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madpanda75 · 4 years

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“Taking Chances Part 10: The Perfect Gift”

Part 10 is here! Not gonna lie, this chapter is short and not my best work but a necessary bridge to get to the climax of our story! Fair warning, it ends on a cliffhanger. Enjoy! ❤️

It was the Tuesday after the dramatic Carisi lunch. You typically had Mondays off from the gallery and after fucking Rafael senseless in front of the fireplace, it didn’t take much convincing on your part to get him to play hooky. The majority of your day was spent in bed— making love, browsing through Netflix, and eating Chinese takeout. It was a much needed escape from your chaotic lives and you still had a few more hours before reality set in.

The brilliant warm rays of the early morning sun peeked through your curtains. You languorously stretched your limbs, reveling in the sensation of your bare legs against the soft cotton sheets. With a long, drawn out yawn, you reached over to the nightstand for your cup of coffee and aimlessly flipped through a copy of the New Yorker. However your attention was otherwise preoccupied with a freshly showered Rafael walking around your bedroom with a towel hanging low around his hips. You nearly spilled your hot drink into your lap while counting the water droplets on Rafael’s bare chest, watching one droplet slide down his stomach towards his happy trail.

He let the towel drop to the floor and began to get dressed for work, arching his brow when he caught you perched on the edge of the bed staring at him with your jaw hanging wide open.

You blushed and cleared your throat. “Are you sure I can’t make you breakfast?”

“Thanks for the offer but I should try to get to the office early,” he said, holding up two ties for you to choose from.

You picked the silk violet tie. The purple hue brought out your boyfriend’s brilliant green eyes. “Ok, but promise me that you’ll eat something other than the stale pretzels at the precinct.”

“I promise.” Rafael gave you a quick peck on the lips and wrapped his tie around his neck when he realized that he was missing a key element to his wardrobe. “Where’s my shirt? I swore it was right here a min—” His search for the missing shirt came to a screeching halt when he noticed you were wearing it.

“Sorry babe.” A nervous giggle escaped your lips. “Who knew Armani made such comfortable clothes and besides I love how it smells.”

Rafael furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “How it smells?”

“Uh huh.” Your cheeks turned bright pink and you nervously fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “It smells like you.”

An warm, fuzzy feeling coursed through Rafael’s veins at your confession. He cupped your face and tenderly kissed you before pulling away. “If you love the shirt so much, then it’s yours.”

“Really?” You glanced down at his undershirt and the tie draped around his neck. “But what are you gonna wear?”

“I have a spare shirt in my office that I keep in case of emergency coffee stains.”

You beamed brightly and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Best boyfriend ever,” you murmured against his lips before kissing him.

He deepened the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue as his hands inched further down your back towards your ass. You moaned in response, feeling him squeeze your cheeks.

“Mi amor,” he said between kisses. “I have to go.”

“No. Five more minutes. Please,” you whined, pressing your body against his.

Rafael groaned, all the blood from his brain rushing towards his cock. You were playing a dangerous game. “If we keep this up in five more minutes I’m going to be between your legs, fucking you so hard that you’ll forget your own name.”

You nuzzled against his neck as your hand began to palm his growing erection. “Well they do say that testosterone is higher in the morning. Care to put that theory to the test?”

“Y/N,” he said in a warning tone.

With a sigh of defeat, you stopped. “Alright, can’t blame a girl for trying.” You planted one last chaste kiss on the tip of his nose and gently pushed him towards the door. “Go on. Get outta here.”

“I’ll see you later tonight.” He grabbed his jacket and left the bedroom only to return 30 seconds later. “I forgot something.”

“What did you—” Rafael cut you off with a passionate kiss causing you both to fall back on the bed. Your heart fluttered. You were so lost in the moment that you forgot how to breathe. You could taste him on your tongue. All too soon the kiss ended and you were left dazed with thoroughly soaked panties.

“I love you,” he purred and playfully nipped on your lower lip before leaving with a smug smile firmly planted on his face.

“Love you too,” you mumbled and held up the shirt to your nose, inhaling deeply.

*****

A few hours later you were sitting in the small studio at the back of the gallery, dotting leaves onto a canvas. You skipped to the next song on your playlist and stepped back to analyze your work. The painting was of a large, vibrant tree in the center of a grey, bleak city. The tree was designed to look like Rafael. Its leaves matched the color of his eyes. Of course it wasn’t typical for trees to have seafoam green leaves but that was the beauty of art. You even tried to sketch his face in the trunk, its bark resembling his crooked smile and strong aquiline nose.

