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laurasimonsdaughter · 3 years ago

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The Counterfeit Marquise

A literary fairy tale published in 1697, presumably by Charles Perrault and François-Timoléon De Choisy (who spent a considerable amount of his life in drag, just like the protagonists of this story).

Translated by Ranjit Bolt, featured in Warner’s Wonder tales: six stories of enchantment (1996).

Cw: gender disphoria.

The Marquis de Banneville had been married barely six months to a beautiful and highly intelligent young heiress when he was killed in battle at Saint-Denis. His widow was profoundly affected. They had still been very much in love and no domestic quarrels had disturbed their happiness. She did not allow herself an excess of grief. With none of the usual lamentations, she withdrew to one of her country houses to weep at her leisure, without constraint or ostentation. But no sooner had she arrived than it was pointed out to her, on the basis of irrefutable evidence, that she was carrying a child. At first she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing a little replica of the man she had loved so much. She was careful to preserve her husband’s precious remains, and took every possible step to keep his memory alive. Her pregnancy was very easy, but as her time drew near she was tormented by a host of anxieties. She pictured a soldier’s gruesome death in its full horror. She imagined the same fate for the child she was expecting and, unable to reconcile herself to such a distressing idea, prayed a thousand times to heaven to send her a daughter who, by virtue of her sex, would be spared so cruel a fate. She did more: she made up her mind that, if nature did not answer her wishes, she would correct her. She took all the necessary precautions and made the midwife promise to announce to the world the birth of a girl, even if it was a boy.

Thanks to these measures the business was effected smoothly. Money settles everything. The marquise was absolute mistress in her château and word soon spread that she had given birth to a girl, though the child was actually a boy. It was taken to the curé who, in good faith, christened it Marianne. The wet nurse was also won over. She brought little Marianne up and subsequently became her governess. She was taught everything a girl of noble birth should know: dancing; music; the harpsichord. She grasped everything with such precocity her mother had no choice but to have her taught languages, history, even modern philosophy. There was no danger of so many subjects becoming confused in a mind where everything was arranged with such remarkable orderliness. And what was extraordinary, not to say delightful, was that so fine a mind should be found in the body of an angel. At twelve her figure was already formed. True, she had been a little constricted from infancy with an iron corset, to widen her hips and lift her bosom. But this had been a complete success and (though I shall not describe her until her first journey to Paris) she was already a very beautiful girl. She lived in blissful ignorance, quite unaware that she was not a girl. She was known in the province as la belle Marianne. All the minor gentry roundabout came to pay court to her, believing she was a rich heiress. She listened to them all and answered their gallantries with great wit and frankness. My heart, she said to her mother one day, isn’t made for provincials. If I receive them kindly it’s because I want to please people.

Be careful, my child, said the marquise: you’re talking like a coquette.

Ah, maman, she answered, let them come. Let them love me as much as they like. Why should you worry as long as I don’t love them?

The marquise was delighted to hear this, and gave her complete licence with these young men who, in any case, never strayed beyond the bounds of decorum. She knew the truth and so feared no consequences. La belle Marianne would study till noon and spend the rest of the day at her toilette.

After devoting the whole morning to my mind, she would say gaily, It’s only right to give the afternoon to my eyes, my mouth, all this little body of mine.

Indeed, she did not begin dressing till four. Her suitors would usually have gathered by then, and would take pleasure in watching her toilette. Her chambermaids would do her hair, but she would always add some new embellishment herself. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in great curls. The fire in her eyes and the freshness of her complexion were quite dazzling, and all this beauty was animated and enhanced by the thousand charming remarks that poured continually from the prettiest mouth in the world. All the young men around her adored her, nor did she miss any opportunity to increase that adoration. She would herself, with exquisite grace, put pendants in her ears – either of pearls, rubies or diamonds – all of which suited her to perfection. She wore beauty spots, preferably so tiny that one could barely see them with the naked eye and, if her complexion had not been so delicate and fine, could not have seen them at all. When putting them on she made a great show of consulting now one suitor, now another, as to which would suit her best. Her mother was overjoyed and kept congratulating herself on her ingenuity. He is twelve years old, she would say to herself under her breath. Soon I should have had to think about sending him to the Military Academy, and in two years he would have followed his poor father. Whereupon, transported with affection, she would go and kiss her darling daughter, and would let her indulge in all the coquetries that she would have condemned in anyone else’s child.

This is how matters stood when the Marquise de Banneville was obliged to go to Paris to deal with a lawsuit that one of her neighbours had taken out against her. Naturally she took her daughter with her, and soon realised that a pretty young girl can be useful when it comes to making petitions. The first person she went to see was her old friend the Comtesse d’Alettef,11 to ask for her advice and her protection for her daughter. The comtesse was struck by Marianne’s beauty and so enjoyed kissing her that she did so several times. She took on herself the task of chaperoning her, and looked after her when her mother was busy with her suit, promising to keep her amused. Marianne could not have fallen into better hands. The comtesse was born to enjoy life. She had managed to separate herself from an inconvenient husband. Not that he lacked qualities (he loved pleasure as much as she did) but since they could not agree in their choice of pleasures, they had the good sense not to get in one another’s way and each followed their own inclinations. The comtesse, though not young any more, was beautiful. But the desire for lovers had given way to the desire for money, and gambling was now her chief passion. She took Marianne everywhere, and everywhere she was received with delight.

Meanwhile, the Marquise de Banneville slept easily. She was well aware of the comtesse’s somewhat dubious reputation, and would never have trusted her with a real daughter. But quite apart from the fact that Marianne had been brought up with a strong sense of virtue, the marquise wanted a little amusement and so left her to her own devices, merely telling her that she was entering a scene very different from that of the provinces; that she would encounter passionate, devoted lovers at every turn; that she must not believe them too readily; that if she felt herself giving way she was to come and tell her everything; and that in future she would look on her as a friend rather than a daughter, and give her such advice as she herself might take.

Marianne, whom people were starting to call the little marquise, promised her mother that she would disclose all her feelings to her and, relying on past experience, believed herself a match for the gallantry of the French court. This was a bold undertaking thirty years ago. Magnificent dresses were made for her; all the newest fashions tried on her. The comtesse, who presided over all this, saw to it that her hair was dressed by Mlle de Canillac. She had only some child’s earrings and a few jewels; her mother gave her all hers, which were of poor workmanship, and managed at relatively little expense to have two pairs of diamond pendants made for her ears, and five or six crisping pins for her hair. These were all the ornaments she needed. The comtesse would send her carriage for her immediately after dinner and take her to the theatre, the opera, or the gaming houses. She was universally admired. Wives and daughters never tired of caressing her, and the loveliest of them heard her beauty praised without a hint of jealousy. A certain hidden charm, which they felt but did not understand, attracted them to her and forced them to pay homage where homage was due. Everyone succumbed to her spell and her wit, which was even more irresistible than her beauty, won her more certain and lasting conquests. The first thing that captivated them was the dazzling whiteness of her complexion. The bloom in her cheeks, forever appearing and reappearing, never ceased to amaze them. Her eyes were blue and as lively as one could wish; they flashed from beneath two heavy lids that made their glances more tender and languishing. Her face was oval-shaped and her scarlet lips, which protruded slightly, would break – even when she spoke with the utmost seriousness – into a dozen delightful creases, and into a dozen even more delightful when she laughed. This exterior – so charming in itself – was enhanced by all that a good education can add to an excellent nature. There was a radiance, a modesty in the little marquise’s countenance that inspired respect. She had a sense of occasion: she always wore a cap when she went to church, never a beauty spot – avoiding the ostentation cultivated by most women. At Mass, she would say, One prays to God; at balls one dances; and one must do both with total commitment.

She had been leading a most agreeable life for three months when Carnival came round. All the princes and officers had returned from camp, and everywhere entertainments were being held again. Everyone was giving parties and there was a great ball at the Palais Royal. The comtesse, who was too old to show her face on such occasions, decided to go masked and took the little marquise with her. She was dressed as a shepherdess in an extremely simple but becoming costume. Her hair, which hung down to her waist, was tied up in great curls with pink ribbons – no pearls, no diamonds, only a beautiful cap. She had dressed herself, but even so all eyes were fixed on her. That night her beauty was triumphant.

The handsome Prince Sionad was there, dressed as a woman – a rival to the fair sex who, in the opinion of connoisseurs, took first prize for beauty. On arriving at the ball the comtesse decided to go and sit behind the lovely Sionad. Chère princesse, she said as she drew near and introduced the little marquise, here is a young shepherdess you should find worth looking at. Marianne approached respectfully and wanted to kiss the hem of the prince’s dress (or should I say the princess’s) but he lifted her up, embraced her tenderly and cried delightedly: What a lovely girl! What fine features! What a smile! What delicacy! And if I’m not mistaken, she is as clever as she is beautiful.

The little marquise had responded only with a bashful smile when a young prince came up and claimed her for a dance. At first all eyes were fixed on him, owing to his rank. But when people saw her answering his questions without awkwardness or embarrassment; saw what a feel she had for the music; how gracefully she moved; her little jumps in time; her smiles, subtle without being malicious and the fresh glow that vigorous exercise brought to her face, total silence, as at a concert, descended on the hall. The violinists found to their delight that they could hear themselves play, and everyone seemed intent on watching and wondering at her. The dance ended with applause, little of it for the prince, popular though he was.

The acclaim that the little marquise had received at the Palais Royal ball greatly increased the comtesse’s affection and concern for her. She could no longer do without her and she offered her rooms in her house, so that she could enjoy her company at her leisure. But on no account would her mother agree to this. The little marquise was almost fourteen and, if the secret of her birth was to be kept, it was vital that no one should be on intimate terms with her except her governess, who got her up and saw her into bed. She was still quite ignorant of her situation and, though she had many admirers, felt nothing for them. She cared for nothing and no one but herself and her appearance. People spoke to her of nothing else. She drank down this delicious praise in long draughts and thought herself the most beautiful person in the world; the more so since her mirror swore to her every day that the praise was justified.

One day she was at the theatre, in the first tier, when she noticed a beautiful young man in the next box. He wore a scarlet doublet embroidered with gold and silver, but what fascinated her were his dazzling diamond earrings and three or four beauty spots. She watched him intently and found his countenance so sweet and amiable that she could not contain herself, and said to the comtesse: Madame, look at that young man! Isn’t he handsome! Indeed, said the comtesse, but he is too conscious of his looks, and that is not becoming in a man. He might as well dress as a girl.

The performance went on and they said nothing more, but the little marquise often turned her head, no longer able to concentrate on the play, which was The Feign’d Alcibiades. Some days later she was at the theatre again in the third tier. The same young man, who drew such attention to himself with his extraordinary adornments, was in the second tier. He watched the little marquise at his leisure, as fascinated by her as she had been by him on the previous occasion, but less restrained. He kept turning his back on the actors, unable to take his eyes off her and she, for her part, responded in a manner less than consistent with the dictates of modesty. She felt in this exchange of looks something she had never experienced before: a certain joy at once subtle and profound, which passes from the eyes to the heart and constitutes the only real happiness in life. At last the play ended and, while they waited for the afterpiece, the beautiful young man left his box and went to ask the little marquise’s name. The porters, who saw her often, were happy to oblige him; they even told him where she lived. He now saw that she was of noble birth and decided, if possible, to make her acquaintance, even if he went no further. He resolved (love being ingenious) to enter her box by accident.

Ah, madame, he cried, I beg your pardon: I thought this was my box. The Marquise de Banneville loved intrigue and made the most of this one. Monsieur, she said to him with great frankness, we are indeed fortunate in your mistake: a man as handsome as you is welcome anywhere.

She hoped in this way to detain him so that she could look at him at her leisure; examine him and his adornments; please her daughter (whose feelings she had already detected) and, in a word, have some harmless amusement. He hesitated before deciding to remain in the box without taking a seat at the front. They asked him a hundred questions, to which he replied very wittily. His manner and tone of voice had an undeniable charm. The little marquise asked him why he wore pendants in his ears. He replied that he always had: his ears had been pierced when he was a child. As for the rest, they must excuse these little embellishments, normally only suitable for the fair sex, on the grounds of youth.

Everything suits you, monsieur, said the little marquise with a blush. You can wear beauty spots and bracelets as far as we’re concerned. You wouldn’t be the first. These days young men are always doing themselves up like girls. The conversation never flagged. When the afterpiece was over he conducted the ladies to their coach and had his follow it as far as the marquise’s house where, not daring to enter, he sent a page to present his compliments.

During the days that followed they saw him everywhere: in church; in the park; at the opera and the theatre. He was always unassuming, always respectful. He would bow low to the little marquise, not daring to approach or speak to her. He seemed to have but one object, and wasted no time in attaining it. Finally, after three weeks, the Marquise de Banneville’s brother (who was a state councillor) called and suggested that she receive a visitor – his good friend and neighbour, the Marquis de Bercour. He assured her that he was an excellent man and brought him round immediately after lunch. The marquis was the handsomest man in the world; his hair was black and arranged in thick, natural-looking curls. It was cut in line with the ears so that his diamond earrings could be seen. On this particular day he had attached to each of these a pearl. He also wore two or three beauty spots (no more) to emphasise his fine complexion.

Ah, brother, said the marquise, is this the Marquis de Bercour? Yes, madame, replied the marquis, and he cannot live any longer without seeing the loveliest girl in the world.

As he said this he turned towards the little marquise, who was beside herself with joy. They sat and talked, exchanging news, discussing amusements and new books. The little marquise was a versatile conversationalist, and they were soon at ease with one another. The old councillor was the first to leave, the marquis the last, having remained as long as he felt he could.

After this he never missed an opportunity of paying court to the girl he loved, and always made sure that everything was perfect. When the good weather came and they went out walking to Vincennes or in the Bois, they would find a magnificent collation, which seemed to have been brought there by magic, at a place specially chosen in the shade of some trees. One day there would be violins; the next oboes. The marquis had apparently given no instructions, yet it was obvious that he had arranged everything. Nevertheless, it took several days to guess who had given the little marquise a magnificent present. One morning a carrier brought a chest to her house which he said was from the Comtesse Alettef. She opened it eagerly and was delighted to find in it gloves, scents, pomades, perfumed oils, gold boxes, little toilet cases, more than a dozen snuff boxes in different styles, and countless other treasures. The little marquise wanted to thank the comtesse, who had no idea what she was talking about. She found out in the end, but reproached herself more than once for not having guessed at once.

These little attentions advanced the marquis’s cause considerably. The little marquise greatly appreciated them. Madame, she said to her mother with admirable honesty, I no longer know where I am. Once I wanted to be beautiful in everyone’s eyes; now the only person I want to find me beautiful is the marquis. I used to love balls, plays, receptions, places where there was a lot of noise. Now I’m tired of all that. My only pleasure in life is to be alone and think about the man I love. He’s coming soon, I whisper to myself. Perhaps he’ll tell me he loves me. Yes, madame, he hasn’t said that yet; hasn’t spoken those wonderful words: I love you, though his eyes and his actions have told me so a hundred times. Then, my child, replied the marquise, I’m very sorry for you. You were happy before you saw the marquis. You enjoyed everyone’s company; everyone loved you and you loved only yourself, your own person, your beauty. You were wholly consumed with the desire to please, and please you did. Why change such a delightful life? Take my advice, my dear child: let your sole concern be to profit from the advantages nature has given you. Be beautiful: you have experienced that joy; is there any other to touch it? To draw everyone’s gaze; to win all hearts; to delight people wherever one goes; to hear oneself praised continually, and not by flatterers; to be loved by all and love only oneself: that, my child, is the height of happiness, and you can enjoy it for a long time. You are a queen, don’t make yourself a slave: you must resist at the outset a passion that is carrying you away in spite of yourself. Now you command, but soon you will obey. Men are fickle: the marquis loves you today – tomorrow he will love someone else.

Stop loving me! said the little marquise. Love someone else! And she burst into tears.

Her mother, who loved her dearly, tried to console her and succeeded by telling her that the marquis was coming. There was a lot at stake and this incipient passion caused her considerable alarm. Where will it lead? she asked herself. To what bizarre conclusion. If the marquis declares himself – if he plucks up courage and asks for certain favours – she will refuse him nothing. But then, she reflected, the little marquise has been well trained; she is sensible; at most she will grant such trifling favours as will leave them in ignorance – an ignorance essential to their happiness.

They were talking like this when someone came to tell them that the marquis had sent them a dozen partridges, and that he was at the door, not daring to enter as he had just returned from hunting.

Send him in! cried the little marquise. We want to see him in his hunting clothes. He entered a moment later, all apologies for powder marks, sun burn and a dishevelled wig. No, no, said the little marquise. I assure you, we like you better dressed informally like this than in all your finery. If that is so, madame, he replied, next time you will see me dressed as a stoker.

He remained standing, as though about to leave. They made him sit and the marquise, kind soul, told them to sit together while she went to her study to write. The chambermaids knew what was what and withdrew to the dressing-room, leaving the lovers alone together. They were silent for a while. The little marquise, still flustered after her talk with her mother, scarcely dared raise her eyes, and the marquis, even more embarrassed, looked at her and sighed. There was something tender in this silence. The looks they exchanged, the sighs they could not contain, were for them a form of language – a language lovers often use – and their mutual embarrassment seemed to them a sign of love. The little marquise was the first to awake from this reverie.

You’re dreaming, marquis, she said. What of? Hunting? Ah, beautiful marquise, said the marquis, how lucky hunters are! They are not in love. What do you mean? she rejoined. Is being in love really so terrible? Madame, he replied, it is the greatest happiness in life. But unrequited love is the greatest misfortune. I am in love and it is not requited. I am in love with the most beautiful girl in the world. Venus herself would not dare put herself before her. I love her and she does not love me. She has no feelings. She sees me, she listens to me, and she remains cruelly silent. She even turns her eyes away from mine. How heartless! How can I doubt my fate? As he spoke these last words, the marquis knelt down before the little marquise and kissed her hands – nor did she object. Her eyes were lowered and let fall great tears.

