At Least We're Together (4a/?)
anonymous
January 3 2011, 01:49:38 UTC
The model was being a right bitch, and Bel of the Infinite Good Humor was about five seconds away from shaving the girl’s head and being done with it. It didn’t help that the five-thirty shoot had been delayed because a certain someone had not shown up and not called, and now all the photographers and models were jittery with coffee and snappy like the bitches they were frequently stereotyped as.
Suddenly, Bel turned her head as she noticed a small commotion at the door. Everyone seemed to have lost their bad humor as they simpered around the man, Mauve's Head Fashion Coordinator, who had just come walking in half an hour late like everybody should've thanked him for arriving at all. The sad thing was, they did. “Ah, Francis,” Bel murmured to herself, almost fondly. “How nice of you to join us.”
Francis smiled as someone shoved a proof under his nose, giving his approval after a quick glance-over. Another woman wanted his opinion on the fall line they were debuting in the magazine, and with a sigh, Francis riffled through the rack of clothing as if it wasn’t his job or anything.
“That’s … that’s Francis Bonnefoy, isn’t it?” The model under Bel hissed, practically clawing the chair under her in eagerness.
“No, honey, it’s the pope. Now shut it.” Bel gave the girl a final hairspray and told her to scoot, which she was only too happy to do, skipping to the string of women around Bonnefoy, all cooing for his attention. He groped a couple out of politeness, kissed their cheeks, and listened to their empty platitudes with an indulgent smile.
Bel hummed to herself and rearranged her makeup. Cutthroat, those girls, all waiting for a chance to snatch the Great Francis Bonnefoy’s heart away, have him make them the next covergirl and it model. Because, as ridiculous as it seemed, he did have that power.
Only proof that God had a sense of humor.
“Mon cherie,” Francis purred, and Bel smiled as she felt his familiar hand at her waist, sliding over the curve of her hip. “Oh how I’ve missed you.”
“Oh Francis,” She set her eyelashes to maximum ironic flutter mode, and turned in his arms, “It’s like I haven’t seen you in … hours.”
“I would like to take you in the janitor’s closet, now,” He growled, within full hearing of everyone.
“Oh you beast!” Bel sighed softly, resting her hand on her full breasts, just straining out of the old t-shirt she wore when she had to work with hair dyes. Damn thing must have shrunk in the wash.
“Non? How about my office, in five, then?” Francis raised an eyebrow.
Bel couldn’t blush on command, so she settled for swooning. “I … I should file a sexual harassment claim but … okay. As long as it remains our secret.” She whispered loudly, well aware that everyone on the floor were watching them.
Francis smiled, and then he winked, and Bel certainly decided that she liked the smile better. Taking her hand, he bowed over it extravagantly, and declared, “Bel, mon ange, in this barren desert, you are like a succulent oasis.”
Bel nodded slowly, biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. Around her, some of the women even had the audacity to sigh longingly, unaware that Francis’ last statement was clearly an insult to all of them. Francis held onto Bel’s hand for another second, longingly, and then was called away by photography personnel.
At Least We're in This Together (4b/?)
anonymous
January 3 2011, 03:36:31 UTC
Bel is a fan of trashy romance novels. She giggles at them.
Immediately, the whispering started.
"Y-you know Francis Bonnefoy?" The model Bel had been working on approached her with a look of awe. Funny how moments before she had been shrieking at her for flipping her hair the wrong angle. "Like, intimately?"
Bel concealed her cat-like smirk as best she could as she turned with an innocent expression on her face. "Oh, you don't, honey? Oh, he's a sweetheart." She purred. "Sometimes just tires little ol' me right out."
"Can you, like, introduce us?" The model smiled, baring her straight, white teeth (teeth that Bel imagined could rip a lesser girl to shreds).
"I'd love to," Bel smiled, very, very sincerely. "Okay, bye bye now." She cooed as she walked away, purposefully, to Francis’ office, making sure to give the models, photographers, and magazine layout personnel watching an extra-saucy smile. Ooh, they were steaming with jealousy.
Sometimes Francis' playboy image was tiring for her to maintain. One could only find so many synonyms for 'cock' when describing, in graphic detail, the 'long lovemaking sessions' they had shared to the girls at the watercooler. But since Francis was an old friend and all, Bel supposed that she could make that sacrifice. Next time they went drinking, though, he owed her an extra-nice bottle of wine. The rumor she had spread about his orgy over the weekend? Pure gold.
Bel opened the dark wood door of Francis' and closed it behind her with a faint click, setting her makeup case on the floor with a 'I'm here' couch. Francis was laying on the black leather couch in the middle of his office, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Bel?” He inquired softly as she entered, stirring.
