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ilguna · 3 years

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Berceuse - Chapter Two

summary: you can’t protect her forever.

warnings; swearing. murder plot ?

wc; 10.1k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

It’s a good thing that Alyssum has a high pain tolerance, otherwise she’d be doing a lot more than gritting her teeth right now. The sound of the wax ripping off her skin is enough to bring tears to her eyes, even though it’s not actually taking any hair with it.

The prep team is trying to be gentle, Alyssum can tell by their movements. They’ll warn her ahead of time, tell her when they know it’s going to be particularly brutal. It wasn’t until an hour ago, did she realize that they must have worked on you when it was your Hunger Games.

It must also be why they have this look on their face, like they know Alyssum but are too afraid to bring it up. She already knows Elysia has watched her grow up, so it’s not really a surprise that these people have watched her too. Of course, Alyssum hasn’t been in the public eye for nine years, this is her first appearance in a while. It must be some form of whiplash, from seeing a toddler to a teenager.

At the beginning of the session, the prep team had taken enough time to introduce themselves and what they would be focusing on. Cleo, a blonde girl with artificial curls, focuses mainly on the smaller details; Alyssum’s nails, special effects, and clothing adjustments if they’re needed. She’s talkative but polite and curious.

Leo, the only boy with dark orange hair and freckles like stars across his cheeks, is her makeup artist. He’s got gentle fingers, and a contagious laugh. His accent is stronger than the other two’s, and he always tilts his head when he's done with a sentence. He’s managed to find a way to reshape her face so far.

And finally, there’s Beth. Naturally dark and wavy hair, pretty brown eyes. She’s the quietest, doesn’t talk unless she’s genuinely interested. She does Alyssum’s hair, scrubbing her scalp and carefully washing the soap and other products from her hair.

Alyssum can see why you like them. You don’t talk about them often, only sometimes in the boarding school, and if it’s at home, it’s always regarding parade outfits. Otherwise, it’s always in passing and never in detail.

Well, at least she can finally put a face to all the names she hears so often. It’s one thing to look forward to, to see all the people that had saved her older sister before she went into the Hunger Games. The ones that gave you a bright start and all the right pointers to help you win.

“I think we should hose her down one more time.” Cleo says, her hair is pulled up and out of her face, there’s a faint glisten of sweat across her forehead.

“And we can give her the lotion.” Beth says, giving Alyssum a reassuring smile, “Then she’ll be all done.”

Alyssum smiles back.

They took their time with the finishing touches, making sure they hadn’t missed any patches of hair, ticked everything off their list, and did any special adjustments that were required during the session. Once that’s done, and they’re sure that they’re not going to need her again, they leave to get Laurel, her stylist.

Alyssum vaguely remembers meeting Laurel, and it wasn’t during your Victory Tour when you’d won. No, she was too young to actually realize that she should be taking in her surroundings to hold to her memory. Instead, Alyssum remembers meeting Laurel during Annie’s Victory Tour, when she came to visit during the winter, at the very beginning.

She can’t seem to recall much, besides the obvious fact that Laurel was much, much taller than she was at the time. Alyssum had only been eight at the time, and back then, she was only beginning her training at the boarding school. The reality of what type of world she lives in didn’t quite set in just yet.

Alyssum ties the robe shut, per Beth’s instructions. Laurel trusts them enough to not double-check their work. Not to mention, there’s not much to go over in the first place, she’s still very young.

When the door in front of her slowly starts opening, Alyssum sits up a bit taller on the medical table she’s sitting on. It reminds her of the check ups she has every month to make sure she’s growing properly.

A tall woman with dark hair is revealed, and immediately, Alyssum knows that it’s Laurel. She can’t help herself when she gets off of the table and heads forward, arms extended for a hug.

Laurel opens only one of her arms, but squeezes Alyssum into her side tightly, a slight laugh bubbling out, “How have you been, Aly?”

“Good, if you ignore the reaping.” She smiles, allowing Laurel to direct her out of the adjacent room and into the next one.

It has a few couches, and a coffee table in the middle of them with food displayed.

“Still passing all of your classes?”

“Yes, of course. (Y/n) and Reed make it hard not to.”

Alyssum takes a seat on the couch, hands resting in her lap. It isn’t until Laurel motions to the food in front of her, does she realize that the food is for her, not for Laurel. It’s also at that moment, she remembers that she hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast this morning, which had to have been hours ago.

With no argument, Alyssum takes only the food she recognizes, not feeling adventurous. The food last night on the train was delicious, there’s no question about it. The problem is that, in less than two hours, she’ll be in front of a large crowd who already knows her name, and her entire background. The last thing that Alyssum wants is to get sick all over the chariot.

“(Y/n) requested for me to be careful with what I dress you in.” Laurel says.

“That’s probably for the best.” she pauses between bites, “Reed likes it better if I don’t show too much skin. I think it was the same way for (Y/n).”

A knowing smile crosses her stylists’ face, “Yes, that’s why we had to change her outfit. I have something that’s a little more modest for you, too.”

“He’ll like that.” Alyssum rests her plate on her knees, “What will it be?”

“A dress, we’re going for an underwater princess theme. It’ll cover your skin in the right places, all while making you look appealing to the potential sponsors in the audience.”

“Has (Y/n) seen it?”

“Yes, she’s already approved of it.”

Alyssum lets out a hum as she nods, trying to picture it to herself. It’ll probably be blue, that’s all that District Four is known for being. A vast blue ocean with violent waves, green seaweed that traps the legs, brightly-colored coral reefs that are a sore to the eye, and endless amounts of potential outfits that come from fish, alone.

A blue dress, something breezy because it represents the wind that comes from the ocean. Likely ripped, or maybe wet to give the illusion that she’s just come out of the water, and plenty of jewelry to secure the idea that she’s a princess. This idea has been done before, there’s no doubt about it, it’s Alyssum’s turn to represent the idea.

She finishes her plate, setting it onto the table, then gives Laurel a bright smile, “When do we start?”

A couple of hours later, Alyssum is standing in front of a mirror in the dressing room. The dress she’s wearing is lopsided, with one side being shorter than the other. The short side goes to her knees, the longer going to her ankles. It’s ripped, just as she thought it would be, and layered to make the dress bigger. The fabric is soft against her skin, almost ticklish.

The top half of the dress is halter--no sleeves, the support is in the neck--it’s a little tighter in the middle, but the back is open to make up for it. And then they gave her white no-show socks for her, also white, dress flats. As for jewelry, so far the only important piece seems to be on her head, the pearl crown.

Of course, she has the whole matching set; the pearl earrings, the pearl necklace, and the pearl bracelet. None of it compares to the crown, or even the diamond ring that they managed to find in the drawers.

Her makeup is mild, most of it being rainbow highlights so that the sun rays catch her face the right way. Leo insisted on light blue eyeshadow, blush, and clear lip gloss, Cleo made sure Alyssum had blue nails. As for Beth, she decided on a simple halo braid, with white ribbon woven through. There’s a few loose hairs hanging in Alyssum’s face that were promptly curled once the braid was done. And as if the ribbons weren’t enough, Cleo tucked in a few white flowers.

It isn’t until she sees Paslee at the chariots, does she realize how severely overdressed she feels. So much jewelry, flowers, and makeup. Only for Paslee to look simple, with a suit and a crown on his brow. She does notice the matching flower tucked into the suit’s pocket.

Alyssum has half the mind to glare at you for allowing this to happen. She understands that the stylists’ all have a vision, and in order to stay as a stylist, they need to go above and beyond. She just thinks it’s ridiculous, and embarrassing that she looks like a walking mannequin.

Until she takes a look around her, and realizes that she’s not the only one. She’s far from being the only girl overdressed next to their male counterparts. District One is dressed in glitter, District Two is a little more naked this year, and it’s all the same for the districts to her right.

“It looks like you’re going to get most of the attention.” Paslee says, nudging Alyssum’s arm with his elbow. He gives her a grin, trying to be polite and calm her nerves.

She doesn’t know how he’s so at ease. Everyone back home is going to see them two, everyone from the boarding school will be taking pointers on how to or not to act. It doesn’t matter if they fail or succeed, the two of them will both be examples. Their mistakes picked apart and shamed by the other victors, by the future victors.

And her brothers, and family friends, who have seen you go through this exact same situation, will be seeing all the differences and similarities. Practically experts all by themselves since they experienced it second-hand. Affected, but not directly.

Still, Alyssum manages to muster a smile to give back to Paslee, “I’ll try and save some for you.”

Paslee laughs, not minding the fact that he’s drawing attention. As soon as you and Finnick approach, dressed formally in your own ways, business begins. Laurel circles Alyssum, trying to catch any last-minute mistakes, picking at areas in the dress she realizes she doesn’t like, and tucking any fabric that needs to get out of the way.

When it comes to Pleurisy and Paslee, he just has a few curls out of place, and they fix the flower in his pocket by safely-pinning it so it doesn’t move anymore. Other than that, his shoes are still shined, and he knows better than to make any big movements in the suit, afraid that it’ll rip.

“Okay,” you breathe, “You two already know that there are cameras, so be wary of any facial expressions.”

Alyssum nods.

“Everything will come to you naturally, so don’t worry about doing the wrong or right thing.” Finnick smiles, “Just remember that whatever you do today, will be your personality for the rest of the week.”

Paslee stands a bit taller, “What about the arena?”

“Facades don’t last very long,” you say, “Remember when I showed you my games? Or what about Johanna’s?”

It dawns on him, “Wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Exactly.”

The anthem begins, silencing any other thoughts. The large doors slide open, allowing light to fill the hall they stand in, revealing them to the crowded streets. This is when Laurel and Pleurisy jump into action, forcing Alyssum and Paslee onto the chariot just as District One begins to move out.

“Turn inwards a bit!” You shout over the roar, hoping they hear it.

Alyssum turns her body so that she’s more towards Paslee, than the crowd. She takes in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds while she feels her heart beat in her chest. When she breathes again, she feels slightly more relaxed, trying to ignore the impending doom feeling that’s stuck in the back of her mind.

The chariot begins moving, leaving her worries behind her. There’s no time to focus on the wobbliness of her knees, or the dryness of her mouth. She tries to suppress the smile sneaking onto her face, but the moment cheers erupt into screams, she can’t help it anymore.

Alyssum is your little sister, she has a big name to live up to. She may only be twelve, but there’s a whole list of people that are expecting great things, inside and outside of the arena. Forget everyone else here, Alyssum is underneath a microscope.

She lifts her hand and waves to the crowd of people on her left, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. How many of them were your sponsors? Will they sponsor her? Do any of them actually like her?

Then she hears her name screamed, head whipping in the direction, eyes searching to see a woman dressed in red. The woman hurls a blue rose at Alyssum, making her jerk to the side to catch it in time. Thankfully, all thorns have been removed from the stem, otherwise there’s no doubt that she’d be bleeding.

With the flower in hand, Alyssum holds it up for the woman to see, breaks a good portion of the stem, and then tucks it into her hair. Just as she moves on, more gifts are being thrown at her. Paslee, who’s begun to notice, can’t help but to laugh with her. It’s all so ridiculous.

Alyssum opens her mouth, leaning over to talk to Paslee, when the crowd explodes behind them. She thought that they’d been loud for her, but there’s another district that seems to have captured attention.

Paslee says something, she doesn’t catch it. Her eyes flicker upwards, looking to find some sort of indication on what’s going on. Should she be panicking or upset? All she knows is that she can’t turn around to look. It’ll just take the attention away from her, and redirect it to the other district.

She sees it on a television screen above her. Her smile slowly fades, she nudges Paslee with her elbow to get his attention. He follows her gaze, and soon, he’s no longer smiling either.

District Twelve is on fire.

Both of them, the girl and the boy, are on fire. They’re dressed in neck-to-ankle black, complete with a cape. They’re so bright, it makes the career districts forgettable. Alyssum tries not to be mad, making a genuine effort to convince herself that she should be happy for District Twelve, they’ve actually become memorable for once.

She can’t keep the thought process going on for long, though. The Hunger Games is a competition, tributes are posed against each other from the start. Those sponsors that could’ve been hers, are now possibly theirs.

District One’s chariot begins to enter the City Circle, signifying that the parade is already halfway over. All that’s left is the president’s speech, and then they’ll be on their way back to the hall that they came from in the Tribute Center.

Knowing that there’s going to be more cameras, Alyssum fixes her stance so that she’s standing taller again, forcing the smile to come back to her face. She can still hear the cheering and clapping behind her, the Capitol isn’t done with getting their fill of the Twelve tributes.

Each of the twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle, on the buildings nearby, Alyssum can see that every window is packed. With how close they are to the president’s mansion, it just means that these people are the most expensive. They are the ones that Alyssum should be wanting to sponsor her.

Since District Four’s chariot is already stopped, and now they’re just waiting for the others to come to a halt behind them, Alyssum looks up to the windows and gives a slight wave. Nothing hurts right now, anything she doesn’t do could set her up for failure. If she does too much, then it’s the same thing.

With the music ending flourishly, she redirects her attention to the balcony, where President Snow has stepped on to make his appearance for the speech. He gives his traditional welcome, but Alyssum’s focused on the television screen still, watching as the camera crew does their usual stop-and-go on the tributes in the chariots. She’s happy to see that she does get a few extra seconds, probably just long enough for Caesar and Claudius to comment, before moving on to the other districts.

They stay on Twelve the longest.

When the speech is finally over, the horses bring the chariots around the circle one last time for a final look, then they bring the tributes into the Tribute Center.

The chariot barely has enough time to come to a stop before the prep teams have surrounded Alyssum and Paslee, clapping their hands and squealing out praise. Alyssum tries to kindly accept what they have to say, but her eyes are on District Twelve, wanting to see who their stylist is. Only a genius pulls something like that out of thin air, and they’re brave to do it for Twelve in the first place.

The first thing that she notices is how she’s not the only one looking. Many, many other tributes around the girl and boy from Twelve are staring, and they’re not friendly looks either. This is enough for Alyssum to decide that she doesn’t need to hop on the train of hate, the other tributes already have that handled.

Just as she goes to turn away, her eyes catch Twelve’s girl--Katniss’--eyes. And it’s in those seconds, does Alyssum realize she’s got this whole thing backwards. Yes, the Hunger Games is a competition, which is the exact reason why she should be trying to get ahead at any possible chance. Even if there’s no guarantee it works, or that it might mess up future plans, it’s worth a try.

This is why Alyssum smiles, and waves long enough for Katniss to wave back. The two of them have got a lot of spotlight on them at the moment, only for different reasons. They could always bounce back and forth, desperate for the most shining airtime, or they could become allies and use it to their advantage.

Katniss gives Alyssum a shocked smile.

A hand is placed on Alyssum’s upper back, drawing her from the interaction she was having. When she looks over, she can see that it’s you, and you’re giving a curious look to where Alyssum was just staring.

“Ready to go?” you ask, once you don’t see anything.

“Yeah.” She beams.

Together, in a group, they all move to take an elevator up to their floor. On the way over, Paslee and Alyssum take a look at the careers while they can, since this is their preview to the training rooms. Of course, they saw them on television, but it’s nothing compared to seeing them in the flesh.

And from what Alyssum gathers in less than a minute, the most threatening district in their career group is going to be District Two. Just like she had figured yesterday, when she saw the reaping recaps. The girl is short but bulky, and the boy is average and strong. He’s been training his entire life, Alyssum knows it.

Elysia calls for the elevator, and holds the door so that everyone can go inside, with the exception of the stylists and prep teams. Elysia presses the button that will lead them to District Four’s apartment, in the meantime, Alyssum stares through the glass walls and watches as the ground gets further away from her.

This is her first--and probably last--time in an elevator.

In the apartment, Paslee and Alyssum suddenly have free reign until dinner. Elysia shows them their rooms again, and they’re bigger than the ones on the train. Alyssum figures that she may as well shower, not really wanting to stay in her costume until dinnertime.

She hums to herself as she picks out a comfortable evening outfit, jeans and a shirt, and gently picks up the shoes to lay by the door. The shower in the Capitol is much more complicated than the one on the train. She sets everything down on the counter, and messes with the control panel on the shower until it turns on, and it’s a respectable temperature.

The makeup runs straight down the drain, easily forgettable. She doesn’t need to wash her hair again, it’s been done plenty of times today already, so she just keeps it in the braid. The most she does is take out the flowers and toss them in a nearby trash can in the bathroom. After that, she’s left to scrub dirt and sweat from her skin, thinking how it’s such a waste of time to spend hours preparing her for just one chariot ride that doesn’t even last thirty minutes.

Just as Alyssum’s finished getting dressed, Elysia is knocking on the door to let her know that dinner’s ready. She slips on the shoes that she set beside the door, and then heads out of the room.

The first thing that Alyssum notices is how the stylists are here, which means they must be joining supper. It’s perfect, actually, because Alyssum has a question about District Twelve’s stylist, not really over how they gave Katniss and her tribute mate such a big debut.

You’re sitting at the table with Finnick, Laurel and Pleurisy, the four of you being engrossed in conversation. Elysia is nowhere to be seen, presumably retrieving Paslee. Alyssum almost feels like she’s intruding on the moment, until you’re motioning her over to join.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, giving her a side hug.

She smiles slightly, shrugging, “Good? I don’t know.”

“You’re not nervous or anything?”

Alyssum pauses long enough to realize what you’re implying. It isn’t about what she’s feeling at the moment, it’s any worries that might have come up from this morning to now. For example, the tribute parade.

