la fée verte

annette michaeux - dancer - moulin rouge

[uptownhags]

[nettyfawn-blog]

(@bharisinclair)

[eireneofathens]

sit down. talk to me.

[nettyfawn-blog]

ａｉｎ＇ｔ ｎｏｂｏｄｙ＇ｓ ｂｕｓｉｎｅｓｓ 

Annette had no formal training when she was discovered at the laundress and taken to work at the Moulin -- she was hired based on her doll-like features alone. However, with her lithe form and surprisingly long legs for her proportions, she turned out to be a quick study when it came to dance. Never much one for booksmarts, Annette had always done better when learning by sight -- which is, luckily, how dance was taught. She had an almost unnatural grace, and eyes naturally went to her when she moved. Mix in a heavy hand of flirtatious energy, and The Green Fairy was born!

She had always envied the figure on the bottle of absinthe bottles, so she modeled her stage persona around the woman from the label and intermingled with the the spirits of sprites from storybooks. Though she does have a duo routine with Charlotte, Fawn has been mostly kept out of group numbers since her debut due to her talents (other girls find it hard to keep up when Fawn is “on”, and then complained that no one else was looking at them when she was in a performance). A typical Moulin show features Fawn the Fairy in two solo numbers -- one usually a song while coupled with a cheeky striptease, while in another she dances in a giant glass of champagne while splashing around and having a grand old time.

However, Annette considers an entire evening at the Moulin a perforance -- be it on the stage or in the dance hall intermingling with men as potential patrons. She’s endlessly flirty, coy, and just the right amount of naughty. She is the streak of mischief that often keeps the party in full riot for until the early morning hours with her charms.

Fawn’s costumes, exclusively created by Zahra, are arguably the most ornate and fantastical of any of the performers --always various shades of green, though she tends to favor Kelly green and Emerald. She wears corsets pulled to the maximum her tiny waist can endure to accentuate her shape and legs, and no look is ever complete without a set of wings. Some costumes tend towards the more glamourous - glittering with rhinestones and golden heeled shoes. At other times, she’s more forest nymph inspired -- with flowers adorning her hair and the costume an illusion of strategically leaves clinging to her form with gold painted patterns on her face. Her hair, though a strawberry-blonde color naturally, has been peroxcided an eye-catching and unmistakable white-blonde since her first Moulin show and is almost always worn in a curled bob styled various ways -- movie star Anita page would later heavily copy The Green Fairy’s looks. (She’s a fan of brightly colored lipsticks -- men tend to brag about the club when she’s marked their cheeks with a kiss, not washing them off until the mornings or until they go home to their wives.)

[nettyfawn-blog]

frankfelton·:

At the sight of Annette’s face he wants to flee, hide, be anywhere but in that room alone with her. Of course they would pass him off to her, Charlotte’s dearest friend.  For fuck’s sake… She knows his folly, too. It’s written plainly on her pretty little face. And is that fear, too? He knows what it must look like, but…God, she actually thinks– “I’m not here for– Shit…” He lets out a sigh of pure desperation, sinking into her nearby chaise. He is scattered, frantic, trying so hard to make sense of his current situation but falling short in every way. There was no charming his way out of this, so he just breaks. “Look, I came here, I came here to see her but they’ve got her up there fucking god knows who and I just–” He pauses, taking another long breath to steady himself. This was a side of Frank he had only showed Charlotte. One that is insecure, one that is fragile. Even his voice, his power, wavers and cracks every few words. “You know, I could hear them through the door. Her moaning, and Jesus fucking Christ…” Unable to bring himself to cry in front of her, he opts to hide his face in his hands. His plight was not one he shared alone, though, as Annette knew too well. And now she would see the other side first hand, ugly and messy and utterly human.

“You didn’t just happen into this room, Frank, you paid for an appointment,” Annette answers almost immediately to his words as he begins to explains that it’s not that that he’s there for. Now that she knows she doesn’t have to perform, the skin of Fawn has been shed and haphazardly thrown into a drawer, leaving her alone with one of her friend’s more favored recreational lovers -- and she’s on the defense for Charlotte immediately.

