#i gave up on making the trim on the bottom “accurate”

[remma-demma]

Who's this douchebag?

[cherry-pop-elf]

Flowers For You

‘Poof’ Periwinkle Fairywinkle-Cosma x Reader

Authors note: @clownsgirlghost You asked, Gimmie yo life force/jk

Sum: You’ve always been utterly obsessed with folklore. Fae, Crypteds, what have you. You respected them, the traditions, even when people made fun of you for it. You didn’t care. You loved them, and it seem’s like the gesture has been returned.

Warnings: Bullying, religious metaphor’s, paganism, assholes to witches, my attempt at accurate folk lore, and a shitty attempt because I only know so much from a show I don’t have access to

“There goes that weirdo again. Stay away, might get cursed.” You would listen to them gossip. Never seeming to actually try and keep it subtle. You didn’t care, you were living your life. Well, trying to. It eats at you after a while. No matter how strong you were.

You would just sigh, as you just wanted to return home already. Had been such a long day. Shopping was a pain, and you just wanted to go to bed. Buying dumb adult things like food and toiletries. Also some things to leave as offerings. You saw a beautiful bundle of periwinkle flowers.

A fairy circle had appeared in your backyard, and you wanted to show your respect to the Fae that use them. You kept your distance, and respected the ring of mushrooms. Even put rocks around it, to try and help protect it. It’s a small gesture, but you hope they know your intent. They should, unlike your neighbors.

Swore they could hear the jingling of your keys, as they were quick to look over their fences to face you. Trying hard to not be seen, as they knew what they were doing was wrong. Actually it was because they genuinely thought you were a weirdo that might throw mud at them.

“Just ignore them. Just ignore them. The richer the man, the dumber the man.” You would plead to yourself, wishing you never inherited this old house. Right in a Richie rich neighborhood. Hey, a free house is a free house. Especially in his economy. Not like you’ll ever be in a position to move.

You would sort out your groceries, and be back in your zen. Feeling calm with yourself. Taking out the flowers, gently trimming off the dead parts, just fluffing it up really. Wanting it to look its best, as if offering it to a physical person. Gave you calm, and comfort.

With the flowers made you would go out to your backyard. Right to the fairy ring. Rocks all around it, as to try and keep it safe when you mowed the lawn. To give it respect, and honor, with letting it have its own space. Even as far as to gently toss the flowers into the middle, as to not break its barrier.

“Witchcraft I tell you. Keep your animals inside. Might be used for some kind of satanic sacrifice.” You would over hear, as the rattle of collars echoed from behind the fence. Made your heart ache. You weren’t doing anything wrong, this was your practice. What makes it different from what they do?

You tried to fight your tears, as you turned your back to the ring. Just as you did, however, you heard a strange noise. You swore it sounded as if a rattle of chimes went off, while hitting a pillow case. It was such an other worldly sound, you just had to turn to look at it.

“Really? You really jumped into the nearest fairy circle you could?” “I WANTED TO GO TO FAIRY WORLD-!” “YOU COULD HAVE ENDED UP AT THE BOTTOM OF A LAKE!” “I CAN SWIM-!” On and on the shouting went between your neighbor Dev Dimmadome, and a strange floating man. Left you in shock, as they argued. Not quite aware of your existence. Left you to study them.

“And further more-! Hey! Move your sneakers-!” The bright, purply man, shouted. Fluttering wings were quick to zoom down, and scoop up the flowers. Dusting them off from the trampling, and seeming to make them bloom back to life. As if they were never harmed.

“Look at that! Periwinkles! I love these flowers! Yes I’m bias, because they are my colors, but still! I remember back when I was just a little basketball. Back when me and Timmy…..” The man seemed to trail off, as those glittering eyes seemed to sparkle for other reasons.

“Uh, Peri…..You can cry about your brother later, we got company-“ Dev would tug at the floating man’s pant leg, drawing his attention to you. Those pure eyes just seeming to stare through your soul, and through your heart. Taking in every mortal detail you offered, and seeming to be taken aback. As if watching a sunset for the first time.

Didn’t last long, before he seemed to panic. The flowers tossed high in the air, leaving Dev to try and catch them off. Seemed like Dev can care for other living creatures. Who knew! As if you could focus on that, as a massive purple book appeared. With the worlds ‘Da Rulz’ on the cover.

“WHAT DO I DO?! FAIRES CANT BE SEEN LIKE THIS! OH NO OH NO OH NO OH NO-“ The poor, floating, man was in a panic. Not knowing what to do, while Dev would just casually walk up to you. Bundle of flowers still in hand, as he lower his shades a bit. Not all the way, but enough for you two to share eye contact.

You were one of the few people that ever gave a shit about him, and actually had human interaction with him. Not just his robot baby sitters, or just smoozed on him for his money. You didn’t have much, but you gave him something no one else did. Time. Time for him.

“Hey Witchy-“ A nickname he gave you, but like many friends it was a term of endearment and mockery at everyone else compared to actually an insult to you. Just a kid being a kid, and it was nice to have. Someone to just talk to you.

“So ya know how you always talked about fairies and folk lore and like Bigfoot and stuff? Yeah. That’s a fairy. Neat, huh?” He seemed to try and brag to you, as the poor fairy in question was still a panic mess. Just wanting to try and find an answer to his worries.

“Promise not to tell anyone?” He asked, as you slowly nodded. “Peri! Chill! Witchy is cool! Probs left the flowers even. You left the flowers, right? Course you did.” He more so said to himself.

That seemed to calm the fairy down, and make the book vanish. Ever so gently he would flutter over to you, as Dev returned the flowers to him. The bundle brought to his pointed nose, as he inhaled them. Lost in a memory, from childhood days. Days when he was with him.

“For me? Really? Like really really?” He asked, as his face was a brilliant pink. Was accompanied by intense fluttering of his wings. Much like how a person would wave their hands around when over stimulated, but in the positive way.

“I mean….Yeah. Yeah actually.” You nodded, as that was the intent. Never in your wildest dreams did you think something like this would happen. To very literally give flowers to a fairy, and to have the gesture enjoyed. Must be some kind of divine intervention.

“….Guess you would follow under a magical being identification, so I don’t need to worry…” Sounded more like he was trying to convince himself more than anything, but at least he was calming down.

“Um….Do you two want to come inside?” You offered. Probably a bad idea to invite a fae inside, and definitely a good idea that Dev used your nickname then your real name. The number one rule is to never offer a fae your real name. But…..Never have you seen a fae design like him in stories. Maybe things were a little different. Especially since he seemed to be in some kind of connection with Dev.

“Hell yeah. I do NOT want to be around my old man right now. Come on Peri-!” And Dev ran inside, leaving you two alone. For him to keep fluttering those pale purple lashes, as he was just adoring the flowers you had bought. Just stuffing his face in them. Lost in the textures and smells.

“Thank you…..I….They remind me of my childhood. Miss those days…So I uh. Thanks, Witchy.” He smiled to you, as you blushed all the same. Not as intense as him, because you were a human, but it was returned.

“You don’t have anything good in here! Peri! I wish that Witchy’s house was full of food! The good kind! You know what I’m talking about!” You heard Dev shout. Ever the blunt one.

Before you could make a remark, you saw Peri raise the strange cane of his. That same magical sound went off, and it seemed to blow out of your open door way. This bloom of smoke, that vanished as quickly as it arrived.

You would hurry inside, more so to see if Dev was ok, to be met with your home filled with food. Cabinets full and organized. Fridge open with sodas and juices. Pantry with chips and canned goods. It was like you suddenly were a grocery store with the levels of goods.

“There we go-!” Dev said, as he sat on the counter. Just munching away on a bag of cookies. Just left you speechless. What do you even say to something like this? Such pure, literal, magic.

“Guess that’s one way to say thanks for the flowers.” Peri would snort, as he giggled into his flowers. As if just a bashful school girl. Left Dev eye rolling, but was contented to be anywhere but his place. A mansion doesn’t bring the warmth your home did.

“Told you Witchy was cool. Didn’t do that weird back breaking dance, no screaming, no kidnapping. Witchy is so mellow. That’s what I like.” Dev would use you to brag to this fairy companion. Had you worry a moment.

“Are you like, owned by Dev? Did he kidnap YOU? Are you trapped?” You worried, given what Dev said. Along with just how true the statements are. To steal them for power, and wishes. Which was just what Dev did.

“Yeah. I mean-! Not like that-! Like-Oh uh. I’ll start from the top-“ He was blushing even more now, somehow. Suppose your genuine worry touched him. Along with the fact that even though he literally stuffed your home with food you were worried about him. Not a single drop of green in your tongue.

“I’m a Fairy God Parent. We are, basically, step in parents for kids who are….Well….” He gave a nudge at you, as Dev didn’t seem to be paying attention much. Messing with his phone. Most likely to plan some kind of tech aligned experiment for his future mischief.

“I get it-“ You nodded, as it was clear now. A parental figure, that can help kids be kids. With wishes to their hearts, and rules in place to keep both parties safe. Made you understand the situation alot more. You were wondering why Dev seemed alot happier lately. And a lot less of an asshole. Something you marked up as out bursts from his troubled home, which you couldn’t blame him for lashing out about.

“Guess since you are definitely classified as a magical being, I’ll be seeing you a lot more now. Dev hates being at home. Yeah it’s got all the things money can buy, but if it filled the damn void I wouldn’t be here. Huh?” He snorted, as you nodded as well. Along with a laugh, as it was certainly an experience to hear a fairy swear.

“Will you two stop flirting and get over here? Hazel sent me a text. Something about burritos? Violent mood swings?” Dev more so muttered, as Peri seemed red alert now.

“WE CAN NO HAVE ANOTHER BABY! I swear if Dad is pregnant, again-“ That had you both staring at him, before Dev’s phone dinged. “Never mind, it was just gas.”

Peri gave a sigh of relief, but you both were gawking at him still. That’s when he snapped his fingers, before trying to fix his hair. Get himself back in fairy order, instead of being a blushing mess of anxiety and nerves.

“It’s….Oh it’s a long story-“ Peri huffed, as his cane seemed to turn into a hand mirror of sorts. Floating in the air, so he could properly fix his large curl. Along with sneak a few flowers into it.

“I’ve got time…..” You offered, as you grabbed a drink from the fridge. Just finally able to enjoy some time now. Just chilling with people, and not so worried about food right now. Able to actually savor it all.

“Well….It all started with a wish. Before you ask, that’s gonna be a massive staple to most of my insane stories I have-“ Peri warned, as even Dev seemed interested now. Chaos from wishes? Don’t mind if he do! Even held the carton of cookies to you, as you were both ready for the gossip now.

It honestly seemed to make Peri happy, and do that flutter of his eyelashes again. Those flowers back to being snuggled into his face, and his cane turning into a photograph. A picture with a green haired fairy, a pinker haired one, a bundle of purple cloth in their hands, and a little kid. With buck teeth, and a pink hat.

“It all started, with an average kid, who made a wish for my parents to have a baby…”

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

TW: Pet whump, controlling whumper. 

Mason sat back in his chair, eyes glazing over the two figures in front of him. Training assessment were free, mostly so he could more accurately price the actual training, but sometimes there were owners that brought in pets that frankly didn’t need training. 

This owner was a good example of that. 

“Let me repeat these real quick,” he said, leaning forward and cutting off the owner as they rambled. “You’re frustrated with your pet’s tendency to be clingy, talkativeness, tendency to touch things he shouldn’t, and wandering?” 

“Yes!” The owner said, exasperated. “It’s awful, I get no peace and quiet when I get home from work, he’s always underfoot and -see! He’s doing it now!” 

The pet froze, leaned over towards Mason’s desk to poke at the circular screw protectors. Bashfully, he pulled his hands back to his lap and looked down, color flooding to the tips of his ears. His hair was getting long, either needing to be trimmed or clipped back somehow. 

Completely unrelated, Mason needed to make an appointment for Rudy at the groomer. 

Mason stared at the owner, trying to find a better way to word what the fuck is wrong with you. 

“Everything you’ve listed is just your pet’s personality.” 

The owner gawked at him, clearly offended. “Pets don’t have personalities!” 

Well, that wasn’t even worth a response. Mason reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept random toys for the boys when they came to the office with him. He pulled out a small cube with sliding parts and gave a short whistle to get the pet’s attention. The moment he snapped his head up, Mason tossed it carefully in his lap. Curiously, the boy started to twist and slide the pieces, turning it around in his hands to see how it worked. 

“Wandering at night can be easily controlled with a lead or crate. Talkativeness can also be addressed, but it’s more likely connected to the other issues. He’s bored. He doesn’t get enough attention, and doesn’t have anything to do during the day.”

The owner folded their arms and huffed, indigent. “I get the impression you think I don’t take care of my pet. He gets plenty of attention, I promise you that. You saw earlier! I’m constantly having to fix his behavior and stop him from annoying me or others. He’s always underfoot.” 

Mason merely raised a brow and looked pointedly at the boy, who was now sitting quietly as he fiddled with the toy. 

“You just think you’re better than us, asshole. Get up, we’re leaving. No, leave the stupid square you’re not taking it with you.” 

