I AM NO MOTHER I AM NO BRIDE

Frances Coldwell-Gould. Human. Congresswoman. Wife. Mother. My mother had always told her kids: if you're about to do something, and you want to know if it's a bad idea, imagine seeing it printed in the paper for all the world to see. ― Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

[frances-c-g]

{Lea Seydoux, 36, Cis Female, She/Her} || Frances Coldwell-Gould is a non-mutant who has been in new york for thirty-six years where she spends most of her time as a congresswoman. when i think of her, i think of a stepford wife smile, broken wine glasses, pink lipstick stains on white tissues, and dead straight blonde hair. she is against mutants. [cola, 26, she/her, gmt, n/a]

UNDER THE CUT: INTRO // FULL BIO // TL;DR 

INTRO:

>> TASK #1: Let’s Talk About The Mutant Situation, Shall We? >> TASK #2: What Is Home? >>PINTEREST

BASICS

Full Name: Frances Coldwell-Gould D.O.B:  23rd May 1962 Age: 36 Gender: Cis Woman (she/her/hers) FC: Lea Seydoux

FULL BIO 

 DOCS VERSION 

TL;DR:

— Will O’Connell’s ex-wife.  — After giving birth to a visibly mutant daughter, she discovered Will had lied and never told her he was a mutant. — She divorced him and got paid reparations on the grounds that he lied to her and the marriage was therefore a sham. She did not need the money. — Rich WASP. From Old Money. — Re-married an older guy who’s too dumb to lie to her. — Anti-Mutant Politician, overtly leans more ‘neutral’ but is getting worse! — Congresswoman, she took over the late Masten's role.

@c23intros​

[frances-c-g]

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝

Atticus fished the piece of paper out of his pocket. It was crumbled, having been folded, opened, and the re-folded several times. ‘Meet me at the abandoned warehouse at 10pm tonight’ It was typed. He had been given it by the barista at the coffee place he frequented, with a story about how someone had asked for it to be given when he came in that morning. It made a shiver run up his spine, the thought of being watched, of having his routine noticed. That wasn’t what was really bothering him though. No, that would be the line written under the first. ‘I want to talk about your brothers death’ Matthew. Maybe whoever had written this knew something, something that Atticus didn’t. He just hoped it wasn’t someone who was actually just trying to get a story out of him. He was so, so tired of that. It had felt like the police had just started to stop staring him down when he was out and about.

He made his way to the building, following the path that he and Finley had taken at one point. The darkness filled him with a sense of unease, unable to see who, or what was around him. However, he was too nervous to use the flashlight that he had brought, not wanting to catch the eye of any guard who was out patrolling. Atticus ducked under the broken boards that covered the entrance. Once he did, he walked a few spaces in before feeling safe enough to turn on his light. He was making his way to the stairs that he knew existed when he heard footsteps near him. Atticus whirled around, the flashlight spinning with him “Whose there?” He called out, quietly. Wetting his lips, he took a moment before trying again. “It’s Atticus, you’re the one who asked me to meet here”

—

It was a needlessly cartoonish way to organize a meeting but through a combination of security concerns, PR concerns, and a flair for dramatics poor Atticus would face the brunt of a bizarre introduction. Frances sat in the back of her car, idly checking her nails in the warm yellow light as one of her bodyguards headed out with his little torch (at least in comparison to his meaty hands).

It had been a few minutes on waiting before the door is swung open. The disgruntled bodyguard scowling and blinking, clearly he’d been blinded a little by this Atticus. Stepping aside to let the man in Frances turns to smile, to apologize for the dramatics when she sees his face.

Thrown, she can’t do her little ‘Atticus?’ with a finely arched brow. Instead she’s genuinely perplexed. Was the information she’d been giving so wrong that she’s dragged a, what, high-schooler out to some abandoned building with no explanation? “Are you—is this the right guy?” she calls over Atticus to where the meathead is climbing in to join them, “I’m sorry to ask, darling. How old are you?”

[frances-c-g]

𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐞

He nods, “You might want to bring in your bodyguard in,” He jokes because the man seems to follow her like a lost puppy. “Okay, I’d leave you to it.” He chuckles and moves back to his desk to get back to work. 

“He’d love that wouldn’t he?” Oops. She slips in after that, ready to be scolded later. Frances does her business. Lingering a little because its the only real chance she has to sit down and be fully alone. Even if she can only look around, scowl at the (surprisingly, she thinks rather judgementally) clean bathroom with some interesting decorating choices.  When she steps out to face her guard, the smile is terse before leading the way out. She’s already causing problems, why not continue? “Is this your own shop? It’s…” she tips her head to the side, looking at a wall covered in individual designs pinned to a board, covering the entire wall,“Interesting.”

