endure him for their duty. there’s also a world where she’s just as awful and it’s even messier than we could possibly imagine!!!) but the fact is, adam DOES have good in him. we KNOW he does. and maybe he doesn’t end up finding a soulmate to help him fully bring it out, but i Know him and i KNOW that having a partner who is at least kind to him, and having children, Would be able to shift something in him just a bit. just enough not to be cruel to them… even if he never finds the skills to be fully loving with them 😭

[pop-pop-pop-popculture]

My Favorite 2023 Met Gala Outfits

(link // link // link)

*this is out of random order!!!!*

Jenna Ortega

Rihanna

Gigi Hadid

Anne Hathaway

Aubrey Plaza

Elle Fanning

Keely Shaye Smith-Brosnan

Sean “Diddy” Combs

Olivia Rodrigo, much to my surprise

Teyana Taylor

Rita Ora

Ben Platt

Stormyz

Whitney Peak

Penelope Cruz

Russell Westbrook

Stephanie Hsu

Quannah Chasinghorse

Serena Williams

Barry Keoghan

Halle Bailey

Angèle

Nicola Peltz Beckham

Maya Penn (simple yet elegant, and gorgeous!)

Karen Elson

Stella McCartney

Baz Luhrmann

Maya Hawke

Catherine Martin

Alexa Chung

Joan Smalls

Ava Max

Imaan Hammam

Amber Valletta

Vittoria Ceretti

Labrinth

Jennie Kim

Pusha T

Ke Huy Quan

Usher

Chi Ossé

Daisy Edgar-Jones

Bella Ramsay

Glenn Close

Ashley Graham

Phoebe Bridgers

Alton Mason

Maude Apatow

Miranda Kerr (simple yet elegant, and gorgeous!)

Devon Aoki

Lily James

Jeremy Scott

Nicole Kidman

Amy Fine Collins

Emma Ratajkowski

Gisele Bündchen

Kaitlyn Dever

Kim Petras

Grace Elizabeth

Jodi Comer

Suki Waterhouse

Jared Leto (he came as Choupette (literal cat costume), Karl’s cat!!!!)

Kendall Jenner

Kim Kardashian and Cardi B (they’re both pieces of shit, and I hate myself for liking their outfits)

I love that the stylists for the people I went all out and, for some, were camp-esque.

Kind of...

Paris Hilton

Yung Miami

Tems

Burna Boy

Alex Newell

Jennifer Lopez

Amanda Harlech

Dua Lipa

Irina Shayk

Quinton Brunson

Margaret Qualley (I like the dress and shoes, but I’m not, like in love)

Bad Bunny (I like the head-to-toe white, but I’m not crazy about the outfit????)

Lily Collins

Lily Aldridge

Ashley Park

Eh... / I Don’t Know... / Indifferent

Olivier Rousteing

Karla Bruni

Zac Posen (lookin’ dapper there, though, sir!)

Cara Delevingne

Lala Anthony

Chloe Fineman

Karlie Kloss

Brian Tyree Henry

Ice Spice

Robert Pattinson

Donatella Versace

Kate Moss

Lila Moss

Camila Morrone

Yes and No

Mary J. Blige

Madelyn Cline

Alexandra Daddario

Jeremy Pope (yes for the cape and no to everything else)

Viola Davis

Allison Williams (I love the shade of orange and the dress itself, but the whole look is still a no from me)

Ariana DeBose

Sydney Sweeney

Um...

Erykah Badu

Conan Gray

Doja Cat (edit; 11 PM - she’s supposed to be Choupette too?!)

Lil Nas X

What the ACTUAL Fuck?

Pedro Pascal

Erykah Badu

Lil Nas X

No

Bradley Cooper

Nick Jonas

I Don’t Give a F*ck

Priyanka Chopra

Emma Chamberlain

Kylie Jenner

Vanessa Hudgens

|----------------------------------------------------------------------------------|

I’m sure there are tons of more attendees, but I didn’t care to do more research because I am tired. I’ll probably research more tomorrow and reblog this. (I purposely left off some people out of pure, genuine laziness)

▪️ May 1, 2023 ▪️

[hshmimi]

@vrnvuld​

“ then take something from the bottom shelf. don’t waste a good bottle on chugging, ” arnauld sighed. “ besides, if getting drunk is the goal, you should care about percentages not the grape. ” why was it so difficult for everyone to stick to one or two glasses in the evening ? that was all you needed for relaxing. that was all you needed. “ who did you argue with ? ” he highly doubted she could top him, be it the person or the subject matter. as much as fanni’s response frustrated him, he couldn’t feel quite comfortable with his own approach. familiarity had tricked him into unpreparedness. he had been confident in his ability to predict her reaction but had failed to slow down to choose an approach. whether he would have been able to follow it through was also another question he would not get an answer to. “ hmm… ” he absent-mindedly moved the glass to make the wine swirl. hearing a somewhat original idea that wasn’t just an invitation for chaos from mimi managed to make him feel hopeful. “ it will be fair business and if someone gets upset, they should have worked harder to keep their clients. you’ll be able to shrug it off. ” arguments were only difficult if they were personal, he had come to notice. “ it’s quite alright. there’s not much else to talk about. ” the topics he chose for dinner parties were unlikely to engage mimi. “ i’ve been thinking about returning to paris. this place is too much of a bubble. it almost feels like the reality is being warped. ” [ ;; @hshmimi​ ]

Mimi snorted, “shall I go alphabetically, or chronologically? My father, this morning. He’s upset with Mama, and taking it out on me. --Then I argued with her, because he’s right to be annoyed. She’s been keeping...A gentleman, in Monaco. And sending ‘care packages’” of gold-flake champagne and boudoir photos, “to Klaus, in Switzerland. --He’s the one who wears the, uh, ‘boytoy’ necklace. --Although I assume he has...made himself known to you?” He’d asked to be introduced several times before. Mimi was used to it, unfortunately. Several schoolmates had kept posters of Arnauld above their beds. “But that’s par for the course,” Mimi shrugged. “The really annoying one was with the Panamanian Princess. Do you know her?” Probably not. Recognising lesser, foreign royalty by name was his assistant’s domain. --Mimi was sure he’d forget hers, if she didn’t wear it on a charm around her neck. “She was at the wedding; she was the sad one wearing white....Anyway, she’s gone on a bit of a power trip. It’s fucking with my investments.”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Mimi hummed, “I’m supposed to be Godmother to their - Catherine and The Swiss King’s - new baby...Though, to be honest, I’m not much in the mood for parties and babies, recently.” Absent, manicured fingers drummed against the ornate coffee table. “Plus you’re right. This place is...We’ve been living too closely. We’re too enmeshed with one another. --Whatever happened to the days of having a foreign prince shipped over based on nothing but papal recommendation and a portrait? You got married, you made polite small talk for a few months, then you died in war or childbirth. Nice and straightforward.” She sighed, mock wistful, but it turned serious when she looked back to her cousin. “Though are you sure that’s a good idea? Being alone there? --At least here you have Giselle and Jules’ help...I’m not saying you’re overworking yourself,” she splayed out her hands in a gesture of surrender already. “I wouldn’t know ‘overworking yourself’ if it hit me in the nose. Arthur Jr. style,” she mimed throwing a punch, trying desperately to lighten the mood (and probably achieving the opposite) before she said, “but I know you’re not taking coke to party longer.”

[solitari]

Soraya Giselle Rosier

MAGE: Fragile Futures

1. I still don’t know who I am supposed to be, and I still love the boy who left me in a dusty village in the Polish countryside because he was afraid. I love my mother, but it is a troubled love.

2. I have arrived in Paris twice. Once by train when I was nineteen and thought I could live like everyone else. Once when I was twenty two, walking out of the airport, having learned that some things are irreversible. Perhaps I came from a dream.

3. It always begins and ends with a breath.

4. I thought I had learned to live while bleeding out, but perhaps one never really learns.

5. My body is made of woven moonlight, fear and longing.

6. The world hurts all of us, but mostly I think it was my pain that wounded her. If my father did too, she never told me.

7. Dreams and dreams and dreams

8. We must speak while we are here.

9. It can happen slowly, one drop at a time, until there is nothing left. You can die while everyone watches and there comes a time when it hurts them more than it hurts you.

10. My father sat by my bedside as I took my first breath after I had died. It had snowed that night, and the late winter sun caught in the frost, glittering, and made everything beautiful. I remember him smiling, and the simple warmth of his hand covering mine. He was gone by nightfall.

11. It is impossible, and it is the frame of every life. I see it everywhere I look.

12. Stay.

[fatamorushortstorieseng]

Joyeux Noël

Keika Hanada

“Let’s have a drinking contest!”

I could only answer with a stupid face and a ‘Huh?’ to Giselle’s expression of absolute delight, smiling proudly as she exultantly lined up the wine glasses.

I mean, what else was I supposed to say? Normally, the conversation here should’ve been something like, ‘The decoration of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées is beautiful, isn’t it?’, or ‘The Eiffel Tower’s illumination is so nice, right?’ or ‘The night market is so bustling, isn’t it?’ or… ‘I’m so glad we’re able to spend Christmas together.’

It’s a day where lovers are allowed to exchange such clichéd words…

I had even booked a four-star hotel with a good view of Paris’ illuminations because I thought it would make her ecstatic. Even if I might’ve overdid it a little.

…And yet with all this, she wants a drinking contest?

“Ah, you don’t have to worry, we have more than enough alcohol. Earlier I bought plenty of wine at the liquor store!”

Uh, those weren’t souvenirs…?

“All right, Michel. The one who give up first loses!”

“Then I give up…”

“You can’t say that before you even drink anything!”

Giselle leaned forward with a loud voice. She was quite boisterous, so I put my hands on my ears.

“But… why do you even want a drinking contest to start with?”

There were some thorns in my voice, but I couldn’t help it. If she wanted to have a drinking contest, she could do it another day, and furthermore it wasn’t an appropriate place for this. …Doesn’t she realize that I’ve been working hard for a long time to plan for today? How many date magazines I’ve had to read? And this despite how incredibly embarrassing they were to get a hold of.

“I’m sure you thought a lot about today’s events and looked at a lot of date sites, Michel.”

…She knows. Okay, maybe she even knows too much…

“I mean, it’s so by-the-numbers!”

“Well, sorry about that…!”

In other words, was it boring because it was too by-the-numbers? That was what the drinking contest was for? Then why at the beginning she’d just said ‘Let’s do whatever you likes!’?

“…I kind of feel like you thought too much about all of this.”

Suddenly, Giselle’s previous happy expression made a complete turnaround, and she looked a little sad and troubled. That’s wrong… I didn’t mean to make her look like this.

“No, I didn’t think about it that much…”

Well, a four stars was certainly excessive, but…

“So let’s have a drinking contest!”

“But why a drinking contest?!”

“If we drink, a lot of our true feelings will come out, right?”

Saying this, Giselle showed me a mischievous smile.

I couldn’t reply anything.

                                                            ◆ ◆ ◆

At first, I thought that just us reuniting would be enough.

As long as we managed this, then everything would turn out fine.

The hardships that she and I had to overcame were exceedingly unique and difficult to explain to others. A feeling of despair engraved into our souls that goes beyond death. She kept waiting for way too long, and I had to carry innumerable pains.

To us, our reunion was the single, utmost greatest happiness. Our present selves now existed thanks to a miracle that cannot be explained by science in this modern era.

That was why I felt any kind of insignificant disagreement that might be born during our daily life afterwards would be trivial.

…Unfortunately, it seems life just doesn’t have a ‘happily ever after’ all planned in advance.

                                                             ◆ ◆ ◆

“Then tell me why you cannot drink!”

Giselle said in a strong voice after finishing her fifth cup, the rim of her glass pointed at me. By the way, I’d only drink one third myself. Alcohol wasn’t my forte.

“I already said it, I don’t want to be unreasonable. If anything, I’d rather know why you think we have to do this.”

“Because things are completely different from how they were. Back then, if I didn’t take care of the sheets they’d get all messy, the rooms had spider webs spread everywhere, you didn’t do nice things and would tell me stuff like how I’m like an obese rat!”

“W-W-Wait a minute! Don’t compare me to how I was a thousand years ago, I’m not the same!”

And you were not the one I called an obese rat!

“But now, your present self is somehow too nice…”

“…”

It’s as if she’s saying that it’s not like me to be nice…

I held back a sigh, and began to speak.

“Our environments now are completely different from those in the past. If you live in different environments, your behavior will change. A person’s common sense will differ… That shouldn’t be something strange.”

True, I used to be a noble who lived in the Middle Ages. The hardships of my previous life are carved into my soul. But even if I recall all of this, it’s only a special case.

I shouldn’t compare the time where I had been forbidden to interact with others, spending my life locked up for a dozen of years, and my modern circumstances. Of course there would differences.

My present self is a working adult, and Giselle’s a student who attend the University of Lyon. Up to that point, we’d been following our own lives.

“But― But even so, you still care about me all the same, right? You came to a lot of dates with me, and even now we’re in such a nice place… We could just spend some leisure time together in that room. So let’s have fun―”

“…If you’re disappointed, just say so.”

“I’m not disappointed! It’s not like that, just… Just like before, I don’t have complaints about living a simple life, no matter what might happen, I’m― well… as long as we’re together, I’m happy.”

Just when I thought she was getting worked up, she suddenly became softer again. Her rich expressions has not changed from the ones of the past. Even if our environments changes and some parts are different, certainly our core stay the same. It should be the case for me too. …Or am I the only one who changed and became like a different person? Is that why she decided to use the influence of alcohol and this setup for this conversation?

“…I just want to make you happy.”

“As long as things are normal, I’m happy enough.”

“Well, things are normal, aren’t they?”

“That’s not how it seems to me.”

“…Why?”

“It looks like there’s a distance between us.”

“There’s no distance.”

“…Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t!”

At that moment, I shouted. By the time I realized I’d messed up, it was too late. Before I could explain I wasn’t angry, her big jade eyes shined with an uneasy color.

Then, she whispered in a voice as feeble as a mosquito’s buzzing.

“Then, why have we never done anything more than a kiss?”

…I felt like I was wrung out like cotton. After a feeling of despondency washing over me, what followed was irritation. Towards myself, and then, towards her, for putting it so bluntly despite the fact she should know.

My bitten lip trembled slightly.

“…Let’s stop talking about this. I’m sorry for shouting, I’ll go cool off my head.”

I stood up and left the room as if I was running away.

Giselle’s voice calling out to me with a ‘Wait!’ and trying to grab me wasn’t enough to stop my drive.

                                                           ◆ ◆ ◆

…What am I doing on a Christmas day?

I was standing on the hotel’s stairs with my head hanging down, staring at the illuminations surrounding me in the far distance. Unsurprisingly, December’s breeze cooled down my body in the blink of an eye, as I wasn’t wearing a coat.

I felt like spitting a curse on the couples who came and went on the street, even though I had been like them just now. Every last one of them looked like they didn’t have any problem, as if saying that the world was nothing but full of kindness.

…It was pretty difficult to make a happy ending last for a long time. I sighed, making the white mist comes out in many puffs.

“Seriously, what a pathetic guy.”

At that moment, a young girl’s words suddenly reached my ears.

That voice, that way of speaking, that feeling―

―I’d never forget it.