Sometimes the assessments were also to save Mason the headache of working with some clients. 

~~~

The boys were happy as always to see him when he got home. Excited but manageable, just how he liked. There was nothing special planned for tonight, just the normal routine of dinner and resting before bed. Something kept pestering Mason, popping up again and again in the back of his head. 

In the middle of the TV show, he reached down and cupped Rudy’s chin, directing the boy to look up at thim. Rudy wasn’t afraid of him, eyes bright and waiting for instruction. 

“You know how lucky you are, don’t you Rudy? Not all owners are as good with you boys as I am.” 

Rudy smiled warmly at him. “Of course. Thank you, Master, for taking such good care of us.” 

Mason rubbed his head and let him return to watching TV. Damn right he took care of them.

[reidsaurora]

"Favorite T-Shirt" ~ D. Winchester

photos not an accurate description of reader; icon in collage by @ofwilliamandwalter

Summary: When Dean is in town, he invites Y/N for a drive. Little did they know what a cruise down Mulholland Drive had in store for them.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,170

Content Warning: a very mild sexual reference, a very mild mention of food

Genre: Fluff + Exes with Feelings, y'all know the drill

Extra Notes: i'm so sorry this is late but i hope you guys enjoy it regardless!!

Based On the Song: Favorite T-Shirt by Jake Scott

Originally Written: 05/07/2022

Supernatural masterlist can be found here!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Knock, knock, knock.

I looked up from my book, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion as I wasn't expecting company. I walked over to the door, taking a quick look through the peephole.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" I asked after unlocking and opening the front door.

He sighed, rubbing his hands against his jeans nervously. "I know I'm probably the last person you expected to see, but I was wondering if you wanted to go for a drive. With me," he asked hesitantly. "You know, since I'm in town and all."

I quietly giggled, remembering how awkward he could be around women. "I'll humor you since you're in town," I answered. "Let me grab my bag."

He nodded as I walked away to grab my purse and house keys. I followed closely behind him, locking my door quickly before running off to the Impala and climbing in.

"I've missed you," he said, pulling out of my driveway.

I gave him a small smile before turning back to watch the trees disappear as we sped off in the direction of Mulholland Drive.

☆☆☆

As Dean opened the car door for me, I couldn't help but observe how chivalrous he'd been ever since he picked me up. Checking every few minutes to make sure the temperature on my side of the car was OK, making sure he wasn't driving too fast, asking if the music was too loud.

"Ta-da," he smiled, showing me what he'd done to the trunk of the Impala.

Lights were strung across the lid, a blanket was tacked up to hide the anti-possession symbol, and a blanket and pillows were laid across the bottom, which I assumed were for us to sit on. It was picturesque, in fact, I remembered thinking about how much I wanted to capture it in a photograph.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest as I shook my head in disbelief. "Dean Winchester, are you trying to butter me up for something?"

"No. But I did feel it necessary to make it up to you, the way I treated you the last time we talked."

I sighed, giving him a kind smile. I ran my hand through his freshly trimmed hair, a feeling I'd missed like no other. "Let's focus on this. The good times, not the bad."

He grinned back before climbing into the trunk. He wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me in as I giggled at his behavior.

I took in the mixed scent of the trees around us and the light aroma of his cologne. I felt a shiver run up my spine as the wind blew.

"You OK?" he asked. I assumed it was in reference to my shivering.

"Yeah, it's just a little chilly out," I answered.

As if on cue, he pulled out his extra duffel bag with what he called his "emergency clothes." He pulled out a long sleeve shirt, one that was baggy enough for me to use as a sweatshirt, before placing it in my hand.

I snuggled into the yellow cotton, wondering why he owned the shirt in the first place. I was convinced it was because of the one time he wore a yellow tie and I told him it looked good with his eyes. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. It was my favorite t-shirt in his whole collection. I was sad he didn't wear it more often.

Speaking of his eyes, I felt them lingering on me as I admired the view of that Mulholland lookout. "What?" I giggled.

"Nothing," he answered, pulling his eyes away from me. "Just thinking."

"About?"

He chuckled. "You'd be embarrassed if I told you."

Immediately, I worried I had something stuck in my teeth or smudged food on my face or something embarrassing wrong with me.

"No, no, it's nothing about you," he reassured me as I tried to sneakily clean out my teeth.

"Well, that's a relief," I said with a light laugh.

As he looked away, I noticed his breathing growing heavier, like he was nervous. Not in a scared nervous way, in an "I can't believe I'm here with you right now" way.

I'd never related to Dean more. I had to give myself an internal pep talk on the way down the highway, reminding myself that this was just a friendly outing between two people who'd decided they were better off as friends.

For the first time in years, I reached my hand underneath his shirt, playfully patting his stomach. "You're breathing like you've seen a ghost," I giggled, brushing my hand against his tummy once more.

"Well, when I'm around a woman as beautiful as you are, it's hard to contain myself," he chuckled.

The two of us turned to look at each other, admiring a view neither of us had had a chance to see in years: the look of love in each other's eyes.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing down at my lips. "Can I kiss you?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

His lips were still as soft as I remembered them, still as gentle, still as sweet. His eyelashes were so long, I could've sworn I felt them brush across my cheeks as he leaned down. His lips had that familiar taste of orange energy drink, something I couldn't believe he still had a habit of drinking after all that time.

As I pulled away, I left a short, loving peck on his jaw, next to his neck. I didn't say it, in fact, I didn't say anything, but the only thought in my mind as I looked back up at him was, "I want him." Not in a sexual way, but in a forever way.

☆☆☆

"Can I kiss you one more time for good measure?" he asked as I walked around to his side of the Impala.

I bent down, leaning my head through the window and kissing him once more. I wasn't sure how, but with every kiss we shared that evening, it was filled with more and more love than the last.

As I pulled away, I remembered the look he gave me earlier. How he couldn't pull his eyes away from me. "Hey," I started.

"Yeah?"

"Earlier, when you were staring at me, what were you thinking about?"

He sighed, almost like he was ready for a confession. "You want the truth?"

I giggled, "That would be nice."

"I was thinking about growing older. With you."

I sighed this time, looking down at my hands as I played with my fingers.

"I know. It's silly, right? To think about a hunter settling down with his brother's best friend from law school? Crazy, right?"

"It is crazy," I told him, facing him again.

He frowned, beginning to reach for the gear shift to back out of my driveway.

"Hey," I stopped him.

"Hmm?" he hummed, turning back to me.

"It's just your luck that I like my men a little on the crazy side."

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

When I tell y'all, this is genuinely one of my favorite things I've ever written 😭

ik, y'all are probably like "Emmy, u say that about all ur imagines 🙄✋🏻" and to that i say "hush ur lemons"

anyway, i absolutely love everything about this imagine. i'm kind of glad i wrote Another Man's Jeans because i feel like ever since then, all i've wanted to write was exes with feelings. anyway, i'm super happy with how this turned out and i appreciate all the patience from my Dean girlies and gays.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

↳ Request an imagine here!

↳ Join my taglist here!

↳ Get to know me here!

↳ TAGLIST: @1234-angelika @ohhmychuck @lowsodiumfreaks67 @drayshadow @alexxavicry @mrspeacem1nusone @kbakery @leigh70 @darkloverfox

☆𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒☆

[chibimyumi]

Lizzie’s Campania Dinner Dress REDESIGNED

After having redesigned the Notorious Robin Dress of O!Ciel (click here), I thought I’d try my hands on another well-known dress; Lizzie’s dress on the Campania!

As explained in the post linked above, Yana seemed to not have an inkling of historical fashion knowledge at the beginning of the series. As the series became bigger however, she employed a Victorian Era expert and the results are clear.

In this post I will examine to what extent Lizzie’s dinner dress is accurate and break this costume down from the top, and propose how to “correct” these while trying to keep as much of the original design as untouched as possible.

I. Dinner Dress

Hair

Just like I said in the Robin Dress™ REDESIGN post, needless to say, 19th century people would not have worn twin tails. Wearing the hair down was considered ungroomed for women in the 19th century, but young, unmarried girls were allowed to spare a few hairpins.

Unlike O!Ciel who would always try to strive for a more mature look, Lizzie would aim for the opposite.

In the late Victorian era it was normal to have bangs, but it was proper to have it cut well above the eyebrows. So Lizzie’s bangs only need to be trimmed a bit to be period accurate.

The long dangling fringe of Lizzie’s is a tribute to her mother, but alas, that one does need to go... I do not dare fully risk the WRATH of Frances the Formidable however, so in honour to her, I have kept that bang as much as possible. The sides of the bangs were allowed to be longer in order to frame the face better, but the point remains that the face should not be covered.

(I know, I know, two symmetrical half-arsed fringes would have been better, but I promised to try change as little as possible...)

Victorians hardly ever cut their hair, because the longer the hair, the more feminine and desirable a girl/woman was deemed to be. The aesthetic of hair in 1880s was more in the vertical direction instead of horizontal. Hence Lizzie would probably have worn her curls a bit smaller, therewith using up less hair into the width.

The period wherein people strongly favoured a horizontal aesthetic was approximately 200 to 70 years outdated. If we had to justify what type of hair Lizzie’s hairdo was supposed to be historically, I could only say it is probably the 1670s early baroque hairdo. (I mean... that portrait IS fairly similar to Lizzie’s hair, is it not?)

The hair ornament Lizzie wears is not entirely impossible, just very unlikely for the 1880s. I have kept the weird rosette that she wears, and used them to pin up both sides of her hair. I could not find any visual sources of people wearing rosettes in their hair instead of their chest after earning some type of prize, but since there were no regulations regarding how a ribbon must be tied into a bow, the rosettes can stay.

Neckline and Bodice

The design of the original bodice also requires a bit of work. Just like with the Robin Dress, the main problem lies with the silhouette.

In the height of the Victorian Era, the main endeavour was waist reducing, hence the chest area would be accentuated and “streamlined” towards the shoulder, while the seams would detract from the waist optically.

Instead of the straight design of the chest panel, I replaced it with a fan-shaped front piece, of which the lines would achieve this ‘streamline’ effect.

The halterneck-like neckline as in the original design would have been quite unlikely as it would have made the neck stand out, and make the much thinner neck compete with the desired small waist. The rule of thumb for what aesthetic bodices should have was generally open wide top, closed small bottom (V shaped, not O). Usually when there is a halterneck-line, something else that would redirect the eyes towards the larger shoulder-chest area would adorn the bodice too for compensation.

Thus, instead of the rounded halterneck-line, I replaced it with a straight square neckline. Though square-necks were not very popular in Lizzie’s time, they were not unheard of. Miraculously I happened to stumble upon this illustration from 1889 (exactly Kuro’s present day setting), and herein we can see both the short lantern sleeves and the square neckline.

Decoration wise there is nothing inconsistent with 1889 fashion, but as Lizzie is the daughter to an influential Marquis and the dress is supposed to be a dinner dress, it should be a tad gaudier. The elaborateness of Lizzie’s original dress was more alike that of a daytime walking dress. I did not deviate too much from the original manga’s design, I simply added some gold details that were not there yet.

(The anime’s dress had been simplified for animation’s sake, so my redesign is based on the manga’s slightly more elaborate triple panel decoration.)

This choker ribbon necklace is the same as for the Robin Dress. Like I said before, these were worn by people in the 1880s, but they were not standard for fancy night time events. However, as it is technically not historically ‘inaccurate’, it can stay.

Waistline

Just like the Robin Dress, Lizzie’s waistline is the most historically inaccurate part that renders the entire design a period amalgamation.

First of all, I gave the waistline a pointed end and swagged the inner skirt up towards the hips for a dramatic V-shape. The bow-sash worn around the waist was something that was in fashion during the 1780s and 1790s, and was part of the ‘Chemise de la Reine’ look that was named for and popularized by Marie Antoinette.

Fashion trends do always come back every now and then, so a ribbon bow is not necessarily taboo. But the height at which the bow sits on the original dress would guide the waistline towards the hips, which would have gone against the small-waist aesthetics of 1880s, which would have been taboo.

Hence, I removed the sash entirely, and shoved the bow itself to the back (more on this below.)

Skirt

Again, the same problem Yana had with the Robin Dress; the bell-shaped silhouette that would be at least 30 years outdated by 1889, so I simply reduced its volume.

The split panel front however, was common in the 1880s, as such it remains untouched.

The dress code for formal events would require a floor-length hem for dresses, but a dinner party such as the one on the Campania would be semi-formal, and Lizzie who strives for a very youthful look would have been able to get away with a shorter hem. Hence, the skirt length also remains unchanged.

Bustle

“Does this dress make my butt look small?” would have been the question women asked. Late Victorian fashion just LOVED a huge behind, and the bustle was the absolute star of any feminine outfit.

The design of the ornaments on the original dress is actually spot on, except that it would simply lie flat over the skirt, rather than help the skirt get a large bulge.

So for the redesign, I have decided to use the golden bow that sat at the front to draw the attention towards the maximised behind. Underneath I used the original triple row tails, and flanked this decoration with large pleats to produce a dramatic back. For completion’s sake, I have added golden embroideries to the pleats so that the large golden bow will not just sit there as a random piece of ornament.

Shoes

I could find relatively few sources on late 1880s shoe fashion, so my caveat here.

Lizzie’s d’Orsay type of shoes were not standard in the 19th century England, but they were definitely not impossible. 1880s d’Orsay pumps were a bit more closed around the lateral arch, but the technique to make completely open d’Orsays was already available in the 1600s, and wildly popular after the 1830s. As I could not find any sources on when they stopped being popular, I think Lizzie’s shoes would probably have been acceptable.

What I do propose to change is the point of the toe. Only very, very young girls (up to age 4 ish) would wear a rounded nose. Slightly older children and adults would wear pointed toes instead.

The only other thing I propose to change is only a “problem” if I were to be perfectly pedantic and nitpicky; namely the arch of the shoe. Arches of the shoe until the 1910s were mostly straight, and did not have the same arch as our natural feet have. So in order to create the perfect 1889 shoe silhouette, I straightened Lizzie’s shoes too.

Y’all still with me? Good. Now comes the trickiest part, THE UNDERWEAR, a.k.a. Lizzie’s Battle Suit.

II. Battle Suit

Lizzie’s dinner dress was actually fairly historically accurate, earning a personal Chibimyumi rating of 6.6/10 in total (as opposed to Robin Dress’ miserable total rating of 4.1/10). Her Battle Suit however, scores less well, reaching only a 5.4/10.

Chemise

Victorian undergarments were nothing like our contemporary ones. If you have no breasts then it is easy, but if you do... well, a bra is bad enough, right?

Well.... In the Victorian times women wore layers on top of layers, of which the first was the chemise. Contrary to popular belief, people did not wear corsets directly on their skin. Corsets were very hard to wash, thus the chemise served to both protect the corset from getting dirty, as well as absorb the sweat.

Yana did do pretty good research as attested by her not having fallen for this popular misconception. Lizzie does indeed wear a type of chemise underneath her corset, though I would say that the sleeves are too elaborate for the dress she has chosen to wear on top.

Such elaborate sleeves were worn to be combined with smaller sleeves so that the lace can protrude from underneath, giving the entire outfit a little icing on top (like the lace at the chest). Lizzie’s dinner dress has lantern sleeves that would not reveal any of the chemise’s sleeves.

Chemises were washed quite regularly, but lace is a very expensive and delicate material. Hence, in order to minimise wear-and-tear, people would probably have avoided wearing ultra fancy chemises if it cannot be seen anyway. But who knows. Lizzie is a rich kid, she probably has enough lacy chemises at her disposal. Still, just to be perfectly historically accurate, I gave her chemise simpler sleeves.

Corset

Unlike the chemise, corsets were not regularly washed, and thus elaborate lace was very desired.

The large ruffles on the chest of Yana’s design however, are probably a tad too elaborate, and judging from the thickness, they could easily disrupt the smoothness of the outerwear.

1880s corsets were generally not very decorated as their function was valued over anything else. This corset I found dating from 1887 is the most elaborate authentic one I could find, and it indeed strongly resembles the one Lizzie wears. However, as even this one does not have lace protruding as much as Lizzie’s, I have toned the corset down too for the redesign.

In the 1880s, both corsets with and without front closure were worn. However, the pieces as elaborately decorated in the front would not have front closures. Hence I removed the hook and eye closure in the redesign.

The thing that is the least accurate about Lizzie’s corset is the boning structure. What produced a well-shaped waist was not how tight you lace the corset, but the structure of the boning. An unlaced corset of that time would have looked much ‘curvier’ than any tight-laced straight-boned corset.

By the late 1880s, boning techniques were so advanced that they were very soft and flexible, and yet also provided the firmness necessary for the desired look. The straight paneled type of boning drawn by Yana was outdated and strongly advised against.

Finally, the mini-skirt at the bottom of the corset is cute, but I have yet to find one like that in the 1880s. I don’t think that tiny piece of fabric would disrupt the desirable silhouette, but there will be PLENTY layers on top, so I removed it just to be sure.

Skirt

The skirt - or rather, everything that happened UNDER the skirt is a stack of complexities.

The most bottom layer would have been the underwear with trouser-legs, layer 1. Layer 2 is the protruding hem of the chemise, that may either have been long or short. But the chemise and the underwear are the only things that were worn UNDER the corset, hence the frilly-frilly skirt we see Lizzie fight in should have been the chemise, and not the underskirt.

The chemise was never something as wide as the one drawn by Yana, and could therefore not achieve that flare effect. I know it is absolutely gorgeous, and from an artistic point of view I myself would not have done otherwise. But as I am doing historical fashion research and redesign, I shall compromise myself and settle with a narrow skirt. The skirt would probably have been so narrow Lizzie would have trouble fighting. So it would not have surprised me if she decided to make a large split in it, or rolled it up and tucked it under her corset.

The frilly underskirt we see Lizzie wear should be layer 4 rather than 2. If we study Lizzie’s dress, we can see that the frilly part is a separate piece of clothing, unlike what the anime-art suggests.

Underneath this layer, there would have been a bustle (layer 3) that was strapped around the waist, over the corset. Like I explained before, bustles were essential to any Victorian dress. They came in many shapes and sizes, but I have settled with the simplest one.

Should we wish to keep the frilly skirt, then we need to keep in mind that Lizzie would have worn FOUR layers, which would hardly have made it any easier for her to navigate through the water than before. So why bother remove the dress and expose herself at all then? Hence, all layers from layer 2 on will sink with the Campania.

From our 21st century point of view, the Battle Suit looks quite cute, and we would probably just wear it like that. But if we consider down to what layer a real 1889 girl would have to have stripped, and how many somewhat embarrassing contraptions had to be removed first before reaching some level of mobility, we can probably understand how embarrassing it truly must have been.

Well, I had tons of fun doing this research, and I learned a great lot about what corsets really were (and not the inhumane torture devices they are claimed to be). I hope you all also had fun reading this too.  (*´▽｀*)ノ

【Related post: Ciel’s notorious Robin Dress™ REDESIGNED】

【Related post: Redesign: O!Ciel and Sebastian in different eras】

MASTERPOST My Art  

MASTERPOST Furukawa Era Kuromyu

MASTERPOST Gender in Kuroshitsuji

MASTERPOST Analyses & Info

[ilguna]

Berceuse - Chapter One

summary: you can’t protect her forever.

warnings; swearing.

wc; 11.5k

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

–

This year, Alyssum is the first to wake in the house. 

Typically, she’s one of the last to rise in the house, but as of recently, Alyssum’s been waking up in the middle of the night with sweat soaked sheets and a hollow feeling in her chest.

It’s always the same nightmare that does it to her, and without fail so far, she hasn’t been able to recall what it’s about. All she knows is that it’s nearly impossible for her to fall asleep after she wakes up. Today is no exception. 

She can’t blame it all on the nightmare, though. There’s another reason why she’s up so early, and it’s because this is the first year where she’s officially an eligible candidate for the Hunger Games.

That sentence alone is enough to send a chill down her spine.

She had a hard enough time trying to fall asleep last night, she swears it took her an hour of tossing and turning before she finally wore herself out. The nightmare really cut her a few hours shorter than she wishes. 

Still, when she catches a glance of herself in front of the mirror, she’s not able to detect a trace of sleep deprivation in her face and movements. It seems as if her body is thinking this is just a regular school day, forgetting that she hasn’t been in school for the past three days in preparation for today.

She’s not the only one, everyone who goes to the boarding school that you run was required to take the three days off for mandatory testing and evaluation. It’s only been recently instilled as of last year. It’s because of an incident regarding volunteer ages and the practicality of the boarding-school-trained tributes making it out of the arena alive.

And no, as far as Alyssum knows, it doesn’t have anything to do with Annie and her tribute counterpart. They were perfect candidates for the games and you had done the right thing by making the 70th games available to the seventeen and eighteen year-olds.

The problem started when the age was lowered to fifteen, it opened a discussion on whether or not it was appropriate because they’re still too young. Personally, Alyssum thinks that the age restrictions don’t have as much authority as they’re giving it.

Sure, it’s a rule that the boarding school has, but what’s really stopping the younger kids from volunteering if they feel like it? You and Finnick are still going to do your jobs, you have to mentor them anyway.

Of course, you’d already thought of it, and it’s one of the reasons why the mandatory evaluations were set up. It’s to test the capabilities of every student inside of the boarding school. The parents can get a proper assessment of their child’s improvements, and it also benefits the boarding school’s records.

Anyway, the three days off are the three days leading up to the reaping. It mostly focuses on physical and mental skills, like fighting and memorizing. It’s a thorough process, all of it being hands-on. The other victors, Annie, Luther and Scotch, come around to help speed up the process.

To keep it as accurate as possible, it was decided that students should be scored like how the gamemakers would if they were put in front of them. And since the gamemakers only score one skill, the victors do the same for each individual skill. At the very end of the third day, students are given their individual scores, and on top of that, an overall score.

Currently, Alyssum is sitting at an eight overall, which is better than the other twelve year-olds inside of the boarding school. If she hadn’t been enrolled in the boarding school since she was seven, she’s sure that it would be a different story. 

And it’s not like she started with the other children, either. She’s not the first kid that’s been allowed to train alongside the teenagers, but she was the first child to train in the older kids’ classes.

After only five years, she’s in the fifteen year-old class. Which is the first year that really introduces the weapon specialties. If she spends two years in this class—following the pattern of two years in each class, with the exception of the twelve year-old one—she’ll have mastered the weapons by the time she’s thirteen. 

That’s under the assumption that Alyssum survives this reaping.

As she begins to gather her outfit for today, she realizes what a stupid thought that is. Why wouldn’t she survive the reaping? Her name is only going to be in the bowl once. She might be in the fifteen class but her name isn’t in there four times.

Besides, with how the boarding school has been going these past few years, someone would volunteer over her. She doesn’t even doubt it.

Alyssum stands in front of her wardrobe, a dress in each hand. The first one is baby pink with white accents. There’s a ribbon that runs along the middle, and in the back it’s loose so that she can tie it in a bow. The dress is long-sleeved, soft to the touch with a white trim at the bottom. 

If she wears this one, she’ll have to be careful with where she walks and what touches it. It looks like it can be easily damaged, then again it can keep her warm, and it leaves an open possibility for any accessories.

In the other hand is a shimmery gold-colored dress. This fabric is stiffer, not easily malleable, and the accents are black instead of white. It’s not long sleeved, though, it’s got the arms of a regular t-shirt. Not to mention, it also has pockets.

As much as she likes the pink dress when she holds it up to her body, she thinks she remembers you warning her about what the weather is going to be like today. Hot, especially as time goes on.

She gives the pink dress a soft smile, putting it back on the rod inside her wardrobe. She’ll save it for later, a colder time when she needs to look formal but cute. Maybe during the winter Victory Tour, sometimes the mayor allows your family to join you at the dinner.

She pulls out her black Mary Jane’s, placing them outside of the closet. After shutting the doors, she takes her time moving around the room. A white pair of socks that will show her ankles, a black ribbon to tie into her hair if she wants to, a bracelet you gave her for her twelfth birthday.

She lays the accessories out on her desk in a line so that she doesn’t forget anything when it’s time to put on the finishing touches. Then, she gets to work with the little things.

Alyssum gathers her underwear and dress into one hand, moving to open her door to use the bathroom across the hall. The master bedroom, the one that you and Finnick use, is the only room that has a bathroom attached. However, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t bathrooms littered across the house.

She’s lucky that you had placed her across the bathroom when she was just a toddler. It makes for a short and easy trip when she doesn’t feel like getting dressed in the bathroom. Alyssum can’t count on her hand how many times she’s thanked you for it.

All you said is that you understood way before the boys did.

After shutting the bathroom door behind her, she quickly gets the shower started. It’s become a routine with her, something that you had started when she was old enough to get a schedule down. It makes for quick and easy mornings, especially when everyone wants to shower before the reaping to look nice.

Even with the victor houses, though, it takes a while for the water to heat up. She brushes her hair, and her teeth, in the meantime. A small yawn escapes her mouth just as she goes to test the water again.

Finally warm, she hops in. She washes her hair with the strawberry scented shampoo, working the conditioner in afterward. The body wash that you had picked out for her the other day isn’t fruity, it’s floral. Needless to say, Alyssum is going to smell nice.

When she gets out of the shower, she carefully dries her hair, and then her body. She’s heard the stories about the machines in the Capitol that automatically do this for their citizens. You keep swearing that the house will get it one day, but you haven’t found out a way to get it here just yet.