“Had it not been me that they’d taken you too, what would you be doing right now? Has my face simply changed your plans?”

Her brows raise, briefly unimpressed before she hears his voice crack as his weighted form sinks onto her settee. Something in the room has opened up -- a vulnerability that for once isn’t her own. Her face softens, and she picks up her robe from the back of her vanity chair and pulls it around herself -- somehow, being half naked does not feel as if it will help this particular situation.

When he speaks of hearing them through the door, her cheeks redden as if it were her own discretions that had been overheard sitting down in her chair opposite the chaise. 

“I’m sure she’s thinking of you...” Annette offers gently, realizing a moment too late that those words are, in fact, not helpful at all. She brings her thumb to her mouth a moment and chews the corner of it as she considers Frank.  

“Would a drink help?”

[nettyfawn-blog]

elliotmurdock·:

Elliot smiled and nodded firmly. “That sounds wonderful.” He told her happily, but then blinked at the idea of Bhari going as well. “Of course we can invite him, yeah.” And then if there was any lag in conversation, at least there would be a third person there to make it easier.

As she nodded towards his book, he glanced down at it, before back up at her.

“It’s just poetry… you can take a look, if you’d like.” He suggested, picking up the book and holding it out for her.

“Oh! Poems!” Annette declares brightly, reaching for the book as he offers it to her, setting it upon her lap and pulling of the lace gloves from her fingers so she would be better able to turn the pages.

“I like poems; most of them are nice and short,” she explains as she looks over the stanzas. “Not to say that there aren’t long poems -- epic poems, even -- it’s just that the shorter ones are easier to read and sometimes have as much emotion in them as an entire book. And books take me a very long time.”

She looks up at Elliot hopefully. “Do you know Keats?”

[anneesfollesrpg]

It’s another Meme Monday!

Here’s another meme drop to spice your Mondays up. These memes—which can be done at any time throughout the week until the next one is posted— are not mandatory, but they can be a whole lot of fun. As usual please follow our guideline on meme etiquette to the best of your ability. Who knows, perhaps you may find out something new about your connections!

RANDOM ACTS.

[borrowed from here]

send a symbol for our muses to interact!

💨 catch my muse in a lie

🛑 stop my muse from doing something reckless

🥄 feed my muse when they’re ill or injured

🔍 help my muse find a lost item

⚠️ clean up my muse after a fight

⚓ keep my muse anchored (anxiety, nightmare, etc.)

🔫 take a bullet for my muse

🛁 give my muse a bath

🛏️ carry my muse to bed

☠️ protect my muse

✋ hold my muse’s hand

🔪 stab my muse (accident, on purpose)

🚗 leave town with my muse

🕯️ remind my muse that they matter

💥 our muses share a tense moment

📖 our muses read a story

🎀 give my muse a gift

👊 our muses train

🌹 teach my muse something (include details)

🗝️ our muses share a quiet moment

🥪 our muses have a snack

🧡 for an eskimo kiss

❣️ for a top of the head kiss

💛 for a kiss on the cheek

💞 for a kiss on the hand

🖤 for a kiss on a wound (bruise, scar, etc.)

💚 for a forehead kiss

🔥 for an angry and relieved hug

💙 for a hug that won’t be remembered

🤔 for an unwanted hug

🎧 for a calming hug

💧 for a tearful hug

😩 for a ‘ forgive me ’ hug

💟 for a happy hug

🛸 for a goodbye hug

🎉 for a hug filled with laughter

[nettyfawn-blog]

bharisinclair·:

The feeling of fingers at his neck caused him to jump out of his dozing. For a moment he looked around, wincing in that golden morning light he loved dearly at every other moment except for then, when the drinks from last night still held him in their vice grip. Bhari exhaled through a pained expression; truly feeling as if he’d been hit by a train and dragged through the streets.

That familiar blonde hair worsened the morning glow. 

“Yes—“ He croaked, then cleared his throat. “I think my reasoning was that I was waiting for you.” 

He leaned back in the rough metal seat, shielding his eyes from the sun to get a good look at her. His Peaseblossom. Lord, how he wished he could have seen her when she was freshly done up. He assumed he didn’t look so good, himself, in his tweed suit, patchy with dirt from falling in the grass one too many times. The wilting carnation in his pocket was the cherry on top.