[frances-c-g]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐬

         the pool is shallow by comparison, but he enjoys the cool water all the same. it’s clearer and less muddied than pond water, which often ends with him pulling of long swaths of algae and other plantlife. here, there’s no such nuisance. the water is cleaner than anything he could ever imagine, and while strange to the taste, is still pleasant in a way he finds difficult to describe. then again, most pleasant things are too new to him. he doesn’t have a reference point to compare them to.

         “i don’t know,” he admits, wading over closer to where frances sat. “i didn’t know what a pool was. i was hoping it was sort of like a pond.” his expectations, for once, aren’t too far off! while large and square as opposed to the more…circular… pond in the park, the pit of water has its similarities to things he’s already experienced. it feels nice, not to be entirely clueless for once in his surface-oriented life.

         bobbing his head in a nod, fins’ jaws remain parted in an unmistakable half-smile. it’s rare that he feels comfortable enough not to monitor every little expression he makes. “it was… interesting. it didn’t feel warm at first, but when i swallowed… it did?” presumably, that’s how it’s supposed to be experienced. “it was a bit odd, but i liked it, yes.”

“Interesting is a good word for it. Some people hate wine. I like it,” obviously “It’s strong.” Swirling the last dregs of wine around she watches how the hulking creature is much more graceful in water. Who would’ve guessed? “Glad you liked it. Just tell me if you want more...”

This was by no means her first glass of wine, so when she downs it, setting the glass aside, it should come as no surprise she wants to join him. People pay a lot to swim with sharks, don’t they? This one won’t hurt her—and if he tries she can simply burn him. (Never mind the fact they’ll be in a pool, water is after all wet and very good against fire, but wine doesn’t mean she makes smart decisions.) 

“It’s a lot cleaner than a pond! You wouldn’t catch me dead in one of those.” Frances hops up, shimmying out of her skirt followed quickly by her blouse. He hardly knew what a pool was, it’s not like Fins will be able to tell she’s wearing underwear rather than a bikini. Sitting down on the side, feet dangling in, she pushes herself off the slide, slipping into the water nearly silently. She resurfaces a few moments later, brushing hair out of her face. The lipstick has stayed put, only small flecks of her mascara has left dots on the side of her eyes. She shivers with a laugh, “God! I forgot how cold a night swim is!”

[frances-c-g]

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐱

    you stayed for some time, then. it was an honest statement yet one that trivialised emmeline’s entire existence. she had stayed for thirty eight years and had nothing to show for it apart from the impending liability of her actions in the essex house. the other woman’s comments, all too true, made it feel even worse. she couldn’t clearly see a point where she herself had become the disciplinary torture weapon - it wasn’t something she had just accepted one morning. it had always been a slippery slope with her father, leading in gradually, and although nathaniel had been careful, he hadn’t been careful enough that first time he had taken her there. 

     “my family and the corporation are exclusive.” it was only nathaniel but she was right to stick with them for so long because he hadn’t spoken to her since she had resigned - even then her resignation wasn’t to his face, it was more or a serious attempt with beverly before she stormed out and didn’t come back the next day. only then would the first nda be drafted up. 

    “tell me then, where the line was between professional and personal?” this was a question she’d continue to ask. admission that she had an nda would also mean admitting guilt but something needed to be said. “i’d love to know because it’s clear nathaniel doesn’t give a shit about me.” she spat out before taking an unnecessary sip of her red wine. 

‘My family and the corporation are exclusive.’ If she truly believes being part of the Essex family and being a part of the Essex business can be kept separate, she’s either naïve or fucking stupid. Maybe both. Frances is fully aware her luxuries, her position, her wealth are all because she’s had plenty help along the way. Nepotism, baby! An ugly gift she appreciates even as she keeps it hidden in plain sight beneath her accomplishments.

“I have to be honest, darling, you absolutely lost me,” Frances smiles, perfect white teeth framed by red lips. This woman is mad. Miserable, lashing out at anyone who gives her even the slightest chance to speak. How many people has she alienated with these bizarre outbursts, she wonders. “I asked why you left and you’re telling me… what? You’re not daddy’s girl? That’s not why you worked for him? No shame in nepotism, especially if you can afford to eat here.”