For now, Alyssum has to manually dry herself off. 

When she’s half-dressed, she works more water out of her hair, afraid that it’ll end up ruining the dress. It’s impossible to get all of it out, so she just hopes that it won’t ruin the fabric too much, besides making it darker.

She leaves the attached ribbon untied, but zips up the back to the top, being sure to fasten the button too. When she looks at herself, half-put together like this, her first thoughts are of how pretty she looks. And then she turns on the vent, allowing the steam to leave the bathroom.

The moment she opens the door again, she can tell she isn’t the only one awake anymore. There’s the faint sounds of coffee brewing in the maker, and sizzling of food. It could be either you, or Reed. The two of you always go back and forth between waking up first. 

Before she goes to investigate, she drops her dirty clothes in the hamper just inside her door. She’s quiet down the steps, because a few of them have a history of squeaking if they’re stepped on a certain way. Everyone in the house has memorized where at this point. It’s always left up to guests to step in the wrong place.

“Hello?” Alyssum calls out quietly, rounding the corner to see into the kitchen.

It looks like you’re the early bird this year.

Your head raises, body twisting to see who’s spoken. You relax considerably when you see that it’s Alyssum. A natural smile covers your face.

Alyssum can see that you’re making pancakes when you move out of the way. The ingredients sit along the counter, a blue mug of coffee sits within arms reach. She thinks that it’s the mug with Finnick’s face on it, a souvenir because you thought it was funny.

“Good morning, honey, you’re up early. Did you sleep okay?” You ask, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Alyssum says, moving into the kitchen, “It’s because I went to bed early last night.”

Alyssum’s made sure that none of you know about her nightmares. The moment any of you find out, she’ll be taken out of the boarding school. It was a rule that was made for her when she was little, along with a lot of others. Like the fact that she can’t volunteer. She’s in the boarding school just in case she’s chosen, not because she’s supposed to be a future volunteer. 

If she were to get taken out, it wouldn’t be permanent, but it would be long enough to put a dent in her training in the boarding school. Of course, in this hypothetical situation, if she didn’t get better quickly, she’d stay out for as long as it took. And stuff like that is unpredictable.

“Makes sense,” you say, turning your back to her as you resume your cooking, “Nervous for your first year?”

“Kinda.” She admits, joining your side, “You don’t think that they’ll put my name in extra times or something, right?”

You give her a look, “I talked to Mayor Burrula, he’s going to make sure you don’t go in there more than once.”

Alyssum smiles slightly, “Finnick feeling better?”

“Yes, he’s still sleepin’ though.”

“So he’ll be at the reaping?”

“He wouldn’t miss it for the world.” You smile, “Do you need help with your hair?”

“When you have time, yes.” She turns her back to you, “Can you do my bow?”

While you do her bow properly, Alyssum has a perfect view of the staircase, allowing her to watch Reed come down. His hair is messy, eyes tired like they always are. It takes him a second to realize that you and Alyssum are in the kitchen, but he does eventually.

“You’re up early,” Reed says, raising his eyebrow at Alyssum.

“Went to bed early.” You say.

He nods, heading to the mug cupboard, pulling a random one off the shelf. A collection has grown over the years, allowing a variety to be picked. Still, Reed’s pick isn’t as random as Alyssum says, he uses the same three mugs over and over again, never in a specific order. 

This time he’s chosen the one that has an outline of the Capitol’s city. 

“You’re all tied up.” You say, standing up again, “Grab yourself a few pancakes, be careful not to spill on that dress.”

“Thank you.” Alyssum chirps, helping herself to the goodies along the counter. She skips over the syrup entirely, preferring the plain taste of pancakes soaked with butter.

She eats quietly, listening to the conversation that you and Reed have. It’s nothing of importance just yet, those topics are typically saved until Finnick and Mox come out. All news can wait until everyone is in attendance.

It really isn’t long before that’s the case. Finnick is down the stairs next, placing a gentle hand on Alyssum’s shoulder as he passes. His hair is much tamer than what Reed’s was, and his first stop is the coffee machine.

You pause the conversation long enough to move the mug you’re using, handing it off to poor Finnick, who doesn’t even realize what he’s drinking out of until it’s too late. His own face is staring him in his eyes. 

Alyssum watches you hold a smile, lips pressing together in an attempt to stifle the laughter that’s working its way out.

“You’re evil.” Finnick mutters, voice a little raspy.

“I can’t imagine what you mean.” You say back, a knowing smile on your face.

“You’re lucky you make good coffee.” Finnick points with his pinky finger.

A few minutes later, Mox is coming down the stairs, hair tied back so that it’s out of his face, “And I am the last one downstairs, yet again.”

“Since we’re all here, here’s the plan,” you start, not wasting time, “I’m going to get Alyssum ready first, then it’s my turn so I can see Mags and Anchor before noon. After that it’s a free for all—just make sure you’re at the reaping area early for Alyssum.”

“Finnick going with you?” Reed asks.

“I’m gonna need extra time to get ready, so she’ll swing by and grab me before she goes.” Finnick says, taking a sip of the coffee again.

“Sounds like a plan.” Mox is loading his plate with pancakes, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, turning your attention to Alyssum, “Ready?”

Alyssum nods, laying her fork onto her plate. You sweep both up quickly, leaving them in the sink before ushering Alyssum up the stairs. She doesn’t have her shoes on just yet, wanting to wait until the last minute to put them on. They’re brand-new, and even with the constant reminders around her to break in the shoes, she forgot to.

“What do you want to do with your hair?” you ask, following her into her bedroom, “Braids, ponytail, something else?”

“Can you do the two buns like you did the other day?” Alyssum asks, pulling her chair in front of her mirror.

“On the back of your head or lower?” you touch the spots to give her an idea.

“Top--or in the middle.” 

Alyssum sits in the chair, watching you get to work behind her. You’re gentle when you handle her hair, nimble fingers that have her hair in position within a few minutes of starting. You’ve had a lot of practice over the years, most of the smaller girls in the boarding school end up needing help with their hair when they learn. With everyone having their own preferences, or hair types, you began to learn quickly.

“When your hair dries a little more, I’ll curl these front pieces, okay?” you say, eyes fixated on the bun you’re putting in place, “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty, I think.”

“Do you want to run to the Square real quick and see if they have Mox’s shampoo?” you secure the other bun, pushing in the bobby pin.

“Sure.”

You smile behind her, patting her shoulders, “Don’t touch them too much, be back before eleven-thirty.”

“I will, thank you.” Alyssum smiles back.

After you leave the room, Alyssum pulls on her Mary Jane’s, already not liking the back the back of the shoe rubs against her heel. This’ll definitely be the last time she shrugs you all off when you try to give her advice. She’s going to end up with blisters, and who knows what that’ll do to her training?

On the way out of the room, she grabs a hold of her pocket knife, the one that you gifted to her. When it happened, Reed wasn’t too thrilled about it, and Alyssum understands why. He came around to the idea, though. Especially after Finnick calmly explained that the logic doesn’t pull through, there’s a lot of things that Alyssum does that she shouldn’t be doing at her age. Why stop now?

Mox and Reed are still in the kitchen and dining room area when she passes through, talking about what the betting might look like this year. Ever since District Four got Annie, they’ve begun to pick up speed with the careers, making it to the end of the games before they’re killed.

There’s always been betting inside of District Four, it’s not anything new. The Capitol isn’t the only exclusive place that does it, it’s just a matter of popularity. It’s likely to be more popular in the other districts though, always wondering if they’ll finally have an outlier that makes it to the finale.

It’s hardly ever the case. 

Alyssum sticks her hand into the cash jar, pulling out the bills that she’s going to need. Everything in the Square is pretty cheap, but everyone in the house has started a habit of paying more than what they need to. There’s more than enough money that goes around the house, yours and Finnicks’ victor checks combined is a huge influx. 

They would have to make a genuine effort to make a dent in the allowance, which says a lot about what the Capitol can afford to give away.

After tucking the cash into the pockets on her dress, she stops at the dining room table briefly, “I’m going to get Mox’s shampoo, I’ll try to be quick.”

“You have your pocket knife?” Reed asks.

She pulls it out of her pocket, showing him the black weapon. It’s folded, tightly secured, it won’t be ripping the inside of her dress. With how often she plays with it, though, it’s only a matter of time before she ends up cutting open her hand. She’s smart enough to play with it out in the open when she does, though. It’ll be easier to clean up the bloodstains than to repair the dress.

“Stay safe.” Mox says.

“I will.”

She’s out of the house after that, taking her time to get to the Square. The original house that Reed inherited after their parents’ death was a lot closer to the black market than the victor house they own now. In a sense, Victor’s Village is near the more expensive stores, since they’re now affordable. It’s a longer walk to get to the Square because of this.

Still, Alyssum enjoys the entire time it takes her to get there. She sees a few of her neighbors outside, offering waves and small smiles. Most of them are friendly, you all have had years to get to know them, and they ended up warming up just fine. Others aren’t as open, for a number of reasons.

You won the Hunger Games, and afterwards came a lot of changes. A lot of losses at the beginning of your mentorship, the boarding school, the strictness of the reaping, and the economy changed regarding the smaller businesses on the poorer side of District Four. 

It was all inevitable, the more victors that come into District Four, the more the changes are going to be. In a way, they hold all the influence of who stays open and who stays closed. Like Alyssum was saying, they all live closer to the expensive side of District Four, so it’s expected that they spend their money there. Yet, they still end up going to the poor shops, which changes the expectations.

It’s hard to tell someone what to do with their money, especially when they’re already doing a lot for the area they live in. Still, people find a way to do it anyway. And if they’re not being vocal about it, then they’re surely not being shy with the way they look at people.

Mox has told her stories about where they used to live, a house that’s still in their possession. She’s been back a few times, but it doesn’t hold any sentimental value to her. She doesn’t remember living there, and the few memories that she tries to cough up are likely made up. She really relies on what her older siblings have to say about the place.

A constant story that’s brought up is always about the neighbors in that area. How kind, generous, understanding they are. Even after you won your games, they never left the Gallows’ family side, because they’re all one big community there. Through thick and thin, they support the families that always get the lesser. Babysitters, meals, clothes, gateways to jobs, anything that a person needed, someone in that neighborhood would find a way to get it to them.

Alyssum may not have experienced it first hand just yet, but she hopes that she’ll be able to see it in person. There’s not much hope for District Four if there’s no humanity that goes around.

Like every reaping day, the Square is crawling with people. There’s a bouncer of sorts outside of the warehouse, someone she hasn’t seen before. She normally knows the people that stand outside as lookouts. Busts on the Square aren’t common, but it’s happened enough times for people to finally crack and make sure that there’s a person standing outside at all times during the busy days like today.

It’s a man, with short dark hair and brown eyes. His arms are crossed, he’s leaned back against the uneven metal of the building’s wall. At first, when Alyssum approaches, he seemingly pays no attention to her. It’s only when she makes a move to go inside, does he finally react, putting his arm out to stop her.

“You can’t go in.” he says, looking her over.

Alyssum raises her eyebrows, giving him a small smile, “Why not?”

“It’s not a place for people like you.” His tone is simple, slightly annoying. Just because she’s dressed nice, she’s not allowed to go inside?

Her hand secures around her pocket knife, thumb over the space that’ll allow her to flip open the knife, “You’re new here, that’s okay.” she states, watching the man’s face, “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but you do know that you piss off the vendors when you turn people away, right? Especially the regulars, like me.” 

She finally pulls out the knife, motioning to his arm with a straight face, “Move it, or I’ll make you.”

He doesn’t move at first, staring her down to see if she’s serious. When Alyssum doesn’t crack either, he finally moves his arm, allowing her entry.

“I’m Alyssum, by the way.” she flicks her knife shut, shoving it back into her pocket, “My older sister is (Y/n), I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

She slips her way inside, leaving the man to realize the minor mistake he made. There’s enough people inside of the Square for it to be claustrophobic, her arm is always touching someone else. It’s not enough to make her worry about the well-being of her dress, though. If she really thinks that it’ll get damaged, she smoothes it down just enough to slip by.

The vendor she’s going to isn’t that far inside, yet it takes forever for her to actually get there. Many people want to stop and have a conversation with her, all of them knowing that this is her first year for the reaping. It’s all good words, reassurances that she won’t get chosen. The chances of it happening are too slim, and there’s plenty of volunteers that’ll want to get to have their try at the Hunger Games.

At the table, the vendor already has Mox’s shampoo on the surface. All Alyssum has to do is pay and grab the bottle, thanking the vendor and assuring him that he’ll be seeing her siblings soon. She waves goodbye, and takes her time leaving the Square. When the sun finally hits her face again, she stops a familiar face long enough to catch the time, finding out that she has thirty minutes to make it back home.

She doesn’t waste time anymore, trying to take the shortcuts so that she can get back to the house quicker. She doesn’t have to rush too badly, Mox is always the last to shower every year. He likes to let everyone else go before him, not minding the cold water. He’s also by far the quickest when it comes to showers.

Victor’s Village is just as barren as always, the silence overwhelming. It’s weird to think that there are seven different families living in the little neighborhood, yet there isn’t a single sound to prove that. Alyssum is sure not to disturb the peace, quietly making her way up the house steps.

Finnick is sitting at the dinner table when she goes inside, head resting against his hand, eyes closed. She doesn’t say anything to him as she goes up the stairs, knowing that he needs the sleep. Finnick’s been sick for the last couple of weeks, and you were convinced that he wouldn’t get better before the games. It wasn't normal sickness, Finnick had been out of it for weeks.

He only recently started feeling better, rising from the steep dip that he suddenly took. You didn’t want to push him into the normal routine so early, but he insisted that he got back to it as soon as possible. There was a slight rift when it came to that, in the end you gave it up, making him promise that he’ll take it easy and not strain himself too badly.

Alyssum drops the shampoo off in the bathroom, and then heads towards Mox’s bedroom down the hall, to the right. She knocks quietly a few times as a warning before opening the door. Mox’s head is raised, waiting to see who’s at the door. 

“Shampoo’s in the bathroom.”

“Thanks.” Mox smiles, “(Y/n) wanted me to tell you that she’s taking you to the reaping, so stick near Finnick.”

“Gotcha.”

Alyssum heads back to her bedroom to put on any finishing accessories that she might want to wear. She had laid out a lot of potential earlier, knowing that she would end up changing her mind on a lot of it, like the ribbon. And there’s not nearly enough time to curl the front of her hair, anymore. She’s left to wind it around her finger to give it some temporary curl.

She empties her pocket knife onto her desk, setting it off to the side. She pulls on the gifted bracelet, and a dainty ring that Mox got her that same birthday. Alyssum’s ears are pierced, so she carefully works in silver stars. She doesn’t wear earrings often anymore, and it’s because they get caught on fabric and hair when she trains in the boarding school.

She takes a step back to see herself in the mirror, and a broad smile covers her face. 

She looks so pretty.

Finnick is still at the table when she gets back downstairs, the only difference is that he’s awake now. He’s drumming his fingertips against the table, sounding off a steady rhythm. He doesn’t seem to notice Alyssum at first, not until she’s pulling out a chair to sit at the table.

“When did you come in?” he asks, looking her over.

“While you were napping.” she smiles, playing with her bracelet.

He hums.

The two of them sit in silence while they wait for you to finish your rounds. It’s a daily occurrence, the job of it just bounces back and forth between you, Finnick and Anchor. The older victor’s need to be checked up on, starting with Mags, then Luther, and finally, Scotch. Annie has her family so she doesn’t need to be looked over as vigilantly.

Ninety percent of the time, they don’t need to be checked up on. It’s the other ten percent of the time that makes it worth it, though. Luther’s taken some nasty spills recently, forcing him to move to the downstairs part of his house to avoid another accident. Or like a few years ago, when Mags had her stroke, and you’d found her before it had been too late.

It also helps build relationships, too. It lets the other victor’s know that someone cares, even if it’s the person across the street. Scotch wasn’t always friendly, it took years of talking to and invitations to finally get him to open up. He never married, didn’t have any kids. Luther’s wife died a long time ago, he didn’t want any kids. And Mags only has your family to rely on.

Remember what Alyssum had said about community? Victor’s Village didn’t have one, not until you and Finnick rolled around. It took years of building, but it got there, and it’s what keeps the neighborhood running. Not to mention, it takes an hour, two max to check up on the others.

It’s not a waste of time, not if it can save lives.

The door opens a little while later, revealing you. Upon seeing that Alyssum and Finnick are ready to go, a smile appears on your face, waving for them to get a move on.

“Sorry I took so long, apparently Luther needed to shower so I had to go and grab Anchor.” you hold the door open for Alyssum, allowing Finnick to take care of it when he walks out last.

“You didn’t wash him yourself?” Finnick jokes, you give him a playful eye roll. 

“No, I’ll leave the sponge baths to you and Anchor.”

Mags is waiting at the bottom steps, cane in hand. She doesn’t really need it, it’s just extra support to take the weight off of her feet. Together, the four of them start to head towards the courtyard area where the reaping takes place. This year, Anchor has agreed to go ahead and take Scotch and Luther to the reaping. As always, Annie’s family can take care of their daughter.

The walk is fairly quiet, with only you and Finnick talking, and the occasional question being directed towards Alyssum. It's a lighthearted conversation, keeping Alyssum’s mind off of the fact that she’ll be standing with the other twelve year-olds in less than a half hour.

Besides the fact that the courtyard is so far, they left early so that they’d be able to get Alyssum signed in before it got too busy. The Capitol takes advantage of the Hunger Games’ reaping by keeping track of the population. Mostly just the children eligible for the reaping itself, they could care less about the actual adults that are too old for the games.

After all, their deaths will be recorded by the hospitals that get the misfortunate of reporting it.

“They already know that you exist, Alyssum,” you tell her once you see the station full of peacekeepers, “All you have to do is tell them your name and they’ll take a blood sample. It’s going to hurt for just a second.”

“And then I go and find you?”

“We’ll be nearby, you don’t have to go searching too far.” Finnick says.

Alyssum gives them a nod, “Okay.”

She splits from them, heading towards the end of the line. It’s moving at a steady pace, it’ll be her turn in no time. From where she stands, it looks like there’s not a lot of people in the fenced-in area for the reaping. She’ll get to choose where she wants to stand, and it’ll be in view of you.

Alyssum watches the boy ahead of her, stating his name, and then holding out his hand for the peacekeeper to take when they’re ready. He moves on quickly, going straight towards the courtyard, and suddenly it’s Alyssum’s turn.

She moves forward, “Alyssum Gallows.”

The peacekeeper writes the name down, “Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Sister of (Y/n), right?” he looks up, the visor on his helmet is at the top, allowing her to see the peacekeeper’s eyes. They’re a dark brown, not a very common color inside of District Four. He’s definitely from the Capitol, “The victor?”

Well, obviously the victor. There’s no one else in District Four with the last name of Gallows, and it's because it was hand-picked by a great-grandmother during the Dark Days. The family name wasn’t always Gallows.

“Yes.” Alyssum says it slower this time, eyes narrowing slightly. What is he getting at?

He holds out his gloved hand for hers, presumably for the blood draw. He secures it, yanking her forward, closer to the table as he brings up the buzzer. Just by looking at his eyes, the wrinkles that have engraved themselves in the corners, he’s got a smile of sorts on his face. She’s got a sick feeling it isn’t friendly, though.

He tazes the tip of her finger, presses the print down onto the space beneath her name, and doesn’t let go immediately, “The Capitol will love you.”

Alyssum recoils, pulling her hand free. She’s careful not to touch the blood to the outside of her dress, instead she opts for shoving them straight into her pockets, staring down at the man, “It’s a shame they didn’t like you the same, isn’t it?” she can see the wrinkles fading, which means his smile is going, “After all, you became a peacekeeper.”

She goes to leave, a step in, when another thought comes to mind. A grin covers her face, eyes landing on the man again, who’s no longer as smug as he was before, “And the Capitol already loves me.”

She walks away, heading straight to you and Finnick. She doesn’t have to grab your attention, because the two of you are caught between looking at her, and looking at the peacekeeper that had just given her a hard time.

“What did he say?” Finnick asks, you press a hand to her back, ushering her to the stage.

“He asked if I was your sister, was all.” Alyssum says.

“Besides that, he said something else.” you say, “I know he did, because you wouldn’t have pulled away like that.”

Alyssum shrugs, “He said, ‘The Capitol will love you’ and so I told him that they do.”

She doesn’t miss how you and Finnick share a look. It’s not very subtle at all, she’d like to read your minds, but she hasn’t gotten to that point yet. She does begin to get a little worried when you stop walking, and make her stop too.

“We talked to Elysia and Mayor Burrula.” Finnick reminds you.

“But they aren’t in charge--” you start, pausing briefly to secure your hands over Alyssum’s ears. It’s all muffled, too hard for her to hear besides a few words. She thinks you mention President Snow and the Capitol, that’s as far as she can hear, though.

The hands are removed, and Alyssum is being pushed towards the stage again.

“Is everything okay?” Alyssum asks, looking at you.

You give her a gentle smile, “Yes, the reaping starts in fifteen minutes, so why don’t you go ahead and stand at the twelve section, okay?”

Alyssum nods, allows you to grab her head to place a quick kiss on the top of it. Finnick gives her a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, and then follows you to the stage. Mags has already taken her seat, right next to Luther, Scotch and Anchor. When Alyssum turns to get a quick glance behind her, she’s able to see that Annie is coming up. Reed and Mox are not in sight.

They always arrive late. You asked them to be early this morning, but that’s practically impossible for them to do. They always have something going on, an extra-long shower, stopping at Caspian’s house, walking slower than normal. The most that Alyssum will probably get is five minutes before the reaping. If she enters now, like you asked her to, then she won’t be getting those few minutes.

It’s not all that important, anyway. She’ll be seeing them after the reaping, and maybe a quick goodbye from you before you and Finnick go to the Capitol to mentor.

She takes a deep breath, and then goes forward, passing the peacekeepers that are in charge of corralling the teenagers and keeping them inside. She has to walk all the way up to the front, since the older kids are required to stand in the back. It’s mostly because of height differences, it makes it a lot easier to actually see the eligible faces of the young if the old aren’t in the way.

There’s not a lot of girls in her section, so she positions herself wherever she wants. She can see your chair, and where the Mayor and Capitol escort is, and that’s really all that matters.

In the meantime, she keeps her feet planted and lets the other girls walk around her. One of Alyssum’s friends, Laleh, decides to stand right next to her, talking about her dress. Alyssum tries to be polite by listening to what she has to say, but eventually can’t pay attention anymore. Her hands are sweating and her stomach is twisting into knots.

As soon as there aren’t teenagers coming into the reaping area anymore, Mayor Burrula stands from where he was sitting. He heads towards the microphone, and starts his usual speech, starting with the history of Panem, moving onto the Dark Days and what brought them to the Hunger Games, and then the list of District Four’s victors.

“Mags Flanagan,” he starts, he holds no cards. The speech is committed to his memory, “Luther Burch, Scotch Holloway, Anchor Ridge, (Y/n) Gallows, Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta.”

A total of seven.

And with that, he introduces Elysia Petalsong, District Four’s Capitol escort.

This year, she’s dawned in a gentle blue, with fake seafoam strategically placed around her dress. She gives the mayor a smile, wandering her way up to the microphone on the podium. Alyssum’s had plenty of conversations with Elysia by now, so she knows that Elysia’s reliable and kind. District Four is lucky to have her.

“Happy Hunger Games,” Elysia’s accent isn’t as strong as some of the Capitol people Alyssum’s met, “And may the odds be ever in your favor. Let’s begin with the ladies.”

Elysia moves to the bowl on her left, her hands are also covered by gloves, this time white. The ones that the peacekeepers have are black and leather, most smooth to the touch. The one sitting at the table wasn’t, it’s obviously had its fair share of wear and tear.

She stops in front of the girls bowl, a smile on her face. She sticks her hand in, picking a slip of paper that’s pressed to the glass bowl. With two fingers, she brings it back out, taking her time to find her place back at the podium again.

Alyssum can feel her heart beating in her chest, blood rushing in her ears. She’s only twelve, she knows her name is only in there one time, so why is she feeling this way? There are many, many other girls that could be called, who’s to say that it’s her?

The feeling doesn’t shake, not even when she looks at you.

This scene, it’s too familiar...

Elysia unfolds the paper slip, a smile on her face. She inhales, preparing to say the name, but it never comes. She deflates, the microphone catching the wind. Elysia seems to go rigid, eyes glued to the paper slip between her gloved fingers. 

Alyssum can see you sit up taller, eyebrows inward and trying to see if you can catch the name yourself. It must be too far, because you’re shaking your head and shrugging at Finnick. 

Another couple of seconds pass, and it’s enough to make the head peacekeeper impatient. He clears his throat, letting her know to get a move on. It’s enough to finally slap her out of her daze, blinking several times. When she speaks, though, it’s barely above a whisper.

“The girl’s tribute this year is--um--” she pauses for a moment again, shaking her head, taking in a deep breath. She ends up letting out half of it before she speaks again, “--Alyssum Gallows.”

It hits Alyssum, making her go rigid.

Her nightmare, she remembers what it’s been, and why this whole scene was so familiar. It’s because she’s lived this exact scenario several times a week, leading up to today. It wasn’t just a nightmare, it was the future. 

The now.

Alyssum lifts her head slightly, eyes finding you first, wanting to make sure that this is real, this isn’t some dream. By the way you’ve braced yourself against the chair, hands gripped around the seat, how Finnick has his hand wrapped around your stomach, holding you back. It’s real, this is all real.

She sucks in a sharp breath, her hands curling into fists as she moves to go to the aisle. The volunteers will not be immediate, after District Four started getting so many, the Capitol encouraged Mayor Burrula to fall back on the old rules; the original children get up to stage, and then volunteers are asked.