“Your virgin sacrifice is here and awaiting her ravishment, my good sir.” Bel chirped.
Francis gave a weak smile, sitting up briefly so that she could slide in next to him. “Would you believe me if I told you that I have been waiting for this moment ever since I stepped foot in this office?”
“Since you just walked in twenty minutes ago … yeah, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” She maneuvered him until his back was to her and began slowly rubbing his shoulders. “You know, you’re gonna have to start having fake sex with more people than me if you’re gonna retain your image. Right now, it just looks like we’re … dunno … going out or something.”
“Me with one woman?” Francis gave a mock-gasp, but it sounded a touch bitter all the same. “It can’t be.”
Bel hummed, dragging her thumbs down Francis’ shoulder blades in a way that made him groan with pleasure. Hm, that was for the nosy people listening at the door. “So why the total event this morning? I know you're not the most punctual of people, but ...”
Francis mumbled something and sank further into the cool leather of the couch.
“Hm?”
He shifted his head so that he could speak. “It’s … my wedding anniversary.”
Francis shrugged under her hands and turned his face back into the couch. Quietly, Bel continued rubbing his shoulders, running her palms up and down his skin in what she hoped to be a comforting way. They were … old cronies, her and Francis, back when they were both nobodies in the fashion industry, bumming around Paris. For the longest time she thought he was gay, which was not such a farfetched conclusion given the field they worked in.
Now Jeanne … that was a tragic tale. A Cinderella story of sorts, set when Francis had just started making it big and was shooting into almost-brand recognition as a designer. He had been a bit cocky, in Bel’s memory, and he really did live up to the reputation he had now as a shameless philanderer. And then he met Jeanne.
At Least We're in This Together (4c/?)
anonymous
January 3 2011, 03:51:16 UTC
Francis was late because he was putting flowers on his wife's grave T.T
She was gorgeous, but only he saw it. An angel with wide blue eyes, flawless skin, and a weak disposition. Desperately unsuccessful, both because of poor management and her own lack of ambition, Jeanne had been ready to quit modeling until Francis took her under his wing. He cut her hair, put her in boxy men’s clothing, cultivated an image and a personality that she followed obediently.
Jeanne ... his Jeanne was an overnight success. Cover of every major magazine, runway in Paris, Milan, Beijing, Francis’ idol, because it seemed like he designed every piece for her and her alone. And the unthinkable happened.
Francis fell in love.
And two years after she had become the major fashion icon for her generation, Jeanne announced that she was retiring from modeling, standing beside her husband, Francis. Wild speculations immediately began circulating, that he was a controlling, manipulative spouse so obsessed with his wife that he wanted to keep her from the rest of the world.
Bel knew the real story. The last time they talked before Francis’ and Jeanne’s painfully small wedding, Francis had told Bel that he had done a terrible thing to Jeanne, making her such a success. She had … a weak heart and the constant stress and criticism of being a model was too much for her. He hoped that by giving her the quiet life she had always wanted would be enough to make amends.
And then the baby … oh, both Francis and Jeanne had been so happy … until they found out that having the child might possibly kill her. Frantic, Francis had tried everything to convince her to abort the fetus, but Jeanne, a Catholic despite everything, told him calmly that her baby was a gift from God.
Nine months later … Matthew was born. And Jeanne died.
Francis never designed again. Accepted a job at a fashion magazine in America and flew himself and his son there. Sick of the press hounding her as well, because by then she was well-known as a “friend of the family”, Bel migrated in the same direction.
Face buried in the couch, Francis mumbled something again.
“You’re gonna have to speak up, kiddo.” Bel tapped him on the back of the neck, and he shuffled himself around, until he was leaning on one elbow.
“I said, I think my son hates me.”
“Matthew?” Bel exclaimed. “But he’s such a sweetheart!”
“Mattieu.” Francis said sternly, stubbornly clinging onto the name on his son's birth certificate, not the one that everyone else actually knew how to spell. “And yes. He has been … so strange lately. Will not meet my eye, will not talk to me …”
“Ah,” Bel nodded knowingly. “Puberty?”
“He’s five, cher.”
“Then I got nothin’” She shrugged. “Sorry, babe, all I’m good for is backrubs and fake sex. And some hair and makeup on the side. You know, as a hobby.”
Francis smiled and leaned forward to kiss Bel briefly on the cheek. “Merci, cher.” When he pulled away, she was staring at him with a strange, almost soft expression. “I owe you everything. Just ask.”
“Oh, Francis, there is ... something I want ...“ Bel sighed, moving closer, she reached out a hand and gently placed it on the back of Francis' head, running her fingers gently through the hair at the nape of his neck.