“You’re just getting back?” 

Her fingers gently brush against the curls near his neck as he begins to stir, a soft exhale escaping her as he adjusts his position with the aches and groans that follow a night spent with the bottle.

“I think my reasoning was that I was waiting for you.” 

Annette’s eyes immediately go sad, a downwards pull at the corner of her lips as her stomach twists with guilt. He had waited out there all night for her in the hopes that she’d be home soon, asleep and vulnerable to anything that could have been lurking on the dark streets or any passerby with malicious intentions. And where had she been? Tipping champagne back to her lips in one of Paris’ most fine townhouses, entertaining and charming a room of men while sitting on the lap of the police captain (one of the more tame acts that they’d engaged in throughout the evening).

“I’m sorry, I tried to find you...”

Her voice is a hush, because anything louder feels disrespectful to the morning and the newly awakened birds chirping in the tree nearby -- she envies them deeply, how little cares or worries birds must have. Dark-circled eyes land on the carnation in his pocket -- a perfect match to the one she’d arranged on his desk the morning before. She’d had several of the same flowers woven into the floral crown she’d worn at the party -- she reaches up to touch it, even though she knows it was long discarded in the festivities, instead feeling hair mussed from a man’s hands in it and uneasy sleep.

“You didn’t see me there, did you?” she asks, unable to keep the slight lilt of hope in her voice that perhaps he hadn’t bore witness to the company she’d kept at the request of Lord Cunningham.

[ginaalexisrodriguez-deactivated]

[nettyfawn-blog]

bharisinclair·:

The best (and worse, depending on the context) thing about her sentiment was that he knew exactly how she felt. He never felt better than when he was with her, and every moment spent out of her light was borderline miserable. It came as no surprise when, after she left for New York, waking every morning felt like just another death. 

Thankfully, he spent more time in her glow those days than out of it. 

Bhari hummed as his lips grazed her jaw. The dip of her back became a hold for his fingers beneath the water. It took so long for him to know for certain her affections were not just pretend; it was like heaven not to worry about that now. 

He patted his shoulder for her to rest her head upon. “And what does pretend feel like?” he asked.

Annette lets out an appreciative coo as his lips mark the line between her jaw and her neck, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment and she allows herself into melt into the feeling. Her fingertips stroke over his abdomen beneath the water, and she dips her head to kiss slowly over his collarbone. Bare chest against his own, she lays her cheek against his shoulder, briefly nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

For a moment, she is transfixed by the surface of the bathwater and how the glitter that had once adorned her body now shimmers in it.  

“Have you ever seen a wind up doll?” she muses, her breath against his skin as she speaks softly.

“A patron gave me one once, by far one of the more strange gifts I’ve ever gotten, but he liked to call me his pale little doll. When you would wind her up she would speak a phrase or sing a song and then when it was over the doll would just feel dead...I could feel how hollow it was inside in my hands, there was nothing in the painted eyes. That’s what pretend feels like -- and sometimes I swear I can feel someone turning the key at the base of my spine to wind me. That’s what the pretend feels like.”

[nettyfawn-blog]

bharisinclair·:

Her laugh was utterly infectious, and it became quite difficult not to feel as if he was glowing in her presence. The undershirt was shed and fell to the floor in a sopping heap. Little waterfalls spilled from the lip of the tup and onto the tile with every one of their movements, but neither cared a bit. Bhari was far too busy watching his lover play in the water, far more like a mermaid than a fairy now.

How marvelous her shape and the way she shifted it was. 

“It again,” he repeated. With the gentle curve of her jaw in his hold, he brought his lips to hers. 

More water rose over the edge of the tub as his knees disappeared below the water, making room for the little mermaid to meet him. In such nearness, it was impossible not to notice the way the warmth of the bath had shifted her makeup, making her appear more like a watercolor painting than anything of his mundane world. With the glitter around her eyes reflecting the water, and the water reflecting the glitter, he was bewitched. 

A finger traced beneath her jaw ended just below the tip of her chin. “I love you, you magical girl.” 

