(I've always wanted to do backstory for them, so thanks for this prompt!!)
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She sees him sitting on the bench that first day as she shakes her hips next to the L stop in Union Square. She shimmies a little harder when his blue eyes dip, remembering what she learned watching Josephine do the Danse sauvage at the Folies Bergères that lazy year in Paris. She smiles when she remembers the scandal of it all, and how her mamma back in Napoli would have cried if she could have seen the way Mademoiselle Baker danced.
Kind of like the way Mamma cried when she saw her baby girl bleed the local macellaio dry before disappearing from her life for the last time.
“Marry me,” the man says, interrupting her daydream and the thrum of the music from the boombox sitting on the dusty ground next to her feet.
Genevieve laughs, and continues swaying.
***
The man is back the next day, in the same spot, but he’s clutching a sunflower that he must have gotten from one of the nearby stands.
It’s a Sunday and Union Square is bustling with locals selling cheese and honey and homemade sausage, tourists with their maps getting lost on their way to Times Square, and artists from Brooklyn and Alphabet City performing for the both of them, and themselves.
Genevieve flips her long, dark hair over her shoulders, raising her hands to the bright blue sky like she’s reaching for God.
“I love you,” the man says, holding up the sunflower like an offering.
Genevieve’s teeth ache in her mouth when she smiles at him.
***
On the fifth day, her best friend Danneel stands a few feet from the bench and watches the man. Her hair is long and loose like fire, and the edges of her smile are curved up like she knows a secret.
She probably does. That’s why Danneel is special.
Danneel winks at her and Genevieve’s fangs lower half-a-centimeter in welcome response.
Well, maybe Danneel is special just because she’s Danneel.
The man doesn’t seem to notice, and suddenly he’s on one knee in front of the bench.
This part is new, Genevieve thinks with mirth as she swings her skirt in the muggy New York breeze.
“You make me brave,” the man says, and Genevieve stops moving. She glances at Danneel, who raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“What’s your name, mystery man?” Genevieve asks finally, breaking the seal of silence that has lasted for five days.
The man blinks a few times, like he can’t believe that she’s actually talking to him, but then a grin as big as the sun breaks out across his face.
Genevieve would blush, if her blood was still actually flowing.
“Misha,” the man says.
“Misha,” she repeats, rolling the name around her tongue. She walks over to him and kneels down in front of him. His shoulders are shaking and there is a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that she wants to brush off. She can hear how fast his heart is beating, and scent the blood in his veins.
“Tell me a secret, Misha,” she says after they stare at each other for a few long minutes that feel like an eternity. And if there is anything Genevieve knows, it’s eternity.
He swallows and Genevieve wants to bite right there.
“My penis hates unnatural fibers,” he blurts out suddenly.
Danneel laughs hard enough that it makes a teenager riding by fall off his skateboard.
Genevieve’s lips curl up and her fangs extend. Misha’s eyes widen in shock for just a moment, before they narrow again, blue eclipsed by blackened lust-filled pupils.
no subject
(I've always wanted to do backstory for them, so thanks for this prompt!!)
_____________________________________
She sees him sitting on the bench that first day as she shakes her hips next to the L stop in Union Square. She shimmies a little harder when his blue eyes dip, remembering what she learned watching Josephine do the Danse sauvage at the Folies Bergères that lazy year in Paris. She smiles when she remembers the scandal of it all, and how her mamma back in Napoli would have cried if she could have seen the way Mademoiselle Baker danced.
Kind of like the way Mamma cried when she saw her baby girl bleed the local macellaio dry before disappearing from her life for the last time.
“Marry me,” the man says, interrupting her daydream and the thrum of the music from the boombox sitting on the dusty ground next to her feet.
Genevieve laughs, and continues swaying.
***
The man is back the next day, in the same spot, but he’s clutching a sunflower that he must have gotten from one of the nearby stands.
It’s a Sunday and Union Square is bustling with locals selling cheese and honey and homemade sausage, tourists with their maps getting lost on their way to Times Square, and artists from Brooklyn and Alphabet City performing for the both of them, and themselves.
Genevieve flips her long, dark hair over her shoulders, raising her hands to the bright blue sky like she’s reaching for God.
“I love you,” the man says, holding up the sunflower like an offering.
Genevieve’s teeth ache in her mouth when she smiles at him.
***
On the fifth day, her best friend Danneel stands a few feet from the bench and watches the man. Her hair is long and loose like fire, and the edges of her smile are curved up like she knows a secret.
She probably does. That’s why Danneel is special.
Danneel winks at her and Genevieve’s fangs lower half-a-centimeter in welcome response.
Well, maybe Danneel is special just because she’s Danneel.
The man doesn’t seem to notice, and suddenly he’s on one knee in front of the bench.
This part is new, Genevieve thinks with mirth as she swings her skirt in the muggy New York breeze.
“You make me brave,” the man says, and Genevieve stops moving. She glances at Danneel, who raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“What’s your name, mystery man?” Genevieve asks finally, breaking the seal of silence that has lasted for five days.
The man blinks a few times, like he can’t believe that she’s actually talking to him, but then a grin as big as the sun breaks out across his face.
Genevieve would blush, if her blood was still actually flowing.
“Misha,” the man says.
“Misha,” she repeats, rolling the name around her tongue. She walks over to him and kneels down in front of him. His shoulders are shaking and there is a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that she wants to brush off. She can hear how fast his heart is beating, and scent the blood in his veins.
“Tell me a secret, Misha,” she says after they stare at each other for a few long minutes that feel like an eternity. And if there is anything Genevieve knows, it’s eternity.
He swallows and Genevieve wants to bite right there.
“My penis hates unnatural fibers,” he blurts out suddenly.
Danneel laughs hard enough that it makes a teenager riding by fall off his skateboard.
Genevieve’s lips curl up and her fangs extend. Misha’s eyes widen in shock for just a moment, before they narrow again, blue eclipsed by blackened lust-filled pupils.
“Do you want to get a drink, Misha?”