Beautiful marquise, he said, you’re crying. You’re crying and I know the reason for your tears. My love is irksome to you. Ah, marquis, she answered with a heavy sigh, one can cry for joy as well as pain. I’ve never been so happy. She said no more and, stretching out her arms to her beloved marquis, granted him the favours she would have denied all the kings of the earth. Caresses were all the protestations of love they needed. The marquis found in the little marquise’s lips a compliance that her eyes had hidden from him, and this conversation would have lasted longer if the marquise had not emerged from her study. She found them laughing and crying at the same time, and wondered whether such tears had ever needed drying.

The marquis immediately rose to leave, but the marquise said to him pleasantly: Monsieur, won’t you stay and dine on the partridges you brought? He needed little persuading. What he desired more than anything else in the world was to be on familiar terms in this house. He stayed, even though he was dressed in hunting clothes, and had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the girl he loved eat. It is one of life’s chief delights. To watch at close quarters a pink mouth that, as it opens, reveals gums of coral and teeth of alabaster; that opens and closes with the rapidity that accompanies all the actions of youth; to see a beautiful face animated by an often repeated pleasure, and to be experiencing the same pleasure at the same time – this is a privilege love grants to few.

After that happy day the marquis made sure he dined there every night. It was a regular affair and the little marquise’s suitors, who had had no cause to be jealous of one another, took it as settled. She had made her choice and they all admitted that beauty and vanity, however powerful, are no defence against love. The Comte d’****, one of her most ardent admirers, had a keen sense that his passion was being made light of. He was handsome, well built, brave, a soldier: he could not allow the little marquise to give herself to the Marquis de Bercour, whom he considered vastly inferior in every respect to himself. He decided to pick a quarrel with him and so disgrace him, thinking him too effeminate to dare cross swords with him. However, to his great surprise, at the first word he uttered when they met at the Porte des Tuileries, the marquis drew his sword and thrust at him with gusto. After a hard-fought duel they were parted by mutual friends.

This adventure pleased the little marquise. It gave her lover a war-like air, though she trembled for him nevertheless. She saw clearly that her beauty and her preference for him would constantly be exposing him to such encounters, and she said to him one day: Marquis, we must put an end to jealousy once and for all; we must silence gossip. We love one another and always will. We must bind ourselves to one another with ties that only death can break.

Ah, beautiful marquise, he said, what are you thinking of? Does our happiness bore you? Marriage, as a rule, puts an end to pleasure. Let us remain as we are. For my part, I am content with your favours and will never ask you for anything more. But I am not content, said the little marquise. I can see clearly that there is something missing in our happiness, and perhaps we will find it when you belong to me entirely, and I to you. It would not be right, replied the marquis, for you to throw in your lot with a younger son who has spent the bulk of his fortune and whom you still know only by appearances, which are often deceptive.

But that’s just what I love about it, she interrupted. I’m so happy that I have enough money for us both, and to have the chance of showing you that I love you and you alone.

They had reached this point when the Marquise de Banneville interrupted them. She had been closeted with her agents, and thought she would refresh herself with some lively young company, but she found them in a deeply serious mood. The marquis had been greatly put out by the little marquise’s proposal. Ostensibly it was very much to his advantage, but he had secret objections to it, which he considered insurmountable. The little marquise, for her part, was a little annoyed at having taken such a bold step in vain, but she soon recovered, deciding that the marquis had refused out of respect for her – or that he wished to prove the depth of his feelings for her. This thought made her decide to speak to her mother about it, and she did so the following day.

No one was ever more astonished than the Marquise de Banneville when her daughter spoke to her of marriage. She was sixteen and no longer a child. Her eyes had not been opened to her situation, and her mother hoped they never would be. She was careful not to agree to the match, but to reveal the truth would have been a painful solution both for her daughter and the marquis. She resolved to do so only as a last resort. Meanwhile she would prevent, or at least postpone, the marriage. The marquis was in agreement with her on this, but the little marquise – passionate creature that she was – begged, entreated, wept, used every means to persuade her mother. She never doubted her lover, since he did not dare oppose her with the same firmness. Finally she pushed her mother to the point where she said these words to her: My dear child, you leave me no choice: against my better judgement I must reveal to you something that I would have given my life to conceal from you. I loved your poor father and when I lost him so tragically, in dread of your meeting the same fate, I prayed with all my heart for a daughter. I was not so fortunate: I gave birth to a son and I have brought him up as a daughter. His sweetness, his inclinations, his beauty, all assisted my plan. I have a son and the whole world believes I have a daughter. Ah, madame! cried the little marquise, is it possible that I …? Yes, my child, said her mother embracing her, you are a boy. I can see how painful this news must be for you. Habit has given you a different nature. You are used to a life very different from the one you might have led. I wanted you to be happy and would never have revealed the sad truth to you if your obstinacy over the marquis had not forced me to. You see now what you were about to do? How, but for me, you would have exposed yourself to public ridicule?

The little marquise did not answer. Instead she merely wept and in vain her mother said to her: But my child, go on living as you were. Be the beautiful little marquise still – loved, adored by all who see her. Love your beautiful marquis if you like, but do not think of marrying him. Alas! cried the little marquise through her tears, he has asked for nothing more. He flies into a rage when I mention marriage. Ah! Could it be that he knows my secret? If I thought that, dear mother, I would go and hide myself in the furthest corner of the earth. Could he know it? In floods of tears now, she added: Alas, poor little marquise, what will you do? Will you dare show your face again and act the beauty? But what have you said? What have you done? What name can one give the favours you have granted the marquis? Blush! Blush, unhappy girl! Ah, nature you are blind: why did you not warn me of my duty? Alas! I acted in good faith, but now I see the truth and I must behave quite differently in future. I must not think about the man I love – I must do what is right.

She was uttering these words with determination when it was announced that the marquis was at the door of the antechamber. He entered with a happy air and was amazed to see both mother and daughter with lowered eyes and in tears. The mother did not wait for him to speak but rose and went to her room. He took courage and said: What’s the matter, beautiful marquise? If something is distressing you, won’t you share it with your friends? What? You won’t even look at me! Am I the cause of this weeping? Am I to blame without knowing it?

The little marquise dissolved in tears. No! No! she cried. No! That could never be, and if it were so I would not feel as I do. Nature is wise and there is a reason for everything she does.

The marquis had no idea what all this meant. He was asking for an explanation when the marquise, who had recovered a little, left her room and came to her daughter’s aid. Look at her, she said to the marquis. As you see, she is quite beside herself. I am to blame. I tried to stop her but she would have her fortune told, and they said she would never marry the man she loved. That has upset her, Monsieur le Marquis, and you know why.

For my part, madame, he replied, I am not at all upset. Let her remain always as she is. I ask only to see her. I shall be more than happy if she will consider me her best friend.

With this the conversation ended. Emotions had been stirred, and would take time to settle. But they settled so completely that after eight days there was no sign of any upheaval. The marquis’s presence, his charm, his caresses, obliterated from the little marquise’s mind everything her mother had told her. She no longer believed any of it, or rather did not wish to believe. Pleasure triumphed over reflection. She lived as she had done before with her lover and felt her passion increase with such violence that thoughts of a lasting union returned to torment her. Yes, she said to herself, he cannot go back on his word now. He will never desert me. She had resolved to speak of it again, when her mother fell ill. Her illness was so grave that after three days all hope of a cure was abandoned. She made her will and sent for her brother, the councillor, whom she appointed the little marquise’s guardian. He was her uncle and her heir, since all the property came from the mother. She confided to him the truth about her daughter’s birth, begging him to take it seriously and to let her lead a life of innocent pleasure that would harm no one and which, since it precluded her marrying, would guarantee his children a rich inheritance.

The good councillor was delighted at this news and saw his sister die without shedding a tear. The income of thirty thousand francs that she left the little marquise seemed certain to pass to his children, and he had only to encourage his niece’s infatuation for the marquis. He did so with great success, telling her that he would be like a father to her and had no wish to be her guardian except in name.

This sympathetic behaviour consoled the little marquise somewhat – and she was certainly distraught – but the sight of her beloved marquis consoled her even more. She saw that she was absolute mistress of her fate, and her sole aim was to share it with the man she loved. Six months of official mourning passed, after which pleasures of all kinds once again filled her life. She went often to balls, the theatre, the opera, and always in the same company. The marquis never left her side and all her other suitors, seeing that it was a settled affair, had withdrawn. They lived happily and would perhaps have thought of nothing else, if malicious tongues could have left them in peace. Everywhere, people were saying that, while the little marquise was beautiful, since her mother’s death she had lost all sense of decorum: she was seen everywhere with the marquis; he was practically living in her house; he dined there every day and never left before midnight. Her best friends found grounds for censure in this: they sent her anonymous letters and warned her uncle, who spoke to her about it. Finally, things went so far that the little marquise went back to her first idea and decided to marry the marquis. She put this to him forcefully; he resisted likewise, only agreeing on condition that the marriage would be a purely public affair, and that they would live together like brother and sister. This, he said, was how they must always love one another. The little marquise readily agreed. She often remembered what her mother had told her. She spoke of it to her uncle, who began by outlining all the pitfalls of marriage and ended by giving his consent. He saw that, by this means, the income of thirty thousand francs was sure to pass to his family. There was no danger of his niece having children by the Marquis de Bercour whereas, if she did not marry him, her notion that she was a girl might change with time and with her beauty, which was sure to fade. So a wedding day was fixed on, bridal clothes made and the ceremony held at the good uncle’s house. (As guardian he undertook to give the wedding feast.)

The little marquise had never looked as beautiful as she did that day. She wore a dress of black velours completely covered in gems, pink ribbons in her hair and diamond pendants in her ears. The Comtesse d’Alettef, who would always love her, went with her to the church, where the marquis was waiting. He wore a black velours cloak decked with gold braid, his hair was in curls, his face powdered, there were diamond pendants in his ears and beauty spots on his face. In short, he was adorned in such a way that his best friends could not excuse such vanity. The couple were united for ever and everyone showered them with blessings. The banquet was magnificent, the king’s music and the violons were there. At last the hour came and relatives and friends put the couple together in a nuptial bed and embraced them, the men laughing, a few good old aunts weeping.

It was then that the little marquise was astonished to find how cold and insensitive her lover was. He stayed at one end of the bed, sighing and weeping. She approached him tentatively. He did not seem to notice her. Finally, no longer able to endure so painful a state of affairs, she said: What have I done to you, marquis? Don’t you love me any more? Answer me or I shall die, and it will be your fault.

Alas, madame, said the marquis, didn’t I tell you? We were living together happily – you loved me – and now you will hate me. I have deceived you. Come here and see.

So saying he took her hand and placed it on the most beautiful bosom in the world. You see, he said, dissolving in tears, you see I am useless to you: I am a woman like you.

Who could describe here the little marquise’s surprise and delight? At this moment she had no doubt that she was a boy and, throwing herself into the arms of her beloved marquis, she gave him the same surprise, the same delight. They soon made their peace, wondered at their fate – a fate that had brought matters on to such a happy conclusion – and exchanged a thousand vows of undying love.

As for me, said the little marquise, I am too used to being a girl, and I want to remain one all my life. How could I bring myself to wear a man’s hat?

And I, said the marquis, have used a sword more than once without disgracing myself. I’ll tell you about my adventures some day. Let’s continue as we are, then. Beautiful marquise, enjoy all the pleasures of your sex, and I shall enjoy all the freedom of mine.

The day after the wedding they received the usual compliments and, eight days later, left for the provinces, where they still live in one of their châteaux. The uncle should visit them there: he would find, to his surprise, that a beautiful child has resulted from their marriage – one to put paid to his hopes of a rich inheritance.

#Charles Perrault #François-Timoléon De Choisy #genderqueer folktales #trans representation #laura retells #except not really it's more like laura copy pastes this time

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pianomanblaine · 3 years ago

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Down Once More

This story was written for the Potober prompts “Down Once More” and “And Now, How You Betray Me”, particularly with the words “taken hostage” and “betrayal” in mind. It resulted in an alternative version of the final lair. Fair warning: this one does not have a happy ending.

AO3 FFN

He dragged her along the dark and damp corridors beneath the opera house at a frantic pace, his grip on her arm harsh and unrelenting, not even sparing her a backward glance as she stumbled over her own feet trying to keep up with him. Her head was still reeling from the events leading up to this moment. It had all happened so fast, yet here and now, time seemed to lose all meaning. Every separate moment seemed to fade into the next one, forming one big hazy blur. It might have been several hours or merely a few minutes before they reached the shore of the underground lake and Erik was steering the little boat across the water towards his house.

Once inside, he pushed her into the bedroom which she had come to think of as hers, and roughly thrust the wedding dress he had so painstakingly crafted for her into her arms. He did not leave the room, did not even turn around to give her the smallest bit of privacy as he forced her to change into it. He immediately started yanking at the fastenings of the dress she was wearing, undressing her with great urgency, letting the garment pool around her feet, and for a moment she feared that he had gone completely mad and would try to violate her. But he only barked out an order for her to put on the wedding gown as he began to agitatedly pace the floor, only occasionally glancing in her direction while she got dressed again.

When she was finished, Erik retrieved a veil – she did not see where from, he might as well have pulled it out of thin air – and forcefully pushed it onto her head. Under any other circumstances, she might have been able to appreciate how delicate and beautiful it was, with its wreath of white and pale pink flowers that contrasted so nicely against her dark brown hair. It hardly weighed anything, but to Christine it felt incredibly heavy, carrying with it the full weight of Erik’s expectations.

Now that her wedding attire was complete, Erik finally stood still long enough to fully look at her. She wondered if he was happy with what he saw. He must have imagined her in that very dress so many times. Was he satisfied now that he had what he wanted, even knowing that it was against her will? Was it all really worth it?

Before she got the chance to ask him, he turned his back on her and walked away without saying a word. She followed him into the sitting room, where a fire was burning brightly in the hearth, its warm glow a striking contrast to the icy atmosphere in the room.

“So what now?” Christine asked, breaking the tense silence between them. “Are you planning to keep me hostage here, hoping I will suddenly change my mind and agree to marry you after all? Or will you just drag me in front of a priest and threaten me until I say ‘I do’?”

“This is not exactly how I had imagined it to go either, Christine,” he snapped as he stood by the fire with his back turned towards her. “I had a plan, and it would have worked if your precious little Vicomte didn’t have to ruin it all.”

“Raoul was only trying to protect me.”

“And look where his protection got you,” Erik sneered, turning to face her with a grotesque grin on his bare face as he gestured around the room, “in the Phantom’s lair, captured by the madman!”

“I never believed you to be mad, Erik,” she replied, “but I have come to understand how dangerous you can be.”

Christine’s heart twisted painfully as she recalled the early days of their acquaintance, when she still believed he was the Angel of Music. How kind he had always been to her, how gently he had treated her. But that had changed drastically when she learned of his deception and discovered his true identity. He had continued to act as her tutor, coaxing her voice to unknown heights, and although he was never harsh or violent towards her, he had grown defensive and suspicious, always on his guard around her, as if he could not believe that she could still feel any genuine kindness towards him now that she had seen his face.

“Well yes, I suppose I am like a wild animal in that regard. When feeling threatened, I can be extremely dangerous indeed,” Erik agreed. He took a few steps towards her, closing the distance between them, his tall frame towering over her. He seemed to be challenging her, daring her to look at the face of the monster.

“Should I be afraid then?” she asked, rising to the challenge and looking straight into his strange yellow eyes.

At first he merely seemed surprised, maybe even impressed, by her bravery as she stood her ground and faced him without flinching, but by the way his face fell only a moment later, she could tell when the meaning of her words hit him. He turned away as he spoke.

“Of course not. I never meant for you to be scared of me. I never intended you any harm.” He took a few steps back, as if to prove his point, as if he hoped to seem less threatening if he stood a little further away from her.

“Kidnapping me is a strange way of showing it,” Christine huffed.

His posture stiffened at the accusation. “You didn’t exactly leave me much choice, did you?” he said through clenched teeth. “You betrayed me!”

“I betrayed you?” she gasped in disbelief, her hands balling into fists by her sides. “Do you want to talk about betrayal, Erik? Do you want to discuss how you lied to me for years, pretending to be an angel sent by my dead father to watch over me? How you blackmailed the managers into doing your bidding, how you terrorized Carlotta and God knows how many others?”

“Don’t you understand? I did it all for you! Because I love you!” he roared.

“Don’t you dare blame this all on me! You killed two innocent people, Erik! How does that have anything to do with love?”

“Buquet was not innocent,” he snorted. “He was a vile lecher, a pervert preying on young defenceless ballerinas in the dark behind the stage. He got what was coming to him.”

The man was certainly no saint, Erik was right about that and Christine knew it, but how could he not see that that did not justify his murder? Even so, she might have been able to forgive him for it eventually, if it had not been for Piangi.

“Piangi never hurt anyone.”

“Piangi was in the way!” he exclaimed. “I did not mean to kill him, merely to incapacitate him long enough to take his place on the stage, but I ran out of time and I became careless. He was the only thing standing between us and I was not about to let him ruin my plan, no matter the cost.”

“You are delusional if you truly believe he was the only obstacle standing in your way. What did you expect to happen tonight, Erik? You would take Piangi’s place, sing with me in an opera of your own creation in front of a full theatre, and then what? I’d fall into your arms and we’d live happily ever after?” She tore the veil out of her hair in frustration, throwing it at his feet. If he thought that after all the times he had tried to force her hand, had tried to manipulate her into choosing him, she would now willingly become his bride, he was sorely mistaken.

“I cannot deny the truth of that, although it now becomes painfully clear how foolish I was to entertain such hopes.” Although his words seemed to imply that he blamed himself for having such unrealistic expectations, the glare he directed at Christine made it clear that he also faulted her for his disappointment. “I was ready to lay my heart at your feet tonight, Christine, and how did you repay me? By tearing off my mask and revealing my monstrous shame for all of Paris to see! I trusted you!”

His angry shouting turned into a sob of betrayal and despair, and for the briefest of moments, Christine’s anger was overshadowed by compassion for the man in front of her. She was well aware of how badly she must have hurt him by doing what she did, but she had no other options. If she hadn’t done something drastic that would enrage him enough to take action, the gendarmes waiting behind the stage would have closed in on him and captured him, or worse.

Raoul must have thought she was in her dressing room or somewhere else out of earshot as he gave his instructions to shoot Erik when the time came, but she had been too nervous to sit still for long, choosing instead to wander the hallways and eventually finding her way behind the stage, pacing back and forth in the dark as she waited for the inevitable tragedy of the night to unfold. She had heard every word. If she hadn’t acted when she did, Erik might have been dead by now.