“Bhari,” her whine at his teasing is muffled against his lips, a laugh following into the kiss as she moves her hands beneath the surface of the water to tickle at his sides for punishment. 

She feels warm all the way to her toes when she’s kissing him, and she knows it has nothing to do with the bathwater or the gin. She can’t place a moment in her life that feels as perfect at this one (even without the muddle in her brain from the bottle,  she’s sure it doesn’t exist), or one where she has felt this kind of happiness -- as if there isn’t anything on the earth that can steal it from the two of them as long as they keep a firm grasp on it. 

When she has a headache in the morning, she prays that she’ll remember this feeling. 

She tilts her chin upwards as directed by the path of his finger, the pose the only thing keeping her from kissing him once more as she makes herself comfortable between his legs. 

“I’m only magic with you,” she informs him, droplets of water clinging to her lashes and bubbles settled on her hair. 

“Anytime else just feels like pretend.”

[nettyfawn-blog]

[starter for @bharisinclair -- post event; morning after]

She’s sure she’s a sight to see in the light of the rising sun; walking down the street with the greatest temptation to take her shoes off, hair undone and one sleeve of her wispy fairy dress hanging from her shoulder. In a strange bed at the Lord’s estate, she’d hardly slept at all -- if only a little due to the amount of alcohol she’d ingested throughout the festivities making her drowsy. 

She’d collected her payment from the nightstand and left in a tip-toed hush, leaving the townhouse before many of the inhabitants who had stayed there the night before had awoken. It was too early to call a taxi -- not that she would have wasted her hard-earned money on it, but her feet ached so much that it would have been a consideration. 

The red windmill of the Moulin is in her sights and she can almost hear bed calling, rubbing at the corner her eye when she looks in the direction of Bhari’s building across the boulevard...

His form is unmistakable, slumped over one of the cafe tables that line the sidewalk outside. Heart jolting and stomach sinking, Annette’s steps speed to the table with immediate alarm before she notices he’s breathing...Sleeping, judging by the slowness of it. 

The wave of affection and guilt intermingled threaten to make her sick. 

Her fingers reach out gently as she kneels next to the table, stroking softly over the back of his neck to beckon him to wake as her voice stays hushed. 

“Have you been out here all night?”

[leonardrenaud]

@nettyfawn Drake’s birthday had been nothing short of the largest and most non sensical flaunting of wealth Léonard had seen in his forty-seven years. A way to show Paris he was here, and he was powerful. The play did not go unnoticed by Monsieur Renaud, who acknowledged the young man’s power with respect, yes, but also fear. Even the buying out of the lion’s favored courtesan was a message. Not that he minded, though. He would turn the other cheek to Drake’s actions so long as Annette stayed right where she belonged, perched on his lap while he joined the other men for cigars and idle chatter. It seemed a fitting reunion for the two of them, sat in a room of some of the most influential gentlemen of Paris. He hoped that she realized, and appreciated, her own power.   This was the afterparty, which really was Drake’s closer cohort and their chosen ladies discussing whatever it was rich young men discussed these days. Léonard had more important things to dwell upon than the latest up and coming haberdasher or poker failing, though. He took the moment to bring one hand up to the little fairy’s cheek, giving it an affectionate pinch. After their pleasant garden walk, he had taken her in one of the many backrooms, where he left the months of frustration and anguish during her absence behind. Still, he had always made an effort to never leave any visible marks upon her alabaster skin. He wanted perfection, not a bruised canvas. It was more than could be said of some of her clients. He liked her just this way, immaculate and in a place where she may be put on display not only for her beauty but for her shrewd mind. He remained in silent awe at the way she charms the small party.   She likely preferred him this way too, when he felt unthreatened enough to relax and settle into a skin that was maybe even likable in the right lighting. “Biquet, you are a tyrant, but I did miss you.” He is astonished at himself that this shred of vulnerability has left his lips, perhaps it is the whiskey, but she has certainly earned a kind word, so he continues, “And you look lovely here, like this, surrounded by an expensive life.”