“Oh, well,” Alyssum moves around the table to take an empty seat near to you, “I just wanted to know if Twelve’s stylist was new, since it’s a different approach to the district, instead of the usual coal miner stuff.”

Finnick nods, a smug look on his face when he looks at you, “I told you.”

You briefly glare, “I said I wasn’t sure because I saw her waving to the tributes, I never said you were wrong.”

“Your tone of voice did.”

“That’s--” you start.

“--not the point.” Laurel finishes smoothly, looking over Alyssum carefully, “And you’re smart for picking that up, because he is new.”

“Should we be worried about the interviews?” Paslee asks, coming down the steps with Elysia. He’s also changed into something more comfortable, taking a seat next to Alyssum.

“It’s all about personality and becoming memorable, as always.” Elysia tries.

“That’s not what I meant,” Paslee shakes his head, “I meant outfit-wise. If he pulled that out of nowhere, then what else will he be able to pull?”

If Alyssum was worried about Paslee not picking up on things earlier, she isn’t anymore. She knows that he’s older than her and all, but sometimes people skip over the small details because they don’t think it’s important.

“We’re going to try and find a way to make you guys pop too,” Pleurisy says, “We just have to change the outfits that we had originally laid out.”

“That’s comforting.” Paslee mutters, it’s hardly audible, and it looks like the others didn’t pick it up, with the exception of Alyssum.

It’s silent in the room for a long moment, allowing the tension to settle in further. Alyssum knows that all the outfits are supposed to be the stylists idea, which is the exact reason why they have so many outfits planned for the future. In a situation like this, though, planning ahead does nothing but screw you over.

Well, Pleurisy did just say they have to change the original outfits, anyway. It doesn’t hurt to try and throw out some ideas.

“What if the outfits changed pictures?” Alyssum asks Laurel.

She sits up taller, “What do you mean?”

“Um… well, like an optical illusion but if I moved my body, the scenery on the dress would change to something else because of how I was standing.”

It’s quiet for a moment, Alyssum begins to doubt the idea, maybe it wasn’t smart after all.

“Oh,” Elysia says, “Oh, I get it, like those Valentines cards that kids hand out in school.”

Laurel shifts her attention to her, “Is that what she means?”

“People hand out cards?” Paslee asks.

“It must be a Capitol thing.” Finnick tells him.

The light goes off in Pleurisy’s head too, “Lenticular! It’s called lenticular, I was just talking to Esmeray about it.”

“Do you think it’s possible to pull off?” Laurel asks, “Besides the materials, I think we could order it all tonight.”

Pleurisy is nodding quickly, “Yes, we just need to figure out the pictures--”

Paslee pats Alyssum on the back, “Quick thinking.”

Alyssum smiles, “Thank me later.”

Dinner kicks off after that, the Avoxes serving the meals one at a time. It’s just like how it was on the train, starting lightly with savory soups, and slowly moving into more of the heavier, more filling, foods. About halfway through, Alyssum decides that she’s full and would like to give her stomach time to settle before continuing.

The conversation keeps on the interview outfits for a while, Laurel and Pleurisy allow everyone to chime in and ask questions. Every now and then, they’ll actually ask for input on what the dress should look like. Like base color, where the pictures should go, what the top half of the dress should look like--it’s already decided that it should be puffed out and end above her knees.

Or with Paslee, what type of suit, if the pants should be the same material or just a plain base color. If his pictures should resemble something different or similar to Alyssum. It even goes down to the question of whether or not Alyssum and Paslee should match during the interviews, it’s common but not exactly liked by tributes.

For now, the two of them agree to it, because they haven’t found a need to say no just yet. Maybe later on, if the two of them have suddenly lost interest in an alliance and found two different groups to stick with. Alyssum has a feeling that Paslee is going to naturally drift towards the careers, which isn’t a horrible idea for him. He’s seventeen, built like the rest of them. Alyssum is still small, she’s twelve, and she’d be the youngest out of all of them.

Then again, there’s no one else to really form an alliance with. Of course, there’s always the other twelve year-old girl from Eleven, or the occasional other young tributes from the less popular distracts. That’s a whole problem by itself, though, because they’re typically not prepared for the Hunger Games, and therefore become a danger the more that time goes on.

And Alyssum can’t forget about her interaction with Katniss just a few hours ago. She’s an older sister, Alyssum saw her volunteer over the younger girl. Alyssum knows it could mean a number of things, like Katniss just wanting to protect her. But out of all the Hunger Games that Alyssum has watched, she’s never seen an older sibling volunteer over the younger one, because either way it’s a death sentence. Both of them will die.

No one is driven to volunteer that quickly just because they want to protect their younger siblings. There’s always a part of them that knows that they can win the Hunger Games. And for that exact reason alone, makes Alyssum think that Katniss can be a good ally. It’s just a matter of getting close enough to see what she knows.

Also, if Katniss does end up showing promise before the Hunger Games, the last thing that Alyssum would want is to be an enemy of some kind. Even a little bit of friendship between two tributes can go a long way. She’s seen it happen before, and it typically pays off in the end. Even if that means to sacrifice certain alliances.

After dinner, the Avoxes bring around a tall cake, painted a light shade of green. When they cut it open, candy pearls spill out the middle, clattering against the glass plate. They dish out a healthy serving for everyone to have, but with how rich the cake is, Alyssum can’t get through half of it before feeling full.

Once they’re all done at the table, they move on to watch the recap of the tribute parade. Honestly, Alyssum doesn’t like having to watch it over, it just means she gets to see the Capitol freak out over Twelve again. She’s tired of talking about them, at least until tomorrow.

The good news is that Alyssum and Paslee had been the center of attention until they had come out. If there’s anything to build off of, it would be that. But she already figured that was the case.

“It’s been a big day,” you start, looking over to Paslee and Alyssum, “I’m sure you two are exhausted.” You reach over, tucking one of the loose hanging hairs out of Alyssum’s face and behind her ear. There’s a gentle smile on your lips, “Finnick and I damn near passed out after our parade.”

Finnick places his hand on your upper back, a smile beginning on his own face, “We skipped dinner entirely.”

“Rest.” your attention diverts to Paslee, “Meet us here tomorrow morning so we can help you with the training session. The first day always means the most, the two days that follow are just as important. We’ll be here if you have any questions.”

“I’ll wake you in the morning if you don’t get up yourself.” Elysia pipes, sitting up straight.

It’s clear that they’re queueing them to go, so Alyssum doesn’t argue. She looks at Laurel, “Thank you for the tribute parade. And if you see the others, can you thank them too? I appreciate them being gentle.” she turns to you and Finnick, “Goodnight, love you.”

“Love you too.” you say, Finnick’s voice echoes yours.

Just like that, Alyssum heads up the steps, leaving Paslee to say his own goodnight. She doesn’t go into her room immediately, though. She stands in the hallway, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans while she waits for him to catch up. When he does, he notices her and stands on the other side of the hall to make it look like he’s gone to his room.

“Do you want to try out the career group?” She asks.

“What else do you have in mind?” Paslee asks back.

Alyssum tilts her head slightly, eyes drifting from his face when she hears you and the others start speaking to each other again, “Katniss and her friend have made a pretty good impression.”

“They’re from Twelve,” he says, tone disinterested.

“(Y/n) and Finnick were fifteen and fourteen when they won together, an occurrence that the Capitol hadn’t allowed in like--thirty years!” she brings her hands out to motion, “I’m not talking about odds here, because they’ve always been wonky with my family. I’m saying we pool sponsors together if they end up showing some promise.”

Paslee doesn’t look convinced, his face twists and he’s shaking his head still. Alyssum’s only heard stories about what happened between you and Finnick during your time in the Capitol. There’s one story you tell to all the newcomers of the boarding school to give them an idea of what it’s really like. And the big lesson that normally derives from it, is that alliances don’t last.

You and Finnick had been allies until the two of you split, you to the careers and him to a group of lesser known tributes. In a way, it worked out in the end because the two of you did end up back together. The only problem is that’s not always the case.

While Alyssum was watching the tribute parade, she noticed something very specific, and it’s that out of all of the districts, only two of them were friendly to each other. And she means that she and Paslee had looked at each other, and Katniss and her friend were holding hands. Out of the other ten districts, neither of the tributes even bothered to acknowledge each other.

Alyssum may not be perfect, but she’s not stupid enough to ignore the facts. She knows that it’s not often that tributes are going to like each other, especially coming from the same district. So, why not try and create an alliance that’ll actually work? Not even Districts One and Two were talking to each other.

“Okay, well, you don’t have to like the idea,” Alyssum gives him a funny smile, “It’s just there in case it’s the better option.”

“I don’t…” Paslee trails off.

She’s backing away toward her room, eyebrows raised, “You don’t what?”

He doesn’t answer her, she goes into her room. You’ve said it many times inside of the boarding school, that only the tributes that have been drawn to go into the games can assign their fate. No one else can make these decisions for her, and dwelling on just one person can very well ruin her plan.

She gets ready for bed, changing into a pair of shorts and a shirt before curling into bed. The bed is soft and comfortable, the room cold enough to enjoy, and the blankets keeping her warm, she falls asleep in no time. Even though there are nightmares waiting in the days coming.

Elysia’s insistent knocking wakes Alyssum, she stands in the doorway, waiting patiently until Alyssum can finally comprehend what she’s saying, “First day of training, you’re not going to want to skip breakfast.”

Alyssum yawns, using the heels of her hands to rub her eyes.

“All uniforms are pre-picked by the stylists, yours should be in the closet.”

When she lifts her head, she sees a blurry image of Elysia standing at the door, one hand resting on the frame, the other on her hip. Alyssum has to blink a few times in order to see better.

“Okay, thank you.”

Elysia nods her head once, and then whirls around to leave. The door slides shut automatically, and Alyssum is left to get ready by herself. She silently makes her way around the room, throwing any blankets that might have ended up on the floor, back onto the bed.

The closet is still unnecessarily big, so it takes her a moment to scan the shelves to see which clothes Laurel had laid out for her. There’s a sports bra, a tank top and leggings all folded together on the shelf. She picks it all up, and grabs any extra items she’s going to need while getting ready.

She spends a good minute staring at the window that takes up the entire wall, not liking the idea of the people below seeing her sleeping--and changing. She groans and heads into the bathroom instead, changing into the training outfit. It’s white in most areas, the accent color being black. Her leggings are entirely black, and the shoes are a repeat of the shirt.

Alyssum takes her time trying to brush her hair, knowing that there’s going to be snarls. The blow dryers that the shower comes with were extremely good at getting it all out last night. Today, it’s Alyssum’s problem. And she ends up tying it out of her face, anyway, not wanting to be bothered by it all day.

It isn’t until she’s finished getting ready, does she realize that she’s missing something very important. She stands in the bathroom, staring at herself for a long time, going over each body part individually, thinking that she’ll catch it that way. She’s right, her eyes stop on her neck.

The necklace isn’t there.

Alyssum straightens up, the sleep completely leaving her body. Did she leave it on the train last night? You even went out of your way last night to ask to make sure she wouldn’t, and here she is. Then again, it could have happened this morning when the prep team had jumped at her for the grooming.

Did she even have it this morning?

Alyssum leaves her bedroom, going into the dining room. You’re already sitting out there with Finnick and Elysia, Paslee nowhere to be seen. He’s probably still getting ready, or searching for his training outfit, since it wasn’t in any obvious spot like Alyssum thought it would be.

“Good morning,” You hum, giving a smile to Alyssum, “How’d you sleep?”

Alyssum shrugs, “Pretty good, actually.” She takes her seat at the table, “Did you take my necklace off the train?”

Your smile widens into a grin, and Alyssum immediately knows that it’s the case, “Yes, and I already gave it to Elysia. The Gamemakers will have a look at it, and if it’s approved, Laurel will give it to you before you go back into the arena.”

“Okay,” she falls back against her chair, relieved that she’s not going to be in charge of it for the next couple of days.

“What about you?” Finnick asks Paslee, “Any tokens?”

Paslee nods a little, bringing up his wrist to show off a silver bracelet, “It belonged to Marsh. He forgot to take it into the arena with him.”

Finnick hold his hand out to take it, “Does it have any poison, knives, needles, anything that might get you in trouble?”

“No, it’s just this chain.” he drops it into Finnick’s palm.

“It should pass inspection, then.” Elysia takes it from Finnick, placing it into a pocket on the inside of her jacket.

Breakfast is then served by the Avoxes, taking away the chance to continue the conversation any further. Alyssum eats the assorted dishes, being careful to avoid foods she knows that she doesn’t like, and anything that might make her feel sick inside of the training room. Not to mention, she will be able to eat lunch in a few hours.

You and Finnick finish much faster than they do, and don’t wait for them to finish eating before Finnick begins, “You have to remember that the Hunger Games is a competition. Save your best skill for the private session with the Gamemakers, that happens in two days.”

“Your goal is to impress the Gamemakers, not the tributes around you. Everything you do inside of the gym from today to the private session will be observed and noted. You are careers, they’re expecting great things from you. And there’s no use in saying ‘no pressure’ because the pressure is on.”

Alyssum’s nodding along, so is Paslee. They understand, the two of them have spent years in the boarding school for this reason. They have trained for years, and in doing that, have found the skills that they’re good at, and honed the ones that weren’t as good, they’re prepared. Especially Paslee more than Alyssum.

“Don’t force an alliance with the careers.” you say suddenly, eyes on Alyssum, “I’m talking to you, Aly.”

“I know you are.”

“The careers don’t like tributes younger than them because the younglings are hard to control and sometimes unpredictable. I’m not saying you are, but the more you force them, the more they’re going to deny.”

“Actually, now that you say that,” Finnick looks at you, “Maybe she shouldn’t try at all.”

Alyssum sits up in her chair now, mouth falling open. She wants to object, because that’s not fair at all.

“If she’s good in the training center and scores high, the careers will target her and take her down because they know that she’s weak to some capacity. I mean, look at her and tell me you wouldn’t be able to take her down in a fight.” Finnick explains.

“Well, of course I can.”

“No, I mean look at her from a tribute perspective…” he looks back at Alyssum, the room is silent for a while.

And then you blow air out of your cheeks, “The Twelve tributes we went against.”

“Exactly.” Finnick says, happy that you’ve figured out what he was thinking about, “We were young then too.”

You hum, “She still needs sponsors.”

Elysia clears her throat, “How about you try at eighty percent and not one hundred?”

“Yes, don’t make an actual effort to be noticed.” Finnick agrees.

Alyssum nods slowly, her mouth has since closed. She’s still not exactly thrilled by the idea of hanging back, because it could cost her the training score, but then she remembers that if it doesn’t work out with the careers, she has a backup plan.

“Okay.” Alyssum smiles, “Easy peasy.”

Elysia checks her watch, “We have fifteen minutes before we have to leave. Meet me at the elevator by ten.”

She stands from the table, gives a pointed look to Alyssum and Paslee, and then leaves to the back room. You and Finnick also take this as a sign to get up, knwoing how much work has to be done before the games. And the interview outfits!

“We’ll be here when you get back.” You smile, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Alyssum says, heading back to her room.

She brushes her teeth first, making sure that her mouth hurts by how much toothpaste she uses. After, she searches the drawers for some type of body mist that she can put on, on top of the deodorant and everything else she applied before breakfast. She doesn’t want to smell horrible by the end of the day, so she’ll do anything possible to prevent it.

She spends her remaining time trying to find tomorrow’s outfit so that she doesn’t have to search. She places it in the same spot where she found today’s clothes, and hopes that no one will come around later to move it. By the time she’s done reorganizing the closet to her liking, it’s time for her to go.

Elysia is waiting at the elevator, just as she promised she would be. It’s a minute or so later before Paslee is joining them. She presses the button, the doors shut, and the only noise that fills the silence is the sound of the elevator going down. And right when Alyssum is prepared for it to stop at the base floor, it continues.

“The gymnasium is underground.” Elysia says, as if she’s reading their minds. When the doors open again, she starts off first, “I can’t go inside of the room with you, I’ll walk you as far as possible.”

And she does, taking them halfway through the hallway before she decides that they need to show some independence. If the other tributes see her in the doorway, then it’ll be obvious that they had her walk them up. Besides, it’s not really much of a problem, they can see the door now.

“Thank you!” Alyssum shouts, waving goodbye to Elysia before they both head inside.

The doors open automatically, allowing them to get their first look at the room they’ll be training in for the next three days. Alyssum can’t help but to look at each individual station, noting what they are and which ones she’d like to visit before the day is over.

They aren’t the last to arrive, and they aren’t the first either. That’s the good news, because punctuality is important, just not enough to be the first people inside. As long as they come inside some time during the middle, then they won’t be remembered. Even though the other tributes are looking at them now. She wonders what’s on their minds.

Paslee and Alyssum are stopped a little after the doors, being told that they need to wear a mandatory number. They don’t specify why, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that it’s because the gamemakers need a way to keep track of them. There’s going to be twenty-four tributes inside, she’s almost certain that the gamemakers just think of them all as a blur by now. So many faces, only one of them will survive.

Once the patch is placed on their backs, it’s time for them to pick a place to stand. Her eyes wander, dancing over the different Capitol personnel, glancing briefly at the gamemakers in the box above, and the tributes standing in a circle. Alyssum laces her fingers together, trying to keep level breathing.

These are her opponents. No one here right now is a friend.

She doesn’t even see District Twelve.

The only thing that matters is that the other careers are here, standing together in a group. They’ve already formed their alliance, and they seem pretty friendly for the most part. At first, they pay Alyssum and Paslee no attention, continuing their conversation, filling the air with their laughter.

It isn’t until the blonde girl from One glances, and does a double-take, do the rest of them follow.