[freshmoviequotes]

Autumn in New York (2000)

[frances-c-g]

𝐂𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢

keep reading

So I can taste you before I fuck you. Frances moves embarrassingly quick at that, hands fumbling with her skirt button, then zip. Sliding it off, underwear following. She’s needy and she knows it. How desperate of her, her cunt’s already wet enough without the added sting of humiliation.

Fingers slide through his hair, a long perfectly manicured nail brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re still handsome, you know.” A thought shared without thinking,laid out in front of him it’s not like he needs more convincing. What does it say about them that their vanity is so profound, a simple comment about his beauty feels almost vulnerable? She nearly thinks to deflect, instead she drops her head back, opens wider for him.

[frances-c-g]

𝐂𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢

keep reading

Being in charge does suit him—particularly moving her hand to grope him, to feel what’s she’s done to him. Talking about his boner like a problem to fix makes her hum, delighted. A little bit of faux anger, a little bit of hopefully faux entitlement.  It feels like a small victory when he then slips the second hand up her skirt. Rhythm, finally picking up, her clit getting much appreciated attention. “Fuck,” she mumbles out, arching into it as he picks up the pace, stretching her further.

Only for him to stop. The bastard.

“Cassie,” she whines, beginning to roll her hips because he’s stopped and he’s being mean and it’s everything she wants. Tonight, she’ll beg. Just for tonight. “I want you to fuck me. Hard.” Then after a moment, like it’s dragged out of her she adds a half-hearted, “Please.”

[frances-c-g]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐬

         once again, gratitude surges through him when she returns with the pitcher. her own glass is smaller ( and more fragile in appearance ) than what she offers him—fins isn’t used to being accommodated so perfectly. gingerly taking the pitcher, he leans in to give the dark liquid within a whiff. strange. he can’t quite place the smell. it’s not quite pleasant, but it doesn’t offend his nostrils either. somewhere in between. “thank you,” he says politely, lifting the plastic container to rest against his teeth. a slight tip later and he gets a mouthful of the wine, swallowing fast—but not fast enough to escape the bizarre taste.

         a noise of surprise gargles in the back of his throat, gills puffing out. he doesn’t know how to react. it’s… strange. all he can think of is strange. but it warms his belly in a way that he thinks he can enjoy. but before he can attempt another taste of the alcohol she’s handed over, the permission for something better is given. a swim. gently, he sets the pitcher down, beady eyes filled with wonder and cast in her direction.

         “i do want to,” he admits, grunting as he lifts himself from b and curiously stepping over toward the water. hunching over, he tentatively sticks his hand into the pool. it’s cool, but warmer than the pond. warmer than the ocean, too. “oh!” he exclaims, letting the rest of his body slide beneath the surface. when he comes back up, joy is written into every inch of his form. “it’s nice!”

Frances makes an ungainly sound: a sharp snort of laughter at the way he reacts to the wine. Looking at him more closely, it’s obvious just how expressive Fins truly is. Even though he has the beady black eyes of a shark (and, well, everything else of a shark) it’s surprisingly clear. Much like the way he cowered at the small flame. 

Lightly kicking her feet in the water, quiet sounds of water lapping, she watches how carefully he has to move for fear of breaking anything. Sipping at her wine, she stares. She’s allowed to. Nothing like the simple pleasure of being allowed to watch, not forced to put on a show. A thick hand pokes into the water and just as she could see how he felt about the wine… joy is remarkably clear on him. Even with a massive maw full of teeth. It’s nice! He exclaims and she laughs. God, she can’t have had that much wine already?

“What did you think it’d be like?” she’s definitely going through her glass too quickly. Frances keeps kicking at the water, head tipped to the side. “Did you like the wine, Fins?”

[frances-c-g]

𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐞

It takes a while for it to click in Finn’s head, but when it does, he tenses. It’s not really everyday a politician asks you to take a piss in your shop’s toilet. “Of course, feel free to.” He nods his head towards the direction, “It’s this way, follow me. I’m sorry it’s a bit cramped up here.” Well for him it feels too small of a space, but anyone can move around freely and he’s proud of how clean and organized his Tattoo Parlor is. Especially the bathroom. He opens the door for her and waits for her to enter. 

Oh, there’s something. A slight shift in tone, something a little tense that makes her smile a little more genuine. “Not a problem, I’m not expecting anything glamorous.” Her security guard goes to follow, and Frances shoot him a look, a quick comment about how she’s only going to be down a corridor. She bites her tongue when it comes to asking if he wants to watch. She has to behave in public, unfortunately, and snapping at her security isn’t it. The door’s opened and she laughs, “Who’d have thought, a real gentleman, thank you.”