“I honestly cannot bear such an appalling sight. Oh, I actually get it. The reason why you try as hard as you can to be a good man is just because you have a guilty conscience, isn’t it? You saying you want her to be happy is just to save face.”

“…!”

“Foolish man.”

A girl with braids disappeared in the waves of people passing through. I ran down the stairs and skipped over several steps at once, chasing her back. Even when I called her name, she didn’t turn around. Even when I yelled at her to wait, she didn’t stop. The other people I bumped into showered me with insulting shouts, but I couldn’t even say a single rude word back at them. Instead, I called her name once more.

But even so, she still didn’t turn―

Here. At last, I saw her back.

I grabbed her arm. And finally, the braided girl turned around―

“Ah… Eh…?”

That stupid, confused voice was mine. The girl with the braids looked puzzled… or rather, afraid.

“No, sorry, I… mistook you for someone else.”

That person wasn’t ‘her.’

I came back to the hotel with my head hanging down. The voice I heard earlier might have been an auditory hallucination. It’s hard to swallow, but that possibility is very likely.

(Maybe I’m tired…)

Still, for me to hear such harsh words in an hallucination… Surprisingly, I wondered if I had been longing for her sharp tongue. Even though I didn’t think I had that kind of tastes.

“…?”

As I was in the middle of climbing the stairs and rubbing my arms in the cold, I found a single black cat. Exactly at the spot I’d been sitting earlier.

When I got close, the black cat didn’t move in the slightest and just threw a brief glance at me. It seemed extremely used to humans. Was it someone’s pet?

“If you stay here, you’ll catch a cold.”

As it didn’t seem to want to get away, I tried to call and reach out my hand to it. The cat rubbed its head against my palm, and slowly swung its long tail. …I didn’t think a stray cat I met outside could get this affectionate. As a test, I tried to stroke it, and heard a faint guttural purr.

(Perhaps this is Uglyspekckles’s reincarnation…)

I instantly grew fond of it the moment this thought crossed my mind. Let’s bring it back and propose to Giselle to keep it―

(Aah, Giselle… That’s right…)

I left her behind. I have to pull myself together and go back. However, I’m still worrying about what kind of face I should make, what kind of words I should say. Even though I know that the more time I spent putting it off, the worse the situation will become, and the more it will makes her anxious.

As I kept wondering in circle about this kind of things, the cat roughly licked the back of my hand, and― “Ow!” ―bit it.

It snorted, nimbly climbed the stairs, and disappeared from my field of vision, even with deep bite marks remaining on the back of my hand. When I saw them, I let out a dull laugh. Somehow, I felt like I was being scolded for how pitiful I was.

“…Let’s go back.”

If even a cat felt the need to give me a nudge, I had no choice but to be strong.

After all, in the end there is no doubt about the fact that we still both cherish each other.

                                                          ◆ ◆ ◆

“Michel!”

Her face was in front of my eyes the moment I opened the door. Even now, she had that expression as if she was about to cry, and her flushed face was certainly not just a result of the alcohol.

She was wearing a coat. I’m sure she must’ve been about to look for me.

“Um, I’m sorr― I― I didn’t mean that, just―”

To her surprise, instead of telling her that I knew what she meant now, I pulled her body towards me, wrapped my arms around her back and embraced her tightly.

I heard her gasp next to my ear.

“…I’m sorry. Even though I thought I could do everything right from now on, I’m still dragging others down like that. But, Giselle, my desire to live together with you is not a lie. So, I want time. I want you to give me the time to change, little by little…”

In the course of everyday life, isn’t having a disagreement something trivial? Doesn’t that depends on us? If we think of it as just something trivial, we’ll certainly be able to make past it. No matter what it is. But this, however pathetic it is, will still need time. That’s why, Giselle―

“You don’t have to worry, I want us to be together.”

In my neck, Giselle kept mumbling in a small voice mingled things like ‘Um’ or ‘sorry.’ …Even though she shouldn’t be the one apologizing.

However, when she raised her face, her usual smile was back in place. I felt relieved from the bottom of my heart. I wanted to avoid losing that smile more than anything in the world, no matter what.

“…Then, shall we go back to our room? Geez, you idiot, you’ll get cold if you get out dressed so lightly… Ah.”

“…?”

“A cat.”

Turning around, the black cat from earlier was staring this way. Since when did it come here? It suddenly narrowed its golden eyes, turned to the other side and snorted, walking away into the hallway.

“Aha, it kind of looks like ‘her.’”

“‘Her,’ huh…”

While I stared intently at the cat’s retreating figure, I froze.

There’s no way.

…There’s no way, right?

Afterword

This story is a contribution to the Doujin Heaven Special of the periodical game magazine Cool-B. I was extremely worried about writing on this subject matter, but given this magazine’s target audience are women and that it’s based on the editor’s idea, I tried to find a way that’d be able to satisfy everyone. It’s a secret, but at first I was thinking about making a story where people die, nasty things keeps happening and no one can be saved. Hehehe.

When I showed the manuscript to Moyataro, he said ‘Even you can write something like that, huh…’, but that’s not surprising.

I myself was shocked by my own writing.

I hope that story has a gentle atmosphere.

[ballet-symphonie]

Hi, about casting replacements what happens when someone gets injured during the show? if I understood correctly that's what happened to Alice Renavand recently in Giselle, which was supposed to be her last performance. Is there someone ready on the spot like that? or do they take a break to figure things out and even so it seems impossible to replace someone mid show

I was heartbroken hearing the reports of Alice Renavand's injury and literally teared up when I saw the videos from her curtain calls. Bravo to Bleuenn Battistoni for stepping in on super short notice and for once, bravo to POB for instantly saying that they would grant her a farewell event next season when she recovers.

Situations like these are why we have 'covers.' Most companies require someone to be 'on call' for the leading roles. That means you have to show up at the theatre, warm up and then just hang around and hopefully, nothing goes wrong. Now, principal dancers especially don't like being on call, it's their night off, and they don't want to spend it 'doing nothing' so sometimes that responsibility falls to soloist dancers. Think Artem Pugachev stepping in to dance Flames of Paris.

However, there have been stories of people injured shortly before the show started and then the management is suddenly calling people at home on the couch to come in and dance...showbiz.

[connan-l]

More than a millennium - Day 6: Bad End

Fandom: The House in Fata Morgana

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death

Relationship: Michel Bollinger/Giselle

Summary: So that he could keep on holding her hand for more than a millenium.

Michel Bollinger's life is a very normal and boring one, except for his recurrent dreams of a maid with dead eyes he tries desperately to run away from.

Content Warning: Much like in Ending 2, there's a suicide attempt at the end, but it's only described very vaguely.

[A collection of unrelated one-shots for the @gischelweek prompts:

Day 1: Wedding Day

Day 2: Cooking/Baking Together

Day 3: Roleswap

Day 4: At the beach

Day 5: Proposal

Day 6: Bad End

Day 7: Domestic Family]

______________________________________________________________

Link on Archive of Our Own

______________________________________________________________

Notes: My favorite FataMoru bad endings are Ending 3 and Ending 5, so I was thinking about writing something about these at first, but in the end I decided to go with Ending 2 because I actually want to write something more detailed about these with fics on their own rather than as a one-shot prompt week. As a result I wasn’t super inspired by it though, so I hope it still feel satisfying enough lol.

I know in canon post-true ending, Michel’s modern family is completely different from his original one in the Middle Ages, but given in Ending 2 he didn’t get to come to terms with his past or with his brothers I thought it’d be interesting if he were to reincarnate with the same parents and siblings this time around (with maybe the exception of his brothers being a bit more supportive this time, especially Georges because of his former guilt?) Well, at least that’s how I wrote it here.

So anyway, this thus takes place during Ending 2: Coming for You, with spoilers for the entire main game.

______________________________________________________________

She is smiling.

The woman in his dream is always smiling.

She has very long braided black hair, surreal jade eyes, an old-fashion maid outfit — her hand is as cold as marble and she looks like a corpse, but she is always, perpetually smiling, like a picture, a statue stuck in place, forbidden to move with the flow of time.

Her grasp on him feel desperate, holding onto him so hard as if she’s afraid he’s going to slip away from her.

It had terrified him back then, but now, whenever he thinks about it, it only breaks his heart.

______________________________________________________________

He wakes up at the sound of his phone blaring next to his ears.

Every morning, he tells himself he really needs to change this awful alarm, and every time he forget to do it until it twists his eardrums all over again.

With difficulty, he rose from his bed, his hair getting all over his face — here, too, he often thinks about how he should just cut them off, but never end up doing it.

Maybe this is just his life’s philosophy at this point, honestly — thinking about how he should do stuff but then never doing them.

He has two missing calls from Georges on his phone, with whom he’s supposed to meet up with later on, but decides to ignores them and instead leisurely step inside his messy apartment’s bathroom.

He already knows he’s going to be late anyway — no need to hurry.

______________________________________________________________

Michel Bollinger’s life was a fairly normal one.

He was an engineer working for a company, lived in a small apartment in Paris, was single, didn’t really have any close friends but got along well with his coworkers and neighbors. He cut ties and was disinherited by his wealthy family when he was a teenager mostly because of his change in identity, and didn’t have any contact with them anymore with the exception of his brothers from times to times — but besides that, there was nothing much exceptional about him.

Michel Bollinger’s life was fine. Kind of boring, maybe, but it was not a bad life. His parents were shitty, but things have been better for his sanity since he stopped interacting with them — it could be worse.

He was a bit lonely, sometimes, but he just had to focus on his job and then it didn’t bother him that much.

Yes, his life was fine — or it should be, if it wasn’t for the deep emptiness he constantly felt afflicted with, and the absurd, surreal dreams he frequently woke up from.

He’s had those since he was a small child. They didn’t make much sense, and well, they’re dreams, right? It would be silly to try to get any meaning out of them either way.

That’s what he’d tell himself generally, but sometimes they’d just get a bit too vivid for his tastes, plaguing and infesting his mind like a leech, and he simply couldn’t get rid of them.

The most recurring one was when he’d find himself in a mansion. An old, ephemeral, decrepit mansion, in which he would wander around, all alone — until a maid would take him by the hand and they would wander together. When her hand grasped his, his heart instantly started aching — followed by a deep fear taking root in his heart.

But then sometimes he dreamed of a voice as sweet as honey and as sharp as a knife, of a white-haired girl, of a pair of siblings with golden hair, of a beast covered in blood or of a tanned businessman with arrogant eyes.

Sometimes the maid’s appearance would get blurry, and instead she reshaped into a young woman with short hair and a radiant smile.

Every times she appeared, something bloomed in his heart.

“Master,” she would say, and she would smile, and there was so much love in that smile that he wanted to cry.

He wanted to say her name.

But he can’t, and then he woke up, and he was back to his boring, normal, empty life.

______________________________________________________________

Michel sighed as he looked at his phone for the ninth times while sitting at a table in a café. It was almost six in the afternoon and Georges still wasn’t there.

They’d agreed to meet at five, and his idiot brother didn’t even bother to send him a text to apologize for being late. He should be used to it by now, but somehow he’s not. Michel doesn’t even know why he hasn’t left the café yet, or why he even accepted the offer at all. They rarely see each other anymore these days, and they are definitely not as close as when they were kids. Michel couldn’t even remember the last time he saw Didier.

It’s not as if he dislikes his brothers — in fact, he does love and owes them a whole lot. Unlike his parents, they’d come to accept him for who he was, and with the fallout he had with the family he would’ve been on the street with nothing if it had not been for Georges and Didier helping him out and finding him a place to stay at. But their relationship still became… a bit strained after all of this, and even when he could tell they tried to make an effort, there was like an invisible wall erected between them. Maybe some things were just irreparably damaged no matter how much you wanted or tried to fix them.

It was about fifteen minutes later that a man with dark wavy hair and an awkward smile burst inside the place and fell in the chair in front of Michel, grinning like a dumbass. He didn’t even have the decency to look sorry.

“Yo, Michel! You won’t believe what I got caught up into!”

“You’re probably right, and I’m also not interested in—”

“Now lemme tell ya, it was craaazy stuff! So y’see, I was in the street an’ that grandma walkin’ her dog—”

Michel sighed, knowing he had no choice but to have to hear Georges’ rambling until the end now. As usual with him, his story was utterly ridiculous, and only when he finally finished half an hour later did they start actually catching up with each other.

“Honestly, I never understood your career path,” Georges let out after inquiring about how his job was doing. “You should… I dunno, choose somethin’ more fun!”

“I’m not working to have fun, Georges,” Michel deadpanned.

The other man shrugged. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re boring.”

“At least I’m not the one who’s always broke asking Didier for money.”

“I-I don’t always asks him for money! And he’s the one who will inherit the most of Dad’s fortune, so it’s not like he can’t afford it. Anyway, let’s stop talkin’ ‘bout money! Ya just won’t believe the latest bullshit Aimée threw at me!”

Just saying her name managed to make Michel shudder, but he knew the topic was going to come up at some point so he might as well get it over with right now. Aimée was Georges’ ex-wife with whom he’s had two sons with. He’d divorced her a few years back, but the woman was an actual demon from hell who still to this day kept doing him all sorts of crass and had gotten full custody of their kids, which his brother desperately tried to get back in vain. So, she was effectively Georges’ ‘favorite’ topic whenever they saw each other, to Michel’s dismay as he also had far from good memories of the woman.

Still, he listened his brother complains about his demonic ex-wife until he finally sighed and asked a question Michel even less wanted to talk about.

“What ‘bout you then, little bro? Still no girlfriend?”

Michel snorted. “Of course not.”

“Why? You say this like it’s obvious, but c’mon! You’re almost thirty now, you don’t intend to spend the rest of your life all by yourself, yeah?”

Michel almost got the urge to reply ‘Why not?’ but he didn’t want to get into a fight with his brother so he instead simply deflected. His love life so far had been the extent of one girlfriend in high school that lasted a semester, one coworker he dated for a few months and another one whom he’d gone to take a drink with, with no further development. And, to be honest, it just… wasn’t something he was interest in or looking for.

It was odd, but there was… like something that prevented him from truly searching someone. Like a blockage; the idea instinctively rebutted him, and then a crippling feeling of guilt overwhelmed him. It was silly, he knew that, but well, as far as he was concerned he didn’t see any issue with not trying to pursue something that made him so intrinsically uncomfortable.

Even his feeling of loneliness and emptiness wasn’t enough to push him to find a partner. It didn’t feel like a lover would ever be able to truly fulfill what he was lacking, anyway.

Maybe there really was something wrong with him. Maybe he was just born broken.

Georges stared at him with what looked suspiciously like concern for a moment, and then he yet again rambled about some silly anecdote but Michel couldn’t bring himself to pay attention — when suddenly something caught his eyes and his heart stopped beating, freezing in his chest.

Long black hair flew just next to him; a glint of beautiful jade eyes sparkling to his right.

He stood up like by instinct, and ran through the café. Georges shrieked at his abrupt movement and then yelled his name, but Michel didn’t turn back; it was like everything around him had suddenly disappeared.