“Smile.” Alyssum murmurs, trying to be quiet as she looks away, “If they smile back, then join them. I’ll see you later, grab me if they’re interested.”

“Good luck.” Paslee says.

“Same to you.”

She moves away from the careers, choosing to stand in the back so she isn’t up front near the Capitol trainer. Her mind begins to run, starting slowly and speeding up the more time goes on. Is this the same head trainer that you had nine years ago? What about the people standing at the stations? Or the Gamemakers?

It takes everything in her not to hyperventilate, taking deep breaths through her nose. She’s walking in your shadow, everything she does will be compared to what you had done. Reaping, tribute parade, training score, interview outfits, first day debuts in the arena. It’s beginning to make her sick to her stomach. She shouldn’t have eaten so much this morning.

Thankfully, it’s only a couple more minutes before more tributes begin to trickle in. When District Twelve finally shows up and joins the circle, the head trainer is allowed to begin. Alyssum moves forward to see her, now.

Her name is Atala, she’s tall and clearly athletic. She says that each tribute is free to move station to station as they will, but the experts standing at each station aren’t allowed to move. Tributes are also not allowed to fight each other, which is why combat experts are provided if requested. It’s preferred that all items stay in their respective boundaries, but it’s not enforced.

Once the formalities are over, Atala begins going down a list of the stations available. Starting with survival, and moving on to combat. Alyssum can hardly note the names long enough to remember them. By the time Atala’s going down the combat list, Aly’s decided that she’ll just try and go to each station at least once.

Finally, Atala releases them, allowing everyone to move. Alyssum doesn’t move from her spot so that she can see exactly where everyone goes. The Careers, and Paslee, unsurprisingly head towards the weapons. She turns her body away from that direction, although she knows that she’ll have to go over there eventually.

It just leaves all the survival skills, like fire starting.

She knows all of this already, the most she can do is a basic overview of it all. Ten minutes, at the very least, should be enough to refresh her memory. And hopefully the experts can give her new and improved ways of doing things. District Four’s boarding school is very good, you and every other victor have made sure of that. Sometimes the Capitol can pull tricks out of their asses.

So, Alyssum starts with the fires. The expert is clearly delighted, letting her sit around the ring of rocks before beginning. When they ask if Aly has any previous experience with starting fires, or any clue on how to, it’s an easy answer. She lists off three different ways, and demonstrates all three, before moving on to different ideas.

Since she clearly doesn’t need help, the expert settles for small talk. It’s polite, but they dance around questions, obviously wanting to ask them but are too afraid to go through with it. Alyssum gives up some information willingly, she just keeps the personal stuff to herself.

Once she finally grows bored, she bids the expert goodbye, moving on to the next lucky expert that gets to watch her do their job for them. It’s just as she expected, she knows all of these stations already. The most she can do is refresh her memory every couple of minutes.

Until she gives up the rotation entirely and just stands in the middle of the room, hands on her hips while she tries to make her next decision. All of her logic has secured itself on the idea of the weapons, since she hasn’t had full training with them yet. Even in the boarding school, she was only allowed to dabble in it. It was next year, and the year to follow, where she was supposed to fully begin to understand it all.

The problem is that’s where the careers are, where Paslee is. She doesn’t want to just go over there and make it seem like she wants their attention. If anything, she wants to get some practice of her own. All they do is hoard that area and intimidate anyone who thinks of going over, it’s unfair. And they’re supposed to do that all three days.

The only other option she’s seeing is actually settling on the survival stuff, but it’s pretty clear she doesn’t need to.

She takes in a deep breath, staring at the ceiling for a moment, and then begins to make her way on the far side away from the careers. Which starts her at axe practice, a top-heavy weapon that she doesn’t see herself willingly using inside of the arena. She’s not strong enough to lug a weapon like that around the entire time, something smaller--a knife--would be much easier.

The expert straightens when they see her approach, and are more than happy to begin her on basics. Immediately, Alyssum can see her mood uplift as she begins to learn new techniques, thinking that this is what she should have been doing the entire time. She spends a whole hour just testing out different sizes, and swinging them to get a feel for it.

By the time lunch rolls around, she’s learned how to wield an axe, carry heavier weapons, and only touched her toe to the water when it came to the spears. She knows how to throw spears, it’s the one skill that the victors teach at the boarding school for the younger kids, besides the knives. The smaller the items, the easier it is to work. That’s the rule.

It’s pretty obvious right off the bat that Paslee is stuck with the careers now, so she isn’t surprised when he sits with them and completely ignores her. Not a single glance has been offered her way this entire day. If he’s trying to play up an act, he’s doing a good job of it. She’s just hoping that he isn’t trying to shut her out already. She thought that he’d at least give her a chance to join the career pack.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Alyssum gathers up a small plate of food that looks good before taking a seat at an empty table. She watches as the other tributes come into the adjacent lunch room, peeling apart her bread rolls and wondering if any of them are actually brave enough to sit with her. Not because she’s intimidating, or the sister of a victor, but because tributes don’t normally intermix--unless you’re a career.

She almost thinks that’s the case, until Katniss and her tribute counterpart are sitting at the end of her table. She shares a smile with the boy, dipping her spoon into the stew. Alliances are so delicate during the first few beginning days of the week in the Capitol, so it’s hard for her to force herself to speak to them.

“Your parade costumes were amazing,” she says, watching as Katniss looks over suddenly, eyes going over Alyssum. There’s no doubt that she’s sizing Alyssum up in some way, maybe figuring out her lifespan in the games will be. She wouldn’t be the first, and she’s not going to be the last, “I would’ve changed my mind last minute.”

The boy chuckles, “Trust me, I did.”

Katniss gives him a look, and then gives a sheepish smile, “Yeah, me too.”

Alyssum sits a bit taller, “I’m Alyssum.”

“Peeta,” the boy extends his hand, Aly moves to take it, shaking it once, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Katniss.” she holds out her hand too, but it’s not as smooth.

Alyssum’s a lot more gentle, and she ends up turning over Katniss’ hands to take a look at her nails, curious to see what her prep team had done to them. It’s just as she expected, fiery nails, flames of red and orange on a black background.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Peeta.” Alyssum let’s go of Katniss’ hand, moving back to her bowl of soup.

Conversation is light with the two of them, it gets a little awkward at times, but Peeta always manages to find a new topic to start with. No matter what, neither of them ask about you, which she’s a little surprised about. Everyone has been talking about the sister situation, so she’s sure it’s only a matter of time before the tributes are dragged in too.

As soon as lunch is over, Alyssum is the first to say goodbye to Katniss and Peeta, explaining that she wants the weapons that the careers were standing by before lunch. They understand, and she manages to take over the sword station, since the careers were dragging their feet.

She finds out early on that she’s not too shabby with a sword. She just needs a lot of practice, which she has more than enough time to do. The expert is polite, and doesn’t hide the fact that they’re surprised over her missing knowledge. Yes, she’s been excelling at survival skills, there’s no doubt that word has traveled, but it doesn’t mean she’ll be good at combat.

Either way, it’s clear that the careers grow impatient over her learning, and don’t give her anymore space. They move back in as soon as they’re ready to, making her a lot more stiff when it comes to swinging the sword. They’re so close, and she can hear their conversation, which is making her even more uncomfortable. Especially since they’re making bets on who’s going to run to the cornucopia, and making hypothetical kills with said tributes.

It all goes downhill once her name is mentioned.

Alyssum stops, sweat running down her temples as she looks over to the group. The girl from Two, the fifteen year-old who volunteered, is looking right at her with a dangerous smirk. The boy with her is also giving the same look.

Paslee glances over his shoulder. Alyssum slams the sword tip-down into the ground, knuckles turning pale from how hard she grips the other end.

“She’s only twelve, she’ll be dumb enough to run into the cornucopia,” the Two girl repeats, “And she’ll be the first I kill.”

Alyssum straightens, “Who says you’ll even be able to get your beefy hands on me?” her eyes wander down, face twisting, “Or that you’ll run fast enough.”

Two girl squints her eyes, starting forward. Alyssum keeps her stance, raising her chin a little when the girl comes close. Two girl is taller than she is, and she’s a lot bigger too. Alyssum knows exactly what you’d say to her right now, and it’s that she’s picking a fight she can’t win, one that’ll bite her in the ass later on.

However, Alyssum is part of the Gallows family, and she’ll dig her own grave if it means to defend the name.

“Say it again.”

“You heard me the first time.” Alyssum snaps, hand tightening around the sword, “If you can’t take the heat, don’t play with fire.”

The girl goes to open her mouth, but she’s stopped when Atala appears, clearly here to mediate.

“What’s going on?”

“Friendly banter.” Alyssum smiles, and then looks at Two girl, eyebrows raised, “She was just telling me how she’s going to kill me during the bloodbath. And I was just about to tell her that I’ll kill her in her sleep just like how my older sister killed Allio during her Hunger Games.”

Two girl jerks, Atala steps in-between before there’s an actual conflict. Alyssum dumps her sword in the bin by the station.

“That’s enough, stay away from each other.” Atala warns.

“If you’re going to get territorial again in the future,” Aly starts, beginning to move toward the door, going to leave early, “you might as well piss on the floor, bitch.”

Two jerks again, it takes two experts to hold her back this time. Alyssum doesn’t turn around after she leaves. It isn’t until she steps into the hallway, does she realize how jittery she is. The amount of adrenaline that must have been going through her body… for a second she had herself convinced that she was going to swing the sword. And she would have, if it had gotten any uglier.

She punches the elevator button, shaking her hands while she waits. She needs to tell you and Finnick before Paslee does, just so he doesn’t get the details fucked up. He might try to cut corners to save the relationship between you two and him, since being on good terms with mentors is an important factor.

The elevator ride is short, and so is the walk to the apartment. By the time she gets inside, she feels considerably better, no longer as shaky, and her body has lost the heat factor. When she walks inside, she’s able to see that Finnick and Elysia are standing together, talking.

Their conversation falters when they both see Alyssum.

Elysia immediately checks her watch, confused, “You aren’t supposed to be back for another hour and a half.”

All it takes is Finnick looking over her once to realize that something isn’t right, “What happened?”

“Got in a fight with one of the careers, and Paslee didn’t do anything to prevent it.”

Elysia’s eyes widen, hurrying over, “Did they touch you? How much trouble are you in?”

“Atala stopped it before we got physical, but I said something after she told us to stop so…”

“Tell me the entire story.” Finnick says.

Alyssum does, trying to be as transparent as possible, but it gets difficult at the end, especially when she starts telling Finnick about the conversation the careers were having right before. He slowly starts getting more angry, Elysia is more stressed than anything. It isn’t until the story is over, does Alyssum get the idea that the situation is worse than she thought it was.

“Well,” Finnick sighs, looking up to the ceiling, “You definitely left an impression.”

“Not the one you wanted me to, though.” Aly frowns, “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, placing his hands on the back of his neck, “You have nothing to be sorry for, I’m hoping the Gamemakers at least watched. That might do some good for your score.”

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Alyssum asks.

“Sleeping, but I guess we should wake her up.” Finnick bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’ll stay out here in case Paslee shows up.” Elysia says, “Make sure he doesn’t go far.”

“Thanks,” Finnick nods, and then jerks his head for Alyssum to follow him, “Do you have an alliance, at least?”

“I sat with Katniss and Peeta during lunch, they’re pretty nice. Didn’t talk to them much.”

“That’s good, try not to make any more enemies, okay?”

Alyssum gives him a funny smile, “No promises.”

BERCEUSE IS A SPIN-OFF //MASTERLIST//

add yourself to the TAGLIST

@amixedwitch / @justthatfangirloverthere / @fnnshelbys / @neenieweenie / @vxntae / @itsanantonia / @liaaacantwrite / @terezasworld /

#ilguna #berceuse #berceuse chapter two #halcyon

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debbierhea · 3 years

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I love your analyses of BCS and what you said about Jimmy really just wanting love, etc., while Walt is more selfish. I keep thinking about a quote--I think Peter Gould said it--about s6: "while wrapping up the show, we kept thinking 'what does Jimmy/Saul/Gene *really* deserve? Is it death? Is it love?" And deep down I think he's going to be caught and put in jail and it will be ambiguous about whether kim will ever visit (let's be real: Kim will NOT die. Mr. Gilligan & Gould are not that lazy). But?? I mean, yes, Saul did bad things. He committed fraud, he helped drug dealers/a meth kingpin, he cheated people out of money, he even stole from his father, etc., but I get so sad because I think Jimmy deserves at least a little bit of love. Death feels so cheap for his character. But am I being biased? What do you think Saul Goodman REALLY deserves in the end, after all he's done? Where do you see his story ending in a way that feels the most emotionally satisfying to his arc?

i’m obsessed with this question and i’m also obsessed with you for loving my incoherent babbling <3 mwah

i find the question of “deserving” both intriguing and impossible (not just wrt jimmy, but irl as well). it’s truly an impossible question to answer in any universal way imo because the what someone quote unquote deserves based on the totality of their life/actions is completely dependent on the principles/morality you ascribe to. It’s very much a question of is there objective good and bad or are all things relative? does the end justify the means? do the intentions behind an action matter if there ends up being collateral damage? it could be argued that these are the very questions bcs is attempting to parse out. is jimmy staging the rescue of a man from a billboard bad because it is, at its core, a lie? and if you find that con permissible, for whatever reason—it’s victimless and causes harm to no one, it was just a ~clever marketing campaign, howard deserved it because he is Bad, etc—then why do we all cringe when jimmy turns irene’s friends against her? aren't his motives the same in both cons? and what is truly justice in the situation with mesa verde? did chuck deserve to keep them as a client after kim worked so hard to get them and he did nothing to “earn” it? did jimmy go “too far” by doctoring documents to win back kim’s only client or was he, in fact, the one exacting justice by righting the situation and awarding the client to its rightful owner? was jimmy’s public annihilation of his brother deserved after all chuck had put him through? did jimmy “deserve” to be disbarred? The show is constructed around these very questions of what justice truly is and who deserves it and how to deliver it. these questions are also integral to the development of kim’s character. to quote miss queen rhea seehorn “good and bad is not the same as legal and illegal all the time. unfortunately, they don’t always line up that way. all the characters are just sort of struggling with dealing with the fact that life just isn’t black and white.”

with all that being said, what jimmy “deserves” is not so easily answered. i find so much of what jimmy does to be motivated by his own self-loathing. he vacillates so rapidly between earnestly wanting to prove everyone wrong—he’s more than just slippin’ jimmy, he’s a man of intelligence and drive and heart, he doesn’t have to live in his brother’s shadow!—and simply giving in to the weight of the identity everyone in his life has crafted for him and projected onto him. i think of the quote, i think Peter Gould said it, “sometimes people don’t know you, they know who you are to them.” jimmy is constantly chafing against the idea of himself that exists in the minds of those around him, even though, deep down, i think he believes a lot of what they say. which is why Kim’s steadfast belief in him knocks him off balance every single time. i relate to jimmy a lot in this way which might be why i’m so desperately fond of him. does he do morally questionable things? yes. he so often lives in the grey areas of the show which, again, i would argue is the point. jimmy’s actions, and as we journey further into the series, even kim’s, bring up a lot of conflicting feelings in us as audience members. even though jimmy’s motives are often good—though not always—his actions *do* cause harm to people, even if it’s just playing on their emotions or relationships (think: irene). but, at the same time, not all of jimmy’s “victims” are innocent either (think: skateboarders in s1).

Anyway, moral quandaries aside, i don’t know what jimmy “deserves.” in my mind, i think he is simply a beaten down man trying his best. he wants to find his place in the world, but playing by the rules and the politics of the status quo is not something he feels capable of doing. i think we can all relate to reaching some modicum of success and receiving praise while inside thinking, “this is not what i thought it was going to be. i don’t think i like this. shouldn’t i like this? shouldn’t i feel differently?” and that’s jimmy in a nutshell, i think, moving from fuck you I’m better than you think watch I’ll show you and oh you think I’m a piece of shit, you don’t even KNOW how bad I can be. again, I feel so much empathy and kinship with so much of jimmy’s inner turmoil, his need for love and success and acceptance while not really believing he deserves any of it, which plays into why he’s always coming up with a new way (a shortcut as Kim says) to maybe, just maybe, get to where he’s “supposed” to be. And then finally he’ll feel better, be better.

if i could choose one thing to give jimmy at the end of bcs, i would give him peace. i would give him freedom from his personal insecurities and then i would give him kim. he has done bad things, yes absolutely, but i personally don’t think of jimmy as a “bad person.” he’s a man with a big heart and a cunning mind and a deep sadness that envelops all that he is most days. kim helps lift that cloud of sadness—sometimes by making him better, and sometimes by making him worse. but she understands him. and, in the end, everyone “deserves” someone that truly understands them, don’t they?

#i trust my king vince to do them both justice in the end however painful it is #i really really really don't want either of them to die tho........#anyway.......here's a bunch of rambling you didn't actually ask for i love u #bcs #asks #anonymous

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“If any character in English popular culture stands for the sheep, it is Griselda. Her chief detractor is, not surprisingly, the shrew. In Robert Snawsel's A Looking Glass for Married Folks, Eulalie preaches the Griselda gospel to Xanthippe and Margery, urging them to bear their husbands' blows and drunkenness with meek loving kindness. This is too much for Margery: "Are you a woman, and make them such dish-clouts and slaves to their husbands? Came you of a woman, that you should give them no prerogative, but make them altogether underlings?" Margery's scornful reference to slavery goes to the dark heart of the Griselda myth. Folklorists have argued about the ancestry of the famous tale for more than a century.