“I understand that my actions hurt you too, Erik, truly, I do, but you gave me no choice. Can’t you see it was wrong to pin all your hopes and dreams on me? You’ve told me you love me, and I believe that in your own way you really do, but I cannot be held responsible for your feelings, Erik. I do not owe you anything simply because you love me.”

At the crestfallen, heartbroken look on his face, she almost went to him, almost closed the distance between them and embraced him in a futile attempt to offer him some comfort, a silent apology for having shattered his dreams in a few sentences. Almost. Whatever she had to offer him, it would not be enough now. He would always want what she could not give him.

“I know that I cannot make you love me,” Erik began after a long, heavy silence. “God knows I have tried long enough.” His voice sounded softer now, his bitter and accusatory tone completely gone. “But do you not care for me even a little bit? That could be enough for me. We could start over somewhere new, where no one knows who we are. I could still tutor you and you could still sing.” He was pleading now, with his eyes as well as his words, hoping against all odds that he could still convince her to share her future with him.

“I would expect nothing from you, Christine. I’d do anything to make you happy, I’d give you anything you want. You would only have to ask and it would be yours, and you would not have to do anything in return other than stay by my side. Dammit Christine, I am beyond pride. I’ll fall to my knees and beg if I must. Stay with me. Please.”

And for a moment, Christine was truly tempted to throw caution to the wind and go with him. She did care for him, how could she not? Despite everything, he was still her Angel of Music. She could not deny he had been an integral part of her life since the first moment she met him. Erik had been her sole companion during those terrifying first few years after her father’s passing. Through music he had brought her soul back to life. The connection between them was irrefutable, and she could hardly imagine a world where she would never see him again.

Yet she knew that what he asked of her was impossible. Even if he claimed that he had no expectations from her, she knew that he would never be truly happy until she returned his affections, that he would always continue to hope, and she could not bear to disappoint him. Besides, she already had a fiancé. Raoul. Her childhood sweetheart. Sweet, protective, kind-hearted Raoul, who was probably trying desperately to find a way to save her, even if he had to risk his own life to do so, at this very moment.

Where Erik’s love for her was obsessive and at times almost frightening, being with Raoul would be as easy as breathing. He might not be able to give her a life of music, but she would be safe and cared for. She would not want for anything, and unlike Erik, Raoul was not a wanted man. Choosing a life on the run with Erik over a comfortable and uncomplicated one with Raoul might be romantic, but it would also be foolish.

“I do care for you Erik,” she finally replied, “but I cannot stay.”

He did not try to convince her after that. He merely nodded in resignation, as if he had always known this would be the final outcome.

“Go then,” he said. “You can choose a change of clothes from the wardrobe in your – in the spare room. You would draw too much unwanted attention if you returned dressed the way you are now.”

Christine wondered if that was his true reasoning, or if he simply wanted to keep the wedding dress as a memento to torment himself with.

She obeyed his instructions for the last time, selecting a simple yet elegant dark blue day dress out of the assortment of clothes Erik had kept on hand for her since the first time she had spent the night in his home.

When she re-entered the sitting room to say her final goodbyes, Erik was kneeling on the floor, desperately clutching the veil she had so carelessly discarded earlier, a look of terrible sorrow etched across his distorted face. He brought the fabric to his misshapen nose, trying to inhale the little bit of her perfume that might cling to it.

His eyes flew open and he looked up at her in surprise when he heard her footsteps. He clearly had not expected her to come back.

Erik stood up slowly, wiping invisible dust from his trousers, straightening his jacket, as if after all that had transpired, it was still of the utmost importance that he look presentable to her. Maybe his habit of dressing so nicely was an attempt to compensate for the imperfection of his face, she suddenly realized.

A tentative smile formed on his lips as he watched her, silently waiting for whatever last scrap of kindness she would offer him before stepping out of his life for good. Christine could almost feel her heart breaking as she removed the ring he had thrust on her finger earlier that night, holding it out towards him. The ring was supposed to be a promise, a physical sign that their lives would forever be entwined. It did not feel right to keep it.

Erik’s smile disappeared as he reached for the ring, holding her hand in his for a moment while he looked into her eyes, silently begging her to change her mind. She gave a minute shake of her head before letting go of the ring and withdrawing her hand, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

Christine did not say goodbye, her voice unable to get the word out. She turned around and walked away, forcing herself to set one foot in front of the other until she had reached the door. If she did not leave now, she never would, and she knew she had to.

At the door, she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. One last glance at the man who had taught her voice to soar. He was still watching her, and when he noticed her looking at him he nodded once, as if to say: “It’s alright. Go. I understand.”

Trying to keep her tears at bay, she stepped over the threshold and made her way to the jetty, where the boat lay waiting for her. She knew she was making the right decision by leaving. But then why did it feel as if she was leaving a part of her heart behind?

As Christine steered the boat to the other side and removed herself from his life forever, Erik’s almost inhuman scream of loss and despair echoed across the underground lake. It was a sound that would haunt her for the rest of her days.

#potober #potober 2021 #phantom of the opera #poto fanfiction #poto fanfic #phanfiction #phanfic #eline writes #my writing

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mrs-gucci · 3 years ago

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The Angel, Chapter One: Intel {Flip Zimmerman x biker!Reader}

Chapter One: “Intel”

series summary. The Angels are the newest biker gang in town, looking to dethrone the current high-riders, The Sharks, a notoriously violent gang. Fresh off the Klan case, Detective Flip Zimmerman and his new partner, Detective Ron Stallworth, are tasked with finding out more information about this new gang. After a passionate affair behind the bar with a mysterious woman calling herself Siren, Flip discovers that perhaps he’s a bit closer to this investigation than he originally counted on. Can he manage to use this newly-recruited ally to not only take down The Sharks before they strike again, but perhaps use it to benefit his lonesome personal life as well? Find out all this and more in “The Angel”!

chapter summary. Flip and Ron head over to Ace’s, a local bar in Colorado Springs to gather intel on The Angels, the newest biker gang in town. The young detective gets more than he bargained for when he meets and beds a mystery woman named Siren. Except ‘Siren’ ends up being the last person Flip expected to get intimate with and now, he’s entangled in this case, both professionally and personally.

table of contents. Intel (NSFW) * Saint Siren Turned Sharks Intercepted Epilogue

(a * indicates where you are in the table of contents)

author’s notes: hello, hello! saw a few bikers as I was driving on the highway, and my mind decided that I wanted to write a multi-chap fic about flip with a biker gang reader love interest. I love exploring the whole ‘flip with an independent/dom fem reader’ trope. so, here I am, designating an entire ten chapters to it.

**this multi-chap will have 5 parts total (4 ‘story’ chapters and an epilogue). due to the shorter number of chapters/parts, expect each to be longer, usually between 4-6k words.

word count: 6.1k

warnings: smut. heavy flirting. swearing. a generous amount of dirty talk. degradation. oral sex. reader smokes. use of the term ‘pig’ to describe the police.

(possible) tw’s: tobacco use (as is canon for flip’s character). public sex.

my taglist peeps: @frank-and-honey @shygirl268 (if you’d like to be added to my taglist, the link to the google form is HERE or on the top of my masterlist. I’m also willing to do a series-specific taglist if enough people are interested!)

---

“Alright, everyone. Rumor has it that there’s a new biker gang in town, called ‘The Angels’.” Chief Bridges says. “We gotta be on top of this, make sure they’re not the violent type.”

Flip rubs his chin, stroking his beard as he listens to the limited intel the department has on this new group.

“I’m putting Zimmerman and Stallworth on this one. You’re gonna hang out at some of the local watering holes, see if you can gather some more information on this new group.”

His eyebrows raise and he looks over at his partner. “C’mon Chief, don’t you think our talents could be used elsewhere? It’s just an intel mission, a beat cop could do it.”

“This is incredibly important, Zimmerman, and I only trust my top talent to do the job right.” Bridges crosses his arms, staring daggers at the dark-haired detective. “It’ll be a quick job, I’m sure. No more than a week’s time. Now, get over yourself and do the damn job.”

He huffs softly, nodding as he looks away. “Sure thing, Chief.”

“You’ll head to Ace’s tonight, since that’s where they’re said to hang the most. Meeting dismissed.”

Everyone piles out of the small conference room and back out into the bullpen. Flip lights a cigarette as he sits down at his desk and continues typing up a report from last week’s home invasion-robbery.

Ron sets the ‘Angels’ file down on his desk a few minutes later, sighing as he sits on the edge.

“What are you thinkin’ about this case, Flip?”

“I just wanna get it over with, rookie.” He leans back in his chair, shrugging and taking a drag. “I think it’s nothing to worry about, since they haven’t done anything yet, but the Chief wants us to check it out so I guess we have to.”

Ron nods.

“Well, we’ll head over to Ace’s after work. Hopefully we’ll find something and then we can get back to finding the Sharks.”

The Sharks were the biggest gang in Colorado Springs, spreading violence and dominating the northern part of town. But, all of them wore masks or helmets with masks, so no one’s been able to identify any of them.

“Mmhmm.”

Flip hums, stubbing the cigarette butt out in the mug on his desktop.

Before he knows it, the clock hand lands on 6, and everyone starts packing up. Flip gets up and puts his freshly-typed reports on the Chief’s desk before heading over to Ron’s desk.

“You ready to go, rookie?” He asks, hopping up on his partner’s desk. “I need a fuckin’ beer.”

Ron laughs, shaking his head as he stands up and both men walk back to get the mics and listening equipment together. Flip clips the lauve to his white undershirt, then re-buttons his signature buffalo plaid flannel.

They head out and hop into Flip’s pickup truck. He pulls away from the station and heads down the freeway towards Ace’s while Ron sets up all the audio equipment in the front seat.

The parking lot of Ace’s is almost full when the two detective’s pull in, and when Flip puts the truck in park, he immediately catches sight of a series of bikes parked at the front.

“They’re here.” He says in a low voice, nodding over to the bikes. “I’m gonna go check the jackets to make sure.”

Flip casually gets out from the cab and walks over. He sees one of the jackets draped over the seats with the words ‘The Angels’ and a logo on the back.

“Yup,” He says to Ron through the window of his truck. “It’s them.”

Ron’s eyes widen slightly. “Well then, get in there, partner. See what you can find.”

He chuckles, sticking a cigarette between his teeth and flicking his lighter on as he walks into the bar. His eyes scan the room, looking for biker-like characters, but his attention is quickly drawn to a certain young woman sitting at the bar.

She’s not much younger than himself, if Flip had to guess, and her subtle smile was infectious. Flip was absolutely taken with her, but he maintained his cool, approaching the bar.

“Hey, Earl.” He says, leaning against the bar. “Get me a Miller, would you?”

“Sure thing.” The bartender nods, giving Flip a handshake before heading over to the beer fridge.

You can’t help but look over at the handsome man that’s leaning against the bar. His eyes move over to you, and yours dart away quickly. He smirks, and when you look back over, he gives you a quick wink.

Your cheeks warm as you and the handsome stranger make eyes at each other. You’ve only been in town for a little while, and you’ve certainly never seen someone like him around before.

Once the bartender hands him the dark brown bottle, mister tall, dark and handsome casually makes his way over to where you’re seated. His presence is intimidating in itself, patrons suddenly hushing their voices as he stands behind you.

“Like what you see?” He asks in a low voice, smirking. You chuckle.

“Perhaps, although you don’t have much competition. The human eye is naturally drawn to the most appealing sight in the room and quite frankly, I’m so damn tired of looking at old white men. You were the reprieve.”

“Mmhmm.” Flip laughs, sitting down next to you at the bar, pulling out a cigarette and holding it between his teeth as he flicks his lighter on. “I’m impressed at your ability to spin such a convenient story for your obvious ogling.”

“Don’t act so innocent, prettyboy. Your eyes were not keeping to themselves either.”

You huff softly, taking a drink, the smoke from his latest drag clouding the space between you.

“Perhaps.” He retorts, taking a sip of his beer before looking over at you. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I bet you’d like to know.” You hum softly. “You can call me Siren.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Siren, really? What, is that a nickname or something?”

“Something, yes.”

He’s intrigued by your mysterious and closed-off presence, your casual yet extremely confident demeanor. God, how he’d love to make you crumble on his cock, scream his name and beg him for release.

The thought has him stirring in his Levi’s.

“Phillip.” He says after a beat of silence, taking a drag off his cigarette. “In case you were wondering.”

Back in the truck, Ron shakes his head. “Did you really just use your own name, Zimmerman?”

Flip realizes his slight mistake, mentally kicking himself for not having an alias name already prepared.

Your finger swirls around the rim of the whisky glass. “I wasn’t.”

His eyebrows raise for a moment. He liked this game you’re playing with him, in fact, he loves it.

Finally, a woman giving him the thrill of the chase, making him work for it.

“Are you new in town, Miss Siren? I think I would remember seeing someone like you around here before.”

You nod silently. “Got here a few weeks ago. I’ve got some business to take care of, y’know, tie up some loose ends and such. Then I’ll be out of here.”

“What’s the rush in getting out of here? You don’t like it?”

Your lips curl up into a small smirk. “If I didn’t know any better, it almost sounds like you’re sad to hear that I’ll be leavin’ soon, prettyboy.”

He huffs softly in amusement, although his liking of your nickname for him is much greater than he anticipated or would ever admit aloud. “No, nothing like that. Just curious, is all.”

“I’m more of a city girl. All this fresh mountain air makes me sick.” You quip, smiling softly. “I like the polluted smell of New York much better.”

Flip laughs. “Oh, a city slicker. Yuck.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. He’s kinda cool.

“What, Colorado Springs isn’t enough to convert you, or at least open your mind to the idea?”

He takes one final long drag before crushing the butt out in the ashtray on the bar.

Your eyes linger on his seated figure for a moment before turning your attention back directly in front of you.

“Well, now that I’ve met some more of the locals, I’m thinkin’ about it a little more.”

“Yeah?”

His voice lowers an octave as he leans in a bit closer, one of his large calloused hands now resting on your denim-covered thigh. You shiver slightly beneath his touch, the smell of cigarette smoke and freshly-chopped lumber intoxicating as it ensnares your senses.

“I think you’d like it out here, if you gave it a shot. We’ve got a few things New York can’t offer.”

You’re biting your lip as his husky voice rasps in your ear, his close proximity thickening the tension between you. You haven’t been this rattled by a man in a long time, and damn, it feels good.

“Oh really? And what is that, besides trees and grass, hm?”

His chuckle makes you squirm in your seat.

“Men. Real men. Not the city pussies that gel their hair up all fancy and can’t get a speck of dirt on themselves without throwin’ a damn fit. I mean...”

“Big,” He leans a bit closer. “Strong,” Closer. “Men.”

His lips are practically on top of your ear now, hot breath tickling your eardrum. He smirks. “And that’s all you’ve ever really wanted, isn’t it, slick? A big strong man to take care of you, protect you...satisfy your every whim and desire.”

You can barely see straight, vision blinded by the sheer lust rolling off his tongue. He’s so damn cocky, a real alpha male type, and you were eating it up. You couldn’t wait to break him.

“I’ll have to see it to believe it, prettyboy.” You say, voice unwavering as you turn to look him directly in the eyes with a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lip. “So why don’t you go ahead and prove it, hm? I’d like to see you try.”

His jaw clenches along with his fists, body turning lurching forward slightly to the edge of the chair, now fully facing your side.

“You’re walking an awfully thin line with that trap of yours, slick. I’d watch yourself, ‘cause the folks out here won’t hesitate, like city folk do, to make an example outta brats like you.”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you lean forward a bit, challenging him right back. “Lotta big talk from you this evening, prettyboy, but no action has come to match these claims. All bark, no bite, just like everyone else in this town.”

Flip is hard as a fucking rock, erection urgently pressing against the seam of his Levi’s, but he can’t even focus on that right now. You work him up like no one else ever has before, and he’s not about to let you just leave with the last word. No, he’ll have the last word tonight if it fucking kills him.

“You wanna see some fuckin’ bite, slick?” He growls, standing up and grabbing hold of your jaw, keeping a firm grip on it. “Talk to me like that again and see what happens.”

You grin deviously, wrapping your hand around his wrist, holding it as you remove your jaw from his grip.

“Heard it all before and nobody’s gotten me just yet. You’re no different, prettyboy.”

A twenty is thrown on the tabletop and then you’re leaving.

His blood is boiling, cock twitching with excitement as he lets you walk out of the bar, letting you think you can get away with this. Then, as soon as you’re outside, he strides across the room, flings the door open, and grabs your arm.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

He walks you to the side alley and pins you to the bricks, body caging yours in. You’re breathless and defenseless against him as his wiry whiskers tickle the side of your neck. His legs spread out and his large hands grip your hips as he scoops down, grinding his arousal against your ass with one long, rough stroke.

The denim-trapped bulge presses incessantly against your backside when he stills and lights up a smoke behind you, taking a brief drag, exhaling through his nose.

“Y’know, I work hard all damn day, seven days a week, bust my fuckin’ ass to get shit done.” He stands up again, kicking your ankle so your legs spread open. You gasp softly at his brazen moves, which only fuels his arousal. “I come here to kick back a few beers and have a few cigarettes, relax, unwind…”

His hands yank your jeans down your hips suddenly, then one curls around to cup your clothed mound, lifting up against you.

“But instead of that, now, I have to bring you out here and fuck some goddamn manners into your bratty cunt before I can go back in to finish my beer.”

You can barely formulate words at the moment, his every move dripping with pure power and unwavering dominance. You’re absolutely taken by him, but that doesn’t mean you won’t fulfill your own agenda.

Let him think he’s the boss, that he’s got you wrapped around his finger. It’ll only wreck him harder in the end.

The small jingle of his belt buckle being undone brings you back to reality, as well as his fingers swiping over your clit through the material of your panties. He pulls away for a moment, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, yanking them down far enough so that he can pull his length out.

Luckily, due to his massive body size and the fact that you’re in a dark alleyway behind a dumpster, nothing is too exposed in case someone happens to come by and see the little show about to unfold.

Your panties are torn down your legs quickly and his digits swipe through your warmth. He smirks when he feels how wet you are.

