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gascon-en-exil · 3 years

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Who Can Say if I've Been Changed For the Better?: Ferdibert Does Wicked

This concept has been a bit in building. It started from a much-loved cover by Hubert and Ferdinand’s VAs inspired by their support line and the broad observation that these two are a musicals couple who absolutely would sing their feelings in all manner of theatrical AUs. It continued through my later observation that there’s ample material to carry that idea even further, albeit with a shift outside of Crimson Flower for a better tonal match. Still, I’m not quite sure what to call this project; it’s not really a headcanon nor is it fanfic by any means. I’ve written a handful of longform character/narrative explorations before, although when it comes to FE I’ve previously been inspired to do so only for Jugdral characters. That setting is somehow both underdeveloped and deceptively dense - and I suppose in a way you could say the same of Three Houses as well, insofar as it’s been incredibly popular for fan content of all sorts.

Regardless of what this post is in terms of my fandom output, the following isn’t exactly a Wicked AU as such. Rather, it’s how I would envision a hypothetical blend of the non-CF routes of FE16 centering around the Eagles trio and set to the structure and songs of the musical as organically as possible. There are no 1:1 analogues with characters and plotlines from Wicked, because few if any would exist without a lot of tweaking; to use the VA cover example, Ferdinand might be a decent proxy for G(a)linda, but the mere presence of Edelgard substantially complicates Hubert’s claim to the Elphaba role. The similarities only unravel further from there, but I did my best.

Writing this out gave me the opportunity to play around with Edelgard’s character as a way of addressing what I and many others in my circle have long considered to be some of the major problems with her canon presentation. For Ferdibert meanwhile I got to make use of my headcanons for how their relationship would develop outside of their support line, in a way that mostly preserves Hubert’s delightful evil wickedness. Add some ruminations on how one would splice together the non-CF routes in a dramatically satisfying fashion, some snark directed at the non-character of Byleth, and a bit of background Dimidue/Lions OT5 for spice and that just about sums it up. Enjoy this…whatever this is.

Act I

“No One Mourns the Wicked”

The show opens on the citizens of Adrestia celebrating the death of their emperor and the end of her bloody war. Ferdinand rides in, resplendent on his steed, and is hailed as the new Duke Aegir as he relates to the crowd the news of Edelgard’s death at the hands of the combined army of liberators. The “Are people born wicked?” flashback sequence is replaced with a summary mostly in pantomime of Edelgard’s backstory: the Insurrection, her being taken to Faerghus and then returning, and then being experimented on by the Agarthans before agreeing to work with them. Notably Hubert is not named or referenced anywhere in this song, appearing only as a boy at Edelgard’s side at appropriate times during the flashback.

“Dear Old Shiz”

Someone in the crowd finally brings up Hubert, the emperor’s vile and murderous minister, and accuses Ferdinand of having been his friend. With Ferdinand even more flustered than Glinda since his “It depends on what you mean by friend” definitely carries sexual undertones, so begins the flashback to Part 1. There’s an equivalent intro of Garreg Mach, so one may feel free to insert any headcanons for school songs here. The following dialogue scene establishes the student body in general and the dynamic of the Eagles trio in particular: Ferdinand pompous and eager to one-up Edelgard at any opportunity, and Edelgard and Hubert cold and dismissive toward his antics and just about everyone else for that matter. Edelgard is instantly enamored of the quiet new professor, of course. Because the room assignment conflict doesn’t make a lot of sense with the monastery’s setup, instead Ferdinand is incensed that Edelgard is chosen as the Eagles’ house leader over him even though it’s been ages since a Hresvelg has attended. Neither Nessarose nor Morrible has an exact equivalent (although Seteth can act in Morrible’s role as the academy’s main authority figure), so the segue into the next song ends there.

“The Wizard and I”

Now alone together, Edelgard and Hubert have a brief dialogue outlining their villainous plans for the school year. This establishes Hubert’s hypercompetency but also how detached and professional Edelgard is around him. Then comes the song, now “My Lady and I,” which serves as Hubert’s character introduction. In tones more sinister than Elphaba ever reaches - you know he’d have fun with “When people see me they will scream” - he outlines his history with his lady, that he delights in serving her because she validates his work ethic and gives him an outlet for his ruthlessness and cruelty. Where Elphaba fantasizes about the Wizard removing her green skin, Hubert instead goes full Nice Guy, believing that once he’s given Edelgard her continental empire and crushed all her enemies she’ll be so grateful that of course she’ll put out for him.

“What Is This Feeling?”

You could rip the tone of this one directly from the Ferdibert C support and change nothing - homoerotic subtext included. I like the thought of Hubert replacing Elphaba’s deadpan one-word summation of Galinda with a mocking imitation of Ferdinand's most memetic line: "He is Ferdinand von Aegir!". The chorus can be made up of any number of other students excluding Edelgard, who’d happily agree that Hubert is ugly, creepy, and downright unpleasant.

“Something Bad”

The content of this song and surrounding scenes would have to be completely altered, but they work as a necessary reminder that the plot of Part 1 is still going on in the background of all the school drama. Seteth runs through the major events up to Chapter 9 of the game, including the bandit threat, Flayn’s kidnapping, and the experiments on the Remire villagers. The audience/accompaniment for this exposition dump ought to be Dimitri and Claude with Byleth as a silent observer (more on them later), with Edelgard brushing off the news and eventually being the one to shut down the song as Morrible does. There could be some small side character moments in here as well particularly involving the Lions and Deer since they get so little focus in this story.

“Dancing Through Life”

Speaking of which, this was an awkward sequence to place. It matches up chronologically with the ball in Chapter 9 and the main part, Fiyero’s, is a dead ringer for Sylvain and his flirty, hedonistic nihilism (“Nothing matters / but knowing nothing matters!”), but it’s hard to tie into what’s going on with the Eagles trio particularly with the Ferdibert timeframe preserved, i.e. unlike Elphaba and Galinda they don’t become closer until after the timeskip.

As such I see this song as an opportunity for little vignettes with the other students: Dimitri angry over how Dedue’s talked about and hoping they can share a dance (fitting contrast with the coldness of Edelbert), Felix prickly between Dimitri’s recent outbursts and Sylvain’s showboating, Claude hinting toward the bigger picture with Hilda flitting between her excitement over the dance and knowing more than she's letting on, Dorothea casually taking note of Edelgard’s fascination with Byleth (see just below), Bernadetta as a wallflower who doesn’t want to be disturbed (a setup for Act II), etc. Thanks to one of the Forging Bonds events in Heroes I had the thought that the "You/we deserve each other" through line that later gets attached to Nessarose can become one for Dimitri's relationships, with Felix initially throwing it out at him and Dedue and the two of them then turning "We deserve each other" into a romantic line...and then an ironic one and finally a triumphant one come Act II, by that point with Felix et al included as well.

I’m not sure that the following scene of Galinda and Elphaba bonding on the dance floor really needs an equivalent, although it could be altered to something Edeleth-related. In any case Ferdinand ought to get a dance scene of some nature, so he can try to show up Edelgard as he brags about in canon.

“Popular”

It would be a travesty to have a musical starring FE16’s cast and not give Dorothea and/or Manuela a solo. This song works quite well for the former, and it doesn’t intrude on the Ferdibert development with the aforementioned timeframe and how the lightly sapphic vibe doesn’t translate well to two guys. Dorothea has taken note of her good friend Edie’s crush on their mysteriously wooden professor, and she senses the opportunity for a makeover. Not as exaggerated as Dorothea trying to make over Hubert, naturally, but I still think this works out well. Also, Galinda’s observation on leaders, “Did they have brains or knowledge? / Don’t make me laugh! They were popular!”, is darkly comedic when said to Edelgard.

“I’m Not That Girl”

This song comes with preceding dialogue scenes for setup, so those first. Edelgard emerges fresh from her makeover (given her general hot for teacher fixation, I’m thinking she’d lean pretty hard on the naughty schoolgirl look) to Byleth silently grieving Jeralt’s death - bad timing there. She’s as callous about it as she is in canon, only now with more clumsy flirting, and while it’s impossible as always to tell if Byleth notices or cares Hubert most certainly does. The scene segues into the Eagles trio together, with Edelgard alluding to the upcoming events in the Sealed Forest and indicating that Hubert should meet up with her later for some more villainous scheming after he’s ditched Ferdinand. Ferdinand, indignant about being left out of the loop as he is in canon, grumpily points out that he was a much more splendid dancer at the ball than Edelgard, makeover or not. To his utter surprise, Hubert acknowledges that this is true before leaving. This leads into the actual song, altered from homoerotic via triangulation of desire to an outright sexual awakening for Ferdinand. He realizes that part of his jealousy toward Edelgard is that he wishes Hubert were devoted to him instead, and tells himself not to get his hopes up because he’s, well, not that girl or even a girl. We shall of course leave aside how anyone could be attracted to someone as repulsive as Hubert; that’s part of the inherent comedy of this pairing.

“One Short Day”

This was the hardest song to place in this whole project. The touristy trip to the Emerald City just doesn’t have an analogue in the story of Three Houses, especially not late in Part 1 when tension is mounting toward the upcoming reveal and war. It took me a while to realize that it works wonderfully as an Edeleth piece: Edelgard invites Byleth to Enbarr for her coronation, but that scene is left offscreen in favor of a light romp through the city that further highlights Edelgard’s crush as well as her emotional immaturity in spite of everything she’s about to do. She just wants to have a fun day out and take in the sights and eat sweets with her beloved teacher, and it’s all very “Edge of Dawn”-esque where Edelgard knows she’s about to do terrible things that will change everything forever and hopes to prolong the time until she has to take that step. Adjustments to the lyrics could even work in reference to that song to make the similarities more apparent. An awkward/funny issue here is that I envision Byleth to be totally silent throughout this musical with no sung or spoken parts, which would naturally make them having a duet impossible and make Edelgard’s fascination with them even weirder. Even their gender should be left ambiguous throughout, somehow never confirmed if it’s m!Byleth or f!Byleth. It would take a lot of reworking, but I can see the value in it.

“A Sentimental Man”

The core of the Wizard’s character is not all that different from Rhea’s. Both were thrust unexpectedly into positions of authority that required them to enact a large-scale deception to maintain their power/safety, and both are driven somewhat by parental feelings. The tone of the Wizard’s songs doesn’t align well with Rhea, but once you cut out the vaudeville and do some rewording I could see this one working as Rhea addressing her child (among other things) Byleth at the Holy Tomb just before the Flame Emperor reveal. Of course the dramatic irony hits differently; Rhea knows who and what Byleth is whereas the Wizard doesn’t learn about Elphaba until the end of the show. Nonetheless this would still establish Rhea’s character and motivations as well as set the stage for the impending betrayal.

“Defying Gravity”

Said betrayal being Byleth’s, who decides to stand by Rhea and condemn Edelgard as the Flame Emperor when she arrives with her army. This is another song in parts that would need to be broken up. Edelgard gets the bulk of it, but the middle sections between Elphaba and Glinda could work as a kind of separated duet with Edelgard and Hubert attempting to convince Byleth and Ferdinand respectively to join them. Because of Byleth’s silence only Ferdinand can reply in song; only he and Edelgard add the “my friend” bit to the end of this segment, to illustrate the unevenness of Edeleth and Ferdibert at this point in the story. Then things turn to full bombast, albeit darker than in Wicked proper. Edelgard does the belting, Hubert’s sinister laughter reverberates below her (would it be too tasteless for him to be leering up her skirt the whole time?), Ferdinand has Glinda’s mournful “I hope you’re happy!” toward Hubert, and through this and the reprise of “No One Mourns the Wicked” the major events of the timeskip are enacted in pantomime or silhouette. Byleth tumbles off a cliff, Rhea is taken captive as is Dimitri but Dedue rushes after him, and Claude makes a tactical retreat. Side note: “And if I’m flying solo, / at least I’m flying free” is classic Edelgard fixating on Byleth and forgetting that Hubert exists.

Act II

“Thank Goodness”

A surprisingly tough one here. The core of the song, pivoting around the double meaning of “I couldn’t be happier,” suits early Part 2 Ferdinand perfectly, second-guessing his choice and, outside of CF, melancholy about fighting his homeland. In terms of plot it’s an easy translation too, with the crowd announcing the terrible things the Empire has been doing to win its war - persecuting believers, abducting civilians and turning them into Demonic beasts, consorting with inhuman shadowy figures who can disguise themselves as ordinary people - and the assembly working as a way to bring together the leads of the three routes: Byleth, Dimitri (who had Dedue always at his side and thus never had a full psychotic break), Claude, and Seteth, with Ferdinand representing the Adrestian resistance. It’s only the wedding announcement that’s hard to pin down, and I toyed with a number of ideas including Dimidue making yet another public declaration of devotion to one another or Ferdinand planning to follow through with his arranged marriage to Bernadetta they have in their supports (which makes more sense in light of the following sequence). In the end though I don’t think the marriage element is strictly necessary, leaving the song as a means of catching up with the cast five years later and seeing them united against Edelgard - with Ferdinand’s private regrets the only sour note.

“Wicked Witch of the East”

More a dialogue than a song, but still important. Bernadetta is arguably the Eagle other than Hubert most comfortable supporting Edelgard, because all Edelgard has to do is put Count Varley under house arrest for Bernadetta to sing the emperor’s praises. I can also see her as the same sort of self-centered, negligent ruler that Nessarose becomes in Wicked, not because of an unrequited attraction but because of her reclusive desire to be left alone. I see this scene playing out as Hubert surprising Bernadetta at her estate, angry about rumors that she may be helping the rebels and/or engaged to Ferdinand if going with that plot point after Edelgard has done her the favor of locking up her father. He’s fully prepared to, ahem, “persuade” Bernadetta, but before he can break out the torture implements Ferdinand arrives asking for her to support the rebels’ cause.