William Edwin Bettridge and Francis Lee Utley have made a strong case that Griselda owes her features to a folktale from medieval Smyrna called "the Patience of the Princess." A prince buys a poor girl from her father and lays a wager with her that she will not be able to submit to all his demands with utter composure. The prince shuts her in a tower alone and tests her for twenty years, repeatedly impregnating her and then taking away her newborn infants, telling her that he is going to kill them. She builds a mother doll out of clay to talk to and cry to but never loses her patience, and in this way she wins the bet.

The tale, which matches the European narrative more closely than any other yet found, throws into stark relief the specter of female sexual slavery that haunts Griselda's story. The most striking variance between them is that the girl from Smyrna is sold into involuntary servitude by her father, whereas Griselda has a choice and agrees to voluntary and total obedience. Passing into European culture, the story came to Boccaccio. In reworking it for the Decameron he reclothed it in local garb, fashioning his novella partly in terms of Italian wedding and dowry customs that were sharply weighted against brides and wives. Boccaccio thought Griselda's story significant enough to give it pride of place as the last tale on the book's final day of storytelling.

Petrarch read the novella and converted it to an exemplum in Latin for male scholars. Griselda entered English culture through Chaucer's "Clerk's Tale," which is largely based on Petrarch's version. Plays, ballads, and pamphlets on Griselda issued forth on the continent and in England throughout the early modern period, with a cluster of publications and performances in the mid- to late sixteenth century. Arguably the most radical change between versions occurred when Petrarch reworked Boccaccio. The Decameron's final tale is told by the satirist Dioneo, a crucial choice by Boccaccio. Refusing to let the happy ending stay happy, Dioneo spells out the political import of the story and caps it off with a horn joke against the marquis:

Everyone was very happy with the way everything had turned out ....Gualtieri was judged to be the wisest of men (although the tests to which he had subjected his wife were regarded as harsh and intolerable), and Griselda the wisest of them all ....What more can be said here, except that godlike spirits do sometimes rain down from heaven into poor homes, just as those more suited to governing pigs than to ruling over men make their appearances in royal palaces?

Who besides Griselda could have endured the severe and unheard-of trials that Gualtieri imposed upon her and remained with a not only tearless but happy face? It might have served Gualtieri right if he had run into the kind of woman who, once driven out of her home in nothing but a shift, would have allowed another man to shake her fur to the point of getting herself a nice-looking dress out of the affair.

Scholars often downplay Dioneo's bitter words about pig-tending and his final putdown of Gualtieri, attributing it to his cynicism; but their labors to match the tale's disturbing sadism with an uplifting exemplary meaning are less than persuasive. The passage is much more than a glib throwaway, as Edward Fechter points out: "the climax angrily repudiates theological allegory and exemplum." Certainly, it seems fitting that the last lines of the last tale in the Decameron should recapitulate the Boccaccian theme of cuckoldry as female revenge. Dioneo's parting shot about "the shaking of the fur" is also an invitation to his listeners and the book's readers to come up with better interpretations than do the silly sheeplike courtiers of the tale, who judge "Walter wise and Griselda the wisest of all."

Furthermore, it is a jest that asks for scornful laughter, especially from listeners who have grutched throughout the tale at Walter's arrogance, egotism, and sadism. Petrarch told Boccaccio that the story so fascinated him that he decided to spread the tale to scholars abroad. So "snatching up my pen, I attacked this story of yours." The angle of Petrarch's attack on the novella (which he termed "a little too free at times") becomes manifest at the cuckoldry-free conclusion of "A Fable of Wifely Obedience and Devotion," in which he erases Boccaccio's satire and his bawdy call for female revenge:

This story it has seemed good to me to weave anew, in another tongue, not so much that it might stir the matrons of our times to imitate the patience of this wife-who seems to me scarcely imitable-as that it might stir all those who read it to imitate the woman's steadfastness, at least; so that they may have the resolution to perform for God what this woman performed for her husband ...Therefore I would assuredly enter on the list of steadfast men the name of anyone who endured for his God, without a murmur, what this obscure peasant woman endured for her mortal husband.

Petrarch's straight-faced version has none of Dioneo's political satire or irony. He is writing in Latin to male scholars, not in vernacular Italian to women and men, as Boccaccio had done. Nonetheless, it is Petrarch that Chaucer credits by name in the vernacular, mixed-audience "Clerk's Tale," although he departs from Petrarch in crucial ways. The Clerk does follow his source in insisting that his moral applies not to wives but to all humankind: This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde Folwen Grisilde as in humilytee, For it were inportable, though they wolde; But for every wight, in his degree, Should be constant in adversitee As was Grisilde .... (I 142-47)

Chaucer actually intensifies Petrarch's warning that wives should not try to imitate Griselda, calling her example "inportable," or unbearable. (The Merchant, whose turn comes next, blatantly ignores this caveat, complaining "Ther is a long and large difference I Bitwix Grisildis grete pacience I And my wyf the passyng crueltee.") Still, scholarly attempts to align Chaucer's Walter with God do not work because Walter is described as "tempting" his wife, a word almost always associated with sin and vice. In another departure from Petrarch, Chaucer's Clerk breaks in several times to condemn the marquis. After Walter first decides to try his wife, the Clerk interjects hotly what neded it Hir for to tempte, and alwey moore and moore, Thogh som men preyse it for a subtill wit? But as for me, I seye that yvele it sit T'assaye a wyf whan that it is no nede, And putten hire in angwysshe and in drede. (45?-62)

Chaucer's version subtly calls Grisildis's ovine quality into question. The lamb of God is Christ, of course, and Grisildis' meekness when her daughter is taken away resembles his suffering: "Grisildis moot al suffre and al consente, I And as a lambe she sitteth meke and stille" But "moot" she? Within English popular culture, sheep and lambs do sometimes stand for the positive values of resignation and endurance-for example, in emblems on patience. But there is no doubt that sheep generally connote passivity, cowardice, and stupidity. In terms of sheer frequency, the negative secular connotation overwhelms the positive religious one.

A related complicating effect is the criticism leveled at "the unsad" (that is, fickle and sheeplike) people of the realm, who at first deplore Walter's acts but change their minds when they see the pretty new queen (actually his daughter), leading "sadde folk" to exclaim: "0 stormy people! unsad and evere untrewe!" As the Clerk finishes his tale, he shows that he is fully aware that not all his listeners will appreciate Griselda's virtues. With teasing wit he acknowledges the Wife of Bath, who has been called the tale's motivating force and dialogic counterpart. Just before the comic envoy he promises "for the Wyves love of Bathe" to gladden her "and al hire secte" with a song urging them to ignore Grisildis and revel in shrewdam (rr69-74).

By shifting the Clerk's role from that of the preacher of a pious exemplum to a merry jester-singer, Chaucer undercuts his clerkly authority and blurs the moral legibility of his tale, already obscured by Griselda's lack of moral agency and her husband's viciousness. Nonetheless, Griselda quickly proved alluring to husbands, and she retained that allure despite proving highly problematic as a pattern for wives. Like the new husband in the jest about the pottage, men who wanted very much to promote Griselda as a model found her too hot to handle.

In the training manual he prepared for his young wife in the 1390s, the Menagier de Paris offers a confused and troubled account of why he wants her to learn about Griselda. He rushes to assure his wife that he'll never torment her "beyond reason" as the "foolish, arrogant" Walter does Griselda, nor does he expect such obedience: I have set down this story here only in order to instruct you, not to apply it directly to you, and not because I wish such obedience from you. I am in no way worthy of it. I am not a marquis, nor have I taken in you a shepherdess as my wife. Nor am I so foolish, arrogant, or immature in judgment as not to know that I may not properly assault or assay you thus, nor in any such fashion.

God keep me from testing you in this way or any other, under color of lies or dissimulations …I apologize if this story deals with too great cruelty-cruelty, in my view, beyond reason. Do not credit it as having really happened; but the story has it so, and I ought not to change it nor invent another, since someone wiser than I composed it and set it down. Because other people have seen it, I want you to see it too, so that you may be able to talk about everything just as they do.

What he really wants, it seems, is for his wife to be au courant. Griselda had "much currency off the page as a talking point in the late fourteenth century" and was "a subject about which wives might be expected to have an opinion." Codified as a way to get women talking (instead of shutting them up), the narrative about testing is itself a means of testing a woman's opinions and conduct. Is Griselda sick or stoic? Enslaved or free? Is hers a saint's tale, with Walter an abstract tool in the central mystery of her endurance, or is it as much a story about Walter and his court? Is he a cruel tyrant or a stern but loving husband with every right to test his wife? Is Walter God and Griselda a female Christ or Abraham or Job? All these positions have been argued during the six centuries of the debate.

Some recent readers still find Griselda admirable and even question whether she should be regarded as a passive victim. Harriet Hawkins has argued that Chaucer's tale should be read as a criticism of unquestioning obedience to authority, even divine authority, while Lars Engle hears "an implicit voice of sane moral protest" in Grisildis's mild objections to her husband. Such strained attempts at recuperation show that Griselda disturbs more than she edifies, raising but failing to answer questions about the limits of obedience in the face of tyranny and the conflict between Christian duty and wifely subjection.”

- Pamela Allen Brown, “Griselda the Fool.” in Better a Shrew than a Sheep: Women, Drama, and the Culture of Jest in Early Modern England

#pamela allen brown #renaissance #history #medieval #late middle ages #better a shrew than a sheep

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alessandriana · 4 years

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For @missximagination! This may or may not be precisely what you wanted, haha. I got shoved under an unexpected truckload of feels when I started thinking about Jin Ling having to go back and forth between the Jin and the Jiang all the time, and added in the mix was also this absolutely gorgeous art by @yutaan, and-- yeah. So this is mostly a large dose of Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling feels, with some added JGY & JC interaction.

***

Jin Ling was bawling by the time Jiang Cheng crossed the border between Yunmeng and Lanling. Jiang Cheng was halfway to doing the same, though it manifested mostly as a fierce scowl that made his face ache and only got worse as the ridiculous excess that was Carp Tower came into view on the horizon.

"I don't wanna," Jin Ling sobbed, face red and miserable where it was pressed into Jiang Cheng's shoulder. At six years old, he was old enough to know what was happening and too young to understand why. "I want to go home, I want to go swimming and play with the fishes and--" he hiccuped, "and I don't like it there, no one likes me, I wanna stay with you, jiujiu."

Okay, fuck. Jiang Cheng's arms tightened around Jin Ling and he descended abruptly out of the air to land in someone's field. Grass rose knee-high, nearly swallowing Jin Ling entirely as Jiang Cheng set him down and he flopped onto his stomach to cry into the dirt. Jiang Cheng crouched down in front of him, then sat down in the dirt himself, ignoring what it would do to his clothing and the way Jin Guangyao would very politely refrain from commenting on it while the rest of his retinue giggled behind their hands.

"Hey, hey, A-Ling," he said, putting a hand on Jin Ling's back, and then wincing as Jin Ling flinched away. "I'm sorry. I know you want to stay at Lotus Pier-- I want you to stay at Lotus Pier--" god, did he-- "but I don't have a choice."

Jin Ling lifted his face, smeared with tears, and said, "Don't you want me?"

Fuck! Jiang Cheng reached out and gathered Jin Ling into his lap until Jin Ling finally turned and wrapped his arms tightly around his jiujiu's neck. Jiang Cheng buried his face against Jin Ling's hair and closed his eyes against the hot press of tears. His jaw felt like it was going to crack, he was clenching it so hard. "I want you a lot, A-Ling," he managed. "You have no idea how much."

The compromise he had made with Lanling Jin had been simple. By all rights, A-Ling belonged with his father's side of the family. They could have shut him up in Carp Tower and only allowed Jiang Cheng to visit once a year, had they been so inclined. But Jin Guangshan had seen an opportunity in the depths of Jiang Cheng's grief, and he'd offered a deal: Jin Ling would spend six months of the year in Yunmeng, and six months of the year in Lanling. In exchange, Jiang Cheng had promised to make Jin Ling his heir, and neither marry nor sire any children of his own.

It was a nearly ruinous deal. If Jin Ling inherited, Lanling Jin would gain significant control over the Jiang. They would lose their independence, becoming little more than another subordinate sect-- albeit a wealthy one. Jiang Cheng's mother would have called him a sentimental fool for even contemplating it.

Faced with losing the only remaining member of his family, Jiang Cheng had taken the deal in a heartbeat.

Jin Ling, of course, being six years old, was aware of none of this. All he knew was that every six months like clockwork, Jiang Cheng dropped him off at Carp Tower and didn't look back.

Jiang Cheng rubbed Jin Ling's back and let him cry until he'd exhausted himself. They were going to be late, but that didn't matter. Jiang Cheng's head was pounding with the effort of not giving into his own emotions.

Once Jin Ling's crying had tapered off except for the occasional wet sniffle, Jiang Cheng took out a handkerchief and began methodically wiping off his face until it was clean again. The mud on both their clothes mostly came off with some brushing and a quick spell A-Jie had taught him, though there wasn't much he could do about the wrinkles. It would do.

Then Jiang Cheng lifted Jin Ling into his arms, pulled out Sandu, and lifted back into the air.

Jin Guangyao was waiting for them at the top of the staircase at Carp Tower, as always. The ladies who were in charge of taking care of Jin Ling at Lanling-- Jin Guangyao himself did not, of course, take care of children on his own-- were standing behind him; they bowed with utmost respect, but Jiang Cheng could see the covert glances they were throwing at his clothing.

"Jiang-zongzhu," Jin Guangyao said, ever-polite. "I'm so glad you made it safely. I trust your trip was uneventful?"

"Jin-zongzhu," Jiang Cheng greeted in return. He'd managed to reduce his scowl to something more neutral, though the effort had been considerable. It would do neither of them any good for him to appear visibly distressed-- Jin Guangyao might be less of an outright bastard than his father, but he would have no compunctions about using it to wring more concessions out of the Jiang. "It was fine. My apologies for being late. The weather was good, so we stopped to look at some animals A-Ling wanted to see."

Well, Jin Ling had probably seen some bugs when he'd had his face in the dirt, anyways.

"It's no trouble, I assure you. I'm sure he enjoyed that. Clearly he's very tired out!" Jin Guangyao smiled at where Jin Ling was practically passed out in Jiang Cheng's arms.

That was Jiang Cheng's cue; he lifted Jin Ling off his shoulder. One of the ladies stepped forward, as if to take him, but Jiang Cheng set Jin Ling on his feet instead and knelt down in front of him with a hand under his arm until he was awake enough to support himself.

"A-Ling, it's time for me to go," Jiang Cheng said seriously. "Are you going to be good for your xiao-shushu?"

Jin Ling rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist, yawning. He looked back and forth between Jiang Cheng and Jin Guangyao. For a moment Jiang Cheng thought he was going to start crying again, but then he just nodded, downcast.

"A-Ling," Jin Guangyao said, as he bent down as well and reached into his sleeve to pull something out, "do you want to see what I brought you?" It was a shining metal carp, enameled in orange and yellow, with articulated joints that caused it to wiggle like a real fish when you moved it. Jin Ling's eyes brightened and he reached for it with grasping hands, completely and utterly distracted.

"Say thank you to your uncle first," Jiang Cheng snapped. On the one hand, he was more than a little aggravated by Jin Guangyao's obvious attempt at bribing his way into Jin Ling's affections-- it was not the first time, and Jin Ling was starting to show signs of being spoiled. On the other hand, if it took that sad look off his face, Jiang Cheng would have bought a hundred more fish just like it.

Jin Ling dropped into a credible bow, and said, "Thank you, xiao-shushu."

"You're very welcome, A-Ling." Jin Guangyao handed over the fish, and Jin Ling started waving it around, delighted.

Jiang Cheng stood, hoping to get away while Jin Ling wasn't paying attention. Jin Guangyao rose as well, and walked with Jiang Cheng a few feet towards the stairs. "You're more than welcome to stay for dinner, or even a few days," he said. "We'd be happy to have you. Jin Ling could show you the new training field we put in in the south wing for him; the training master is going to start him learning how to shoot this time, I understand."

The last time Jiang Cheng had taken him up on that offer, Jiang Cheng had left having agreed to lower the tariffs they charged Lanling by five percent in exchange for having Jin Ling come home during the Spring Festival. So. Better to get out now, before he truly bargained away the rest of the Jiang Sect. "I appreciate your kind offer," he said, and with a tiny bit of malicious gladness added, "Actually, I started teaching him how to use a bow earlier this year. But I'm sure he'll benefit from Lanling Jin's expert instruction as well."

Jin Guangyao's pleasant expression flickered, then returned. He said, "How wonderful! I'm sure he could have no better teacher than yourself. Jiang-zongzhu is well known to be the best archer in Yunmeng."

A muscle in Jiang Cheng's jaw jumped as he read the unspoken coda: now that Wei Wuxian is dead. But there was no way to tell if that jab had been intentional or not. "You're too kind." He added, "I'll take my leave now."

"Jiujiu!"

Jiang Cheng turned, and caught Jin Ling just as he flung himself at Jiang Cheng, that stupid fish still clutched in his grubby hands. They clung to each other, and for a minute Jiang Cheng let himself not care what their audience thought.

But it couldn't last forever. Finally Jiang Cheng had to peel himself away. "Hey, A-Ling, no crying in public," he said, roughly.

Jin Ling sniffled. "Yes, jiujiu," he said, face solemn.

