⚜ ain't nothing in this life for free

[Deleted]

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]FLAVIA ANTONIA

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]C A P I T O L - E S C O R T

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]T W E N T Y - T H R E E

◼ Ⅱ ▸

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]i.

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]Damn, why the hell do I do this again?
Flavia starred into the mirror before her with a quiet nervousness. With every movement of the beautician hand she could feel the urge rising within her to swat her away. Artificial locks adhered with her own with each tug until hundreds of twisting plaits dangled at her cheeks.

The stylist, who had failed to maintain a conversation hours ago, looked her up and down in the mirror as he finished. Lenses made his eyes glow gold. Once again, she was under the scrupulous judgement of a god. She did not please him. Something in his face twitched, in anger perhaps, unsatisfied with the sacrifice the mortals had given him. She had been sat in his leather throne when she walked into his domain in the expectation that to could heighten her beauty.

She could him looking and he smiled.

“Gorgeous!”

Bullshit...

Her purple lips curled into a stony grin. A gloriously dark figure lingered in the glass before her. Eyeliner wings sharp as knives and shining with bloody glitter; she was ready for him.

She emptied money out of her bra, counting it all carefully, then paid for her transformation.

Oh, that's why. I'm broke.

Flavia stept into the dying sunlight and breathed in. She found that the air at dusk was always stale. The smells of the day - the fruit and bread and flowers of afteroon shoppers - haven't been replaced by the sweet perfume and cool breeze; instead they linger and rot in the nose.

If she were without a client, she wouldn't have noticed the rot. No one observes something they live with. But tonight a client was waiting. She had invented herself in his perfect image; badass in look but submissive in tone.

The badass she was now gulped the air down like she would down an overpowering liquor, tasting the fuel for the night ahead.

The heels beneath her clanked against the stone walk like cocks in a bell tower. And, like clockwork, her routine had begun. Find him, approach with confidence but only present the neck when her goes in for the kiss. Glower at the girls across the bar but laugh with them while taking shots in the bathroom.

Be an enigma. Make him fall in love. Walk home after leaving him drunk on his doorstep.

God, I hope he's a loser. I can't handle a character tonight.

format taken from a public template by chelsey // credit to her

[Onyx]

[googlefont="Playfair Display"][googlefont="Alice"]

you've got diamonds in your eyes tonight Throwing fire, trying to make it right

His fingers knot the straight burgundy tie with the deftness of an expert gunman reloading his rifle. From the dusty, silver-edged mirror, his own face stands tall and straight with gritted teeth. Slowly, he allows himself to smile, and enjoys how the dark smirk reflects the superiority and power that radiates from his eyes. Although tonight is a business night ("Aren't they all?" Dolores sighed, her sadness as bare in her voice as her body was in the bed when he excused himself from her chamber) he can still allow himself to enjoy it. One finishing touch sees to that - a flash of white powder which spirals like a flurry from fingernail to nostril. Even as his brain picks up even more speed, Mr Stanford can feel his whole form relaxing.

It was Claude, his executive, who found this new creature for him. A pile of photos cascaded onto the already overflowing desk of the casting room, some taken from out a truck window, some from a doorway across the street from each photograph's subject. Her striking jaw, straight eyebrows, passive yet all-seeing eyes drew Stanford immediately. He had a feeling the camera was going to love her. What had come next, of course, was finding a way to approach her - and he never thought it could be as easy as it turned out to be. "Flavia," her name was soft and liquid in his mouth as he read it from the list of Escorts. No surname given, but Claude had already provided it. The executive has ways of knowing things even Mr Stanford himself hasn't found out yet. Eventually, however, he always finds out. In Mr Stanford's world, everything he ever wants is his in the end.

She is a vision, just as he knew she would be. Her hair tumbles around her cheeks like dark serpents, her lips shining like dark fruits. Or perfect bruises. Stanford licks his own lips and begins to cast her in his head - she would make a divine Celia Mortuus, and with a little technical skill (he thanks fate that Lila is as artful with video as she is with sound) she could even play the strong and curious victor, Patricia Valfierno. Stanford approaches her in easy steps, holding himself high and allowing his shadow to glide over the other figures at the bar. His cologne is a mixture of oranges and cloves, with the underlying yet obvious scent of wealth. The last is a smell that can only be achieved authentically, and Stanford holds this fact with pride.

When she turns to him, his face opens into the same dark smile he gave earlier to his reflection. Reaching down, he gently clutches her hand with his own and raises it to his lips. The kiss is dry but lingering, and as he straightens up again his eyes never leave her own. "Miss Antonia," a startled look in her eyes as she hears the surname that has been kept hidden from her clients, "it's an honour to finally meet you." Stanford's voice is deep and level, the intonation subtle, like a double bass rather than a violin.