Farcical, sure, but it gets the two of them together again after five years and underscores how strong their UST has become in their time apart, with Hubert too flabbergasted to attack a known enemy and Ferdinand expressing how happy he is to see Hubert again despite everything. Each learns that the other isn’t as happy about his chosen path as he’d hoped, in Hubert’s case because his lady has grown ever more distant from him as the war has dragged on. Bernadetta cuts through the tension by bringing things back to the song (sort of) and blurting out that she knows both sides are marshalling their forces near Gronder Field. Ferdinand is too caught up in the fraught romance angle to do more than leave with this new information, but Hubert recovers enough to condemn Bernadetta for her flagrant misrule (venting by inference his frustrations toward Edelgard in the process) and resolve to set her on fire for her treachery.

“I’m Not That Girl (Reprise)”

The Gronder rematch happened offscreen - and Bernadetta was indeed set on fire - and on the Imperial side Edelgard is left increasingly frustrated over her losses and hurt that Byleth still refuses to listen to her and continues to fight her regime. You may notice that I’ve shuffled around the middle of Act II, necessary at this point in order to better line up with FE16’s story and Hubert and Edelgard’s separate narrative climaxes while also ensuring that those climaxes don’t overlap too much. This song is only a brief reprise, but it’s a significant one; Hubert finally realizes that Edelgard will never love him. It’s also kept gender-neutral, because Byleth.

“As Long as You’re Mine”

That segues naturally into this moment. Ferdinand sneaks into Enbarr using his unexpected stealth powers (I usually talk about Dedue having them, but Ferdinand shows he’s no slouch in his Mercedes supports) and encounters Hubert. Their UST boils over in a furor of awkward, impassioned sex and also this song. I like the idea of rewording some of Fiyero's lines to incorporate Hubert's acidic snark: “Maybe you’re brainless, / maybe you’re wise.” It’s all very desperate and sensual, ending with Ferdinand taking Elphaba’s line about feeling wicked for the first time - which will have a dark reverberation two songs from now.

“Wonderful”

Again, axe the vaudeville and it’s a solid Rhea song. There’s just the small problem of Rhea being captured at this point in the plot; I thought about moving this number toward the very end at first before reconsidering. While Hubert and Ferdinand are rolling in the sheets, a distraught Edelgard confronts Rhea in prison. Rhea responds to Edelgard’s frustrations with Byleth with her backstory in song, much more somber than the Wizard but, like him, still willing to rehabilitate her estranged listener. The bits of this song about the nature of history are especially relevant to what Edelgard falsely believes about the church and what she views as her own legacy, so I could see this as an interesting character study on what Edelgard actually wanted with her war apart from dragon genocide. There’s a lot that could be done here in the dialogue surrounding those revelations.

“No Good Deed”

However the interrogation of Rhea turns out, Edelgard takes a leaf out of SS Dimitri’s book and visits Byleth alone at the monastery, only to be as harshly rebuffed as is possible to be without the rebuffer speaking. Then comes this song, which was incidentally the one where I realized that Edelgard would need a major role in FE16-does-Wicked even with the Ferdibert focus. Hubert fully embraced his evil wickedness long ago and wouldn’t think twice about being wicked or being perceived as such, but Edelgard is a different matter. Here she breaks down, admitting that her good intentions were largely selfish and that she regrets that her war has cost her any relationship she could have had with Byleth (continuing the joke at his expense, Hubert goes unmentioned when Edelgard names the people she’s lost/failed). It ends with a foreshadowing of her Hegemon form, the sign that she’s abandoned all pretense of goodness and become truly wicked.

“March of the Witch Hunters”

Another ensemble/vignette piece, checking in with the various members of Byleth’s army as they prepare to storm Enbarr. Dimitri hopes for the chance to forgive his stepsister, Claude has big plans for the continent and wants to remove the threat Edelgard poses, Seteth is desperate to find Rhea, and Byleth…is there. As in many of the songs, the self-righteousness of the crowd here rings more sincere and less hypocritical than in Wicked given Three Houses has actual villains, but it still works.

“For Good”

The song that inspired this whole thing, now with many paragraphs of context to set it up instead of only some fluff based on the Ferdibert A+ support. Ferdinand sneaks into Enbarr (again) ahead of the battle, and their second love ballad is more somber as they resign themselves to their fates. As in the VA cover, Hubert refuses to ask forgiveness for anything and Ferdinand is fine with that.

“Finale”

Wicked reduces the final battle from The Wizard of Oz to silhouettes backed by sections of “No One Mourns the Wicked,” and that’s what comes here: Ferdinand and Hubert facing each other in battle, Edelgard becoming the Hegemon before being defeated and then dying as in AM’s final cutscene, and Dimitri taking the throne with Dedue at his side and proclaiming his intention to do all he can to restore both the Kingdom and Duscur - and that his first act as king is to announce that he and Dedue have decided to open their marriage up. This is met with much manly cheering and stripping and someone (Ashe?) saying incredulously that he didn’t even know they were married. End silhouettes.

The final scene with the Wizard and Morrible becomes Claude, Seteth, and Byleth rescuing Rhea. Rhea names Byleth her successor as leader of the church and says that she will go into quiet seclusion and do what she can to correct her mistakes. This all suits Claude just fine, who tells everyone that he’s off to take care of some other business and that Byleth will make a great archbishop - and also they can have the Alliance, no big deal. As with the King of Faerghus’s gay orgies, the King of Almyra’s grand ambitions are too large for this story to do more than allude to.

Next, Ferdibert does a version of the Elphaba/Fiyero scene, with Ferdinand revealing that he had Hubert spared on the condition that he help root out any remaining Agarthans and that he remain under house arrest at the Aegir estate. Ferdinand was also required to assume governance of the Empire, because Dimitri wasn’t getting that dumped on him as well. They can be together, but the general population can’t know that Hubert survived lest Ferdinand’s reputation and basic ethics be compromised…which in a darkly funny hypocritical twist then segues to Ferdinand pontificating before the crowd at the beginning of the show, reprising “For Good” with Hubert until they’re drowned out by “No One Mourns the Wicked.” Thus the story concludes on one of my favorite things about Ferdibert: perhaps even in this non-CF continuity Ferdinand wasn’t changed for the better by falling in love with the Most Wicked Man in Fódlan, but they’ve both been changed….

#Fire Emblem #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Ferdibert #Hubert von Vestra #Ferdinand von Aegir

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shadowgeist-stars · 3 years

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Vitam et Mortem: Divine Pride

A small gift for Pride Month before June ends. I probably should've come up with this earlier, but hey, I hope you enjoy it regardless.

Bridget had wanted to show Emily her new favorite part of June for years since they first began. After all the time they spent together for the last five or six centuries, she found it quite fun to introduce the otherwise reclusive Mother Nature to all the things she otherwise ignored among the mortals.

But this particular celebration wasn't just a joyous occasion for herself. Many lost spirits and even deities from all over the world rejoiced at the celebration of their own way of love and life.

From the gods of ancient Mesopotamia, to the far-flung rainbow serpents of Australia, to the hidden deities in China and Japan, to Bridget's own neighboring Loas and other divine friends in the Americas. The jubilee expressed by the immortals could only be matched, let alone surpassed, by that of the humans. Finally, all of the unfortunate people who lost themselves for the sake of their own hearts wouldn't have died in vain. All of the poor children close to that edge had something to look forward to.

"Come on, Emily, it's this way!" she called, leading her companion by the hand. "I promise you'll love it!"

Mother Nature chuckled, following the winged girl as quickly as she could. "This is the most excited I've seen you in the past few centuries. Have you met another holiday spirit?"

Bridget shrugged. "Not exactly. But I think you'll especially love it. It can't be much further now."

They stopped when they reached a crowd of people down the road.

Marching through the street was a parade of celebration. Flags of many bright color combinations littered the area. Some were blue, purple and pink. Some were pastel pink and blue and white. But a great many of the flags and all-encompassing banners -- and there were so, so many of them -- were all the colors of the rainbow.

"Bridget, my dear… what on Earth is this?"

Before her eyes, the rainbow painted itself over Bridget's otherwise black cloak. Strips of each color encircled her long cloak in luminous, vibrant hues. Shades of deep bright pink and fiery red orange sought out her shoulder cape, imitating one of the proudly-waving flags in the parade with black between each stripe. Emily soon learned exactly what it meant, as many couples in the parade embraced one another without fear or shame.

"It's a celebration of people like us," the redhead explained, no less than sheer jubilee on her face. "You once showed me how many animals are able to love in the same way we do. And according to the older gods, mortals who were the same way never had such a chance to be themselves since before the Dark Ages. Now that they have that chance again… isn't it beautiful?"

Emily did remember showing her all that. From birds of all kinds to various cats and other mammals to even insects and fish, and a whole lot more. The colors around her and the light in Bridget's eyes and all over her cloak… it truly was a sight to behold.

"It's wonderful," she replied simply. "Absolutely gorgeous. I've never seen anything like it."

They joined the parade like it was the most natural thing in the world. Following families and children greeted the two, as did many more immortals who began to appear. The children were laughing and dancing together with the other immortals, sporting their own flags.

"Lovely day for a parade, ladies," greeted a man in a multicolored tribal outfit framed with various flowers. "I'm certain I saw someone handing out Sapphic flags. Just watch for the usual, ahem… intruders."

"Thanks so much, Xochipilli," Bridget thanked the stranger. "I'm sure Emily would love that."

He smiled. "Never thought I'd see the day that the infamous Mother Nature would appear here. I'll tell the others; all of your Loa friends are bound to be nearby, and they'll love hearing about this."

Emily was confused by the names. "Who was he talking about?"

"My Voodoo-related associates," Bridget explained. "Many of them like both men and women, so they'll almost definitely be sporting pink-purple-and-blue flags like those over there. Though it takes a trained eye to know who’s who with the outfits they wear.

“Xochipilli is Aztec, and one of the few gods in that group with a decent amount of common sense. Back in his hayday, he was the god of games, the arts, and flowers, as well as the patron of people like a lot of the mortals here. Really nice guy, but I wish I could say the same about some of his friends.”

Emily chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Are there others like the ones you mentioned?”

The redhead nodded. “Lots of others, all over the world. They’re all probably having a blast at parades on their home turf just like this one. Oh look, there’s the flag Xochi was talking about!”

The flag in question was actually quite darling. It had two pastel pink stripes around one that was white, with a pretty little violet directly in the center. The person beside the girl handing such flags out was handing out flowers of all kinds.

Bridget went for the flower person, taking a violet before flying up to plant it above Emily’s ear, adding on a kiss on the cheek.

The swell of warmth in her chest from the gesture caused the violet to spread into a crown on her head.

The Grim Reaper giggled. “Now it looks even prettier. It suits you!”

Emily sighed at her reaction, but eventually couldn’t help a smile. At least until she noticed the white-robed and white-winged people hovering above a different crowd. They glared at the celebration as they stood guard over the yelling people holding some… rather rude signs.

Her beloved noticed her expression. “What’s wrong?” Bridget followed her gaze, lifting off the ground a little for a better view.

Angels. And a whole lot of their own downline.

“Oh, for the love of vultures…” she muttered under her breath as she pulled her scythe out of her shadow. “Ignore them, Em. They should know by now that they can’t do much of anything without getting people upset.”

“Is that… normal of them?” asked the dark-haired woman.

“Very,” the redhead replied with a sigh, leading Emily away from the protestors. “Their minions love to say that living the way we do isn’t natural and that it’s corrupting their children. All because they like to listen to the one who commands those angels. We just call them the usual intruders. I think I’ve already told you how troublesome they are to my fellow death spirits.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” She noticed how the blade of Bridget’s scythe shined with iridescent colors. “Hm, even your weapon appears to have gotten into the spirit of the celebration.”

“There’s a reason for that, actually.” With a snap of her fingers, Bridget unveiled a slew of visiting wandering souls in the broad daylight. So many of them floated around in groups, like the other immortals in the parade had called them here. Many bore dark scars that only occurred among souls who sought their own destruction in life. “These are all of the people in just this area who lived the same way as all of these mortals, in worlds that didn’t allow them, or hearts that no longer wanted to beat.”

Emily gazed upon each spirit, seeing the joy and peace on each and every spectral face in the procession. “This is far more than the joy of the living... it’s also a comfort for the dead.”

Bridget could see the angels daringly lean towards the ghosts from above their followers, and firmly tapped her scythe against the ground. All of the ghosts turned their attention to the Reaper, and to those she glared at. The protesters faltered, as if perhaps they had seen her standing there. Either way, they knew better than to test an emissary of death with her albeit passive army, so she’d count that much as a win. So did the ghosts, who peacefully returned to their own mingling.

Fingers found their way into soft, owlish feathers. “Where did you learn that trick?”

Bridget’s smile returned with a chuckle. “The Valkyries have shown me how they command their soldiers a few times. Angels are a pretty popular overarching reason as to why the ghosts around here have perished. It's just a matter of setting off the alarm. They know better than to trust what killed them."

A couple of the children seemed more than a bit intimidated by the parade's protesters, regardless of their dropping momentum. "Come with me, Em. Forget the angels and their little friends. This is a time for celebration."

Mother Nature was quite willing to comply, her leaf-bearing winds gently guiding the children away from the scary people like large, caring hands. As they went on with the parade, the two eventually grew more cheerful again. More immortals dropped by to meet them, such as Nibo, one of the Loas Bridget mentioned earlier; Oua Oua, a higher-ranking Loa who led the children, also said hello. Several "Voodoo" figures made appearances, really, and all of them offered nothing but coos and congratulations.

It certainly made it a far more lively experience than Burning Man, where they usually wandered about largely unseen. But oddly enough, it wasn't quite unpleasant. Emily enjoyed meeting so many wonderful divine friends. Seeing Bridget's multicolored stripes grow brighter, and her hair shining in the sun like fire, against eyes so pale silver in the daylight they almost looked pure white, was a simply mesmerizing experience.

Near the end of the parade, Emily had discovered a work of art made entirely from flowers; an entire wall of words shaped with roses of every color. Red, orange, yellow, green, even blue and purple. She used her power to grow out a bouquet of separate lavender roses, with a little help from Xochipilli. After which she gently wove each flower into Bridget's lovely wings and hair, pale and beautiful against her bright red locks and dark gold feathers. Bridget was delighted at the gift; something she knew Emily would most certainly do.