The only thing that mattered was the silhouette of the young woman who had just passed him by — his heart was beating so fast and his lungs were so tight and he knew her, he knew her, it had to be her, he had to say her name, she was—

“Gi—”

He grabbed her hand — the one he’d let go before, the one he’d failed — and the young woman turned around. Shocked green eyes stared back at him — and indeed, they were of the same emerald color he remembered them as. This was hair as black as ivory cascading behind her shoulders just like the one in his dreams.

But it wasn’t her.

Her features were different, her face more angular, her nose rounder. It wasn’t… wasn’t…

Who did he thought she was again?

“Um…?”

The woman stared at him strangely, cautiously; and suddenly the transient state Michel had found himself into vanished. He recalled he was in the middle of a café, that he’d just randomly grabbed a stranger, and that everyone was looking at him.

“W-Well, wow, real sorry ‘bout that, ma’am!” Georges suddenly popped up behind him, laughing nervously and making him let go of her hand forcefully. “My lil’ bro here’s been super tired lately, y’see, so sometimes he loses it a little. My bad, my bad!”

She look at the two of them weirdly, clearly debating if she should be more concerned about this, then finally decided to just ignore the whole thing and turned around without a word. Georges sighed before dragging Michel back to his seat.

“Hey, dude, what the hell was that? Is your head okay?”

Honestly, he wasn’t sure. Probably not.

Then again, he always felt like he’d never been very okay ever since he was a kid.

This empty spot in its heart seemed even wider than before.

Michel dreamed again, that night; of the same withered mansion, the same honeyed voice, and the same maid with jade eyes.

The one who didn’t want to let go of his hand.

The one he’d failed.

______________________________________________________________

“Michel? Were you daydreaming again?”

A giggle. A grasp on his hand.

“I swear, sometimes I feel like you just live in another dimension. I was asking you what you wanted for dinner tonight. You know we still have asparagus from last month, right?”

A sigh. She crossed her arms and pouted, looked at him impatiently.

“You do like asparagus, don’t you? It’s not parsley. Or carrots. …What do you mean, you ‘just don’t feel like eating it’?”

He doesn’t remember what he replied, but he remember the way she rolled her eyes at him exasperatedly, affectionately.

At this point in their relationship, she very rarely got annoyed at him without some hint of fondness in her gaze anymore; and he loved when she looked at him like that.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s do without the asparagus then. But if you don’t want to answer me, then I’ll just take the matter into my hands without letting you decide. You’re fine with this, right?”

She smiled mischievously at him, then stared, and then hesitated. Finally, she glanced right and left, looking a little shy, before tiptoeing on her feet and gently kissing his cheek.

“It’ll be a surprise, then.”

She smiled again, and her hand was still in his.

He knows he smiled back. He knows he didn’t want to let go.

He opens his mouth, and tries to say her name — but no sound comes out.

Then suddenly everything distorts around him, and the mansion take a darker turn.

It is the witch’s house now, and it is the maid in front of him, with the braided long hair and the empty eyes.

And she smiles at him again, but he cannot bear to stare back.

He cannot bear to see her like this.

She is too scary, too empty, too broken — and he doesn’t know who he is— but he knows someone is waiting for him and that’s not where he is meant to be— and this place is nauseous and suffocating and everything around him is so warped—

And so he let go of her hand, and desperately start running away from her.

After fumbling around in the dim corridors, his heart is beating fast with terror as he helplessly tries to open the large door of the mansion. When it finally does open, he barges outside, into the light, and her voice resounds in his mind, like an echo.

“Master! Please wait! You mustn’t go out there! Come back… quickly…!”

Looking behind his shoulder, she’s wavering like a mirage in the open door; reaching her hands out for him as he is already too far away.

Stuck in place inside the mansion, in the darkness. Like a statue.

She is not smiling anymore.

______________________________________________________________

The sky was gray.

It wasn’t raining yet, but with how heavy the clouds looked, Michel was certain it would soon enough.

He had just finished work, and had a missed call from Georges, and from Didier — a rare occurrence. But he is not in the mood to deal with either of them right now, so instead of attempting to answer to his family, he looked up at the sky, then stopped.

This was a sad day, and he felt even emptier than usual.

As he was just about to starts walking again, someone passed next to him.

Long white hair flying right next to his ear; a beautiful young girl, walking and gazing straight in front of her. She seemed too lost in her thoughts to pay him any mind, but Michel wasn’t, and he cannot help but stare at her in disbelief.

Because he knew her.

She’s just a teenager, and he has never seen her in his life — in this life — but he knew her. He knew that voice. He knew this pure white hair and ruby eyes that are just like his. He knew those gentle, soft features.

She has a fake red rose decorating her handbag. His heart stopped.

“Giselle.”

That wasn’t the young girl’s name, not her real one; but this was definitely the name he has been looking for all this time — suddenly coming back to him in a flash.

And as soon as the syllables escaped his lips, everything washed over to him.

The cursed mansion. The witch, Morgana. The cheerful, short-haired woman who barged into his life and made him feel alive again. How they met, hurt each other, fell in love. How he died, then came back a thousands years and three tragedies too late.

And then how he ran away from her just when she needed him the most.

His stomach turned, and alone with the overflowing memories and headache, he felt like he was going to throw up.

He abandoned her.

She was here, with him, right next to him, but he left her; he lost her, of his own volition.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he suddenly couldn’t breath, the only thing staying in his mind being that last moment he spent with the Maid — with Giselle — as she yelled after him while he ran, begging him to stay by her side, because he left her, left her, left her—

As if he’d just abruptly, finally woken up from a dream, his whole life suddenly made sense, and at the same time, nothing mattered anymore.

The way he lived those twenty-seven years in a nebulous bubble, as if unable to connect with anyone, with crippling unease and guilt that came from nowhere — from his sin — the dots connected very abruptly and hurts in an almost unbearable way.

And in the end he was just standing there in the middle of this street, and couldn’t understand what he was doing here.

He lost Giselle.

What was he doing, then, here all by himself? Without her? His family, his brothers, his work; none of it mattered without her. Not after what he did to her, condemning her to an eternity chained to this mansion.

His emotions were too staggering, and he never felt so much all at once; but one thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stay there. That was simply unacceptable.

He needed to find her back — needed to get back to her, save her, somehow; by any means — but as his desperate mind tried to rack his memories for any ways to do this—

His eyes stopped on the road.

He didn’t know if he could find her. He didn’t know if he could fix his worst mistake.

But he needed to try. He couldn’t go on without trying to apologize to her — to save her, make sure she had a chance at being happy again.

So he prayed to a God he never believed in, prayed to a witch who had only ever wished but for his ruin, and turned around.

From the corner of his eyes, he distinguished the white-haired girl staring at him.

He could feel her gaze on him, her red eyes suddenly widening in horror as she realized his intent.

But he ignored her; even when she ran towards him, even when she tried to talk or screamed at him.

Nothing mattered to him anymore but the ghost of a broken woman he had left behind, and as he stepped on the road, he vanished into the void in a vain search of her.

[1dfangirls35]

The Language of Your Soul

An enemies to lovers Ballet AU in 5 Acts

Masterlist

Act I

A/N:

First of all, thank you so much to @booksncoffee for the absolutely gorgeous banner!

I am so excited to share this story with you all! Inspired in part by a night rewatching Center Stage on Netflix and from years of ballet classes, I hope this AU brings a new twist on Harry fics (and maybe even helps you gain a new appreciation for the world of ballet). Please note, while I have used my own 10+ years of classical ballet training in addition to research on this topic to hopefully make this as realistic as possible, this is still a work of fiction- and some details may have been changed to better fit the constraints of the story. The companies mentioned in this fic are real, however this story and its characters are entirely works of fiction. On a more personal note, while I have chosen to publish this story now and believe I will be able to maintain weekly updates to its entirety, I am preparing to take my boards in less than four weeks. Should I not update as scheduled- please be patient and know that an update is only a few weeks away! :) Thank you so much for reading!

Warnings: This story will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.

Ten Weeks to Opening Night

Albert Einstein once said, "dancers are the athletes of God." Giselle Mason certainly doesn't feel like pne of God's athletes at the moment. Not with the way her muscles are screaming with every movement that she makes as she stretches before class, not with the way her right hip cracks as she lifts her leg onto the bar, and certainly not with the way her feet sting as she tapes up yet another blister on her toe before shoving her foot into her pointe shoes for another day full of torture.

Giselle stands, sticking one last bobby pin into the bun of her nearly ebony hair and finding her spot at the front of the barre in the center of the studio. She grasps the wooden cylinder with her left hand before releasing her body in a forward bend, taking a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. There is a familiar ache in her hamstrings as she begins to stretch, which loosens ever so slightly with every breath.

And so begins her daily morning routine in the studio. Fifteen minutes of stretching before company class begins. Relaxing each hamstring, hip flexor and spinal muscle until a sense of calm washes over her body. Letting her mind drift into a thoughtless focus, preparing itself for the waves of choreography that would be coming in minutes. Typically, this time is quiet; the only melody present the rhythmic breathing of company members preparing for class. But today, the studio seems to be filled with an underlying buzz. And Giselle doesn't have the slightest idea why.

"I heard he slept with the artistic director's wife, so they kicked him out of the Royal," she hears one of the new corps de ballet members murmur.

"I mean have you seen him, I don't blame her for getting her hands on a piece of him," another girl giggles.

"Did you hear, G?" Caleb, Giselle's friend, whispers as he slides into a spot on the barre behind her, adjusting the black bandana keeping his signature black curls in place across his forehead.

"Hear what?" Giselle asks, removing her leg from the bar before reaching down to adjust the black leg warmer that had fallen down her calf.

"They've hired Harry Styles- you know from the Royal," Caleb adds as if Giselle hasn't heard of Harry Styles. Everyone who was anyone in the ballet world had heard of Harry Styles. A good chunk of the non-ballet world might even be able to point him out as that 'sexy male ballet dancer' from the Sports Illustrated nude edition.

Harry Styles was a rare kind of natural talent. The type of person that was put on this earth to dance ballet. His talent had landed him the honor of being the youngest person to be named a principal in the history of the Royal Ballet. And if the rumors were true, that talent had also landed him the reputation of one of the ballet world's most arrogant. Giselle had heard several stories about how the male dancer had been a terror to work with- demanding, rude, uncooperative. Giselle didn't doubt it- people of that skill and fame rarely developed without some sense of entitlement.

"Why would we hire Harry Styles, we've already got Viktor?" Giselle questions. This isn't the first time a rumor has circulated through the American Ballet Theatre company, and it certainly won't be the last time. 

"Rumor is they want Viktor to retire," Caleb shrugged before stepping back to his place behind Giselle as Mistress Ivanova claps to gain the class's attention.

Giselle couldn't believe the rumors. Viktor Dmitri retiring from ABT? He was practically the face of the company. The man had been dancing for the American Ballet Theatre for over a decade. He'd been the principal ever since Giselle had joined the company as a corps de ballet member five years ago. 

Giselle knew that retirement came early for a ballet dancer. Her own mother, the famous Natalia Korsakova, had retired at the age of 33 after a knee injury. Viktor had just turned 35, but he'd shown no signs of slowing down. She refused to believe that he was calling it quits. Or to believe that the board would be stupid enough to bring in someone with Harry Styles's toxic reputation into the company.

She shoves the thought aside. Viktor is in his usual place at the back of the studio and Harry Styles is nowhere to be seen. This was simply another piece of gossip threatening to distract everyone from the Swan Lake auditions tomorrow afternoon, and Giselle won't lose her focus. The auditions are too important.

Giselle Mason has dreamed of playing the role of Odette/Odile ever since she first watched her mother on stage at the age of four. It was one of her earliest memories of the theater- her mother twirling about in a bright white tutu that at that time Giselle could only dream of wearing. In fact, Giselle wasn't sure there had ever been a moment where her dream hadn't been to be a principal dancer at ABT, like her mother. She'd been in ballet shoes from the second she could walk, wore a leotard and tights more often than she'd worn pajamas, and didn't recognize herself in the mirror if her hair wasn't pulled back into a bun. She'd ate, slept and breathed the art form. But she supposed that all came with having a prima ballerina as a mother.

Natalia Korsakova was a ballet sensation. "One of the greatest to have ever danced," according to the New York Times  at the time of her retirement. The world had come to watch her dance and she'd traveled it performing: Russia, Australia, London, Paris. You name the location and Natalia Korsakova had danced there.

When Giselle was growing up, she was constantly told how lucky she was to have Natalia as a mother. To have seen the shows she's seen, to have met ballet royalty, to have traveled the world. But Giselle never felt lucky. Not when she was the accident that put her mother's career on hold for almost a year. Not when her mother was gone for months at a time performing, missing recitals, parent days and school concerts. And certainly not when an injury forced her mother into retirement, shifting her focus from her own artistic talents to turning her daughter into her next protegee.

Much to her mother's dismay, Giselle was not the younger version of her mother. She was good, great even, but she was no sensation. Giselle made soloist in her fourth year at ABT, which was a feat all on its own, unless you compared it to her mother's two. Giselle lacked the raw, natural talent that her mother possessed. Instead of her mother's high arches, she had her father's averagely flat feet. Instead of her mother's uncanny ability to match the music, Giselle had spent hours counting eights in her head to get down a rhythm. Instead of looking effortless the first time she ran through a routine, Giselle spent hours in the studio after rehearsal, running through the choreography until it wasn't possible for her to get it wrong. Giselle had gotten to where she was because of her hard work, not her natural talent- something her mother would never let her forget. To Natalia Korsakova, Giselle would never measure up.

The Swan Lake auditions are Giselle's first real shot at landing a lead, especially with principal dancer Anna Elliot out with a back injury for the foreseeable future. Giselle wants this role more than anything. To prove to herself that she is capable of  following in her mother's footsteps. And to prove to her mother that she is just as capable a dancer as she. For once in her life, she wants to hear her mother say not that she'd lost her spot or forgot to point her toes, but that she was proud of Giselle. Four words- that's all Giselle really wants.

"And will start first position, demi, demi, grand, demi and port de bra. Repeat in 2nd, 4th and 5th and then balance in fifth position arms in fifth," Mistress Ivanova barks, before gesturing to the pianist to begin.

Giselle focuses on her movements as the music begins. She tightens her core, elongates her neck and reaches her fingertips to the edges of her silhouette. Her legs quiver slightly as she bends her knees into the first grand plié, her mind focusing on maintaining her turnout.

"Relax that face Giselle," Mistress Ivanova corrects, as she makes her way around the room. "I don't want to see that this is work."

Giselle takes another deep breath, this time releasing her lips from their concentrated place and focusing on her breath. She lets the downtown Manhattan studio disappear from the background. Gone is the distant honking of impatient taxi drivers maneuvering their way through the New York City traffic. Gone is the light shining in from the full-length windows looking out at the city skyline- well what you could see of the skyline behind the crumbly brick building neighboring the school. There was nothing but the dancer, the barre and the music flowing gently through her veins.

"Beautiful lines Teagan, thank you," Giselle hears Mistress Ivanova say from across the room and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Giselle has known Teagan Davidson since she was fourteen years old, when Teagan had moved from California to New York to join the ABT school. Over the course of a decade of competing for roles, partners and teacher's praises, the two had developed quite a rivalry. To Giselle, there was almost no better feeling than snagging a role that she knew Teagan also had her eyes on.