The music throbs in the background and the lights seem to flicker in time, and Stanford can't help but accept this is not the most ideal establishment to be publicly seen in, or to conduct a first audition in. However, he has fortune to thank that he is a generally mysterious celebrity, and not easily noticed by the common person. Furthermore, one glowering look from him tends to send aspiring yet uninvited auditionees regretting ever approaching him when he's outside the Studio grounds. Flavia, though, is anything but uninvited. They sit at a dimly lit table, across from one another though still as close as two criminals conspiring. Her skin glows under the neon. Stanford resists the urge to lick his lips again.

"My name is Leland Stanford," he continues, humbly lowering his eyes as he says his own name before returning them unblinkingly to her gaze, "perhaps you already know my name, but if not then I'm sure you've seen my work..." Offhandedly, he gestures to a poster plastered over tens of others on the opposite wall. Ella Dahl-Moreno (rather, an actress who bears an eerie resemblance to her) stares out of the middle, blood dripping from her hands as an imagined District One burns around her. In the bottom corner is the sigil of Temple Studios, the horse rearing out of the ring of stars as if it is about to leap off the paper. He watches her eyes flicker to the poster and back to him in acknowledgement. Obedience. Good.

Stanford leans even closer, until the warmth radiating from her perfectly made face reaches his own cheeks. "I'm not here with a romantic proposition," he thinks of Dolores again - her sad, aging face, and finds it impossible to impose it on top of the flawless beauty of this young woman. He wants her, no doubt, but he can wait for her. Eventually, just like all the others, she will even come round to wanting him. "My proposition is of a different sort." He hastily continues, not allowing her to become startled with ideas of what he could be asking for. He knows he's not the safest looking person in the Capitol, and he certainly has the ability to overpower a woman such as Flavia should he want to. "I'm always looking for fresh faces to become acquainted with, talent to realise, fame to kindle," again, the humble glance away - although he knows that his ability to turn anyone into an icon is undeniable - "and your case is no different."

The pause he leaves next is intentional, and he hopes it works in keeping Flavia holding on to his words. When he speaks again, his voice is slower and lower than before. Though he has never been an actor himself, drama comes to him like a second language. "In short, Miss Antonia,

"I want to make you a star."

THEME

@banana

1003 words

NOTES: notes here

ⒶⓀⒾ of Adoxography and of GS

[Deleted]

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]FLAVIA ANTONIA

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]C A P I T O L - E S C O R T

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]T W E N T Y - T H R E E

◼ Ⅱ ▸

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]ii.

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]Black, pointed nails rap a quick beat onto the table between them. The rhythm entwined with his words as he purred them. Together they filled the dark corner with a symphony composed of warm glances and fresh breath. Beautiful. Her ears burned with a soft fire as he declared his intentions.

Star? As long as she was paid her fee, he could make Flavia anything he wanted. Times had been and gone where she had been left in the street, nothing but blood and ash, by such men. She would agree to stepping into the role of a corpse so long as he laid coin on her eyes. And she almost told him so. But there was something about him. He was different to the others. Where the wealth of other men rattle in their pockets, Stanford’s fortune hummed with the authority of an oncoming army.

She blinked and watched his still, smiling face. His eyes, like stars, twinkled with the promise of a future in a better place. They didn’t lift from her until a barmaid came with a tray of drinks. His hurried thanks chased her away as soon as they were placed upon the table.

Here comes the elixir of persuasion.

Whatever he had ordered was dyed red by the bleeding neon surrounding them. She stroked the sharp edge of the crystal with a soft fingertip.

Like a fiercest insult in the heat of verbal warfare, his forename threatened to roll from the tongue. But if he was the tycoon and this was a recruitment, ‘Leland’ felt off the cards. “Mister Stanford,” she lifted her chin but spoke softly; as per the evening’s request she looked godly but played the servant. "Please, call me Flavia."

She ignored his reaction by downing the glass of glowing temptation. Heat scorched her tongue, throat and settled like fear in her stomach.

Cheap shit.

"Well, I'm not usually in the habit of accepting anything other than romantic propsitions," she mused. "However, I may be convinced to stay and hear the details of your offer if buy me some decent vodka." Her playful, good-girl tone danced over the thump of music around them. "None of this trash brewed in Seven."

What can I say, sometimes payment in advance is a better bet.

"A star, huh?" Her galaxy-hued lips curled in compassion. "Tell me more, mister."