"Now you look even prettier,” she said warmly, parroting the reaper's words. “It suits you.”

The look she got in response was so full of affection… Emily could feel it taking something else from her chest aside from her breath. Bridget floated to her eye level, cupping the taller spirit's face between her hands.

"I think you deserve a thank-you for it."

With that, she leaned in for a kiss.

Emily’s heart filled with a familiar, welcoming fire at the soft and warm touch of Bridget’s lips, yet entirely new and exciting. A wild and joyful tune, yet sung in the tone of a lullaby. Miniature earthquakes rattled through her body, and she felt like she was floating. Her hands started flexing and lifting up on instinct, until they dug into the soft down between the reaper’s shoulders, pulling her closer. The flower-decorated wings swung low, the ends of the joints resting on her sides.

A moment meant to last forever.

“Ah, young love. Truly a beautiful thing.”

“It’s like something straight out of those romantic fairy tales.”

The two voices startled the two from their reverie. Bridget sank to the ground with a face as red as her hair; given the fiery heat that went from her heart to her face, Emily probably wasn’t much better.

“Lundy! Limba! You ruined the moment!” scolded Èrzulie Dantòr, batting the two men away with dark-skinned hands. “Out, out, and away, boys, before you ruin their mood any more! Shoo!”

Bridget giggled at the sight of the Loas. “I take it you enjoyed that, Emily?”

Mother Nature cleared her throat, smiling down at her sheepishly. “I suppose I did. Though I… can’t say I expected to… Will there be other parades like this in the future?”

“Of course!” She took her hand as they prepared to return to the realm they shared. “It’s an entire month out of every year that celebrations just like this will occur. Why? Do you want to go to another one?”

Emily chuckled, mustering the courage to kiss the top of her head. “Perhaps…”

To see such colors like those still lingering on the Grim Reaper’s cloak… To feel such childlike glee she hadn’t experienced in millennia… Mother Nature could hardly wait for the next adventure outside of her fog.

#pride 2021 #pride month #rise of the guardians #emily jane pitchiner #grim reaper #mother nature #rotg oc #lgbt history #wlw #sapphic

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thequeenb · 4 years

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A Deal With The Devil (part 4)

Pairings Kamilah x MC

I felt paralyzed. Every nerve on my body screams for me to move but my back is against the cold wall, with no way to escape. Priya was approaching dangerously close and thats when i could see clearly two fangs ready to attack

I closed my eyes hoping i see things but i didn't. She reached and grabbed my arm and that's when my instincts kicked in

"Kamilah!!" I scream with all my will but the music consumed my cry for help

"You silly human" Priya said, her grip on my hand became tighter and before she could move a muscle her pointy teeth dig deep into my flesh. It wasn't like the movies, all the novels and stories about girls enjoying being bitten was a lie. But wait a minute.. vampires are real??!! I can feel her sucking my blood in such hunger, such delight

My senses give up on me as i open my eyes one last time. I want to call for help but i feel fresh blood drip down my body and thats when i see a figure approaching. I cant make out the features, my vision is blurry, my eyelids are fighting to stay open

How can a beautiful night turn around like that? I fall to the ground, my body feels cold. Am i dying? Where is Kamilah? Why Priya Lacroix is a vampire? Do they really exist? So many questions flood my mind but i have no time to comprehend anything.

A man kneels beside me holding me in his arms. I try to reach out but my body feels like it's slowly giving up.

"Amy?? Amy stay with me, can you hear me??" The man says carefully lifting me like i am feather

How does he knows my name? I must be hallucinating. Blood still runs down my neck. My dress is covered in it, my hands feel sticky, wet. What a way to go right?

We exit the building and i can now hear a second voice in the distance. I could recognise this beautiful voice anywhere, its Kamilah

He slowly lay my body on the back of a car. Beside me i feel a body so warm and welcoming

"Drive fast!!" Kamilah's voice could be heard and i try my best not to lose my senses completely

With all my strength i open my mouth "K-Kamilah?" I whisper and thats when i feel a strong hand holding my body close

"Damn it!! I am here Amy try and stay awake for me" why does she sounds so concerned? She is always so cold and distant but right now her voice is shaky, scared

I want to reach out for her hand but i cant. Just like she could read my mind she gives me a pat, a promise that everything will be just fine

"I..i am cold" i manage to say coughing

"Faster Adrian!!" Kamilah's hoarse voice fills the car and thats when my eyelids start closing. The darkness consumes me, i can hear voices but i cant fight it anymore i am tired, so i give in into the darkness, unsure if i will ever wake up again

___

"This is all your fault Kamilah!!" Adrian says running his hands through his hair "What if i didn't find her the moment i did? I know Priya and God damn it you know her too!!"

Kamilah just stared at him, regret was written all over her face "I had work Adrian and she is an adult--"

"An adult who didn't knew that vampires were all around her" He finishes her sentence as he sat back on his chair

Kamilah crossed her arms skeptical. Why did she felt so drawn to Amy? She had several workers what made her different?

"She didn't gave you her consent to turn her" Adrian finally said breaking the silence

And he was right she didn't. But Amy died on her arms before she could do anything. The guilt was too much for her to bare so she had no choice but to give her another chance to live.

"I know but it was all my fault" she says sitting down on a chair next to Adrian.

If she wakes up she will have so many questions. She will hate Kamilah, being a vampire will never be easy, she just has to get used to it. Sighing Kamilah sat back rethinking her choices

"If Priya didn't attack her none of this would happen" she says angrily. Priya would pay for this, all of them would

"If you kept an eye on her she wouldn't be inside of a Sarcophagus now" Adrian added. He was tired, tired of all this mess. He had to deal with the council, the consequences.

"I will leave you to it, i hope you can at least keep an eye on her now" he says leaving the basement.

___

It was dark, cold, distant. I could barely feel my body, i wasn't in control of it. The darkness is worse when no light is around, no senses. It feels like i am falling to an endless void all by myself. Was this my punishment? Was this hell? I couldn't tell.

It finally stopped, and i could now hear a voice in the distance. Where am i? Where is Lil? Where is Kamilah? I am alone. I let the emptiness settle inside me as i start walking towards the voice uneasy and when i approach memories consume me

My father is sitting on his chair watching me walk with my suitcases in hand. He is angry at me, because he wont be able to control me anymore, he wont be able to get under my skin, this is freedom.

I smile to myself a little proud but then he stands up from his chair, his steps heavy.

"Where do you think you are going?" His deep voice echoes through my mind

I swallow hard knowing i play with fire. But i couldn't stay here anymore "I told you i am going to New York father"

Without a warning he grabs both of my cheeks with his one arm squeezing hard. He pushes me up against the wall, my blood boiling. I can hear my heartbeat ringing through my skull, he is having no mercy.

"Listen here and listen well, you are not going to leave this house until i tell you so!!"

He then kicks hard my suitcases as i watch them shatter to the floor. And then with the corner of my eye i see my mother standing hidden behind the kitchen door, her eyes filled with tears.

"So quit this rebellion because i wont hesitate to end it myself" he spat out coldly finally letting me go

I caresses my cheeks knowing well he left red marks all over my face. I ran up my room and lock my door. And just like a hurricane destroy a village, i collapse to the floor, voices of the argument downstairs fills my ears as i sink deep into my own sadness

That's what i saw in Kamilah's eyes at first. The same look of disapproval, the same irony that followed in every sentence. I saw his face on hers, i couldn't escape him. But unlike him she changed the way she looked at me, i could sense a softness beneath it all, a ruined woman behind closed doors.

I let the memories consume me as my anger rises. Revenge runs cold through my veins, my desperation turns into something dark, evil and all i can now see is red.

Tag list: @justastranger-passing @nydeiri @la-guera-69 @scarlet-letter-a0114 @kamilah-the-bloodqueen @samgtt700 @blackphenix9527 @onyxgaytrash @lovestruck-sapphic-choices @vonda-b-real @sergeant-pepper-loves-choices @justanother-lesbo @origmansello @justyourlocaldyke

#kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound #bb fic #bb fanfic #choices fic #choices fanfiction #choices kamilah #pb choices #choices #bloodbound kamilah #bb kamilah #kamilah is my queen

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blk-chauvinist · 4 years

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Why Women Aren’t Funny

BY CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS

JANUARY 1, 2007

Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: “He’s really quite cute, and he’s kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he’s so funny . . . “ (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, “Funny? He wouldn’t know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.”) However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: “She’s a real honey, has a life of her own . . . [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] . . . and, man, does she ever make ‘em laugh.”

Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.

All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.

Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a “funniness scale.” To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:

The researchers found that men and women share much of the same humor-response system; both use to a similar degree the part of the brain responsible for semantic knowledge and juxtaposition and the part involved in language processing. But they also found that some brain regions were activated more in women. These included the left prefrontal cortex, suggesting a greater emphasis on language and executive processing in women, and the nucleus accumbens . . . which is part of the mesolimbic reward center.

This has all the charm and address of the learned Professor Scully’s attempt to define a smile, as cited by Richard Usborne in his treatise on P. G. Wodehouse: “the drawing back and slight lifting of the corners of the mouth, which partially uncover the teeth; the curving of the naso-labial furrows . . . “ But have no fear—it gets worse:

“Women appeared to have less expectation of a reward, which in this case was the punch line of the cartoon,” said the report’s author, Dr. Allan Reiss. “So when they got to the joke’s punch line, they were more pleased about it.” The report also found that “women were quicker at identifying material they considered unfunny.”

Slower to get it, more pleased when they do, and swift to locate the unfunny—for this we need the Stanford University School of Medicine? And remember, this is women when confronted with humor. Is it any wonder that they are backward in generating it?

This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything, often precisely because it is—or they are—extremely stupid. Women aren’t like that. And the wits and comics among them are formidable beyond compare: Dorothy Parker, Nora Ephron, Fran Lebowitz, Ellen DeGeneres. (Though ask yourself, was Dorothy Parker ever really funny?) Greatly daring—or so I thought—I resolved to call up Ms. Lebowitz and Ms. Ephron to try out my theories. Fran responded: “The cultural values are male; for a woman to say a man is funny is the equivalent of a man saying that a woman is pretty. Also, humor is largely aggressive and pre-emptive, and what’s more male than that?” Ms. Ephron did not disagree. She did, however, in what I thought was a slightly feline way, accuse me of plagiarizing a rant by Jerry Lewis that said much the same thing. (I have only once seen Lewis in action, in The King of Comedy, where it was really Sandra Bernhard who was funny.)

In any case, my argument doesn’t say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three. When Roseanne stands up and tells biker jokes and invites people who don’t dig her shtick to suck her dick—know what I am saying? And the Sapphic faction may have its own reasons for wanting what I want—the sweet surrender of female laughter. While Jewish humor, boiling as it is with angst and self-deprecation, is almost masculine by definition.

Substitute the term “self-defecation” (which I actually heard being used inadvertently once) and almost all men will laugh right away, if only to pass the time. Probe a little deeper, though, and you will see what Nietzsche meant when he described a witticism as an epitaph on the death of a feeling. Male humor prefers the laugh to be at someone’s expense, and understands that life is quite possibly a joke to begin with—and often a joke in extremely poor taste. Humor is part of the armor-plate with which to resist what is already farcical enough. (Perhaps not by coincidence, battered as they are by motherfucking nature, men tend to refer to life itself as a bitch.) Whereas women, bless their tender hearts, would prefer that life be fair, and even sweet, rather than the sordid mess it actually is. Jokes about calamitous visits to the doctor or the shrink or the bathroom, or the venting of sexual frustration on furry domestic animals, are a male province. It must have been a man who originated the phrase “funny like a heart attack.” In all the millions of cartoons that feature a patient listening glum-faced to a physician (“There’s no cure. There isn’t even a race for a cure”), do you remember even one where the patient is a woman? I thought as much.

Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals. And there is a huge, brimming reservoir of male unease, which it would be too easy for women to exploit. (Men can tell jokes about what happened to John Wayne Bobbitt, but they don’t want women doing so.) Men have prostate glands, hysterically enough, and these have a tendency to give out, along with their hearts and, it has to be said, their dicks. This is funny only in male company. For some reason, women do not find their own physical decay and absurdity to be so riotously amusing, which is why we admire Lucille Ball and Helen Fielding, who do see the funny side of it. But this is so rare as to be like Dr. Johnson’s comparison of a woman preaching to a dog walking on its hind legs: the surprise is that it is done at all.

The plain fact is that the physical structure of the human being is a joke in itself: a flat, crude, unanswerable disproof of any nonsense about “intelligent design.” The reproductive and eliminating functions (the closeness of which is the origin of all obscenity) were obviously wired together in hell by some subcommittee that was giggling cruelly as it went about its work. (“Think they’d wear this? Well, they’re gonna have to.”) The resulting confusion is the source of perhaps 50 percent of all humor. Filth. That’s what the customers want, as we occasional stand-up performers all know. Filth, and plenty of it. Filth in lavish, heaping quantities. And there’s another principle that helps exclude the fair sex. “Men obviously like gross stuff,” says Fran Lebowitz. “Why? Because it’s childish.” Keep your eye on that last word. Women’s appetite for talk about that fine product known as Depend is limited. So is their relish for gags about premature ejaculation. (“Premature for whom?” as a friend of mine indignantly demands to know.) But “child” is the key word. For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle. This womanly seriousness was well caught by Rudyard Kipling in his poem “The Female of the Species.” After cleverly noticing that with the male “mirth obscene diverts his anger”—which is true of most work on that great masculine equivalent to childbirth, which is warfare—Kipling insists:

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

The word “issue” there, which we so pathetically misuse, is restored to its proper meaning of childbirth. As Kipling continues:

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

Men are overawed, not to say terrified, by the ability of women to produce babies. (Asked by a lady intellectual to summarize the differences between the sexes, another bishop responded, “Madam, I cannot conceive.”) It gives women an unchallengeable authority. And one of the earliest origins of humor that we know about is its role in the mockery of authority. Irony itself has been called “the glory of slaves.” So you could argue that when men get together to be funny and do not expect women to be there, or in on the joke, they are really playing truant and implicitly conceding who is really the boss.