Underneath the tree stood the shadowy figure of a woman meant to be you. The tree’s branches were outstretched, gently caressing you, comforting you. In the palms of your hands, you cradled your heart, offering it to the tree as the only possession you had to give. In your opinion, it was the perfect depiction of your relationship. Rafael was your protector. With him, you felt loved, safe, hopeful for the future. He symbolized a new chapter in your life.

Your “Rafael-inspired” piece was meant to be a surprise, since the elusive search for the perfect art for his home was still ongoing. Lucky for him, inspiration struck one rainy Saturday several weeks ago. Well, lazy for you. Rafael was busy typing away on his laptop. Snuggling against him with the rain pattering against the window, a flood of emotions washed over you. The next day you woke up before dawn, grabbed your brushes and paint and snuck over to the studio.

From above the sound of your music playing through your headphones, you heard the door open and turned your head to see your coworker, Phoebe, walk in.

“Bonjour, ma petite aubergine!” she said in a tone that was way too chipper for 8:30 in the morning.

You snorted a laugh and turned off your music. “Good morning, my little eggplant?” you repeated the phrase.

“I love eggplant,” she replied with a shrug and went to stand behind you, surveying your work. “Hmmm… I like it.”

You made a face. “You sure? It’s not too cheesy?”

She hemmed and hawed for a moment before answering. “A little, but that’s ok. It's the good kind of cheesy.”

A sigh below past your lips. “You sure?”

“Absolutely,” she tried to reassure you. “And anyways, love makes people cheesy.” You blushed and went back to your painting while she milled around the room looking at your other pieces. “Ya’ know, there’s a new artist night at this gallery my friend works for. You should reach out to them. See if they’ll let you show your art. There are enough pieces here to choose from.” You opened your mouth to speak but she cut you off. “And before you say anything, I don’t wanna hear any excuses.” She gently took you by the shoulders and made you stand to face her. “You are incredibly talented and you should share that talent with the world while making a few bucks in the process.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you conceded, glancing back at your unfinished canvas.

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “I am? I mean, of course I am! Damn, this is the first time I’ve ever heard you consider doing a show. That Rafael guy must be a good influence on you.”

“Yeah, he’s the best.” You smiled, thinking back to earlier that morning.

“Speaking of which,”—she grabbed a spare chair and sat down, getting comfortable—“how did the whole ‘meet the parents’ scenario play out?”

You threw your head back and groaned. “Ugh, why did you have to remind me?”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like we’re gonna need coffee.” She stood up and grabbed her purse. “I’m gonna get a cappuccino from the cafe around the corner. Can I get you something?”

“An Americano and a cinnamon roll.”

“Be back in a flash. I wanna hear all about it. Family drama sustains me, especially when it’s not mine,” she teased before leaving.

You rolled your eyes and began to tidy up. While you stood at the sink, cleaning your brushes, watching the colors swirl and dissolve down the drain, you wondered if Rafael would like his surprise. You hoped he would. It took you hours to get just the right shade of green.

This gift was a big deal. Apart from your parents, you had never created a piece for anyone else. Your art was private. It was personal. Giving it away was like giving away a part of you. But you and Rafael were beyond that. This past weekend only confirmed what you had known from the moment he stepped into the gallery— that you were his, completely.

The sound of the door opening snapped you out of reverie. “That was fast, Phoebe,” you said over the running water. “I guess the cute barista wasn’t working today cause normally you spend a solid twenty minutes flirting before actually ordering your drink. I’m almost finished here. Give me a sec and then I can tell you about the worst Sunday lunch in the history of the Carisi family and that includes the time my Aunt Anita stabbed my Uncle Tony with a fork. ”

“Awww c’mon, babe. It wasn’t that bad,” said a voice that you recognized all too well.

Stunned, your hands froze, the brushes clanging against the sink. “This can’t be happening. Please, God don’t let it be him,” you thought, slowly turning around only to find your ex-fiancé standing right in the middle of your studio.

“Theo,” you stammered. “What are you doing here?”