"Good kid." Jiang Cheng stood, ignoring Jin Guangyao, ignoring the stupid retainers who were probably laughing at him. "I'll see you in three months for the Spring Festival," he said. "Then you'll be back in Yunmeng for the summer. Got it?"

"Uh-huh."

And with that Jiang Cheng turned to go, because if he didn't leave right then he was going to start crying in public.

Carp Tower faded behind him.

Someday Jin Ling would grow used to this, to being shuttled between families, to spending half his life in one clan and the rest in another.

Jiang Cheng wasn't certain he ever would.

#the untamed #mdzs #jiang cheng #jin ling #jin guangyao

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starlightsearches · 4 years

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Kylo x reader. Kylo sewing reader for the first time and instantly realizing hes hooked, love at first sight. Tries to ignore it and realizes he can’t. Thanks!!

Escape

Hello lovely anons! Thank you for these wonderful requests, I have decided to combine them because they are so similar, and I hope you love it! This is actually an idea that I’ve played around with for a long time, and I’m so glad I finally got the opportunity to write it!

Requests are closed ✨

Kylo Ren X Fem! Reader

AN: Oh my hell this is a long one (like over 4k words). I’m not going to check—because I am incredibly lazy—but I think this is the longest request I’ve written. Warnings for major pining, angst, Hux being kind of an ass, and mentions of violence/possible minor character death!

If you asked those who profit most from the seedier desires of the galaxy, they would tell you that the Coruscant Ballet is the place to make a pretty coin. More credits have changed hands in the grand ballroom of the Coruscant Theatre than in any of the casinos on Canto Bight, and as such, the ballet is host to most of the galaxy’s elite. If you’re looking for someone to solve a problem—to make someone disappear, to find you something rare or strictly off-the-market, to eliminate your competition—you’ll find them at the ballet.

Ren knows this, but he still doesn’t understand why that means he has to be here. All he knows is that there’s a ticket with his name on it, a special invitation from someone the general had been doing business with, and that he was expected to attend. The general prattled on in the transport, rambling about security risks and shows of strength and rallying support. Ren wasn’t listening, not really. He has his own concerns, and they don’t always align with the general’s. Especially when it means that he’ll have to sit through three hours of some ridiculous performance when he could be doing something else. Literally anything else.

The foyer is packed with people—well-dressed and conceited, of course—and the volume in the room noticeably decreases when he and the general enter through the large and ornate doors, the silence immediately filled by violent whispers. They make a show of speaking quietly, but Ren knows exactly what they’re saying about him, what questions they snicker to each other when they get a sight of him. It could be much worse, all things considered; this is Ren's first public appearance of the kind, and—if he has any say in the matter—it will be the last. Part of him itches to give these people something real to talk about, some horrifying demonstration that they could recount later at their other ridiculous social gatherings. Maybe he'd suffocate someone, or launch a whole group of them through the windows.

He doesn't do any of it, of course. He just follows the general into the theatre. The show is about to start.

At least the seats are comfortable, Ren thinks, almost too plush, and they dim the lights as the show begins, throwing the audience into relative darkness. Maybe he could sleep without drawing attention to himself. He is feeling tired—always tired lately—and he rests heavily in his chair, letting his eyelids drift closed, ready to take advantage of this time as best he’s able. His vision blurs between half-closed eyes, and the music begins, soft and sweet and easily ignored.

Everything changes when you take to the stage. Seeing you emerge from behind the heavy curtains, it's like a lightning strike. His breath catches in his throat, he’s feeling wide awake—more than wide awake—buzzed, electric, starving. He’s never seen anything like you before. He doesn't know how to act.

The hours pass like minutes when you dance, and he’s on the edge of his seat for all of them, his eyes drawn to you and he’s helpless to resist, not that he would ever want to look anywhere else. Your movements speak to power and grace and the command you hold over your body impressive in the extreme, even to someone like him. Ren is both completely ignorant of the story and deeply invested in it; he feels everything you experience, the joy, the betrayal, the mourning. You seem to live it, lost in the tale you create as you move to the music, and when he watches you take your final bow, he’s hooked. He has to see you do that again.

The curtain closes, the light returns without warning and it breaks Ren out of his stupor. Still, he’s full of restless energy, nervous—like there’s some unseen threat, some important quest that he’s left uncompleted. The audience begins to file out much too slowly—and with the leisurely pace the wealthy always seem to take, like time is infinite and free to waste. Ren doesn't have the patience to wait, not when he feels like this.

“Stars, I hate the theatre,” General Hux mumbles under his breath as they stand by their seats, waiting for a break in the crowd, and it irks Ren, pushing him closer to the edge.

“Maybe you lack the culture needed to appreciate it,” he replies snidely, mostly to get a rise out of the general. Mostly. Regardless of his true intentions, the general is offended, and Ren allows himself a small smile over this little victory.

The audience trickles out of the theatre and after an eternity of waiting, Ren finally makes it into the spectacle that is the grand ballroom, but his eyes don’t rest on anything until he’s found you again.

He catches sight of you on the far end of the room with the other dancers, all out of your costumes from the performance and instead wearing dresses in varying pastel shades, looking more like confections or ornaments than trained professionals. The other girls, especially the younger ones, whisper and giggle nervously as they survey the crowd, but you do not participate, smiling good-naturedly but remaining still and silent. When he catches sight of you, the negative feelings inside collapse. He’s free again. He’s not sure how you’ve managed to hold that kind of power over him, but he doesn’t care about that now.

“That woman, with the dancers-” Hux interrupts Ren’s thoughts, gesturing in the direction Ren is already looking, not that he could tell, “is Lady Stadixe. I need to speak with her.” Ren reluctantly takes his eyes off of you to scope out the woman in question. She stands at your side, looking serious—and seriously irritated—shooting angry glances down the line of girls every so often to silence their giggling. Ren doesn��t have to search the minds of the other guests to know that Lady Stadixe plays a much greater role here at the Coruscant Ballet than some kind of handler for the performers. If the general needs to speak to her then she must know about the dealings that take place between her patrons—probably arranges them herself: a choreographer in more ways than one.

General Hux cuts through the crowd, around the edge of the dance floor and through the rest of the guests. Ren can feel his heartbeat build in his chest, the pulses becoming more rapid and more violent as he nears you. The crowd thins, and there’s an eruption of giggles from some of the younger dancers when they see him before Lady Stadixe quiets them with a sharp bark. A strange feeling arrives and he allows himself to sit with it only for a moment—he wishes he weren't such a spectacle, wishes he could approach you like any other man, wishes to be without the reputation, the title. It's only for a moment, but Ren thinks he would kill to be someone else right now if it meant he could take you by the hand.

“Lady Stadixe, allow me to introduce myself,” General Hux begins, greeting the lady with a slight bow, “I am General Hux of the First Order, and this is Commander Ren.” Ren nods in response, out of habit, but his eyes stay on you and he’s terrified to find that you’re returning his gaze through the mask, even if you may not know it. You're prettier up close, he thinks, and your eyes are alight with good humor, but he can't pay attention to any of that because—when you look at him—he's sure that no mask could stop you from seeing everything.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Lady Stadixe responds, her tone curt even if her words are polite, “allow me to introduce you to my dancers.” She gestures down the line and you all curtsy in unison, bowing deep and low to the ground, but you keep your eyes on him, a trace of a smile on your lips. Ren has no idea what you’re thinking, his own nerves interrupting each time he tries to reach out to you through the force, but he continues his attempts anyways, desperate and desperately curious. Your smile is maddening, a secret in its own right, and he finds himself unable to decipher it. A first.

“This is our principal dancer, and the lead for tonight’s production,” Stadixe says as you rise, and you offer your hand to the general first before extending it to Ren. He wants to take it, he wants it very badly, but he’s found that his limbs aren’t obeying his commands, not when you’re looking at him like that.

“It’s a pleasure,” you say, before dropping your hand with a little stutter at his refusal, smoothing it over your skirt to make the movement more natural. You smirk, just slightly, before glancing at the other dancers, looking back at him when you say, “ I’ve never met a force user before.” Giggling breaks out again, and Ren isn’t sure if it’s at his expense or not, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Not if you’re going to keep talking about him.

He should respond, say something, but he can’t think, and he’s petrified at the idea that he might say something stupid. Ren can’t risk it, not in a moment like this, not when he so desperately wants for you to like him. Unfortunately, that gives General Hux a chance to fill the silence.

“I’ve found that they aren’t terribly impressive,” Hux replies, and the bitterness is unmistakable, but it only serves to amuse you more, your smile growing wider, and you trap your tongue between your teeth in an attempt to curb any errant laughter. Ren finds it very difficult to resist the urge to throw the general into a wall. He finds it more difficult to resist the urge to run his thumb over your bottom lip.

“I heard they can read minds,” you fix your eyes onto the general with a steady look, leaning in a little closer as you challenge his words, and the girls behind you mumble to each other more seriously. Even Lady Stadixe seems intrigued now, tuned in to the conversation enough that she doesn’t bother to quiet the others. He feels like a creature in a zoo, some grotesque thing for the others to ogle at, but not to you. He may be mistaken, but he thinks you might actually be defending him.

“Yes, he can,” Hux admits with some reluctance, and the space fills with bright, flaring anxiety as those closest search their most recent thoughts, terrified of what Ren might have learned during this short conversation. None of them need to worry—not that he can explain that right now—the only thoughts he’s interested in are yours.

“Sounds impressive to me.” Some of the other girls nod in agreement, and you sear the general with another challenging stare. Hux shrinks slightly, unable to completely control the sneer that threatens to take over his face, and turns to address Lady Stadixe again, a silent acceptance of his defeat.

“Is he always this quiet?” One of the younger girls interrupts before the general can speak, unwilling to let the novelty of Ren’s presence die, and he fills with dread.

“No,” Hux responds, and he actually sounds surprised as he turns his gaze to Ren, his eyes cold and calculating. He knows, Ren can feel it, and he’s eager for revenge for the snide comment Ren made earlier, as well as a million other things Ren had not come to regret until this moment. Hux turns back deliberately, leaning in a little ways before he speaks, but he makes sure to be loud enough for every one of the dancers to hear, “normally he never shuts up. I can’t imagine what’s changed.”

The general’s stare is pointed as he appraises you with his eyes, his gaze roaming from your head to your feet and back, and he quirks one brow to emphasize his point. Everyone takes notice, some of the girls squealing with laughter when they realize what he means, and you look at him wide eyed before you turn your gaze to the ground, a blush spreading across your cheeks. Ren wishes he had thrown the general into a wall when he had the chance. He still thinks he might, but there’s nothing he can do to salvage this moment now.

Hux seems satisfied with the chaos he’s caused, and he stands up straighter, adjusting his gloves before turning back to address Lady Stadixe, “If I may, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you in private,” and Stadixe nods, gesturing for Hux to follow her into a far corner away from listening ears. Ren turns to go as well, glad for a chance to escape this living hell in the form of giggling girls, but Hux pauses, turning to face him again.

“Why don’t you stay here with the dancers, Ren, while I speak to Lady Stadixe,” he says, his eyes alight with a vicious delight, “I’m sure you’ll find some way to entertain yourself.”

Ren stops, hoping to quash any embarrassment he might feel with pure rage. He’s already planning which parts of the Finalizer he would tear into first when he returned, thinking about what would anger the general the most. By the time he’s done, Hux would regret everything about tonight.

“Did you enjoy the show, Commander Ren?” He hears you speak behind him, and it pulls him away from his thoughts, back to the embarrassment he felt so strongly earlier. He turns, and manages a nod, keenly aware of the delight in the eyes of every single dancer down the line, all listening avidly to your conversation . . . if you could call it that.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to speak,” you say quietly, stepping a little closer in an attempt to make your chat a private one, and you lower your voice so that only he can hear, “I don’t mind filling the silence. Besides, Lady Stadixe gets very cross if she feels that we’re not keeping our guests entertained; I’m sure you understand?” He nods again, relaxing into your presence, and the other girls slowly lose interest, choosing instead to search the ballroom for other sources of entertainment. Without the watching eyes of the other girls, and the damn general around—Ren feels like he might actually be able to say something to you, might be able to tell you exactly how much he enjoyed your performance, how talented he thinks you are. How beautiful he thinks you are.

"I hate to interrupt-" The voice comes from Ren's right, and he looks to its source, finding a snide-looking man beside him, who reaches for your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers, "I was hoping that you might favor me with a dance."

"Of course." It only takes you a moment before you agree graciously, and Ren is crushed, foolishly hoping that you would refuse in favor of staying with him even though he’s given you no reason to do that. You flash him an apologetic smile as you're whisked away to the dance floor, and the disappointment is prolonged. There was so much he wanted to say to you, and now he'll never get the chance.

The man leads you to the dance floor at the center of the room, a possessive hand placed at your waist. There's jealousy spreading through the room—not only his, but others as well—permeating the space like an oil slick, other young men who had not been brave enough to interrupt your moment with Ren redirecting their anger to your new companion.

"His name is Erichar Kempmont." Ren had not noticed the return of Lady Stadixe, but she stands at his side now, without the general, speaking with the quiet nature of someone used to dealing in secrets, "he is the wealthiest of the girl's suitors."

Ren doesn't respond, his mouth growing dry. Suitors. Multiple. Of course. He should have known. Should have expected it from the beginning, but his vision had been clouded by his desire, by your smile.

"She is very talented, of course," Lady Stadixe continues, her eyes trained on you with impenetrable focus, "but talent alone will not sustain her forever. She'll need security, someone to take care of her when her career has finished. That is something I have promised to provide for her, and I do not break those promises." She glares at Ren, staring him down despite her small stature, waiting for him to issue some kind of challenge. He doesn't.

"Stay away from her," she finishes with some uncertainty; he's unnerved her with his lack of a response. Ren should leave her like this, let her believe what she wants, but the order she's given him leaves him simmering with anger.

"Are you threatening me?" he asks quietly, and the words growl out through his vocoder, leaving her shaking.

"So you do speak," she replies, trying to hide her fear with feigned indifference, "it would be foolish of me to threaten someone like you, of course. But you could consider it a warning."

Lady Stadixe departs just in time for Ren to watch another man ask you for a dance, and his jaw tightens. What business did that woman have telling you what to do? In trying to control him? The anger refuses to dissipate, forming tight and firm deep in his chest.

"There you are," it's the general who interrupts him this time, looking rather flustered, his eyes searching the room skittishly, "There's one more person I need to speak to, and then we can leave this awful place."

"Why are you telling me this?" Ren asks, his leftover irritation from his conversation with Lady Stadixe mingling with brand new irritation at the general. "I thought I was meant to entertain myself?"

Hux flushes with annoyance at Ren's stubbornness, his pale skin becoming marred by red splotches. He feels no remorse for it; the general has earned much more of Ren's difficult behavior after tonight—he'll have to get used to it.

"This person I'll be meeting with," Hux explains through gritted teeth, "is notoriously . . . difficult. I'm concerned that they might try to run. Make yourself useful and guard the exit. I'm sure she won't miss you in your absence." Hux gestures vaguely to the dance floor and scowls before he departs, disappearing into the crowd again.

Ren moves toward the doors with steady-minded determination. There's nothing left for him here anyways; your time for the rest of the night has been claimed, it seems, by the suitors Lady Stadixe had been so kind to point out. He'll wait for the general in the foyer until he's done with his ridiculous meetings and he'll forget about the ballet completely. He won't think about the way the light reflected in your eyes as you danced. Won't picture the way you moved like all music was created for you to give it meaning. Wouldn't imagine what it would be like to hold you in his arms.

Gods, he’s being juvenile. Was a pretty smile and a few kind words all it took for him to lose his mind? He's only known that you existed for a few hours, only held your attention for a few minutes and it has him acting completely deranged.

Moonlight pours through the windows of the foyer, which has been left dark now that the guests have all been moved into the ballroom. The room is larger and colder than he remembers it, and somehow made emptier by his presence. He waits, observing the room without much interest, only vaguely aware of the passage of time, marked by the change in the music as it spills in from the gaps in the ballroom doors, muted by distance. It’s only after three, maybe four songs, that he notices that something else has changed: the faintest hint of light is escaping beneath the theatre doors on the other side of the foyer.

Ren knows that he should stay where he is and watch for the general, but he's overcome with uncharacteristic curiosity when he senses you behind those closed doors. Part of him would like to walk away, to ignore you as the lady had encouraged. Another part of him knows that he might not like what he would see if he chose to enter the theatre; maybe you were not alone, if one of your many suitors had brought you there for a second away from prying eyes. He ignores both of the competing voices, opening the door as quietly as possible, peering into the room beyond.

You are alone, he finds, and on the stage, moving without music, dancing without seeing, your eyes shut tight to the empty seats. Even without the audience, the accompaniment, the costume, or the lights, you perform with the same rigor you had before, and Ren is mesmerized all over again. Somehow, even after your stellar performance earlier in the evening, you seem to push yourself harder: jumping higher, spinning faster, your movements more precise and powerful than Ren can begin to comprehend.

You finish your routine, center stage, your head down and your breathing hard and fast from the exertion. Ren is careful not to make a sound, terrified of interrupting your moment, but when you look up, your eyes find him immediately—as if you knew he was there all along. A few different emotions flash across your face, but embarrassment is the one that sticks, and you drop your eyes to the floor again, folding in on yourself.

"How long have you been here?" You speak quietly, but your voice carries all the way to the back of the theatre. This is it, Ren finally has his chance to speak to you, alone.

"Not long," his words are too stilted, his voice too menacing for his liking, but you aren't disturbed by it, and so he continues, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No need to worry about that," you say, hopping lightly from the stage, walking slowly up the aisle towards him, "I should probably return to the party now. I just needed a quick break. Too many watchful eyes in the ballroom; I'm sure you understand." Ren does understand the feeling, although he’s not sure why its one you would share.