The ancient annual festivities of Saturnalia, where the slaves would play master, were a temporary release from bossdom. A whole tranche of subversive male humor likewise depends on the notion that women are not really the boss, but are mere objects and victims. Kipling saw through this:

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her.

In other words, for women the question of funniness is essentially a secondary one. They are innately aware of a higher calling that is no laughing matter. Whereas with a man you may freely say of him that he is lousy in the sack, or a bad driver, or an inefficient worker, and still wound him less deeply than you would if you accused him of being deficient in the humor department.

If I am correct about this, which I am, then the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise. H. L. Mencken described as “the greatest single discovery ever made by man” the realization “that babies have human fathers, and are not put into their mother’s bodies by the gods.” You may well wonder what people were thinking before that realization hit, but we do know of a society in Melanesia where the connection was not made until quite recently. I suppose that the reasoning went: everybody does that thing the entire time, there being little else to do, but not every woman becomes pregnant. Anyway, after a certain stage women came to the conclusion that men were actually necessary, and the old form of matriarchy came to a close. (Mencken speculates that this is why the first kings ascended the throne clutching their batons or scepters as if holding on for grim death.) People in this precarious position do not enjoy being laughed at, and it would not have taken women long to work out that female humor would be the most upsetting of all.

Childbearing and rearing are the double root of all this, as Kipling guessed. As every father knows, the placenta is made up of brain cells, which migrate southward during pregnancy and take the sense of humor along with them. And when the bundle is finally delivered, the funny side is not always immediately back in view. Is there anything so utterly lacking in humor as a mother discussing her new child? She is unboreable on the subject. Even the mothers of other fledglings have to drive their fingernails into their palms and wiggle their toes, just to prevent themselves from fainting dead away at the sheer tedium of it. And as the little ones burgeon and thrive, do you find that their mothers enjoy jests at their expense? I thought not.

Humor, if we are to be serious about it, arises from the ineluctable fact that we are all born into a losing struggle. Those who risk agony and death to bring children into this fiasco simply can’t afford to be too frivolous. (And there just aren’t that many episiotomy jokes, even in the male repertoire.) I am certain that this is also partly why, in all cultures, it is females who are the rank-and-file mainstay of religion, which in turn is the official enemy of all humor. One tiny snuffle that turns into a wheeze, one little cut that goes septic, one pathetically small coffin, and the woman’s universe is left in ashes and ruin. Try being funny about that, if you like. Oscar Wilde was the only person ever to make a decent joke about the death of an infant, and that infant was fictional, and Wilde was (although twice a father) a queer. And because fear is the mother of superstition, and because they are partly ruled in any case by the moon and the tides, women also fall more heavily for dreams, for supposedly significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries, for romantic love, crystals and stones, lockets and relics, and other things that men know are fit mainly for mockery and limericks. Good grief! Is there anything less funny than hearing a woman relate a dream she’s just had? (“And then Quentin was there somehow. And so were you, in a strange sort of way. And it was all so peaceful.” Peaceful?)

For men, it is a tragedy that the two things they prize the most—women and humor—should be so antithetical. But without tragedy there could be no comedy. My beloved said to me, when I told her I was going to have to address this melancholy topic, that I should cheer up because “women get funnier as they get older.” Observation suggests to me that this might indeed be true, but, excuse me, isn’t that rather a long time to have to wait?

From Vanity Fair

#Men Are The Prize #Anti-Feminism #Humor

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Lipstick City (Sashea Lesbian AU) by Oxford

AN: So it’s been a minute. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written at 13K+ and honestly I could have kept going despite it being piss poor in quality. I’m not too satisfied with the ending but it’ll do for the purposes of not going on and on forever! This is inspired by Lipstick City, set a year after the events of the film. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. - Oxford

“Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.” ― Euripides, Medea

She was wearing Chanel No. 5 draped in her Cartier Paris Nouvelle Vague necklace and all was right in the world once more. Shea Couleé lounged on her satin chaise, the epitome of ethereal serenity, with her dark eyes cast down to a crinkled copy of Tipping the Velvet.

Unopened storage boxes towered around her, the team of removal men had spent the majority of the past few days like a colony of leaf cutter ants in a constant procession until they pleaded for dismissal; there was still half a truck to unload. She had journeyed away from her beloved Chicago, from her friends and parties and modelling agency all in the name of love. The love for an eight million dollar empire called Couleé Enterprises.

Shea had married Mr Couleé, the debonair ex-bachelor son of the newly deceased CEO, three years ago back when she was a high rising socialite in the Parisian scene. Born and bred in France, the two fled the European circle in search of expanding their success and found themselves front and centre of Chicago’s elite.

With a well respected surname and abundant financial security, Shea launched her modelling career to the awe of Chicago. Statuesque with poise of a classical dancer, Shea’s face could be found in any fashion magazine. She was Grace Kelly and Grace Jones combined. But all that was lost once more as her husband followed the money trail out of the city and into a small town just outside New York.

The echoed slam of a door caused Shea to pause her reading but her eyes did not leave the page.

“Darling, I am heading to work now.” Her husband called; in French, of course. Shea had ruled that whilst they were alone they were to only speak their mother language to keep the romanticism alive. He popped his head round the door and observed his wife in her relaxed position. “I shall see you tonight for dinner.” Without waiting for a reply, he pursed his lips, kissing the air and vanished. Shea exhaled deeply. The novel carelessly slipped from her fingers. Alone completely. Friendless, lost in an unknown town, Shea found little comfort in her housebound state.

Rising, Shea glided to the bay windows, sashaying around the precariously placed boxes. The view from the crystal glass overlooked the vast green patio of her chateau, extending so that Shea also had a full view of the neighbouring garden. Her neighbour thus far had remained a mystery, the modest house seemed silent and unhabituated but the decking that Shea was privy to was crammed full of potted plants of roses. Interesting.

An iron cast table and chair set looked weathered and well-used, a smaller ceramic pot was sat on one of the two chairs. Shea guessed that perhaps the resident lived alone. In her peripheral vision, sudden movement coming from the house excited her. The backdoor had been swung open and Shea watched with the hungry anticipation of an isolated extrovert to see who would be revealed to her.

At first all she saw was light blonde hair, sleek at the roots but styled so that it permed out half way down the head. The figure, a woman - a young woman – to Shea’s surprise, tottered out in black Capri trousers and a pink blouse. Her face was obstructed by round sunglasses that perched on the end of her slender arched nose. The woman perched herself at the rusting table and chair set holding a book Shea could just make the title of. Gender Trouble. Very interesting.

The peeping housewife felt her mouth go dry. She was known back in Chicago as a determined individual, if she wanted something she got it and that included people. Imposed friendships always worked in her favour, for who didn’t want the attention of such a talented and glamorous individual that Shea undeniably was?

A (presumably) single young woman living by herself in a small town couldn’t possibly refuse the friendship of big-city star Shea Couleé. Suddenly, the door bell rang loud and Shea jumped into a scowl. The new workforce her husband has employed to run the excessively vast house as Shea instructed kept her busy for the rest of the day. By the time she had a free moment to return to the bay window in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the woman next door, the garden was deserted. Shea ruffled the curtain in annoyance before storming to resume her homely duties.

The next three days were nothing but curious glances at an empty garden. Shea knew she should have just gone over there on the first day to introduce herself but in between the house staff and a visit from the local Women’s Association run by two enthusiastic women called Alexis Michelle and Trinity Taylor, who implored her deeply to grace the weekly meetings with her presence, Shea was unsure if the woman she had seen even occupied the house daily.

Maybe she was a figment of Shea’s desperate mind? That was, until, a light rhythmic tapping roused her from a Vogue catalogue one afternoon. And there she stood. On the porch, her hands twisted together around an A4 sketch pad, the mystery neighbour beamed with the widest smile at Shea’s surprised yet delighted expression.

“Hello, darling.” She laughed and Shea could not help but return the smile, charmed at the enthused informality. “I’m awfully sorry for not introducing myself sooner but work has taken over my life recently. I’m your neighbour from the next door down, Sasha, how have you been settling in? Is this a good time?” Shea moved from her languid position against the door frame to extend her hand invitingly.

“Absolutely, impeccable timing, chérie.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss on either of Sasha’s pale cheeks, aiming to impress by displaying the full French allure. Unfazed, Sasha leant into the gesture, squeezing Shea’s hand warmly. “Enchanté…Sasha. Shea. Shea Couleé.” Sasha laughed.

“What a fabulous name! You are French? What a breath of fresh air you are to this provincial town.” Shea kept Sasha’s hand firmly in her own, her famous confident smile blooming for the first time since arriving in the unfamiliar town.

“On the contrary, Sasha, it is you who are the breath of fresh air to my lonesome situation. There is not much here in terms of company for a woman, it seems, unless you are a middle-aged housewife. The Woman’s Association have already bombarded me with their…hospitality.” Sasha laughed harder, the sound was unfeminine but filled with unreserved joy, which Shea could not help but fixate her smile on.

“Oh they’re an alright bunch, really. I go to their meetings every once in a while to help out in the community and do art for them. It is a good way to get to meet people so I’d recommend you go a few times if you’re not too introverted.” Shea nodded in consideration.

“Will you be at the next meeting?”

“I shall.”

“Then so shall I.” Sasha flushed, evidently flattered at Shea’s declaration. The model continued, intrigued by her guest. “You do art?”

“I do.” Sasha nodded passionately. “I love painting and photography and performance art – all sorts. Art is revolutionary, you know, it’s so liberating and freeing from social constructs. Not many people appreciate its power. Anything and everything can be art. I lecture at a university in New York and do art shows on the side so…I’m a bit of an art enthusiast.”

“I shall have to get you to paint or photograph me sometime.” Shea pondered before adding with sanctimonious modesty. “I’m a model.” She revelled as Sasha’s eyes widened with awe.

“I can definitely see that.” The two fell into a buzzed silence, anticipating each other’s next words, wanting to say so much more.

Shea soaked in Sasha’s pale complexion, they were almost at opposite ends of the spectrum with Shea’s dark hand encased by strikingly white fingers. She admired her quirky yet still upscale regalia, Sasha was fitted into a tight orange pencil skirt and a banana yellow turtleneck. The gaudy blue rose pinned above her breast was, however, questionable.

Much to Shea’s dismay, Sasha turned her head to glance at her own house. “I should be going, you must be terribly busy with unpacking. Please do come over to mine whenever you feel like it. I’m always in after two-thirty. I should very much like to get to know you more, Miss Couleé.” Shea fluttered her lashes. Releasing Sasha’s hand, she resumed her sloped stance against the wooden frame, her hip jaunting out.

“Shea, please. It’s Miss Couleé if you’re nasty.” Winking, she hummed a laugh as Sasha chortled loudly again. She’s either oblivious or she also enjoys the works of Nineteenth century Sapphic literature, Shea mused as she waved her neighbour goodbye.

“Women’s Association, this Friday, Seven O’clock.” Sasha called over her shoulder as she strolled across the small patch of green to her house. “I’m sure Alexis gave you the address.”

The long summer days leading up to the Woman’s Association meeting passed in a daze. Shea looked out for Sasha in her garden, only spotting her once watering the excessive amount of roses and had to look away to prevent herself from banging on the window to get her attention. She barely noticed her husband’s company, or lack thereof, instead occupying her time with fantastical thoughts of Sasha.

Her voice had been deeper and smoother than she had originally expected yet its tone was calming and soothing on the ears. She fantasised how erotic it would be to have Sasha read Tipping The Velvet to her as she lay on her chaise lounge in her finest lingerie. She was also enticingly tall, almost reaching Shea’s height. Her pale skin juxtaposed the vivid brightness of her azure eyes and were framed splendidly by big dark expressive brows. And those lips. Shea groaned as she pictured those delicious full red lips that formed words with unusual elegance.

Shea didn’t pride herself on having a type. She was most definitely open to everything and anyone…as long as they were of the familiar body type. Her husband, she was sure, did not pay enough attention to notice this. He was welcome to have his own distractions with flimsy skirts at his workplace as long as he was discreet. At the beginning of their marriage Shea had convinced herself that she had been in love with him; still unsure of her curious feelings towards women. Yet once she felt the sting and heart break over his affair, Shea had tossed caution to the wind, determined to find solace and satisfaction by sating her desire for women. She had, of course, been painstakingly discreet in her rendezvous’.

Only once had there been public rumours of her husband’s adultery, almost smearing their brand name. Shea had be furious. She has screamed and tore at the expensive possessions they had worked hard to afford. They could NOT afford public scandal, it would crumble their empire. He had promised it wouldn’t happen again and begged for forgiveness. Shea had scorned him, insulted that he assumed it was her pride as a wife that had been hurt. She had no qualms if he found satisfaction in the arms of another woman, oh no, just do not jeopardise his – her – their – fortune. Money was everything.

When the night of the meting came around, Shea was filled with shy nerves. Whether it was do to with being accepted by small town minds or being reunited with Sasha, the woman could not tell. She walked around aimlessly, watching as clusters of women hovered in and outside the hall, trying to spot the tall fair-haired figure with an air of blasé confidence. Sasha was sat at a round table surrounded by Alexis, Trinity and a two other women varying in age by the names of Peppermint and Nina.

“What are you looking for, Sasha?” Bright eyes turned their attention back to Peppermint.

“I had thought I had convinced my new neighbour to come along tonight.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Rich folk rarely leave their houses to mingle with the community riff raff.” Chimed Trinity, sitting to Sasha’s left, pausing her conversation with Alexis. “She’s married to some big CEO from Chicago, so I heard. Lucky bitch.” Sasha’s smile downturned.

“She told me she was a model.”

“Honey, she’s not going to afford a house like that just by being a model.” Said Alexis. Sasha laughed dryly in response.