He ignored your question and took a step towards you with a sinister smile that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

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jovialyouthmusic · 3 years

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Past Times

Apologies for taking my time over this - blame the January blues (and triple it). In this chapter, we go back to John’s first romantic liaison.

Word Count 3586

A/N I have to admit inspiration came from a certain popular Netflix show, but I’ve given it my own spin.

13 First Voyage

John took a deep steady breath as his Lizzie was taken away to her bedchamber. Her ignorance had been a little worrisome. As many well bred young ladies she knew almost nothing of the intimacies between husband and wife, as had Georgiana. It was a great burden to be responsible for the sexual instruction of an innocent maiden, and he constantly worried as to whether he went too fast, or not fast enough, or whether he would scare or disgust her. He was also under the scrutiny of her parents and his own mother, and his head span. He longed for all the dancing around and posturing and displaying oneself to worthy nobles to be over, and to simply be free to concentrate on making his beloved happy.

He laughed bitterly to himself. If they had been English, all they would have had to do was to elope over the Scottish border to Gretna Green, for in England under the age of 18, the bride’s parents had to give consent for marriage and in Scotland they could marry without it. So it was that technically Elizabeth did not need the consent of Sir James, but it was still not the done thing to disregard her parents wishes if one wanted to be received in polite company. So they followed all the rules and he asked for permission to court Lizzie, and they appeared in public with a chaperone, and attended all the right society events together.

In England, they would also have had to attend the social season and accept invitations to events at which Royalty was present, but thankfully in Scotland it was not quite so formal. Still, there were obligations and rituals that had to be observed, which continued tomorrow when the Ball would be held. His mother had made much of the arrangements, but when Elizabeth was his wife, such events would for her to oversee. Thankfully that would not occur until the following season, and before that they could have a proper honeymoon, and take time to travel a little.

It was the custom for young men of the time to travel around Europe, supposedly touring ruins, theatres and art galleries, but reality was somewhat different. There were those who were truly interested in culture, but many took the opportunity to indulge in various vices before returning to fulfil social obligations – that is to say, the continuation of their bloodline.

John had not made such a tour, having joined the Navy, but nonetheless he had seen something of the world, even if it were only the seaports his ship pulled into. He knew Lizzie wanted to travel, so he planned to take her to all the places he had wished to visit himself, and they would discover all that foreign culture had to offer. But that was a distant dream, for it would be some weeks at least before they would be properly wed. He hoped that very soon he could set a date and all would be fixed.

‘I think I will retire also’ Dorothea announced when Lizzie had gone off with Morag ‘You men may talk without regard for my sensibilities’ Tom rose and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

‘I will not be long my dear’ he said fondly, and she pinched his cheek saucily

‘If you are lucky I may be awake still when you retire’ she whispered. Tom smiled archly, looking sideways at his friend. When she had left, the two friends took another small measure of brandy and sat reflectively.

‘It seems you have had the good luck to find another gem as bright as your first wife, John’ Tom remarked. ‘She is a sweet girl and I can see she is quite struck with you’

‘I am fortunate indeed, and I am sure dear Georgiana would not deny me the company of another’ He smiled at his friend ‘And how are you and Dorothea enjoying married life?’

‘Very much, though it pains my dear wife that she is not yet with child.’ He took a sip of his brandy and gazed into the glass morosely ‘It is not for lack of trying, and Dottie never refuses me. She is enthusiastic – or was at first. She feels herself to blame for our failure, and I fear the day may come when it becomes a duty to go to bed with me rather than a pleasure’

‘That must be hard for you’ John empathised. Tom was the only son in his family and had three sisters. If he bore no heir, his estate would not go to any of them, but to a cousin. His mother was widowed and was anxious for him to continue his father’s bloodline. Tom looked up and pursed his lips in sympathy.

‘And you had a babe that you never saw’ he sighed ‘Let us hope that before too long we are both blessed and can stop worrying about the future’

‘Fate is fickle and we never know what life will bring us my dear Tom. We can hope, and we can enjoy what fortune we have’

‘Indeed, and I know you also favour helping those less fortunate than yourselves. I hope you are getting to grips with managing your father’s estate.’