[frances-c-g]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐬

         unquestioningly, fins follows her away from the front of the house and into the back patio. even before squeezing his way through the gate, his eyes are drawn onto the fantastic view before him—the pool. it must be the pool. the water is impossibly blue, refreshing to behold in a way that almost made him ache. he really, really wants to try it out… but not without permission. until frances gives him direction, he’ll subdue himself.

         he doesn’t have any idea how he’s going to repay her kindness. for someone to be glad to see him, to have considered the idea of inviting him to something so perfect… he doesn’t think anyone has ever treated him quite so well. not aside from samson… and his own tendency to enjoy raw meat. “—wine?” his attention is drawn back by the question. he trusts her judgement not to ask too much more, instead finding himself a seat on the cool tile near the water. “—no.”

Frances returns with a large plastic pitcher resembling a beer stein that seems about right for Fins hands. Maybe she should have bought one of those gag wine glasses, the ones that can fit a whole bottle. She fills it, halfway, not entirely certain what his tolerance is and whether she really wants to waste an expensive a wine on Fins.

He’s sat down, on the tiles, right by the pool. It does make her smile, there is something incredibly sweet about the way he’s almost pining after the water. Perhaps he is living in the sewers. Stuck with knee deep shitty (literally) water. She’ll have to get her poolboy to do a properly thorough clean after tonight. Walking over, a small wine glass in one hand, the pitcher in another. She hands the pitcher to him. Whilst taking a sip of her wine, she carefully toes off her shoes before also taking a seat on the cold tile. It’s a warm evening at least, she slips her feet into the water. “You can go for a swim, I can see you want to.”

[frances-c-g]

𝐂𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢

keep reading

Fingers slip beneath her underwear. A small, sharp breath in as he fingers her entrance, talks in low, teasing tones. She hums, pleased, as a finger slips in. Except Castello remains painfully slow, controlled. Exactly what she wants, and exactly what she wants to whine about. 

“I saw the way you looked at me when I kissed your shirt, Cassie,” she’s mouthy, wants him to go faster, slower, harder, she doesn’t know. The thought of riling him up is simply appealing. “You’re as bad as me.”

Except he’s still going agonizingly slow, she’s still wet and only getting wetter. With an annoyed groan, petulant, she throws her head back, holds back on squirming, it’s a great start despite her words. “Reggie fingers me better than this.”

[frances-c-g]

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐱

     the comparison to her father still had her on edge as she shuffled in her seat. the woman grabbed her glass and took a nervous sip. it was a witch hunt and unfortunately, she was a target. the difference was that both nathaniel and people she’d wronged could turn her in. there was no security. 

    emmeline was bothered by how her surname was being dragged through the mud but for her own sake. still, if she had completely dissociated from nathaniel, she wouldn’t have felt the nervousness about her namesake like she did now. whether she liked it or not, she was involved and wouldn’t be able to deny it if asked in a court of law - she would break and nathaniel knew that. 

    “i left the corporation over a year ago.” and hadn’t seen nathaniel since, only maxine who had pressured her to sign an nda when she was clearly under duress, a bit like she was now. “nathaniel comes with the corporation and if you don’t want the corporation…” it was an admittance of his rejection for his own kind. he had rejected her as his daughter because he had only wanted her as a colleague and subordinate, to use and ridicule. 

“You stayed for some time, then. After the escape.” She stayed for years before that. There’s something to be said for familial pressure, but Frances likes to believe that even she wouldn’t stoop so low to join the family business of torture and mutilation. “Took a while for you to decide to leave, then.”

Frances states everything as facts, not asking questions because she’s frankly curious exactly where all of this is going. Emmeline is flighty, defensive. A terrible thing to be in Frances’ company. The poor woman doesn’t even seem to think she has any right to tell Frances to fuck off. It’s what she would do—in different words, of course—but she doesn’t have to sit and suffer through this. 

Consider the way she nervously sips her wine, keeps talking even though she doesn’t want too, Frances takes a leap. Asks a pointed, personal question, “What was the final straw?”

[frances-c-g]

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐲

“They don’t smoke; that particular one just has it in for me. I know it sounds strange, but she does.” Ever since she’d told Babe that Jess knew she’d tattled on her one time, the pigeon has held a grudge. Said pigeon is standing at Cordelia’s feet, pecking at her shoe. She watches the woman tear off chunks of bread, a small smile concealed behind her cigarette as she takes a drag. Slowly exhaling the smoke, she nods towards the baguette. “Have you ever considered living in Paris? You’d fit right in. All you need is a beret and bicycle with a basket on the front. Trust me, I lived there for years.”