“Have you seen her? She’s pure art.”

“I prefer more classic tastes myself.” The elder woman sipped on her drink. “In fact, I think –”

“You came!” Sasha jumped from her seat, banging into the table resulting in multiple drinks to spill, and ran towards the tall dark beauty before her. Shea smiled cockily, secretly relieved, flicking the ends of her locks over her shoulder.

“Of course I came, I told you I would.” She grasped Sasha’s shoulders softly before tilting her head to kiss her cheeks in familiar greeting. Sasha gazed up at her with admiration and glee. “Now are you going to introduce me?”

The rest of the evening was filled with a steady flow of drinks and conversation that rose in pitch and tone as argumentative topics were debated. Shea noticed that whilst Sasha was definitely on the quieter side of the group, she had no fear of putting her point across when she felt it should be heard. She had placed Shea in her own seat, stealing Trinity’s when the woman had left to get another cocktail. As the booze set in, everyone’s posture relaxed and tongue’s loosened. Sasha had her arm resting behind Shea’s chair and Shea felt inclined to lean her back against it so that her fur coat brushed against the pale hand.

They stole glances at one another and smiled when their eyes met every time, giggling and passing comments in hushed tones as the older women slurred insults at one another. They argued over who was the producer of an old amateur dramatics production they had created. Rolling her eyes, Sasha pulled a face as Alexis claimed to have been given a smaller part due to dedicating her time as a producer. Hiccupping, Shea gave her meaningful look a she sipped on the remnants of Sasha’s cocktail. Red lipstick stained the straw but Shea didn’t care. The blonde smiled with mirth and Shea had a fleeting thought about how pretty she looked.

“Would you like to come round mine sometime?” Sasha asked sweetly, giggling.

“How about now?” Shea shot back, shooting her a flirtatious look. Again, Sasha merely laughed.

“For dinner. Or late lunch. Or just drinks.”

“Dinner.” Shea agreed. “Two Mondays time, shall we say six?” Sasha beamed.

“I’ll see you then. Otherwise….I know where you live.” Shea chuckled at the whimsical threat.

“Ooh girl, that’s not exactly a punishment I’d avoid.” Any other occasion Shea would not have easily let herself flirt shamelessly. But this was a new beginning, no one here really knew her and her socialite status did not follow her into this suburban town. The alcohol loosened her tongue and made her feel uninhibited. Shea was also realising that Sasha was a very good sport, laughing at all her jokes and flirtatious jibes that Shea was curious to see how far she could push it.

“Miss Shea Couleé,” Sasha drawled, her body swaying in her seat slightly under the influence. “Are you even married with the way you talk like that?” Shea paused, her smile frozen.

“Girl, I’ll have you know it was this mouth that got me my husband.” She licked her tongue across her lips. Sasha smirked and fiddled with the hem of her short patterned dress. Shea let her eyes flicker to her bare thigh. Her gaze traced up, appreciating the slender form of her friend. “And, as the ladies here have speculated, his eight million dollar fortune.” She regarded Sasha’s reaction but the other girl smiled sympathetically.

“Pay none of these women any mind. I hope you’re very happy together.”

“I…am.” Shea knew she didn’t sound sure. “I am happy. How could I not be? I have more money than I can spend. I’m beautiful and fierce and smart and my friends back in Chicago love me. I’m a model in magazines, people know who I am.” Sasha nodded with a pensive expression.

“You must love him very much.” Shea dropped her gaze, the raucous party around them long forgotten.

“I’d have nothing without him.”

-X-

When Monday rolled around, Shea spends the majority of the humid afternoon laying outfits on her bed in preparation for her meal with Sasha. Lost in the inspection between two dresses, Shea’s husband wondered in.

“What are you up to, darling?” Without turning, Shea continued to scrutinize her outfits.

“I’m going out to dinner with our neighbour. Sasha.” Shea heard shuffling behind her but didn’t care enough to see what her husband was doing.

“That’s nice. Who? Never heard or seen any neighbours.” Shea gave a non-committal hum. The man behind her reviewed himself in the floor length mirror. “So what are you doing with yourself these days? I never see you round the house anymore.”

“I spend my time with the Women’s Association. Sasha and I go. She’s going to paint me or photograph me.” No response. Finally throwing a dress behind her, Shea strutted to her shoe cupboard.

“Is that who you call at all hours of the night?” Shea pretended she didn’t hear the question. “You know, Sasha’s a pretty sexy name. Russian.” She froze. Her heart caught in her throat.

“I thought you didn’t know of our neighbours? I’d prefer if you kept your trysts at your workplace and not make a fool of yourself where we have to live.”

“Oh, you heard that then.” Her husband folded his arms and glared at her. “Answer me. Is that who you’re calling at every ungodly hour in the night?” Shea turned to face him and studied his face.

“Yes.” He sighed, expression relieved.

“Good. That’s fine. Just try to keep it down when you’re calling your girl friend. As long as it isn’t a man I have to worry about.” Shea gaped at him incredulously. “Also, I told you I’m not going to have any affairs anymore. It was just a one time mistake.” Lies, lies, vicious lies. Shea bit her tongue, her fiery temper burning to demand the truth.

“No.” She snapped. “I am not and will not be calling a man.” Mr Couleé nodded indifferently and made to exit the room.

A deep cold loathing rose to Shea’s throat. She clutched her shoes with a vice grip forcing herself to not throw them at the back of her husband’s head. It was indeed a fact that, after the first WA meeting Shea attended, Sasha had scrawled her number onto Shea’s napkin with a pencil the artist had found tucked into her hair.

“Call me. Anytime, day or night, if you need someone to talk to.” And as the days bled into one another with no interaction from people outside her household Shea had, with trembling fingers, called her one night. It had rung only three times before the low, smooth tones of Sasha’s voice answered cheerily.

“Hello?”

“Bonsoir chérie,” Shea winced as she glanced at her grand oak clock. “I am sorry for calling you so late, you weren’t sleeping were you?”

“Hi!” Sasha’s voice had sounded drained and Shea had bit her lip, mortified for clearly disturbing the woman. “It’s okay, I was just cleaning up my brushes. I had an inspired session in my studio tonight. Who knew painted animated projections could look so Warhol?”

It soon became a ritual that every other day Shea would call Sasha in the evening, making sure to not disturb her time in her make-shift home studio creating art. Shea would tell stories about her life in Chicago, her friends there, Lipstick City where the life she lived was beyond the imagination and the crazy shenanigans only stupid people with a stupid amount of money could pull off. Sasha listened avidly, asking interesting questions and offering her own thoughts.

She presented her own encounters in New York, her performance art, her gallery shows, her social rights works. She spoke eagerly about what she thought the deconstruction of gender would mean for people outcast from the norms, people she knew and loved and shared her art with. Shea wanted to see that side to Sasha’s life. She wanted to take her back to Chicago to meet all her artistic friends and have Sasha school them on what the colours of the rainbow meant and how beauty can be found in anything if you look at it in different perspectives. It was less than a fortnight before every other night descended into calls multiple times a day.

The permanent fixture of this routine raised eyebrows amongst Shea’s house staff. They watched apprehensively as the housewife increasingly spent her time locked away, isolating herself with the telephone into the early hours of the morning. She never ate with her husband for any meal, it was rumoured that they hadn’t seen each other face to face since arriving in the town, taking to live in opposite sides of the house. Some wondered if it was a European lifestyle choice. Others wondered if either partner was having an affair. A minority of smart, thoughtful individuals wondered their estranged relationship was due to Shea’s love of homoerotica extending beyond literature.

When the hour drew closer to their awaiting dinner date, Shea fixed the details of her outfit before strutting outside to march next door. She was shrouded in diamonds from her neck to her wrists and fingers. Her curves were accentuated by a black bodysuit with gold embroidery. The essence of opulence.

The house was a fraction of the size compared to Shea’s. The paint was peeling and rot was setting in. A purely sorry state. Checking her makeup in her compact, Shea fiddled with her curls as she rapped on the door. A beat passed before it was flung open and Shea could not contain an amused grin. Adorned in a fuchsia pink sparkling evening dress with a giant feather flower pinned to front, Sasha had a crown - was that made of felt?… – perched precariously on her head.

“It’s a good thing I dressed up for the occasion.” Shea laughed. “I love this.” She pointed to the crown and Sasha laughed, her smile simultaneously eerily wide and beautiful. “Very glam.”

“You look gorgeous.” Sasha gushed as they exchanged pecks on their cheeks. “I have to take your photo tonight in my studio. I’ll put it in my magazine – with your blessing of course.”

“How could I resist such an offer?” Shea cooed, strutting into the small living room. She eyed everything, eagerly embracing all the mess. Art supplies were strewn all over book cases haphazardly, posters and polaroids and sketches were pinned to the walls. A true artists den.

“I know this is isn’t as grand as Maison du Couleé,” Sasha said awkwardly, coming up beside her. “but it’s home.”

“It’s perfect.” Shea smiled warmly. “I’m very nostalgic, this reminds me of my first apartment in Paris.”

“I can’t ever imagine you in anything but the chicest and most high-class setting.” Sasha confessed, leading the way to the cosy kitchen. Shea watched her dress sway and curve around her behind with appreciation.

“Oh I was a banji bitch in my time. I’m just equally as bougie now.” Sasha offered a dining chair for Shea as she prepared food at the counter. “I should take a picture of you right now. All dressed like a queen doing her own cooking. Tells quite the story.” Sasha chuckled, blushing the same colour as her ensemble.

“I never let anyone cook for me. I am queen of this castle and in my kingdom I get to choose what I eat and no one can force me to do otherwise. Mainstream media can fuck off with their body shaming, telling women what and not to eat.” Shea regarded her quietly, a deeper story set behind her words. Deciding not to ruin the mood and dwell on it tonight, she instead gave a breathy sigh.

“Well don’t take it out on the iceberg, you’re practically fisting that salad, girl, let alone tossing it. You use your hands so forcefully.” Sasha instantly snorted and smiled coyly.

“Well, it is known that that bisexuals are some of the most forceful and unforgettable lovers…”Shea felt her stomach tighten as Sasha’s features creased as she choked into laughter at her own joke but instantaneously twisted her face seductively. Shea felt flawed at the transformation.

“Wanna try some?” She offered her folk up invitingly. Shea traced her tongue over the shape of her lips dramatically.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Leaning over, Sasha brought the folk to Shea’s open mouth. Shea refused to break eye contact as she wrapped her lips around the utensil and moaned deeply. Sasha didn’t move, her eyes were glued to Shea as she swallowed and moaned heavily. Even though the innuendos were a regular circumstance of their time together, tension hung in the air tonight.

“You like that?” Sasha murmured, her head tilting forward unintentionally. Shea watched the action with exhilaration.

“Hmm…needs more chocolate. Nobody eats enough chocolate around here.” Pale cheeks deepened to a rose hue.

“I agree, I love eating chocolate. But Shea, this is the entreé, not dessert.” The line between humour and sincerity had blurred. Shea gorged herself on the sight of Sasha’s quickened breath, her chest rising and falling at a foxtrot speed and the suggestive allure of her countenance. The only question was, how was Sasha seeing all this? Was it still just a joke? She had stopped laughing but…

“Sasha,” Shea drawled the name affectionately. “Do you have solutions for those of us who love to eat dessert but hate waiting until the end of meal?” Shea slid her hand cautiously across the table to cover Sasha’s. The blonde didn’t move, her face was unreadable. Hesitantly Shea rose from her seat, her hand still in place above the smaller one, her gaze held the unspoken question. This was not Shea’s first time trying to make a pass at a woman and she was confident in herself that her techniques worked. But this wasn’t a random acquaintance in a Chicago bar, this was Sasha. Her neighbour. Her friend. Her best friend. “You never actually told me you were bi.”

Sasha shrugged nonchalantly.

“My sexuality doesn’t define me and is definitely not the most interesting thing to talk about.” Shea nodded.

“Agreed. It’s no one’s business. At all.” Self-assurance flowing, this was the moment, the taller woman swooped down to finally kill the chase. Sasha jerked her head away. Shea halted, her eyes opening wide with shock.

“W-What…”

“Nice try.” Sasha’s voice was soft with disapproval. Shea stuttered incoherently. “You’re married, Shea. This was cute but I’m not actually going to sleep with you.” Pulling away gently, the blonde backed herself against the counter.

“So you’re not into me? At all?” Shea pressed, wounded. Sasha’s eyes narrowed sympathetically.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it. I just don’t condone cheating.” Shea clenched her jaw.

“So men can have all the fun but us women have to sit tight, put up with their shit and rise above it?” Sasha was taken aback by the abrupt tone.

“I didn’t say that, did I? Why be with someone if you’re just going to cheat on them? A relationship should be built on love and trust.” Shea laughed derisively.

“Try explaining that to my husband.” Wide blue orbs sparkled with pity into dark emotional irises. Crossing the space between them, Sasha wrapped her arms around her friend.

“I’m sorry, Shea.” She whispered into her neck. The hairs on Shea’s neck tingled and stood to attention. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, is it.” Shea sighed, dropping her head into the blonde locks. She smelt like roses. “I’m not in love with him. I was but…not anymore. I’m so lonely here. All my friends are back in Chicago. My modelling is there. Everything. I’m trapped in this stupid town in that stupid house. No one understands me. Expect you.” Shea timidly brought her arms around Sasha’s waist, accepting the embrace.

“I know, I know, darling.” Sasha consoled. “You’re always welcome here, this is your home now too. You’re an incredible person, Shea, don’t get lost in the negativity.” Shea felt her chest ache. How was she supposed to let go of Sasha when all she felt from her was nothing but the love and acceptance she craved? Her fingers trembled, resisting the urge to dig into Sasha’s waist.

Dinner forgotten, the two young women made their way hand in hand to salvage the rest of their date. Entering the tiny dim studio, Sasha proudly presented her current art pieces to her new audience; an elaborate explanation was recited alongside each canvas and Shea could see the art lecturer in her bloom. Smiling at the set up, she sauntered over to the camera and struck a pose.

