Les chocolats
Title: Les chocolats
Pairing: Michelle Obama/Carla Bruni
Rating: PG-13 (allusions to sex of the lesbian kind)
Summary: Enter Carla Bruni: ex-model, singer/songwriter, and the First Lady of France
Author's Notes: fluff & stuff written in 2nd person, 5 drabbles, 100 words each
Disclaimer: fake ass shit like plastic surrrgery
Un: To compare yourself with Carla Bruni
You blame the media. They're the reason for the hype that surrounds you and your encounter with Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. It isn't such a big deal to you. You've heard about Carla; you've heard so many things about the model, the musician, the wife of Nicholas Sarkozy. Nothing surprises you anymore.
You want to tell the media, "It's just a visit. She's a model. Stop comparing us. I can't compete with her level of beauty and grace."
Your husband disagrees. America, oh America, disagrees.
You've caught Carla's husband staring at you once. No, twice. Apparently he disagrees with your opinion too.
Deux: A thing about the French
This isn't what you've expected. In your mind, you've fashioned Carla Bruni to be a pretentious woman, a tour de force in and of itself. But instead, she's a charming woman with an endless supply of wit.
"My no-good husband is staring at you again," she whispers in her accented English. You're surprised by her blunt statement.
"Well..." You're not sure what to reply with.
"Perhaps you and your husband would like to-" Her eyebrows raise. She smiles suggestively.
For lack of a better answer, you say, "Maybe."
Is this a form of French diplomacy that you weren't aware of?
Trois: Une guitare pour ma femme
An all-American Gibson guitar.
Well, you tell yourself, it's better than Barack's DVDs.
Carla receives your gift with genuine happiness. Hugging you, she leans in, whispers, "I'll write a song for you. I promise." You're flattered by her declaration. You laugh lightly, say a thank you in return, clasp her hands tightly, smile. "You don't have to."
Months later, sitting in the White House, reminiscing, you wonder if Carla ever fulfilled her promise. Then you find your mind wandering, your imagination conjuring an image of the First Lady with the guitar on her lap, strumming some chords, singing in French.
Quatre: Flashback
It's a quiet night in Turkey. The day was well-spent. Now your husband lies beside you, tranquility written on his face. He has done so much these past few months. You've always wondered at his ability to stay sane under this pressure.
Leaning against the pillows, your mind veers sharply to the days in Europe.
Carla Bruni. Tasting chocolate truffles for dessert. French cuisine on silver platters. Gossip after dinner. Carla's silent proposals. Scandal.
You agree to her advances with a slight tilt of your head, a simple touch on her arm. She states the time and place. Simple diplomacy.
Cinq: La fin
You're lying on an ancient four poster bed in a gilded room. God knows what time it is; blame it on your jet lag. Turning your head to one side, you watch Carla as she closes her eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. You bring the blankets closer to yourself, tucking them beneath your chin.
Carla stirs, sighs. You remember.
Expensive champagne the night before. Husbands gone off to meet the press. The palace is eerily empty for such a big event.
It was only meant to be a girls' night out.
This is something you've never done before.
Pairing: Michelle Obama/Carla Bruni
Rating: PG-13 (allusions to sex of the lesbian kind)
Summary: Enter Carla Bruni: ex-model, singer/songwriter, and the First Lady of France
Author's Notes: fluff & stuff written in 2nd person, 5 drabbles, 100 words each
Disclaimer: fake ass shit like plastic surrrgery
Un: To compare yourself with Carla Bruni
You blame the media. They're the reason for the hype that surrounds you and your encounter with Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. It isn't such a big deal to you. You've heard about Carla; you've heard so many things about the model, the musician, the wife of Nicholas Sarkozy. Nothing surprises you anymore.
You want to tell the media, "It's just a visit. She's a model. Stop comparing us. I can't compete with her level of beauty and grace."
Your husband disagrees. America, oh America, disagrees.
You've caught Carla's husband staring at you once. No, twice. Apparently he disagrees with your opinion too.
Deux: A thing about the French
This isn't what you've expected. In your mind, you've fashioned Carla Bruni to be a pretentious woman, a tour de force in and of itself. But instead, she's a charming woman with an endless supply of wit.
"My no-good husband is staring at you again," she whispers in her accented English. You're surprised by her blunt statement.
"Well..." You're not sure what to reply with.
"Perhaps you and your husband would like to-" Her eyebrows raise. She smiles suggestively.
For lack of a better answer, you say, "Maybe."
Is this a form of French diplomacy that you weren't aware of?
Trois: Une guitare pour ma femme
An all-American Gibson guitar.
Well, you tell yourself, it's better than Barack's DVDs.
Carla receives your gift with genuine happiness. Hugging you, she leans in, whispers, "I'll write a song for you. I promise." You're flattered by her declaration. You laugh lightly, say a thank you in return, clasp her hands tightly, smile. "You don't have to."
Months later, sitting in the White House, reminiscing, you wonder if Carla ever fulfilled her promise. Then you find your mind wandering, your imagination conjuring an image of the First Lady with the guitar on her lap, strumming some chords, singing in French.
Quatre: Flashback
It's a quiet night in Turkey. The day was well-spent. Now your husband lies beside you, tranquility written on his face. He has done so much these past few months. You've always wondered at his ability to stay sane under this pressure.
Leaning against the pillows, your mind veers sharply to the days in Europe.
Carla Bruni. Tasting chocolate truffles for dessert. French cuisine on silver platters. Gossip after dinner. Carla's silent proposals. Scandal.
You agree to her advances with a slight tilt of your head, a simple touch on her arm. She states the time and place. Simple diplomacy.
Cinq: La fin
You're lying on an ancient four poster bed in a gilded room. God knows what time it is; blame it on your jet lag. Turning your head to one side, you watch Carla as she closes her eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. You bring the blankets closer to yourself, tucking them beneath your chin.
Carla stirs, sighs. You remember.
Expensive champagne the night before. Husbands gone off to meet the press. The palace is eerily empty for such a big event.
It was only meant to be a girls' night out.
This is something you've never done before.