“Now I can call you slick for two reasons.” He chuckles darkly into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I knew you liked this, dirty girl. Bet you’ve been wet all night since I came into the bar.”

His fingers trace over your clit, pressure on and off with his lazy circles, and within seconds he’s got you gyrating against him. Then, suddenly, he pulls away and steps back, hand on your shoulder. He flips you around quickly so that you’re facing him, then forces you back against the wall, flicking his abandoned cigarette away onto the black pavement.

“Why’d you turn me around?” You ask nonchalantly.

He smears some of your fresh arousal onto the tip of his cock, moving it around over his girthy length while his fingers force themselves into your mouth, grabbing and pressing on your tongue.

“I decided that I wanna ruin your disobedient little mouth first. On your knees, use my boots as padding if you need.”

Your legs close and you cross them at the ankle, leaning back against the brick wall freely, arms crossed over your chest. His eyebrows raise and he pulls his fingers out of your mouth.

“Did you not hear me or something?” Flip asks, voice low. “On your damn knees, slick, or I’ll put you there myself.”

Silence. You don’t move a muscle, watching the frustration fester. He leans in suddenly, face real close.

“I’m gonna give you one last chance to do as I say before I force you down.”

Nothing.

His hand wraps in your prettily-done hair, holding the roots just above scalp-level, yanking harshly. He steps back a bit quickly as you cry out, hand on your shoulder, pushing you down as the shock and pain weakens your knees.

Your knees rest on his work boots and his impressive arousal is lip-level, now. He loosens his grip on your hair ever so slightly, still holding you firmly as he rubs his head over your cherry red lips.

“Don’t make me take this from you too, slick.” He warns.

You offer him a cheeky, close-mouthed smile, batting your eyelashes teasingly. He snarls, pulling your hair again, and when you yelp in pain, he pushes his hips forward. His cock forces itself into your mouth and your eyes widen, choking immediately at the sudden intrusion.

Flip’s head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut as your throat contracts around his length. He holds your head, keeping your mouth wrapped around him, and he gives you a quick look of concern, breaking character for a moment.

Once you give him a quick wink and small smile, indicating that everything’s okay, he draws back before pushing forward again. He establishes a consistent back-and-forth rhythm, grunting softly with each thrust of his hips. You’re taking him so well, better than anyone before. Your choking and gagging has essentially ceased within the first minute or so, the quickest recovery Flip has ever experienced.

Look, he knows he’s got a nice cock, there’s no denying it, especially when he’s got women chanting it in his ear on a weekly basis. It’s long and girthy with a slight upward curve that gives him the ability to hit the g-spot almost every time. Plus, he knows how to use it properly.

But, women often have trouble taking him or making him feel good with oral sex because he’s always concerned that he’s genuinely hurting them. A lot of women are also very intimidated by his size, which doesn’t help him in feeling okay about it.

You, however, didn’t say a word, give it a concerned look, or hesitate even a bit when he put you on your knees. You’re something else.

He groans, fucking your mouth even harder, hands on the sides of your head. Your eyes are watering and tears have already begun spilling down your cheeks, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. He looks so incredible like this, restrain and composure slipping as the pleasure begins to consume him.

You do your best to establish a bit of suction on his length, and when a guttural growl emerges from above you, you know you’ve done it. His hips lose their rhythm soon after, cock throbbing in your mouth, meaning he’s close.

He’s panting heavily, spine curling as he fucks your mouth harder, shuddering every once and a while from the sheer amounts of lust coursing through his veins.

Just before his release, he forces himself to pull away, a strangled groan of agony rumbling through his chest as his shaft bobs angrily at the lost orgasm.

“Christ!”

You catch your breath for a moment, but that moment is brief because within thirty seconds, he’s got his hand wrapped around your jaw.

“S-S…” He takes a second to compose himself. “Stand up, turn around, take your panties off and spread your fucking legs.”

This time, much to his surprise, you obey, getting into position with little resistance. He smirks, giving your ass a quick swat before rubbing his head through your folds.

“Mmm, shit, you got wetter just from having your face fucked?”

His chin digs into your shoulder as he lines himself up with your entrance. He pushes in quickly with a long, low groan, then settles inside of you to allow for an adjustment period.

Your eyes go wide and you whimper, walls stretching out to accommodate the large intrusion. Soon, you move your hips a bit, looking over your shoulder.

“You can m-move.”

Flip nods, drawing back before pressing his hips forward again, sighing through his nose as he picks up a steady thrusting rhythm.

“Fuck you’ve got a good little cunt, wrapped around me so goddamn tight.” He growls in your ear, mouth lazily kissing and nipping at your neck.

The burn of being stretched out subsides soon after he begins, replaced with copious amounts of pleasure, jaw slacked as your body jolts back and forth with each powerful movement.

“I can feel you clenching around me, slut...I know you like this. I wanna hear you fucking admit it.” He breathes. “Tell me how good I’m making you--fuck--feel. Tell me how much better my cock feels fucking you than any--goddamnit--other f-fuckin’ city slicker’s cock.”

When he doesn’t get a response, his pace suddenly quickens a bit and one of his hands comes up to wrap around your throat, squeezing experimentally. “Say it, slick, admit it!”

“Y-You, you feel...okay.”

You smirk, eyes squeezing shut when he brushes against a particularly sensitive spot inside you.

Flip huffs. “You’re a fucking brat--god fucking damnit.”

He snarls, hand closing tighter around your neck, lips right up against your ear.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ destroy you, slick. I’m gonna fuck your tight cunt so hard and stuff you so fucking full of my cum, make it run down your fucking thighs when you go home. You’re gonna have to walk into your fuckin’ house with my cum leaking out of you like the dirty slut you are.”

A loud whine comes from your lips, goosebumps spreading like wildfire over your skin at his words. You’re close already, the anticipation and sensations too much to hold off much longer.

“I know you’re lying, slick, I know you love this fucking cock, and I know you’re close. Say it, say it and I’ll make you cum so fucking hard you can’t see straight for the rest of the night.”

He growls into your ear, panting heavily.

“All you gotta do is--shit--say it and I’ll give you what you want, what we both know you want.”

Your walls clench and pulse around his shaft, preparing for your approaching orgasm. But, even though the temptation is sweet, you hold out.

“Eh, I’ve h-had better. You’re really--oh--not t-that big, prettyboy.”

“Fuck!”

His reaction is exactly what you were looking for, hips thrusting impossibly quick as his hands grab your wrists and pin your hands behind your back. Part of him liked this, being called ‘small’ and being taunted, although he’d never admit it to anyone.

“It’s your fucking loss, slick.”

“Oh, is it?” You smirk, adjusting your hips subtly until you find the right spot, crying out softly as you teeter on the edge of orgasm. “I don’t t-think so--fuck!”

“NO! Goddamnit, f-fuck...NO!” He tries to stop your climax, but it’s too late, you’re already there.

“Y-Yes, fuck...yes!”

You’re trembling as you ride out your intense high, his hips pumping you into a delicious overstimulation.

Your release gushes out around him and Flip feels his own climax rapidly approaching, hips starting to lose their rhythm.

Flip’s absolutely pissed that you made yourself cum, allowing his frustration to fuel his thrusts. His teeth sink into the muscle on the curve of your neck, drilling into you as hard as he can manage.

“Brat!”

He snarls against your skin.

“You’re a fucking d-dirty, filthy--yeah, so fuckin’ tight--naughty brat! O-Oh fuck, shit, gonna--fuck goddamnit--cum…”

“Are you gonna cum? Fill me up, prettyboy?”

You clench around him one more time, bringing him over the edge.

“Oh f-fuck, yes, gonna--unnhh!”

Being fully prepared to bury his load deep inside you, fill you up, it took him by great surprise when you suddenly pulled him out of you. His eyes fly open and a choked cry leaves his lips.

“FUCK, N-NO!”

He roars, load erupting out onto the bricks and alleyway pavement instead of inside you. His hips rut forward instinctively as he rides out his high, groaning against your skin.

You smirk, slipping out from beneath his grip, pulling your panties back up over your hips. He’s still panting and recovering from his climax, hands spread on the cool brick of the building, eyes catching sight of his seed dripping down the wall as he redresses.

Before you walk away, you run a hand through his silky black mane. You give it a gentle tug, earning a low growl from the handsome man.

“Told ya, no one’s gotten me yet and no one ever will.” You pat his cheek, giving him a soft smile. “Have a good rest of your night, prettyboy.”

You’re quickly overtaken, within the first few steps of walking back towards the front entrance, by a large set of hands. Flip turns you around in his arms and crashes his lips on yours, pulling you close to him.

At first, you’re taken by surprise, but that lasts for only a few seconds before you melt into his touch, melding your lips with his. He pulls away a minute later, a big smug smirk stretched across his face.

“Good night, slick.”

He walks back towards the side door, lighting a cigarette on his way, leaving you frozen in suspension for a moment. Every inch of your skin, every fiber of your being, is buzzing. You find yourself unable to wipe the small smile off your face as you walk back towards the front of the bar.

You look through the window of the bar as you slip your leather jacket on, then your helmet before swinging your leg over your bike. The engine rumbles, ground quaking beneath it as you pull out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, wind whipping around your body as you disappear into the cool Colorado night.

Flip is drunk on you as he pays for his drinks and stubs his cigarette out in the plastic ashtray on the bar. The damn bastard’s essentially grinning and giggling with joy as he walks back out to his truck, or at least ‘grinning and giggling’ by Flip’s standards, which pretty much just means a small smile.

It’s quickly wiped from his face when he sees Ron in the passenger seat. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that Ron was listening the whole time, and he can only hope that his partner took the headphones off before anything too explicit happened.

He hops up into the cab and immediately, Ron begins chuckling to himself.

“Oh, shut up.”

He says, frowning as he backs out of the parking lot.

“I hope you took the headphones off.”

“So, did you find out anything about The Angels?”

Ron asks, snickering.

“Or did you focus on learning more about the inside of her mouth?”

Flip growls under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“Can it, rookie. We’ll go back tomorrow. And, for the record, I cased the joint when I walked in, and there were no bikers in sight. No one that seemed the type, y’know?”

“Well, the bikes were there. They had to be there, right?”

His jaw clenches, kicking himself for losing focus. Although, he doesn’t exactly regret anything he did with you, he just wishes he had worked the case a bit beforehand.

“They should’ve been there, but I’m telling you, there was no one.”

Ron gives him a look and Flip shakes his head.

“Look, I know what it looks like, but I’m serious. I cased the joint when I went in, and there was no one even close to the basic look of a biker gang.”

His partner sighs.

“I know, and I trust you, Zimmerman. We’ll go back tomorrow, like you said. We should go a bit earlier, maybe try and catch these bikers coming to the bar.”

“Agreed.”

Flip nods as he pulls back into the station, sighing when he puts the truck in park.

“Alright, let’s go report to the Chief.”

The Next Day

It’s another long ass day at the station, although there was a bit of excitement when the Chief went out to his squad car and found the window busted out.

Everyone chuckled to themselves as he flipped his shit, almost as if he’d temporarily forgotten that he was a police chief.

Flip and Ron went out to lunch at the local diner, discussing the ‘Angels’ case, and of course Flip’s back-alley hookup last night, much to the detective’s dismay.

He just resorted to sucking down as many cigarettes as he could while Ron fired off questions, hoping the nicotine buzz would get him through this all quicker. It didn’t.

Finally, with the Chief’s approval, Ron and Flip head out at five to Ace’s in hopes of spotting The Angels as they come to the bar.

Luckily, when they reach the bar, there are no motorcycles in sight. Flip backs the truck into a spot facing where the motorcycles were last night, putting it in park before lighting up a smoke. He and Ron pass the time with some casual chit-chat before the telltale rumble of motorcycle engines.

The first bike comes into view, the leader no doubt, and slowly rolls up to the front of the bar, foot planting on the pavement. There’s something so oddly familiar about this leader to Flip, the way they move, their demeanor in general, but he thinks little of it, determined to actually focus on the case this time.

Once the whole gang has pulled up, Flip grabs his notepad and a pencil, ready to write down the names on their jackets while Ron pulls out his camera. The bikers' engines all shut off almost simultaneously, pavement settling back into the dirt as they all dismount their bikes.

Flip looks at all the names on their jackets, each beginning with ‘Saint’, writing all five of them down before pausing when he reaches the leader’s jacket. It read ‘Saint Siren’, glitter-infused stitching catching in the evening sunset.

No, it can’t be.

Saint Siren reaches up to pull their helmet off, and when they do, Flip is stunned into utter and total silence. It’s you...you’re Saint Siren.

You're the leader of ‘The Angels’.

Ron’s snapping a bunch of pictures as the rest of the gang takes their helmets off, revealing the women beneath each. Both detectives were surprised to see that ‘The Angels’ were all women, considering the general ‘man-ness’ of biker gangs.

Your hair flutters in the gentle breeze as you hang your helmet on the handlebar of your bike, reaching into your jacket pocket for a cigarette and lighter, hand shielding the flame from the gentle breeze.

“Zimmerman?”

Flip faintly hears his partner say, but he doesn’t process it, too focused on the reality hitting.

“Zimmerman!” Ron says, shaking his partner’s arm.

“What’s the matter with you?”

His eyes dart over to Ron, a serious expression etched on his face.

“That’s her. That’s the girl from last night.”

His eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fuckin’ sure!” He snarls. “I only spent all night with her. I’m not that shallow, rookie.”

Ron stifles a laugh. “Uh huh. Well, now we understand why no one could ever figure out who this gang was. No one would ever suspect women to be bikers, much less in a biker gang.”

Your jacket is taken off and draped neatly over the seat of your bike, and Flip quickly tosses his notebook on the dash, clipping the lauve to his undershirt with a sense of urgency. His face is steadily turning redder the more he thinks about it, and Ron can almost see the smoke coming from his ears. He’d be whistling like a damn tea kettle if that were true.

“What are you gonna do when you get in there? Remember what the Chief wants, intel only.”

Flip huffs, buttoning his flannel back up before flicking on the microphone set on the front seat, tapping the top of the machine. “I know how to do my damn job, I know what Chief said. Just be sure to listen and write the important stuff down.”

He hops down, the heels of his work boots reverberating off the pavement as he walks, more like storms, into the bar.

Earl, the bartender, greets him, but he’s already closing in on you. He doesn’t even hesitate, just walking right up to the table you’re sitting at and putting his hand on the top.

“Can I speak with you a minute?” He says in the calmest voice he can muster at this point, staring daggers at you, teeth gritted. “Please?”

All the girls look up at him, then back over at you, awaiting your answer. You stub out the cigarette between your lips before gesturing for Gladys to scoot out of the booth. She does, and you slide out, standing in front of the familiar man.

“Lead the way, Flip.”

He spins around on his heel, then stops, stomach dropping. How do you know that name?

You giggle to yourself as you walk by and out to the alley. He’s hot on your tail, slamming the door shut behind him, bounding down the stairs.

“I figured it out pretty quickly.” You say, twirling your hair as you lean back against the wall, arms crossed in front of you. “After I saw the mic clipped to your undershirt last night. Looked through the yellow pages this morning and found the contact information for one Detective Phillip Zimmerman of the Colorado Springs Police Department. There’s only one other man by the name of Phillip living in this town, and he’s the guy down at the gas station.”

“Could’ve been a fake name.”

Your lips curl up into a smirk. “Yeah, coulda been a fake name, I guess. But I saw the way you reacted when you said it, looked like you wanted to kick yourself in the nutsack. The mic on your shirt tied it all together, and then when I did some surveillance on the station, I saw you.”

Flip isn’t sure if he’s more nervous or impressed by your ability to observe and fact-find.

“I’m not the only one that hid my true identity last night, Saint Siren. Nor are you the only one that did surveillance today.” He growls, standing in front of you. “You’re one of the ‘Angels’, the leader, in fact.”

Your face is unchanging, still wearing a neutral expression, before a small smirk tugs at your lips.

“Congratulations, Detective. I’m a little surprised you didn’t put two-and-two together last night when you read the name on my jacket.”

His eyes widen, which makes you laugh. Had your name really been on the jacket that he’d seen, and he just missed it?

“Saw you not so discreetly snooping around the bikes before you came in last night. You ought to check your surroundings a little more thoroughly before ‘casually’ sauntering by the bikes and leaning over to read the jackets...someone might see you.”

You laugh quietly, shoving your hands into your jean pockets.

He’s pissed, you can tell, but there’s also a sense of respect buried deep within his gaze, and perhaps there’s even a bit of desire mixed in, too.

“I...you’re…”

Suddenly, an idea pops into his head, and the rage suddenly melts away. He could use this to his advantage.

“Join me.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you look up at him. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Think about it, it’s beneficial for both of us. You want to knock the Sharks on their asses and kick ‘em outta town, and I want to stop them from taking over the whole town. We both get what we want.”

You just burst out into laughter. “You’re a funny guy, Detective, thinking I’d ever even consider becoming an informant. Ha! Sure, I hate the Sharks and I wanna kick ‘em out, but I don’t need the pig’s help for that.”

His jaw clenches.

“You’re trying to turn her now, Zimmerman? What the hell are you thinking? INTEL, Zimmerman, we’re here for ANGELS INTEL, not the Sharks.”

He shakes off his partner’s words, staring deep into your eyes.

“You know this is a good idea, I know you do, slick. All we need are some names. It’ll be quick work, and in return, we’ll help you get rid of them and stay off your ass after they’re gone, as long as you don’t start or engage in any violent altercations.”

“Man, you gotta stop. You can’t make promises like that without the Chief’s approval. C’mon, Zimmerman, get outta there!”

“I’m not falling for that bullshit, and I’m not becoming a pig, even if it’s only for a few weeks.” You say, pushing off the wall and standing up straight. “G’night, Detective.”

Flip quickly grabs you before you can even take a step back towards the door, holding your arms as he steps up behind you.

“I never say things I don’t mean, and I never make promises I can’t keep, slick.”

He grabs one of his business cards out from his wallet, teasingly sliding it in your back pocket, giving your ass a quick squeeze. “In case you change your mind.”

Your skin has erupted in goosebumps as you walk back into the bar, overly conscious of the business card tucked into your back pocket, gently poking your bottom with each stride.

As you sit with your crew, drinking and chatting the night away, you can’t stop thinking about this proposal.