"I thought you might be used to watching eyes, as a performer." You're inching ever closer, one row of seats at a time, and each step tightens the vice grip at his heart, restricting his ability to breathe in the most pleasant kind of fashion.

"It's different-" you say with a nod towards the doors and the ballroom beyond, "in there. I always know what's expected of me on stage, what they're looking for, what I can do. It's . . . not the same everywhere else. Sometimes I need an escape."

Stars, it's like you're inside his head, pulling the words out and placing them in your own mouth. He knows exactly how you feel.

"Do you ever get an escape?" You've finally reached him, your lips curving humorously around your whispered words. The small amount of space between your bodies feels solidified, heavy even, the pressure of your presence almost as enticing as the pressure of your touch. He knows he should not feel this way, but his body and mind are on two different planes right now.

"No, I don't," he says, and you smile sadly, always smiling, as your tongue runs smoothly over your parted lips.

"Can you breathe without it?” Your hands creep up into his line of sight, and you gesture to the mask. All he can manage is a subtle nod of his head, trying to remain composed when every part of him is threatening to combust at the feeling of your fingers searching around the edge of the helmet, flexing slightly when you find the releases. He closes his eyes as you tug the item over his head, unwilling to admit that he’s afraid of what you might feel when you see his face.

“That’s much better,” you say, and he lets his eyes open, allows himself to study you for the first time without the mask. “Would you consider this an escape?” You set the mask down on the seat next to you, and it stares up at him expectant, waiting.

“I would,” he doesn’t like the way his voice sounds now, without the vocoder to mask the lingering emotion behind the two words. It feels like a confession, like a weakness, and he hates that part of himself almost as much as he wants you.

“I know lots of ways to escape,” you say, apparently ignorant to his inner turmoil, “would you like to know my favorite?” You won’t meet his eyes, staring at your fingers instead, which you brush over the material of his sleeve, and the feeling leaves a trail of unraveling nerves in its wake. You can’t be suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting. This is some kind of fever dream. There’s no way that you would want him the same way that he wants you.

“Yes,” his reply is deep and breathless, but it brings that smile back to your face, and you look up at him again, your other hand curling gently around his neck, your touch feather-light and fragile. The theatre fades away into nothingness—Ren can only think about the space between your mouth and his that shrinks infinitesimally, your movement spanning hours, days, aeons. He doesn’t care. You’re so close.

The blaster shot throws time back to a normal speed and you startle, jumping in his arms before you stagger back away from him, searching for the source of the noise that’s immediately followed by screams. You look at him only for a moment before you both run to the doors, Ren grabbing his helmet first and replacing it over his head, no time to mourn the loss of your touch.

Guests pour out of the ballroom doors, tripping over each other in their finery, ignoring the ripped hems and lost shoes as they force their way to safety. You’re almost swept up by the crowd, but Ren holds you back, one arm wrapped securely around your waist and your fingers push tiny bruises into his skin underneath his uniform as you search desperately through the crowd, trying to spy a hint of your friends, anyone you might recognize who could explain what you had missed.

“Ren!” The general calls out, breaking free of the crowd and forcing his way to the far wall. If he has anything to say about Ren’s absence from the foyer, or your presence here with him, he doesn’t share it, running a gloved hand through his hair, forcing it back after it had been jostled out of place by the stampeding crowd, “we need to leave. Now.”

“Please, what happened?” you wrestle yourself out of Ren’s grasp, grabbing the general by the arm with desperation, “we heard the shot, is everyone alright?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see it.” It’s obvious that Hux is lying, to you and Ren both, but there’s no chance for either of you to confront him, because he’s headed towards the doors again, pulling Ren along with him. Ren turns back—maybe to see if you’re alright, maybe to bring you with him, out of harm's way—he’s not exactly sure, but the press of the crowd is too strong and too fast; he’s hardly able to think before he’s lost sight of you. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren angst #kylo ren #my writing #requests #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren/you

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alisinchainmail · 3 years

Text

More from the crossover fanfic no one asked for but everyone's getting...

Kylo + Quinn: The Last Harlequin: Ch. 1.2

[Gif sources: Part 1, Part 2]

Writers' favorite excerpt from Kylo + Quinn Chapter 1.2 of The Last Harlequin:

He exhales sharply through his nose and straightens. "My Knights of Ren detected you in our no fly zone. You didn't respond to our warnings we sent, so we mistook you for a threat."

She rolls her eyes, annoyed at the jab. "I guess I'm going to have to forgive you and your little Space Knights of Ni for not knowing who I am..." She does a flashy roundoff back handspring and flips over him so she's between him and her bat. "Harley Quinn, nice to meet ya." She extends her now uncuffed hand to the dark knight.

Overcompensating with stillness to hide that he's impressed with the stunt from an Earth girl, he looks down his nose at her hand. "Kylo Ren," he says quietly, giving her the decency of a reply.

Harley withdraws her hand, slightly offended he still doesn't seem to have heard of her, "Never heard of me? The Cupid of Crime? The Maiden of Mischief? Princess... of Darkness." She trails off on that last one, unsure if she recently lost that title. "Formerly..." she corrects it quickly.

Kylo plays her game, "Leader of the Knights of Ren, Champion of the First Order, and Apprentice to Supreme Leader Snoke." He takes a step towards her, towering over her. She tilts her head acknowledging she has no idea what any of that really means, either.

"You're not part of the Resistance," he states more than asks. "However, the vehicle you stole has connections to the Rebellion. How?"

Clearly there's a lot of space politics that is not public knowledge on Earth. Why would Bruce Wayne be involved in space wars? He's probably friends with that Elon Muskrat. He's pretty sus with all that Space X shit.

She responds innocently, "Look, I just saw the thing in some local billionaire's driveway, and thought, 'Why not go for a joy ride?'" Kylo steps closer studying her expressions. Harley squints, "What?!"

Kylo shakes his head, "The Empire has no use for you then. We'll decide what to do with you, or what remains of you, when we're done searching the vehicle."

Harley squints at him, gathering a pretty clear psychological profile from that golden threat of a response, his list of self-important titles, and his demeanor. It all screams of daddy issues.

If he wanted to kill her, he would've done it already. Is he her enemy or a potential new ally? How far can she push this guy before she finds out the hard way?

She smirks and fires off, "So...you're building a crown-rule empire because daddy kicked you out. And you think this is a big fuck you, but in actuality it's a very misguided attempt to win back his respect." Kylo grips his helmet, and narrows his eyes at her.

Harley slowly steps back towards her bat, she looks at his mask grinning, "Daddy wanted a son, so now he has to hide behind a mask...I get it!" Kylo slams his helmet down on a sidetable next to him. This was too easy!

Harley continues, "Awh it's ok! I bet your mom still loves you. Mom's usually do... if they have the time to notice you through your desperate attention-seeking behavior." He looks in shock.

She's really hitting a nerve with this guy. How is he so easy to read? "Or maybe you're trying to destroy the very thing that distracted her from you in the first place. Classic only child syndrome. She's part of this rebellion thing isn't she? Gotta love a rebel girl." Kylo lurches at her.

Harley lunges for the bat, but Kylo quickly raises his hand at it, sending it flying across the room. Harley looks at her empty hand, then across the room where it landed. What is he? Some sort of space wizard?

Harley shakes off her confusion, "Won't let me play with your toys? What would I expect from an only child with deep-seated father issues?"

Kylo yells, "Stop...TALKING," as he grabs at Harley. She dodges. Time to go all in.

"Tell me, what did dear old dad do to you? Or was it someone else? Got an uncle who paid some unnecessary visits to your bedside when mommy and daddy were away?"

Kylo clenches his fist and rolls his eyes. That was a hit. Harley taunts, "Awwhhh did I sink your battleship?"

"ENOUGH," he roars, grabbing a handle from his hilt and firing out a massive red flaming greatsword.

Harley stares at the new weapon in disbelief. "Come on! Lazer swords?! At least let me use my dinky baseball bat. I'm Little League compared to that!"

Co-Writer's (Brian) Notes:

I love this as an introduction to their relationship. Harley always has to get the last word in and Kylo is always struggling to keep his composure. Both their characteristics make them butt heads, and also is why they work.

They’re always gonna have a back forth with their personalities. A yin and yang basically where he’ll constantly try and stay level and she’ll try to trip him up.

Writer's (Alisin) Notes:

I like this part of the scene for their chaotic, impulsive energy playing off each other in different ways. Also for her first exposure to the world of Star Wars, which her inexperience with the world helps me get away with the fact I still haven't seen all of the Star Wars franchise yet and am newer to the fandom. We're sort of figuring out the world together.

I wanted them to be fairly evenly matched, which — much like with Rey— is Kylo's first experience with someone on equal ground like that, so it throws him off at first.

Harley is skilled with getting in people's heads from a psychoanalytical standpoint, whereas Kylo uses more of a brute force approach later in the scene. Luke criticized the way the Knights of Ren use the dark side of the force as being unskilled "like a hammer". I bring that characterization into Kylo.

Kylo wields his emotions and fighting style with a lot of intensity rather than precision and agility. In spite of his bloodline making him a more powerful force wielder, he can be quite clumsy with it. As though his power is greater than himself and the conflict he carries disrupts his clarity in his actions, while also fueling the power of the dark side through his raw emotion.

With Harley, I like to keep her dancing in between both, since as a character she is more morally gray.

Her weapons of choice are sometimes literal hammers but her fighting style and wit can be very fluid and agile, similar to the fighting styles of those who utilize the light side of the force. Her actions are impulsive, but not clouded in self-judgements. Without the Joker's influence, she knows herself well enough to have some faith that her impulses are in alignment with her fluid morality.

And to bring it all back ti Brian's point:

Kylo is brute force like Harley’s weapon and she’s skilled and precise like a sword, his weapon. Neither will admit it but both could run into situations where the others methods work better. Harley has been forced to be chaotic in her approach for so long she’s sort of rebelling against it in her style. Kylo has been wielding the force like a hammer for so long that everything looks like a nail. This further adds to their yin and yang relationship dynamic and how they’ll be able to survive by adapting the others' strengths when they need them.

[GIF Source: Part 1, Part 2]

Check out the full chapter on Wattpad: The Last Harlequin. For mature audiences only.

Kylo and Harley's first meeting was originally going to be more simple, but then it just took a life of its own. This whole chapter was originally 4 parts for the Tiktok series, and now it's pushing 16 on Wattpad...and I'm still not done writing it. I have a drug trip scene in the works where they take an intense hallucinogen called Jabbawaska. Yes, this is how ridiculous the Wattpad gets. They're fun characters to write for and it's interesting to see how they bring new characteristics out of each other.

Episodes are currently being posted daily on Tiktok: @KyloQuinnCrossover. Chapter 1 exists in full on YouTube.

Part 1: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNHnKH/

Part 2: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNAJAE/

Part 3: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNGWTx/

Part 4: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNGwEn/

Ch.1.10 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePN4pAy/

Ch.1.11 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNPmUS/

Ch.1.12 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNsnY7/

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dcnatural · 4 years

Text

Delicate

Word Count: 1697

Pairing: Reader x Bruce Wayne

Rating: General Audiences

Synopsis: Your life has been a downward spiral since your parents died. In your worst moments, you discover that the only one you can rely on Bruce Wayne.

It had been a shitty couple of weeks for you. To be honest, your problems had began years ago, when your parents passed away in mysterious circumstances that the GCPD had never been able to figure out. Ironically, it was your tragedy that had made you famous. Being from one of Gotham’s wealthiest families had made the case seem interesting to the public, especially since it had been less than a year from the Wayne’s murder. The shares of your company went on the rise and thanks to your uncle’s administration, it soon became the most important electronics industry in the country.

But even though you had money, those years were hell. You hated living alone in your big penthouse; you hated going to school; you hated your uncle, who only wanted the money and didn’t even take care of you and you hated the cops for not discovering what had caused your parents demise. Those were lonely years, the only friend you had was Bruce Wayne, another young orphan, only two years older than you. But then he went away and you were left utterly alone.

With nothing else to do, you threw yourself into a life of alcohol, parties, drugs and sex. You build a fame of being a party animal, Gotham’s craziest socialite; you began to hang out with the wrong crowd and didn’t have a care in the world other than to get drunk. You left the company to be administered by others and bought a nightclub, which quickly became the most exclusive one in the city.

None of that mattered to you. You were happy with the life you were living. But then Bruce returned to town. You didn’t want to let him back into your life, afraid he would leave again. Truth be told, you always liked him as more than a friend and when he disappeared to travel around the world, you were heart broken. Of course he made his way back into your life. You frequented the same parties, went to the same restaurants, talked with the same people, you couldn’t just pretend he didn’t exist. Especially when he was so damn charming. You weren’t as close as you once were, but he was the closest friend you had. And that’s why you worried what he would think of it. Would he believe it? He couldn’t, could he? He had known you for a long time, he ought to know that you could never do it.

* * *

It had been a real nightmare from the moment you woke up. Your phone was filled with notifications of missed calls and texts, everyone aching to be the first to get your statement. Not that you knew what they wanted from you. No, you discovered that when you picked up the newspaper.

“The truth behind Silver St. Cloud’s death” , said the headline. Near it was printed a photo of you with Silver in a party last year. Then, the article proceeded to detail how you had been the one to kill Silver and covered it up as an OD, all because you owed her about half million dollars.

You couldn’t finish reading it as tears began to cloud your vision. You had befriended Silver around the same time Bruce left. Together, the two of you were the life of Gotham’s nightclubs, you had loved her like a sister, until she overdosed two months back.

How dare they accuse you of having killed her? Bullshit. That’s all bullshit. No one will buy it , you though as you sipped your coffee.

You were wrong. Before midday, the police was already knocking on your door, asking questions. Apparently, that journalist had written a pretty convincing article.

“No, I didn’t borrow any money from her.”

“No, I wasn't with her that night.”

“Yes, I have an alibi.”

“No, of course I didn’t hire someone to kill her! She was my friend.”

By the end of the day, you were tired of answering the same things over and over again.

The days passed, but the press was obsessed with that story, and you couldn’t even leave your building without having ten microphones shoved on your face and reporters asking questions, trying to distort every word you said to make you look guilty.

* * *

You were watching TV when you heard the doorbell. You opened it grumpily, sure it was the detectives with more pointless questions.

“What do you want now?”, you said as you pulled the door open, not even checking who was on the other side, lately all visits you got were from the GCPD.

“That’s how you say ‘hello’ now?”, Bruce asked, cracking up a smile.

You exhaled sharply. It had been a week since you were accused of murder, and this was the first time you even heard from him. You were happy to see him, but you were mad it had taken so long for him to show up. “Bruce”, you stated flatly, careful as to not show any conflicting emotions.

“Can I come in?”, he asked and you nodded, moving to the side to allow him to enter your apartment.

“Want a drink?”, you offered, following social protocol. No matter how mad you were at him, you still had your manners.

He declined politely and sat on your couch. The TV was still on, showing, for what felt the millionth time that week, an old episode of X-Files. You poured yourself a glass of whiskey, which you quickly drank in one swallow, before sitting by Bruce’s side. He stared at you, thinking of something to say, those blue eyes piercing your soul and unveiling your deepest secrets.

“I know you are innocent”, he said, after what felt like a long time.

You were taken by surprise. “You do?”, you exclaimed, your voice so low it was almost a whisper. He smiled, nodding softly. You felt a sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss his handsome face. He was the only one who believed in you.

“But that’s not why I came by”, he continued. You raised an eyebrow, curious as to what he wanted. “I’ve been thinking, and uh…”, you had never seen him stutter before, whatever he had to say, it was really important. “Would you like to go get some drinks one of these days?”

What? Was he really asking you out? Before, you would have said yes without hesitation, but now everything was more complicated. “This isn’t the best time”, you began to tell him. Your reputation had never been worse, you didn’t want to ruin his too.

“I don’t care. I should have asked this long ago”, he interrupted you mid-sentence. “So, I’ll text you the address, then?”, he asked, getting up and straightening his suit. You nodded, too surprised to do anything but agree. He flashed you one last smile before leaving your apartment.

* * *

You arrive late. It wasn’t your fault, you had to take long routes to avoid all the paparazzi. You had decided to meet in a dive bar on the East End, the last place on Earth anyone would think to look for Bruce Wayne and Camila L/N, all to avoid publicity.

Even with the bad lighting, you quickly spot him in the far back of the bar. He has taken the “undercover date” idea very seriously, dressing up in jeans and t-shirt, something you had never seen he do before. He could wear anything and still look gorgeous.

“Hey, sorry I’m late”, you call, nearing the table. He waves and get up to greet you.

“I’m glad you came”, he says, pulling out a chair for you to sit. You thank him.

“Yeah, of course I did. It was hard get rid of the press, but I managed to do it.”

You chat about everything. He tells about his travels. You talk about your nightclub, which, incredibly, seems to have become more popular. You drink and eat greasy chips, and much for your surprise, he seems to actually enjoy the food. Around you, clients come and go, and by the time the bar is about to close you two still have much to talk about. He invites you to his place, and you accept.

The alcohol makes you lightheaded, and, as you lay on the backseat of the car, your head on his shoulder, you kiss him. He is a good kissed, better than you would’ve imagined.

“I love you”, you whisper. “I’ve loved you for a long time. It hurt when you left without telling me. You were my only friend, you were my first love.”