Alarmed, Francis began backing away, only to find that he was blocked by the armrest of the couch. “B-Bel?”
Bel looked at him, eyes wide with longing. “Can I cut off your ponytail?”
The model was being a right bitch, and Bel of the Infinite Good Humor was about five seconds away from shaving the girl’s head and being done with it. It didn’t help that the five-thirty shoot had been delayed because a certain someone had not shown up and not called, and now all the photographers and models were jittery with coffee and snappy like the bitches they were frequently stereotyped as.
Suddenly, Bel turned her head as she noticed a small commotion at the door. Everyone seemed to have lost their bad humor as they simpered around the man, Mauve's Head Fashion Coordinator, who had just come walking in half an hour late like everybody should've thanked him for arriving at all. The sad thing was, they did. “Ah, Francis,” Bel murmured to herself, almost fondly. “How nice of you to join us.”
Francis smiled as someone shoved a proof under his nose, giving his approval after a quick glance-over. Another woman wanted his opinion on the fall line they were debuting in the magazine, and with a sigh, Francis riffled through the rack of clothing as if it wasn’t his job or anything.
“That’s … that’s Francis Bonnefoy, isn’t it?” The model under Bel hissed, practically clawing the chair under her in eagerness.
“No, honey, it’s the pope. Now shut it.” Bel gave the girl a final hairspray and told her to scoot, which she was only too happy to do, skipping to the string of women around Bonnefoy, all cooing for his attention. He groped a couple out of politeness, kissed their cheeks, and listened to their empty platitudes with an indulgent smile.
Bel hummed to herself and rearranged her makeup. Cutthroat, those girls, all waiting for a chance to snatch the Great Francis Bonnefoy’s heart away, have him make them the next covergirl and it model. Because, as ridiculous as it seemed, he did have that power.
Only proof that God had a sense of humor.
“Mon cherie,” Francis purred, and Bel smiled as she felt his familiar hand at her waist, sliding over the curve of her hip. “Oh how I’ve missed you.”
“Oh Francis,” She set her eyelashes to maximum ironic flutter mode, and turned in his arms, “It’s like I haven’t seen you in … hours.”
“I would like to take you in the janitor’s closet, now,” He growled, within full hearing of everyone.
“Oh you beast!” Bel sighed softly, resting her hand on her full breasts, just straining out of the old t-shirt she wore when she had to work with hair dyes. Damn thing must have shrunk in the wash.
“Non? How about my office, in five, then?” Francis raised an eyebrow.
Bel couldn’t blush on command, so she settled for swooning. “I … I should file a sexual harassment claim but … okay. As long as it remains our secret.” She whispered loudly, well aware that everyone on the floor were watching them.
Francis smiled, and then he winked, and Bel certainly decided that she liked the smile better. Taking her hand, he bowed over it extravagantly, and declared, “Bel, mon ange, in this barren desert, you are like a succulent oasis.”
Bel nodded slowly, biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. Around her, some of the women even had the audacity to sigh longingly, unaware that Francis’ last statement was clearly an insult to all of them. Francis held onto Bel’s hand for another second, longingly, and then was called away by photography personnel.
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Immediately, the whispering started.
"Y-you know Francis Bonnefoy?" The model Bel had been working on approached her with a look of awe. Funny how moments before she had been shrieking at her for flipping her hair the wrong angle. "Like, intimately?"
Bel concealed her cat-like smirk as best she could as she turned with an innocent expression on her face. "Oh, you don't, honey? Oh, he's a sweetheart." She purred. "Sometimes just tires little ol' me right out."
"Can you, like, introduce us?" The model smiled, baring her straight, white teeth (teeth that Bel imagined could rip a lesser girl to shreds).
"I'd love to," Bel smiled, very, very sincerely. "Okay, bye bye now." She cooed as she walked away, purposefully, to Francis’ office, making sure to give the models, photographers, and magazine layout personnel watching an extra-saucy smile. Ooh, they were steaming with jealousy.
Sometimes Francis' playboy image was tiring for her to maintain. One could only find so many synonyms for 'cock' when describing, in graphic detail, the 'long lovemaking sessions' they had shared to the girls at the watercooler. But since Francis was an old friend and all, Bel supposed that she could make that sacrifice. Next time they went drinking, though, he owed her an extra-nice bottle of wine. The rumor she had spread about his orgy over the weekend? Pure gold.
Bel opened the dark wood door of Francis' and closed it behind her with a faint click, setting her makeup case on the floor with a 'I'm here' couch. Francis was laying on the black leather couch in the middle of his office, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Bel?” He inquired softly as she entered, stirring.
“Your virgin sacrifice is here and awaiting her ravishment, my good sir.” Bel chirped.