[ooc: sorry this is so short (again)! i'm planning on getting tutored, so hopefully it will be a minor setback...]

format taken from a public template by chelsey // credit to her

[Onyx]

[googlefont="Playfair Display"][googlefont="Alice"]

you've got diamonds in your eyes tonight Throwing fire, trying to make it right

In Mr Stanford's head, the whole world is laid out to be scrutinised, tracked, and predicted. Within the whirlwinds and dust-storms, the tall stone pillars that mark the gates to Temple Studios loom upwards into his conscious thought, the secrets held behind (and beneath) them always playing in his mind. Can this woman be trusted with those secrets? His imagination ventures between those gates, entering the dark facade of the studios, its blood-red shutters groaning as his consciousness sweeps into the building - his building. Around him are the smells and sounds he knows so well; old wood; the low bass-note hum of electricity; cigarette smoke; a tannoy calling some personnel to some room to make some decision about some administration.

And there, in front of him, stands Flavia Antonia.

She is dressed from head to toe in sequins, and Stanford is amused at his own projection of Dolores onto this fresh and rising star. Her head is thrown back, shining dark hair cascading down her bare back in an untamed curtain, and her laugh fills the corridor of the studios like light. Stanford feels warm determination flooding his chest and abdomen as he watches her twirl in ecstasy. He can give her this, if she lets him. Somewhere, echoing in the corners of this mind Studio, jazz music plays at half-pace. Yes. If she lets him, he and Flavia are going to dance.

He is brought back to reality by the sound of a glass smashing behind the bar, and noises of complaint arising from the crowd who wait impatiently to be served. Here, in their corner, the couple discuss business as if in total isolation. No disturbances. A smile threatens to curl the corner of Stanford's serious lips as he watches her begin to speak, but he lets the temptation pass unhumoured. "I may be convinced to stay and hear the details of your offer if you buy me some decent vodka."

"Vodka," Stanford repeats the word as if he's never heard it before in his life. He holds no judgement for her drink of choice, but knows that appearing to think something of it might intrigue her. Allowing her a moment to turn the thought in her head, to pique her curiosity,he moves on swiftly and responds to the next part of her ultimatum. "There will be no convincing necessary, Miss- Flavia," he corrects his formality, surrendering to her request respectfully, "this is a choice which you will make yourself. Your bearings shape your fate, I cannot steer you." Finally, the smile appears, and as it does he tilts his head downwards, hiding all but his forehead in the deepest shadow.

His eyes are on her face, but hers are on his right hand, which he unwraps from around the tumbler of whiskey he had accepted from a waiter on the way in. Although his open eyes have lost focus, his mind once again diving into the Studios he keeps inside his head to watch the vision of this woman dancing in his halls, he is certain that she continues to watch as his hand first presses flat against the table, then begins to slide towards her own. As it reaches her skin, before the first touch, he pauses, and quietly begins to speak again.

"However, Miss Antonia," familiarity once again discarded. His long fingers gently encircle her wrist, and turn her hand palm-up, "without convincing you, there are some things I can guarantee if you choose to come with me."

His thumb runs lightly over the frail pair of tendons that connect her palm to her forearm. He traces the blue vein he finds there, listening in his touch for her heartbeat.

"I can guarantee, for example, that you will never be without a home, or without company - intimately," there is total dignity in his words; he is not mocking her, "or otherwise."

In a fine and fluid movement, Stanford's thumbnail trails a long, crooked line from the heel of Flavia's thumb, across those tendons and veins, and several inches up her forearm. Instead of coming to a stop there, the thumbnail starts to move at right angles to its previous direction, slowly trailing horizontally across Flavia's pale skin.

"I can guarantee you will be wealthy, in more than just riches - though those will come. I can guarantee you total adoration, total commandment of an audience that lives on your life."

His pattern once again takes a corner turn, and begins to trace the second side of a square. He allows his thumb to finish its dance, trailing the final two sides of its square, coming back to rest at the point it started. A constellation visible on any clear night, the stallion in the stars, Pegasus, now finely imprinted on Flavia's skin.

"There are only two conditions for these guarantees, Miss Antonia," his voice, still quiet, now grows in urgency, forbidding Flavia to become distracted from it, "the first is your agreement, your vocal contract - signed now with your answer. The second..."

Uncharacteristically, Stanford trails off, suddenly plagued with images of his first love, Sienna, who had given herself up entirely to the first condition, but had been left totally destroyed when she failed to meet the second. Stanford's mouth hangs open, his eyes once again unfocussed, his grip on Flavia's wrist suddenly tight and unyielding. Then - all at once - it passes. He clears his throat softly. He won't let himself be embarrassed.

"The second, Flavia, comes after. It doesn't matter until you have made your choice on the first."

And then, he releases her wrist and clutches the tumbler again, taking a slow gulp as he leans back in his seat. Now all there is to do is wait, for Flavia to think over his half-explained proposal (the one that has always been designed to be undeclinable - too good to be true and yet somehow still true) and for her to come to the correct conclusion.

They always do.

THEME

@banana

985 words

NOTES: <3

ⒶⓀⒾ of Adoxography and of GS