Alyssum can still hear her heart in her ears, feel the back of her shoes rubbing against her heels. She should’ve broke the shoes in, it wouldn’t be painful to walk, had she just broke the shoes in.

She relaxes her hands, forcing a smile on her face, despite the grim looks that everyone on stage is sharing at the moment. The peacekeepers march her to the stairs, which is only a few feet away, and then they leave her to make the rest of the way up by herself.

Elysia gently takes Alyssum’s hand in hers, directing Alyssum to stand in front of the girls’ glass bowl. There’s a constant thought running through her head, reminding her that every camera is currently on her and her older sister. Everyone in the Capitol is currently on the edge of their seats.

Alyssum Gallows, younger sister of (Y/n) Gallows. Or as you’re professionally known, The Executioner.

From way up there, on the stage, Alyssum can finally see her brothers, who also aren’t looking too hopeful. Reed has paled severely, lost all color in his face. Mox doesn’t even look like he’s inside of his own body anymore, just staring straight forward.

Alyssum can understand why you’re all looking this way, horrified. It’s because you all knew it was a possibility, you didn’t think that it would come true. 

Even with his current state, Reed waves a hand to catch Alyssum’s attention. He has his lips pressed together, face twisted. She’s never seen him cry before, but that might change today. Still, he stands up taller, draws his shoulders back, and raises his chin. Then, he motions to her.

She understands, and follows what he did, one at a time. He wants her to look confident, standing tall and brave. It’s a smart tactic, takes away the idea that she’s scared.

“And now, to the boys.” Elysia isn’t as confident, moving towards the boys’ bowl.

She digs her hand into the paper slips, and pulls out one that was sitting in the middle. No matter where she grabs from, there will be an unlucky child that’s called to the stage. There’s no escaping it. Alyssum is a good example of this.

Back at the microphone, she unwraps the tape and clears her throat, “The boy tribute for this year is Delroy Hardin.”

Alyssum recognizes the name, he’s in the boarding school. And funny enough, he’s fifteen, so she’s trained alongside him. Just like Alyssum, he’s good, just not perfect yet. With more time, both of them will get there.

Delroy comes out of the right side in the boys section. The peacekeepers spot him, and join his side for the march up front. He looks straight ahead, not paying attention to them. During the few conversations that Alyssum’s had with him, he was standoffish at the beginning. 

It’s not really a surprise that he’s not a big fan of the peacekeepers.

He takes his time going up the steps, Elysia guides him to his place behind the boys’ glass ball. When she returns to the podium, she seems to have lightened up a little.

“Any volunteers?” She asks.

For a moment, it’s still, then a hand shoots up in the seventeen section for the boys, none of the girls move. Which is fine, because Elysia is going to ask again, anyway.

“I volunteer!” The teen emphasizes, coming out of the section. The peacekeepers spot him, and move him forward to the front.

Alyssum knows him, too. He’s from the boarding school, but even worse, he’s the brother of Marsh Milillio—Annie’s tribute counterpart who ended up being decapitated. Paslee Milillio has come close to going inside of the Hunger Games once before already, and that’s when Marsh volunteered over him.

She holds her breath, wanting to look at you.

Delroy backs up, allowing space for Paslee to take his place. First, he joins Elysia at the microphone to introduce himself.

“And what’s your name?” She asks.

“Paslee Milillio.” He echoes Alyssum’s thoughts.

Elysia doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Alyssum wonders what Annie looks like, actually.

“Brother of Marsh Milillio?” Elysia asks slowly.

“Yes.” Paslee nods, and then flashes a smile.

“Thank you for your nobility.” She says, queueing Paslee to take Delroy’s place. Once he stops moving, she turns to the mic again, “Any girl volunteers?”

Silence. No one moves. Alyssum can hear the wind whistling in her ears, and feel her heart beat harder in her chest, knees locking so that she stays upright.

“No volunteers.” Elysia says, taking a deep breath, “Well, Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

She backs up, allowing Alyssum to see Paslee. The two of them shake hands now, she’s seen it happen a dozen times. She forces a smile on her face, being the first to move forward. Paslee’s hand is warm, and he’s got a tight grip. They shake once, and then twice.

Once again, Alyssum turns to face everyone standing in the sections. The Capitol’s anthem blares overheard, hurting her ears. And she doesn’t miss how Mox is crying, a fist pressed to his mouth. 

As soon as the anthem is done, she’s getting swept into the Justice Building. Paslee is taken one way, she’s brought the other. They put her in a room with velvet couches and lock the door behind them, leaving her alone to her thoughts.

Alyssum stares at the window, not knowing whether to laugh, to cry, or to pinch herself. It feels like she’s dreaming, as if none of this is actually real, but she runs her hand along the couch and she can feel the softness beneath her fingertips. 

Still, for good measure, she pinched herself, tighter and tighter. The pain grows, and there’s a red spot when she pulls her hand away. She’s not dreaming, she’s still awake.

Alyssum takes a seat on the couch, places her hands together, and then slides them between her thighs. She leans forward, prepared to get up at any moment while she stares at the sunbeams on the floor.

She’s only twelve, her name was on one paper slip. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence, like it just-so-happened to have turned out this way. It feels planned, especially since no one volunteered over her. Every single year, there’s been two volunteers, why is this year any different?

It takes only a moment for her to realize.

The peacekeeper just before the reaping, he knew that this was coming. He knew, and that’s why he said something, to taunt her. You and Finnick had gone out of your way to make sure that Alyssum wouldn’t get picked for the Hunger Games, and still, the Capitol always finds its way.

But why would they want her now? Why wouldn’t they want to wait until she was older? Is it because of experience?

With the thousands of questions running through her mind, Alyssum nearly misses the fact that the door opens. She looks up, and then over at the area to see who is first to say goodbye. Of course, it’s her family.

Reed, Mox, you, and Finnick are all coming toward her at once, with widely different reactions on your faces. Alyssum stands, and collides with Reed first, who holds her tightly, tight enough for her to think that her ribs are going to break. She squeezes back, eyes closed.

“I am so--” your voice is wavering, Alyssum pulls away long enough to see the tears in your eyes, “--sorry. I’m sorry, I��m sorry.”

She hugs you next, even though she knows that she’ll be around you for the whole week. 

“You can do this.” Reed says, “All you have to do is remember your training, okay? You’ve got five years right now.”

Her head bobs, moving on to Mox. He lets out a shaky breath, sucking in quickly afterwards. When she moves off of him, you and Reed work at the same pace. You take off her bracelet, he slides off of Mox’s ring. The two of you pocket the jewelry, and she doesn’t have time to argue before there’s a replacement being presented.

A necklace.

It’s blue, reflecting the sunlight that comes through the window. It has a silver chain, and she very carefully lifts it into the air to get a better look at it. She has a feeling she should know where it’s coming from, but she can’t place her finger on it.

“It’s tanzanite.” your voice is soft, quiet, “It was mom’s, and before that, it was grandma’s too.”

“And it’s going to be your token.” Reed says, cupping her hands, “We love you.”

“Thank you,” Alyssum says, “Thank you.”

Reed pulls her back into a hug, head angled backward to look at the ceiling. Alyssum can hear their thoughts, even if they’re not being said aloud. They can’t believe that they’ve spent eleven years raising her, protecting her, loving her. Only for it to come back down on them in the worst way possible. You getting chosen for the Hunger Games was bad enough, this is--was--out of the question.

“You listen to (Y/n) and Finnick,” Reed starts, she knew this was coming, it was inevitable, “Every word they say, every piece of advice they have to give, you listen to it and you find a way to make it work.”

“Yes.” she says.

“No,” Reed says suddenly, making her look him in the eyes, “Promise me, right now.”

No one wants to say it. No one wants to say that she has a little to no chance of winning, that it’s not funny. Finnick was the youngest victor to ever win, and that’s with the help of you. There hasn’t been a single tribute younger that’s come close to winning.

It would take a miracle for her to pull it off.

“I promise.” Alyssum says, “I will listen to (Y/n) and Finnick.”

“Good.” he breathes, he doesn’t look more at ease.

The sound of the doorknob turning across the room, makes them all look over. The peacekeeper on the other side stares into the room for a second, and then says, “Time’s up.”

Alyssum watches as you and Finnick join the group hug that’s given to her, and then quickly back away so she can have an official goodbye with her brothers. Reed squeezes her, Mox cries into her shoulder, the both of them telling her that they love her.

Just before you exit the room, you stop next to the door, “Cameras are at the train station, so chin up, okay? Big smiles.”

The peacekeeper shuts the door as soon as you’re out of the way, leaving Alyssum alone again. She’s sure that she won't get any more visitors. Laleh is her friend, but her mother will hold her back from doing it. Instead, Alyssum stares at the necklace for a while longer, running her thumb over the smooth rock. 

You wouldn’t have given it to her if you knew that it had the chance of getting declined from being a token. Which means that she’ll be able to represent mom, and grandma, just like you had when you went into the games. You took that engagement ring, a family heirloom, and took the spirit of your family with. Maybe the necklace will have the same effect.

Actually, she’s counting that it will.

When the peacekeepers come back, it’s to collect her and bring her to the car. By then, she’s already got the necklace around her neck, so she follows them to where they guide her to be. Inside of the car is Elysia and Paslee, the door slams shut behind her.

The ride from the Justice Building to the train station isn’t all that long. It’s enough time for Alyssum to think about how this is her second time in a car, ever. The first time being when you had been chosen for the Hunger Games, and Reed and Mox needed a speedy way to get to the train station before you did. She was only three then, she doesn’t remember a single thing from it. Not even the urgency.

Elysia is required to get out of the car first, Alyssum is directed next. She doesn’t miss how badly the back of her feet hurt, and bites back the facial expressions she wants to make. Paslee comes out after, graceful and smiling. The two of them are brought to the platform, and stand there to allow the Capitol to get a good look at them before the train takes them away.

Reed and Mox are at the very front. Reed’s arms are crossed, face in a frown, and briefly musters a smile just for her. Mox is still crying, hands pressed together in a prayer, which are against his lips. He’s shaking his head, disbelief, she thinks it is.

Alyssum gives them a smile, blows a kiss, and then waves.

“Okay, come on.” Elysia finally says, pressing a hand to each of their shoulders, pushing them inside of the train.

The door shuts, the train immediately beginning to move. You and Finnick are nowhere in sight just yet, and Alyssum has a feeling it’s because Elysia has to give a tour of the train first. The Justice Building in District four is nice inside, probably a lot better than the poorer districts--she won’t even bother to compare it to the other career districts--but the train is even nicer.

Alyssum and Paslee each get their own bedrooms, private bathrooms, and large dressing rooms. It’s better than her house back home, of course. However, she still wouldn’t trade her small bedroom and the bathroom across the hallway for anything here. The dressers inside of the bedroom are filled with expensive clothing from brands that she didn’t even know existed. Elysia keeps repeating that they can do whatever they want on the train, wear the clothes without charge, this is their time to be comfortable before the chaos of the Capitol.

Elysia stops in the hallway that’s shared between the two tribute bedrooms, with Alyssum to her right and Paslee to her left, “Neither of you will see the mentors until supper, which is in an hour. I suggest showering, changing, letting out any emotions you might be feeling beforehand.”

“Thank you.” Alyssum says.

“Yes, thank you.” Paslee repeats.

Elysia smiles at the both of them, leaving through the door they all came through. For a moment, the two tributes stand there, not moving to go to their rooms. Paslee is the first to speak up.

“Do you want to try out an alliance?” he asks, “And decide later on if we want to stick to it?”

Alyssum gives him a smile, “Sure.”

He gives her a smile back, splitting ways. Alyssum gets into her bedroom, only a few steps in, the door just barely closing behind her, and she’s already bursting into tears, a hand clamped over her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut, lowering herself to the floor to sit down. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. 

She sniffs, and she’s breaking down immediately after.

Her name was supposed to be inside of the bowl once. Who knows how many times the Capitol requested it be? They could have had the whole bowl be her name, and it wouldn’t have mattered what paper Elysia picked. All outcomes would’ve pointed to Alyssum, and she would have ended up here, on the train to the Capitol, a contender of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

She slams her fist into the carpet once, twice, three times. It hurts, she wants to stop, but she doesn’t know what else to do. How else is she supposed to let all of it out? Rip the clothing in the closet? Order plates and break them against the walls? Smash everything around her?

It’ll just create a mess that someone else will have to clean up. So, for now, she continues to slam her fist against the carpet, hoping that she’ll still have this frustration later on in the training center. That’s where all of this anger will really matter.

She should shower.

Alyssum pulls herself together, dragging her feet into the walk-in closet. She digs through the drawers, finding a pair of black jeans and a red shirt to wear. She skips over shoes, knowing that she’ll have plenty of time leftover to pick a pair out.

She places the necklace into a glass bowl, being careful not to tangle the silver chain. After she starts the shower, she undresses, using a hanger nearby to put the dress up. If she makes it out of the Hunger Games alive, she knows that she’ll ultimately want the dress as a keepsake, for whatever reason that may be later on. She doesn’t bother to pull out her hair, not wanting to get it wet in the first place.

She wants to use the bodywash that’s offered, the only problem is that she doesn’t want to wash away the floral scent from home. The one you picked out for her months ago, and she hasn’t been able to get enough of the smell ever since. In the end, she doesn’t have much of a choice, she smells like sweat from standing out in the sun for nearly an hour.

When she comes out of the shower, she gets dressed, and decides against shoes. If she’s going to be walking through the train to get to the dinner table, she should be fine. It would be a different story if she had to go outside or step into anything dirty. Knowing the Capitol, and how they prioritize safety, both of those scenarios have been ruled out.

Alyssum walks herself to the dinner car, running into Elysia on the way. Elysia gives her a small set of directions on how to get there, and then goes right back to trying to retrieve Paslee for dinner. Alyssum makes it to the car just fine, and just as Elysia had promised earlier, you and Finnick are sitting at the table.

“You look nice,” you say, you haven’t changed your outfit at all. Neither has Finnick.

“I skipped out on shoes.” Alyssum admits, taking a chair.

You suppress a laugh.

Elysia comes back a few minutes later, Paslee walking behind her. He’s hunched forward at first, until he notices that you and Finnick are here. He perks up, back straightening, a smile coming over his face again. He must be eager to learn, which is weird, because he’s learned everything possible in the five years he’s been with the boarding school.

Well, Alyssum thinks it’s five years.

Paslee takes his seat next to her.

“The dinner comes in courses,” you warn, allowing Elysia to sit, “Eat too much of just one food and you won’t have enough room for the rest.”

“I’d suggest eating small portions, and knowing how to pace yourself.” Finnick continues, “The food can make you feel sick after.”

Alyssum nods, Paslee does the same.

It starts with a vegetable soup, with potatoes, carrots, celery and more. It moves onto the salad, full of greens, then a beef roast, a light snack of crackers and cheese, and ends with a dessert of ice cream and a small chocolate cake that leaks fudge when it’s broken open.

All of it is delicious, far better than what Alyssum eats back home, which is typically the high-class stuff. With the Capitol money, you can afford the butcher shops, the real bread, the freshly grown vegetables. She’s never had to endure the same pain that you have. Still, even with Reed’s cooking--something he’s very good at--he doesn’t even compare to what she’s just eaten.

She’s full, but craving more. She’s glad that she’ll be able to eat like this for the rest of the week. If the tributes going into the arena with her don’t treat her well, then the food that the Capitol feeds her will. 

After their stomachs are settled, Elysia brings them all to a new compartment, one that will allow them to watch the recap of the reapings. This is the part that’s important, what Paslee and Alyssum have been waiting for. They can finally get a good idea of what their competition will look like, and decide whether or not alliances will be worth it.

As always, District One isn’t anything to get teary-eyed over. It was figured out years ago that the mentors pick their tributes prior to the Hunger Games. So when a tall, skinny boy volunteers, it’s not really noble. Neither is the blonde girl, who’s strikingly pretty, giving the crowd a white smile.

District Two follows the same pattern of volunteers, this time starting with girls. She looks average at first, but the truth is that she’s strong, even if she did walk out of the fifteen section. And undoubtedly, she is much heavier than Alyssum is. Her tribute counterpart is just as terrifyingly large, he’d be able to kill Alyssum without blinking.

She doesn’t like to watch the recap of the District Four reaping as much, pressing her lips together and trying to focus on Caesar and Claudius’ narration.

“And finally, the last of the careers,” Caesar says, “District Four.”

Elysia follows through with her normal routine, picks the girl tribute, and then stands at the podium. This is when it stops, because she’s not speaking immediately, and her Capitol facade dies.

“What’s taking her so long?” Claudius asks.

“Maybe she doesn’t know how to pronounce the name?” Caesar suggests, leaning his chin against his hand.

She suddenly jolts upwards, which must be because of the peacekeeper. She takes a deep breath, and quietly repeats the name for everyone watching. It’s loud enough for the microphone to catch the words, but just barely.

Caesar straightens up, eyebrows drawing in, “Did she say Alyssum Gallows?”

“I think so.”

“Must be why it took her so long.” Caesar looks at the camera now, Alyssum can feel the history lesson coming, “For those of you who don’t know--”

Claudius scoffs, “--which should be impossible--”

“--Alyssum is the younger sister of (Y/n) Gallows, winner of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games, alongside Finnick Odair.” Caesar finishes.

“We should note that there is no guarantee that she goes inside.” Claudius says, “District Four has had an incline of volunteers over the past ten years.”

Caesar nods, agreeing.

Alyssum makes it to the top of the stage, standing with her hands at her sides, smiling at her brothers below. Elysia calls Delroy, who comes up to the stage too. This is when Elysia asks for volunteers, Paslee comes to the stage. And for one final time, volunteers are asked for again, with no response.

“And just like that, Alyssum is going to the Capitol.” Caesar smiles, “I can’t wait to see if she’s anything like her older sister.”

“They make me sick.” You spit, crossing your arms.

The following six districts don’t stand out to Alyssum in any way. District Eleven picks at her interest when another twelve year-old is picked, and met with the same wind-whistling answer when volunteers are asked for. As for District Twelve, it was nearly another repeat, another girl, but her older sister volunteered over her before she even got to the stage.

And then the program ends.

They all sit in silence, staring at the television as Caesar and Claudius begin talking about what they noticed throughout the reapings but didn’t have time to point out, the predictions will follow soon after. Elysia goes to turn off the tv out of habit, never making it past the reapings anymore.

You catch her hand, stopping her from pressing the button, “Wait.”

They mill around with Districts One and Two, going back and forth on commenting on their tributes. Someone then says something off-screen, making the two men lean back and swivel in the direction the sound is coming from.

“What was that, my dear?” Caesar asks, cupping his ear and leaning forward.

The voice is much too quiet for the microphone to pick up, but they seem to hear the girl. Caesar raises his eyebrows, a smile coming to his face while the screen behind him changes to a picture of you from your reaping. 

“Oh.” Claudius says.

Caesar laughs slightly, “For those of you who didn’t catch that, one of our interns has noticed a similarity between reaping outfits for the Gallows sisters.”

It’s you, in this gold dress that you had inherited from your mother. Alyssum doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t even know where it came from. For all she knows, you bought it prior to the Hunger Games at the Square. 

Next, they fade in a picture of Alyssum standing on the stage, in her own gold dress. It makes her feel sick again, reinforcing her idea that this was planned, she was always going to go into the arena this year.

“It doesn’t matter if this was intentional or not, because I think it’s fantastic!” Caesar laughs, motioning to the screen, “There’s practically no difference between the two here, they look the same. She may only be twelve, but she’s already begun to leave a lasting impression. Once again, I can’t wait to see how this all plays out.”

“And let’s not forget the boy that volunteered--” Claudius is saying quickly, not wanting the subject to change, “Paslee Milillio, was it? We had a tribute a couple of years ago by the name of Marsh Milillio, and by what Paslee had said on stage, they’re brothers!”

“Yes,” Caesar says the word as if everyone has already made the connection, “We’ve got a lot of siblings going inside of the arena this year, including the girl from Twelve--”

The tv shuts off then, not allowing them to go any further.

Alyssum looks over her shoulder to see you tossing the remote back onto the couch, “We’ll be in the Capitol in a few hours. I suggest the two of you get some rest until then, you’re going to need it.”

“We’ll come and get you.” Elysia smiles, getting up from where she was sitting.

She’s the first to leave, Paslee is second. Alyssum doesn’t move from the couch until they’re both gone, and when they are, she’s throwing herself at you. You hug her tightly, rubbing her back.

“They did this on purpose, didn’t they?” Alyssum asks, sucking in deep breaths to keep herself crying.

“Yes, they did. And they’re going to regret it.”

--

BERCEUSE IS A SPIN-OFF //MASTERLIST//

add yourself to the TAGLIST

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

[cthulhuliet]

my high hopes (are getting low)

6.8k words [total 13k words] (part one) (part two) (part three) | AO3 Link | warnings: explict content, homophobia, dubious morality, completely unnecessary religious references, it is all smut so please proceed with that knowledge.

‘Cause my High hopes are getting low because these people are so old The way they think about it all If I tried I would never know

Light Yagami's world view is shifted after a conversation with his father concerning L's sexuality. He takes his plan into action. 

Light looked at his watch and the other task force members. It was half past 10, much later than when they typically start work. Light was idly browsing the scanned names from the Death Note on the computer and had enough tabs open to make himself look busy. It doesn’t matter much anyway, he was not planning on getting any work done today. He was biding his time for one of the other members to notice.

“Hey, where is Ryuzaki?” Matsuda frowned, looking around the common area. This garnered everyone else’s attention as they looked around the room as well as at their watches.

“Good point, he is normally the first one down here,”

“Do you think he is still asleep?”

“Even if he actually slept last night he would never be napping for this long,”

Mogi tapped a couple buttons on the computer and footage from L’s room appeared on the large screen. The young detective was holded up in his room, laptop closed in front of him but eyes very much open, just crouching in his chair like he normally does.

Matusda frowned, “He is so weird…” He trailed off shaking his head.

Soichiro adjusted his glasses, looking at the footage in front of him, “We need Ryuzaki to give us the next steps for dealing with the Death Note. Let me call his room,” He dialed the numbers, looking at L, but the phone did not ring on the footage and he did not even move, “It went straight to voicemail…”

Aizawa frowned, “That is odd.”  

Light frowned with mock concern and stood up from his chair, “I can go to his room and ask him what is going on,” The detectives all raised their eyebrows, “What? I am the only one who can actually get into the room either way,”

Aizawa and Soichiro looked at one another, the pair seemingly had a mental conversation with one another, but their expression loudly stated what they were thinking; it is as if they were shouting instead of silently nodding, “If that is ok with you, Light,”

“We’ll be watching the room,”

Predictable.

“I figured as much, Father,” Light pulled on the collar of his black turtleneck as he walked up the stairs towards the elevator. He pressed the button to L’s floor and leaned against the wall of the elevator, smirking to himself. He idly checked his watch, counting down the minutes.

Light knocked softly on the door as he opened it, meeting L’s gaze as he opened the door. L scratched the side of his nose as Light pulled off his shoes, the other man looking at him, mirroring the motion.

“Hey, Ryuzaki,” Light crossed the room. He cleared his throat before he attempted to speak again-- his voice somehow went an octave higher than his natural tone, “The task force is waiting for you downstairs. We tried calling the room but it went straight to voicemail,”

L sighed, opening his laptop. He silently tapped on the keyboard for a few moments before closing it. “I apologize, Light, I meant to send out an email today. I decided last night to get rid of the Note and had them shipped off to a secure location to be lab tested. After that, we can go ahead and test some of the rules written in there, but I had a theory about the use of the pages that I wanted some people to look at,”

This was bullshit and Light knew it. The book was with Watari and not being let out of his sight, but it is an easy enough explanation that the Task Force will at least buy it for the time being.

“Oh, ok, that is good news,” Light shifted his feet, standing closer to L’s chair, “So, why are you in here and not downstairs with everyone else?”

L sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I suppose I just wanted some time for myself. I have been a bit depressed recently,”

“Depressed?” Light chuckled artificially, “About what? We are closer than ever to piecing everything together. We have almost solved it,”

Pressing a thumb to his lips, L shook his head, “It just feels as though it will never end. Every time I think it is finished, there are 3 more questions that pop up, disproving my theories. It is frustrating to be so close and yet never reach the end,”

“I suppose it is more accurate to say you’re stressed rather than depressed,”

L shrugged his shoulders, “Why not both?”

Light smirked, taking a seat on the bed, leaning back casually on his palms, “Ryuzaki, have you ever relaxed at any point in your life?”

There was the trigger sentence, and this is where the show begins.

“Light,” L stood up from his chair and leaned against the chair at the opposite where he was sitting, “You know better than anyone the answer to that question,”

Grinning, Light looked up to a corner of the room where there was a camera blinking at him, “Are the cameras turned off?” He looked there and back at L. If he was nervous he didn’t show it, the detective looked as he normally did, but Light did not miss the slight smirk present on his face.

L shrugged, “Think so,” They were not, “Pretty sure Watari turned them off the second you walked in the room,” He did not, “He normally does,” Watari is in on it. Light pushed himself off the bed, slowly stepping closer to L until he was a mere few inches away, “Besides. The task force just got the email I sent them. No one is worried about us,”

Smiling, Light swiftly grabbed the small of his back and pulled L chest to chest with him, “No, they won’t be,” Light muttered quietly, but loudly enough for the mic to pick up on. He cradled the back of his neck and pressed soft open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. L’s breath hitched and his hands gravitated to Light’s back, fisting the fabric in his hands, “You are so clever, Ryuzaki,”

Grabbing L’s hand, he pulled him towards the large bed. He manhandled the wiry man until he was lying flat on his back, Light straddling his waist and hands on either side of his head.