Giselle uses Teagan's praise as motivation to work harder, feeling the burn in her inner thighs as she pushes further into her grand plié in second. The role of Odette/Odile was hers, Teagan would have to settle for understudy.

The class is in the middle of their balance, Giselle's focus locked in on a spot just at the edge of the window at the rear of the studio when a loud bang reverberates through the room. Dancers drop their balance and turn their heads, looking to see who has caused such a commotion with their entrance.

"Mr. Styles, you're late," Mistress Ivanova snaps.

He is taller than Giselle imagined, and even from this distance she can see the definition in his arms through the black tank top that clings to his body. His hair is slightly disheveled, curling at the top. His face plastered into some cheeky grin, dimples present on both cheeks, like he knows exactly what he's doing, interrupting class like this. Almost like he's enjoying the attention. He throws his black messenger bag to the side before grabbing his ballet shoes and scurrying over to an open spot at the barre near the front of the studio.

"My apologies," he replies in a thick British accent. His tone sounds anything but apologetic.

"Damn, he's even better-looking in person than he is in magazines," Caleb mutters under his breath, eliciting an eye roll from Giselle.

"Well, I suppose after that entrance," Mistress Ivanova sighs, stepping to the front of the class. "Now is as good of time as any to announce that Mr. Styles will be joining our company as a principal dancer."

Gasps fill the room, and Giselle turns her head to look at Viktor, whose face is stoic after Harry's entrance. A low chatter fills the studio, everyone trying to figure out exactly what is going on. Would he get the lead in Swan Lake? Would he be understudying Viktor?

"Silence!" Mistress Ivanova shouts. "This chatter can wait until after class is over!" She turns to face Harry, her lips turned into a stern frown. "If you'll find a place at the barre Mr. Styles, we will continue our class."

Giselle watches as he slides into a spot at the front of the room, shooting a grin at the young company member behind him. Giselle rolls her eyes, returning her focus to the mirror in front of her. Two minutes with the company and she was sure Harry Styles was exactly who she thought he would be.

Giselle tries to forget Harry Styles is in class with them. Instead she focuses on her breathing, her turnout, the rhythm that comes from the pianist in the corner of the room. She watches the early morning New York City sunrise reflect off of the mirrors, leaving little spots of sunlight over the gray Marley floor. Everyone else in the company could focus on Harry Styles all they want, but she is only focusing on one thing- and that is landing the role of her dreams tomorrow.

But Harry Styles wasn't the type of person whose presence could be forgotten so easily.

********

Harry Styles isn't scared of a little attention. In fact, he typically thrives on it. That's why he is a performer after all. To Harry, there is no better feeling than knowing all eyes are upon you, that you are the center of attention, the focus of the room. Maybe that is a prideful and egotistical thing to say, but it is true. Everyone wants to feel important, valued, admired- and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

But the attention Harry has been getting since he walked into the American Ballet Theatre studio a little over twelve hours ago has not been the type of attention he necessarily sought out. He knew there would be rumors, leaving the only company he had ever been a part of during his dance career was sure to draw up the best of them, but something about this felt different. It was the whispers. The stares. The way some members of the room were staring at Harry as if he was a god and a few wouldn't dare look in his direction.

Harry doesn't know what's come over him- this wavering self-confidence. Maybe it's this new place. This new country. Or maybe it's the fact that in the words of his agent, if he "doesn't get his act together" he will never dance at this level again. And if he's not dancing on the world's biggest stages, well, Harry might as well not be dancing at all.

Harry grabs his phone from the side pocket of his black messenger bag, connecting it to the Bluetooth speaker he found in the corner of the studio and presses play on his hip hop playlist. He needs something to drown out his thoughts, and classical music just doesn't cut it. As the beat begins to fill the studio, Harry lets the music take over his body and begins to dance.

Giselle tries to focus on her music, but there's the noise of a pounding bass in the background interfering with concentration. She's always the only one at the studio this late at night- that's why she comes- to be alone and without distractions.

She tries to ignore it, focusing on the one and two of the music as she fouettés. One and two, three and four, five and... a boom from somewhere in the building breaks her concentration and she falls out of her turn, letting out a groan. This could not be happening to her the night before auditions, and if she found out that Teagan was here trying to interfere with her practice...

Giselle makes her way down the hall, guided by the incessant bass that sounds like it belongs in the backseat of a teenager's car and not one of the most prestigious ballet studios in the world. When she turns the corner to enter the studio, it's not Teagan she sees but Harry Styles.

But he's not dancing. He's laying on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that show off the god-like definition of his thighs. His signature butterfly tattoo stands out on the middle of his chest, beads of sweat dripping towards the center of his stomach, the bass vibrating the mirrors around him. He doesn't notice her at first. How could he with the music so loud?

"Excuse me," Giselle says loudly in an effort to get his attention. His body doesn't even flinch.

"Excuse me!" she yells this time. 

Harry looks up. In the corner of the studio, towards the door stands a girl. Her almost black hair is pulled tightly back into a bun. Her thin arms are crossed like she's about to lecture him, and her lips are held in a tight line that looks anything but happy. The corners of Harry's mouth curve upwards in a grin, entertained by the fury that was seeming to come from her tiny body.

She taps her foot impatiently, like she's waiting for something. Harry realizes that she is- she's waiting for him to turn off his music.

He sighs, reaching over to his phone beside him and sliding one sweaty finger across the screen to bring the rhythm to a halt.

"Yes?" he asks expectantly, not bothering to move his body from his reclining position.

"Other people in this studio are trying to practice, you know. It's kinda hard to do that with this," she gestures into the air, as if trying to find an appropriate adjective to describe the torture that had been gracing her ears over the past half hour.

"Not a fan of my music?" Harry smirked.

"I'm not a fan of someone disrupting my rehearsal." Giselle spit back.

"Rehearsal? It's bloody 11pm."

"I know what time it is, and like I said, your music is interfering with my ability to practice." Giselle stares Harry right in the eyes. He doesn't intimidate her, and she's not going to back down until he agrees to turn down his music.

"Wasn't aware you were the owner of this studio," Harry taunts.

"I could say the same about you." Giselle moves her hands to her hips. Just agree to turn off the damn music, she thinks to herself, even though she knows at this point, it's not worth the time it will take to warm back up to continue practicing.

Harry sits up, grabbing a blue towel from inside his bag and wiping the sweat that remains off his forehead. "Fine, music's off. Continue your rehearsal. I'm too jet lagged for this shit," he stands, wrapping the towel around his neck.

"Thanks," Giselle says under her breath, before making her way back to her studio, where she knew she would be gathering her own belongings.

Harry groans, grabbing his bag from the floor and sliding it over his shoulder. You could travel halfway across the world and still run into the same entitled ballet brats who thought they ran the place. It's those type of people, company members and otherwise, that were precisely the reason he had left the Royal. Well, not that he had necessarily had a say in that scenario, but they had been the cause of all of his problems.

You just have to dance, Harry, he tries to tell himself. But Harry knows that as much as he tries, there's a lot more too it than that.

**********

“Gi!" Caleb exclaims, bounding down the hallway towards her without concern for anyone in his way. "Cast list is up."

Giselle gulps. She isn't sure that she is ready for this. The look of disappointment on her mother's face if she doesn't land the part. The list of corrections that her mother has come up with from watching Giselle's audition. "Now you see there, you've lost your center. You're never going to make that triple if you don't hold your center Giselle." The reminder that "you only have so many opportunities to prove your worth, before they move onto the younger, better version of you." It didn't matter to her mother if Giselle was the youngest soloist at ABT by five years. It didn't matter if nearly every other soloist had previously understudied for the role. Everything but a lead was a disappointment to Natalia Korsakova.

"C'mon," Caleb exclaims, and before Giselle has a moment to collect herself she's being pulled down the hallway by her arm.

And there it is. The thin, white piece of paper that holds the fate of her next ten weeks in its hands. When she looks at it at first, she thinks she must be dreaming. Because her name has never been on that spot on the list before. Not since she officially joined the company five years ago.

Odette/Odile- Giselle Mason

Sigfried - Harry Styles

She feels frozen. Like she's in a dream and she's paralyzed. It's what she's always wanted-this role and yet, suddenly it feels like a whole lot of pressure.

"You did it Gi," Caleb exclaims, lifting her up and spinning her around before Giselle even has a moment to look any further down the list. Giselle laughs, giddy with excitement. "New York will have never seen a more beautiful Odette."

Giselle rolls her eyes at his comment. Caleb, her friend since joining the American Ballet School at the age of six and partner for many years had always been her biggest cheerleader. In a way, he made up for what she didn't have in her mother.

"And you Caleb?" Giselle asks, realizing in her excitement that she had forgotten that her best friend also had a role in the this ballet.

"You're looking at the newest Benno," Caleb says with a grin. Giselle often wondered what it would be like to be like Caleb. To be happy with any role. To not care about his place in the company. To simply want to dance. Caleb had always been like that- relaxed, calm- the antithesis to Giselle who was always high strung and anxious. Perhaps that's why they'd always been such good friends, because they balanced each other perfectly. Giselle pushed Caleb when he needed some extra motivation and Caleb- albeit not always successful- tried his best to keep Giselle out of her own head.

Giselle watches as Teagan makes her way over to the board, her long black hair swinging from the ponytail at the crown of her head. She grins in slight satisfaction as she sees Teagan's face turn into a frown. Giselle turns and gives Caleb her best, "what did she get?" eyes. He exaggeratedly mouths, "UNDERSTUDY".

As if sensing that she is the topic of conversation, Teagan looks over at the two. "Congrats Giselle," she says, her face moving in a way that makes it seem like the words taste disgusting leaving her mouth.

"You as well," Giselle responds, to which Teagan only scoffs and storms off.

"You know she's going to make your life living hell as your understudy don't you?" Caleb said with a laugh.

"Ugh, I know," Giselle groaned.

"It will be worth it though. You are going to be dancing the role you've always dreamed of." Giselle smiled. "Plus," Caleb begins, leaning down so his mouth is next to Giselle's ear. "You get to dance with the greatest male dancer of our generation. Think of all the hours you're gonna get to spend looking at that GORGEOUS body."

Giselle groans. Her perfect moment temporarily ruined by the realization that she would have to dance with Harry Styles. Sure, he may be talented, a great dancer, and likely a great partner. But his entrance yesterday and their encounter last night told her everything she needed to know about Harry Styles. And she was sure that working with him would be anything but easy.

"That GORGEOUS body," Giselle imitates Caleb with an exaggeration of the word, "Doesn't make up for the fact that the guy's an asshole."

"Okay, okay, point taken. Now can we go get some lunch?"

Giselle nods, but she already knows she's not hungry. Instead, all she can think about is how she's going to get through the next ten weeks of rehearsals with a man she already loathes.

**********

Giselle slides into the rehearsal studio with extra joy in her step later that afternoon. She's so on Cloud 9 that she doesn't even realize Harry standing at the barre doing pliés as she hums the opening notes of Swan Lake aloud.

"Sorry didn't know anyone else was in here already," she apologizes quickly, standing and stretching out her feet.

Harry looks at her, his face hard and eyes sharp. If he recognized her as the girl who interrupted his jam session last night his face didn't show it. "And who are you?" Harry asks, his voice laced with condescendence.

"Odette," Giselle smiles, the words feeling foreign leaving her mouth.

"Obviously," Harry scoffs, and Giselle feels her confidence waver. "Who are you?"

"Giselle Mason, soloist."

"Doesn't ring a bell," the corners of Harry's mouth turn up at his comment, like he gets satisfaction out of reminding others that they aren't the household name that he is.

Giselle wants to say something back. Something sharp and witty to show him that just because he was one of the greatest dancers in the world and she was still trying to make her way into the spotlight didn't mean that he could treat her like a nobody. She was going to be his partner after all- whether he liked it or not. But then Gregory Alexander, ABT's Artistic Director, enters the room, clapping his hands and tells them they are about to begin on the Act II Pas de Deux and Giselle doesn't have a chance to say otherwise.

"As new partners you will need to put in the time to understand each other. Build trust. Anticipate the other's movement. Portray to the audience that you are a swan and a prince in love." Gregory moves his arms in the air theatrically, as if he isn't wearing a designer suit.

"Now I understand that the ten weeks we have to prepare before our season debut isn't an ideal amount of time to form a relationship with a new partner. But in this case, it simply must do." Gregory's face turned serious, the wrinkles on his forehead more defined as he furrows his eyebrows. "I expect that the two of you will put in the time outside of your scheduled rehearsals to work on this chemistry. Anna and Viktor will also be assisting with rehearsals and my hope is that they will also be able to assist the two of you with this transition."

"Gregory," Harry interrupts, then as if realizing he'd made a mistake, he corrects himself. "Sir."

Gregory nods.

"I'm not sure what the concern is. I've danced with hundreds of partners in my career, I'm not sure how the other principal's would have much more experience than me?" Giselle thinks Harry is meaning this as a question but it comes out more like a statement.

Giselle watches as Gregory's eyes narrow again. He looked irritated, and why wouldn't he be? Harry had been here all but forty-eight hours and was already questioning the artistic director's decisions. 

"That may be the case, Mr. Styles," Gregory paused. "But when the two of you step onto Metropolitan Opera House stage in ten weeks, I expect the audience to believe that you two have been dancing together for years. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry nods, this time remaining quiet.

"Now then, I'd like us to start with the Act II Pas de Deux. The very beginning- with your entrance Harry."

It's an hour into rehearsals when Giselle hears the echo of heels clicking down the wooden hallways. She doesn't even have to look up when the steps stop as they reach the studio floor. She could recognize that walk anywhere.

"Aahh, Natalia!" Gregory exclaims. "So glad you could stop by," Gregory reaches over to embrace Giselle's mother, his grey hair brushing the sides of her face as he kisses each cheek.

"Mr. Styles, I'd like to introduce you to Natalia Korsakova, former ABT principal and member of our board."

Natalia Korsakova looks as put together as always. Her dark brown hair pulled tightly into a neat French twist. Her tight black dress and coordinating pumps show off every bit of the dancer's body that she still maintained. Giselle watches as her mother's mouth curves to form a polite smile.

"A ballet legend. It's an honor to meet you Madame," Harry says offering his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm so glad you are joining us here at ABT. And what a joy it will be to watch you next to my daughter," Natalia gestures towards Giselle, with a polite smile plastered on her face that was generally reserved for generous donors and patrons of the ballet. It is all a show. That's all Giselle's mother ever did was put on a production. She was a performer after all, how could anyone expect her life to be anything but a crowd-pleasing performance?

"Your daughter?" Harry turns to look at Giselle, raising an eyebrow. His eyes narrow, as if he's caught Giselle in a lie. As if she'd snuck her way into this position and was just hoping that someone wouldn't notice she wasn't the real deal. "Why that makes this even more special."

Giselle fights every urge to roll her eyes from across the room. It is clear that Harry Styles is every bit as much of a performer as her mother. Just minutes before he was looking at her as if he had been paired with an amateur and suddenly working with her is 'something special'?

"I'm going to watch rehearsal for a bit," Natalia announces, making her way over to a stool next to the pianist. "Carry on." The pit in the bottom of Giselle's stomach grows as her mother takes a seat next to Gregory in front of the mirror.