“Here’s your photo opportunity, ma chérie, make it count.” Sasha laughed but hastily lit the set before capturing the arabesque form.

“Art.” She declared. “Let me take another.”

The sun had melted into an ebony nightfall, unbeknownst to the two friends as they crammed prop after prop into a stream a photos, Shea very quickly coaxing the artist into the frames with her. Laughter rang around the room, completely private, no one to witness the two women dance about in playful bliss.

“I wish we could do this every day.” Shea sighed in contentment as she slipped into the other side of Sasha’s bed. There had been no suggestion of Shea retiring back to her own empty abode. She had quietly followed Sasha, tiptoeing behind her while Sasha smiled knowingly to herself but refrained from commenting.

“There’s no reason why we can’t.” Sasha hummed, letting her dress plummet to the floor. She bared no shame or reserved-ness towards her scantily clad form. Shea averted her eyes as her bed friend removed her stockings and bra before tossing on a satin slip. She has leant one to Shea for the night but it rode too high and her breasts felt exposed. Not that Sasha showed any notice. Shea quelled the bubbling excitement as her mind wondered to fantasies that stemmed from her extensive literature collection. As soon as the room snapped into darkness, the second figure dipping into the bed seemed intimately close.

Shea shuffled to make herself comfortable and brushed against the side of Sasha’s warm body. Murmuring an apology, she frowned as the only sound in return was shallow breathing. Of course she would be asleep instantly, Shea rolled her eyes. Yet despite her complaint, she found herself rapidly following suit.

The two bodies drew closer as the night progressed, arms thoughtlessly flung themselves around, drawn to the softness and heat of the other. If any trespasser were to come across their resting silhouettes, they’d be none the wiser that the two weren’t steady lovers. Sasha’s hands curled into Shea’s chest, her head buried into her shoulder. Her companion had a hand flung possessively over her hip, fingers curling into the skimpy slip.

The next morning proved a lot less idyllic. Sasha had a piercing alarm set for the crack of dawn, her lecturer life commanding attention back to reality. Shea groaned in protest, swearing under her breath in French, as the warm body in her arms rolled away. Gripping the now abandoned pillow as a substitute, Shea let herself fall back to sleep whilst Sasha quietly prepared for the day ahead. When she finally felt herself succumb to the waking world, Shea immediately felt her back muscles tense. Maybe there was a way to replace Sasha’s mattress without her knowing about it, she pondered in her hazy state. A red note was carefully positioned on the bedside cabinet.

Good morning sleepy head!

I’m afraid I have lectures all day, so I won’t be back until this evening. Feel free to help yourself to breakfast although I’m afraid you may have a more luxurious variety in your own chateau.

Please put the spare key back through the letter box once you go.

See you tonight at the WA?

~ Sasha ~ x

A tender smile etched across Shea’s lips. She arched her back, trying to ease the knots that had been caused by broken bed springs. Swinging her long legs over the bed, Shea traipsed to the tiny kitchen – the uncooked food from the previous night remained untouched in their positions around the crammed work counter. Opening the fridge, Shea cringed at the pitiful state. Leftovers, a spilt carton of milk and some cherry tomatoes were the only contents. So much for breakfast, Shea thought dryly. Flinging the door closed in disgust, the model huffed as she contemplated her current predicament. No food, messy kitchen…only one thing for it.

-X-

Sasha was more than ready for a quiet night to herself after an arduous day with her art dealer. Her hand was being tied to committing more hours to her work, the demand for another soiree was the highest yet but Sasha knew her art, however celebrated, did not pay her extortionate bills. Her hair had frizzed in the heat, the sleek parting appeared dishevelled but Sasha merely hid the mess with a cylinder hat.

Her favourite rounded sunglasses slipped down her face as she trudged with her materials to the porch. Fiddling with the key, Sasha bit her lip in confusion as the lock refused to turn. Did Shea forget to lock the door when she left? The door opened under her touch and Sasha cautiously entered. Bold brows rose, startled, as a figure lay like a Grecian statue on her davenport sofa.

“You’re still here?”

Shea smiled from her spot, opening her arms in welcome. Sasha noted the change of clothes and pristine makeup and wondered if Shea had gone home to spritz up before letting herself back in.

“How was work, chérie?” Kicking off her heels and glasses, Sasha dumped the contents in her arms to the side before descending into Shea’s open arms. She felt charmed at the domesticity of the situation, not used to having someone waiting for her return.

“Work was hard.” She sighed in between the now commonplace kisses on cheeks. “Budge over, my feet hurt.” Making room so that Sasha could sit with Shea’s head in her lap, the two stared at each other in comfortable silence.

“I bought groceries.” Shea commented, crossing her ankles. “You had no food.” The blonde grimaced, bringing a hand to run through her hair resulting in her hat falling behind her.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Shea gazed up at her, a sweetness to her expression that made Sasha bite her lip.

“I wanted to. I can’t have you starving, now, can I? You got a nice ass but the rest of you needs feeding up.”

“Don’t, you sound like everyone else.” Sasha admonished.

“How many people have you got telling you your ass is great?” her friend jested, flicking Sasha on the arm. Sasha laughed sarcastically.

“What else did you do today besides be my little hausfrau?”

“I cleaned your kitchen - well, I sent my staff over to clean it up and I made you dinner.” Shea admitted, her fingers tangled in her beads nervously. “Is that too much?”

“It’s…extremely thoughtful of you.” Sasha praised, mustering an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

“C’est ne rien, ma chérie.” Full dark lips pouted up her companion to blow a kiss.

They spent the next two hours recounting their day, Shea proudly presenting the meal she had slaved over with her own two hands. She was not about to admit that it had taken her the best part of the afternoon to perfect. She mulled over her glass of Cointreau, silently congratulating herself as Sasha flooded her with praise after praise. The woman was, however, disappointed when Sasha suddenly declared that she was leaving for a meeting with Alexis, Trinity and the woman only referred to as Peppermint.

“I thought you said you were tired.” Shea’s voice hitched, pleading for her friend to retire for the night with her.

“I am but it’s important.” Sasha insisted with a final tone. “We’ve got a responsibility to our community.”

Conceding, Shea soon found herself in the midst of a fiery debate over a charity performing arts showcase. To her right, Sasha was passionately defending ribbon dancing whilst Alexis was imploring to the table that the show should focus on Broadway show tunes. Soothing her temple with a gloved finger, Shea sighed.

“Is there no way we can have both and move on from this?” Peppermint chimed in agreement, nodding vigorously whilst Trinity decided to throw in her own ideas. What a mess. Sasha’s were brows furrowed in disgruntlement as she beseeched the bickering table.

“Listen, I think we should – ”

“What we really need to be doing,” Shea interjected, raising her voice above the blonde. Sasha glared at her, resenting how her friend cut her off rudely. This was her idea. They should be taking direction from her, the artist, as to how this show should be directed. Granted, Sasha had to acknowledge that Shea’s contributions were very good. But she did not appreciate being forcibly ejected from the debate. Silently seething, the blonde simmered to herself.

“Sasha you agree with me, right?” Shea whipped her head round expectantly and Sasha felt the burn of four demanding faces. She had to steer this debacle away from potential bloodshed and tears.

“I do really like your ideas, Shea,” Sasha affirmed. “But – ”

“Honestly, this whole thing is a shambles right now,” Alexis said, loftily. “You’re clearly not used to a leadership role for a project this size and it’s showing. You’re behaviour is too insecure to manage this project.” Sasha was stunned.

“I think I’m doing just fine.” She straightened in her seat. “I think my strategy just doesn’t work for you, Miss Alexis. I would be better if everyone stopped talking over me and -”

“To be fair,” Shea, intercepted. Sasha bit her tongue in exasperation. “We’ve all been going off over Sasha but she’s been trying to keep us in line and create something that includes everyone.” Alexis leaned forward, waving her hands as she spoke. Trinity and Peppermint threw side glances, roused by the heated debate.

“Frankly I feel like Sasha is explicitly trusting you and your vision of this more than mine or Trinity’s or Peppermint’s.”

“Actually,” Sasha’s voice rose in outrage. “I feel like Shea is stepping on my toes a little bit.” Affronted, Shea’s eyes shone with surprise and hurt.

“Honestly, I was just trying to share my ideas –”

“You straight up just spoke over me like everyone else did, to be honest.” The two eyed each other wearily, an awkward strain rising between them.

“Time to call it a night.” Peppermint piped up.

“Agreed.”

Shea had driven Sasha and herself to the disastrous meeting however as they parted, the blonde made a move to walk away from the direction she had parked in.

“Hey,” Shea called, soured by Sasha’s mood. “I’m driving you home.”

“I would like to walk.” Came the curt reply. Shea exhaled sharply and stomped over to the woman, grabbing her hand.

“Just get in the car, Sasha, you’re not walking home in the dark.” Sasha blinked before shifting in embarrassment. The ride home was thick with a tense silence. Shea was thankful when they finally reached their destination. As she pulled up, she twisted her body to face her friend.

“We’re really not going to fall out over Alexis wanting to micro-manage, are we?”

“It wasn’t just Alexis.” Sasha chastised, looking up at Shea’s worried expression. “You barely let me get a word in, either. I expect that kind of thing from them but not you.”

A lump formed in Shea’s throat, she fought the urge to argument defensively; something she would have done to her friends back in Chicago.

“I…I just wanted to get involved.” Sasha smiled, dolefully, placing her hand above Shea’s.

“I know. Your ideas were the best ones, anyway. I just wanted this to be an equally collaborative project.” She gave a slight squeeze of her hand before taking her leave. Shea remained. Her pensive countenance was noted upon when she finally forced herself to return to her own house, a sinking sensation weighing upon her. Her husband had not noticed her absence, wholly apathetic to her plight. He was leaving for a night in New York. Business purposes only. Of course.

With a new layer of exhausted emotions, Shea cradled her pearl rotary dial phone as she waited for Sasha to answer. Sasha would comfort her, she would forget about their silly tiff and see how much Shea appreciated her. The dial tone sounded continuously until the realisation hit Shea like a concrete brick. Sasha was ignoring her call. Slamming the handset down, Shea flung herself to the chaise lounge unable to face a night of frightful sleep.

Hours trickled one after the other and Shea drowned in a sense of inconsolable dread. The one person she wanted, needed, to talk to right now was outright rejecting her. No one had ever rejected her before. Shea did not make allowances for moping behaviour. Not from anyone, especially herself. Sasha may be upset with her but Shea would be damned if she was going to let a petty row interfere with their relationship. Blustering with haste, she stormed down and out to her neighbour’s porch. Wrapped only in a silk gown that scarcely hid her lingerie, Shea pounded her fist against the door. A moment passed before Sasha’s lethargic face peered around the door. She was blank with no makeup and her hair was set in rags.

“Shea?”

“Why did you ignore my call?”

“Your…your call? Jesus, Shea, what time even is it?” Shea pursed her lips as Sasha’s drowsy features gazed up at her in confusion. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“I had to see you. To make it right.” Sasha tilted her head, yawning.

“Shea, this is…this is a lot.” The taller of the two women closed her hand around the smaller, holding it firmly.

“I know, I know I’m a lot to handle. I’m clingy person, I give too much of myself to the people I care about and it’s off putting. I know what I’m like, trust me. But…you…this friendship means too much to me. You’re the best thing about this wretched town; you should be in New York or Chicago or Paris living the life you always dreamed of for yourself, surrounded by fabulous people who appreciate you like I do.”

Sasha looked up at her dumbfounded. Shea prepared for the wave of rejection. “I know I impose my friendship too strongly and I’m sorry for not being the best friend I could have been to you. But I’m so grateful to have you in my life. I need you. I…you don’t even know, Sasha…”

The blood rose to Sasha’s cheeks at the declaration. Pulling Shea towards her with the hand that was locked in a vice grip, she slung her free arm over Shea’s shoulder to press against her. The embrace felt electric with emotion. Releasing hands, Shea crumbled under the touch and wrapped her arms around Sasha’s waist; their bodies meshing intimately.

“I love you too.” Mumbled Sasha. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. I just needed some space. This is pretty intense and I’ve never had a friendship like this before, you’re so…” Sasha swallowed, unsure of her words. “I just want you to be happy. Get out of that marriage, Shea, leave him and let yourself be happy. Be free. Go back to Chicago. Or…you could be with me. We can move to New York and do whatever we want. I care about you deeply – too much to let you carry on like this.”

Shea felt light headed. Dizzy with pure elation, she felt a new awakening inside her. She had never thought she’d live to see the day she’d consider giving up her fortune for anything, let alone for another person. Who could be that important? Whimpering, she heaved a sob into Sasha’s hair, the familiar faint scent of roses comforted her.

“I’m scared.” She confessed while Sasha rubbed circles into her back. “I’ll lose everything.”

“You’ll lose money.” Sasha corrected. “But what you’ll gain…you’ll have everything, Shea.” A gust of midnight wind caused a shiver to tremble between them. “You don’t even love him.” Sasha cried with sudden grievance. “You said so yourself – you don’t even love him.” She took a step back, eyeing Shea with begging eyes. “Please Shea…divorce your husband. Don’t let yourself live in misery.”

“I…” Shea trailed off, a panicked realisation shining in her eyes. “I want you…to be with you…Sasha…” Shea choked on her name, cupping her face in her palms desperately. Sasha held her wrists, her thumbs dancing in circles tenderly as their foreheads touched.

“Then leave him.” Sasha whispered, her eyes darting hungrily from dark eyes to full parted lips. Shea had never seen such a lustful expression from the woman. It made her body ache for contact, the force of her desire like a magnet. “Leave him and we can be together. Now…are you coming in or going back there?”

The invitation held such promise yet Shea could not but feel that her choice would finalise her fate. She bit her lip, uncertain of what implications her choice had. Sasha yawned.