The thought of being an informant scares you. The thought of turning on the Sharks scares you.

What scares you the most, though?

You’re ready to get to work.

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bisexualbumblebee-writes · 3 years ago

Text

Lunch- Jasper Badun x OC

Jasper Badun x Angela Young

Description: Jasper takes Angela to lunch, where they learn something interesting about each other.

Word Count: 2.3k

“The full moon's bright. And starlight filled the evening,” came Elton John’s smooth chorus from the radio hanging on the wall of 2nd Time Around. It would have brought a smile to Angela’s face if that hadn’t been the sixth time she heard it in the past two hours. Artie had recently purchased Elton John’s latest album “Captain Fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy” and he brought it into the shop so Angela could listen to it as well. Only problem is their radio seemed to be having problems with it, that song after every other one. At first Angela thought it was just a hiccup, but this was starting to get ridiculous.

“Artie, it’s playing that song again,” she complained, leaning against the counter.

“Hitting it seems to help,” came her boss’s voice from the back room, where he was putting price tags on some new stock. “There’s no one here, just hit it until it skips.” Angela looked around, noting that he was right about both things. She was glad that the store was empty, ever since Cruella revealed that Artie and Angela worked for her at the party she threw, people were more eager to visit their shop. Today was Sunday, no one usually shops on Sundays so today was the first day that Artie and Angela could relax and sort of restock.

Still, that didn’t make her want to do this any less. The girl groaned internally and grabbed the stepladder, setting it up under where the radio hung on the wall. She carefully climbed the steps until she was face to face with that stupid machine and began hitting it in an attempt to make it work properly, trying to ignore the blaring music going straight into her ears.

“We wrote it and I played it, Something happened it's so strange this feeling, Naive notions that were childish,” Elton continued to sing, successfully covering up the sound of bells jingling, signaling that someone had walked in.

“Just skip already you stupid radio,” she grumbled, annoyed. The radio didn’t care about the insult, continuing to play that infernal song.

“Simple tunes that tried to hide it, But when it comes, We all fall in love sometimes.” She groaned loudly, getting ready to hit the machine again when a voice came from behind her.

“I don’t know, I actually found that song quite good,” Jasper spoke, hands going into the pockets of his jacket casually. Angela nearly fell off the ladder, having not heard him enter the store, then faced him.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she greeted, climbing down the ladder and straightening out her dress. “Welcome to 2nd Time Around. I’m Angela, or Angel as in: sent from above.” She gestures to her body with a bright smile.

“That was cute,” Jasper commented with a small smile. “Did Artie come up with that one for you?” Angela nodded.

“I felt a bit left out since he had that ‘Art, as in: work of’ line so he helped me out,” she explained, moving the ladder. “What can I help you with? We just got new stock from Dior, Chanel, and even Saint Laurent. From casual looks for lunch or suits for going out on the town, we have it all,” she explained, gesturing to several racks around them. Jasper let her do her whole spiel, knowing how much she loved coming up with stuff like that, before shaking his head.

“Well I didn’t originally come here for clothes but it seems that your customer service has changed my mind,” he said, making her giggle. “That can come later though. It’s nearly time for your lunch break so I figured I’d take you out to lunch.” Angela smiled internally, touched that he remembered such mundane things in her schedule.

“Well, let me just go click out and I’ll be ready,” she responded happily. He nodded and waited patiently as she walked to the back room, informing Artie that she was going on her lunch break, before clocking out and grabbing her coat. She slipped it on as she walked out.

“Wow, nice coat,” Jasper complimented, making her blush.

“Well thank you, I designed it myself.” She spread her arms out and turned to show him the entire thing.

“Beautiful,” he spoke softly before holding out his hand. “Ready to go?” She took his hand with a nod then called a bye to Artie as they walked out.

“So, how has it been living at ‘Hell Hall’?” She asked as they began walking down the sidewalk. Of course Artie and Angela stopped by Cruella’s new estate for work, but that’s just what it was. Jasper and Horace didn’t like to interrupt the dressmakers while they were working. There was a fashion show coming up so they had to get everything done as soon as possible. With all the chaos at the shop and at Hell Hall, the new couple had no time to see each other. It was surprising to Angela that her boyfriend had come by in fact. This was the first time in a week and a half that they truly got to see each other, and Angela wanted to make that time count. Jasper wrapped the arm closest to her around her shoulders and his other hand went into his coat pocket while hers went into her jacket’s pockets.

“Strange,” he answered honestly. “I lived in that cramped house for 23 years, I had the chance to get used to it. Now, I could get an entire floor of this huge mansion to myself if I just say the word. And yes, Cruella has tried.”

“You’re not used to having so much space,” Angela clarified. The man nodded.

“Exactly. Horace and Estella were always within arm’s reach in case something happened,” he continued. “Now it takes a commute to find either of them. I just- I don’t know…I kind of wish things were how they were. Before I got Estella the job at Liberty, before Estella became Cruella.” He looked at his girlfriend once he finished his rant. She hummed then gave him a patient smile.

“Things like this take some getting used to Jas. You’re a creature of habit, of course you’re not going to get comfortable right away. And that’s okay, I know that Cruella and Horace understand. And about Cruella, she’s always been there from what I understand. She was going to come out no matter what, it was only a matter of time when. She was like a ticking time bomb, but we all still love her either way. That’s what matters, right?” Jasper sighed, he had a love/hate relationship with her logical thought process.

“Besides,” she added. “If you hadn’t gotten her the job at Liberty, she wouldn’t have met Artie and I. Then you would never have met me.” That was enough for Jasper to look at her once more with his usual adorkable smile.

“You’re right. I’d rather die than to never have met you,” he muttered sincerely. Angela smiled and stretched just enough to kiss his jawline.

After walking a few more minutes Jasper finally opened the door of a small restaurant in a shopping strip for her and led her inside. Lunch went by rather quickly, and before they realized, the check had been placed in front of them. Angela went to grab it but Jasper handed the money to their waiter without hesitation. Their waiter thanked them and walked away to put it up, leaving Angela to jokingly glare at her boyfriend.

“Jasper I could have paid, you know,” Angela scolded softly.

“I wanted to wait for us to go on a date so that I could be the one to pay for it, Angela. Like a gentleman, you know. I have the chance to do that now, so please let me.” The girl quieted immediately. She hadn’t thought about that. Rather than responding, she only thanked him and switched the conversation, much to his relief.

“Well, I still have twenty minutes left of my lunch break. What do you say to a small stroll?” She questioned as they stood in unison.

“Sounds great love,” he responded, taking her hand and walking out. They walked a few minutes until they ended up in front of what both of them recognized as Liberty, where a worker was setting up the new display case.

“Oh man, this reminds me of a few months back before I met you guys,” Angela reminisced with a smile. “I was passing by here on my way to work and there was a girl who got drunk and messed up the display case with trash. Man, did the manager look mad.” She laughed, harkening back to that day.

It had seemed like a normal day, since Angela lived so close to 2nd Time Around she usually just walked there everyday. She remembered how hot it was, so she wore short overalls on top of a yellow shirt. On her way there, she passed by the Liberty store, but paused when she noticed a few people crowding the display. That, of course, piqued her interest and she pushed her way to the front, apologizing every few seconds.

There was a woman with red hair who seemed to be asleep on the floor of the display case, empty trash bag in one hand and an almost empty bottle of what looked like whiskey in the other. The man beside her stepped forward and knocked on the window, jolting her awake.

“Why’d you go and sleep in a window?” Someone on the other side of the knocking man questioned dumbly. Oh, Angela had to show this to Artie. Carefully, she took her camera out of her bag and snapped a few pictures shortly before the manager walked out and grabbed her. Angela took the time to check her watch, and her eyes widened. She was going to be late! Before anyone could do anything else a car came screeching to a halt just outside the store, making everyone turn around. And, that was Angela’s cue to leave. She began pushing past people, knocking someone over almost immediately.

“Ah! Bloody hell!” The man groaned out upon hitting the ground.

“Sorry!” She called apologetically, though she didn’t turn back as she ran the rest of the way to work.

While she reminisced, Jasper stopped in his steps, thinking back to when Estella had done that.

“Wait, were you wearing denim overalls that day?” He questioned. Angela was confused by this, but quickly understood where he was getting at and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re the guy that I ran into after the Baroness arrived!” She exclaimed.

“You’re the one who snapped a picture of Estella then fell into me!” He responded in the same tone with a toothy grin.

“Did we seriously meet before we actually met?” She asked with amused disbelief. Jasper shook his head, feeling the same way as her by the looks of it.

“I cannot believe this,” he chuckled as they continued their walk.

“I still have the picture of that,” Angela mentioned. “It’s in my camera roll, I haven’t gotten the film developed though.”

“You know what, I can and will personally go with you to get it developed. That would be wonderful blackmail.” The girl shook her head at that.

“You’re bad,” she answered, though she couldn’t help but smile.

“I guess so.” They walked back to the shop, making pleasant conversation. That stopped when they stepped inside and saw Artie talking to someone very familiar.

“Hello Cruella,” Angela greeted chirpily, unlinking her arm from Jasper’s. “I didn’t know you were coming by. Lots of surprises today.” She took her coat off and began walking to the back room.

“Thought I’d come see how 2nd Time Around was doing now that you guys have publicity. Artie tells me you two have been working overtime,” Cruella responded, resting on her cane. “You could have told me, I wouldn’t have worked you to the bone after work every night.”

“Yes, almost two hundred customers a day,” Artie added. Jasper’s eyes widened as Angela walked back out.

“Two hundred? How are you two still alive?”

“Lots of determination,” Artie responded simply.

“And our new coffee machine,” Angela added, leaning against the counter. Jasper rubbed her back soothingly.

“Well, you guys are closed on Mondays, right? Why don’t you two come over, we’ll have a small sleepover and you guys can sleep in luxury. No offense.” Angela pursed her lips.

“None taken. I think.” Cruella’s usual smirk settled on her face once more.

“Great. I’m sure Jasper doesn’t mind driving down here once you close. Until then I have a few more stops to make. Come on Jasper.” She began walking out, pausing in the doorway to wait for him.

“Come back soon,” Angela spoke softly.

“Of course,” he responded with a sincere smile. “I still have some shopping to do and I heard there was a very cute worker here.”

“I would say that you’re referring to me, but I think that would ruin the moment, huh?” Artie joked, making the others laugh. Jasper shook his head amusedly and leaned down a bit to give Angela a quick kiss goodbye then began following his friend. The two waved as they watched them walk out, then they heard Elton John’s voice ring out once again.

“Wise men say, It looks like rain today,” the same song started for the seventh time.

“Want me to have a go at it?” Artie questioned knowingly.

“No,” Angela shook her head, surprising Artie though she couldn’t see it as her eyes were still trained on the door her boyfriend just left though. “It’s starting to come around for me.”

#Cruella 2021 #cruella #jasper badun #jasper badun x oc #jasper badun fanfiction #jasper badun fanfic #jasper badun imagine

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littlefreya · 5 years ago

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Bad Reputation

Synopsis: Henry and his girl can’t get enough from one another. They keep finding themselves in rather sticky and lusty situations while other actors are present around them. 🤭

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: Smut, thigh riding, exhibition kink, public display of affection, dirty language, slight fingering, daddy kink.

A/N: This is by request made for thigh riding! I see this as a slight sequel to Putting up a Show and Good Girl just because in my mind they are the same couple. Many thanks again to the marvellous @agniavateira for doing the beta! Masterlist is here.

Let me know if you want to be added/removed! Thank you for reading as always :)

PR fucking nightmare - that’s what our managers call us.

They thought it would go away after our first year of dating. But the sad truth is, Henry just loves to touch, and I’m a hot-blooded woman who loves to fuck shit up. Three years in being married and the line is so goddamn blurry by now; I am never quite certain which one of us initiates it, nor do I even care.

I see my bear sitting sprawled across the red leather sofas, legs spread open as he can never keep them shut. I know I’m terribly biased but that black tuxedo suit sure as hell looks great on his strong figure, especially with the crooked bowtie and the beard he’s been growing for his new movie role.

And as if the bad boy vibes and big dick energy he sends everywhere wasn’t enough, the half-empty Grey Goose bottle on the round golden table next to him and the slight sweat that covers his forehead is a red flag that we are definitely getting into trouble tonight.

Bring it on.

Armie is sitting right next to him, telling him about some scheme by the gesture he is making with his hands. But I can tell Henry has other things on his mind. I can feel his eyes looking at me even when I am standing far away. Our gazes meet, he offers me a mischievous smile, showing off the large dimples of his cheeks. This is what I call a wet, slippery invention.

I blush and look away. I mean, I have Rebecca Ferguson holding my forearms. That woman makes me want to invite her into our bedroom, but Henry doesn’t like sharing, not even with women. It doesn’t matter how much I’d pout and beg, he likes me all to himself, and he loves it when others can see that I am his.

It’s always his hand between my thighs, riding up higher, thumb tickling at my clit teasingly. We sat through an entire acceptance speech with him working me hard. If anyone looks closely at that video on Youtube, you can see the exact moment when he hits the spot.

Sorry, Leo, I wasn’t smiling because you won.

This is us being subtle. Hotels and parties, however, are a different story. We already had a manager quit on us because we made sure the entire floor hears what we are doing through the night.

Rebecca kisses me on the cheek, the gorgeous Swedish redhead is already tipsy, and I’ve had my second glass of wine. She’s in a red satin dress, her impressive breasts showing through her cleavage. I also spot a few freckles on her chest. It makes me pout and look at Henry, who shakes his head in refusal.

“Where is your hubby anyway?” she asks playfully, and I point in the direction of where he is sitting. Armie is just getting up, leaving Henry alone. He pours himself some more vodka, fills the glass with ice and then takes a sip with a lustful gaze. That’s probably my cue to keep him company and take that glass away.

That video when he told everyone to get naked will forever be online. He also has a tendency to start making impressions of others when he is flustered, and I can’t contain my laughter when that happens.

“He’s too drunk to get up.” I sigh, shaking my head while he makes playful, sad faces at me. I shrug and take my phone out my purse, seeing two text messages from him.

Henry: “Where are you, babygirl?” Henry: “I want to squeeze that ass.”

I text him back “Armie’s? Go for it. Can we have Rebecca, pleaaaaase?”

He reads my reply, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in complete refusal.

“Not. sharing. you. Do you want me to spank you in front of all these people?”

Rebecca is oddly enough very touchy-feely, her hand sliding down my forearms while she speaks about how wonderful Henry is, and how fun it was to work with him on MI6.

“He’s not like all the other ones, he is an actual friend,” she explains to me, her beautiful green eyes lighting up.

“I know, that’s how he got me, pretended to be my friend for years.” I chuckle, remembering the times we were still just friends. If you look at videos of us from interviews and photos from events from the time we worked together, you’d think we’ve been dating already. He always touched me subtly, his eyes staring at me intently when I speak. And of course, no one cracks him up the way I do.

But Henry waited 5 years for both of us to be single at the same time to “kidnap” me during a walk with our dogs at the forest, where I’d literally be unable to run away. He did that so he can tell me he’s been in love and growing in love with me ever since we met.

I smile at the sweet memory. I held my tears when that word left his lips.

“I’ll come to say hello later, I’m starving,” she says and rubs her belly gently. I nod and lean forward to kiss her, deliberately kissing her soft, red-painted lips for Henry to see. Us girls, we really don’t mind.

As I turn to face him, he is already frowning. He’s not amused by my vexing behaviour. I give him my best angelic posture, batting my lashes and holding my hands together while my head is tilted to the side. In that pale blue and silver dress, I might look like some saint right now, but my darling knows I’ve come from south to heaven.

I make my way to him, walking slowly, a smile both in my eyes and between my cheeks. I can feel the fire burning in my chest, the sight of him is dashing, those thick thighs ever so inviting. He spreads his legs even wider, the bulge in his groin made only for me. He has his pinky finger pressed between his teeth while checking me out.

My body heeds his calling, I’m tingling wet.

I stand in front of him, my cheeks warm as if this is a first hook up of some sort. Henry rises his beautiful blues to stare straight into my eyes. The beaming lights in the hall make his sweaty skin glow in neon pink and gold, his eyes flashing bright as the different colours dance across his face.

“How many of those have you had?” I ask, gesturing at the glass, noticing the half-empty bottle. I hope not too much, I expect to be rammed tonight when we return to the hotel.

He shrugs, putting the glass away without bothering to finish it. He is British, and boy, he can drink a lot. He is not as half as flustered as a different guy would be, but yes, he is certainly quite drunk. Enough to give me that look of his-one eyebrow rising up-while his eyes drink in my dress, cleavage, ass, and that slit that runs from my legs to my thighs.

My friends asked me if Henry is an ass or tits man, to which my answer was “he is ‘all of me’ man.”

“Gotta love women's liberation.” He speaks in a deep, low voice, gesturing at my provocative dress.

“Come to daddy.” He demands, holding out his hand for me to come and sit on his thigh. To which I am more than happy to comply.

I spread my legs, moving to straddle his muscular thigh. There is a burning sensation at my core as my pelvis meets his taut muscle. My body always reacts to his touch. Henry’s hands immediately take my face, thumbs stroking at my cheeks.

“Why do you tease me, beautiful?” he murmurs, his fierce gaze tracing my face, always taken by me, memorizing every freckle and flaw as if it’s the first time we ever sit so close. God, he makes me feel so beautiful even in my ugliest of ugly days.

I lean forward to get even closer, my ass riding up his leg and my hands reach out to tug at his white buttoned shirt. “Oh, Henry-Bear, it’s. So. much. fun.”

Someone sits right next to us on the big red sofa, saying a friendly hello. We answer at the same time, without breaking eye contact. We never bother looking who is the actor, producer, or whatever who moved to bug us. Too lost in our own little mist of admiration. Henry’s fingers descend from my face to my neck, fingers skirting down my neck sensually.

“You know what I love about these ceremonies and parties?” he asks as he leans closer to whisper in my ear and then places a wet, lingering kiss on my shoulder. His chin pushes the straps of my dress away, letting it fall on my forearm as if by accident. I let it glide, shivering as the coarse hair of his beard marks my flesh.

“I get to show you off while you’re wearing these outrageous dresses and everyone knows I am taking you home to fuck you until sunrise.”