"Odette makes sense to me now," Harry whispers into Giselle's ear, as he slides behind her to resume practice. It takes everything in her to keep her face stoic as Harry's hands settle once again on her waist.

Rehearsal goes badly. Giselle can't seem to get her leg into the attitude position that Gregory wants, she losing her balance on her penchés, and Harry almost drops her on several promenades. Giselle says almost, because someone as experienced as Harry Styles would never let his partner hit the ground, but she should have, because she surely wasn't holding her weight quite right. And then there's the fact that Gregory pronounced that Giselle "looks at Harry as if he is the villain of the story instead of the prince she's fallen in love with". 

Giselle wants to say that's because he is the villain. The villain of her story anyways, the person that is somehow going to turn her dream role into somewhat of a nightmare. Why couldn't she be dancing with Viktor? He was so patient and kind and he would never look at his partner as if she deserved to be in the audience instead of on stage with him.

After yet another failed run through of the first half of the pas de deux, Gregory announces that they are done for the day, but that he expects to see them in the studio bright and early tomorrow morning to work on their timing. Giselle's never been so thankful for a rehearsal to be over, and as she sits down to remove her pointe shoes, running her hands over her swollen feet, she watches Harry leave the studio without saying a word.

"I hope you realize how big of an opportunity this is Giselle. It's not one you should take lightly," her mother's voice startles her, as Giselle had almost forgotten she was there. Almost.

Natalia stands above Giselle, one hand on her hips and the other on her forehead, as if watching today's rehearsal had been exhausting for her. It probably was exhausting for her, keeping tally of all the things that Giselle had done wrong for the past two hours. Natalia's voice is shrill as she speaks again. "There are thousands of ballerinas around the world that could only dream of getting to dance with Harry Styles. And here you are dancing with him in his first show with ABT. That's an enormous responsibility, darling. This performance with him will set the stage for his entire career with our company. One that the board is hoping will last until his retirement."

Giselle nods. That's all she can do when her mother begins one of her lectures- nod. She thought maybe this would be the time that her mother told her congratulations. The time that her mother did what she'd watched countless other mother's do during her time as a dancer, wrap their arms around their daughter and express their pride to them. But instead, today is like any other day, and even with a lead role in an ABT production, Giselle still hasn't done enough to make her mother proud.

Giselle shoves her shoes into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she stands.

"And Giselle?" her mother adds, as she makes her way towards the door.

"Yes mom?" 

"Might want to hit a few more cardio classes this week too, my dear. Got to make sure you are going to be an easy dancer to partner with." 

And with that comment Natalia Korsakova clicks away, leaving Giselle standing in the middle of studio wondering if her biggest dream has suddenly become her biggest nightmare.

[strechanadi]

It’s Ludmila Pagliero leaving POB? Her last post on insta left a bit confused.

I don't think she is. At least no official adieux was stated for this, nor next season. (The only etoiles we know for sure are leaving is Myriam in Giselle in a few weeks and Laura and Mathieu next season in Onegin.)

I DO find it weird she's not on stage this season. She's around 40, so she technically is at the end of her POB career. She was dancing Manon during POB's tour in Japan )and several galas), so she is clearly not injured.

But I just don't know.

The same for Mathieu.

They are clearly OK, but not cast in anything in Paris (the fact he's not doing Giselle is seriously baffling to me).

It very well may be their own decision (pursuing other options, dancing elsewhere etc). For some reason however I have issues believing it...

And I'm not gonna deny it, I am a bit pissed, cause this is just not how you treat your étoiles. Not everybody wants to do the huge classics (Nutcracker, Don Q, SL) their whole career, especially at certain age, which... fair. But still. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, to say the least.

BUT I don't really know anything and nor have I heard anything from French balletomanes, so...?

The only thing I know is, that Mathias Heymann is still dealing with some major injuries, cause he was supposed to be in La Fille and Don Q, if I'm not mistaken, and had to withdraw. Which is painful, cause again, if I'm not mistaken, the last two seasons he's barely dancing at all...

[kissesinthekitchen]

Yours

Prompt: The one where a flirty waitress oversteps her boundaries and you want to remind Harry who he belongs to. 

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Smut and fluff. Jealousy. Sex in public. Word count: 5,565. Rated mature.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on Mine! In my head, this is sort of a sequel, but you don’t need to have read the first story to understand it. Jealous!reader was a lot of fun to write this time. I would really appreciate any love or feedback. Hope you like this! x

The guilty look on Harry’s face that greets you when you return from the bathroom is all you need to know.

“What?” you ask him, as you place your purse down and scoot back into the booth to be close to him again.

You spot the folded piece of paper sitting in front of him and swallow hard. You have a feeling you already know what it is. You pluck the piece of paper off the table and watch the digits of a phone number unfold slowly between your hands. 

“Oh, this bitch-” you say, already trying to rise from the seat to find her face from between the other diners.

“Y/N,” Harry says, and his voice sounds like a gravely warning. His hand is gripping your wrist already. “Baby. Sit down.”

Your blood is boiling. You feel something akin to wanting to slap her and wanting to close the distance between you and Harry by straddling his lap right now, like some kind of animal holding down its mate - something, anything - to prove he’s yours. Something that says he’s mine. 

-----

Harry always treats food like a peace offering. 

Once, when you had a conference to attend out of state on your birthday, he paid for a buffet of Mexican food to be catered and sent to the hotel you and some of your friends from the department were staying at. Complete with a birthday cake, so you knew he was thinking of you. And another time, when he was in France working on something for Gucci and you couldn’t get off work to join him because of a bunch of parent-teacher meetings, he had an extravagant box of French macarons and pink tulips shipped overnight from Paris just so he could Facetime you from the same cafe later, so it could be like you were there together. When you’re upset, when you miss him, when you want to reconnect, it’s always either in bed or over a good meal. 

Today, he had chosen a sunlit fancy Italian bistro with high ceilings, and green ivy plants and glass chandeliers clinging to each other for decoration. White and brick red speckled walls. Harry had squeezed your hand as a host led you to a booth towards the back of the restaurant.

The food they serve tastes as good as it looks. Crunchy bruschetta with sweet basil and tomatoes. Soft pillows of warm gnocchi served over roasted butternut squash and crispy fried herbs and salty pancetta. For entrees, you’d ordered a zesty lemon chicken piccata with capers, while Harry ordered a delicious eggplant parmesan. And together, you’d decided to share an order of linguine with clams - just because you couldn’t help yourself. Harry loves food, but more than that, he loves seeing how much you love food. If anyone asks, he’d probably say that your love language is trying new restaurants together. 

And yet, while the food and the ambiance - there’s nothing like watching Harry’s face over candlelight- had been amazing, you’re sure this has still probably got to be one of the worst meals you’ve ever had.

This is confirmed later. If the guilty look on Harry’s face that greets you when you return from the bathroom is all you need to know. 

“What?” you ask him, as you place your purse down and scoot back into the booth to be close to him again.

You spot the folded piece of paper sitting in front of him and swallow hard. You have a feeling you already know what it is. 

Harry is resting his face in the palm of his hand. Loose curls framing his face, the top buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned beneath a soft velvet jacket of the same color. He looks relaxed, if not, a little amused. 

You pluck the piece of paper off the table and watch the digits of a phone number unfold slowly between your hands. 

“Oh, this bitch-” you say, already trying to rise from the seat to find her face from between the other diners.

“Y/N,” Harry says, and his voice sounds like a gravely warning. His hand is gripping your wrist already. “Baby. Sit down.”

It’s been more than an hour of this. The waitress offering Harry one sided conversation and squeezing his bicep and biting her lip and treating you like you’re fucking invisible. You feel like you already know too much about her. 

Her name is Giselle because of course it is. Her sweeping blonde hair cascades down over her shoulders in a way that makes you feel a pang in your chest because - and you’ll never say this outloud but- she reminds you of a model, reminds you of so many of Harry’s exes. The women who used to rent space in his head and in his bed.The women he loved and wrote songs about before he met you. 

You can’t help but flinch and grit your teeth every time she tries to make a move on Harry. She declares that she always wanted to study abroad in London. She saw One Direction three times when they were together. She licks her lips and asks Harry if he needs help finding places to go or stay while he’s in town, in a voice that makes you feel like she means her bed. And she frowns when Harry tries to bring you into the conversation, you’re like ninety-nine percent sure she scoffed when he said you were a teacher. The audacity of it all. 

It’s not that you’re surprised. Harry is well, Harry. You’re used to sharing him with most of the world. He’s got the biggest heart you know, and he’s a huge flirt. Women are drawn to him like mosquitos are to blood. But you never thought you’d have to deal with another girl on the night you’re supposed to be celebrating your engagement. Maybe Harry was right to have tried to persuade you to stay home, in bed with takeout- that would have required much less sulking. 

To his credit, Harry brushes her off, but he’s still entirely too polite. When she places a hand on his shoulder to give him the wine menu, he gives her a solemn nod. When she cups his hands in hers and throws a wink over her shoulder as she walks away, he politely wrenches his hand away and throws her back a look that is something caught between a frown and a smile as he meets your eyes. 

“She really did it.”

“Darling-” he starts. 

“She really fucking did it.” you say, appalled and irritated. Your blood is boiling. You feel something akin to wanting to slap her and wanting to close the distance between you and Harry by straddling his lap right now, like some kind of animal holding down its mate - something, anything - to prove he’s yours. Something that says he’s mine. 

“You’re jealous,” Harry says. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” you say quickly. The brightness in his eyes seems to grow at your quip, and you almost feel like slapping him now. 

“Oh baby,” he says, his arm reaching around to cling to the part of the booth that is behind your neck.

“What can I do baby? How can I make it better?” he chuckles in your ear, when you cross your arms around your chest and let out a frustrated huff like an irritated child. “How can I turn this frown upside down?” His fingers graze the spot where your eyebrows have pinched together. 

You wring the napkin in your hands. “Oh fuck off, Harry-“ 

“M’serious love,” but there is amusement in his face and you feel like elbowing him in the chest right now. “How do I show you that you don’t have any reason to be jealous?” 

A moment passes, your nails are tapping impatiently against the throat of your wine glass before you hear Harry’s low voice tell you to look at him. 

“Should I fuck you here?” he raises an eyebrow, his grip on you tightening. The broadness of his back moving so he’s blocking you from view. “Would that show you, sweetheart?”

“Stop making fun of me.” 

He moves closer. “M’I’m not. Promise. Bit cute, actually. Seein’ you get all riled up.” He flashes you a heated look, the kind he usually saves for when you’re behind closed doors and his voice sounds choked. “Kind of makes my cock hard, if I’m bein’ honest. Seein’ you so jealous.”

“Harry,” you try to chastise him, but your voice just sounds just as broken. “Someone could see-” You know you aren’t the only one who spotted at least two or three photographers outside when you walked in here. 

He makes a gesture of sweeping the room with his eyes. “Everyone’s eatin.’ No one’s payin’ attention to us. ‘Sides. Noticed you didn’t say no...”

“Baby-” you try to halt him as he reaches for you then. His eyes holding your wide gaze as his hand lifts the end of your dress. 

“Tell me that if I slide my hand up, I won’t find you wet already?” 

“Harry,” you croak, your voice shaking. Your fingers stop on his wrist and his eyes still. 

A beat passes before you admit - “Harry, I’m soaked.” 

Harry watches the way your nervous demeanor melts into a grin before he grabs you.  

“Fuckin’ hell. Come here, you minx,” he closes the inch of distance between you to kiss you hard, his tongue swiping against yours. Your hands grasp his face before winding around his neck. 

Your teeth dig into his jacket, in the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, to muffle your moaning when you feel him dip two of his fingers inside of you. 

He groans. “Are you gonna come for me, honey? Fuck. Gonna come all over my fingers in front of everyone?” That makes you gasp, goosebumps rising on your skin as you listen dimly to the noise of silverware banging on plates and drinks being poured, the shuffle of the waiters walking, and music on the street as day fades into night in front of the windows. 

“Harry-” you try to reason, even though your thighs are parting wider on their own accord and the grip you have on his hands is nothing but for show now. 

“‘Am having my dessert, woman,” he chuckles against your cheek, his lips and tongue swiping against your earlobe. “Let me have my dessert, hmm?”

He’s knuckles deep into you, the rings on his hand brushing against your mound. But you’re still aching, still want more of him. Your nails dig into his shoulder as you beg, “Harry. I want to be full. Make me full, Harry. “

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes you by adding a third finger, and swiping his thumb back and forth against your clit. And it feels so good, your back arches closer into his touch and your thighs clench. 

“God-” you gasp at feeling him so deep. You’re trying to control your breathing, but your cunt feels so tight around the stretch of his fingers. You feel dizzy with how much you want him and need him and how much he’s giving you. 

“Feels good, yeah? Ya gonna come already, lovie?” He smiles, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “Squeezin’ my fingers so tight. Feels just like when you’re grippin’ my cock when I’m inside of you, huh? You want to come so bad. You look so beautiful.”

“Don’t stop Harry. Don’t stop. I’m almost-Fuck-”

“I can feel you,” he says. “Beg me, Y/N. Then I’ll let you. I’ll make you come. I promise. Just need to hear you say it. Use your words, baby.”

“Oh fuck you-“ you tell him, your voice caught in a crossroads between amusement and want. 

He smiles. “You will. But I need you to come for me first.”

He watches as you writhe beside him and you stare back through heavy lidded eyes as he works you towards your orgasm. He looks beautiful like this, really, his soft mouth wet and open. The hint of a smile on his lips. And the green of his eyes looking all the more dark and endless and intense under candlelight. Strands of his hair are shaking with the force of his arm as his hand moves beneath the skirt of your dress. 

And then it happens - you’re babbling. Half mad with the need to come. “Harry. Please Harry. Please. Please. Please let me come.”

You can feel the sweat on the back of your thighs. Harry’s grip is so tight that your skirt is almost bunched up around your hips where you’re grateful the table is covering you from view. And your legs are shaking, hips bucking up to meet Harry’s fingers and shifting back against the leather of your seat. 

“Gettin’ my fingers so wet, love. Fuckin’ me so well. Can you come now baby? Come so I can fuck you all good and proper like.”

“Harry-” you sigh. Your eyebrows knitting together, your lips trying to form a warning. You squeeze the shoulder of his velvet jacket with your fingers before your eyes roll back. “Fuck. I’m coming-I’m coming-”

To keep you from screaming, he smothers your lips with his mouth. You kiss him - all lips and tongue and teeth- before burying your head in his neck, exhausted, muffling your noises with his skin. 

It hits you hard again and again, and he keeps fucking you through it. His fingers relentlessly hitting that soft, tender part inside of you that makes you want to scream every time he touches it with his fingers or his tongue or his cock. Dimly, you’re aware of him talking you through it too - telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect, how amazing, in between his own gasps of “Come on. Yeah. Yeah. Yes-” It’s as if Harry needs to see you come as much as you need to feel it. 

You let out a frustrated groan when he finally slips his fingers from your cunt, frowning at feeling so empty without him. But you’re grateful when he takes pity on you by kissing you. 

“Did so well for me, pet,” he says. He tenderly presses his fingers - that are not covered in your wetness- to pull your cheek close so he can press his mouth against your forehead where you’re sweaty and strands of your hair have escaped. You feel like jelly, which only amuses Harry even more. “Mmm.” 