“Either way, we both need to sleep. It’s been a long day.” The dark haired woman nodded, letting her hands fall from Sasha’s face as she was pulled in through the door. Sasha’s hold on her wrist continued as they ascended the staircase. No words passed between them as they entered the bedroom. Uncomfortably self-conscious, they glided under the sheets in darkness. Hands found one another and then, like a chain reaction, arms pushed and pulled greedily to enfold themselves together. Legs hooked around legs, brushing up and down, playing footsie.

Shea felt Sasha’s breath on her face and inched close until their noses touched. Sasha sighed as they Eskimo kissed, tilting her face in blind search of Shea’s lips. She felt Shea gasp as she chastity pressed her lips to the corner of her mouth. Shea peppered kisses blindly along any skin she could feel, drunk on the euphoric sensation, stamping her lips down passionately. Finally, finally. Sasha shushed her, calming her, to ease her passion. The haste would have to subside, for now, but their exchange of kisses promised more. Finally, the two plummeted into an exhausted slumber, dread and hope for the days to come lingered in the air.

The next morning was cold. A grey drizzle set in. Shea lay with her head on Sasha’s chest enjoying the sensation of fingers caressing her scalp, twirling her hair.

“I’m going to tell him.” She muttered to herself. Sasha hummed, happily.

“I love it when you speak French.” She said, oblivious to the meaning of Shea’s declaration.

“I miss speaking it.” Shea confessed. “I had a rule that him and I, when we were alone, could only speak in French. I didn’t want to lose that part of myself.”

“That’s beautiful.” Sasha smiled. “I used to be perfectly fluent in Russian but I’ve never spoken it since moving away, so I’m terribly rusty.” Shea turned a surprised look up at her.

“You lived in Russia?”

“I am, in fact, Russian.” Sasha smiled widely. “Sasha is a Russian name but I chose Velour when I moved here because no one knew how to spell or speak my real surname.”

“Get out of town.” Shea rolled and sat up on her arms. “What brought you to the States?” Sasha’s eyes dimmed and she shrugged.

“I couldn’t be myself there. Expressing myself for who I am could have ended very…nastily.” Sighing, she gave a half-hearted smile. “I need to get up for work.”

-X-

The morning passed at a glacial pace. Sasha had not brought up the events of last night but before departing, she turned to Shea anxiously.

“Will I see you again tonight?” Shea had nodded vigorously.

“Most definitely.” She had loitered at the small den until one p.m., pacified by her surroundings and the smell of Sasha on every object yet she knew the fateful hour was approaching. Mr Couleé would be home at three. It was a Friday and so his schedule for the weekend never changed. Home by three, straight to the decanter, back out to the bar by six.

Trudging along, Shea felt the weight of the judgemental stares by the house staff. She kept her head high, manner indifferent, as she stomped around the empty house. She stripped from her lingerie from the night before, choosing a simple rose toned dress and beret as her attire. Shea wondered if she should start packing her bags now so that she could make a swift exit after the conversation.

“So…you’re back, finally.” Shea’s stomach turned at the familiar voice. Spinning to face the direction of her husband, who stood blocking the bedroom door, Shea folded her arms.

“You noticed I was gone?” Mr Couleé glared, taking slow steps into the room.

“Actually I didn’t. But people have been talking.” A chill shot down Shea’s back. “People have been talking a lot about you, Shea. About you…and a woman.” A tense silence suffocated the room. “I cheated once and people talked. Now you’re doing exactly the same thing with a fucking woman and people are spreading gossip tenfold. Have you lost your goddamn mind?” His deep voice rose in a crescendo of fury. Shea stared him down, unblinking.

“Was it really that much of a shock to you?” She challenged.

“What could I have possibly done so offensively to you that you punish me with this?”

“Ha! Where do I even start? You’re rude, arrogant and have no respect for me or anyone around you. You fuck like a pig in the heat. Didn’t you ever feel my revulsion at your touch? I may have loved you once but you were no husband to me. Only a cheque book and you know it.” Eyes locked together, one in rage and the other in defiance. “I’m divorcing you.” The man burst into hard, sarcastic laugher.

“You’re not going to do that. You love my money too much. What will you do with yourself once you’re a penniless slapper dancing on tables again for change? Don’t forget where you came from before you met me, Shea.”

“I was rich on my own long before you.” Shea spat, her fingers clenched into fists and she stormed towards her husband. “You may have had more money but everyone knew I was the one settling for less in this farce of a marriage.”

“Who is it?” Couleé burned, his voice a vicious hiss. “It’s that woman next door, isn’t it? That poor pitiful plain mouse of a woman who lives in a shack. You’re going to leave all this to move into a derelict bungalow? Don’t make me laugh.” Shea gritted her teeth at the disgusted tone in his voice.

“Don’t you dare talk about her. She means more to me than you ever did. More than any of this.” Shea flung her arms to the room. “And I’m tired of living a lie. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Enjoy the rest of your life fucking everything that glances in your general direction.”

Shea made a rush for the door, abandoning any idea of packing. A forceful wrench against her arm prevented any further escape.

“I’m not done talking -”

“Let go of me!” Shea swung herself round, yanking her arm over and over trying to break away. Her arm ached with pain as the vice like hand tightened. They struggled strenuously for a few minutes, panic overwhelming, until Shea frantically struck the man; her ringed fingers cut into his face. This did not however extract herself from his grip. Shea shrieked in anger, wildly snatching at anything within her reach from the vanity at her right to beat Mr Couleé off her.

Time slowed and sped simultaneously until a low, pained grunt paired with a cumbersome thwack sounded swiftly and Shea watched with shock and horror as the man fell to the ground; his eyes rolling up his head like a doll. Frozen in her defensive stance above him, Shea stared blankly down at the lifeless body with a brutal gash to the crown of his head. Oh no. Leaning cautiously, Shea poked his neck, his head rolled and flopped to the side flaccidly. Oh fuck. Dropping what turned out to be her iron paperweight, Shea closed her shaking hands over her gaping mouth.

Thoughts bled into one another. What was she supposed to do now? Shea back away from the body, recoiling at a fly that landed on a bloody cheek. She turned to the door, gradually making her way over and shut it quietly. The lock flipped. Shea eyed the body wearily, nauseous, wondering if the smell emitting from it was real or her imagination. Staggering over to the phone by her bedside, Shea’s hands trembled pathetically as she dialled the one person she could think of who could help her. Lipstick City.

“Annyeonghaseyo?” The Korean voice warbled.

“Kim,” Shea sighed. “I need your help.”

“Who?”

“Bitch you know me, it’s Shea.”

“Ah, Miss Shea. More man trouble?” Shea’s eyes fell shut and she massaged her temple.

“You could say that. I’m…I’m gonna need the full clean and polish. With removal. Outside New York, do you have any…connections this far out?” There was a muffled shifting on the line and Shea swallowed, her mouth so dry her throat felt like sandpaper.

“Consider it done.”

-X-

Sasha couldn’t concentrate. The day dragged and all she itched to do was run home and see Shea. She wondered what Mr Couleé was like, what the dynamic was between them in that grand house. Sasha had lived in that neighbourhood for almost two years and prior to Shea, she could not recall it ever being occupied.

Stepping off the train, Sasha began the trek home with her canvas and satchel filled with papers and brushes and random sketches she had doodled from boredom. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could see Shea; the thought made her trot along in her heels double time. Eventually turning her street corner, her light eyes focused on a large van outside Maison du Couleé and Sasha frowned as a lone unrecognisable figure struggled into view dragging a large plastic disposable bag. She watched as a woman, wearing a jumpsuit with the words T. Rex Disposals, struggled to fling the opaque sack into the boot of the van.

Lingering at her porch, pretending to look for her keys, Sasha spied at the woman muttering to herself whilst she battled against the weight of the bag. Sasha noted that it vaguely resembled something out of a morgue.

“Need any help there?” She called and the woman jolted, snapping her head at the sound of her voice.

“I’m good, thanks.” She huffed. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Suit yourself.” Sasha unfastened her door. “Looks like a body bag.” T. Rex laughed.

“It is.” she winked and Sasha smiled, leaving the strange individual to their work.

The artist had hoped that Shea would be waiting in her living room to greet her again but, alas, no such luck. It was already almost seven o’clock, the light was fading fast into the ether and Sasha wondered when Shea planned to make an appearance like she had promised.

Glancing at the clock, Sasha hummed as she decided to pass the time painting. Setting up a blank canvas, she lay all of her paints on a small table to her side that was home to a framed photo of Shea and herself from their impromptu shoot. In the picture the two stood facing each other with their smiling faces to the camera and their arms outstretched as if they were posing for a dance.

When Sasha had the photos developed, she had delighted as Shea fawned over them declaring every one to be her favourite. The model had clutched the few of her and Sasha together to her bosom, the rest scattered in abandonment on Sasha’s bed.

“We look amazing together.” She had cried, overjoyed. Sasha peeled one away from her, looking over it in admiration.

“You look so beautiful.” Shea blushed, flustered, flinging her hair behind her shoulder.

“Of course, I do.” Caressing a finger over Sasha’s face in the picture, she gazed from the paper to the young woman in front of her. “You look so…sexy.”

“Sexy?” Sasha had cried in bemusement. She laughed awkwardly in embarrassment and flipped the photo over. “I wouldn’t ever call myself that.”

“I mean it,” Shea pushed, frowning. “You’re a very sexy person, ma chérie. You should feel it.”

Shea always had a way to make Sasha feel exactly how she told her to. The consistent throwaway comments about how attractive Shea found her, though Sasha presumed most of the time they were said in jest, did make the artist feel more emboldened. She was not too proud to say she appreciated validation, especially from someone as dazzling as Shea. Not only that but the smitten looks she caught thrown her way when Shea thought she wasn’t paying attention made Sasha feel rooted in her affection towards the Parisian. For how couldn’t Sasha love someone that wanted her to love herself?

The phone began to shrill. Pausing her stroke, Sasha tucked the paint brush behind her ear as she ran to the hall outside the studio.

“Hello?”

“Bonsoir ma chérie…you sound so breathless.” Sasha laughed airily, wrapping her fingers around the cord.

“I didn’t want to miss the call in case it was you.” She admitted. There was a moment of silence and Sasha wondered if the call had disconnected.

“Can you come over? Now?” Shea pleaded. “I need to see you.” Sasha’s eyebrows rose.

“You’re not coming over here?” She had yet to be invited into Shea’s house but by the off tone in her friend’s voice, she could not help but feel apprehensive at the request.

“No. I need you here.”

“Shea, what’s wrong?”

“Just come over, please Sasha.” The young woman swallowed, her mind racing. Shea needed her help.

“I’m coming.” Dropping the phone to the cradle, Sasha discarded her overalls and the brush in her ear with cold nervous hands. After locking up and letting herself into the neighbouring building, Shea had once mentioned that the front door was never locked with so many staff constantly on duty, Sasha called out to the vast dark stairwell.

Shea had appeared, the vision of a dark queen clad in a black ostrich feathered dressing gown, descending the staircase halfway before she was met by Sasha. The blonde had run up two by two to reach her. Cupping her angular chin, Shea pecked Sasha’s cheeks in their old style routine but it felt slower and more sensual, her lips hovered over the skin. Sasha stared at her unabashed.

“I told my husband I’m divorcing him.” Sasha gasped, her mouth falling into a pretty “o”; Shea wondered what it’d feel like to have Sasha suck on her fingers.

“Shea…I’m so proud of you. What happened? Are you okay? Where…where is he?” Linking her arm through Sasha’s, Shea walked them back up the stairs and into the shadowed corridor towards her bedroom. She felt rigid, frozen with the events of today and tried to supress the memories of when jopok leader Kim Chi’s so-called connection arrived.

“He’s gone.” She simply said, staring ahead; her eyes were removed from the present and looked haunted into the past. Sasha detected her distant countenance and a pang of worry twisted in her stomach.

“Did he hurt you?” Sasha turned her gaze from her oddly behaving friend to take in her bed chamber for the fist time. The high ceiling with ornate borders and long velvet drapes that hung around an imperial four poster bed left her in awe and intimidated by such grandeur. Shea manoeuvred them so that they perched on the edge of the mattress.

“Non, chérie,” Shea shook her head, eyes glued to the oriental rug. Their arms remained linked and taking a deep breath, Shea’s hand clutched Sasha’s. “I’m going to be leaving soon too. I’m going back to Chicago.”

Shea could not bring herself to face Sasha’s reaction. She felt her heart rupture into pain at the thought of leaving her friend but what choice did she have? She could not risk Sasha being caught up in any of the fallout if her husband’s body were to be discovered. At the very least the missing persons case for the next few months would be hell. No, it was decided. Shea refused to subject Sasha to the agony and speculation of a murder case she had no part in.

“If that’s what you want.” The thick emotion in Sasha’s voice stabbed venomously into Shea. “Like I said, you have everything there. You’ll finally be happy.” The stillness between them was suffocating. “How soon are you leaving?” Shea winced at the dreaded the question.

“Honestly, I’m thinking of leaving either tomorrow or the day after. It depends.”

“On what?” Shea could read through the seemingly calm tone in Sasha’s low voice and felt her resolve disintegrating when Sasha stood suddenly, splitting away from her. She took a few unsure steps forward, her face down and hidden. “What does it depend on, Shea?” Shea reached for her but the blonde shrank away, recoiling.

“Sasha –”

“Don’t do that.” Sasha snapped, turning to face the distressed woman. “Don’t say my name as if I’m the one hurting you.” Shea blinked, her eyes bore into the pale face, cold with rue. “I thought we had…I was clearly mistaken.” Sasha’s curt words were marred with a tremble and Shea stood as if she’d been struck by lightening, too weak to endure more suffering and unable to drag Sasha through the same. She never believed she should deprive herself of what she wanted, especially if it was ripe for the taking before her eyes.

Sasha had startled at the sudden movement, retreating further but Shea powered towards her until Sasha felt her back press into the vanity. She bit her lip as Shea caressed her hand across her hollow cheek, brushing her frizzed curls away from her face.

“It depends on you.” Shea finally murmured. “It isn’t fair to make you leave but I can’t be without you.”