I chuckle lustfully, my tongue pressed between my teeth. “Last time we didn’t even make it home remember?” I hum gently, feeling his rough touch on my breasts. The tip of his thumbs circles my nipples, teasing them to harden through the thin fabric of my dress. I wouldn’t give a fuck if Henry had me topless right now and sink his fangs in my tits for everyone to see. But he is far too selfish, I was made for his eyes and his eyes only.

He settles for a “chaste” show, laying a kiss beneath my chin and then pressing his face at my cleavage, inhaling the scent of my body lotion before nibbling at my breast through my dress. His breath smells like vodka-sweet and spicy at once.

“I remember, Cumberbatch saw the whole thing,” he answers, his hands holding my ribs, slightly guiding me to move my body on top of his thigh in ghostlike movements. I am searing hot, my mound feels as if it’s seconds from catching fire. I am certain he can feel it, his blue eyes now hazy and dreamlike as they watch the pink tint that runs through my neck to my cheeks.

“Fuck me, daddy, I am so horny!”

My whisper comes out as half a cry, weak and desperate. My body is a void, it suffers without his touch, it aches when we’re disjointed. I hope we’ll never stop feeling this way toward one another.

“Ride me, babygirl.” he urges me, raising his thigh up higher, so I’ll slide down closer. The friction makes me lose sight for a moment. My vision blurs as I throb wet and hot onto him. Good thing his trousers are black, otherwise, everyone would be able to detect the wetness I am leaving on his pants.

I can’t reject his decree, my body needs him.

“You like it when they watch, don’t you?” he asks me with a slightly slurred voice. His hands glide down to squeeze my ass, assisting me in dancing on the rock-hard muscle of his leg. I am grinding slow and rough, shifting my weight forward, my right hand reaching his other thigh, clawing at him with growing pleasure.

Everyone is looking at us, I am sure, some embarrassed and perhaps even appalled. How puritan of you Hollywood. These people formed their own religion and hidden sex clubs. But I am convinced many enjoy this facade and discreetly salute us, some probably holding out their cameras.

I roll my hips up and clench my inner thighs, whimpering as my body begins to tremble.

It doesn’t matter who is staring while I ride him so passionately, seeking my pleasure with urgency while Henry’s hands support me, saddling my hips and pulling me toward him. We don’t see anyone else. We’re locked into one another, the way we always did, just like when Henry had a girlfriend, when we were “just friends” when I dated that asshole. We’d walk into a room, and it was just me and him, hearts and chest bursting with love.

Every moment we couldn’t have one another was stolen from us, we now fight to own it back.

“I’d sit you on my face in front of everyone, but I think Gretchen would kill us.” Henry half whispers against my throat and then licks up my neck as I lift my chin to the ceiling with gaping lips. He has his hand between my legs, drawing at my centre and sneaking between the slit of my dress to finish the job.

“Fuck!” he teases my clit, his middle finger travelling at my seams. My entire existence shudders. The bass of the music blasts through my chest, my eardrums throb, and my eyes see all the colours of the neon at once as my cunt implodes with orgasmic bliss. Henry steals my gasp into his mouth, his hand pressing my cheeks, crushing my mouth with hunger.

Who could ever hate us for our expression of true love?

I gasp feverishly, holding onto him as if I’m about to fall. Henry’s lips are on my temple and then my cheek. Pressing against me and not moving away. He envelops me in his big arms, a clear statement to all our viewers that I am his and he is mine. We both move our heads to see who's been sitting next to us this entire time.

Alec Baldwin and Jake Gyllenhaal. They pretend not to stare, at least Alec does. Jake gives us a wide, knowing smile. Everyone else has also been staring as I hear the whispers and gasps.

“Really? They did that again!?”

We bump our foreheads together and snicker with delight. Like we ever gave a fuck about being caught. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last. We just can’t get our hands off of each other.

“Better call Gretchen now.” I tell Henry, hanging my arm around his thick neck.

“Before or after I fuck you in one of the back rooms here?”

#Henry Cavill #Smut #Henry Cavill Smut #Henry Cavill Fic #Henry Cavill x OFC #Henry cavill fanfic #Fanfic #henrycavillsmut #henrycavillfanfic #henrycavillxofc #henrycavillfic

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nightlilly0110 · 4 years ago

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Prompt: One person is a professor that overshares, the other doesn’t say anything about their personal life, no one realizes they’re together - Shigadabi

Dabi is an ethics professor while Shigaraki teaches philosophy; their courses are co-requisites, meaning they have to be taken at the same time to get a full credit.

No one realizes they’re together mostly because their students usually see them arguing, most likely about Stain and how the hell are you an ethics professor if you condone murder????

The first time they (Class 1A) walk into Dabi’s classroom they are terrified because this man has most definitely killed someone why is he allowed to be around people???

They get used to him later on, as he’s mostly insightful and only raises his voice to makes sure the back of the room can hear him, but they’re still low-key scared about how he looks.

Shigaraki, on the other hand, acts like he’s on crack most of the time. He’s a feral bastard of a man and they’re sure that even though he dresses nicely there’s no way he picked out those clothes himself and he kinda looks like someone wrestled him into them. His attitude is mostly “I don’t give a fuck but I have to be here so I’m here and I guess that means I actually have to teach well”

Plot twist: he’s actually a really well known academic in the community and has won awards and given speeches and shit. He’s really smart but he doesn’t have anything else going for him. Of course, he didn’t tell them that. They found out because quite a few of their course readings mention him by name and of course they went digging to find out he’s highly respected. He tells them nothing. They only know his last name.

The first time anyone sees the two professors together is when Shigaraki bursts into Dabi’s 8am lecture demanding coffee. Dabi keeps a small coffee machine in his classroom because he understands 8ams are terrible and it’s free for his students to use (it’s the cheap instant stuff but no one’s complaining).

Anything said at 8am is jarring but it is even more so when it’s your rat bastard of a professor kicking open a door with the force of god yelling “COFFEE!”

Dabi, of course, does not give him coffee. Tomura says he’ll fight him for it after a solid twenty minutes of arguing. He immediately leaves and no one has ever heard anything about a fight between the two of them occurring but the next day Shigaraki gleefully walks into their 8am and makes himself a cup of coffee. Dabi doesn’t even stop lecturing and doesn’t even stop to even pretend to notice him. Every day after that, Shigaraki comes in for coffee and sits in Dabi’s chair as he drinks it, (creepily) smiling broadly, while Dabi is walking around and teaching.

Dabi overshares very much so and he is very happy to do it. He loves talking about his husband Tomura and all the stupid little things he does and why he’s in love with him and everything. One time he stopped his lecture to draw attention to the bento box his husband made for him and “isn’t that sweet he cooked it all himself and he hates cooking I love him so much”

His students use that as an advantage to stop hearing about what Plato said centuries ago and just hear cute little things about their professor. Dabi can and will rant for hours about his husband if no one stops him. He will also threaten you if you try to stop him.

The reason no one thinks that Shigaraki and Dabi are married, other than the arguing, is that Dabi always describes his husband as cute and adorable and kind and Shigaraki isn’t exactly that (at least not in public). The other reason is that Dabi always calls him by last name or “Mophead” when they’re in public.

Shigaraki will die before his students wrangle any personal information out of him and he will most likely kill you if you bother to ask him.

And yet, they still ask him. Shigaraki only cocks his head to the side, gives them the widest, creepiest smile he can manage and starts cackling for an uncomfortably long period of time.

There are so many wild bets going on based on what Shigaraki does in his spare time. A few people think he’s part of the yakuza. Kaminari is convinced he’s an escaped demon from hell and that’s why he’s so creepy and why he doesn’t give a shit about anything.

Someone once asked him if he was part of the yakuza and he said “hell fucking no Kai was a fucking mental case but he’s in jail so it doesn’t matter” and said nothing else about it. They wonder who Kai is constantly.

Kaminari said he once saw Dabi and Shigaraki civilly eating lunch together and no one believed him until Dabi once knocked on Shigaraki’s door, stuck his head in the middle of lecture and asked “Lunch?” to which Shigaraki bluntly responded “No, busy” and continued his lecture without even taking a breath.

Mina is the one that suggests that they find out whoever Dabi’s husband is because the man sounds like an absolute saint and they need to see this angel of a man. Bakugou unhelpfully chimes in that “the fucker is making it all up” because he’s mad about his own feelings for a classmate (cough Kirishima cough) and is jealous towards his prof’s happy relationship.

Shouto gets switched into both classes and is in for one hell of a trip when Professor “Dabi” calls him down on his first day yelling “SHOUTO I DIDNT KNOW YOU WERE IN THIS CLASS HI!!!!” because of course Shouto sits in the back with Midoriya.

There is no class that day as Dabi rants about his fantastic baby brother while Shouto falls asleep (on Midoriya, who is blushing) so he doesn’t have to listen to his brother’s rant. That, and he’s real tired.

Shigaraki just gives Shouto a nod, grumbles something about another Todoroki (he did not sleep the night before and he’s about to fall dead) and proceeds with his lecture as usual.

“Okay listen up I’ve got a head cold and this thermos is full of NyQuil. I’m gonna drink this and start talking but the lecture ends when your heads start turning into colourful squiggles” (from that one tumblr anecdote)

Shigaraki falling flat on his face during lecture is completely normal and it’s about as normal as Aizawa with the sleeping bag and he just continues his lecture from the floor after a small “I’m okay.” He’s not drunk or tired or sick or anything sometimes he just needs a good lie down but instead of lying down like a normal person he just splats like an ungraceful volleyball player diving for the ball. Dabi once came in and just stared at him for a while before asking “you good” which prompted Shigaraki to bolt up and shriek at him to get out of his classroom. After Dabi left he plopped down on the floor again. When he does this, sometimes he’ll start giggling for no reason. It’s like hearing a haunted doll laugh at you.

Every time Dabi mentions going out with his husband he gets extremely flustered. The first time it happened, someone asked him how long he and his husband had been married (expecting him to say a few months) and he responded with five years.

When they find out the two of them are married, shit gets fucking crazy. No one believes it. They think their professors are playing a prank on them for asking too many questions about their personal lives until Shouto is just like “yeah no that’s my brother in law”

“YOU KNEW THIS WHOLE TIME AND SAID NOTHING?!?!?!”

“.....was I supposed to?”

Most of their responses to Dabi are “Him????? Really?????”

Yes really because Dabi loves his disaster husband and the next person who says anything about it will fail their final.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #shigadabi #teacher au #professor au #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #dabi #todoroki touya #long post

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spiras-stargazer · 3 years ago

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Hey all!

These are some Hannibal fic Ideas free to any home. I don't have time to write the full story down but I have these Ideas in my head that won't go away. At least this way they're free to live and grow. Take them as you please or don't.

Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham

1. Old West Time Travel - As they fall from the cliff they are teleported back to the old west (in my mind it Red Read 2 Online by Valentine; teleported by old gods or whatever teleports that guy in the single player from the 20's) Will arrives alone and becomes a bounty hunter (moves to Saint Denis figuring Hannibal will end up there.) Hannibal arrives months later and is nursed back to health by the owner of the ranch hand saloon/bar and stays in the area because it's the sort of place Will might like. When a few rude ranch hands go missing and a bounty is posted the two finally meet up again.

2. AU Hannibal did not become a serial killer and he struggles to find meaning or happiness in his life. After meeting with Alana he offers his services to the FBI and is called in to help on the Minnesota Shrike case. He meets Special Agent Will Graham, the rudest man he's had the displeasure of knowing but despite that there's something about the man that keeps drawing Hannibal in. And then someone starts murdering people and deliberately leaving idea kits for inspiration on how to turn the corpses into works of art....'This is Your Design'

3. HanaHaki Disease - after they recover in Cuba, Will is ready to admit to Hannibal that he has feelings for him, but Hannibal has started a rebound relationship with their one of their neighbors, another criminal. (Happy Ending please)

4. Frustrated Hannibal - Hannibal is inconvenienced daily by the depth of his feelings for Will and often walks away from anything they try to do together muttering to himself in Lithuanian. Will thinks he's making Hannibal angry so he turns on the charm. At this rate Hannibal might forget English completely.

5. Merlin AU/reincarnation- Merlin, or Will as he goes by these days, gave up on Arthur ever coming back and moves to America trying to find his place in a world where magic has been all but forgotten. Arthur, or Hannibal now, had been reincarnated but with no Merlin to guide or help save him, Hannibal is forced to save himself and gives in to dark urges of despair and loneliness after the events of his childhood. Fast forward to Hannibal meeting Will in Jack's office. He immediately warms to the prickly profiler because he's the closest person to Merlin he's ever found. When he catches a the familiar flicker of gold in Will's eyes he decides to do everything he can to keep Will close. And Will...well he hasn't met anyone that frustrated him this much since Arth...oh no...(bonus points for Will trying to step back into his servant role and still managing to be the worst servant Hannibal has ever had, but Hannibal realizing he loved Will for it)

6. Dragon Goes House Hunting/Hannibal crossover - Hannibal didn't imagine after leaving his home and the rest of the elves he'd end up in real-estate, finding homes for others when he didn't feel at home anywhere himself. He also didn't imagine that one day a rude blue dragon named Will would be particularly hard to house. Yet here they are, at the 63rd property and he already can tell Will is going to say no. If he didn't know better he'd swear Will is only interested in traveling with him for his company...

7. Lucifer/Hannibal crossover - Hannibal shifted uncomfortably, cell phone in hand "We need to go to Los Angeles." Will looked up over the edge of his tablet, "Whatever it is, order it online." "I...I owe someone a large favor and they have called in their marker." "I'll bite. Who in the world could you owe that kind of favor to? The kind that could get us imprisoned and/or killed." Hannibal visibly braced himself for Will's reaction, "Lucifer Morningstar." Will put the tablet down, "That's...the Devil." "He's apparently now God. He's getting married to a former police detective and wants me to be the head chef at his wedding." Will snorted and picked up his tablet again, "I knew it was only a matter of time before eating all that people meat made you crazy." "Will I'm serious..."

8. Merkin/Merpeople - Will is the demi-god son of Calypso herself and out of all her children, Will is the only one to prefer fresh water to sea water. When the sea goddess tells Will it's time to return to the ocean and come into his full potential, he refuses. Calypso is furious and she lays a curse on Will that forces him to transform regularly into his Merman from and bathe his body in the sea water he dislikes. As the curse worsens, Will calls in sick to work and reschedules his therapy appointments again and again. Worried Will is extremely sick, Hannibal goes out to Will's house and finds the merman trapped in a cramped, hastily constructed large wooden box, lined with trap and filled with sea water, half starved and completely helpless. Hannibal nurses Will back to health and then goes to Calypso to strike a deal to free his beloved from the curse. (Bonus points for Hannibal being a god/spirit of vengeance)

9. Cuddly Will - Hannibal notices Will loves to cuddle up to him but Will refuses to initiate any touches himself so Hannibal makes ridiculous excuses for Will to be close to him.

10. Tailor and the Carpenter - Hannibal always begins a new chapter in his life by taking up a new skill. Music, surgery, cooking, drawing, therapy, art restoration, languages...the safe house in Cuba was where he planned to become a tailor and sell his wares locally, maybe online. He assumed Will would spend his time fishing or volunteering at an animal shelter but then power tools and work benches start appearing in their garage, large pieces of drift wood take over the backyard and the shrill scream of a buzz saw covers the sound of the ocean. However it's all worth it when Will brings in his wild and dark stained crafts.

#hannibal #hannigram #fic ideas #merlin #spoilers #lucifer

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enigma-im · 4 years ago

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What We Do With Shadows Pt.2

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Shadow monster x F!Human Warnings: kitchen sex, fluff, blood mention, minor violence, takes place immediatly after the first

Word Count: 3406

Pt.1

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I wake up a few hours later, glancing at the window, it’s still dark out. I rub my face into the pillow below me, taking in a deep breath. I go to sit up but I'm pulled back down.

"Why are you up," Raguel grumbles against my back. At some point in the night, we have switched to spooning. His arms are wrapped tightly around my stomach and our legs are twined together.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you," I look over my shoulder. He hums before rubbing his forehead to the back of my neck.

"Its alright," He takes in a deep breath," you smell like me."

"Do I? I should probably go shower then," I try to get up again. I didn’t get to do any of my post-sex rituals, probably need to clean the sheets later today. Before I can get far Raguel pulls me back down. Turning so I'm resting on his chest.

"Don’t you ever, stay like this for a while longer or I will bend you over again," he purrs near my ear. Licking the shell as he squeezes me a bit tighter.

I blush," So you really want to do that again?"

He stops abusing my ear," Of course I do. Every day if that’s an option."

"Everyday," I yelp," are you trying to kill me?" he chuckles against me. He flips us over so he is on top, looking down at me with a wide grin.

"I could never, I promised you everything and I don’t intend to lose you anytime soon," he leans down and pecks my nose," Shall I demonstrate my dedication? I can actually take my time this go around." He leans back down for a kiss but I press against his chest.

"I think food and a shower is needed first," I try to argue. He pouts," also I need to go to the bathroom."

He huffs," fine, I shall relent this time. I need to go deal with something anyway. Meet you downstairs for some very early breakfast?"

"Yea, what do you have to deal with," I ask. Instead of answering he leans down and kisses me. He parts but leans back for another, then another. I push him away after a moment, really needing to pee. "Ok Raguel, meet you downstairs," I smile up at him, petting up his chest.

He holds my hand against himself," So beautiful, how often would you say your ex made you smile?" I notice him calling Nick my ex. Which I guess is right.

"Not enough," I answer honestly," Now let's get up, you are distracting me."

He leans down and buries his face on my neck, purring," You are no saint either, laying here naked beneath me."

"I can change if you like," I tease back.

He growls against me," I'd keep you naked here all day if I could. Actually, that sounds like a plan. I'll get us some food and you stay here."

"Raguel," I chuckle," I really need to go to the bathroom." he relents, falling to my side.

"Fine," he huffs. I get out of bed and look over at him sprawled out. He turns his head and gives me a once over, "You should leave now because this view is giving me ideas."