[nettyfawn-blog]

Annette throws herself headfirst into the festivities; she lets Fawn and all of her nymph-like charms consume every living inch of her. She drinks champagne directly from the bottle, delicate fingers wrapped around the neck as she tilts it to her supple lips. The men gathered all laugh in encouragement at her spirit. She commands the parlor in rapture as she stands on a table and tells dramatic stories of her adventures in New York and turns with foolish Americans, complete with witty asides and mocking accents. (She leaves out all of the bad parts; these men have no concern for anything that makes her sound too human.) The Lord himself tells her to humor him by taking a puff of his cigar and she does so, making a show of coughing so that the men again may find amusement and make their own jokes about how fine her mouth looked wrapped around it. 

She becomes the life of the party because if she allows her mind to idle for even the briefest moments, she knows her stomach will twist and she’ll be ill on the floor with all eyes on her. 

(A look Arturo casts her, in particular, makes her feel like sinking into the floor, and then the foundation, and then the dirt and mud far beneath it.)

Settling back into Léon’s lap is old and familiar territory and she lets out a breath as he pinches one of her freckled cheeks; smiling down at him enough to trigger her dimples. The exhale is that of relief; that the beast that had been lurking in the hedges with her earlier in the evening had been satiated and that she’s found herself in his good graces once more. 

Her smile softens at his confession, fingers playing coyly with a button of his dress shirt before brushing softly with performed affection at his collarbone beneath. Her mind is fighting not to think of where Bhari may be in this moment. (She hopes he is in his flat, and she wishes she could be there, too.)

“It does suit me, doesn’t it?” she muses haughtily, lounging into his arms and looking around the room and then up to him with sweet eyes.  “You’ll have to tell me other places where I look lovely, too -- I get so warm when you say such sweet things to me, mon lion. Almost as warm as I get when you roar,” she adds with a sly quirk of her brow.

[nettyfawn-blog]

appellemoiange·:

There are many things that a mother wishes for their child to receive in life: health, happiness, love. Those should be simple enough for anyone to find, but women like them were cut from a different cloth; they often had to choose just one, and could not have all three at one time. Love, health, or happiness? Which would you choose? 

Lusine was not a mother, but she did the best she could with those screaming babes in the back of the brothel that yearned for arms to hold them, and a warm breast to rest their little heads against. Leaving that brothel—the first home she’d ever known—to make something of her own life was a decision that weighed heavily on her mind, still. She was not proud of leaving, but she did not regret it either. The only thing that kept her torn about leaving were those children, Annette being the most prominent. 

Lusine spent too many nights lying awake, imagining how Adele’s little one ended up until the rocking of her train car lulled her to exhaustion. Some night the fantasies were better than others. She liked the nights when she imagined she’d married a Lord and moved to some far off place and had plenty of children of her own. 

That would not end up being the case, obviously, but just seeing her alive and well (for the most part) was just as good. 

It took Lusine a moment to understand what Annette was implying, but the moment she did it was as if her entire being lit up, and she dropped to sit beside her bunny and took her hands in her own.

“You must tell me all about him—or her. Whoever it is! Are you in love?” 

The way Annette’s face brightens mirrors the way Lusine’s glows when she reveals that she has a true lover of her own. All of a sudden, the Belleville brothel, it’s hideous proprietor, and the long line of patrons they have both endured are the farthest thing from her mind. She cannot help but laugh as the older woman slips herself with grace from the chaise and joins her on the floor. For the first time in a long while, Netty understands what it means to feel as giddy as a schoolgirl.

“Him. His name is Bhari. Bhari Sinclair,” her cheeks become pink just saying his name, the curve of them lifting in the most helpless, happy smile. She gives Lusine’s hands a squeeze.

“He’s English. And he’s a writer! He’s written a book. I...I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard it’s very, very good.” Though Annette doubts she will ever be brave enough to read the tome for herself -- it’s hard enough for her own imagination to paint scenes of what the war was like for him, she believes she’ll be beside herself if the gory details become confirmed. 

“He’s the most...gentle and melancholy thing I have ever seen in my life. He’s so beautiful, Tata, I almost cannot believe he is real. I’m absolutely, desperately in love with him -- and I’ve never been so frightened.”