“Harry.” You say, slapping his forearm lightly as he makes a show of sucking his fingers into his mouth, peering up at you from his eyelashes so you can watch him lap the taste of you from his hand. Somehow the sight feels even dirtier than having just had his hand between your thighs or coming in public. You try to fix an annoyed or stern look on your face but it only makes Harry laugh harder. 

“Did you get to pick dessert, Mr. Styles?” 

“Oh shit-”

His arm is gripping the back of your seat as he turns around to face Giselle. 

“I’m sorry?” she says.

“We’ll pass on that,” Harry says, glancing down to the menu on the table. “My fiancé seems to be feeling a little ill. Where’s the nearest loo again?”

The misstep seems to catch her off guard and it makes you laugh from your place against the seat, Harry’s large hand smoothing back and forth on your knee as if to tell you down, girl. 

She clears her throat, an annoyed look passing her eyes. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You’re both laughing as you all but run to the bathroom, Harry’s front colliding with your back. His long arms winding around your waist as both of your hands push the door open. He kisses you hard as you try to untangle yourself an inch to lock the door. 

It’s raw and filthy like this. Harry kneeling on the floor for a second. Pushing down your underwear. Grasping the end of your dress and pulling it tight around your hips, long enough to spread you back against him and stare at where you are still swollen and wet and aching. Clenching around nothing there. 

“Oh baby,” he says, a hint of real concern in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

You twist back to hold him by his hair. He grips you by the hips and then cranes his neck forward to kiss and lick between your thighs, tongue gliding between the folds of your pussy lips in a way that has your back bowing it feels so good. 

“Honey,” you whine. “Harry, please-”

He chuckles, leaning back to press a soft bite to the cheek of your ass before standing to his full height again. You turn long enough in his embrace to reach for his pants, unbuckling his belt and zipper without breaking eye contact. His arms are on the wall behind you, caging you in and he’s smirking. You know how much he loves this, having you undress him. 

When your hands are done, he looms forward, his body pressing you back against the sink. “Just wanted to give you a kiss.” He laughs. “Turn around for me, love. S’gonna be hard and fast. Just like you need it. Isn’t that right?”

“Please,” you keen. 

You shiver as you feel and hear him take himself into his hand. He spits on his cock and then there’s the wet, telltale push and pull sound of him jerking himself off. It gives you goosebumps. You widen your stance, trying to balance yourself on your heels, and he presses a soothing hand against your back to keep you still as he slides inside of you in one smooth movement. 

God. You want to scream with relief. He feels so much deeper from this angle. Heavier. Bigger. Like you can feel him in your belly. 

One of Harry’s hands clings to yours on the sink, the heavy rings on his fingers gripping your knuckles as he bends you over. His cock feels heavy, and you feel impossibly full at this angle. 

“Ya with me love? Hmm?” He kisses the naked skin of your back and throat where your dress is exposed and you grin, meeting his face in the mirror.

“Always.”

“Fuck me back, baby.” Harry begs you, his voice needy and raw. “Fuck me back.” 

His hands don’t stop, incessantly pushing into grope your breasts. His mouth hot and wet on your neck. 

Your eyes flutter close, you love how low and gritty his voice gets when he’s this deep. It feels good. Feels like something is touching you from the inside out, god, being with him is so consuming. You want him. All of him. All the time. Everywhere. 

“Feels so good, Harry. Feel so full.” You whimper as you grind back against him, your skin singing with relief at finally feeling sated. 

When you finally open your eyes you moan again at the sight of Harry reflected back on the glass in front of you. His hair is cascading down to fall in front of his eyes, trembling with the movement of his thrusts. And he’s leaving indents in your skin, bruises you’ll marvel at in the morning. But the best part is watching him fuck you. 

He looks beautiful. Sliding his tongue over his mouth, biting into his lips as he loses himself in staring at the junction between your pussy and his cock. Watching himself disappear inside of you with each stutter and slide of his hips. When he looks up to find you staring at him, he smiles so wide and soft that it makes you tighten around him. 

“Harry,” you whimper. You want to say more but your words feel caught in your throat. He feels so good. 

“M’close, angel. You had me so hard at the dinning table. I wanna come so bad.” 

He gathers you closer and sneaks his fingers into the space between your thighs and the sink and starts rubbing your swollen clit with two fingers. Your elbows almost lose their footing on the counter when he touches you, the sensation makes you feel like your knees could buckle. 

“Oh my god, Harry-”

“You gonna come for me baby? Gonna coat my cock?”

“Yes-yes. God. Please-”

Your scalp stings where he reaches up to pull a handful of your hair. Your spine has no choice but to arch back. It hurts in the best kind of way. 

“I’m gonna make you come so hard. But you have to stay with me, okay? Listen to me, love. You’re the only one I want.” You grit your teeth on a particularly hard thrust, his hips seeming to punctuate every word of his promise. “I love you. I love you. I only want to make you come. I only want you.”

“Me too, Harry. Me too,” you squeeze his hand, reaching back to grip his hair and meet his open mouth with your lips and kiss him over your shoulder. You clench your eyes shut as you fuck back against him, meeting the slide of his thrusts with the shaking of your hips. Your throat feels heavy at his words, but your brain feels like it’s scattering. You’re so close-

“You’re shaking,” he laughs, his voice heavy with astonishment. You can only hum in response. His lips press against your forehead quickly. “Give it to me, love. Give me fuckin’ everything. I’ll catch you. I need you to come for me. Please fuckin’ come for me.”

Your body obeys him before your mind can think, you’re so weak for him. Your shoulders are shaking so hard from the effort of trying not to scream his name. It burns in your throat and on your tongue, and you try to bite your lip through it. 

“Harry,” you gasp. “Harry-”

He grips your face tenderly as if he can recognize how torn you feel. “That’s it, baby. My good girl. Did so well for me, angel. Gonna make me come too. Shit-” 

“Yes-yes. Come Harry. God. Come. I want to feel it-”

And that always does it, your begging him. He can never resist the ache in your voice. He moans into your mouth and he’s uttering your name as he lets himself let go. You talk him through it too, telling him how much you love him, how he looks so good when he comes, how you wanna feel it deep. His cock is pulsing when he’s done, and his mouth reluctantly relents, letting go of your lips as his neck rolls back and he tries to catch his breath. His release settling inside of you in a way that makes you feel soothed. Harry feels dizzy, almost delirious with relief. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he laughs, sinking his weight onto you. You don’t mind though, loving the press of him against your back. He kisses a path up your spine. “I’m so glad I get to marry you. Get to fuck you for the rest of my life.”

You giggle from beneath his chin. “And here I thought you liked me for my brain,” you tease. 

“I do,” he says. “Love your brain. And your laugh. And your cunt. All your parts, really.”

Because there’s no time to linger in the afterglow when you’re worried about someone knocking on the door, or a line forming outside, and you still have to go pay the bill for dinner - you laugh, but reluctantly squeeze Harry’s arm and kiss the side of his face.

“Babe-” you say softly. 

“Mmm, okay,” he says. 

He groans as he grasps your back, and just like in the dining room, he laughs softly when you frown as he pulls out of you. A reluctant whimper grazing your lips as your bodies separate. You take a moment to both pull yourselves together. Harry wetting towels and wadding up your underwear to get you cleaned up. 

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he laughs at the twisted look on your face when he throws them in the trash bin. 

“You better,” you joke as you try to fish your compact out of your purse. 

Harry leans back to watch you, he thinks it’s one of his favorite things to do. Watching you get ready for work in the morning, putting on perfume and pulling on your stockings. The way you always stop to give him a kiss before you leave, no matter how full your arms are of bags and lunch and coffee, art projects and homework. Or watching you get undressed and ready for bed at night, taking off your makeup and putting your lotion and nightgowns on. The way you smell after you come into your bedroom after a long bath. The way you never go to sleep without nudging him for a kiss good night, and the way your mouth always lingers before he leaves for a trip that will take him far away from you.

He’s caged you in again, one arm on the mirror watching you try to fix the smudged mess your mouth has become from his lips.

“Did you mean what you said?” you ask him. You press a tender kiss to the cross on his hand and his wrist. He’s kind enough to indulge you-

“‘Course I do. Would hang up the fuckin’ moon for ya, I love you so much. I wanna give you my last name. Wanna give you everything.”

You turns in his embrace so your back is to the mirror and you can look him in the eyes. He cups the back of your neck with his long fingers and cradles your face with the other. And you grasp both of his hands with yours and let him kiss you once, twice, again with his teeth softly grazing your bottom lip. 

“I’m yours,” he promises. “I only ever want ‘ta be yours.” 

Your eyes soften. He always manages to hit you out of nowhere with sweeping declarations like this and it makes you feel like you’d be crying, if you were somewhere with more time and not just hiding in the bathroom of a restaurant, having just had a sneaky -albeit mindblowingly amazing - fuck. 

“You’re mine and I’m yours, Harry,” you vow. “Mine and yours."

He grins.  “S’what I’ve been trying to tell you! God. Stubborn.” 

He wraps both of his arms around your middle and you settle back against him, affording a second to laugh. His lips feel warm against your temple, and wet against your neck. 

“Gotta admit though. I love when you get territorial. Gettin’ all possessive, love. Bit of a turn on. Should see you jealous more often.” You watch him as he pulls the straps of your dress back up and wraps himself around you like a shadow. His face resting in your neck, pressing soft sweet, wet kisses. 

“Yeah? We could flip it. Might not be so fun when Chad at work asks me to go out for dinner or a drink when my boyfriend is out of town.”

“Hey. Hey. Fiancé,” he emphasizes with his fingers on your chin. His eyebrows wrinkling together for good measure as he flutters his fingers in front of your face. “Wait. Has he really?”

Harry meets your gaze in the mirror as you nod and explain. “So many times while you were on tour. Always knew -somehow- when you were out of town. Think he might have had your schedule memorized more than me.”

Harry groans. “Ugh. Twat. Fuckin’ Chad.” 

“Might have to assert your dominance, Harold. Gotta show him who I belong to.” You laugh. 

“Yeah? How would I do that?” Harry plays along. “Should I show up at school and fuck you in your office again? On your desk? In your classroom?”

You giggle, but feel your core flutter at the thought. Last time he did that, you couldn’t look at your desk for weeks.

You leave Harry’s offer open ended as you kiss his cheeks, his lips, his neck. He grunts when you press your mouth to his Adam’s Apple and dip your tongue and teeth into the indention in his throat that makes him melt. His favorite spot.

You reach up to wrap your arms around Harry’s neck, brushing his hair from his cheekbones. He’s growing it out long again and he looks beautiful. Your fingers are fisted around the cross on his neck and the collar of his shirt, keeping it open. And when you look up at him, his lips are beautifully puffy and blistered, a few shades short of the lipstick you are wearing.

He stares down at you, smirking and half serious.

“Want her to see the mark you left on my neck, huh?”

“Looks like a vampire had her way with your throat, babe,” you affirm, cupping his neck, your voice filled with pride at your own dirty work. 

He’s beaming when you look at him. “Photographer outside will probably get a shot of you lookin’ freshly fucked too.”

“Harry.” You jab him in the ribs, pretending to be scandalized, yelping when he squeezes your hip in retaliation.

You finish shimmying your dress back down your legs. Not bothering to tend to the mess your hair has become from when Harry fisted his fingers in it. Harry gives you a coy and knowing smile as he pulls the lock and door open, positive that you want to wear it like some sort of badge of honor, just like he wants to wear the marks on his neck. 

When you get back to the table, the agony you felt in your chest earlier has all but disappeared - but not the need to show that Harry is yours. Harry can recognize it too, especially when you ask him to leave you alone with the check and wait by the entrance. 

“Baby,” his voice narrows, but his lips are lifting at the edges. 

“I’ll be nice. Go.” 

You see Giselle catch him on the way to the door, her eyes widening when she takes in Harry’s open shirt. Your heart swells when you see him walk past her without as much as a nod. 

She catches you watching and you can see she’s trying to bury the deflated look on her face as she walks towards you, taking in your disheveled hair, your smudged lipstick. 

“Is Harry okay?”

“Harry’s fine, Giselle. In fact, he’s engaged,” you muse. “I don’t think your boss would find it very professional if they found out you were trying to slip guests your phone number while you were on the clock.”

You give her your best and broadest smile as you push the bill and cash towards her - plus a $200 tip, with her phone number facing up. You know she doesn’t miss it either, the gleam of your antique engagement ring catching and sparkling in the candlelight. It’s a vintage five carat showstopper, you know that’s why Harry picked it. It stops anyone who sees it. And you can tell because Giselle looks mortified, like she’s choking on her own confidence as she stares at it. 

She turns red. “I-I’m so sorry-” she stammers.

“Next time, make sure he’s single first. Yeah? Or maybe stop talking long enough to realize whether or not he wants you too before you humiliate yourself. Again.” You narrow your eyes and tilt your head. “Have a good night, Giselle.”

You don’t miss the way she shrinks back a little when you get up and walk past her. 

When you find him again, Harry is staring at you, his eyebrows raised. He throws you a cautious but amused, beautiful smirk as you approach. 

“There’s my misses,” he says. He extends his hand for you when you get close and you take it. “Did you get into a fight, stubborn?” 

You shake your head. “No. I left her a big tip. Decided to kill her with some kindness.”

Harry’s eyes are fond as they look at you. “That’s my girl,” he says. 

He laughs as you draw up on your toes to pull him down with both arms for a kiss, the hand with your engagement ring fisting in his hair. 

He presses both hands into the middle of spine and kisses you back. When you draw apart you don’t have to look through the window to see some cameras trying to disappear out of view. He knows what you’re doing. You’re not usually like this and neither is Harry, but you’re grateful he allows you this scene - some part of you is surprisingly thrilled at the idea of this photo. At least a few days worth of articles with you captured in front of this restaurant. Your name alongside Harry’s. Not some model, not some singer, just regular old you- who gets to share his bed and his house and -someday soon- his name. 

“Baby,” he whines into your ear. “That looked a bit...intense.”

“Did it?” you play along. 

“She looked scared shitless, love.” he admits. “Looked like you were so close to hittin’ her.”

“I felt like I could,” you laugh. “Had to show her not to mess with what’s mine. Think your ring kind of shut her up.”

He smirks, looking down to where your hands are joined. His thumb running over the diamond on your finger. 

“Mmm, got me kind of...stirred up watching.”

Your eyes widen. “Harry! Jesus. You could get hard at the drop of a hat, I swear.”

“You sayin’ it like it’s a bad thing?”

“Harry-” His hands lose themselves in your hair again. You react by tilting your neck back so he can lean down to kiss you, with both of his hands on your face, effectively shutting you up.

“I love you,” he huffs. “But can we please get the hell out of here. Really want to go home and make really loud love to my fiancé..”

“Do you now?” you tease against his jaw.

“Reckon we can be loud enough that that knob Chad hears us from his house?” His eyes flash up, and he grins at you as you laugh harder. “Just wanna be yours.” 

And how can you argue with that? You laugh as he tugs you under your arm, and you peer over his shoulder to wave and flash Giselle your ring - savoring the bewildered and embarrassed look on her face one last time- before you and Harry both disappear into the night.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I have another story based on “Adore You” that I hope to post by the end of the week. Please feel free to follow me to keep up with more stories. I’d love to have you here. <3 Or let me know what you think!