I quickly scurry away, feeling giddy as anyone could be. I trot down the hall, the pep in my step unfamiliar to me. It's an old feeling to be so excited, like a long lost friend. I know when I was first with Nick the feeling with always there but as time went so did the enjoyment. Chalking that up to the plateauing of our relationship. Shortly after the joy of a new relationship just vanished into anxiety and fear. Raguel brought fear but mostly of the unknown. His words brought on confliction and doubt that bloomed into self-determination.

I like Raguel, that's simple. I don't really know where we are going after this. Though he has admitted and confirmed his attraction and devotion the worry still lingers of his true intentions. He cannot be all good, there are no such things as heroes in polished armor ready to save a helpless person. That is just childish of me to assume such a thing, just like it's childish to assume he will be true and kind forever.

I trail out the bathroom in thought though a bit of satisfaction still rests in my chest. I was never one for such raunchy displays but the way Raguel claimed me in front of Nick was all too satisfying to not feel the next day. Walking into my room I immediately notice Raguel's absents. A twang of stress slithers into my brain but I cannot bring myself to fuel the flame this time.

I grab some clothes and dress casually for the day. Making my way downstairs I ponder if Raguel actually requires food. I start on a simple breakfast that’s easily made and shared amongst two people. As I watch the eggs quickly fry in the pan a pair of arms snake around my waist, pulling me flush against a body.

"Smells good," Raguel sways us. A smile forces its way onto my lips, peeling back more as his lips drag along my cheek.

"I didn't know how you would want your eggs so I made them scrambled," I glance at him from the corner of my eye," I hope that is alright."

"whatever you make I will devour it like a starving man," he answers. He snags a piece from the pan before walking away. I watch him for a moment, finally admiring him in the light. His attractiveness is just as appealing now as it was last night. Though his strangeness attempts to trump that allure, it only seems to fuel it. The swaying tail catches my attention though, remembering that curled around my thigh last night.

"See something you like," Raguel purrs. I meet his eyes, having ripped my attention from the lazy swings of his thin tail.

"I-ah-sorry," I blush. Quickly, I twist away focusing back on the food. I shift the food around embarrassed, flustered at the lude images plaguing my thoughts.

Arms curl back around my waist," Now, no need for all that, love. I want your attention constantly, especially when it's with such an open invitation." his fingers slowly slide down my sides, cupping my hips as he pulls them back. "that was an invitation," he licks up my neck," Right?"

I shutter in his arms," It is now," I mumble under my breath. His cocky chuckle brings a chill to my skin.

"Good girl," he purrs. He reaches in front of me, taking the pan off the stove before fisting the hem of my shirt. He curls the fabric slowly upwards, his other hand resting on the newly exposed skin. His warm palm gropes at my stomach, trailing upward with my shirt till he can squeeze at my chest. He growls in my ear, his teeth dimpling the skin of shoulder as he nibbles. His hips nudge my ass, requesting as well as demanding.

"Raguel," I murmur. He tweaks my nipple, brushing the pads of his fingers along the pebbled peaks. Soon his other hand runs lazily down my torso to reach my crotch. He slides under the edge of my pants, cupping my crotch swiftly. Raguel delves a finger between my folds, growling excitedly as he feels my wet heat. With only a few strokes to my begging clit does he change objectives.

As one hand palms at my chest and the other grinding against my crotch Raguel shoves my pants down. As I look down I see the faint wisps of darkness fading away, a snicker coming from behind me.

"I seem to have no patience when it comes to you," he bends me forward," it seems some practice would be in need to conquer the likes of you, temptress." I catch myself on my hands, framing the stove in front of me. The heat of the previously lit top is a completely different feeling to the heat of Raguel's cock nudging at my folds. Within a blink he shoves forward, wasting no time being buried within me.

"Oh god," I clench at the counter, my head falling forward. Raguel's body cradles me against his with a sigh of relief. His fingers flex against my crotch, his chest resting warm against my back. He chuckles, sending hot breath down my shirt.

"God? I thought I was an angel," he laughs," but I guess I like the ring of God just a bit better." I want to scoff at his ego but his retreating cock steals my breath. He forces the air back in with a sharp buck of his hips. He stills once again, sighing against the back of my neck.

Raguel's hips draw back barely a few inches then slapping forward harshly. The slow languid pull-outs are the complete opposite to the demanding bucks forward. It feels almost like he regrets pulling back to begin with, rushing to fill the space he regretfully left. His pace is torturous but words evade me more than ever now. The hand over my crotch grinds oh so well into my clit with every buck. The harsh thrusts making me hump into his awaiting palm. His slow but harsh pace is taking too long, it's becoming harder to keep quiet.

"Raguel," I sinfully groan. The command for more rests on the tip of my tongue but the words refuse to leave.

"Yes, love," he purrs so erotically in my ear. His rumbling voice makes my head turn to mush, flatling my heart as I hear the excitement in his words.

"P-Please," I spill out," please."

"What do you need? Ask your god for anything," he bucks sharply," I'm here solely for your pleasure."

My legs nearly give out at his egotistical declaration. The cocky tone mixed with his devoted words nearly undoes me.

"Faster," I say firmly," please, Raguel."

" Good girl," he growls," your wish is my command."

He pulls out slow once more before thoroughly fucking me. His hip slap against me, clapping at my cheeks loudly. I jolt with every thrust, clenching the counters in a white grip. A drawn-out groan starts lowly in my throat, my insides being set aflame with his cock. I cannot think, only feel as he ravages me. The sensation is only similar to the first time he did this. No one has come close to the way he makes me sing.

"Eva," he murmurs against my shoulder," I need you to cum for me, fuck, please." my eyes rolls at his plead, the change in command thrilling me so. I adore what he does to me but I almost adore more what I do to him.

His fingers flex messily over my clit as he bucks and thrusts into my body. I can't hold on anymore, falling for the climax that bursts from within.

I hold the counter as my legs shake. I faintly feel a hand trail over my arm as I cry out in ecstasy. Fingers card through mine, holding them in a tight grip as I clench around Raguel's now throbbing cock. His choked grunts match with my drawn-out moans. I can feel him shoot his load inside me, adding to my already heart-stopping orgasm. We ride out our peaks, fueling the other with our erotic singing.

Before I can allow myself to think straight Raguel takes me to the floor. Slowly he settles use against the cabinets, our back resting against the cold wood. His arms stay snug around me as I sit lax in his lap. Occasionally I feel him press short peck to the back of my head, nuzzling his nose to my hair.

"We should get up and eat breakfast before it gets cold," I mumble, petting my fingertips over his arm. He hums in answer, pecking my temple with his lips.

"Just a moment longer," he grumbles.

"Don't fall asleep on me now," I tease. He huffs in amusement, swatting my thigh with his tail.

"Not my fault you’re a succubus whose sole purpose is to drain me everything I have," he jokes. I fluster easily at his accusation. I hardly assumed myself to be 'sexy' or 'alluring' enough to be titled as a succubus.

After a moment of cuddling on the floor, we get up. I pull my pants back on as Raguel heads for the cabinets. He grabs two plates and two cups, setting them on the counter. I help out, reaching for a plate to fill with the breakfast I made. Before I can reach it his tail wraps around my wrist and tugs me away.

"No, I got this. Go sit down," he scolds, pointing towards the table. I watch him confused, meals are my job. Nick never wanted to busy himself with such feminine tasks.

"but-," I try to convince him otherwise.

"No," he interrupts," you drain my balls, I serve you food. That’s the deal." I fluster immediately, squirming as I focus on the feel of him still inside me. I want to retort with something, anything, but words fail me. He grins, walking over to peck me on the lips. "Go sit," he whispers. I just nod, turning and walking to the dining table.

Raguel swiftly decorates the plates with an assortment of food then places them on the table. We feast in relative silence, passing flirty glances once in a while. Everything feels so carefree this morning, not a stroke of tension to be found. It's strange in its own right to be so happy when yesterday I was being so blank for what feels like my whole life. Nick took so much out of me that it felt normal to be so out of touch. Only having Raguel in my life for a day has changed so much.

I watch Raguel for a moment, seeing him finish off his sides of berries. He catches my eye as he pops a blueberry into his mouth, he gives me a toothy grin.

"Thank you," I smile back. He leans forward to rest his head on his propped up hand.

"Whatever for, love," he asks. I watch him for a moment more, capturing this scene as vividly as possible in my mind.

"Thanks for being here and… god, for everything really," I shrug. There aren't enough words to capture how I feel at this moment. To have nothing then to have everything is too fulfilling to put into mere sentences.

Raguel's playful grin twists into such admiration it feels like cupid shooting an arrow into my heart. He sits up from the table, rounding it to crouch next to me. He grabs the edge of my seat and jerks it to face him. Then he crawls between my legs, pushing my knees away so he fits perfectly.

Raguel reaches up and cradles my face," I have been in this house for years, haunting these grounds out of boredom more than demand. I have seen a lot in my time, seeing more than you could ever know. Those years have been nothing compared to the past 24 hours. To finally feel your lips against mine, to have your body expertly molded against mine, it's a dream come true. The cherry on top is putting that scum bag ex in his place. I've watched you for some time and last night is when I knew I loved you. Eva, I love you so damn much that it feels like I'm going to burst with it. Thank you, thank you so much Eva for accepting me into your life so easily. I will repay that in full for the rest of my life."

I can't even begin with how touching his words are. My heart aches in my chest with the swelling of emotions, quick to burst at any moment. I have to grab, I have to pull him close and kiss that cocky, arrogant face.

"to the rest of our lives," I smile into the kiss.

"To the rest of our lives," he grins back.

the day turns into a close as Raguel admires the gift resting in his arms. He knows that everything in his life should warn him against having something so special like her. Yet his wants can't be denied, what he wants he gets. That is the way of life, anything worth fighting for is also worth dying for. Not that the threat looms over him but the threat to her still exists in some capacity and that will never sit well for Raguel.

Raguel watches Eva for a moment longer than intended, just too captivated by the human to sneak away. The ideas of his task begin to take hold of his imagination to the point that he can finally turn away from her. With a sigh he forms into a mist, drifting out of the room with ease.

He drifts swiftly through the hall and down the stairs, seeping through the floorboards into the cellar. The dark dank room only has the sounds of dripping water as Raguel converges back into himself. With a flick of his hair, he casually walks into the barely lit room ahead. As he creaks open the door a sharp inhale is heard from beyond.

"Good evening, nick," Raguel grins, meeting the eyes of the exhausted man.

"Please," Nick weeps," I won't tell anyone, just let me go." Raguel crosses the room swiftly, admiring the wet, bleeding man strung up before him. The cruel lacerations decorating his chest brings a thrill to Raguel. The blood that has streamed down his torso is long dried after this morning. It's perhaps time to make some new ones.

"Now why would I let you go," Raguel tilts his head," we have only just gotten to know each other." wisps of smokes spread across the floor, lazily trailing towards Nick. The teasing path leaves enough time for Nick to notice, panting, and writhing against his confines.

"No, please," Nick begs. The tendrils of smoke crawl up his body towards his chest, coalescing against his cuts. They thread through the wounds, expanding once they enter. The reopened lashes pool with blood, drops running down his chest once more. Nick whimpers in pain as Raguel snickers in delight.

"I had a fantastic day with Eva," Raguel starts as he paces the room," she cooked breakfast, which is so nice of her, and we made love on your kitchen floor. I had her screaming my name, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn’t hear it. She even called me god, how fulfilling."

"stop," Nick pleads," you can have her, I won't bother you two again. I swear!"

Raguel tosses a blank look at the man, crossing his arms behind himself as he walks forward. He towers over the injured man with such superiority that Nick would cower if he could.

"Do you believe I need your permission? Do you assume you have some semblance of power here that you can freely give and take choices," Raguel quickly grabs at Nick's chin, forcing his focus on solely him," You do not plague this house with your filth any longer! You had your chance and now I have mine. Eva belongs to me, not because I demand it but because I earned it. Now, remember your place because you have surely earned it as well." Raguel shoves Nick away, his nails biting into the man's cheek before he departs.

As Nick sulks against the far wall Raguel walks over to a corner. He investigates the items in front of him, grabbing a suitable object. He carries it behind his back as he walks back towards nick.

"I'm feeling quite joyful this evening so tell me, Nick," Raguel twists the gardening fork to his front," what're your thoughts on landscaping?"

The cries of pain cannot be heard through the house, not a soul knows about the reckoning happening just below.

As Raguel finishes playing he cleans up and heads back into bed. As he settles under the sheets Eva twists to grab at him, curling into his side swiftly. With a smile, Raguel kisses the crown of her head, pulls her in close, and falls asleep. Both feeling content and safe as a deviant soul clings to life below.

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Did y’all know Raguel is actually a bad dude? When I made him I wanted him to be cocky, arrogant, but a little sweet. With Eva is gentle and patient, if not a little insecure. He has never had to attract someone and he wants Eva to like him. he will protect and love her but to do that he will straight up kill a man. so he is mean and violent, even losing his tempers at times, but with Eva he is sweet and gentle. i like him for that. God, i would love to do a character ask with him, he has so much to him that i haven’t written.

Check out my Archive | Masterlist | Main Blog

#shadow monster #handsome shadow man #exophilia #monster boyfriend #Enigma-IM #what we do with shadows #fluff #Eva x Raguel #raguel

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amateur-authorial-aspirations · 3 years ago

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Another short story! It's about the same length as the last one, around 3k words. I don't have a title for this one, though.