“What did you do to it?” boredom is the only reason she continues to entertain this stranger. “Never considered it, but maybe I should.” That would be a fun, idle fantasy. Run off to Europe, either take a man with her or friend one there. “Do people actually wear berets and cycle around like that?” she asks, skeptical that this stranger ever actually lived there if she’s talking to, and, apparently has beef with a pigeon she’s given a stupid name.

[frances-c-g]

𝐂𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢

keep reading

Frances wants to be wanted today, but he remains firmly in control and for a moment there’s a small pang of embarrassment, the way she’s scrambling to get his shirt off and he doesn’t react. A hot pang of shame that shoots right through her. Scooped up like she’s nothing, covered in kisses and gentle nips, she doesn’t hold steady. She does squirm. She does get noisy. Today, maybe, she’ll let him feel in control. At least briefly, at least for as long as he treats her right.

Laying back, she practically preens for him. Cas’ hands wandering just as much as his approving gaze. Skirt riding up as he gets closer, it feels wrong in a way that only makes her wet. It’s precisely why she keeps doing this Reginald. Cas has smooth hands, the sort that hasn’t seen a hard day’s work.  He stops right before things get could, Frances would whine but instead she only pouts momentarily. He’s teasing her, she loves it. 

Humming in agreement before finding her voice, “Yes, I do.” She, carefully, wraps one hand around his wrist, sliding his hand further up, disappearing beneath her skirt. “You can be in charge today, if you want,” perhaps a contradiction given the way she guides his hand, but he’ll have to put some work in if that’s what he wants.

[frances-c-g]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐬

          @frances-c-g​ !!

         with the help of another friend, fins had managed to find out more about the days of the week—a little calendar is now among his few possessions. from there, finding the exact location was relatively simple. he had made a point to remember the places he hadn’t been welcome in, and thus had managed to retrace his steps without any trouble. now, he sits himself close to the bins in questions, gills fluttering against his neck in anticipation. what will it be like inside? it’s all he’s been able to think about.

         quiet footsteps draw his attention, beady eyes peering into the dark. “frances?”

Frances ensured she had the house to herself. Entirely to herself. No-one complained about a paid evening off. Even her security agreed given the fact Valtoria is gated. She won’t tell them a shark has, and will again, slip past because where is the fun in that? At the first sight of her finned ‘friend’, Frances steps out into the dark.  Hugging a thin robe around herself, his voice makes her smile. What a trusting creature man.

“Fins, I’m glad you could make it. Follow me,” she waves for him to follow. Not through the front door, just in case someone sees. She leads them through the back: opening the back gate stepping into the large, tiled back patio. Flood lights flash on, illuminating the edges of a large pool, its water looking black in the moonlight. Warmer lights, less of them, light up a lounge behind large glass windows, sliding doors opened wide, where she had sat, working her way through a bottle of wine.  “Sit where you like, inside, outside. I need to go grab something...Oh, have you ever had wine?” she asks, still moving away expecting a short yes or no. Probably no.

[frances-c-g]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐬

         a question sits on the tip of his tongue—how will he know when it’s sunday?—but he keeps it perched behind his teeth. as kind as she’s been, fins doesn’t want to overwhelm her with questions that someone else would be able to figure out on their own. after all, why else would it be said so casually? to torment him? he doesn’t believe anyone has the capacity to be so backhanded. people who don’t tolerate his company will make it known. those that dare to try a different strategy, kindness or compassion, will in turn make that known. it must just be one of those things that, to anyone else, is known without thinking.

         he’ll ask someone else.

         instead, he thinks about what will happen once he does know it’s sunday. he wonders what the inside of her house will look like. larger than the apartment he’s been in? almost certainly. but by how much? would he feel small in that kind of environment, too? does she? and the pool… having never heard the term before, fins is eager to find out what it entails. anything similar to the pond he visits on occasion would be magnificent.

         but before he can think too hard on it, a more complicated question presents itself. size? other than big, fins doesn’t have the slightest idea how to answer. “i don’t know,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. “these were made for me a long time ago. how do you know what size they are?”

Made for him means he definitely has someone out there who cares. Or he used too. It’s not something she’ll pursue right now, being made means there likely wont be a size label he could read for her.  Frances waves it off.

“Clothes you buy have tags on them, tells you the size,” she explains quickly. “Don’t fret, dear, I’ll figure it out.” She waves it, and him off, the pet name slipping out casually. Turning back into the clinic, she’ll see if he turns up on Sunday.

“See you soon, Fins.” 

𝐅𝐢𝐧