This is getting ridiculous. FFnet continues to disregard any sort of line breaks regardless of what upload methods/break indicators I use, thus impacting the flow of the story. Who knows how long my manual fixes will last, since they've habitually disappeared in over 150,000 words of all the other fic I've posted, even after editing in FFnet. For now, I've done my best to correct it. I appreciate the views/comments here, but please know that this fic in its correct formatting is posted on my lj.
Title: A Nice Guy
Pairing: Professor/Sedusa (as Ima Goodlady)
Rating: T (for implied adult hugs)
Disclaimer: Nobody ever writes fic about these two! Oh wait, I mean, I don't own them.
Summary: She isn't used to guys like this.
Notes: Takes place within the season 1 ep "Mommy Fearest." My take on what happened during the Professor's and Sedusa's/Ima Goodlady's date. Unbeta'd.
A Nice Guy
She is not used to men being gentle with her. She just doesn't give off that vibe. Something about the boots, the fishnets, all that skin. Not to mention the hair.
The wig fits her surprisingly well. She thought she'd have a problem given her natural hair, but it coils obediently against her scalp. Can't even tell, especially once she's got the prim little suit on.
Professor Utonium is an easy target. Well, all guys are, but he is exceptionally so. He stutters like a schoolboy and dons a bow tie for dinner; she stifles a girlish laugh when they order and he calls her "Miss Goodlady" instead of "Ima." He's remarkably attentive—her wine glass is never empty, and she rolls her eyes and sighs when he isn't looking. Of course he's trying to get her drunk. He's a guy, after all, and there's the matter of the unspoken promise of the evening if he behaves himself.
So she is surprised when, after flagging down a taxi for her, he shuts her in alone and waves shyly at her from the curb. She blinks, bewildered. Is he actually walking back to his car?
Her heels catch on the concrete and she loses her balance (she steps out just as the cab starts moving), but in moments he is at her side. She never even came close to hitting the ground. At first glance the man doesn't look like he can move that fast. Funny thing.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and the spot on her elbow where he grasps her warms at the sound of his voice.
She acts flustered and makes a show of curling into herself a bit. "I just... I would feel so much more comfortable if you drove me home."
She convinces him to come up with her, almost offended at his apparent reluctance.
"Sometimes I just hate being a woman, all by myself in this city," she moans, and that does the trick.
He sits on her couch and fidgets as she slithers out of her coat and sashays in and out of the kitchen, brandishing two glasses of Scotch.
Almost instantly he is on his feet. "I should go. My girls—"
Oh, the opportunity is too perfect. She couldn't have asked for a better setup.
She lets the expression on her face droop, and she whispers, "It must be so hard, raising three girls."
The drink makes its way into his hand; she lets their fingers graze against each other before she lets go. His eyes are far away.
"It's not that... it's just..."
"Lonely?" she supplies, and when he looks at her she knows she has him right where she wants him.
For God's sake, even his impassioned kisses have the barest hint of hesitance to them. And his whole random spouting of "We shouldn't," and "I respect you too much," is so utterly grating! Has the man even hit puberty yet?
"I'm a woman, not a little girl," she breathes against his neck, and forcibly drags him into the bedroom. This has to be the hardest damn seduction she's ever attempted. What is with this sap?
She pushes her mouth against his and clutches at the lapels of his jacket. Something crunches in the pocket, and before he can stop her she deftly plucks it out.
Respect? she thinks, staring at the condom in her slim fingers. He anticipated this. She smirks at him. Typical.
"And you're a man, after all," she says huskily, slipping her hands into his pants—
Suddenly he grabs her by the wrists—the act stuns her with its familiarity, and she feels a bitter smile curling onto her face. Yeah. Typical.
"Ima," he says, his eyes dark and serious, "I really like you."
"So show me," she says, letting her voice deepen with lust.
His eyes grow sad. "But why like this?"
Her brow furrows in confusion, the seductive little sneer that has driven every other man crazy with desire for her fading from her face.
"You're... charming and wonderful, and you have the sweetest laugh," he whispers. "You're absolutely lovely."
Something about it—the way he says it, maybe, or the intensity of his gaze—causes her to go limp in his arms and blush. She hasn't blushed in years.
"Professor," she laughs nervously, and it's genuine. "Now you're just... being nice."
His thumb slides against her wrist, almost a caress. "You don't believe me?"
Then he kisses her, all softly and innocently and—dare she think it—sweetly. His lips work against hers in a slow, deliberate manner, a far cry from the heated, desperate kisses that first accompanied them into the bedroom. Her hands clench in his, crushing the souvenir she drew out of his pocket. She had a scheme she was working on tonight that she doesn't remember. The kiss leaves her breathless. She doesn't know what to do.
When he pulls away, all she can think of is to laugh again before saying, in a voice softer than she intends, "Wow... you really do like me, don't you?"
She means it as a joke. He takes it seriously.
"Too much to take advantage of you," he says, and draws her close. Her cheek brushes against his silk tie, and she can smell just a touch of Scotch on his breath. It makes her heart shudder and her chest warm.
Is this guy for real? she thinks torpidly as he kisses her neck, her ear. He blows in it unexpectedly, and she closes her eyes and shivers, appalled at her body's reaction to his touch.
There was a scheme she was working on tonight. She can't remember what it is.
"You... wouldn't be taking advantage of me," she whispers, wanting him to kiss her again.
She wanders into the bathroom after he falls asleep to collect herself, shrugging into his dress shirt along the way. She still feels warm, still reels a little from what just transpired between them. He didn't throw her against the bed, didn't hiss dirty things in her ear, didn't get off himself and leave her hanging. It makes her laugh to think it, but he was as attentive in bed as he was at dinner. In fact, she almost feels like she barely did anything. Not that she wants to complain. It's just... she isn't used to being treated this way.
She pulls his collar up and inhales. It smells like him. He's a nice guy. He's a really nice guy.
She glances up at herself in the mirror, wondering if she looks as good as she feels. A little tousled. The wig has shifted a bit; she wasn't even thinking. Did he notice? He doesn't know who she really is, she realizes, and an inexplicable despondency settles over her.
But maybe... maybe he wouldn't care.
It's a nice thought. She takes her wig off to let her real hair cascade around her shoulders.
There was a scheme she was working on tonight, she suddenly remembers. There's a reason she went after him.
Her dark locks slither against her neck, her face, their touch almost as gentle as Professor Utonium's. Father to the Powerpuff Girls.
Again her dark tresses coil along her scalp, and she puts the wig back on. Silly to get all sentimental about this. He's just a man. They're a dime a dozen out there.
She slips back into bed, working out the details in her head. He's lonely. And a bit of a sap. All she'd have to do is suggest the girls need a mother...
She reaches a hand to shake him awake, but hesitates, choosing instead to smooth a wayward strand of hair away from his face.
It's a shame, she thinks, unaware of her sad little smile. He's a nice guy. A really, really nice guy.