Not sure what trigger warnings to add for this but uh it's about a family that's kinda broken and a mom that was very neglectful, and there's stuff about sickness and hospitals. Oh and food.

~~~~~~~~~~

The only thing I wanted to inherit from my mother was the recipe for her chicken soup.

My mom—well, she did her best with us, I guess, but her best mostly involved working long nights at a lousy job and occasionally showing up at school events to clap for us. The rest of the time, she was either drinking Bud Lights out on the porch or passed out from some combination of exhaustion and intoxication, sprawled on her bed or wherever she happened to collapse. I'd put a blanket over her, sometimes, but usually I was too busy cooking dinner, or helping my younger siblings with their homework, or doing one of the million other things that wouldn't get done unless I did them.

The one thing she always got right, though, was when I was sick. She had crazy good hearing, like an owl or something, and if I so much as sneezed, in an instant she'd have me tucked into bed and a pot of chicken soup on the stove. That soup—dear God, my mouth still waters just thinking about it. It was like she took carrots and celery and a chicken straight from the dirt of a farm somewhere and cooked it in, I don't know, the tears of an angel. A little salty, and just heavenly. And the whole time I was sick, whether puking my guts up in the bathroom or just sniffling a little, she was the perfect mother—she picked Brett and Ashley up from school, cooked three meals a day, helped them with their homework, everything.

Even years and decades after I'd moved as far from her as I could get, whenever I was sick, I'd get an awful hankering for that chicken soup. I'd whine and moan and throw a feeble, snotty tantrum until someone made some for me, and my husband tried, bless his soul, but it just wasn't the same. Sometimes I'd try, too, once I was feeling better, but it was never as good as my mom's, no matter what I did. I thought about calling and asking her once or twice, usually when a bout of illness coincided with a fight with my kids. I'd be aching and shivering, feeling bad enough about my own parenting that I could almost forgive her, and when the craving hit, I'd start to reach for the phone, but—

No. I'd worked so hard to get her out of my head, and I didn't know if I could do it all over again.

I remember it was raining the day Ashley called with the news. I could tell she was upset right away, but when she told me why, I almost dropped the phone.

"Hello?" she said, her voice choked. "Kathy, you still there?"

"Yeah," I rasped, "I'm here. I… I don't know what to say. I mean, cancer? God. Is she okay?"

"Yes. For now, at least. We don't know how long she'll stay that way, though."

"I don't know what to say," I repeated. It was true; I felt like someone had stuck my brain in a freezer.

"Say you'll come see her. And before you say no—"

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Before you say no, think about how much it would mean to her. And to me. To all of us. We could finally be a family again, you know? One last time."

"I'm not putting myself through that so you can get our family picture taken, Ash."

"Come on, Kathy. I know you're mad at her, but—"

"I'm not mad. I just don't owe her anything."

"But—"

"And I don't owe you anything, either."

"Okay, that is not—"

I hung up. Then I threw my phone at the couch. It rang a moment later, but I just took a deep breath in, let it out slowly, and walked out of the room, the tinny music fading as I closed the door behind me. Then it started again.

Brett called about an hour later. I let it ring.

He understood a little better than Ashley, I think, but she was his little sister, the baby of the family. I was sure he'd side with her.

But, after a long talk with my husband and a couple days of stewing, I decided to go after all. I might not have owed my mother anything, but I owed it to myself to not leave any questions hanging. Besides, if she was really dying… it felt bad, felt heartless, to refuse to visit an old, sick woman.

Brett met me at the airport, a box of chocolate in hand.

"Nate with the kids?" he asked.

"Yeah. Those for Mom?"

"No," he said with a small chuckle, "for you."

I quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Honestly, Kathy, you're a saint. I don't know if I'd have come, if I were you."

"You did come, though."

"Yeah, but it wasn't the same for me. Or Ashley. You know that better than I do."

"Well, I'm not here for Mom, anyway."

It was Brett's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"I mean, I'm here to see her, but it's for me."

"And for Ashley?"

"And kinda for Ashley."

We both laughed a little. Then he handed me the chocolate and started loading my suitcases into the trunk of his car.

When we pulled up to the house, Ashley ran out to greet me, but Brett pulled her aside as I went around to the back of the car. I couldn't hear what he said, but her face sank. She nodded tightly and went back inside.

I tugged my suitcase up over the curb and pulled it down a concrete pathway that cut through calf-height grass and weeds to the front of Ashley's one-story, vinyl-sided house that had been painted in a shade of yellow so bright it turned my stomach, though I'm sure my sister thought it "sunny" or some such thing. Part of the roof was sagging on one side.

Looking at that house, part of me couldn't help feeling guilty. I mean, I wasn't rich, and Ashley and her family certainly weren't starving, but it was hard not to draw comparisons to my own home, spacious and immaculate and halfway across the country, and wonder if there wasn't more I should be doing. Not that she'd accept assistance if I offered it; if anything, she'd just get angry, and things between us were already so tense... but, still. I didn't think there would ever come a day that I saw her struggling and didn't want to help.

Lost in thought, I walked in the door and headed straight for the rear of the house, almost passing the small living room on the right, but then a quiet cough sounded. I whipped my head toward the noise, freezing in place as I took in the hospital bed that been set up where a couch used to be. Took in its white-haired occupant.

After a moment, I cleared my throat. "Hi, Mom."

She looked so tiny and fragile lying there, her feet barely reaching halfway down the bed, her skin pale and papery. Nothing like the hard-drinking, loud-talking woman who had stomped through my childhood with the force of a bulldozer, hurtling herself headfirst at anything that dared to stand in her way. No, there was no sign of that woman in this dimly lit room that smelled of sickness and floral air freshener.

"Hi, Kathy," said this person I no longer recognized. "It's so good to see you."

"Wish I could say the same," I blurted before I could think better of it, but she just laughed, a dry, gravelly chuckle that ended in a hacking cough.

"Well," she said after a minute, when she was breathing normally again, "I can't say I was expecting much better, after everything I put you through. And I guess that's what I get for smoking so damn much."

"Wait." My face screwed up in confusion. "Since when did you smoke?"

"Oh, it was a long time ago. I tried to quit for years, but it never stuck until I got pregnant with you. I guess knowing I had someone else depending on me was the push I needed."

I let out a sharp bark of laughter, once again reacting without thinking and immediately wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. Not because I hadn't meant it; I had, but it wasn't like me, to be so sarcastic and mean-spirited. This tired, bitter woman was just as foreign to me as the little old lady she was mocking.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm sure you thought that was a heart-warming story about one time you actually did take care of me, but that's the thing, right? You did get it right sometimes. Which means the rest of the time… that was a choice. And I could forgive you for being weak or sick or crazy, but you weren't any of those things. Like, when I was sick, you were always so good. And I'd eat your chicken soup, and I'd think, maybe this time. Maybe this time she'll keep it up. But then I'd get better, and you'd go right back to leaving us to fend for ourselves, and it would hurt even worse because I knew what it felt like to be taken care of. You know I've got kids now, right? I'm sure Ashley's told you. So I know what it feels like, when you're tired down to your bones and you don't know how to keep going. But still, every single day, I choose to go on anyway, to be there for my kids, because I love them too much not too. So either you just didn't love us enough, or you did, and you still chose not to take care of us. I don't know which it is, or which would be worse. But I know I can't forgive you."

The words had all come out in a rush, as if some long-stoppered bottle of feelings inside me had suddenly come pouring from my lips, getting bigger and angrier as I went, and I had to stop for a second, take a deep breath in, let it out slowly.

"So," I went on, more calmly now, "I'll be here for a week. We'll play nice, for Ashley and her kids, and because we are civilized people. And I really am sorry about what you're going through. But when I leave, I don't want to hear from you again, and I don't want you bothering Ashley about me."

With that, I turned on my heel, not waiting for a reply, and marched down the hall to the guest room.

Only after I closed the door and collapsed onto the bed did I think about who else might have been in the house. I really hoped Ashley's kids hadn't overheard my tirade. Or Ashley herself, for that matter. I didn't like this nasty streak my mother brought out in me, and whatever my feelings for her, being a good sister and aunt was more important.

But when I emerged a little while later, cool and composed and determined to stay that way, I found everyone gathered around the big wooden table in the kitchen, Ashley presiding over it all with a wooden spoon and a hearty laugh.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me in the doorway. "Kathy! Come in, come over here." She was beaming as I made my way past the treacherous tangle of cooking implements brandished by small hands to where she stood at the stove, stirring a sizzling pan of vegetables. "So," she said in a low voice, one that no one else would hear over the general hubbub, "things went well with Mom? Brett seemed to think there'd be some… unpleasantness, but she said you guys talked? Worked things out?"

I cast a wary glance to where my mom sat at the table between Brett and Ashley's husband Blake, but her attention was fully occupied by her grandchildren and the silly song they were singing as they worked on their "cooking."

"Yeah," I said with a small, sad smile, "I guess we did." And we had, I supposed, if not in the way Ashley hoped.

The rest of the visit flew by in a whirl of babysitting and doctor's visits and pasted-on smiles. Before I knew it, the last day had arrived. My flight out was scheduled for late afternoon, but I woke early, intending to take a walk in the cool darkness just before sunrise, for the fresh air and exercise and much-needed time to myself. But when I went to open the front door, something felt off, and I realized I couldn't hear the snoring that that had echoed through the small house every night this week.

With a gasp, I turned and rushed to my mother's side. "Ashley!" I shouted as I fumbled for the switch on the lamp and tried to remember what little first aid I knew. Running footsteps clattered along the floor, then stopped somewhere behind me. "Ashley, I don't think she's breathing."

"Oh, dear God," said Ashley, and then her phone was out and she was talking to someone.

The minutes that passed before the ambulance arrived felt like seconds and hours and days all at once. Blake was there, he was doing something I vaguely recognized as CPR, but I had no idea if it was working. Then it was flashing lights and paramedics in uniforms and Ashley had to stay with the kids so I was the one climbing into the back of the ambulance, and the siren was blaring as we raced through the streets and swerved around corners, everything swaying and rattling as I clung desperately to my mother's hand.

When we got to the hospital, they carted her off through a set of swinging doors, and all too soon it was just me, standing alone under the fluorescent lights, shaking. The air around me seemed to pulse, and the too-clean antiseptic smell of the hallway had me ready to vomit.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring in shock at the big red letters on the smooth metal doors. NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT. It felt like forever.

But it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before Brett was there, wrapping me in his jacket and leading me to a chair. I think there were tears in his eyes, but I was too numb to cry. Or to talk. So we just sat there in silence, his arms around me, until Ashley came in with a million questions that I couldn't even process, much less answer. Everything the paramedics and doctors said had shot right past me in a blur of unintelligible sound. Ashley seemed about ready to shake me in frustration, but Brett took her to look for the doctors who would have the answers I couldn't give her. He left me his jacket, but I still missed his comforting warmth.

A few hours later, I was sitting on a hard plastic chair in a cold, drab room, watching over my mother as she slept. She looked even stranger now, with her face all calm and peaceful, content in a way I had never seen her before. In my lap was a tray from the hospital cafeteria, a styrofoam bowl of steaming-hot soup at its center.

Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, and I leapt to my feet in excitement, launching the tray from my lap and dumping the soup all over the floor.

"Ah!" I exclaimed, looking frantically around the room for something with which to mop up the rapidly spreading puddle of broth. "I'm so sorry, I just wanted to bring you soup, like you always used to make me when I was sick, and I know it's not the same, but I just thought… well, and now I've gone and made a mess of it, haven't I?" My gaze locked on the box of tissues on the bedside table, and I practically lunged for them, but I was stopped by a gentle touch on my arm.

"Forget about the mess, Kathy, just come sit next to me." My mother gestured to the chair that was closest to her bed, and I sat down obediently. She let out a small, quiet laugh. "Goodness, I'd almost forgotten about the chicken soup."

"I don't know what you put in it, but that soup was the best thing I ever tasted."

She looked up at me sharply, confusion etched in the lines of her face. "What?"

"Don't worry, I'm just reminiscing, not trying to weasel any secret ingredients out of you."

This time, her laugh was raucous. "Secret ingredients? Kathy, the only secret ingredient in that stuff was a can of chicken soup from the supermarket."

Now I was the confused one. "What?"

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry if you thought I was making some special family recipe, but you must've got that idea from some fever dream. Don't you remember what a terrible cook I am? The only things I could ever make came out of cans or boxes or little plastic packets."

After a moment, I couldn't help but laugh as well. "Yeah, that sounds about right. I probably should've known."

I ended up missing my flight and staying for an extra week. Mostly, I stayed at the house, helping Ashley with chores or the kids, but I visited the hospital a few times, too.

When I finally got home, a small, white envelope was waiting for me in the mailbox, my name and address scrawled across the back. Careful not to tear it, I peeled open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of lined paper covered in the same messy handwriting.

Mom's Chicken Soup

Ingredients:

1 12-oz can of condensed chicken soup

1 canful of water

Combine ingredients in saucepan and heat over medium high, stirring occasionally, until warm and bubbling slightly. Let cool to your desired temperature and serve with a side of high fever and delirium.

On the back was a brief note.

Thought you should have at least one family recipe.

With a small smile, I tucked the paper back into the envelope and turned to go inside, my heart feeling strangely light and heavy at the same time. And as I looked up to see my two beautiful, wonderful children come running out to greet me, I couldn't help feeling that my front door was not the only one that had just been opened.

#short story #realistic fiction #food tw

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swanlake1998 · 4 years ago

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Article: Julie Felix: the brilliant Black ballerina who was forced to leave Britain

Date: March 3, 2021

By: Steve Rose

(CW: racism, anti black racism, police brutality, violence, murder mention)

She was told there was no room for a ‘brown swan’ in the London Festival Ballet, so she went to the US. There she found enormous success, dancing for everyone from Michael Jackson to Prince

The turning point in Julie Felix’s career came in 1975. A student at Rambert ballet school in London, she was selected to dance in Rudolf Nureyev’s production of Sleeping Beauty with the London Festival Ballet (now the English National Ballet). Nureyev was the god of British ballet – and he lived up to his reputation on the first day of rehearsal, Felix recalls. “He was late, but everybody said he was always late. All of a sudden, the doors flew open and in he came. He was well renowned for these big boots he used to wear, and a big fur coat. He took the coat off like a matador and threw it so it slid across the dance studio floor. Everybody jumped up and stood to attention. He was there for probably about half an hour.” At the time, 17-year-old Felix was awestruck. In hindsight, half a century later, she is less impressed: “Talk about unprofessional.”

In the fairytale version of Felix’s life, having acquitted herself on stage with Nureyev, she would have joined the London Festival Ballet and become the first Black British dancer to begin her ascent through the ranks of a British ballet company. Instead, she was told she was a “lovely dancer”, but was not going to be given a contract, “because of the colour of my skin. I would mess up the line of the corps de ballet, because you can’t have a whole row of white swans and then there’s a brown one at the end.”

Felix was stunned: “It hit me like a thunderbolt.” Her mother was white British and her father African-Caribbean, from Saint Lucia. She had never thought of the refined world of ballet as being what we might now describe as institutionally racist. “It sounds ridiculous, but because I didn’t experience any racial issues or difficulties before that, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the colour of my skin. I thought that I was talented and that would be enough.”

Having grown up in Ealing, west London, in the 60s, Felix certainly knew about racial difference. She rarely saw any faces that were not white in the neighbourhood or at school, she says. After her parents had met on a bench in Hyde Park, her mother’s family disapproved. “They said: ‘If you marry that man, we’re going to disown you.’ And my mum just said: ‘Well, fair enough, I still want to marry him.’”

Her father, who worked as a foreman at the Hoover factory, was quite the charmer, says Felix. “He was the proudest man. He would paint the front door a different colour every year. He was always up the ladder washing his windows. He would grow fruits and vegetables in the back garden. But I would say my dad had a big chip on his shoulder.”

She describes how he would dress like a dandy, in 40s suits and spats, even if he was just going to do the shopping. “He would always berate the grocers and say: ‘You’re picking the bruised fruit and vegetables because I’m Black. You think I can’t see this?’” She laughs. “Why would you move somewhere if you’re going to spend your life being concerned about the way other people look at you and your colour?”

There was an incident when she was eight or nine, when her father returned from work very late, his shirt ripped and covered in blood. A colleague had attacked him outside the factory gates with a meat cleaver on a chain. “He didn’t like, one, the way my dad spoke to him and, two, because my dad was Black,” she says.

Culturally, the Felix household was “100% British”, she says. She had no connection to her Saint Lucian family, although she would see her British grandparents in Essex regularly (relations had thawed when Felix’s elder sister and she were born). Musically, her father liked American crooners such as Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole; her mother preferred classical music and had once aspired to be an opera singer. “So, when it came to my wanting to dance, there was a local ballet school around the corner in Ealing that I would go to, and Mum said: ‘Well, as long as you keep working hard and you’re enjoying it, I will fund it for you.’ She wasn’t a pushy, stereotypical ballet mother, but she knew that I loved it. And because she’d been stopped doing what she wanted to do, she was there 100% for me.” When she passed the audition for the Rambert, her parents could not afford the fees; Felix won a grant from the Inner London Education Authority, which paid 75%.

Felix says no one is “born to dance”, but, as a student, her passion for ballet was boundless. “I can remember the feeling of waking up in the morning, earlier than I needed to, getting on the underground and going into Notting Hill Gate, where the school was. I was the first one in the door. The cleaner was still there.

“I could not get enough of it. My friend and me would stretch and practise our fouettés in the lunch break. We’d be the last ones out of the building. Get back on the train, go home. My feet would be bleeding. I’d have blisters all over my toes. And I didn’t care. I just knew this was what was required. I soaked my feet in salt water, dabbed surgical spirit on them to get the skin to heal and get them dried out so that I could get up the next morning and get on that train again.”

After all her dedication, being rejected for her colour was devastating. “It didn’t last long, mind you,” she says. “Part of my personality is: sink or swim. And I thought: ‘I am not going to sink here.’ So I just flipped it around and just said: ‘Watch me. I’m going to show you I can do it.’”

She didn’t have to wait too long. The previous summer, the Dance Theatre of Harlem (DTH) had come to perform in London. This was a pioneering Black ballet company founded in 1969 by Arthur Mitchell, the first top-flight Black dancer in US ballet. While they were in town, Felix went along, auditioned for Mitchell and was immediately offered a contract. She declined. When her teacher at Rambert found out, “she absolutely hit the roof”, Felix recalls. “She said: ‘You can’t pick and choose. You’ve been offered a job!’” Fortunately, the DTH returned to London a few months after her Nureyev experience. Felix auditioned and was offered a job a second time. She did not turn it down.

This time, Felix’s skin colour was to her advantage, although working with an all-Black company in the US was a curious reversal: “I’d gone from all of my ballet training, and growing up not really being aware of anything to do with Black people, to going to New York and there’s no white people.” Before relocating to New York, Felix had never had a passport, left the UK or flown in an aeroplane.

“Within two weeks of being there, Arthur Mitchell said to me: ‘We’ve got to knock the British out of you.’ And I took umbrage, because I’m really proud of being British,” Felix says. In retrospect, she knows what he meant: “It was the wishy-washy way I approached my technique and my ballet training. But it wasn’t just about that; it was everything that Arthur Mitchell taught and portrayed and wanted us to portray within our work. He wanted to show that Black people really can do this.”

DTH’s sense of purpose aligned with Felix’s own. She stayed with the company for 10 years, earning her place as a soloist and touring the US and beyond (including a satisfying return to the Royal Opera House). Life in the US put British racism into perspective, says Felix. In her first week in New York, she witnessed a young Black man being shot dead in the street by two white police officers for shoplifting. A touring performance in Mississippi in 1978 had to be cancelled because the Ku Klux Klan staged a protest outside the theatre, in white hoods, burning cross and all. “No words can describe that feeling,” she says.

There were more good times than bad, though. Felix shared the stage with, and danced for, luminaries from Ronald Reagan to her hero, Luciano Pavarotti. She danced with Lionel Richie to All Night Long at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics closing ceremony; visitors to her shows included Michael Jackson and Prince. Jackson wanted to cast the dancers in his ill-fated Peter Pan movie, she says. He came to a matinee in Pasadena, California, supposedly incognito, but in full Jackson regalia: black sunglasses, Jheri curl and military-style outfit, with a complement of bodyguards. “I was annoyed, because I was there to deliver the performance, but you had all these girls screaming in the audience,” says Felix. “Anyway, after it finished, he came backstage and said to us, very, very quietly: ‘I really enjoyed your performance. I just think you’re fantastic.’ What a humble man.”

A year later, Prince came to a show, by coincidence at the same theatre. He was similarly “incognito”, in a sequined, hooded purple cape. He never took the hood down. “At the end of the performance, he got back in his limo and left and didn’t say thank you, hello, anything. Really quite rude.”

By 1986, aged 30, Felix was beginning to feel the physical toll of ballet life. She also missed home. She returned to the UK and became a teacher and remedial coach for Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet, first in London, then in Birmingham, where the company relocated when it became Birmingham Royal Ballet, in 1990. She married and had three daughters (none of whom followed in their mother’s footsteps).

She then became head of dance at a local school. Now it was her turn to “knock the British out” of her students. “They don’t seem to know how to really push themselves,” she says. “Ballet is really painful. If you don’t feel that, then you’re not doing it properly.” Ballet has also always required a highly specific form of physicality, Felix points out. “It needs very arched feet, it requires good natural rotation of your hip sockets, a slender body, long, lithe muscles, long neck, small head.” Regardless of talent or musicality, she says, dancers who do not conform to this body type will struggle. Perhaps it is this inherent discrimination that has made other forms of prejudice easier to disguise.

British ballet has made some progress since the 70s, but it could do more. Birmingham Royal Ballet, for example, had a successful workshop programme with local schools, whose pupils were often from Black, Asian or minority ethnic backgrounds, but such programmes seem to have “fizzled out” as a result of local authority budget cuts, Felix says. On the other hand, there are institutions such as Ballet Black, which advocates for diversity in professional ballet. At the time of its founding in 2001, there were still no women of colour performing in any British company. The Royal Ballet recruited its first Black, British-born male dancer, Solomon Golding, only in 2013.

Felix is not convinced British ballet has turned the corner: “I still believe that we’ve got ballet companies who will take a few people of colour just to be politically correct.” However, she was heartened by the appointment of the Cuban-British dancer Carlos Acosta as director of Birmingham Royal Ballet in 2020, although the pandemic has so far curtailed its activities. While all British arts are vulnerable at the moment, ballet – with its high demands for time, labour, space and personnel – is especially so. Now based in Cornwall, Felix has made do teaching over Zoom for the past year. She is not complaining: “It really is a lovely place to be locked down.”

Felix’s skin colour began as a factor that counted against her, but it became an animating force in her career and led to a wealth of experiences and successes she might otherwise not have had. With that satisfaction, the anger she feels for her 17-year-old self being told her brownness would “mess up the line” has mellowed a little. “Their choice of not accepting me enabled me to find something within myself that I probably would never have known was there,” she says. “And then to open up this whole world for me. So I can say that hatred was turned to gratitude.”

#article #julie felix #ballet #anti black racism #racism #murder mention #police brutality mention #antiblackness tw #violence tw

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