[swanlake1998]

Pointe Magazine Article: Chloé Lopes Gomes Speaks Out About Racial Harassment at Staatsballett Berlin

By: Chloé Lopes Gomes As Told To Laura Cappelle

Date: December 1, 2020

(tw: racism, anti black racism, abuse)

In November, the French dancer Chloé Lopes Gomes went public with accusations of institutional racism against Staatsballett Berlin, first reported by the German magazine Der Spiegel. In the article, several anonymous dancers confirm her account. Lopes Gomes, 29, who trained in Marseille and at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy, danced for the Ballet de l'Opéra de Nice and Béjart Ballet Lausanne before joining Staatsballett Berlin as a corps de ballet member in 2018, under then co-directors Johannes Öhman and Sasha Waltz. After the company told her in October that her contract, which ends in July, would not be renewed, she shared her story with Pointe.

I didn't know I was the first Black female dancer at Staatsballett Berlin when I joined the company in 2018. I learned that from German journalists who came to interview me almost immediately. I grew up in a mixed-race family—my mother was French, my father from Cape Verde—and I was educated to believe that we all have the same opportunities.

My brother and my sister also went to prestigious dance schools [her brother, Isaac Lopes Gomes, is now a dancer with the Paris Opéra Ballet], and I didn't really think about my skin color while I was training. I spent four years at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy. I didn't necessarily feel safe in the streets in Russia because people stared at me, but I was still awarded scholarships and my teacher loved me.

I quickly realized that auditions and company life were a different story. The day after my audition in Berlin, in early 2018, one particular ballet mistress told a colleague of mine in the company that she didn't think the Staatsballett should hire me because a Black woman in a corps de ballet isn't aesthetically pleasing. This ballet mistress was in charge of the corps, and for over two years, she discriminated against me because of my skin color.

That colleague warned me before I started, but I was hopeful I would also work with other ballet masters. No such luck: I was under her supervision 90 percent of the time, and we started with Swan Lake. I was one of six new women, and the ballet mistress immediately took a dislike to me. She bombarded me with corrections, and when the premiere arrived, she told me that all the women needed to color their skin with white powder. I told her that I would never look white, and she replied: "You'll just put on more powder than the others."

I spoke to Johannes [Öhman, co-artistic director at the time], who decided I should stay as I was. The ballet mistress took the fact that I went to him as an affront, as if I'd undermined her authority, and she started saying overtly racist things.

Since I didn't speak German and she didn't speak English, we communicated in Russian initially, so my colleagues didn't understand when she would say casually: "You're not in line and that's all we see because you're Black." And then, when she was handing out the Shades' veils for La Bayadère, she got to me and laughed, in front of other dancers: "I can't give you one: The veil is white and you're Black."

I again told Johannes, who said it was unacceptable but explained to me that she had a lifetime contract, which means you're untouchable in Germany. Johannes asked if I wanted him to talk to her, and I said no, because I was worried it would get even worse.

I was so anxious and unwell that I ended up with a metatarsal fracture. I should have been back after two months, but six months later, I was still in pain, and the doctors didn't know why—until a neurologist told me it was linked to stress and prescribed antidepressants. Suddenly, the pain went away completely.

Johannes left Staatsballett Berlin abruptly last January. On the day he announced it, the ballet mistress told me that now I was going to have to use white powder. I ran into the current interim director, Christiane Theobald, in a hallway while in makeup for Swan Lake. She asked why I had whitened my skin and said that I wasn't supposed to do it, but the ballet mistress was in charge of rehearsals and didn't leave me much choice. I felt like the company's ugly little duckling.

This ballet mistress also had me and a few colleagues re-create a painting of a Black dancer surrounded by white dancers. When I asked what the photo was for, she said she wanted to show her friends that they had "one of those" too in the company, as if I were a zoo animal.

My colleagues didn't want to take the picture, but there is an atmosphere of fear in the dance world. The ballet masters are the ones who are in the studio with us all the time, who hold the keys to our evolution. If you're on a one-year or two-year contract, it's very easy for the company not to renew it, whereas some ballet masters are employed for life. They're more privileged than even some directors, and that creates a power imbalance: We should be on an equal footing contract-wise.

The Staatsballett doesn't have a safe way to report discrimination or harassment, and there was still blackface in the repertoire when I joined. In Nutcracker, some children were required to paint their faces black, while I stood in the corps behind them.

I was called to a pre-dismissal meeting with Christiane Theobald in October. She did not dance professionally, so she said she relied on the ballet masters' advice. I was told that they needed to let some dancers go due to COVID, and that I would be happier in a smaller company, because I hadn't been onstage much. I explained why that was, and what had happened to me. She admitted it was terrible but said my race wasn't the reason they were firing me.

I know I was fired because I'm Black. From the beginning, I didn't stand a chance. Christiane Theobald is part of an old-fashioned system: She has worked for the company's administration since 2004, and she let me go even after I told her about the racism I encountered. My contract runs through July 31: I've been cast in reduced, COVID-friendly versions of Giselle and Swan Lake and I still want to work.

There is still this idea in the ballet world that you have to suffer to make it. We—the younger generation—can't accept that anymore. Ballet must reflect society. I don't want to be abused just to be able to dance. I want to be happy in my life, not just when I step onstage.

Editor's note: In a statement to Pointe, Theobald, who cannot comment on personnel matters, says that an internal investigation into Lopes Gomes' allegations is underway, and that the company plans to conduct antiracism training and workshops for all employees. "I am sorry to see that there is an employee at the Staatsballett Berlin who had to endure a very stressful situation for a long time and that the situation could not be resolved beforehand. Discrimination and racism is a highly sensitive issue that is of importance to society as a whole, including the Staatsballett Berlin. It is very important to me to live a discrimination-free corporate culture and to implement it where it does not yet exist 100 percent."

[irene-sadler]

Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

1. my usual due diligence b/c some deeply programmed part of my brain can't not cite my sources::

are you interested in reading some secondary source material about the civic government of a medieval city?* or a primary source document listing the personal expenses of Henry VIII between 1529-1532, a line item of which i copied and modified for this chapter? well now u can i guess, go for it.

 *(there's like no easily accessible canon info about what Rivia (the city, not the kingdom or the castle) is like, but after some side reading about other medieval cities it seemed like it should be roughly the size of York vs the size of London or Paris, which were the capitols of much more important kingdoms to irl western Europe than Lyria and Rivia seem to have been to northern Fake Europe. i mean, before Meve more or less single handedly fucked up an entire invasion force and yeeted herself into international fame obviously.)

2. i posted a short scene i cut from this chapter here. 

 ---- 

  7.

    In the days leading up to the fair, a veritable army of men in armor descended on the castle and town surrounding it, spending a mint of money and tearing up the grass of the green outside the wall with ceaseless practices and a few very real fights. The Baroness, who had graciously accepted the Queen’s invitation, became a semi-permanent fixture beside the hastily erected fence surrounding the field. Despite the cold, she spent the short daylight hours observing and offering opinions and guidance. Gascon arrived with a retinue of familiar-looking rogues that drew a dark frown from Reynard and threw himself happily into the endless clashes. The Baroness watched him for most of an afternoon, then in the evening delivered a detailed lecture indicating how and where his technique could be improved, which he cheerily took to heart. The result, according to his tutor, was that he progressed, somewhat, from a reasonable amateur to something like a professional.

     Meve managed to keep her company often enough to hear many of her opinions. She noted bad habits and technical errors in almost all of Meve’s serving knights, with few exceptions; of Sir Odo, she only remarked casually that he yet showed no sign of losing a step, age or prior injuries be damned. She made the unusually enthusiastic comment within earshot of its subject as he offered advice to a young knight he’d unseated; he appeared slightly surprised and rode over, eyebrows raised.

    “Was that a compliment, my lady?” he asked, looming over the two women where they stood by the fence.

    “Would you like it to be?” the Baroness replied, giving no sign either way.

    “Why not?” he said, matching her tone, bowed courteously in his saddle, slammed his visor down, and rode away. Meve stared distractedly after him.

    “He’ll be an early contender for the prize, I believe,” the Baroness remarked.

    “Well, he’s certainly my favorite,” she replied, airily.

    “And doesn’t he know it,” the older woman muttered, then added, “That man has a target on his back.”

    Meve returned to earth and turned an inquiring frown on her.

    “Look,” the older woman explained, waving a hand to indicate the field at large. “There’s not less than two dozen knights here, and squires besides, as well as more than a few fighters who are neither. Some are no doubt here for the prizes, and some for th’ entertainment value, and others to catch a woman’s eye, but, no matter what their reasons, every man among them would very much like to defeat the Queen’s champion, make no mistake.”      

    The Baroness paused significantly, clearly waiting for her to see a point. Meve, aware that even Reynard lost a match, on occasion, failed to arrive at whatever it was; she shrugged dismissively and said, “Yes, and?”

    “And, therefore, don’t leave his equipment unguarded overnight, or his horse,” she explained impatiently, with a slight eye roll; she added, as an afterthought, “Your Grace.”

    “Oh.”

      After dinner she stared contemplatively into the fire, paying no attention to Reynard and Gascon’s idle chatter nearby. The Baroness’s suggestion - or was it a warning? - weighed on her thoughts. So did the fact that she had yet to find a third judge; a difficult prospect, as whoever she picked might not suit, or, worse, might be inclined to see political significance where there was none. Further, she hadn’t seen the black knight, or even heard anything of him, in well over a week; it was arguably the least of her problems, but bothered her nevertheless. She was jolted out of her reverie only when Reynard shook her suddenly by the shoulder; she frowned distractedly at him, realized he had asked her something, and said, “What?”

    “What are you thinking about?” he repeated, patiently. Gascon stared glassily at her, an expectant smile on his face. She explained about the judge, in brief, expecting their conversation to then go on without concerning itself with the matter.

    “But why d’ you need three judges?” Gascon wondered, instead, slurring his words somewhat.

    “Because there are always three judges,” Reynard replied stiffly, evidently less than perfectly sober himself.

    “The third judge is necessary, I’m afraid,” Meve explained. “A tiebreaker.”

    “Oh,” said Gascon, “I see. Well, what I would do is just get Gaspar or someone t’ do it, and say good enough; I suppose it doesn’t truly matter who does the job, in th’ end.”

    “The joust is serious business,” Reynard said, growing somewhat haughty, “You can’t just appoint some ruffian who can’t talk as an official.”

    “No,” Meve said, soothingly, before Gascon could react, “I don’t think he would do, at all, not to worry. However, Gascon’s drunken rambling has given me a thought - I don’t really have to choose the third judge myself.”

    “What do you mean by that?” Reynard asked, suspiciously.

    “Never you mind,” she said, casually, “You’ll find out soon enough. Anyway - I meant to ask you, Gascon, for a favor.”

    “By all means,” he replied, cheerily.

     “I need you to assign some of your more reliable and sober men to keep an eye on Reynard’s harness, weapons, and above all his horse, until the fair.”

    “Why?” Reynard asked; Meve ignored him, temporarily. Gascon, on the other hand, seemed to immediately understand, and nodded his agreement.

    “Oh, yes, naturally, you do,” he said. “I’ll put my best people on it, not t’ worry.”

    “Thank you,” she said, and then explained herself to Reynard after Gascon departed to see to the matter. He frowned doubtfully and began, “I really don’t think it’s necessary to -”

    “I know you don’t,” she interrupted, a little curtly, “It’s why I didn’t ask you.”

    He fell into a slightly disgruntled silence, obviously offended; she immediately regretted her tone, blamed it on the late hour, and delivered a genuine apology, which he graciously accepted, as he always did.

      At ten the next morning, she attended a meeting with the bailiff, aldermen, and Mayor of the city outside her castle walls. The Mayor was an ancient man who’d been installed in his position some years before she was born, and would not be hurried as he explained, at length, the procedures and trials of the next few days. She half-listened to his speech, delivered in the same didactic voice as always, and to the discourse that followed, well aware of the various topics that would be covered, as they were exactly the same each year for each fair - roadblocks, fire brigades, the necessity to have extra guards at night, the necessity to have yet further guards to keep the visitors out of the stockyard and away from the docks, the vanishingly small probability of snow. The Queen sat, patiently chiming in on the usual occasions to promise a detachment of soldiers from the castle and to offer the use of the stables in the courtyard, if needed, but otherwise waiting in silence for the meeting to wind to a close. There was, she knew from experience, no speeding up the unvarying process, and it was easiest to try; at the end, however, when the Mayor, as always, asked for any final remarks, she said, “I’ve one, gentlemen.”

    The room turned as one to stare at her in collective astonishment; she had never shown the slightest desire to lengthen any meeting in the past, and the atmosphere grew wary and uncertain at the irregularity. She smiled at them, professionally, and continued, “I have a small request only: the jousting event that’s bringing you so much custom this year requires three judges, but I find myself with only two; I thought perhaps you could select the last yourselves and then send ‘em along to the castle this afternoon.”

    She was assured that the thing was in their power to grant and departed in secret amusement, leaving the disturbed city government in full knowledge that, so long as she ruled in Lyria and Rivia, the troubling moment would never be forgotten.

      The city council sent along their choice - a round, dark-haired young woman - some hours later. She received a very dubious look from Reynard when Ethan brought her into his little office, where he sat in consultation with the Queen. Her name was Giselle, she said, and she knew nothing whatsoever about jousting - although, of course, she’d seen many a brawl, because she was a barmaid at the largest public house in the town square; she was just lately seventeen, but had been employed there since she was ten, and fights were expected and even wagered on should the combatants be interesting enough. Meve was, for once, grateful for Reynard’s unyielding sense of propriety; he grew steadily more unapproachable, but said absolutely nothing as the girl finished her introduction and subsided into silence, casting an uneasy glance at his remote frown.

    “Well,” Meve said, pleasantly, “It’s no matter; the finer details of the sport are easy enough to learn. I’m not going to force you, if you’d rather not, but should you like to be a judge tomorrow along with myself and the Baroness, you’re quite welcome.”

    Giselle’s face lit up; she replied quickly, “Oh, yes, I’d love to, my lady.” Meve nodded, satisfied.

    “Well, then, Ethan there will explain the rules and answer any questions you have; you may go along with him,” she said. Ethan promptly turned a brilliant shade of red as Giselle turned a broad smile on him. Meve drew on decades of diplomatic experience and managed to maintain a straight face as the pair attempted to make their escape from the overcrowded office, briefly became jammed together in the doorway, and awkwardly negotiated their way out, one after the other.

    “Gods preserve us,” Reynard muttered, rubbing his forehead painfully, the moment the door finally shut behind them. Meve snorted a laugh at last, perched on the edge of his desk, and said, “She’ll do nicely, I think; seems game enough, given the circumstances.”

    He shook his head at her and asked, wearily, “Is it too early to start drinking?”

    “It is a holiday. However, those guard patrols for the town must be arranged, and I still have to review my steward’s reports -”

    “I’ll bring the reports as well as a bottle, then,” Reynard decided, making for the door; she caught his arm as he passed, kissed him, and pulled away a long moment later to stare into his eyes. He blinked down at her, apparently struck as speechless as his squire, until she released him and said, “Go on, then; I’ll be here.”