He pulls back, putting a little distance between your bodies. Just a little, but enough for you to wonder if you might have said the wrong thing. You know these kind of situations are delicate, to say the least.

“I’m sorry”, he says finally. “I should have told you I was going to travel. It wasn’t planned, it was more of an impulse. I never meant to hurt you”

“So it’s cool?”

“What?”

“That I said ‘I love you’ .”

“It’s perfect”, he tells you, before diving in for another kiss.

You don’t remember much of the car ride. Only that soon you were on his manor, going up three flights of stairs. There were hands and mouths everywhere, and you were sure that by the time you two decided to sleep, it was way past sunrise.

* * *

You wake up first, his naked body besides you. You tiptoe to the balcony, not wanting to wake him. The sun is high on the horizon, casting a beautiful glow on the tree line. You stay out there, enjoying the view for a while, before going back inside. Bruce’s still sound asleep, you lay back on the bed, thinking of how you wouldn’t mind waking up next to him every single day. You wonder if behind his closed eyelids he’s dreaming of you.

“Morning honey”, he says with an yawn.

“I think it’s afternoon already”, you laugh. He smiles and kisses you again.

And, in that moment, you know that no matter what happens, he’ll be by your side, and that is all that you need.

#bruce wayne #bruce x reader #batman x reader #batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine #reader #dc

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simplysparrow14 · 4 years

Text

Why I absolutely hate Korra.

Gifted Children do not make good protagonists.

I really hate Korra. Like, I fucking cant stand her as a characters. She’s honest to god one of the only characters besides Kylo Ren that I just full on hate.

She’s whiny, She’s cocky, she’s too brash for her own good. She got the biggest overinflated ego the size of Mount Fuji. She bitches and moans when something doesn't go her way, and then as the balls to blame other characters or blow up in their faces when she’s starts the fire herself!

She leaps into battle before she thinks and when the villain of the season kicks her ass to the curb, we’re supposed to sympathize with her and feel sorry for her, even though She deserved everything she had coming to her

Her god complex is bigger then the fucking sun and she gets all pissy when someone even mildly calls her out on her bullshit or even gives her polite constructive criticism on her Avatar duties.

She never learns diplomacy or peacekeeping or patience or empathy for others around her or when to shut the fuck up and take a step back before you get the shit kicked out of you.

One of the prime examples of her being absolute stupid was when She and Mako go to one of Amon’s rallies, and after figuring out that Amon was a bloodbender who locked his own brother up in a cage, they decide to go to the rally to boldly claim that Amon is a bender without presenting any physical or damning evidence that suggest otherwise.

“How in the world do we beat him?”

“We cant. Any attack we throw at him, he’ll redirect with his mind. That’s how he’s been able to challange any bender.”

“So much for our ambush....If we stay here, we’re toast. But there’s another way to beat him!”

“How?!”

“This whole time, Amon’s been one step ahead of us. But finally, we have an advantage...We know the truth about him!”

“If we expose him as a bender in front of all his supporters, we can take away his true power!”

.......huh...... WHAT?..... A-are you serious?! THAT’S YOUR ADVANTAGE AGAINST AN ALL-POWERFUL BLOODBENDER ?! WE’RE REALLY GOING TO BLATANTLY CALLING HIM OUT IN FRONT OF ALL OF HIS FOLLOWERS WITHOUT EVEN A SHRED OF EVIDENCE?!

what makes matters worse is that they don’t even take Tarrlock with them. They just leave him in his cage. Like, yeah, he tells them to go because he doesn’t want Amon’s supporters and the rest of the public to know he was Amon’s brother, but honestly, that hasn't stopped Korra before from forcing someone to give her what she wanted. She’s not lik a regular person who has to abide by the rules of Rebublic City, she’s the goddamn fucking avatar: If she wanted a fucking statue erected in her honor, she would order that in a fucking heartbeat.

ANd May I remind you, lovly readers, that Korra literally manhandled a non-bender activist to give her information about Amon’s next rally not just a few episodes before this?

So her acting this respectful and this pulled-back is so out-of-character and jarring to watch because the show clearly states that Korra is a bad bitch and if she wants something really badly, she’ll fucking get it herslef, no questions asked.

And then when Amon corners them in a storage room and beats the shit out of them with bloodbending and chi-blocking, we have to feel sorry for them. We have to feel sorry to Korra All because her “expertly” constructed plan didn't work out, and that Amon took the brats bending away when she busted into his rally uninvited without evidence to show to his followers, or even a half-ass plan on how to effectively beat the shit out of him if he refused to go down easily.

Look, I get that we have to have dramatic tension for the story, but that doesn't mean that the characters have to lose a majority of their very limited brain-cells in order for it to happen. We should not have to sacrifice a character’s personality in order to progress the story.

There’s also the fact that during Season 1 when Korra literally barges into Tarrlocks’ office unannounced to let the non-benders out of jail and berates him about how he’s intimidating people into falling in line with his views and opinions

“You’re using your power to oppress and Intimidate people!”

Its only when Tarrlock pulls the Reverse Uno Card on Korra’s superiority complex that we as the audience get the first and maybe last good spot of introspection and interesting character development within this show

“And you don't? Isn’t that what you came here to do? Intimidate me into releasing your friends?”

But then, its all thrown out the window when Korra goes full ape-shit and tries to fuck-up Tarrloq, and we’re again supposed to feel bad for her when Tarrlok fuck her up right back with blood-bending, kidnaps her and locks her up in a metal box.

Your avatar, every one.

All throughout these scenes, we never get any notion that she’s gaining character development.

She never takes a step back, never looks into the situation, She never shuts the fuck up, never considers that maybe, just maybe, her plan might not work. There’s no patience in her what so ever and it infuriates me to no end!

And yet, the show treats her as through she did nothing wrong! They treat her like a goddamn goddess, and its so....

There’s also the fact that throughout the series, Korra goes through more pitty parties and anger bursts then most characters have in their entire series run and in the end, her woes/ temper tantrums are forgiven because, well, she’s the protagonist.

Your boyfriend calls you out on your bullshit about the civil war happening between your home-tribe and the sister tribe? Crash his place of work and throw his desk across the room and tell him that he’s a traitor just for doing his job--A job he;s wanted to be apart of since he was little, no less.

Cant figure out how to work with the wind panels without getting punched around? Don't be the leaf and burn a historic Airbending training device to ash!

“That was a Two-thousand year old historical treasure… WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me! You’re a terrible teacher!”

Cant handle being called a wuss? Challenge the mastermind of a political movement with chi-blocking and blood bending to a fight under your previous incarnations statue and then cry like a bitch when he kicks your ass.

No Korra, you don’t get to cry when it’s clearly you’re fault it happened in the first place. Look, I get that you’ve just had a low-key high-key traumatic moment.....But you don’t have brain-cells. You knew he could take away bending--You saw it at their rally not just a few days ago-- so i don’t know why you thought that challenging him to a one-on-one duel in a dark, abandoned place where no one can hear you scream was an perfect idea you dumb bitch.

Aparently,

Its also apparent within the series that she never has to work for her character development, or work for what she wants.

People often remark that Korra was coddled at the Avatar, but I feel as if Spoiled is the best word:

In the beginning of the series when the White Lotus comes to the southern Water Tribe to Search for the Next Avatar, we're Introduced to Korra punching a hole through the wall, spewing flames from her fists and using water to put out the fire. Hell, the first sentence that we hear from the brats mouth is “I’m the Avatar. You gotta deal with it.”

Look, no one likes gifted children (unless those children are yours). Gifted Children are probably the worst type of main character to have, because the whole point of your main character is that people are suppose to relate to them. People cant relate to gifted children, because we, as normal human beings, are not all gifted.

Cut to 15 years later, and we learn that Korra hasn't even left the Southern Water Tribe. Teachers have been flown into the water tribe to teach Korra more on the elements. And at the every start of the first episode, we see her pass her her fire bending test, with her commenting on how already she’s mastered Water and Earth.

The whole point of the Avatar journey was that the Avatar had to journey to find their teachers and experience the world they needed to protect. When you take away that Journey, you’re just leaving the Avatar to be handed everything on a silver platter.

During Season 2 when Kaiju Korra nearly gets her ass handed to her, Jinora force-ghosts her way into the battle and gives Korra the upper-hand during the battle with Vaatu, almost entirely erasing any the trace amounts of danger that the battle was trying to portray.

There’s also the fact that in the middle of Season 2 when she’s fighting Eska and Desna, suddenly out of no-where she can Spirit bend (Or as I like to call it, Spirit-pacification) without so much as a single day of training. Like, talk about pulling out an ability out of your ass.

There’s also the fact that during her visit to the Su-yin’s home, she masters Metelbending out of no-where and then has to gawl to show off in front of Bolin, who’s been trying to metelbend for a while.

There’s also the fact that she’s never punished for any of her actions.

When Amon takes her bending away, she never as a moment to reflect on how her actions affected her future or the rest of the avatar cycle. We never see her come to terms that facing Amon head on resulted in her losing her bending. And when it looks like it does have an impact on her, Ghost Aang pops up right out of nowhere, takes pitty on her and gives her back her bending. Oh, and we’ll also throw in the Avatar State as well, as a treat.

Right after she destroys the alleyway in the first episode of Season 1, Tenzin busts her out of jail and says to Lin that he’ll cover all the damages Korra caused!

There’s also the incident where Tenzen told Korra not to go to the Pro-Bending tournament. And when Tenzen does have to drag her ass back to Air-temple Island, he remarks that Pro-bending is what she needed, completely Ignoring the fact that she disobey’d a direct order from her master and thus is never punished for it!

She’s never called out on her bullshit regarding her very sudden kiss with Mako when the man openly and explicitly said that he was dating another woman.

(Like, girl, i get it. you have feelings for him, I get it. But when someone says: “I’m already dating someone right now.” and they admit they might be also have very confusing feelings for you as well, You back the fuck up and give them time to make a decision. You just don’t go: “Oh you already have a girlfriend? oh, smoochy smoochy time then.”)

Omg, it’s like the show was entirely written by male writers who have no idea how to write romance or develop unique and interesting characters who are not homicidal bat-shit insane brats who cry’s when they’re not the center of attention

I guess my big question towards Korra’s character is… Why?

Why do we have to root for a character who doesn't struggle, doesn't think she has to try to master her bending and that everything should come easily? How are we supposed to connect to someone when they blow up and get all pissy when someone even just lightly insults their god complex?

Why is she a waterbender when she has the temperament of a fire-bender? Why is she getting her ass kicked by every villan if she’s the all powerful avater? Why is she the avatar when she doesn't have when a shred of humbless or appreciation for the bending she’s been given? Why do we have to put up with a brat of a protagonist for 3+ seasons?

She is, in the bluntest term I can say, a meaningless character. She holds no purpose to the story or its messages or its themes.

Aang was meaningful because it was his story and he was a 12 year old with the weight of the fucking world on his shoulders as both the last living Airbender and the Avatar, all while trying to navigate a world that did not and would not uphold his peaceful beliefs.

Katara was meaningful because she broke down social norms by not only mastering the both the female -only water-bending techniques and Male-only water-bending fighting style, but also the scary-as-fuck-blood-bending. She showed the duel sides of being a bad ass strong independent woman.

Toph was meaningful because she was an all-powerful earthbender who was fucking blind, showing that disabilities cant stop you from kicking ass.

Sokka and Suki were meaningful because they were two badass people who didn't need bending to kick fire-nation ass. You don’t need to be like everyone else to save the world.

Zuko was meaningful because his failures,and mistakes and abuse and scar showed people that no matter how awful your current situation was, you’re able to build a better life for yourself through hard work, self-love and good people who love you.

Korra is meaningless. She is selfish, and spoiled and the only message she has to tell “Be a brat, cry a lot, and throw temper tantrums until you get what you fucking want.”

Fuck Korra. Fuck her character. I’ve never seen a character so poorly executed in my life, and I surly hope I dont ever get to see that ever again.

#Legend of Korra #The Legend of Korra #Avatar #Atla #AtloK #Korra #Mako #Bolin #Asami #Tenzin #Amon

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mychemicalficrecs · 4 years

Note

any good frerard fics that take place before the 2000s? so like anywhere from the 1990s-1600s or whatever it doesn’t matter to me :)

Hi Nonny!

There's a great variety of Historical AUs, have fun with these!

Frank/Gerard Historical AUs

You Sparkle Like My 6 Gun by jet6black6feeling6, 7k, Explicit. Gerard does drag at a prohibition era night club that mafia boss Frank owns. Duh.

The Heart I Left Behind by gloomboyz, 8k, Mature. Various scenes of how Gerard and Frank find each other throughout history.

Sincerely (Yours) by Tezy, 34k, Explicit. (Late 19th century AU) Frank is the son of a merchant, with no money, and no title. But he's smart, and he enjoys teaching, so when the opportunity arises for him to help with the two children of a particularly wealthy family, he decides it is worth the risk. The children are precocious, outspoken and they quickly become his favourite students. Their slightly peculiar uncle, however, is the real mystery for him.

timelines and sceneries by daydreamsago, 42k, Teen And Up Audiences. "My brain wants everything to be figured out so it can stop worrying about what life will be like in ten years or so," Frank admitted. "Time is such a weird thing, because one moment, you're young and dependent on your parents, then... boom. You're graduated and everything matters all at once. Time is consistent. It doesn't slow down, or speed up at all; our perception of it does."

Line-Crossing by orphan_account, 12k, Explicit. When Frank finally gets up on his feet, he finds a job taking care of the greenhouses in a manor house. He hopes this new beginning will help him forget and allow him to heal. Moving into the country, Gerard hopes he'll finally be left alone by all the people back home who can't seem to stop criticizing everything about him. He also hopes to find some peace and maybe even (yes, he actually dares to be that optimistic) happiness.

Shadows Fall Behind by anoceanmonster, 39k, Explicit. Just before the turn of the twentieth century, the Iero household experiences it’s second devastating loss. When Edward Iero, world renowned architect, replaces the recently deceased and much loved head of staff, Donald, with his eldest son, Gerard, no one knows if anything will work out. Frank is a book loving recluse who rarely sees the outside of his study, but when Gerard enters his house and his life, he gets a love story all of his own.

A Lovely Apparition (or, The One Where Gerard's A Crossdresser in the 1790s) by wordslinging, 22k, Mature. Michael didn’t seem particularly shocked when Gerard approached him with the idea, but then, Gerard had never seen his younger brother look particularly shocked at anything. He merely looked at Gerard, blinked once or twice, and repeated in a flat tone, “You want me to help you dress up like a woman.” “It’s the stays in particular I think I’ll need help with,” Gerard told him. “Well, and buttoning the dress, and perhaps the wig.”

A World So Small by wordslinging, 31k, Mature. When Frank, a sickly young man, is advised by his doctors to leave London for the country, he makes arrangements to stay with his friend Michael, who just so happens to be in possession of a large, old, and somewhat creepy manor house. What Frank has no idea of at the time is that Michael has an older brother, whose presence in the house he conceals. Gerard is an eccentric recluse who spends most of his time hiding in the attic and avoiding any kind of interaction with people, but he finds himself fascinated with Frank, who in turn realizes that the house has secrets, and becomes determined to uncover them. When he finally does discover Gerard, their first meeting is only the beginning of their story.

Vampire AU by Andromedas_Void, 26k, Explicit. Mister Francis Anthony Iero, Junior, Your presence is requested this evening at 221 Upper Birch Lane, North London. A carriage will be awaiting you at 3:00 pm sharp. Cordially yours, Gerard Arthur Way, Esq.

Riot Grrrl!Gee by my99centdreams, 7k, Explicit. It’s the fourth party she’s been to this week if the one Taylor Kennick threw for herself while her parents stayed in their room counts (it probably doesn’t but whatever, the point is she’s been far too social lately and is just about ready to revert back to her hermit ways). Seriously, if it gets to the point where Mikey breaks out the password they created for emergency situations, and by emergency situations she means their lives have turned into a body snatchers movie, then she knows it's time to put on her pajamas, lock herself in her room, and eat ice cream straight from the carton.

This Tornado Loves You by theopteryx, 44k, Mature. 1933. Frank's been on the run a long time and he's forced to stop in his old hometown. At first things are about what he expects - old friends, unpleasant memories, and a less-than-desirable home life. Everything changes one night when he stumbles on an old hedge maze hidden in the woods. It's not the hedge maze that intrigues him the most, though, but the secrets of the house hidden inside.

NASAverse by fleurdeliser, 22k, Explicit. The second basement of Building Six at the Kennedy Space Center is not, Frank reminds himself, straightening his shoulders and stepping out of the elevator, one of the more intimidating offices in the NASA compound. It is, in fact, just one workshop out of many, where fabricators test out designs that come from the engineers upstairs--where Frank works.

Variations on a Fugue by mrsronweasley, 36k, Explicit. Frank Iero is a young nobleman currently living with his parents in the Lake District, where he plans on leading a quiet life away from London and its temptations. However, temptation moves into his neighbourhood in the face of one Gerard Way. (Early Edwardian AU.)

Public Enemy by tabulaxrasa, 21k, Explicit. In 1932, Gerard Way has been making a name for himself robbing banks up and down New Jersey. Frank Iero, analyst for J. Edgar Hoover's Division of Investigation, is determined to catch him.

Against the Wind by theopteryx, 21k, Explicit. Frank is the tutor for the two young children of Michael and Alicia Way. He has always been sickly, but when he begins to fall seriously ill he tries to hide it from his employers, terrified he will lose his position and have nothing. When Michael’s older brother Gerard unexpectedly returns from the continent, however, his problems only grow.