Light looked in his eyes for signs of hesitation, or a signal to shut this down, but behind the smoky blackness all he could find was a mixture of enthusiasm and anticipation. Despite this, Light still stood over L, unmoving, as if he was frozen. It had only just now occurred to him that this is the first time that he was going to be acting on his attractions towards another person, the first time another person would see him vulnerable and at their will, the first time he would kiss someone and it would mean something, even if it was all just for the show.

“Well,” L leaned up, whispering in his ear, “What are you waiting for?” He punctuated it with a soft bite on his earlobe, and any of Light anxieties went out the door. Because for a moment, he forgot who he was sharing this part of himself with. The only man in his life-- maybe ever-- who could challenge him, keep him on his toes, excite him in any way. There was never anyone else. There was never any other way.

Light would never be able to tell you who closed the gap, but their kiss was messy. Teeth and tongue and wandering hands, quick and dirty, but with a warm feeling of coming home that neither of them had ever felt before. L tasted of frosting and chocolate and sugar cubes and all the things that Light hated, but the saccharine sweetness of it all was ok, because it all just tasted like L.

Wandering hands made their way up and under L’s shirt, Light running his perfectly trimmed nails down his sides. He couldn’t wait to take off the shirt to see the angry red marks that were created.

Light couldn’t help but make a teasing glance to the camera. A part of him wishes he could be downstairs, witnessing the task force’s reaction to the clean cut school boy defiling the number one detective in the world.

L broke this kiss, panting, but Light did not want to waste a second more and attached himself to his neck again. His hands moved up to softly graze over L’s nipples, causing a gasp and a stifled moan. Light looked up to see him biting his lip, eyes squeezed tight.

“How many times do I have to tell you this, Ryuzaki?” Light sat up, fiddling with the ends of L’s shirt, “Stop biting your lips,”

“Or what?” To which L made a point to wet his lips with his tongue, then biting down on his bottom one again.

Teasing bastard.

Light pressed his hands down in between L’s head, hovering over the other one, “You know what happens when you tease me,”

L smirked, “Oh no,” He then used Light’s weak points to his advantage, hooking a leg over his waist and grabbing on of his wrists, L quickly flipped their positions, the older man now straddling the other, pinning one arm over his head, “I am incredibly scared, Light,”

“That’s not fair,”

“Only because you’re losing,”

“This isn’t a game,”

L smirked, and used his free hand to pull down Light collar, he attached his tongue and teeth to his neck and sucked at the sensitive skin. “Only because you’re losing,” He muttered into his neck before continuing his attack. Light gasped and moaned under the touch, previously struggling under L’s hold, he now gave into it. L pulled his mouth off his throat, and he could just feel the bruise blossoming already.

“You are wearing far too many clothes, my dear,” L sat up, and pulled the turtleneck off of Light, and threw it across the room. He breathed out, staring at the others muscled figure and tanned skin. Slightly flustered, L ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the camera and put his pinky finger on his ear and dragged it to his lips: a signal to Watari to actually turn off the cameras this time. As much as they wanted to mess with the task force, they both agreed beforehand they don’t want to have footage of their full encounter and, essentially, have their sex tape on file somewhere.

Neither of them stopped to think that it means they could end their little game. L could have gotten up and grabbed Light’s shirt, and waited for long enough to simply exit the room. The message couldn’t have been clearer, and it was all an act anyway.

Or maybe in the back of their minds they realised it was something more. That it wasn’t just an act. That when Light presented this plan-- this ludacris, unholy plan-- that they both agreed a little too quickly, and had a little too much fun with it.

Maybe L and Light realised, but what was another drop in the lake? What really was another line crossed in their morally ambiguous power play? The shades of grey had never burned brighter, and the desire to indulge in their dissolute sin clouded over their minds too thickly for any logic to shine through.

“Light…” L muttered, his hands trailing over his chest and neck, “You…”

“Yes?”

“You look… just heavenly,” L said, simply. Light’s breath hitched at the words and he swallowed down a groan, not wanting the other man to know how his words affected him. L’s mouth latched onto his nipple, softly wetting and licking it while slowly moving his hips against Light’s, feeling the younger man’s growing erection.

“It is no wonder you have such an ego,” L muttered, gently kissed his chest. He made his way up to his neck again, where he bit down hard, Light now moaning unabashedly, “If I looked as though I was sculpted from everything holy, I would believe I was a God as well,”

Light’s hands made his way under L’s shirt, running his fingernails down his back, “Ryuzaki, I-”

“L.”

“L?”

“Please, Light.” He ran his fingers down the side of Light’s face, locking their lips together once more, “Call me L,”

Light nodded, pulling at his shirt, “L, please,” He lifted it up to L’s chest, “I need more,”

L’s tutted, shaking his head, but pulled off his shirt regardless, “You are so impatient,”

Getting back to work, L pulled Light up by his shoulders, both of them now sitting up. He pushed his hips into the younger man, causing him to groan and dig his nails into L’s hips. L attached himself to the juncture of Light’s neck and shoulder, softly sucking more marks into his skin, as if the other man knew Light always dreamed of hiding a lovemark there under his high collared shirts.

L moved against Light at a painstakingly slow pace, the man under him slowly losing his mind at the ministrations. L pulled his mouth off of him and Light took this opportunity to return the favor given to him. He threaded his nimble fingers into L’s messy black hair, reaching for the roots and squeezed tight. L gasped before moaning, and Light was desperate to pull more sounds from the otherwise reserved man. He pressed his lips to L’s neck, biting and sucking, slowly becoming obsessed with the red and purple bruises appearing under the pale skin. It took more time for Light to create each mark than L, the younger of the two idly wondering about the detective’s previous history. That wandering question seemed to matter less and less as his inexperienced mouth was doing something right, L’s grinding and gasps getting more rapid, the pleasure he was experiencing was evident in every sense of the word.

Light was impatient, but L was too. He pressed his hand against Light’s chest, and pushed him back down onto the bed. The blinds from the window allowed sunlight to seep through the cracks in them. Light looked up at the man above him in wonderment and awe. L’s lips were swollen and his cheeks pink and flushed. He already looked thoroughly wrecked: his hair even more wild than normal and his neck and collarbones were blossoming various shades of red and purple. Light never considered himself a devout man, but with the light perfectly streamed into the room to hit L’s face, eyes tinkling, and with the knowledge that behind them held the most intelligent, calculating mind known to mortals, it is no wonder Light finally understood the need to revere a figure higher than yourself. In this moment, Light was not Kira, the bringer of divine justice and God of a new world, Light only wanted to worship L and be completely at his mercy.

L moved off of Light’s legs and unbuttoned his pants, pulling them off in one swift motion. He hooked his leg back over him and palmed Light through his underwear, Light whining loudly at the action. He was rock hard now and leaking precum through the fabric. He gripped the sheets underneath him, too turned on to be embarrassed about his actions.

L cocked his head to the side, “Light, I have to ask,” He moved his hand off of him and leaned closer to the other man’s face, “You concocted this plan, so it didn’t cross my mind to ask. But have you never…” L trailed off, and Light turned his gaze away from him.

“Have you ever, L?”

“That’s not what I asked, Light.”

Biting his lip, Light flushed, only now feeling self conscious. L ran his fingers softly down his cheek, “That is what I thought,” He looked softly into Light eyes, the typical coldness was replaced with warmth and care, “Don’t worry. I will make your first time as beautiful as you are,”

Beautiful…

L kissed Light softly. If their first kiss was all messiness and lust, this one held a certain gentleness and care that one would not expect from the complex, calculating detective and the greatest mass murderer in history. “You don’t have to treat me like glass now that you know,” Light muttered against his lips.

L smirked, kissing the man under him once more before responding, “I said beautiful, not merciful. I fully ended on both of us being thoroughly wrecked by the end of this,” Light groaned at L’s words, his low voice and balanced diction hit certain weak points that Light didn’t know he had. He moved off of Light once again, palming him firmly but tantalizingly slow. Light threw his head back, unabashedly moaning at the contact. L used his free hand to hook a finger under the underwear, his breath hitching in anticipation. They made eye contact and L simply smirked.

“L, stop teasing, I need more,”

L tutted, shaking his head, “And I need more from you than that,”

Light groaned, head clouded with lust, “L, I need more, I need more, give it to me, please ,”

“There we go,” L moved his hand off of Light cock, hooking his fingers under the fabric, “You are so pretty when you beg. I wish you would use your manners more,” Light groaned, and L began pulling, but jerked away and jumped at a frantic and harsh pounding on the door.

The two made worried eye contact followed by angry shouting coming from the door, “Light, you better open this door right this second before I blow it to pieces!”

“I thought he didn’t know what floor we were on,” Light said, looking at L.

He shrugged, “Your father is smarter than we often give him credit for,”

Another loud bang against the wood, followed by more angry shouting, “ Light! I demand an explanation this instant. Your father is telling you to come to the door now, ”

“He’s going to kill me if I answer that door, Ryuzaki,” Light set his jaw, a familiar bubbling rage was boiling in his blood, “What do we do?”

L, who was mostly unbothered the entire time, shrugged, “Don’t worry, it is being taken care of,” The knocks on the door continued for a few seconds longer before abruptly stopping without hesitation or a second word, “Watari and I planned for this.”

Light looked up at the man straddling him, and raised an eyebrow, “What exactly did you do to him?”

“Does it really matter?” Raising an eyebrow, Light crossed his arms. L sighed, “Just a mild sedative. When an unauthorized user attempted to enter the room more than once, there is a moderate shock that knocks you out for a few hours,”

Light ran a hand through his hair, “So my Dad is just, unconscious lying right outside the room?”

“I am sure Watari took him to one of the surrounding rooms, he is a lot stronger than he looks,” L shrugged, idly running his hands up and down Light’s figure, “We can stop if you want,”

Light knew he was playing a dangerous game, and they didn’t need to continue. He knew that even being in the same bed with the man who wanted to put him on death row was crossing every careful boundary his clever mind had built up. But the feeling of L’s soft, chilly hands trailing over his skin was addictive in a way that made his skin feel as though it were burning up. Light didn’t know how he never saw how gorgeous the man above him was before.

“I apologize for the interruption. I am going to continue, unless you tell me otherwise,” L answered for him and locked his lips on the other man’s nipple, grazing it with his teeth slightly before sucking on the bud and licking it with his tongue. Light’s hand found their way up into L’s hair, gently stroking it. He reached out for L’s slack hand, and placed his on top of the detective’s. L hummed, peppering kisses across Light’s toned chest; the very act of their hands on top of one another felt more intimate than anything they had done today.

L gently squeezed his hand before pulling away, fiercely gripping Light’s hips as he sucked a purple mark into the bone. This time, without being interrupted, he pulled down Light’s underwear, throwing it casually across the room.

Light groaned as the cool air hit his exposed cock. L, being the tease he was, gently traced his index nail up and down the inside of Light’s spread legs. His eyes were wide looking at him, now completely naked, and L subconsciously brought his thumb up to his lips, chewing on the nail.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” Light tried to sound annoyed but his voice came off as whiny and needy.

L looked unfazed (as unfazed as one can with eyes the size of the moon), still drawing his nail up and down his legs, pointedly ignoring the area that Light really wanted L to give attention to, “I have been to museums before, I know you are not supposed to touch the art,”

Light did his best not to whine at the praise, biting his lip and deeply inhaling. But his body seemed to have other ideas as goosebumps covered his skin and his cock twitched at L’s words.

This time, L reacted and smirked, gently tracing his fingertips over Light’s cock, causing him to whimper, “I should have known,” He stated simply, teasing the tip of his cock with his thumb, smearing pre-cum over the head, “Sheltered genius with a God complex? Of course you are going to have a praise kink,”

“Hey, I- Ah!” Light’s protests were cut off swiftly with a loud moan, L’s diving down and taking the whole of Light’s cock in his mouth with no warning. Light’s groaned, throwing his head back against the pillows, gaping like a fish out of water. He grabbed L’s hair with purpose, tightly fisting the black waves in his hands. L expert hands pumped Light’s cock as he focused on his head, using his tongue in a sinful way that made Light see stars.

“God, L, don’t stop, please,” Light begged, gripping L’s hair with a little more force than necessary. The detective groaned, the vibrations from his throat made Light’s eyes water, feeling so overwhelmed by having someone touch him for the first time. He thanked his lucky stars that he never had a fumbling teenage experience complete with awkwardness and ruined orgasms, but being able to have an older, more experienced man give him the attention he deserves.

Gripping his hair, Light held L in place as he slowly moved his hips into his mouth, exercising an incredible amount of self control, as he just wanted to fuck his tight mouth until he finished-- though another real part of him never wanted this experience to end.

L’s brow was furrowed in concentration as Light sped up his movements, a blush spread across his pale cheeks that mirrored the ones on Light’s flushed face. Spit and precum dribbled out of L’s mouth and onto Light’s thighs. The mess he would typically despise, but looking at L’s thoroughly wrecked expression, he could only describe his viewing experience as divine.

Fighting against the hold on his hair, L came up for breath, stroking Light’s cock at a slower speed. Before Light could ask for a reason or wonder if he had hurt the other man-- “Light, slow down, you want to fuck me at least, right?”

His low voice was gravely and breathless, the statement ringing in his ears like noon on a Sunday. L wasn’t telling him what he wanted, he was instead stating what Light wanted. Of course he wanted to fuck him. He wanted nothing more than to see L’s guard broken down to pieces; to bear hold and witness to the number one detective in the world, panting and moaning in his lap as he can only think about Light’s hands and skin all around him.

“What do you want?” Light asked, hands tracing over the inside of L’s thighs, running his well-manicured nails over the roughness of his jeans. L’s eyes were wide as he met Light’s amber gaze, “Whatever you want, L, I want to give it to you,”

“And what if I wanted you?”

Light sat up, holding himself up with his forearms, “You have already had that for so long,”

L pulled Light in for another kiss, just as bruising but layered with an understanding that neither of them quite knew how to place. L broke the kiss, gasping, “Fuck, I missed you,”

Light hummed, “Disappointed you have to be away from me for a few hours everyday, now?”

Shaking his head, L ran a thumb over Light’s bottom lip, “Don’t go and play stupid now, we both know that is not what I meant,”

It had only been a few days since Light regained his memories, and so much had changed. He felt different, and not just because he was planning the murder of the man who is currently peeling off his own jeans in preparation to take his virginity. Without them, when he was just trying to catch Kira, he felt as though he was missing purpose. Light had the drive to catch Kira, but there was always something missing. No wonder L never fell for his act. He could sense the shift in his behavior. He was Kira again, and he felt alive. And L missed him, the real him. Not just the Light with the good grades and normal people quirks, the Light who everyone hated or worshiped, who’s morals blurred between what is right and what is not. L didn’t want the morally right honors student, he wanted a challenge, he wanted Kira.  

A wanton moan pulled Light out of his own head. He looked up and saw L lewdly stretching himself out in front of Light, already 2 fingers deep. Where he got the lube, he would never be sure, but Light’s mouth went dry at the erotic sight.

He moved forward on the bed, settling between L’s legs. He leaned forward to kiss him, and slowly moved L’s hand, replacing his fingers with his own. L moans were muffled by Light’s tongue in his mouth.

Despite not having much experience with this kind of thing, Light was a quick learner, and the continual motions didn’t leave for much variety. He seemed to be doing something right, as L was gasping and whining, sweat-beaded forehead resting on Light’s collarbone. He put more lube on his fingers and slowly inserted 3 fingers, L’s gasping and writhing on his lap.

“Light, try curling your fingers in and up,” L instructed, now using one of his free hands to slowly tease his own cock.

His hand was far beyond aching by that point, but he barely noticed as his senses were being completely overwhelmed by L. The small breaths on his collarbone and how he is softly rubbing the skin above his hipbone with his thumb, it was sensory overload in the best way.

“In and up,” Light repeated.

“Yes, you are doing great, Light, you are so good, so good, oh fuck, ” L moaned louder than he had ever even heard the man speak, and his hand moved off of Light’s hip to his shoulder, needing to steady himself.

“Found it,” Light muttered, now aiming for L’s prostate with every motion. The older man quieted his moans by biting and sucking on Light’s collarbones and neck. Light’s movements became sloppy as the sensitive skin got more attention from L’s expert mouth. Light slowed his movements down, just barely grazing over the prostate, before quickly speeding up his fingers, hitting the spot over and over and over again.

L choked out a sob, and if it weren’t for the subsequent whines that followed he would have been worried he hurt him in someway, “Fuck, you really are good with your hands, Light,”

Light smirked to himself, “Can you believe I was never more popular with the girls?”

“Maybe they all knew,”

“Maybe,”

He pulled L in for another kiss, the man barely being able to concentrate, “Fuck, Light, your hands are just perfect, you’re incredible, God, you really do deserve your massive fucking ego,”

Light groaned at the praise but chuckled as well, “Why is everything you say a slight against me?”

L raised an eyebrow, “Do you not want it to be?” He grabbed Light’s wrist, stilling his motions, and pressed his chest firmly with his hands so he was lying down on his back, “What do you want me to say, Light? Do you want me to tell you how good of a job you’re doing? How you are being such a good boy, treating me so nicely for your first time?” Light bit his lip and shut his eyes. L’s words were hitting him like a freight train, poking and prodding at every one of his weak points, “No, not that. You want to hear that I think you are gorgeous, don’t you?” Eyes widening, Light looked up and L who was smiling. He had him in the palm of his hand, “I am so lucky to be with you. The fact that I get to be with some so beautiful, so smart, so godly... ” He slicked Light’s cock up, slowly stroking him, but the assault of L’s words was so torturous and so painfully good, “I don’t see myself ever wanting to worship anyone other than you, Light Yagami. I don’t believe in absolutes, but I still hope I have damned myself to an entirety of praising you,”

“L…”

L hovered over him, teasing the tip of his cock with his slick entrance, “And I am lucky-- Light I am so fucking lucky-- that I get to be the one to share this with you,” He snuck down lower onto his cock, almost fully seated. Light had tears in his eyes, so overwhelmed with pleasure and praise, he was going to fall apart, “I am so lucky to also be able to devote a part of myself to you too,”

Holding onto Light’s shoulder’s, L began to move slowly, savoring the feeling. Light’s hands made their way their way to his hips, as he sat up. L, however, wasted no time to push him back down, pinning his hands above his head. He gave him a brief kiss before moving to assault his neck, biting and kissing more tender bruises on his skin. Light bit down on his lip, his vision blurring and all the air left his lungs and L continued to ride him.

Light had dreamt of floating before, walking high above everyone else. Enacting justice, using the Death Note, being a divine figure in a new age. If being Kira was floating, then L’s lips on his, his praises dripping over him like nectar, hands all over him, being L’s … There is no other way to describe that then flying. He was high above cloud 9, his stomach turning over from excitement and fear and pleasure. It was all too much and not enough, but Light knew that he never wanted to be rid of this feeling ever again.

“More, L, I need more, fuck you’re so tight, please...” Light pushed against the restraints of L’s hands, and L relented. He lifted himself off of the bed and steady his hands once again on L’s hips. Gripping them tightly, he began fucking into him, slowly but noticeably picking up the pace with every thrust. L whined, the sound coming from him was broken and thoroughly wrecked. He shoved two fingers in his mouth, stifling the noises coming from him to low moans. Light’s eyes flashed red and he grabbed his wrist, tearing the fingers from his mouth, “No. Fuck you. You’re gonna make me hear you, got it?”

L’s eyes flashed with an emotion Light could not place, before smirking playful, “Light sure is demanding,” He looked down at his wrist, a tight lock had been placed on it by Light’s strong hands, “And rough. Hmm… Your Kira percentage has gone up by 5%,”

They knew. They both knew. And unless L was privy to mathematical impossibilities when calculating the likelihood of mass murderers, L was merely saying this to get a rise out of him. And a rise out of him he will.

In a blur of fury and an impressive display of strength, Light lifted L off of his lap and onto his back. Without warning, Light pushed his cock into L’s tight hole, ramming into him roughly, “Oh, has it now, Detective?” Light taunted. He copied L’s same motion from earlier, pressing his wrist’s against the bed and biting L’s neck. “Tell me, do you make a habit of getting fucked by your top murder suspects in a case?”

“I- Fuck … Light…” L bit his lip. Light growled at the action, and used his thumb to pull the lips from his teeth, and shoved his tongue into L’s mouth, wanting to taste the sweetness of him once again.

“Is that why you’re the number one detective in the world, L? Sorry, top 3 detectives in the world. Just let your criminals rail you until you get a confession out of them?”

L shook his head, “No, of course not, y-you’re the exception,”

“Oh, I am the exception?” Light ran his hands through L’s black hair, the man panting heavily at the tantalizingly slow thrusts as well as the indecencies dripping from Light’s mouth, “Or maybe you just like the idea of being at the mercy of Kira , huh?” L eyes widened and he moaned softly, closing his eyes. If praise was Light’s undoing, then degradation was going to be L’s, “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Light bit his lip, a wicked smile growing on his lips. He sped up his thrusts and teased the tip of L’s cock with his thumb, “I am starting to think that your notions of me being Kira are just wishful thinking. You like the idea of submitting to Kira? Being at his will?” L began babbling incoherently, begging mixed with whines and submissive moans that he did not think was possible from the stoic detective (the same one who held Light in the palm of his hand not a few minutes ago). And when Light’s keen ears picked up “Kira” being among the pleas, something primal in him snapped. He drove his cock as far as he could push it into L’s, stroking his cock and teasing his head, “God, you act like you’re above everyone else, but you’re just like everyone else who worships Kira. Only exception is, I may just revere you back,”

“Light, God, please, don’t stop, please,” Light was sure if he meant to call him God or not, but that small amount of praise went straight to his cock. L was raking his fingernails over his own figure, tiny spasms going throughout his body, he was obviously close and Light was not too far behind.

“I bet he fucking turns you on. Kira. The only mind to match yours, engaging in your cat-and-mouse game, never wanting it to end. Not even caring that he is a mass murderer. No wonder you want me to be him so badly.”

L dragged his nail’s down Light’s back “Please, please, Kira,”

“Don’t mind violating some human rights for Kira’s cock, do you? No, the rules never applied to us did they,” He punctuated his words with two harsh thrusts, making L see stars, “You may have my virginity, but I still have the bigger body count,”

Snapping his hips into L, he groaned and could barely keep himself upright. He was exhausted, his muscles sore, but he was so, so close. Light whined, and grunted, L moaned as Light’s strokes matched his thrusts.

“Fuck, I am so close, Kira,” L sat himself up, and Light adjusted the angle of his trusts, He grabbed a fistful of perfect brown hair and pulled Light in for a bruising kiss. He grabbed his free hand with Light’s lacing their fingers, squeezing almost painfully hard.

Light noticed there were pinpricks of tears in his eyes as they made eye contact. L pressed their foreheads together as his breath became even more ragged and unstable.

“Say my name,”

“What?”

Light gripped his hand even tighter, “When you come, say my name, please, I want to hear it, please,”

L grabbed the back of Light’s neck, gasping and shouting, “Light, Light, Light, fuck, Light,” L gasped and repeated his name like a prayer as he came onto his stomach and Light’s hand. “Don’t stop fucking me Light, I want you to finish,” L told him.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Fuck, L,” L gently pressed a hand to his chest, causing Light to pause his motions briefly. L climbed into his lap, and met his quick thrusts with ease.

“Finish inside me, give me everything you got,”

“L,” The man rode him with everything that he had. Light felt as though he had died and gone to heaven.

“C’mon Light, you are doing so well, so good.” He pulled Light’s hair, gripping his waves tightly. “You’re being such a good boy, making me feel so good,”

“L,”

L muttered into his ear, nipping it slightly, “Everything you do is perfect, just like you,” and Light was a goner. Vision blurring, he came with a cry of L’s name, running his nails down L’s back.

Both of their chests were pounding, their sweaty foreheads pressed against one another. Light looked into L’s eyes, amber meeting smoky grey, and lifted a hand to his cheek, tenderly kissing the man. The kiss was chaste, and quick, but it wasn’t about that. They kissed because they wanted to, both of them.

L pulled himself off of Light, going to the bathroom to wipe both of them down with a damp towel.

“We should shower,” Light suggested, turning to L, one armed draped over him.

“Shower?”

“Yeah,”

“That seems reasonable,” He nodded, though neither of them made an effort to move.

Light traced L’s soft skin with the back of his fingers, moving over his swollen lips with his thumb, “You know I think you’re beautiful too, right?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I just forgot to say it,”

“Too busy calling me a Kira slut, huh?”

“Yeah,” Light laughed weakly at the joke, but there was something else looming in the air between them. A giant question mark hanging between them. They could continue their stalemate forever, but there will always be the other shoe waiting to drop.

“So, the Kira case is almost wrapped up,” L said, after a few minutes of silence, “I have a couple things lined up after this,”

Light nodded tightly, “Do you?”

“Yeah,” L brought his thumb up to his lips, “I have been sitting on this for a while but… I was wonder if you would like to join me,”

Light’s heart stopped at the words, “Join you? And do what?”

L shrugged the best he could, lying face to face with Light on the bed, “Join me. Solve cases. You are free to turn me down,”

Frowning, Light sat up, “Why are you offering? I thought you were perfectly fine being by yourself,”

L joined him sitting on the bed, and faced towards him, “Well, for one, I never really was alone. Watari goes where I go. Two, I thought I would invite because you have, well, kind of burned all your bridges here,” L and Light looked at the door and Soichiro's voice echoed angrily in his head, “Also I figured that we would make a good team. Your deductive skills and critical thinking are far beyond detectives that are double your age. Besides, you have certain… Qualities that I do not have that you could bring to the table, making you an invaluable asset,”

Light’s eyes widened at the implications of what L was suggesting. He searched for signs in L’s expression that this was a trick, another card he pulled just to get him behind bars. But in his eyes, all he found was genuine fondness.

“Can I have some time to think?” Light responded, scratching the side of his arm.

“Of course,” L took his hand in his, “But my offer won’t last forever,”