    “Actually, I’m not thirsty after all,” he said, not moving away. She flashed a smile, slid her arms around his neck, and didn’t argue.

      Reynard did arrange the patrols, eventually, but Meve was forced to put the paperwork off; there was a feast to attend, and she had no time to read accounts before it began. It had to be held in the courtyard under the moonlight, because the entire city was invited and most of it’s more upstanding citizens had actually turned up, and, on top of them, all the knights and their horde of attendants; the resulting crowd would never fit inside the great hall. Even her usual courtiers had trouble maintaining stiff decorum in the open air, by blazing fires and with an astonishing amount of food and drink in them. The Queen herself sat at a table with the Baroness and Count Odo; the Count was companionably silent as usual, and so Meve passed the time chatting mainly with the Baroness. The women waved off occasional requests to dance in favor of a detailed discussion of feats of arms they’d witnessed during tournaments and battles, until, unexpectedly, Sir Holt advanced on them out of the crowd. The Baroness immediately paused, mid-sentence, and stared him down; he did not appear to notice her pointed, but wordless, dismissal. Reynard stiffened slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. Meve sighed quietly; she of course knew the red knight was in attendance, because she’d spotted Gaheris out in the lists the previous afternoon, but had thought he’d have had the sense to avoid her.

    However, all the red knight said to her was a polite greeting and a remark on the success of the evening, so far. She nodded at him in acknowledgment; he then turned to Reynard and said, “Count Odo - I look forward to our rematch, tomorrow.”

    “Do you, now?” the Count replied, coldly; then, his conscience apparently made uneasy by his own rudeness, added, “As do I, Sir Holt; best of luck to you, when the time comes.”

    “And to you, my lord,” the red knight said, glanced uncertainly at the condescending Baroness, and retreated without further comment. Meve glanced sideways at the Count’s distant frown and nodded to him resignedly. He needed no further invitation to quit the field, and, for some reason, the remainder of the event seemed to go on with a shade of awkwardness in his absence; her renewed conversation with the Baroness felt somewhat stilted, and the din of the crowd around them oppressive. The feast eventually ended with an inevitable speech by the Mayor, which not a soul attended to; the locals had heard it before and the visitors seemed to be unsure who it was that was lecturing them. The Queen then delivered some much briefer remarks, as expected, which received the crowd’s full concentration, dismissed them to their own devices, and departed.

      An hour later, she was safely in her own private office, puzzling over a line item in her steward’s report: paied to Sir Roger Eres knight upon a bille of Sir John Kimborne knight 153 g., when someone came thundering up the stairs and burst suddenly through the door. Reynard jerked awake in his chair by the fire, alarmed at the noise, saw what had made it, and settled again with a quiet, relieved, sigh. She herself had turned a savage glare on the intruder, but subsided when it only proved to be Gascon, reeking of liquor and panting slightly.

    “It’s late, Brossard. What do you want?” Meve asked, looking back down at her papers. She sat back with a quick, irritated, frown as the Duke strode over, slapped a wide leather strap down on top of them, and demanded, “Look at this.”

    “It’s a girth, from a saddle,” she said, glancing from it to him with a raised eyebrow.

    “Yes,” Gascon agreed, despite her warning expression. Reynard stood with a faint groan, walked over, glanced at it, and said, “Isn’t that one of mine? What’s this about?”

    “Look there, by the buckle,” Gascon said, impatiently, pointing. Meve eyed the area and spotted what appeared to be a wrinkle or crack in the leather; she picked it up to study it more closely, and finally looked back up at the Duke, scowling.

    “It looks as if someone cut it most of the way through,” she said. “And then, what? Glued it back together? A damn good job, too; would never have noticed it, myself, if you didn’t point it out.”

    “It would likely snap th’ instant it took a hard shock,” Reynard added, taking the girth and turning it over thoughtfully. “But when someone might’ve done it, I don’t know. I used this just yesterday, practicing against Roland Orlac; you were there, Meve.”

    “Perhaps they did it days ago, and it was just luck that kept it from breaking, then,” Gascon suggested, shrugging. “Or it could have been yesterday afternoon, before Pug and Gaspar started looking after your things.”  

    Meve swore angrily, already forming a long list of suspects: disgruntled barons, unscrupulous competitors, foreign saboteurs, domestic anarchists. Reynard sighed in weary agreement with her.

    “Well, annoying as this is, it’s not my first overly bitter rival, I suppose. I’ve survived th’ others; this will be no different,” he said, pragmatically.

    “Yes, well, regardless, it’ll be your last. Find out who did this, Gascon,” the Queen said. “I take attempts to sabotage my General’s equipment very personally.”

    “I’ll do what I can,” he assured, grimly.

[sparklyaxolotlstudent]

New Girl 2

Second Part of this fic

Tentatively “New Girl” or “New Girl at School”, because Sentibug Deserved Better!

-

Marinette, Tikki and the former Sentimonster went down the stairs to the family room, where Marinette asked her two friends to wait for her to talk first with her… their parents. To her surprise, she found them talking in the family room, both very excited. They both hurried to her when she greeted them.

“Wonderful news my little Bun-bun”

“You can return to school first thing Monday!”

“Really?” Marinette asked, completely blanking on her own news. “What happened?”

“Well, I went to have a talk with the mother of that… Lila girl” Sabine had chosen her words very carefully. Marinette was very sure she swapped some swear words for her sake. “I thought we could do some mother to mother talk. I thought that maybe if we apologized she would talk on our behalf to revoke the expulsion.” Sabine was giddy with her information. It had never occurred to Marinette to talk with Lila’s mom, and realized now how dumb she had been.

“Tell her what happened! Tell her!” Tom was equally amused. It was like a joke they couldn’t wait to share with their daughter.

“I am! Well, we got to talk, and the more I talked with her, the more I realized she didn’t have any clue of what I was talking about. Neither of Lila’s grandmothers or any relative for that matter has given a necklace, so she was very surprised to learn someone had stolen it from her. And then she called to Lila, who came down the stair practically and with such glee! You should have seen her face when she saw me. Mrs. Rossi very calmly asked her about her falling down. She called me a liar, so of course Mrs. Rossi called the school to confirm the story. Lila tried to say some nonsense about Mr. Damocles being akumatized, which I guess technically happened, but she called anyway. Oh boy, she was furious with both her daughter for her obvious lies AND with the school for not calling her when her daughter supposedly took a fall from stairs and they didn’t even thought of taking her to the hospital. And so we both went to the Board of Education to put a complain on both Miss Bustier and Mr. Damocles for the way they handled things with your expulsion and with them not telling Lila’s mom about the supposed fall, which was fake, but they thought at the moment she had fell from real and only applied some crappy bandages. So the school is now under investigation and it will be closed for the rest of the week. It’s possible someone will come to interview us, and it is very possible that neither of them will return to the school.”

“They lost their jobs?”

“Sweetie, I’m going to be honest with you. Frankly, I don’t care. If what Alya and Nino told us is right, Miss Bustier was wrong in calling you out in front of everyone, and was further wrong in believe an anonymous note telling her exactly where to find the cheat sheet and not only find it incredibly suspicious, but take it at face value without further investigation. They were wrong in not taking Lila to ER when she thought you had pushed her from stairs that big. They were wrong in not being suspicious when Lila knew exactly her supposedly stolen goods where, not to mention the necklace she claimed to be a family heirloom was from an Agreste collection from last year. Which again, if it was as valuable as they thought it was, they were wrong in not calling Mrs. Rossi. Their mistakes could have impacted severely your future, not only academically, but in all fields and if that causes them to lose their jobs, that’s their problem, and I hope they learn from it or someone else may suffer like you almost did.”

“I will have to deal with Lila when we return” Marinette moped, thinking on how Lila would lie to turn things around and make her guilty of the loss of their teacher and principal.  

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that part! Mrs. Rossi was so angry, especially after how much lies Lila has told, especially the ones that affected you at school that she effectively pulled her out. She was debating whether to have her privately tutored with people that she can trust won’t be fooled, or have her in ST. Olga, a Catholic private school with extremely strict nuns. She’s out of your life.”

Marinette couldn’t believe it. The day had started horrible, but now it was all sunshine. She hugged her parents as if there was no tomorrow.

“But seriously, I know we raise you to be independent and strong, but if you face those kinds of problems again, don’t hesitate to come to us. We’re your parents and we love you no matter what, we will always help you, you can always trust us with your things, no matter how big or small they are.”

“About that…” Marinette laughed nervously. “There is something I have to tell you. You might want to take a seat.”

“What’s wrong honey? It surely can’t be worse that being expelled from school?” said Sabine nervously. They both took a seat at the couch.

“Well… not worse, but certainly different… “ she breathed. “TurnsoutImthesuperheroofParisI’mLadybugandIfoughttodayagaisntMayuraandshemadeacopyofmeandnowwehavetotakecareoofher.”

Her parents blinked in confusion.

“What?”

“Marinette, sweetie, don’t forget to breathe. We couldn’t understand a thing of what you said”

She breathed again.

“During the day, I’m Marinette, a normal girl with a normal life, with the most amazing parents one could wish for. But I have a secret that one knows… “

“You’re being too dramatic sweetie. That sounds like the start of an adventure book.”

“I’m Ladybug” Marinette said finally, closing her eyes. She slowly opened her eyes to look at her parents, who looked very confused.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m Ladybug. I’m Paris hero. Today I had a fight with Mayura and she created a mon… a being that was my duplicate. Long story short, she betrayed the side of evil, Mayura killed her, but the Miraculous Cure brought her back, so now we have to take care of her.

Tom and Sabine looked at each other, and started laughing. “Good one sweetie! You almost looked serious there”

Marinette smiled nervously and signaled Tikki and the other Marinette to come down.   Her parents stared at all of them.

“Listen, I know is too much to ask, but I couldn’t just leave her on her own and…”

“Well, this certainly explain a lot of things…”

“Yes, like that time your grades were slipping”

“And all that sneaking out of the house”

“And when we hear voices coming from your room. We thought you were talking with Alya”

“And that time you declared your love to Chat Noir… wait, does he know you’re Ladybug?”

“No, actually, no so…”

“Oh boy, he’s gonna be so surprised. I hope we get to see his face when he realizes the hero he loves is the same girl he rejected.”

“Tom, that is bordering in petty revenge… but yeah, I sort of want to see it too.”

“So, are you gonna introduce us to your… floating ladybug friend and your new sister or what?”

“You are taking this surprisingly well.”

“Well, we always know you were extraordinary. This only confirms it.”

“And we had our suspicions anyway… It’s not like you change much of yourself when you’re Ladybug”

Marinette smiled widely. “This is my Kwami friend, her name is Tikki, she allows me to become Ladybug and fight against Hawk Moth.”

“Very pleased to finally meet you Mr. Dupain and Mrs. Cheng! You have raised a very good daughter”

“Thank you very much. It’s nice to meet you too.”

“And she is… huh… we haven’t decided on a name yet, actually”

Tom and Sabine looked at the new girl. She looked a lot like Marinette, but her hair darker and with a red streak of hair. They couldn’t help but smile at her.

“Hello young lady. I’m Tom and from now on I’m going to be your father, if you want of course. Marinette calls me ‘dad’ or ‘papa’, and you’re free to call me that too, but again, no rush.”

“And I’m Sabine. I’m going to be your mother, and you can call me ‘mom’ or ‘maman’. If you want of course. You have a place in our family regardless of what you decide your relationship with us is.”

The former Sentimonster starting tearing up, without knowing why. She felt lucky to have fallen in such a loving family.

“Well… I was created as Sentibug… but Marinette told me that’s not a real human name… and she said you named her because you are her parents, and I was wondering…”

“You want us to give you a name?”

The girl nodded. “If you want, of course. I mean, you’re going to be my parents, so it’s only fair.”

“Of course dear. We’ll have to come with some cover story about why you just suddenly live with us, but we’ll manage.”

“Well, your second option for Marinette was Bridgette”

“But we can’t name her western style. I was going to suggest telling she was Marinette’s long lost twin sister, but your parents know she doesn’t have a twin sister. It would be safer if we say we’re adopting her from my family, so we should name her something Chinese.”

“But neither look that Chinese to begin with. We can say a cousin of yours married a westerner and now we’re adopting her because they’re no longer here.”

“So, I’m Bridgette?” asked the former Sentibug, making a face. It looked like she didn’t really liked the name.

“No, people close to us know about that name. And you're not a second option of Marinette, You are your own person.”

“True, I’m sorry I implied otherwise.” Tom said to his new daughter, who was in the verge of happy tears.

“Well you have sort of red hair, and I have always liked the Enchanted movie, so how do you feel about ‘Giselle’?”

The girl smiled widely. “I love that name” she said. “Hello, I am Giselle”

“It seems our family has just gotten bigger”

“By the way, Marinette, we are very proud of you, but you’re still grounded for sneaking out of the house all those times”

“What”

-

Marinette is in trouble :p

I was looking for french names and Giselle turned out… she is one of my favorite Disney Princesses, so she’s now that. (Feel free to suggest other names, but I pretty much made my mind with that name)

And yeah, so much salt for the way Miss Bustier and Mr Damocles handled Marinette and Lila. 

[yvrivic]

                                                              𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠                                     𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐔𝐗 𝐃'𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒

                                                               #HSHQTASK033

Margaux was born on the 31st of January, 2011. Margaux was never supposed to be the only child, let’s start with that. It was never said aloud but both Roman and Giselle saw themselves with more than just one child. Alas, their marital problems began before they really got around to have another child.

Giselle insisted on giving Margaux a French name. Roman was a weak-willed man around a very pregnant and moody Giselle so of course he said yes. Margaux bears the d’Orléans name and her French title comes first, always. She is very much known as “the little princess of France’, people forget she’s also Belorussian royalty nobility.

Her frenchness wouldn’t be an issue if... Roman had gone and gotten himself another child. Now Roman is very much desperate to have Margaux be interested in her Slavic roots because it’s beginning to look like she’ll have to live in Belarus in the near future. 

He’s fairly unsuccessful, Margaux thrives at the French court so she prefers to waste her days in Paris. It’s her scene just as much as it were her mother’s. Plus, she’s surrounded by cute cousins --- and she can ignore her duties. When she’s in Paris, she dabbles in modeling, she’s the face of a Dior perfume --- and she doesn’t let anyone forget that. She brings it up in every conversation, she’s very proud of her achievement and she’s very vain. 

Margaux’s personality is flawed, oh so flawed, because she’s doted on 24/7, Giselle doesn’t forget to praise her, and Roman tries to make up for his absence by spoiling the girl. It doesn’t help that the media ( at the moment ) adores her since she’s the only child of the royal family. 

Once Margaux gets bored of being a party girl, of being the star of every party, she and Roman grow closer. He finally feels like she’s hearing him when he talks about her future, her responsibilities, and what it means to be a leader. Margaux’s greatest strength is her social skills. They do come in handy in the future since she has a lot of people to keep in line. 

She definitely struggles to gain the love and respect of the Belorussian people --- she’s French, not Belorussian. Something that gets whispered for decades. Every time her ‘r’ sounds too French, people roll their eyes, every time she fails to deliver the correct ‘s’, people scoff. The harsh treatment gives her a thicker skin and a more unforgiving attitude.