[nettyfawn-blog]

arturodemarin‌:

It took him longer than he would have cared to admit to realize which of their mutual friends Annette was referencing. The dearly departed, whose passing he had yet come to terms with, and highly doubted he ever would. If anger were a candle, it had been lit the very moment he learned of the mobsters passing and burned brightly ever since. Arturo didn’t know why this was, and every attempt to figure it out had been blocked by something going down his throat or up his nose.

The terms of the pledge sent his eyes rolling into the back of his head for many different reasons, but the biggest of them was jealousy. What a guy! Whatever love the old man had to give had been divided throughout the city, with the worst of it being given to Arturo, it seemed. The one who wanted it most. 

He watched quietly as she used his goods for as long as he could stand it. “Out of sight out of mind, yeah? You should have just agreed then done whatever you wanted. That is what he did.”  

“She is my wife,” he said dryly while spinning the ring around his finger. “I must tell her everything.”

The gravity of her tone made him laugh. Charlotte was no saint herself; he had made certain of that, hadn’t he? “What makes you so afraid of her judgment?” 

“Yeah, and look what that got him,” Annette snorted to herself as she crosses the room, pulling off the first layer of her costume so she no longer has to combat the heat of it. Not simply in her stays and stockings, she much more comfortable.

She’s not exactly shy when it comes to her body and Arturo; she can’t imagine the things he’d seen in his time at the Moulin, and he’d waltzed in on her dressing with Charlotte on enough occasions that she’s sure there’s very little to her form that could be a mystery to him any longer.

“I hate to disappoint her,” the fairy answered as she hung her wings over the back of her vanity chair, returning the crab to Turo’s palm before she moves to place herself on the chaise lounge.

She hated to disappoint anyone, which had been her downfall on more than one occasion. Patrons, employers, friends. (Her long-dead mother, her unknown father, herself).

“Though I’m sure that’s a sentiment that you’re rarely acquainted with,” she quips under her breath with a scoff as she raises her eyes to him.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

[nettyfawn-blog]

elliotmurdock·:

Elliot laughed a bit as she admitted that she just wanted an excuse to not make dinner for herself, and he finally nodded, squeezing her hand back as he did so. 

“Alright, if you insist.” 

He was happy that she’d invited him, even though he was sure it was just out of obligation. 

“I’m not nearly as skilled as you in that, so you’ve won me over.”

He moved to set the flowers she’d given him off to the side of the bed, and he shifted to try and face her a bit more. He wasn’t immobile at all, so it wasn’t a difficult feat in the slightest. 

“Yes, certainly. I will count the days.” He joked, before realizing something. “What day would you want this to be?”

“Whenever they release you from here -- you name the day and I’ll arrange it,” Annette smiled, “Perhaps we may even invite Bhari as well? I’m sure between the three of us we could have many wonderful conversations.”

She nods towards the neglected book on his lap that he had been reading when she had come in. 

“What were you reading? Adventure? Poetry? Romance?”

[juliamstarr]

Instagram

[anneesfollesrpg]

It’s another Meme Monday!

Here’s another meme drop to spice your Mondays up. These memes—which can be done at any time throughout the week until the next one is posted— are not mandatory, but they can be a whole lot of fun. As usual please follow our guideline on meme etiquette to the best of your ability. Who knows, perhaps you may find out something new about your connections!

LIVING SPACES.

[borrowed from here]

Describe your muse’s…

🏠- House

⛰- Front/backyard

🌹- Garden

🚙- Car

📺- Living room/lounge

🔪- Kitchen

🕳- Basement

🛁- Bathroom(s)

🛏- Bedroom(s)

👕- Closet

🛌- Bedding

📥- Nightstand

📦- Desk

🗑- Trashcan

🎐- items/knick knacks they collected

🎀- Jewelry or accessories they have

🐻- Toys or stuffed animals (theirs or not)

🖼- Framed photos

⚱️- Homely decorations

💆- Their hairbrush

📖- Their diary

📔- Their notes/records

🗓- Their calendar

🕰- Their clock

👝- The contents of their purse/backpack/bag

🛠- The contents of their toolbox

🕯- The contents of their emergency supply kit

🍎- The kind of food they store in the kitchen

🔨- Their garage

❓- Any secret rooms they have