Light hummed, pressed his forehead against L’s, moving his hands to hold his waist. There were so many issues that needed to be resolved. The Kira case, the wrath of his father and the other task force members, not knowing if this offer was real or just another trick… His high hopes were a bit low. But for now, it is better for Light just to hold L, and keep him pacified.

[desertdollranch]

This week I’ve been working on some additions to Caroline’s parlor! 

Caroline, both the doll and the character, are a favorite of mine. I’m so happy I have her, but I feel bad sometimes for not showing her here much. Part of the reason is because she was given such a small collection in the short time that she was available, and so it’s challenging to figure out what accessories to make for her. Most of her collection was basically just dresses and big ticket items like her skiff, parlor, table and chairs, and bed. She never got the multiple small accessory sets that previous dolls have been given, besides her travel basket. And I’ve already reproduced that.

In Caroline’s Play Scenes and Paper Dolls kit, however, there are more illustrations of the things she never got in her collection. I found a few interesting pieces that I knew would be easy to reproduce.

One of the illustrated accessories was this slate with an attached slate pencil. Caroline never went to school, but was taught at home by her parents when she wasn’t doing chores around the house or helping out at the shipyard. Caroline’s mother gave her word problems to help her with arithmetic. Adding numbers correctly would be very important for a ship’s captain to understand when calculating the total weight of the items loaded onto a ship!

This slate was made from foam core that was covered with black paper. It’s easy to peel it off to paint, but I just left the paper on this piece. I trimmed down some flat craft sticks for the frame. The pencil is the trimmed end of a bamboo skewer. It’s held on with embroidery floss glued to the back of the slate.

A few more are under the cut!

When Caroline can’t sleep, she can come down to the parlor and pick out a book to read by candlelight.

A candle holder like this was included in the original parlor, but since I built my Caroline’s parlor myself, I had to improvise with something else to make a candlestick. This is a drawer pull that fell off one of my kitchen drawers. I trimmed down a birthday candle and hot glued it into the drawer pull. Then I cut a small piece of soft covered wire, painted it with a mix of brown and metallic silver, then glued it onto the pull. Caroline can hold it in her hand by slipping her fingers through the handle. It’s pictured here on the bookshelf and next to a mini hourglass charm.

This tiny horse figurine stands on the top shelf of the built-in shelves in the parlor. It’s based on the original figurine included in Caroline’s parlor.

On the right is the original, and on the left is the plastic horse from the thrift store that I used as a base. I looked at up close pictures of it on eBay to get an idea of how it should look. I painted it with acrylic, added the black saddle piece on the horse’s back with a bit of shaped clay, and made yellow reins by squirting some hot glue onto parchment paper in a w shape. After the glue cooled and dried, I painted the reins yellow and peeled it off the parchment. Then I attached it onto the horse with some more hot glue. The bottom base is made from foam core, and the whole thing is covered with a glaze of super glossy Mod Podge, giving it a porcelain look.

Her keepsake box isn’t new, but I made it last year for her birthday and never mentioned how I made it. This is just some thin cardboard glued together and inlaid with a mix of straw and small craft sticks. Then I painted some of them on the top with Caroline’s name, making it look just like the straw box Papa made for Caroline’s tenth birthday and had smuggled to her from prison.

Side view of the box. In the story, Caroline keeps her embroidery thread in there.

Here’s how the shelf niche looks now! Nothing here is American Girl brand; everything was either made by me or picked up elsewhere. I may try to attempt to reproduce that model ship, (seen farther up in this post with the horse figurine) once I figure out the best way to do it. The sailor’s valentines (those framed photos of seashells) aren’t accurate to Caroline’s time period, so I gave her real seashells to display on the shelf instead.

[likecastle]

Witcher Noir AU, part 3

More Witcher noir AU, following on from part two. Beginning can be found here.

If you have prompts or suggestions for scenes you’d like to see incorporated here, please send them my way! 

Jaskier glances over his shoulder to check Geralt’s still following him—or maybe just to make eyes at him. It’s not impossible that he could get lost in the convoluted warren of corridors backstage at the Last Rose. They keep passing landmarks Geralt could wear they’ve passed before, but Jaskier forges forward, hips swinging, maintaining a bright monologue the whole way.

“. . . it’s just,” he’s saying, “from the way you were lurking out there, I thought maybe you liked to watch. Nothing to be ashamed of if that’s the case, of course. I’ve seen it all, believe me. Though I wouldn’t object to a little, ah, audience participation in your case.”

Geralt can’t tell if his incessant talking is the sign of nerves, or if he thinks he’s being charming.

“Here we are!” Jaskier proclaims, throwing open the door to his dressing room with more grandeur than the cramped room merits. “My little home away from home. Make yourself comfortable.”

Geralt takes the only seat available, a squat vanity bench upholstered in balding red velvet, and Jaskier leans back against the dressing table. The pose shows his body off to good advantage, and he knows it. He’s almost daring Geralt to look, and Geralt can’t resist the invitation. He has a dancer’s build, trim but solid, almost liquid in its grace. His face is all boyish charm, but his expression is much less innocent as he studies Geralt through lowered lashes.

“So,” Jaskier prompts, “you were saying just wanted to talk? Because I’ve heard that line before, and it usually doesn’t end with conversation—”

“I have some questions,” Geralt corrects. “About Calanthe.”

For a moment, there’s a look of real surprise in the singer’s eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with a cavalier grin. “Oh, that? Old news by now, wouldn’t you say? I mean, terrible business, obviously, but I’m surprised anyone’s still interested in that anymore.”

“I heard you were the last person to see her alive.”

“Was I really?” Jaskier’s eyes widen, and one hand goes to his chest, the perfect performance of shock. “How dreadful. I had no idea!”

Somehow Geralt doubts that, if Yennefer is to be believed. And, well, long experience has taught him that he can’t always trust Yennefer, but he can’t see what advantage she’d gain from lying to him in this particular instance, either. While the singer, on the other hand, has every reason to lie, if he’s smart.

“You know, people said a lot of terrible things about Calanthe, and I suspect they were all true. But I can’t deny she was good to me.” Jaskier pauses in an attitude of somber reflection that just happens to catch the light on his soft cheekbone. “She gave me my first real break, introduced me to a lot of important people . . . Not that any of that means much, you understand. I’ve known plenty of people who were perfectly charming to me, only to turn around in spit in someone else’s eye.” He shrugs, and that seems to be the end of his mourning for Calanthe. “Is it too early for a drink? I always say it’s never too early to indulge, but I have a feeling you’ve got more self-restraint than I do.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a drink,” Geralt admits. It might help this hangover he still can’t seem to shake.

“Marvelous!” Jaskier turns and busies himself with rummaging around in his dressing table. “It’s in here somewhere—a gift from an admirer, you know.” As he searches, Jaskier keeps glancing at Geralt in the vanity mirror. He can’t seem to take his eyes off Geralt, in fact, though Geralt can’t help wondering if that’s flirtation or a guilty conscience. For all he knows, the singer might be about to pull a gun on him. Stranger things have happened.

“So what can you tell me?”

“About?”

“Calanthe.” Geralt can’t help feeling he’s lost control of this conversation.

“Right, right. Oh, hell—” He tips something over and a cloud of sweet-smelling powder rises up from the drawer. “Everything’s fine! No harm done!” He dusts himself off as best he can, ticking his tongue reproachfully. “Well, let me see, it was after the show, and I was entertaining a couple of friends up in the roof garden. We’d been having a lovely old time, and we were all reaching the portion of the evening where we were about ready to retire. Now, I have an arrangement with the concierge that if no one’s staying in the honeymoon suite—and I’ll tell you a secret, almost nobody ever is, because have you seen how much it costs per night?—they’ll let me use it, provided I clean up after myself in the morning. It’s very good of them, and my friends are always terribly impressed. So—aha!”

Jaskier finally turns around, a half-empty bottle of Grand Marnier in one hand and a triumphant smile on his face. Geralt has to concede that maybe his manner might be a little bit charming. “As I was saying, my friends and I decided it was time for us to turn in for the night, so I told them to wait for me there while I went down to get the key from the front desk. I was on my way back upstairs when Calanthe got onto the elevator with me.”

Jaskier scrounges up two glasses, examines them critically, then wipes them down with the sleeve of a dressing gown hanging on the mirror. “It wasn’t unusual to run into her around the hotel. She used the whole place like her private office. But that night she seemed . . .” This time, his pause doesn’t seem affected at all. Behind his cheerful façade, the memory seems to genuinely disturb him. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Calanthe could be difficult to talk to at the best of times—”

Geralt snorts at this understatement.

“—but I’d never seen her like this before. She was in a strange mood.” Jaskier pours the amber liqueur into the glasses and holds one out to Geralt. He holds his glass up, examining it thoughtfully for a moment before setting it back down on the dressing table.  “She got off on the twelfth floor and I went all the way up to the roof to find my friends. By the time we let ourselves into the honeymoon suite, we could hear people screaming down on the street. Naturally, we looked out the window, of course, and she was—Well, I imagine you know all about that part already.”

Geralt frowns, turning the glass in his hands. Despite Jaskier’s anxious demeanor, nothing he’s said so far suggests any foul play. Maybe Yennefer really was jumping to conclusions. “And that’s all?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier’s fingers trace the rim of his glass like he could coax a melody from it. Geralt watches the movement for a moment, transfixed, until he’s almost forgotten that he’s waiting for an answer. “My friends and I decided it would be, ah, prudent if we didn’t stick around. They’re both, well, married, and not to each other, if you catch my drift. Neither of them were eager to be questioned by the police, if it came to that.”

If nothing else, Geralt is getting a very definite picture of Jaskier’s social life. He swallows his drink down, wincing at its bitter orange sweetness, and gestures for Jaskier to get on with the story.

“So we slipped out of the room, quiet as could be. There was nobody in the hallway while we waited for the elevator, but when we got on—” Jaskier bites his bottom lip. “This is the odd bit. Both of my friends say I must have been imagining things—the shock, you know—but just as the elevator doors were closing, I could have sworn I saw the door to Calanthe’s room open.”

Geralt leans forward intently. So Yennefer was telling the truth. He’d bet anything Jaskier wasn’t imagining things. This means Calanthe wasn’t alone when she died, and chances are, whoever was with her wasn’t trying to stop her from jumping. “Did you get a look at them?”

Jaskier hesitates, and Geralt can’t read the look that flashes across his face. But when he says, “No, I didn’t see a thing,” Geralt is certain he’s lying.

Not that Geralt can blame him. He showed up out of nowhere and started asking questions about the death of one of the most powerful people in the city. That’s bound to make anyone cagey. If he can earn a little bit of Jaskier’s trust, maybe he can get him to open up a little more. The thought of Jaskier opening up to him sidetracks him for a moment—the other man soft and yielding in his arms—but that’s not what he’s supposed to be thinking about right now.

“I think,” he says carefully, “that you may be in danger.”

“Oh?” Jaskier doesn’t look terribly alarmed. Yennefer described him as a clueless heel, but even after a few minutes with him, Geralt’s not so sure that’s an accurate assessment. Under the frivolous demeanor, he’s surprisingly astute, with the cheerful sangfroid of someone who’s seen a thing or two.

“I have reason to believe that Calanthe was murdered,” Geralt says. “Whatever you saw that night could be important. It could the mean the difference between winning and losing the war.” That’s not what he meant to say. His head is swimming, but he’s got to focus. Jaskier could be in danger. “If anyone else works out that you know something . . . they won’t just want to ask you some questions.”

“I think I might’ve misjudged you,” Jaskier says, from somewhere far away.

Geralt licks his lips, which suddenly feel very strange, and tastes sickly sweet orange liqueur on his tongue. “What—?” he asks, and then he is drifting sort of sideways, and capable hands catch him and lower him gently onto the dressing table counter.

“You really did just want to talk, didn’t you?” says an echo of Jaskier’s voice, and that’s the last Geralt knows for a while.

*

Part four

[is6621]

Glamnetic: from innovative idea to multi-millionaire brand / Karen Wang

E-commerce is a booming industry, especially with the increase in marketing on social media and the impact of COVID-19, allowing essentially anyone with an idea and a few resources to start an online business. Although not every one of these businesses prospers, some have been able to attract a lot of attention from its target segment through apps such as Instagram, YouTube, TikTok, Snapchat, etc. One small business that has grown tremendously into a multi-million dollar brand is Glamnetic- the company behind the world’s first 6-magnet false lash that adheres to magnetic eyeliner.

Magnetic lashes disrupted the false lash market since lash glue was the traditional complementary product to false lashes before magnets. Before Glamnetic, magnetic lashes came with a top and bottom lash each with three magnets that would sandwich the lash line. This early form of magnetic lash was innovative; however, it didn’t completely replace the use of traditional lash glue because the application was not fool-proof. One day while scrolling through my Snapchat discover page, I saw reviews on the new Glamnetic lash and magnetic eyeliner. For the next few months, I’d see ads featuring the CEO explaining and testing her lashes, and posts by beauty influencers on other social media apps. It was not until Black Friday when a sale ad popped up on Instagram that I decided to personally check out the website and make a purchase. It took about a month for my order to arrive which I found surprising since the brand seemed too promoted not to have enough stock. Turns out, that November was the fifth month of the business and the company was still working out of a small LA apartment! People love a good Black Friday sale and it’s easy to impulsively buy things off the Internet. Little did Glamnetic know, the demand was higher than expected at the time, so many orders were delayed. Since then, the Glamnetic team learned to forecast its demand months in advance and has improved its products and added product lines including press-on nails.

So how did Glamnetic get to where it is now?

Glamnetic was founded in July 2019 by Ann McFerran who had no prior business experience. Ann saw a gap in the market for beautiful, easy to apply lashes that she would wear so she sought out to develop her own. With the inspiration from successful e-commerce entrepreneurs and self study of product development, Ann started her revolutionary lash brand. In the beginning, Ann tested her products on friends and had a small Instagram following/customer base. During the first month, Ann DMed every single Glamnetic follower on IG (now 212k followers) to sell them on the product. The next month, online retailer Dolls Kill offered to sell Glamnetic’s products on its site which gave the lashes more credibility and exposure. The business model of Glamnetic is also unique as the company is self-funded with all profits paid towards marketing and influencers. These expenditures were able to increase website traffic and double growth each month. The company has been profitable since its launch which is rare in today’s market environment.

What’s the science behind Glamnetic lashes?

Using a common ingredient, iron oxide, Ann’s team added it into eyeliner to make it magnetic and strong as lash glue, yet easy to apply and remove. This mythology intended to be an alternative to messy lash glue. The lashes itself were developed with six magnets which allowed users to trim their magnetic lashes to fit. Glamnetic’s many lash styles and easy application has enabled many people to start wearing false lashes, which has expanded the false lash market. While Glamnetic faces competitors that have been inspired to create their own magnetic lash + eyeliner, the Glamnetic brand name is already big in the beauty community.

In an interview this past April, Ann shares: 

“In today’s climate, you need to be incredible at the content and creative. That was my strong point so we were able to spend very little to obtain high-quality content since I shot everything myself. If you’re not great at it, I highly recommend teaching yourself design enough to be able to give accurate instructions for someone on Upwork to complete. It’s all about the ideas you have and how you can catch people’s attention with your product. If you can do that well, you can scale to any size.”

Technology is changing every sector of the market and the beauty industry is no exception. Taking advantage of an idea and the evolving technology, one can catapult his or her own brand by being part of the avant-garde.

Sources: 

https://nairanyc.com/ann-mcferran-glamnetic-lashes/

https://medium.com/authority-magazine/the-future-of-beauty-magnetized-eyelashes-with-ann-mcferran-of-glamnetic-9c4ae98c7f96

[cosplayinamerica]

Specifically for that shot where I am pinned by a bunch of hammers, I was standing with a group of Captain Americas (maybe that should be a salute of Captain Americas) and I vaguely remember one of them mentioning putting a hammer on my chest, which then escalated to every hammer available to 'pin' me down.  As for cosplaying Loki as a character it was suggested to me many years ago and while I agreed at the time it would be a good choice, I hadn't at the time felt capable of making the costume.  The version of Loki that I am portraying is that from the first Avengers movie.  This is my favorite version of the costume and I rarely saw it being done.

I originally made the bulk of the costume for DragonCon 2016 and have been tweaking it ever since, and it is currently at about version 1.5, with some parts of it already having gone through several iterations.  It is made from predominantly green flannel and black garment leather, with vegetable tanned leather used for the armor pieces.

The original costume was the first costume I had ever sewn myself, with some fitting and patterning assistance from my then girlfriend (now fiance).  The only store bought pieces are the pants and boot bases, with everything else being custom sewn.

Working from the bottom up, the boots were originally black ladies boots with boot covers floating over the top.  The boot covers are vegetable tanned leather dyed and topped with black garment leather, with a patterned leather inset at the front. The pants were slightly modified by trimming down the calf to enable them to easily fit into the boots.  The tunic and selves and are made of a combination of green flannel with black garment leather.

One of my proudest accomplishments on the costume was the creation of the v shaped leather panels on the front.  I was able to construct and attach them in such a way that no seam lines are visible.  The tunic zips up at the back and is then Velcroed.  The gold armor rectangles on the right abdomen are vegetable tanned leather attached using leather glue.  The chest armor has gone through 3 or 4 versions to get to where we are now, and will be updated again to reduce its weight, and improve general fit of the costume.  Currently it is 2 layers of vegetable tanned leather with a cutout in the top layer. black garment leather was then glued to the front, and finally the gold embellishment (another piece of vegetable tanned leather) was glued into the receptacle created by the cutout.   The outer sleeveless jacket is constructed of garment and patterned leather and then lined with the same green flannel used throughout the costume.  The gold stripes 80% of the way down the coat flaps are a chain mesh fabric which was then weathered to achieve the correct color.  The front 2 coat flaps are fronted with patterned leather, where as the rest are the same garment leather.

   The outer collar (attached to the jacket) is another piece of the costume that has gone through several iterations as i have yet to be able to get it to properly stand up.  This is in part due to the weight of the zipper toppers used to trim the entire edge of the jacket, and some of the tunic.  Each of the ~1800 zipper toppers was individually attached to the costume using pliers to crimp them in place.

On both shoulders, there are matching black flaps (they might be considered pauldrons), which are on their 4th incarnation.  They are attached on top of the shoulders using snaps and Velcroed at the tips.  Currently, they are a layer of vegetable tanned leather wet molded to shape, covered with patterned leather and then trimmed with garment leather.  On the right shoulder is an embellished armor piece again made from vegetable tanned leather.  It serves as a hold point for the cross strap.  It is held in place using Velcro and snaps at my left hip.

On the costume, there are currently 2 different types of patterned leather.  The constructions of the costume used a triangle cut pastern that while it gave the general feel, didn't match what was used on screen.  The second type is laser etched garment leather using the same pattern as on screen.  The laser cutter i use has a 4' * 3' cutting area, with each piece taking about 4 hours to complete.  Finally, the hair is a custom wig created by Hero Hair, a custom wig fabricator which uses film industry experience to create screen accurate wigs.

The first year I carried a large plush porpoise on my shoulder, which confuted allot of congoers, which gave me the opportunity to exclaim "I am Loki of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious 'Porpoise'".  Running into other Loki's is always entertaining, as each brings some different aspect of the character to life.  I will often kneel to children dressed as Thor or Loki, the joy this give them is evident on their faces.  After the release of The Avenger: Endgame I walked around a con with just the Tesseract, which brought smiles to those who had seen Lokis escape in the movie. 

Cosplay has become a central part of my life and without it I wouldn't have met my fiance (@the_critterbug), or any of my friends in the United States.  I started cosplaying in 2012 in an attempt to meet like-minded individuals (AKA Geeks).  Cosplay has also given me the opportunity to witness some incredibly talented people make some incredible costumes.  Cosplay and specifically Loki has allowed me to create in a way that before I never would have thought I could have.  Further, it has taught me that despite what you may have been told you cannot do, that anything is achievable given the patience and perseverance to see it through.

--- Variable Cosplay

Photo : https://www.instagram.com/skynocerous/

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 1 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 1 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

First draft written 2007

copyright 2020

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Chapter 1: The Voice of the Sea

The day was fair and the sun was high, glittering off the water of Sea. Big Wohan was near the horizon and swift little Dorac was nearly at the mast head.  Carsis, the third moon, was not due to rise until well after night fall.

The helmsman turned the three hundred foot length of the Longin dead into the wind.  The breeze, now acting as a brake, slowed the big ship to a stop.  Her large lateen sails went slack and fluttered in the gentle wind as the big ship, resembling a cross between a Chinese junk and a Yankee Clipper, finally went dead in the water.

“Why is the Captain even listening to her?” Silor, the lead deck-hand demanded of nobody in particular, gesturing offhandedly at the young, white haired girl standing beside Captain Mord Halyn near the bow of the ship.  He was further back, near the foremast, in a knot of people prominent in the ship’s community.  The Masters of the Craft Council were there along with many of the officers who were off duty.  There were many others who were simply curious as to what Kurin was going to do this time.  The nearly unbelievable rumor was that she was going to sound the bottom without a fathom-line.

Master Juris, the chief boat-wright and head of the Longin’s Craft Council, seeing a chance to needle Silor again, chose to answer him. Sarcastically he asked, “Why?  Is your memory as clumsy as yourself?  Do your recall as far back as three Wohans?  A whole hundred days?  There was a Coriolis storm, remember?  Quite a large one.”

Silor did, in fact, remember the storm.  I was on deck through most of it.  I took the Captain’s orders and directed my mast crews.  We saved the mainsail, the Longin herself, and every life aboard, when the reefing points tore out in hundred mile per hour winds.  It was me up in the rigging.  Rain and freezing wind tried to hurl me to Dark Iren.  I set the puling blocks and caught lines that the hurricane whipped out of the control of my men and women.  We got the yard secured to the boom and rebound that flailing canvass.  We were almost done, the last line fought into its block, when slippery footing on a wet line let a hard gust throw me twenty feet to the deck.  I broke my left arm.  Silor was still paying the cost of saving the ship in his aching left arm, only recently out of its sling.  Yes, Silor remembered the storm.

“Everybody knows how to deal with a blow like that,” Master Juris went on, patronizingly lecturing Silor like as if he were a child.  “Run before it, close hauled and quarter your way out to safety after you are on the back of its path so it won’t just run you down again. The trick is to know when to quarter your way out with neither sun, moons or stars to help.  We came out of the storm with only one section of one sail blown out of shape beyond salvage.  The damaged section was replaced in five hours, and we were back in trim.  How many ships did we find in that storm’s track?  All needing major repair?”

“Six,” muttered Silor sulkily thinking correctly, Master Juris will always find a way to criticize whatever I do.  Saved the ship, Logged a hero, and Master Juris calls me clumsy!  Didn’t see Juris in the rigging helping!  Once, five years ago when I was a kid, one bad thing happened, and Master Juris has never let me, or anyone else, forget.

“Kurin called the timing sooner than anybody expected and the Captain believed her. She was right.  She got us to safety. It’s only one of the many times that she’s been right. That’s why the Captain listens to her.  Now, let’s watch and see what this is all about.” The other Craft Masters of the Longin had come up from their shops below-decks to watch Kurin’s demonstration.  They nodded in agreement.  

Master Cirde the head of the weaving shop said, “I wish that Kurin was my apprentice instead of yours, Juris.  She learns quickly and works well, rarely showing anything until she is sure of it.  She came to my shop to play and that’s how we found out that the secret of Longin Lace had not left the ship when Cat went back to the sea.”

“She actually pays attention to instruction, instead of letting her mind wander onto dry land,” said Master Clard, the drummer.  There was some good-natured laughter at the expense of apprentices in general. “They’re about to start,” he added.

“Just time for a friendly wager,” said Master Juris, smiling predatorially at Silor.  “You are sure that this stop is a waste of time.  I have some confidence in my apprentice.  Two steamed fish cakes from this evening’s dinner will be the stakes.  Acceptable?” He held out his hand and Silor, cornered by his own dislike, shook on it.  In the background, others could be heard making various bets as well.

The attention of the whole group was now fixed on the Captain, the sailor beside him with a sounding line, and on twelve-Gatherings-old Kurin, the center of this storm on a calm sea.  She closed her gray eyes and appeared to be concentrating on something that nobody else could notice.  The deck was rolling gently in the swells, that was all.

She nodded to herself, satisfied, and wrote quickly on a tallow-slate with a bone stylus, showing it to Captain Mord, who signed it.

“Make the sounding,” he ordered the sailor who was standing ready.  The sailor nodded with a brisk, “Aye, Sir!”  He heaved a coral stone attached to a light line overboard and let it sink.  The line had knots at regular six foot intervals and the sailor counted them as the stone sank.  To the surprise of everyone except the girl, who was nevertheless relieved, the weight found a bottom at only twenty one fathoms, a mere sixty six feet down.

“You were right, Kurin,” said Captain Mord loud enough for all to hear. “There is a shallow bottom here that we never knew of.  This could mark a good crabbing reef, if it has any size.”

He took her tallow-slate and added another note to it.  Then he showed it to the waiting Craft Masters, officers and crew-folk.  There for all to see, in Kurin’s neat writing, was ‘Bottom about 20 fathoms’ with ‘Cpt. Mord Halyn Longin’ signed beneath it as witness.  There was also a note in Captain Mord’s hand, ‘Bottom found at 21 fathoms, Cpt. M.H.L.’

As the tallow-slate was passed about the group.  Theatrical groans and cries of glee went with it.  The sailors and some of the Masters could be heard cheerfully settling bets.   Master Juris gloated to a gloomy Silor, “That’s two steamed fishcakes that you owe me from your plate at dinner.  Want to try for all three, when we actually map out the shallows?”