Francis gave a weak smile, sitting up briefly so that she could slide in next to him. “Would you believe me if I told you that I have been waiting for this moment ever since I stepped foot in this office?”
“Since you just walked in twenty minutes ago … yeah, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” She maneuvered him until his back was to her and began slowly rubbing his shoulders. “You know, you’re gonna have to start having fake sex with more people than me if you’re gonna retain your image. Right now, it just looks like we’re … dunno … going out or something.”
“Me with one woman?” Francis gave a mock-gasp, but it sounded a touch bitter all the same. “It can’t be.”
Bel hummed, dragging her thumbs down Francis’ shoulder blades in a way that made him groan with pleasure. Hm, that was for the nosy people listening at the door. “So why the total event this morning? I know you're not the most punctual of people, but ...”
Francis mumbled something and sank further into the cool leather of the couch.
“Hm?”
He shifted his head so that he could speak. “It’s … my wedding anniversary.”
Immediately, Bel ‘s voice grew softer. “I’m sorry, Francis.”
Francis shrugged under her hands and turned his face back into the couch. Quietly, Bel continued rubbing his shoulders, running her palms up and down his skin in what she hoped to be a comforting way. They were … old cronies, her and Francis, back when they were both nobodies in the fashion industry, bumming around Paris. For the longest time she thought he was gay, which was not such a farfetched conclusion given the field they worked in.
Now Jeanne … that was a tragic tale. A Cinderella story of sorts, set when Francis had just started making it big and was shooting into almost-brand recognition as a designer. He had been a bit cocky, in Bel’s memory, and he really did live up to the reputation he had now as a shameless philanderer. And then he met Jeanne.
Reply
She was gorgeous, but only he saw it. An angel with wide blue eyes, flawless skin, and a weak disposition. Desperately unsuccessful, both because of poor management and her own lack of ambition, Jeanne had been ready to quit modeling until Francis took her under his wing. He cut her hair, put her in boxy men’s clothing, cultivated an image and a personality that she followed obediently.
Jeanne ... his Jeanne was an overnight success. Cover of every major magazine, runway in Paris, Milan, Beijing, Francis’ idol, because it seemed like he designed every piece for her and her alone. And the unthinkable happened.
Francis fell in love.
And two years after she had become the major fashion icon for her generation, Jeanne announced that she was retiring from modeling, standing beside her husband, Francis. Wild speculations immediately began circulating, that he was a controlling, manipulative spouse so obsessed with his wife that he wanted to keep her from the rest of the world.
Bel knew the real story. The last time they talked before Francis’ and Jeanne’s painfully small wedding, Francis had told Bel that he had done a terrible thing to Jeanne, making her such a success. She had … a weak heart and the constant stress and criticism of being a model was too much for her. He hoped that by giving her the quiet life she had always wanted would be enough to make amends.
And then the baby … oh, both Francis and Jeanne had been so happy … until they found out that having the child might possibly kill her. Frantic, Francis had tried everything to convince her to abort the fetus, but Jeanne, a Catholic despite everything, told him calmly that her baby was a gift from God.
Nine months later … Matthew was born. And Jeanne died.
Francis never designed again. Accepted a job at a fashion magazine in America and flew himself and his son there. Sick of the press hounding her as well, because by then she was well-known as a “friend of the family”, Bel migrated in the same direction.
Face buried in the couch, Francis mumbled something again.
“You’re gonna have to speak up, kiddo.” Bel tapped him on the back of the neck, and he shuffled himself around, until he was leaning on one elbow.
“I said, I think my son hates me.”
“Matthew?” Bel exclaimed. “But he’s such a sweetheart!”
“Mattieu.” Francis said sternly, stubbornly clinging onto the name on his son's birth certificate, not the one that everyone else actually knew how to spell. “And yes. He has been … so strange lately. Will not meet my eye, will not talk to me …”
“Ah,” Bel nodded knowingly. “Puberty?”
“He’s five, cher.”
“Then I got nothin’” She shrugged. “Sorry, babe, all I’m good for is backrubs and fake sex. And some hair and makeup on the side. You know, as a hobby.”
Francis smiled and leaned forward to kiss Bel briefly on the cheek. “Merci, cher.” When he pulled away, she was staring at him with a strange, almost soft expression. “I owe you everything. Just ask.”
“Oh, Francis, there is ... something I want ...“ Bel sighed, moving closer, she reached out a hand and gently placed it on the back of Francis' head, running her fingers gently through the hair at the nape of his neck.
Alarmed, Francis began backing away, only to find that he was blocked by the armrest of the couch. “B-Bel?”
Bel looked at him, eyes wide with longing. “Can I cut off your ponytail?”
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