Can Never Wrong this Right by theopteryx, 24k, Explicit. Written for the hc_bingo challenge, for the square of 'forced soul-bonding.' It's 1949 and Dr. Way is a professor of Archeology and Frank is his constantly exasperated (and secretly pining) assistant. When their latest trek takes them to South America to locate the fabled Blood Stone, however, they both find more than they bargained for.

Love and Other Cliches by two_ravens, xaritomene, 29k, Not Rated. Bob Bryar is the best witch in the whole damn scene, even if he does say so himself. Which is just as well, because he's got responsibilities, most of which involve his charge, Gerard. Mainly, Bob's supposed to keep Gerard from falling down a well, or losing his sketchpad - little things, but Bob is a conscientious guardian. But when it becomes obvious that Gerard and Frank are hopelessly, silently in love with each other, Bob suddenly has bigger things to worry about. Nothing he's tried has ended in the declarations of love he'd been aiming for (not the fireworks, not the sunsets, not even the four hours they'd spent in locked in a closet). In a last, ditch attempt, he resorts to real spellwork, the epic, Cinderella kind, and now Frank and Gerard are stuck in a romance novel... with only one way out.

What Ships Are For by mwestbelle, 22k, Explicit. A ship is safe in a harbor, but that's not what ships are for. -William Shedd Gerard is most concerned when he finds that, while away at university, his father has taken in a new ward of his own brother's age. But upon his return home, he finds the young man to be particularly enchanting; unfortunately, according to the High Society he lives in, not only is Frank entirely too poor to be considered, but they might as well be brothers.

Like a Horse and Carriage by mwestbelle, 9k, Mature. Frank was raised wild, on a merchant vessel that sailed all around the world. When he returns home, an orphan, he is wed to a man with money and name that he has never met. A Victorian AU.

Illyria (King and Country) by tabulaxrasa, 57k, Explicit. Today, they'd woken up and Gerard was King of Illyria. Frank hasn't really been a stable boy since he ended up in the archduke's bed, but now Gerard's exile is over and he's king. Frank has to survive court, politics, and scheming nobles to figure out exactly what he is now.

#frank/gerard #frerard #fic rec list #alternate universe #historical au

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flourchildwrites · 5 years

Photo

Exposure

When the camera flashes at Plus Ultra cover shoots, chances are that star photographer Shouto Todoroki is behind it. Though he has worked with many models, none are as captivating as Momo Yaoyorozu, the person rumored to be his muse. Time and time again, their career paths have crossed; industry insiders whisper that there is more between Shouto and Momo than a camera lens. When a difficult photo shoot leaves Shouto drained, he lets one of his many secrets slip. In the aftermath, who knows what truths may come to light.

For @ionica01

Art Commission by @asyaswallow

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship/Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo

Characters: Todoroki Shouto, Yaoyorozu Momo, Denki Kaminari, Nemuri Kayama (Midnight), Mei Hatsume

Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographers and Models

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count: 2,787 words

Read on AO3

If there’s one thing Shouto Todoroki is passionate about, it is the light.

Denki Kaminari, Plus Ultra magazine’s long-suffering photography assistant, busies himself about the set, fiddling with diffusers and reflectors. With a light meter glued to the palm of his hand, he executes the concept detailed by their team’s advance planning, double and triple-checking each line item — a luxurious settee, soft light, upbeat mood music.

Everything is perfect. Too perfect.

Kaminari turns to find Midnight, the photo shoot’s hard-edged creative director, nursing her third cup of coffee. Despite the caffeine, she is unmoved by the synthesized pop music blasting through the speakers, and Denki is certain she is second-guessing every last detail.

“Just great,” she huffs. “Makeup is running long, and Todoroki is late.”

He shrugs the padded shoulders of his silver-studded leather jacket, gazing at the space opposite the light-drenched set. Beyond the racks of colorful clothing Hagakure mulls through, he can hear laughter. One voice is bright and clear as a bell, and the other is husky but heavenly.

The doors of the studio creep open to reveal a mop of white and scarlet hair shoved into a slouchy beanie. Balancing his camera bag on his shoulder, Shouto softly closes the studio door. His entrance is, as always, unassuming, but when a pair of mismatched eyes glance upward, worry lines betray his discontent. The subtle folds exaggerate Todoroki’s red scar, unusually flat but discolored by yellow and peach tones that create the illusion of texture.

“Where is she?” he asks, without pleasantries or preamble.

Kaminari doesn’t have to ask who Todoroki is referring to. The rumor mill is convinced that lighting isn’t the only thing the photographer is passionate about.

“Still in makeup,” Midnight responds. “Jirou is an artist. Apparently, we shouldn’t rush her.”

Shouto seems to breathe a sigh of relief and fixes his co-workers with a stern expression. He has plenty of those to spare, and they always equal more work.

“Good. I just read the transcript for the One-For-All feature, and I think we need to go in another direction with this shoot. There’s too much light in here. It doesn't suit the serious turn Hatsume’s piece took.”

“Thank the Gods! Someone said it,” Midnight exclaims, already changing the music. She is only too happy to beckon Hagakure over, hurriedly subbing jewel-toned businesswear for oversized sweaters.

As he calls off the extra soft light umbrellas, Kaminari marvels that in five years of working together, this is the first time there’s ever been ‘too much light.’

He could laugh. Or cry. Possibly both.

But for Momo Yaoyorozu, Shouto has been known to bend all the rules.

…

[Excerpt of Mei Hatsume’s interview with Momo Yaoyorozu]

MH: Mei Hatsume reporting for Plus Ultra Magazine. Your source for all things fashion, lifestyle and fitness! Today, I’m with model turned industry activist Momo Yaoyorozu to talk about the One-For-All foundation! Can you tell us a little bit about what One-For-All means to you?

MY: Yes, of course, Mei. I’m so happy to be here. I’ve been modeling since I was 16, but when I turned 20, two big things happened in my life.

MH: That was the year renowned fitness model All Might went public with his Crohn’s disease diagnosis. Wasn’t it?

MY: Yes, and it was All Might’s retirement speech that inspired me to take a hard look at the demands modeling was taking on my body. I really wanted to keep smiling like he said, but I found it hard to do that when my agency was pressuring me to maintain my thigh gap. Some people can achieve that look without resorting to extreme measures; however, I learned that I was not one of them. Still, I wanted to keep modeling if only to prove that health and beauty come in all shapes, colors, sizes and levels of ability.

MH: So, you broke away from your agency, went independent and started the One-For-All foundation with a small group of like-minded professionals?

MY: You make it sound so easy! But yes. With All Might’s support, a few independent models and I got together and did a promotional photo shoot for Instagram. Those models — Izuku Midoriya, Ochaco Uraraka, Tensei Iida and Shino Sosaki — were instrumental in One-For-All’s early success. And, of course, Shouto Todoroki. We wouldn’t have gotten far without him on that promotional shoot.

MH: So, you’ve been working with Todoroki for a long time?

MY: Yes, and it’s relationships like these that first secured One-For-All’s footholds in the modeling industry. Our outreach and mentorship programs encourage struggling models to come forward, and we encourage corporations to consider diversity in their casting. Industry allies, like Todoroki, are vital in our endeavors.

MH: So, it’s strictly platonic between you two then? Some say that you’re his muse.

MY: We have a healthy, professional relationship. But, getting back to One-For-All’s outreach programs…

…

By the time Midnight and Todoroki are done with the set, it exudes a different aura. Gone is the lux settee, replaced by a simple stool set against a black paper backdrop. Shouto decides to use hard light for the shoot — a gutsy decision that suits Yaoyorozu’s cause. The ghost of a smile flits across his lips when he sees her fresh from hair, makeup and wardrobe.

She does not look like a primped and polished piece of candy, nor a rich girl standing in the expensive shoes her parents purchased.

Momo Yaoyorozu has come into her own.

Sharp contours accentuate her perfect bone structure offset by an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings with ‘#DETERMINED’ written in white letters down the side of her left leg. But Shouto’s favorite part of the ensemble is Momo’s no-nonsense boots. The silver lace hooks subtly catch the light as she strides toward him. Thick, low-heeled soles sound against the ground, punctuating her footfalls.

He swallows thickly.

Hatsume had called Momo his muse; this is closer to the truth than Shouto is willing to admit, even to himself.

“Woah,” Momo says brightly. “This looks so serious. Are you sure I can pull this off?”

Words spring from Todoroki’s mouth before he can catch them.

“You deserve to be taken seriously. One-For-All, I mean. It deserves the spotlight, no frills or clutter.”

Momo takes her place on set and poses, shifting to meet Shouto’s demands as he issues them. She doesn’t mind the commanding note in his voice and never shies away when he doesn’t automatically praise her. After everything they have been through together, Shouto hopes she knows her worth.

“Stay with me, Momo,” Shouto says, and at the unexpected sound of her first name, she looks surprised. Her sweater slips from her shoulder as Momo’s dark eyes flash, siphoning a piece of Shouto’s soul on to the film.

The flutter of the lens is the loudest sound in the room, and over it, Shouto can hear his pulse racing. He doesn’t know how Momo does this to him, time and time again, but he knows that when he looks at her the rest of the world melts away.

In the future, Shouto decides to try harder to keep things, as Hatsume had said, ‘strictly platonic,’ but just this once (and always once more) he’ll let his admiration slip through the cracks of his professional veneer.

“You’re amazing, Momo.”

He tells himself that he only says it because it’s true.

…

The pictures are stunning. Even Shouto’s mother, a former model, calls to fawn over his work. But this success is quickly brushed aside. By the lunchtime rolls around, it’s just another Tuesday at Plus Ultra’s headquarters, and a heated photo shoot featuring the most explosive mixed martial artist in Japan has left Todoroki feeling drained.

He’s never heard the word ‘bastard’ so much in his life. Considering the man who raised him, Shouto thinks this is something noteworthy. As a small distraction, he opens a folder on his laptop and scrolls through the pictures. Each image brings a small smile to his face

Todoroki receives an email. Momo Yaoyorozu’s name catches his eye. For this reason alone, he closes the folder and scans the friendly message.

She thanks him (because, of course, she does) and credits the captivating black and white images to his insightful talent rather than her ethereal beauty. A small favor, she asks, in furtherance of One-For-All’s objectives. Momo wants to post the un-photoshopped images on her Instagram — just to prove to fans that she isn’t as perfect as Shouto knows she is.

He shouldn’t grant her this request so easily, but Todoroki is too smitten to deny her. Instead of asking permission, he resolves to smooth everything over with the legal department later (preferably at the same time they discuss Katsuki Bakugo’s temper). He drafts a polite response and clicks on recent places. Shouto highlights the last few folders and selects them thoughtlessly, trusting that the last work-related pictures he viewed were from Momo’s photo shoot.

Todoroki is rather taken with the one where he caught her off guard, the bare skin of her left shoulder exposed in the harsh light. And all because he used her first name.

Still consumed by the reverie, he presses send and shuts his laptop, preparing to leave the break room. Shouto is halfway down the hall when he realizes his mistake.

His email notification sounds, confirming she’s seen it.

“Shit!”

…

The Momo Yaoyorozu plastered across Plus Ultra’s cover isn’t the one who tumbles out of bed that morning. Her hair is hopelessly mussed, and traces of yesterday’s mascara darken the crescent-shaped area underneath her eyes. She keeps her phone on airplane mode while completing her daily weightlifting regime and runs an extra lap to calm her nerves. There’s a courtesy copy of the magazine sitting in the mailbox of her posh penthouse, but she descends the luxury highrise to buy one from the nearest street vendor for reasons she can’t explain.

Momo grabs the issue without looking at the cover and tells the vendor to keep the change. She scurries back to her penthouse and rides the elevator up as nervousness coils inside her belly. Seated on her gray sectional, surrounded by books and the aroma of tea, she finally switches her phone off airplane mode and removes the magazine from its paper sleeve.

Notifications come streaming in as she stares at her own likeness. The #DETERMINED down the side of her leggings echoes everything the straightforward headline implies: Yaomomo Rising.

Her first call is to her best friend, Kyoka Jirou, who tells her that the overall feedback is positive. She and One-For-All are trending across several social media platforms. Her second call would be to Shouto Todoroki, but Momo changes her mind and decides to email him instead.

Their relationship was once clearly defined. Now, after his help kick-starting One-For-All and countless shoots, the lines are blurred.

Todoroki’s reply is quick, helpful and courteous. The third attachment… Well, that’s unexpected.

Momo writes a response, biting her bottom lip as she types.

Cute. I didn’t know you were into cats.

…

When the front desk buzzes to let Momo know Shouto Todoroki is downstairs, she’s perplexed, to say the least. Nevertheless, she finds herself shoving stray books behind decorative pillows and throwing a blanket over her sectional to hide a stain. By the time he knocks on her door, there’s an elegant splay of couture fashion magazines on the coffee table and a small library’s worth of literature hidden in her couch cushions. A few dirty tea mugs sit idly in her kitchen sink.

“Todoroki!” she greets, uncomfortably aware that he hasn’t seen her without full hair, makeup and wardrobe assistance in quite some time. “Come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He gets right to the point, barely waiting for Momo to close the door.

“I sent you the wrong folder,” he says. “That last one was private, and I apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Momo crosses her lavish entryway and takes a seat on her sectional, motioning for her guest to join her. “Though I will admit, you have a lot of cat photos — over 200. Did you take some of them yourself?”

The levity in Momo’s voice is genuine; she hopes he can tell her question is good-natured. Shouto follows her, and Momo won’t deny that the space between them, though reasonable, simmers with something that isn’t ‘strictly platonic.’

Does she dare act on these feelings or bury them like her books?

“Yeah. I started taking pictures of my pet cat, Coco when I was a kid. My father wanted me to be a model, but I was more interested in photography. Mom took me to all her shoots and told father I was watching her work. Actually, I was annoying the hell out of her photographer friends and practicing photography with Coco. The photos I took seemed to make her happy.”

Shouto smiles at the memory. Momo wants to comfort him, to match the vulnerability he’s shown. Instead, she patiently listens, absentmindedly inching closer.

Momo’s heart swells as he touches the edges of his scar.

“After my accident, mom went away for treatment, but I kept taking photos and sending them to her. We still keep it up. That’s not too weird, is it? It sounds strange, I know, but like, if you could just not tell anyone I have 263 cat photos, I’d really appreciate it.”

Momo nods her head and finds herself brave.

“No, I won’t tell, and uh… I collect nesting dolls,” she admits, apropos of nothing. “If it helps to know something about me.”

“Nesting dolls?” Shouto asks. He wears a mischievous smile, glancing around her penthouse. “Of all the things you could collect, why nesting dolls? Doesn’t feel like your aesthetic.”

And there it is again, that heavy feeling on her chest. A voice hisses in her ear saying that she’ll let everyone down.

“My aesthetic,” Momo wonders aloud. She falls back against the sectional.

“Sometimes, I’m afraid that I don’t have one. I’m just this blank canvas for other people to dress and paint. I wonder what shows up in the photographs. Is it me or some fiction? And if people could see the real me, the one at the very center of all those layers, would they still like me — RBF and all?”

“Bakugo has resting bitch face,” Shouto scoffs. “You do not.”

“Yes, I do! When I don’t force myself to smile, I look pissed off.”

To make her point, Momo forces her lips to settle in a thin line, but her eyebrows keep their approachable arch. She glances sideways at Todoroki just to make a point that’s lost to the friction of the moment.

“See?”

The model giggles infectiously. She can’t even convince herself.

But instead of laughing in turn, Shouto’s grin turns serious. Momo might be imagining things, but the look he gives her sends her pulse into overdrive. His mismatched eyes are mesmerizing, and Momo is bewitched by his tenderness.

“I see someone who could have fit in but chose to stand out. The rest of it — the clothes and makeup — is window dressing. But you, Momo, you’re magic hour. You make everything around you beautiful.”

The sun sits low on the horizon. Its effulgent rays stream through the tall windows and paint her bland walls in vibrant shades of ruby-red and orange. But Momo doesn’t care about the spectacular view. Her eyes are locked with Shouto’s in the hopes that he will close the gap once and for all, taking them from colleagues to friends to something else.

Something more.

Tentatively, he brushes a loose strand of raven hair behind her ear. It’s something he’s done a million times during shoots, but in the privacy of her home, it’s different, the space between them charged by an electric resonance. Momo leans into the contact and reaches out to caress his face.

And when he finally embraces her, they melt. Their first kiss starts slow and pleasant, a quiet comfort. But soon, Momo’s fingers find purchase in silky strands of white and scarlet as his hands slide possessively around her waist. Shouto’s lips press into the curve of her neck, and Momo is utterly taken, her senses stolen by the unexpected softness of Shouto Todoroki.

There’s a part of Momo that believes she should have seen this coming, from the moment she first set eyes on Shouto when they were both green in the industry’s callous grasp. But she discards the theory, allowing their bodies to speak in a language that needs no translation. Neither early nor late, Momo decides that she discovered their quirky bond, precisely when she was ready to see it.

A/N: Hi, Lo. *waves enthusiastically* I really hope you like your gift for the fic exchange! It was such a pleasure to write for you, and I got carried away and got some art. Special thanks to @ruikosakuragi for the beta. She, like her writing, is the best. As always, I really appreciate your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs. Y'all give me life. Also, don't be a stranger and check out my tumblr.

#bnha #todomomo #todoroki shouto #momo yaoyorozu #kaminari denki #midnight #hatsume mei #alternate universe models #alternate universe photographers #friend to lovers #photo shoots #interviews #secret #confessions #todomomo holidays fic exchange 2019

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