The Captain now held up a carefully made chart on paperfish parchment for the Masters and Officers to see.  Kurin’s neat drawing showed carefully marked depth contours for the expected bottom.

“I will let Kurin explain to you, as she did to me, the means of making this chart without long and laborious soundings.”

“Kurin, you know the Masters of the Craft Council.  Please explain your method and answer their questions.”

She had known these men and women for Gatherings and worked and learned in their shops as a way of playing in her free time, but she was nervous still.  This time, for almost the first time, she was going to try to teach them, instead of learning from them — and all of them at once.

She nervously twisted her long white hair in her hand as she began, “Five Gatherings ago, when we were on our way to her last Gathering with us, Cat gave me a hint to how she was able to steer the Longin so well in spite of her blindness.  She said, ‘The sea speaks to me and tells me where the currents and reefs are.  It’s voice is the long waves under the waves that we see.’

Kurin went on with gathering confidence, “It took me all of the five Gatherings since to figure out what she meant and how to interpret the waves.  Look at the little wind waves on the surface.  The Longin is big enough that they don’t move her at all.  Still, she rises and falls to a longer, deeper wave than those.  The long deep waves are the ones that I read for this work.

“It wasn’t easy to sort them out without help.  They get shorter and higher when they pass over a shallow bottom.  They bend when they go around the end of a shallow area and make a pattern that I can show you as the bent waves cross the ones that go straight.  Currents, both big permanent ones like the Naral and Cliftos Currents, and transient flows caused by the tides, push the waves around.  You can learn to tell which way the current is going, and about how fast.”

“I grasp the basic idea,” said Master Juris, absently scratching his bald head, “but I’ve watched you work on that chart in the boat-shop for most of a Gathering.  Wouldn’t soundings be faster and more accurate?”

“I chose this place because we always sail past wide of it, due to the sudden change in the direction of the Naral Current, caused by this very reef.  The turn that the current makes can throw dead-reckoning between navigation sightings way off.  Because of that, we’ve always avoided this area.  This is the one place in all three of our home waters where there is nothing but wave information to go on.  Each time that we went past at a distance, I was able to add a little more.  I could chart it to this same accuracy in only two passes if we came up within a mile of the reef and sailed along it.  At most, three to four hours.”

The Masters retired down the deck to confer for a bit, trying to decide how to handle this turn of events.

While they were conferring, Captain Mord announced, “The second part of this experiment is to go ahead and do soundings by tried and true methods, to verify the accuracy of Kurin’s chart.

“While we do that, we’ll put some crab nets down in the known part of the shallows and try our luck.”  The crew began to launch boats for the soundings and bustle about, preparing nets and crab-rings for use.

In the background the large, tubular hailing drum could be heard pounding out directions to the boats doing the soundings.  Its main use was long-distance ship to ship communication, in favorable conditions it could bridge distances of over a mile with its very directional pulses of sound. Two officers, now using Kurin’s chart and a wide based range-finder, were telling the drummer what was needed next and he was telling the boats where to plumb the depths.

While the soundings were being taken, the other small, four and six oared, boats were lowered to the water with that absence of splashing that signals both experience and skill.  Women and men both clambered down a big meshed net secured to the rail for that purpose.  The ring nets, lines and floats were being lowered on boat hooks to the waiting crews.  They were accompanied by good-natured banter and a few jeers from folk on deck, envious of those chosen to go.  Oars made little whirlpools in the water and drove the boats ahead of quickly vanishing wakes as the crews rowed out to try the reef for crabs and to set some shrimp traps.

As Silor was eagerly preparing to go over the side to a waiting boat, Captain Mord approached.  “Silor, I know that your arm is out of its sling but take the word of another who’s had a broken arm. Don’t over do it at first.  I want you to organize the lookouts for Strong Skins and Wing Rays.  I don’t need to tell you how dangerous those fish can be.  Stay aboard this time and man the small crane. Somebody has to bring the catch aboard.  I’m the Captain, and I don’t get to go out anymore.”  He leaned on the rail beside Silor and looked at the departing boats with a heavy sigh.

Silor gripped the net cords so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  I want to go out!  My arm’s getting better!  How did she do this?  “Yes, Sir.  Set the lookouts.  Man the crane.  I’ll take care of it, Sir,” he grumped stiffly.  Stung at the loss of a chance at something fun to do, he went to do as ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

[emotionalcello-makefanfics]

Sequel to That Body = Absolute Unit and Aaron is a Cute Name

Summary : 

*in DJ Khaled voice* Another one! Longer! Even less plot! I don't even know how to explain this one.

Chris and Aaron are now boyfriends. The couple is meeting each other's family. It doesn't go perfectly, and Chris is doing dumbass ways to fix that. With a side story of Chris freaking out because Aaron is giving him weeks of radio silence.

This is chapter 1 Out of 7, please red the rest at AO3

Words: 3.9 k

Anyone seeing him now would’ve thought he snoops into the evidence room and snorts all the cocaine they just raided. No, nothing like that, it’s something better. Chris is coming over to Virginia for a Christmas party at Rossi’s! That’s not all... He’ll be going as Hotch’s official boyfriend!

He’s both nervous and excited. He’s excited because he’s coming over to his favorite author’s home and have a legit Christmas party. Not some half-assed office party that’s there to keep the spirit up and 95% work anyway. Yet he’s nervous because Aaron’s coworkers are equivalent to his family, which means that Chris is coming over to ‘meet the family.’ That’s like the next step of a relationship, right?

It totally is! This means Chris can either be that ‘weird boyfriend’ that the family doesn’t bother to get to know about because they’re so sure they’re going to break up soon. OR, Chris can be so boyfriend/family material that’s so sweet so fun so snatched that is practically treated like family. Chris will be the latter as if his life depends on it. Aaron’s people are the coolest people on earth because they’re sweet, hot, hard-working, literal FBI agents, and most of all, they’re Aaron’s family.

Chris got himself ready for the party. He did yoga 4 times a week than the usual twice a week. He games up his skincare routine and he’s burning through his sheet masks. He trimmed his hair. Manicured his nails. His skin is glowing. The body is healthy. This year’s leave secured for the taking.

He’s never been this prepared in his entire life. Can’t wait to get to know the people closest to his darling beautiful lovely bf. It’s going to be so much fun.

“Hee hee hee hee hee.”

“Sweet Jesus, Chris, why are you the drug dealer from down the street this whole day?” Even Peralta’s jokes can’t get to him today.

“Chris is spending Christmas with his new man.” Haily answer for him because Chris is hyper-focused on his papers.

Chris is vibrating with excitement that he can’t even do his reports smoothly, but he’ll be damned if everything is not perfect by his holiday leave. Of course, they’re not having a Christmas party at the actual Christmas time. Work and all, especially’s Hotch’s work.

And he’s aware that there’s a good possibility that they may cancel it due to a case.

So, he needs to chill. The more he looks forward to it, the more he’ll be disappointed if it gets canceled. Be cool. Be chill. Whatever will be, will be. Namaste. All that shit.

“Look at what you’ve done!” Haily reprimands, slapping Jake at the back of his head.

“Ow, what did I do?!”

“You deflated him!”

“I shouldn’t get too excited, they can cancel the party if there’s a case,” Chris finally put his head out of his dreamy bubble, seeing Jake and Haily about to square up.

“We have a party here Chris! What’s better than having Christmas with your office family?” Jake paused as Haily raised her eyebrows at him. “Except maybe a private party in a crime author’s fancy house filled with FBI agents. Dammit, no I’m not jealous!” Jake points at him, in both denial and assertiveness, talking to himself. Yup, that is the face of the precinct best detective.

“I am attending the office party. I wouldn’t miss the dumpster fire for the world.”

“Our Christmas party is not always a dumpster fire!” Chris and Haily give him a look and Jake quickly folds. “Okay maybe it is, but it’s our signature!”

.-.-.-.-.

The day of the precinct's Christmas dumpster fire finally arrived. Like every year, his floor has a secret Santa event, though not everyone joined. When they’re close to clocking out, they reveal each other’s secret Santa.

“Hey, Ginnie Gina.” Chris struts over to Gina’s desk right outside of the Captain’s office. As usual, the Captain’s assistant has her feet up the desk and phone in hand. “I’m your secret Santa.”

“AH, maybe there is God. I thought my Santa was Scully and I was not gonna let it see the light of day.” She then – in the most casual way –  reach out to a saw blade blending into the clutter on her desk and put it under her drawer.

“Gimme!”

Chris gave his present with ease knowing it won’t fall victim to the saw blade. Gina’s Christmas colored acrylic nails dig and tears the red wrapping and voila! Creme de La Mer. Yes, that La Mer bitch, because Chris ain’t playin’ with presents.

“I swear to God Chris you’re the only salvation of this earth. I would kiss you if I’m not wearing my Christian Louboutin lip gloss right now.”

“You’re welcome.” Gina gave him an air kiss and Chris catches it. “Pray for my gift!”

“I will, love!”

That kiss must’ve been a curse because Chris got Scully as secret Santa. And his gift is a frozen pizza box with a slice missing and wrapped with worn an XXXXL hoodie with vaguely red and brown stains. Gracefully, Chris gives the pizza back to him and Scully lights up at the offer of his own food back at him.

Then nightshift rolls in, turns out they have a secret Santa event of their own. Chris then looks away when he noticed disappointments are brewing to a fight.

He goes back to his desk, finishing up before his nightshift desk buddy came. In the middle of finishing up his report, a phone call stops him from finishing up. Aaron!

The office starts to get noisy with shenanigans, greetings, and a new perp yelling out to let him go. He slips out to the roof, and the noise quiets down as if they’re far away.

“Hey, sugar,” Chris says as he walks to the furthest side of the roof.

“Hi, how’s secret Santa?” Aaron doesn’t sound so hot, maybe he’s just worn out a bit.

“I got the short end of the stick, but the shock and awe factor overcame my disappointment because it is kinda funny.”

“What did you get?”

“A frozen pizza box with a slice missing and his worn clothes that smells like pizza sauce and sweat. I think he just wrapped his dinner with the clothes he was wearing.”

Aaron chuckles, and Chris bites off his smile. They’ve only been dating for a few months but that chuckle still packs some damage on him.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go well.”

“It’s going better than last year at least. No one is getting into a fistfight with their secret Santa.”

“That’s good, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas! Where are you right now?”

“Case at Florida.”

“Aw, that sucks. You won't see the present I gave you to your office then.”

“I’ll open it as soon as I arrive. Are you still at the precinct?”

“Yeah, about to tidy up. I’m clocking out in an hour.”

“Good, my gift should be at your office by now.”

“Wait really??” Chris looks back to look at the desk from the windows. Probably still on the front desk. “D’waw! Thank you, I’m gonna ask the front desk if it’s here.” Chris goes back inside. “Are you at a hotel? Taking a break?”

“No, I’m still at the police station.”

Huh, that’s weird. Aaron never calls when he’s still on the job. Maybe after the team retires at their hotel, but never when they’re still at the police station. Chris stops by the door and gulped.

“Is everything okay?”

“I hope so, we’ve done all that we can.” Oh, Chris knows that tone of voice. Chris knows that hopeless feeling when all he can do is wait.

“I bet you do and more. I wish you guys are not too hard on yourselves.”

“I don’t think that can be helped,” Aaron resigned, and Chris also feels there’s nothing he can do, but lend an ear.

Actually, Chris can do one thing, “When you come home, we’ll meet up, promise.”

“I’ll need that. Your secret Santa fail helps too.”

“Then I’m glad I’m getting frozen pizzas for Christmas.”

“I hope my present can make you feel better.”

“Oh yeah! That.”

Chris has been standing like a dumbass in front of the rooftop door when he heard Aaron’s voice mellowed. Now that he’s in front of his desk, he sees his present. A big box that takes over the free space on his desk, sitting there as it looms a bit over him.

“Oooh, ominously big, I wonder what’s insiiide,” Chris sings as he presses his phone between his cheek and shoulder so his hands have their full tearing capacity. He puts the box down first before tearing, revealing a pink plain box.

Inside the big pink box is – he can’t believe it – a plushie version of the clay cat he had that reminded him of Rosco. Chris’s jaw hits the floor as he pulls it up and stares at it. Like the clay, it’s egg-shaped, has a condescending expression, but the markings are more accurate than the clay cat. The only thing not accurate is the size. It’s big and tall, and thicc with 10 c’s.

Chris inhaled deeply, ready to scream before he whined instead, remembering he’s still in the office.

“Aaaaaaaa,” He whispered the scream – somehow – hugging the cat that’s at least a meter in diameter. It’s a very thick plushie and he LOVES it as if the bitch herself (still talking about the cat) erected from the dead. “HOW! What???? I... This is... Frick! Aaron, I could kiss you right now!”

“I’m glad you like my gifts,” Chris can hear the smile through Aaron’s voice.

“Gifts? As in multiple???”

“You must’ve missed the board game.”

There’s Betrayal at The House on The Hill board games resting at the bottom of the box. It’s the board game he’s been wanting ever since he saw it on Smosh Board AF! Everyone has been wanting to play it.

“Oh, man this is great! I think I mentioned this ages ago.” Chris hugs it to his chest and makes the most disgusting lovey-dovey face. “You remembered!”

“I ordered it the second you mentioned it. I wanted to give it to you on your birthday but I figured it’ll be appropriate for Christmas so you can play it with everyone.”

“Yeah totally! Hey guys! Look at what Aaron gave me!” Chris flaunts his board games in the air and catches a few attention.

“That’s one big cat,” Haily said her long blond hair sway as she leans to the side and looks, totally missing the point, but still valid because Chris can’t even circle this plushy with two arms.

“Well, yeah, but look at the board game!”

“Whoa cool! Betrayal at The House on The Hill?” Jake came over with Rosa. “Amy! I found a board game I can beat you at!”

“Not a chance Jake, stop being salty over Bang.” Rosa claps back stoically.

“Ooh, did Hotch gave you that?” Santiago walks over.

“Yeah! We can play it in today’s after-party at my place!”

“Thanks, Hotch!” Jake says that soon followed with a few thanks from Haily, Rosa, and Amy. On the other end, he hears Aaron chuckles.

“You’re welcome.”

“He says you’re welcome. Yall tidy up cmon! Let’s ditch this dump. Get the captain.”

They all scatter over to their desks as Chris put the doll back to the box.

“Thank you for the doll, also the board game. I love them all!” Chris puts the plushy back to the box. “Don’t forget to open mine as soon as you get back!”

“I won’t miss it for the world.”

++++

When the team comes back, the sighs and long faces disappear at the sight holographic ribbons, red and gold wrappings on a box as tall as a small child inside Hotch’s office, sitting on his desk.

“What is that,” Blake says.

“I assume that’s a gift from my boyfriend,” Hotch finds his smile again. The blinding holo ribbons are so sore to the eyes than he thinks of nothing else than what’s inside.

“Today doesn’t turn out as we had hoped, but we’ve done the best we can. Get home and rest. If any of you need a leave tomorrow, tell me first thing in the morning. Merry Christmas.”

The team gave him a collective Merry Christmas before dropping or grabbing something from their desk and tidy up.

Hotch needs to get a few papers ready, while he’s here, but all he wanted to do is open his present. The last time he felt like this was when he was a kid waiting for his birthday to come. No one else is here since it’s way past office hour, so he takes this time to open his present.

As soon as he drops his go bag, he cuts up the ribbon and tries to keep the wrappings intact so he can keep it.

To his absolute surprise, the box is roughly as big as what he gave Chris. When he opens it, from what he can see, there are a few items in there. To his relieve the box is only half-filled. The one he noticed is a thick blanket that takes up half of the box. A folded deep blue pajamas. A journal for the next year with black leather cover. A book called Black Beauty, a classic that Aaron never read before.

He touches the blanket first, and it was the softest fabric he ever touched. Taking out the present one by one, he found a slip of envelope between the blanket and the pajamas.

Inside is a Christmas card from Chris.

‘Merry Christmas Aaron!!

I know what you’re thinking, “What is inside that big thick box.” Sorry to disappoint it’s only half-filled. I was confident that I can and WILL fill it but in the end, I just ran out of ideas. I know it’s still a lot, and to tell you the truth I am overcompensating... but best believe that every item is chosen with love. Except for the journal, it’s MADE with love.

I had a lot of ideas but then a lot doesn’t make it because... I’ll list the scratched-out things so you can judge. A bbq grill. A shovel. Phone casing with those jiggly animal characters on it. Moonshine. Wine. Scotch. Many other exotic alcohols. Weed at some point. Sunscreen. Moisturizer. Eye cream. Eye serum. Eye mask. (I love the look on you but it looks so heavy I just want to lighten the burden and it’ll feel so good and soothing, call me if you change your mind, I’ll make your skin feels so good! Like a spa day! Ooh, let’s have a spa day. Anyway.) A custom calender of puppies. A real live puppy. A plushie puppy. Snacks box subscription from Japan. Snacks box subscription from South Korea. Cloud slime. Stress balls. Me in a box (I wanted to put myself in a box and be your Santa then soon realized how dumb it is.) Me but in BAU ft flowers and a Santa outfit. Me but in bed wearing a Santa outfit. Me in bed but in a Mrs. Klaus outfit.

The last ones are very lazy (and weird) because I ran out of ideas. So, aren’t we glad that none of those are your presents!

So you understand why I choose what I choose. The blanket is so soft! And so is the pajamas. They have a variety of pajamas where it has all the color of the rainbow, but I don’t have the heart to put you through that. I hope deep blue isn’t too much of a daring color for you, (jk, you can pull off any color you sexy beast.) I want to dump this and start over after I wrote that but this is my fifth card and the last out of the bulk I bought so... You just have to deal with being a sexy beast. I know... the horror!

The book is so wholesome! It’s different from your usual non-fiction. But like, I just put it in there if you need something to read.

Oh, and I hope you like the planner journal. The inside is nothing like the outside ;) I think it’s so you!

Text me if you get my present! Merry Christmas!

P.S. I know this is a lot and you’re the type that said you don’t want anything and means it. I won’t give you this much next year, but I’m gonna level up my gift-giving game... you’ll see.

P.P.S. I’m joking about this being my 5th card. It’s my 11th. I keep adding stuff that’s not in my draft and ended up cringing at it. It’s funny though. I would read to you if you’re interested.'

Aaron finds himself smiling the entire time he reads the letter even though it ended on an ominous note. He laughed at all the gift ideas. He didn’t know what cloud slime is.

He opens the journal with black leather cover, and the inside is a stark difference from the cover. It’s still meticulous, functional, and tightly tidy with its format. But the icons are flowers and cute animals. The papers are colored warm light brown and other earthy tones. The decorations throughout the planner are minimalistic drawings of decorative plants, flowers, and cute animals.

Though it was random items, all of them are thoughtful gifts. Thankfully Aaron hasn’t bought a book planner for next year. Aaron is also intrigued by the book because Chris doesn’t read a lot of books. More of a watcher than a reader he said. So when Chris recommends a book, it does perk his curiosity at what Chris count as interesting.

Sadly, the blanket would receive less love than all. Simply because Aaron rarely sleeps at his own bed because of cases. He can’t believe he’s genuinely feeling sad for not being able to sleep on his bed a lot because he won't feel the blanket as often. To be fair, it really is soft. The pajamas, however, are perfect. He can put that in the go-bag.

Just like Chris said, Aaron doesn’t have anything in mind when someone asked what he wants for birthdays or Christmases. He’s not materialistic in nature. He never bought anything that’s not necessary basic needs. Gifts, however, are different. Even if Chris just gave him a card, He would’ve kept it forever, just how he’ll keep this card in his keepsake box. And even if Chris gave him rainbow pajamas, he’ll still keep it and wear it.

The knock from his door is followed with an “Excuse me, sir,” and he goes back to Hotch.

Hotch looks back to see Garcia who’s surprisingly still in the building. She usually went home as soon as the case is done.

“Are you okay?” She says, and he gets why she’s here now.

“Yes. Are you?” Aaron asked back, because last time he saw her from the screen, she was crying.

“Oh, sir, I’m not, it sucks but you know... No, I don’t know. I hate not being able to do anything.”

“I know Garcia, you did a great job. We’ll all bounce back from this.” Like they always do.

“I know... We’re having a Christmas get together slash chill hang out at my place, trying to wind down. Do you want to join us?”

“That sounds great, but I’ll have to pass, I have to catch up some sleep.”

“Of course sir.” She looks around and gasps, finally smiling. “Are these from Chris?”

“Yes.”

“Aw! That’s sweet. Merry Christmas sir!”

“Merry Christmas, Garcia.”

Aaron starts putting it away in a big paper bag included inside, the box is also foldable. For someone not knowing what to gift him, Chris thinks through how he’s going to bring the stuff back to his car. For Aaron, this exact gesture tells you everything you need to know about Chris as a person.

As everything is inside the bag, Aaron was about to text Chris that he received the gift. He had expected the string of text, but not a couple of videos and lastly a picture.

The videos were from yesterday when Chris received his gift. It’s a video of him dancing on the dancefloor with the doll. Haily was the one recording it while laughing in the background. It still baffles him how he met another Haily. Though in different spelling, it’s way too similar to his late ex-wife. He never wants to come to this conclusion, but in a way, it’s like some kind of fate.

Everyone else is dancing with human partners and Chris is there dancing with a round cat plushie that’s just too big for si arms. Laughing freely and happily, waving to the camera and blowing a kiss.

To be completely honest, the plushie wasn’t intended to be that big. He had ordered a size roughly identical to the clay cat he owned of Rosco because Aaron sees the paints faded away in a few places where Chris touched often. The company misinterpreted the size and it came out ten times bigger than it should’ve been.

The last picture is Chris in his sleepwear, which are a boxer and worn t-shirts. It’s a selfie of him in his bed hugging the doll. An arm draped around the cat and his knee resting on the cat’s belly.

Seems like Chris likes the size from the text that follows.

From Chris: Can’t even wrap my hands around my big thicc boi.

From Chris: That sounds suggestive lol but I swear I meant nothing but wholesome things.

From Chris: Unless?”

From Chris: Lol jk, I’m not getting it down with a plushie of my late dead cat.

Then a string of kisses emojis.

Aaron zones out for a couple of seconds seeing Chris in bed with a plushie. Aaron can see everything from his head to hip and his arms stretching out far to include the plushie. His hair tossed carelessly to the back. His shirt risen to show a bit of skin of the waist. Face buried partly on the cat’s cheek. Eyes sparkle as he looks at the camera and a smile so big it showed all his pearly teeth.

There’s no doubt that Chris is a grown man with masculine features. His face is incredibly youthful and masculine despite some soft features of his face. Round almond eyes. Bold angled eyebrows. Pale pink lips that always stretch out in a smile.

In that bed, with that pose, the picture stopped Aaron from breathing. Heat pricked under his skin. His hands clenched and unclenched. Lastly, he gulped.

How long has it been since he came over to his place?

To Chris: I got your presents. I love them all, but my favorite is the book planner, thank you.

Aaron doesn’t even need to wait for more than five seconds, Chris is already typing.

From Chris: I’m so glad! I thought the planner would be too fluffy for you

To Chris: It’s refreshing, and the decoration doesn’t disturb the functionality of a planner. The colors are easy on the eyes. I’ll bring this everywhere I go.

Chris is typing... while he does, the picture of Chris is still on his screen and he can’t tear his eyes away from it. He sends a follow-up text before Chris can send his.

To Chris: Can I come over?

From Chris: !!!!!

From Chris: CAN YA???? WILL YA???

To Chris: Yes. We promise to meet up when I came back.

From Chris: Ajanschbvha come on over bby ;)

[megabadbunny]

so after sketching out the doodle for this post upon the request of the lovely @chiaroscuroverse, I decided it was high time I finally got started on something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now. Thusly, I present to y’all the first installment of my sketch series New Who Companions in (Mostly) Historically-Accurate Period Costumes! :D

(clicky on the smaller images above to embiggen; clicky the read-more for costume history facts and assorted nerditude for each design!)

So long story short, I’m a big ol’ fashion history nerd, studied a good chunk of fashion history in the Western world during ye olde college days, and sometimes I like to think about what our New Who companions might have worn if they wanted to go mostly-historically-accurate in their old-world adventures. Below are some descriptions of what those costumes could have looked like, and a little bit of the historical context surrounding the ensembles. Thanks for joining me on this sartorial nerd-journey! <3

Fig. 1: Donna Noble, The Fires of Pompeii (Roman Empire, 79 AD)

So Donna’s original costume, while very pretty, is not accurate in any way; I can only imagine the designer was held back by some untold constraints (i.e. this costume is either constructed based on stylistic requests from Catherine Tate or it’s the product of executive meddling). Here, Donna wears a stola, i.e. a dress-like garment fastened with fibulae clasps and held in place with a girdle high above the waist. This garment would technically be worn by a married woman, to sort of show off her wealth and worth, but I figure Donna don’t give no shits about that, just give her the pretty dress already. She’s also wearing a palla, a shawl Roman women wore when going about their business outside. You would typically see the palla wrapped around the woman’s body to both accentuate her curves where desired, to hide her features when wanted (women might draw the hood close to the face to hide from unwanted male gazes), and to keep the material from dragging along the ground. The volume of fabric in the shawl signified a woman’s status; the more fabric, the wealthier the lady. Donna’s garments are fashioned from the finest material available, being linens imported from Egypt and silks imported from China.

Fig. 3: Bill Potts, The Eaters of Light (Scotland, c. 100 AD)

So, finding solid details on how women dressed in this time and place was fun,* but I did my best to sort of piece things together into a design that would make sense given the convergent influences and the materials (cloth/fibers, dyes, equipment) available in the area at the time. Basically, you’ve got a tunic cinched at the waist, and a woven cloak on top sporting a Pictish-type design, and simple jewelry fashioned from alloys that were commonplace at the time. Bill’s brooch and belt would definitely be met with approval from the other ladies; only peasant-women left the house without a belt.

* It was not fun. It was frustrating.

Fig. 2: Rose Tyler, The Stone Rose spinoff novel (Rome, 120 AD)

Rose’s garments and hair are intentionally sculptural in design, inspired by a series of Roman statues built around the time the story is set (I figured it was appropriate given the book’s plot!). Here she is wearing half of her Fortuna costume, on her way to save the Doctor (obv). Typically, a not-yet-married woman would only need to wear one layer (as unmarried women were, shall we say, low on the priority list in terms of Roman fashion), but here, on her way to being immortalized as the great Fortuna, an exception has been made for Rose; Marcia’s servants have draped, wrapped, and pinned some very fine material over Rose’s close-fitting tunica. Rose is also shown with a mantle, for covering her hair in public. Both Donna and Rose would have had their hair curled using a calamistrum, or an early curling iron, which varied in shape and style, but in this case likely would have actually been made of iron, and warmed over hot coals.