“You knew I was willing to go with you.” Sasha spoke softly, eyes guarded. “We just never had the conversation about the logistics if the day were to come. You’re deciding for me now that it’s better to leave me behind.” Shea curled her fingers around Sasha’s jaw, torn between what she knew she should do and what she most desperately wanted.

“I want to protect you.” She admitted, her voice hoarse with strain. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“And you think by leaving I’ll be fine? I don’t know if you know, Shea, but I’ve been looking after myself perfectly long before you.” She glared defiantly at the woman how was rubbing circles into her cheek. “Why are you leaving so fast? What are you running away from?” Shea felt the words form in her mouth but forced them back. Sasha huffed, frustrated at the lack on explanation. “You can’t just force yourself into people’s lives, make them love you and then leave without a care.” She cried, yanking Shea’s hand away. “It’s not right, Shea.” Skirting past the other woman, Sasha freed herself, making a beeline for the door.

Shea knew she couldn’t live with herself if she let Sasha leave like this. She had uprooted her life, made her truly feel reborn and in tune as to what real love was, Sasha had changed her. She had left her husband for her. And it was too significant a shift to survive alone.

“He’s dead.” The words shattered Shea’s control and she dropped to her knees. “Sasha don’t leave…Oh god, what have I done?” Sasha remained a statue, her eyes wide with confusion and fear.

“What?” She asked dumbly. Shea clutched at the jewels decorating her neck, hyperventilating. Reaching, her arms outstretched towards the pale woman, Shea collapsed against her friend as Sasha hastily returned.

“It was an accident. He grabbed me – he was so mad – and he wouldn’t let go. Look at my bruises, I was so scared –” Her words tumbled incoherently and although no tears fell, her distress drilled an ache in Sasha. Kneeling, the blonde woman held her friend to her chest tightly as she attempted to decipher what had happened.

“Where is he?” Her throat constricted when Shea nuzzled into Sasha’s neck, her arms snaking around her waist, pulling her gently against her body.

“I rang an old friend who has connections in Lipstick City. They…disposed of him. I don’t know where.” The reel of questions Sasha suddenly had left her overwhelmed. Her arms dropped like heavy weights to her sides. She thought back to earlier that day. T. Rex Disposals.

“Holy fuck, Shea.” Bringing their faces level, Shea stared into Sasha’s horrified orbs. Cupping her waxen face, she brushed her lips across Sasha’s rose painted pout.

“I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. I couldn’t call the police. With lots of money comes lots of connections.” She whispered, begging for Sasha to understand. “But…you helped me realise who I am. I don’t need all that money. I was leaving him. For me. For you. I want you in my life, in my world, to look after and love and be free with. I want to have a part in your life, you make me feel so…high. So happy.”

Sasha’s eyes were wide like a doe. Her head was swimming overpowered by emotion than her own rationality. No one had ever spoken to her with such admiration and wonder. How had someone like Shea fallen into Sasha’s world? An answer she would never receive yet that did not dampen her gratitude that Shea had found her.

“Shea…you killed someone.” The accused woman did not react but her eyes gave away her unease.

“I did.” She swallowed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“It’s probably best you should.” Shea nodded slowly, her dark eyes bore into Sasha’s, unconvinced of her friend’s wishes.

“I understand completely.” Shea’s hands fell from Sasha’s face to her waist. “Kiss me goodbye?”

The blonde nodded, her blue eyes glued to Shea’s lips. The dark haired model tightened her grip on the slender hips, pulling them against her as she threw herself into a passionate kiss. Sasha was putty beneath her touch, submitting herself to the fervour and fury of Shea’s embrace. She felt awakened, as if she had found release from a surreal mundane existence. There was no nine to five job to barely make ends meat, there was no playground politics with middle aged suburban house wives, there was only Shea. Two souls. Intertwined by their loneliness and love. A shared connection of understanding and acceptance beyond the material world. Come what may, Sasha couldn’t lose this.

“Don’t leave me.” Sasha felt breathless. “Don’t go and run away without me.” Shea’s eyes burned with a raw intensity that left Sasha’s cheeks burning and feeling aroused. “We’ll work it out together. Let me help –” Her words were stolen as soft lips fused against her own. She gave a hopeless whimper, bringing her arms around Shea’s shoulders, pulling the woman closer to her. Shea was forceful, domineering, in her movements as she slid her craving hands over Sasha’s hips and grasped at her behind, squeezing. Gliding the zip of her pencil skirt southward, Shea’s hands invaded beneath the fabric and she tugged Sasha’s shirt out, skimming her fingers underneath and up her back.

Sasha broke the kiss, her eyes hooded with titillation and kicked off her shoes. Shea watched the ruffled up woman with adoration. Rising, she held a hand to pull Sasha up so that she could push the skirt further down until it landed unceremoniously in a heap on the carpet. The two women stood mirroring one another. Shea let her extravagant dressing gown fall down her shoulders and hit the floor, leaving her in black satin lingerie. Sasha’s eyes trailed over the clear, smooth skin of her chest, her slender muscular arms, her toned stomach – art could not come close to what Shea was.

“Take this off.” Shea commanded, unbuttoning the top of Sasha’s shirt. Sasha complied, her fingers worked with urgency at the base of the shirt, meeting Shea’s hands halfway. Shea pealed the shirt away, her eyes raking over Sasha’s pale slender body zealously. “You’re so beautiful.” She marvelled, her hands wandering over the edge of her sheer bra, sliding it away. Sasha blushed at her own nakedness, her lithe fingers ran through Shea’s hair as she tilted her head to kiss. Lips melded and massaged one another until Shea ran her tongue across Sasha’s bottom lip. Sasha’s lips tingled at the sensation, red lipstick smudged, and parted to allow Shea complete admission.

Tongues danced around, flicking and teasing, accompanied only by soft moans. The quiet enthralled Sasha, the only sound to focus upon was her lover’s pleasure and she could not think of anything more erotic than Shea. The taller woman pulled Sasha over the bed, pushing her onto the soft covers and wrapped her long legs either side of the blonde’s smooth white thighs. Shea unclasped her own bra before discarding it without a care, her eyes fixed on Sasha’s. Pressing a deep kiss into her neck, Shea murmured in French. Sasha’s eyes fluttered at the sound despite her stomach knotting with nerves.

“Shea…it’s – it’s been a while since…” She trailed off, flustered but Shea cupped her cheek, forcing her to look at her heated stare.

“Shh, baby, don’t worry. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” She whispered, burying a wet kiss to her parted lips. The two moved with a fervent passion, arms roamed and groped, hips ground together. Sasha’s toes curled at the feel of Shea’s own breasts against her body. Shea hooked Sasha’s thigh over her waist, her hand ripping the thigh high stocking away. Gazing down at her, all Shea saw was beauty and artistry in her pink panting face and her milky white petite breasts; every facet of Sasha’s being was perfection. “How has no one snatched you up, yet?” She sighed. “How am I this lucky? I can’t let you go.” Shea cupped Sasha’s breast, her thumb padding at her nipple and the fruitful response of a gentle cry made her mouth dry.

Skilled fingers were replaced by a warm tongue, confidently flicking and rolling into Sasha as she moaned and arched into the erogenous woman above her. Shea pinned Sasha’s arms to the mattress, their fingers intertwined, possessing full command. Nips and sucks turned into languid kisses that trailed fluidly down Sasha’s ribs and abdomen until Shea reached the cup of her pelvis. Her hands slid down over the rises and falls of Sasha’s body until they came to pause at the curve of her hips, hooking into the elastic of her pants.

“Please, Shea.” Sasha breathed, her eyes closed with her own hands reaching to push off the last article of clothing with urgency. “Please, please.” Shea grinned at the sound of Sasha begging over her name. Discarding the obstructing fabric, Shea sighed in ravenous satisfaction as she gaped between Sasha’s legs. She spread Sasha’s thighs further apart, throwing them over her shoulders like a stoal, then let one hand dive in impatiently whilst the other wrapped around Sasha’s leg, holding her in place.

Shea’s long fingers stroked softly along the curb of her labia repetitively, slipping between the lips to tease and elicit the small out of breath noises that drove her crazy. Sasha’s thighs clenched and jerked sporadically, toes curled and feet arched, her hands twisted in the sheet beneath her. Dragging her fingers up between the wetness, Shea looped her finger under the hood reaching the pearly reward. The blissful noises that erupted from Sasha, quiet and soft but oh so intoxicating to Shea’s ears, overflowed with ecstasy.

Shea nibbled kisses into Sasha’s taut inner thigh, resisting her gluttonous desire to rush too soon. As she neared closer and closer to where her fingers currently played on the woman underneath her, Shea felt glanced up at her lover and studied her face that was contorted from the overwhelming pleasure. Sasha’s mouth hung open, her dark brows pulled together and her skin glowed with dew from the heated affair.

“Look at me.” Shea felt powerful, in command over the beautiful woman writhing at her every whim. Shea waited until she had Sasha’s full attention; her eyes were dazed with desperation. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” Her fingers sped up their rhythmic motion, rubbing against her clitoris in a forceful manner. Sasha mewled, the red on her cheeks intensifying. “I’ve wanted to feel you around my fingers just like this, squeezing until I make you cum, I want to hear you as I give you everything.” Sasha’s head rolled back as her body convulsed and tremored, reaching the heights of her pleasure.

Dipping back down hastily, Shea lapped her tongue wildly against the velvet skin tasting Sasha’s centre. Spurred on by the endless stream of moaning, Shea bobbed her head enthusiastically, her eyes closed, lost in the moment. She controlled the rocking motion of Sasha’s hips that thrust for release and hummed. The swirling of her tongue was matched with the sound of her name falling like a prayer from Sasha’s lips. Soon the lymphatic tones turned staccato and Shea doubled her efforts to bring Sasha completion. When the tension flooded from her trembling thighs and all that remained was the resonating sound of exhausted pants, Sasha reached for the woman between her legs, burying her fingers in her soft hair.

Shea peered up at her, smiling in cocky triumph and pressed a small kiss to her thigh.

“Come here.” Sasha cooed. Her body lay unresponsive and quaking upon the soft mattress, worn to the bone. Shea crawled atop of her and Sasha cupped her cheek as they kissed; the taste of her climax passed between them.

“Ma chérie,” Shea murmured, skimming her nose over Sasha’s cheek as they stared into one another. “Je t’aime.” Tipping her forehead to rest against the pale sweaty skin beneath her, Shea closed her eyes, focusing on the pulsating beating of the body below her. “Je t’aime.”

The exchange of sweet chaste pecks cooled the air around them. Shea curled her arm around Sasha’s head, supporting herself as she stretched above her to brush the rogue strands of blonde hair that had plastered themselves to her temple. Sasha caressed her fingers up and down Shea’s toned arms. No words were needed to express the emotions rife between them.

“I’m so hot for you.” Shea admitted softly, shifting her hips to stir friction between their tangled legs. Sasha giggled, making noises of satisfaction as she joined the movement. Sitting up suddenly, Shea fixed Sasha’s thigh over her hip, slotting herself between her legs. She rubbed vigorously up against Sasha’s pelvis, scissoring. The grind of her hips shot waves of aching stimulation up her spine. Throwing her head back in bliss, Shea felt overwhelmingly alive and in tune with her surroundings. The feeling of Sasha underneath her, the sounds echoing around them, the heat radiating from their skin…she was completely enveloped in the experience. There was nothing else in the world she wanted more than to do this, be this, for the rest of her life. They fit together like the two halves of an oyster-shell. Shea was Narcissus, embracing the pond in which she was about to drown.

Tipping over into her own orgasmic state, Shea twirled over to lay next to her lover; she encompassed her arms around the smaller pale body, guiding Sasha to lie plush against her.

“What are we going to do?” Sasha sighed, her face turned in to Shea’s shoulder.

“We do nothing.” Shea replied, catching her breath. “Nothing that isn’t expected of us.”

“We’re going to look suspicious, Shea.” Sasha forced. “If we’re to be openly together people will talk.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“But- ”

“When I see you,” Shea interrupted. “it’s like - I don’t know what it’s like. It’s like I’ve never seen anything at all before. I’ve looked at women before you and they are like nothing - they’re like dust. But then you walked in for the first time on my porch – I thought…you were so pretty and your suit was so nice and your voice was so sweet.” Sasha was staring up at her stupefied now but Shea continued. “You make me want to smile and weep, at once. You makes me sore, here.” Shea placed a hand on her chest, upon the breast-bone. “I’ve never met a woman like you before. I never knew that there were women like you…” Her smooth voice became a trembling whisper then, and Shea found that she could say no more. There was another silence. “Come what may, I am not hiding this, I am not going to go without you anymore.”

Sasha’s face filled with emotion. Without a word she lay back down, resuming her hold on Shea as the two drifted off into an uncertain sleep. The next morning the police arrived to break the news to Mrs Couleé that her husband’s body had been found washed up in a lake. The remains of the man had been wrapped in a body bag with a half snapped cord, which had obviously been trying to keep the body from floating away. A most disturbing accident that Mrs Couleé was sure to have no knowledge of. Sasha’s face has drained of blood as she stood next to Shea; the widow had feigned tears, falling to the ground with a wail. The police still needed her to come in for questioning. That demand extended to a waxen faced Sasha.

The two women dressed in silence. A sombre tension loomed. Shea felt an inner peace she had not known for years calm her nerves. She watched the blonde, poor innocent beautiful Sasha, dress in her clothes from the previous day. There was no time to be spared for any glamour. Sasha caught her eye and gave her a meaningful stare. As they found themselves escorted into the police cars, Shea focused on the day this ordeal would be over. She would be wearing Chanel No. 5, draped in her Cartier Paris Nouvelle Vague necklace. Sasha Velour, the quirky artistic woman who smelled of home grown roses, would be by her side. And all would be right in the world once more.

Fin.

#rpdr fanfiction #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #lipstick city #oxford #smut #angst #fluff #lesbian au #alexis michelle #peppermint #trinity taylor #kim chi #trannika rex #s9 #tw murder

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