Fig. 4: Clara Oswald, Robot of Sherwood (England, 1190 AD)

Okay, so why did they make this look like a Halloween costume? It’s just, this episode clearly had a budget, the designer clearly did their homework, so who made what decision and where and when that led us to this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice Halloween costume! Like, one you would have to rent instead of buy, because she is le pricey. But I’m curious to know why the designer ventured so close to the actual periodwear without actually committing to it. Like the sleeves—the flare at the elbow suggests the overdress, or bliaut, is of French design, except those sleeves ain’t near big enough, neither in terms of volume or length. Sometimes these sleeves were so long, women would have to knot them to keep them from dragging the ground. If you don’t wanna deal with big sleeves for your action heroine, that’s fine, just go with a more English design, which forewent the exaggerated trumpet-shape in favor of something more subtle. The current shape just looks weird—like, it’s halfway there, but got tired and gave up. Then you’ve got the front-lacing on the bodice; this is a nope, and only enhances the Halloween/fancy dress look. Dresses would fasten on the side or in the back; if you were upper-class, you might be looking at a modesty panel to hide the lacing in the case of the latter. The hair is another instance of halfway-there; the top half is pretty good, with its center-part and the wraparound braid, but the loose bottom portion and the salon-curls are a big no-no. Curls weren’t really in vogue in the area at the time; ladies’ hair was worn long and braided, both to keep it out of the way and to show off elaborate styles. And last but certainly not least, why the heck is Clara’s circlet shaped the way it is? It’s like they took a necklace, situated it with a bunch of slack in the chain, and stuck it to her forehead using spirit gum. Would noble ladies have worn circlets/coronets at the time? Sure! Would they have been shaped (or stuck-on???) like that? Nope! The original ensemble is full of potential but it feels like someone somewhere along the decision-making process looked at the original, better design, said, “Eh, can you modernize (read: sex) that up for me?” and then this was born. Again, it’s not horrible, just, it could have been so much more.

/rant

Fig. 5: Amy Pond, Vampires of Venice (Italy, 1580 AD)

So I realize there’s a class difference between what Amy wore in the show and what’s depicted here, but I figured the upper-class depiction made more sense, given the fashions of the other young ladies accepted into Calvieri’s school. (That being said, Amy’s original outfit still isn’t quite there; this shows an example or two of what a working-class woman would wear at the time.) On the right, Amy is wearing a velvet gown over a petticoat; even though the color and bodice-shape denote a heavy Spanish influence, the dress would have been referred to as a French gown due to its fitted shape. Were Amy to go whole-hog and give herself some true mid-sixteenth-century hair, the front would be short, and regularly wound into tight, compact little curls, while the back was kept long, for elaborate braids and updos. That’s right--the sixteenth century was technically full of mullets. Mullets everywhere.

Fig. 6: Rose Tyler, A Groatsworth of Wit spinoff comic (England, 1592)

ok but the design in the comic, just

I don’t even understand why the artist drew it this way. It doesn’t make sense, not from a costume history perspective and not even from a design/fudging-the-details-for-the-sake-of-modern-sensibilities perspective. (Also from a perspective-perspective; dude’s having some major issues figuring out how foreshortening works, but that’s neither here nor there I suppose.) It would actually be way faster to focus on what this gown does right instead of wrong. So, let’s see here: it has a lace collar, which was a thing. It has a structured, paneled bodice; also a thing. Full layered skirt, that’s good. And, that’s officially it. The rest of this design is garbage. Like, why the eff is she wearing a ruffle as some kind of low-slung belt? Is that supposed to be cartridge pleating? What century are those sleeves supposed to be from? (Do those outer sleeves even? Show up in any century to speak of, outside of my nightmares???) If you’re going to do a lace cuff at the end of the fitted sleeve, why not do it right (i.e. like the way they actually looked at the time, which was usually in a cone shape flaring out from the wrist to the elbow)? Why would the artist imagine that Rose would go to the trouble of pouring herself into this 80’s-teal monstrosity without bothering to do anything to her hair except for a ponytail? What the fuck is up with the fucking boob lace??? See, I know the artist can draw actual historically accurate outfits, because Shakespeare in this comic looks fine. His shit’s pretty accurate. But for some reason, when it came to Rose’s dress, it’s like the artist lost their goddamn mind. (Don’t even get me started on the jewelry and accents, not if there’s a loving god in this universe)

Fig. 7: Martha Jones, The Shakespeare Code (England, 1599)

So Martha has herself a lovely heavy brocade gown, trimmed in sable, accented with soft leather gloves, and topped with a cartwheel ruff round the neck. (Don’t worry; I imagine the TARDIS only carries ethically-harvested furs, like they’re grown in a lab somewhere or collected after critters have had a long and prosperous life or the hairs are vacuumed up and reconstituted by some futuristic device, etc. etc.) Elizabethan sumptuary laws dictated that folks had to dress according to social class, so depending on what your social class was, you may not have been legally permitted to wear things like silks, certain colors, certain furs, and more. Fashion was such a surging industry and indicator of wealth that, at the time, you had higher-ups selling huge swaths of land in order to have the money to dress themselves as well as possible--it was seriously that important to be fashionable. Martha’s garments indicate that she has pretty high social standing, given the materials used. Also, she wears a pretty bitchin’ hat.

Fig. 8: Yazmin Khan, The Witchfinders (England, 1612)

Yazmin’s dress sports a fashionably high-necked bodice featuring embroidered linen silk, topped with a standing collar and “wings” at the shoulders. The dark hues shown here were super-popular at the time due to a surge of obsession with melancholia in arts and literature. Yaz also wears a “Cavalier” style hat, accented with an ostrich feather. Her outfit is basically a riding-habit/hunting-habit, constructed with ease of movement in mind.

Fig. 9: Mickey Smith, Rose Tyler, and Reinette Poisson i.e. Madame de Pompadour, The Girl in the Fireplace (France, 1758)

Setting aside my many issues with this episode’s story/plot, the bugaboos I have with Reinette’s original costume design in the show are relatively minor, and I imagine can mostly be explained-away with stuff like “this is what the BBC already had on hand” and “goddamn that’s pretty.” Both pretty salient points! But I do think it’s interesting that the designer(s) went the way they did--Madame de Pompadour was actually famously not in favor of glittering gems (actually, she supposedly donated palace jewels to the French treasury more than once to help out during times of war); she tended to prefer fairly simple pearls as embellishment, instead. She also wasn’t really into big hair; obviously the styles shown here on Ms. Myles aren’t exactly Marie-Antoinette-big, but they’re definitely more voluminous and modernized than the styles the real-life MdP typically sported, which usually consisted of a slight pomp and fairly close-knit curls framing the face. (It’s also interesting that Moffat wrote her with such a heavy innuendo for sex/romance, because rumor had it she didn’t really actually enjoy things in the bedroom all that much, instead preferring to pull political strings, promote the arts, patronize motherfucking Voltaire!!!, help design architecture!!!, and keep the king constantly entertained and distracted so he literally didn’t royally fuck everything up. She was a very busy lady! Also she like. Paid contractors and artists on time? Instead of dicking them over with “credit” bullshit like other wealthy patrons??? Sorry she was just WAY more awesome than the show gave her credit for!) Anyhoo, long story short, Rose and MdP are shown here wearing gowns and hairstyles that are heavily inspired by those worn by the real-life MdP wore in some of her many many portraits.

Thanks for tuning in to my giant costume nerdfest; see you next time for part 2! <3 <3 <3

[chibimyumi]

Redesign Prompt RESULTS!

Alright, thank you everyone who has voted, the results are now in! Overwhelmingly our winner is Ranmao 🐈!

First of all, I need to insert a few caveats here. Unlike with Victorian fashion, I do not have years and years of studying of Qing dynasty-fashion behind me. So whatever results I show here are the product of a fortnight of reading up and meticulous studying of contemporary photographs. a.k.a. I am merely scraping the surface here. But! I do promise that everything shown here is done to the best of my ability to be responsible as a content provider.

Now without further ado, let us dive into Ranmao’s current design, the blatantly obvious inaccuracies, and how I propose to redes...ign... her outfit while keeping the original intact as much.... as possible????  Heck, this is not even worthy of being called a ‘redesign’, this is straight up designing from scratch!

Hair

Let us start with her bangs. Her bangs are in fact surprisingly accurate, as late Qing dynasty women would wear their bangs in a variety of Bettie bangs trimmed well above the eyebrows. Having sides of the bangs growing longer framing the face was usual too, though they would be cut slightly thicker than Ranmao’s. Though, we don’t know how much hair Ranmao has, so I see no reason to alter it.

Twin braids are very much associated with the “China doll look”, but they seem to have been branded into our image of the “Chinese Girl” because it was the go-to look for unmarried women in Republic China (which is many years later than Ranmao’s time, and also has more surviving images.)

In Ranmao’s time, unmarried girls would either wear the bottom part of their hair down, or have everything tied into a single braid behind them. Girls who preferred a more feminine look would often decorate the sides or the top with flowers or other ornaments depending on their wealth.

Yana’s notes say that the flower in Ranmao’s hair is a Chinese peony, which is also called the Empress of Flowers in Chinese as well as Japanese culture. I could find sources on how the peony was the symbol of the Empress of China, and how one better avoid wearing any type of peonies around the Empress herself for fear of being suspected of disrespect. But I could not find any evidence of such flowers being banned for other people, so presumably it was more an ‘unwritten code of politeness’ rather than fashion law.

Hence, I kept the pink peony design for Ranmao, and decorated them in the way Qing women would have.

Neckline

By far the most interesting thing I learned from this redesign attempt was that the “mandarin collar” - the thing that pops up first in most people’s minds when thinking about Chinese fashion - was in fact not at all common.

In this academic work on Chinese fashion history, Finnane writes that the ‘high collar’ was “not a common feature of costume before the twentieth century.” Instead, most costumes would have had a round neckline.

Finnane, Antonia. Changing Clothes in China : Fashion, History, Nation. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. p. 93

The ‘high collar’ gained popularity in early 1900s in China after the Europeans brought with them the beauty standard for high collars, as well as slim-fitted silhouettes. The Chinese increasingly adopted this type of collar and the slim silhouette (the well known ‘china dress/qipao/cheongsam’), and the relatively many early photos that survived helped engrave this stereotype into our minds.

Sleeves

I do not think it requires any mention, but 19th century Chinese fashion did not include boleros... For many of the original designs of Ranmao I can sort of see where Yana got that image from, but this bolero-look truly beats me.

The sleeves worn in the late Qing period were relatively wide, though they were starting to slim down over time. Late Qing women enjoyed much more flexible clothing rules than earlier Qing women, and the width of the sleeves was in great part determined by personal preference, season, but mostly one’s wealth.

Needless to say, the larger the sleeves the more fabric and embroidery it would require, and thus more expensive. Also, the wider the more it would get into the wearer’s way.

I don’t know how much thought Yana put into Ranmao’s original design in relation to her function as elite bodyguard, but considering how the original has zero practicality and only serves to maximise Ranmao’s attractiveness, I have no qualms about giving Ranmao fairly large sleeves too. Besides, let us assume that Lau is responsible for providing Ranmao with clothes. Illegal money tends to fill the pockets quite deeply, I don’t think he can’t spare a few pounds for big sleeves.

Wider sleeves would expose much of ‘a lady’s precious skin’, as such a more fitted layer would have been worn underneath. (The sleeves under the wider sleeves obviously did not have to be orange-ish. This was merely coincidence that both my redesign and the visual source have this colour.)

Silhouette

The figure hugging silhouette x Chinese clothes was - as mentioned above - not at all a thing in Ranmao’s time. In fact, the accentuation of the “female curves” was considered very inappropriate if not downright ugly in the Qing dynasty.

Finnane, Antonia. Changing Clothes in China : Fashion, History, Nation. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. p. 94

Yana’s notes mention that the thing Ranmao wears is just an European corset and that that is the only thing ‘English’ about her attire.

Well... I don’t know where the idea that Victorians wore corsets on the outside comes from, but I myself admittedly was fooled by this a few years ago too... I promise you all now however, Victorians decidedly did not wear their ‘bras’ on the outside. I think even now this look is considered rather ‘questionable’ by most people.

Instead, Qing dynasty clothes were mostly cut wide and straight, loosely dangling around their bodies offering maximum comfort and space. You feared Ranmao killing you in her corset? Now tremble before her now blessed with maximised agility.

Trousers

Well... I considered ‘translating’ Ranmao’s attire to 2020 standard like I did for O!Ciel, but that would not be Tumblr-filter approved. Skirts so short they could be mistaken for a belt are nothing too surprising today, but wearing one with a split that deep is probably a bit too revealing even by today’s standards.

By the late Qing dynasty, men and women, rich and poor alike predominantly wore trousers. Long robes (skirts) were definitely in fashion too, but they were reserved for those who could afford to not have much agility. If you were a farmer, robes would not have been your first option. Perhaps the way long skirts were viewed by the Qing Chinese was not unlike the way we see them now; ‘more classy’ ‘more feminine’ and ‘less convenient’, but not the only way to express femininity.

In these pictures below we can see relatively rich women, married and unmarried alike, all wearing trousers.

Ranmao is predominantly a fighter, and as trousers are plenty feminine in Chinese fashion culture, I don’t see why she would not choose to wear trousers instead of a restricting long skirt. Hence I gave her a pair of trousers.

Shoes

Like I said before, “the shoes are correct...” But the anklets definitely are not!

Golden or silver anklets are something that are worn by very, VERY young children in China. Even to this day it is customary among many Chinese people to gift newborn children at least one piece of pendant, bracelet or anklet, for it is believed to bring the child luck. More practically, this piece of jewellery will become the child’s first piece of property then, which can be sold later SHOULD they ever run into a financially difficult situation.

These anklets or bracelets would not be removed from the child unless they have outgrown them, which happens fairly quick. Ranmao who is probably full grown should have outgrown them at least ten years ago. Hence, seeing these things on Ranmao would probably make it look like she is still wearing diapers or bibs.

Chinese people would likewise not have worn shoes barefoot. Instead, they would have worn cotton socks which were mostly white.

DOUBLE HAMMERS

HERE COME THE WEAPONS! Luckily Yana wrote the following note or I would never have guessed what they are for my knowledge about Chinese weapons is next to nothing.

“These are【SUPER】heavy. They are weapons called 双錘 (double hammers) and they in fact exist. I heard these were used by power-type warriors.”

So, I googled 双錘 and it turns out that the type Ranmao is holding do indeed exist! But... only in fiction and theatre.

The hammers that were used in actual combat were either very thin and long, or short and plump. Such hammers were one of the most primitive metal weapons in China, and quickly fell out of favour among Chinese warriors when more practical weapons such as the metal spear, sword and bows were invented. The hammers mostly retained their value because of their weight in heroic tales and myths about legendary warriors and deities.

I don’t have the full details, but apparently according to some legends or myths, one of such big-ass hammers could deal a force of 200kg, and thus 400kg combined. Regardless of this being realistic or not, it sure does sound very cool! It is therefore no wonder this primitive weapon retains its popularity even today.

Nowadays when these hammers are used, they are either the blown up theatrical versions, or the smaller versions for the sake of preserving martial arts.

I had a bit of a dilemma as to which version to give Ranmao, but in the end I settled with the short and heavy ones because I wanted to keep the idea of this small and innocent looking girl wielding solid metal balls. Two cheer-leading sticks would simply not have the same weight, figuratively and literally.

Alright everyone! Did you enjoy my response to your votes? I hope you did ^^ Non-European fashion history really is not my strong suit, so my deepest apologies if I messed anything up.

Pray tell if I did, I am always happy to learn ^^

[stillness-in-green]

Stress Management

Guess who woke up with post-Deika Shigaraki/Re-Destro on the brain?  (Spoilers: it me.)  

A few months after Deika, when everyone is beginning to settle into the new status quo, Rikiya finally gets to meet Shigaraki’s other most mysterious ally.  (Content Warning: Ujiko, Shigaraki being kind of handsy.)

       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---

When Rikiya entered the lab, mouth still tasting unpleasantly of bitter black ichor, his first thought upon seeing the twelve tubes and their contents was, Ah.  So, we never could have won, after all.  

“Why didn’t you bring these with you to Deika?” he asked, gaze taking in the obsidian-black Noumu floating in their rows.  “It would have saved everyone some injury and expense.”

Shigaraki Tomura, slouching as ever undisturbed behind him, huffed out, an edge of exasperation to the sound.  He didn’t have time to answer, though, as the figure in the chair at the end of the room turned to face them.  

“He hadn’t earned them yet,” the little man replied, eyes masked behind thick green lenses.  

Curious, how much function shaped form.  Rikiya had never met a true mad scientist before, but of course he had imagined how this one might look when Shigaraki had, the day prior, called him out of the blue and told him to make time for a doctor’s appointment.  And here Ujiko-obvious-pseudonym-Daruma sat, a perfect embodiment of Rikiya’s idle imaginings.  

“I have to thank you!” the man went on.  “The winter training retreat was getting fairly dull, but I couldn’t ask for a better result.”  

“Training retreat?” Rikiya echoed, raising an eyebrow.  He looked back at Shigaraki, who never had bothered to explain what he and his team were doing up in Niigata when the Liberation Army made contact.  “How—youthful.”  

Shigaraki rolled his eyes—a perfectly youthful response—and the doctor chortled.  

“Come, come.  Sit down, Yotsubashi Rikiya!  I want to talk about your quirk.”  

A skinny robotic arm extended from behind Ujiko’s chair (truly, the Platonic ideal of what one imagined when asked ‘what sort of man creates things like the Noumu?’) and indicated the rather more mundane folding chair across from him.  

Rikiya hesitated for only a moment—he still wasn’t accustomed to his new prosthetics, and that cluttered floor looked to be a nightmare—before a hand alighted between his shoulder blades.  He stiffened at the four little points of contact, his skin prickling, suddenly hyper-sensitive to where the fifth might fall.  

“You heard him,” Shigaraki Tomura, middle finger hovering, said in the casual voice of a man who knew he didn’t need to threaten.  He pushed Rikiya forward—well, pressed him forward.  Despite everything, Shigaraki lacked the physical strength to do more than suggest. Suggestion might as well be doctrine, though, when it came from a hand like his—certainly if one appreciated the uncertainty of living another day.  Rikiya went, picking his regrettably wobbly way over the sprawling oversized cables.  Shigaraki ambled along behind, hands back in his pockets.

Manilla folders sitting upright in a wire organizer, a somewhat dated laptop computer, a mug full of writing utensils—up close, Ujiko’s desk was a spot of normalcy amidst the lab’s draping shadows and looming, flickering observation monitors.  As Rikiya sat down, the doctor examined his new legs with a professional eye.  

“Better quality than that stump your magician was working with,” Ujiko aimed over Rikiya’s shoulder, to the sound of a snort from Shigaraki.  

“You haven’t seen what they put together for him since then.”  

“Detnerat is very proud of our upcoming prosthetic line,” Rikiya put in, aware of the commercial-quality falsity of his good cheer.  “Those who give their all in the line of duty deserve only the best.”  

Shigaraki actually laughed at that, a throaty snicker mostly drowned out by Ujiko’s slapping at the arm of his chair amidst belly-shaking guffaws.  The sounds echoed up through the canyon-curve contours of the room, perfectly at home and perfectly unsettling.  Rikiya didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t let the smile fall off his face, but felt his stress spots swell a fraction of an increment larger.  

“Government subsidies!” Ujiko barked in his humor.  “They do buy the best, eh?”  

Rikiya settled for inclining his head.  Modesty was generally a good tactic, he’d found.  

Still chuckling, the doctor pulled a folder over and slid a sheet of paper out of it.  Rikiya accepted it when offered and skimmed over the contents as the other man brought himself back under control.  

“Does it look accurate?” he asked, his mustache still bristling around a smile.  

Rikiya’s name, his alias, a brief on his meta-ability (titled his quirk, of course), one on his personal history, followed by a section on one half of his parentage and that man’s ability.  The paper was a non-standard size and, sure enough, the bottom looked slightly uneven, as if a portion had been cut away.  

“In general, yes,” he replied, trying to pass it back over, then letting it settle in his lap when Ujiko made no move to take it.  “What did the rest say?”  

“Considerations for my work here,” Ujiko answered, prompt if unspecific.  “Now, tell me!  You transform your ‘stress’ into power.  Was there ever a time when you did so inadvertently?  Can it happen by reflex, or must it always be a conscious choice?”  

“It does have an accumulation condition, if that’s what you mean.  Imagine the board meetings if it worked solely on reflex!”  

Ujiko did not laugh at that joke, only leaned closer in interest, eyes narrowing behind his goggles.  That proximity was less alarming, though, than the sudden twin weights on his back.  

Shigaraki had leaned on him—not dropped those deadly hands over his shoulders, but, from the feel of it, propped his thin elbows on them instead.  He was close enough that Rikiya felt the brush of his hair—still overlong despite Rikiya’s tentative suggestion of a trim and Trumpet’s frequent backroom complaining.  

Rikiya’s stress markings gave another twinge.

“Ho!  Hohoho!  So there is a degree of reflex involved!”  Rikiya looked back up to find Ujiko staring intently at his forehead.  “What admirable self-control you must have, then!”

“Getting brought up to be a cult leader will do that for you,” Shigaraki said, the sneer audible in his voice.  

Rikiya almost opened his mouth to protest the designation, but the sensation of Shigaraki’s fingers (his good hand; he seldom wore the prosthetic Detnerat had produced for him) tapping restlessly over his shoulder killed the objection before it could reach the internal committee governing the kinds of smart remarks Rikiya allowed himself to make out loud.  

No rhythm, no real pattern, but somehow never all five fingers at once.  Rarely even four, in fact.  And Shigaraki Tomura was the successor of All For One, as that beast who had so recently joined his group unceasingly reiterated in its refusal to call the youth by name.

Really, it’s no wonder he laughed so freely back then.  Rikiya relaxed, incrementally, ignoring the doctor’s interested hum.  I must ensure he’s able to do so again soon.

Ujiko, it became rapidly clear, had brought him in to sound out his quirk for the purposes of placing it in one of his Noumu.  Quite an alarming prospect—I’m afraid I can’t be parted from it! he’d said with jovial force—until Ujiko waved off the protest with a dismissive comment about rudimentary genetic splicing he’d mastered in college.  

“Even so, it’s quite distinct, as meta-abilities go,” Rikiya argued.  “Part of why I can do what I do is my position.  I can’t have that position brought into question by a High-End Noumu rampaging through, oh, Sapporo or somewhere, with stress blots mottling its skin every time a hero lands a good hit.”  

Before Ujiko had done more than inhale to volley back, one of Shigaraki’s spidery fingers touched Rikiya’s forehead, causing them both to look up.

“No one would see it.” Shigaraki’s red eyes flicked to Rikiya’s and away.  The young man’s touch skated lazily over his skin, following the pulsing movements of his stress markings—across his temple, around the hollow of his eye, over the bridge of his nose.  “I’ve seen you covered head-to-toe in this gunk.  It’s not that different-looking from those things.”  

Ujiko sputtered briefly, probably torn—at a guess—between protesting the unique wonders of his “children” or backing up Shigaraki in hopes of swaying Rikiya’s opinion.  Shigaraki went on.

“If I know the doc, they’ll all perform different anyway.  One with your quirk”—he paused, then grinned wide enough that it probably hurt his cracked lips, and continued in a mocking tone—“sorry, your meta-ability.  People won’t even raise an eyebrow, as long as it’s just doing the armor-buff thing.”

“Naturally they all perform differently; that’s called scientific progress, you brat,” Ujiko said with his strange, amicable malice, then reoriented.  “In any case, Mr. CEO, as you’ve pointed out, you don’t make a habit of getting into brawls in front of news cameras.  Just good sense, really.  Until you all decide what you’re going to do with that footage out of Deika, no one even knows what the combat applications of your quirk look like.”  

“Think Skeptic’ll leak a video or two?”  Shigaraki leaned over him, leering.

“Of course not,” Rikiya demurred.  “Not Skeptic or anyone else.  They are all loyal to Destro’s will.”  

“And remind me who’s the one carrying that these days?”  

Rikiya sighed, settling back into the chair.  Shigaraki’s weight shifted with the movement; he was left curled over Rikiya’s right shoulder, radiating self-satisfaction.  Rikiya truly had not expected the leader of the League of Villains to be so—touchy-feely?  One day, he hoped to gain enough of Shigaraki’s favor to find out whether it was a mark of affection or a display of dominance, or perhaps some strange blend of both.  

“You, Shigaraki Tomura,” he said, voice level.  “As I said in the ruins of Deika.”  

“Right.  So be a good minion and roll up a sleeve for the nice doctor.”  

Rikiya obeyed.  

“How droll.  Well, he’s no Gigantomachia, young man, but he’s not a bad start,” Ujiko said with shades of approval, rummaging in his desk and pulling out a syringe with unsettling rapidity.  He drew two vials of blood, movements brisk and efficient—part of Rikiya, the part not preoccupied with the way Shigaraki’s chin tilted into a prouder angle at the compliment, considered this evidence that, terrifyingly, Ujiko Daruma might actually run some kind of day-world clinic where he worked as a perfectly normal doctor, all-unbeknownst to an unsuspecting populace.

The bright blue and yellow child’s band-aid he applied to Rikiya’s arm after removing the needle did little to allay the suspicion.  What a disturbing souvenir, he thought, rolling his sleeve down as they stood up.

“Where will it be?” Ujiko asked, pulling a truly appalling assemblage of brain and legs, red tennis shoes and bulging eyeballs into his lap like a favored pet.  “Back to the office?”  

Pulling his jacket back on, Rikiya looked down at Shigaraki.  “I keep a water pitcher in the mini-fridge.  It should help with the—flavor residue.”

“The office, yeah. I wanna hear more about that hero line of yours.  See you ‘round, Doc.”  

A grunt from Ujiko, whose attention was obviously straying further by the second, and then the sudden engorgement of sticky fluid, bursting in his mouth like a rotten grape. This method of transportation really was just awful.

Back at the office, Shigaraki spat the goo out onto the tile with no sign of embarrassment whatsoever and stalked over to the mini-bar.  Rikiya sighed.  The young man had no manners at all.  

But then, etiquette was one of the first restraints one learned as a child.  Of course, there were limits to how charming such coarseness could be, but…  

He allowed himself a small smile.  

Well, it wasn’t as if it was the worst thing Custodial had ever had to clean up off his floor.  

      ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---       ---  ---  ---

(And now I’m going to post this on AO3, where, incidentally, everyone who likes this pairing should go read the other post-Deika fic about it, A Different Kind of Weight.)