‘Father’s agent will retire very soon, but Sir James has been good enough to recommend someone who is seeking a place and has good references, so I live in hope that I shall be able to train him up before I take Lizzie away to Europe once we are wed’

‘Excellent, I wish you luck’ Tom looked at his empty glass ‘I think I shall retire, for to drink more of your excellent brandy would be the cause of a sore head in the morning, and the displeasure of my wife’

There was little left for John to do than go to his own rooms to attempt to sleep, so when Tom had left the drawing room he let the staff know that all were abed. He climbed the stairs. Lingering on the landing he looked to the left to the corridor that led to Lizzie’s room, then took a right and went to his own suite.

Like his fiancée had earlier, John took stock of himself in the mirror as he undressed. Unlike the well bred ladies of the time, he needed no-one to help him in or out of his garments, though he often called on his manservant to ensure that he was properly turned out for formal occasions. The staff were also responsible for the proper maintenance, storage and cleaning of his clothes, and he was always meticulous as to how he left them once he had disrobed.

He hung his woollen jacket neatly before he unfastened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, storing those on a hanger before starting to unbutton his shirt, which he placed in a basket put aside for soiled linens. Some well dressed dandies in the city were known to change their shirts more than once a day, but he thought that extravagant, although he if he could he chose to have a clean nightshirt and another for the day. His military service made him appreciate the work that went into the laundering of his uniform, as not all officers were fortunate enough to have staff to do that work for them. A clean shirt had often been a luxury and overlooked except when being inspected by senior land based officers. In his early days he had second hand uniform that appeared a little shabby at best, and much of his first wage packet had been spent on new items.

He had already taken off his indoor shoes. During the day for outside pursuits he had worn his high black leather boots, but for dining and dancing he wore something lighter – a finer leather, soft and pliable but with reasonably sturdy smooth soles to suit a wooden dancing floor. He was tall enough not to need stacked heels, unlike Tom who favoured an inch or two in all his footwear. Due to his injury he could only participate in the slower dances, but he was grateful to be able to dance at all. It was not uncommon for sailors to lose limbs in sea battles, or for them never to return home should their ship be sunk in battle.

His retirement from duty had been traumatic – had he not been injured and had to spend time recovering in London before he returned home, he might have seen his wife and new baby son. They might not have fallen ill, or perhaps he would have been taken with them. It was not worth thinking of what might have happened, he told himself. Perhaps his meeting with Elizabeth had been fated from the start and Georgiana was but a stepping stone to his destiny.

He stood in his knee length breeches and stockinged feet, observing that he had lost the hard muscled belly of his days at sea. However, he still cut a fine figure as he made sure to exercise regularly, be it walking or riding at the very least. When in the city he had kept up his fencing and boxing, but that was difficult in the country.

He unfastened the buttons on his breeches, first letting down the front flap, then unbuttoning the waistband. He favoured full length breeches rather than the shorter knee length ones, as he could garter his stockings at a comfortable height that did not irritate or chafe his injured leg. He was still self conscious about the scar that ran from his inner left thigh down to his knee, but it grew less livid by the day. A splinter from the impact of a cannonball into the side of his ship had pieced his flesh and the cut that the ships surgeon had to make to remove it become infected. He had been extremely fortunate not to have lost it and still had not regained the strength in that leg. He had been advised to rub salve into it to keep it soft, and this he did every night. He prayed it would not upset or repulse Elizabeth.

He pulled down his breeches and stepped out of them to fold neatly for the next time he wore them. Tomorrow he would wear a finer pair in the morning, ready to greet visitors later on, and would change again for the ball. He still wore his stockings, and shook his head as he looked at himself in the mirror, thinking of his wedding night. He resolved that on that occasion he would remove his breeches and stockings before his shirt, as that would be more comely for his bride. To suddenly reveal his manhood to her would be alarming, and a shirt that dropped halfway down his thighs could be removed when he deemed she was ready. He sometimes slept in the shirt he had worn in the day anyway, as did many gentlemen with more modest wardrobes.

He peeled off his stockings and realised he had grown hard thinking of his wedding night. That had been a problem of late, and he was conflicted by having such a reaction to an innocent maiden even if she was to be his bride. He had said to her that he thought of her when he went to bed at night, but in truth he tried to keep his thoughts of her relatively chaste. It did not seem right to remember Georgiana either, so his night time fantasies were of another woman.

Most young gentlemen would lose their virginity long before determining on a wife. Some enticed and seduced dairy maids or chambermaids or some other lower class girl, those who lived in or visited the city frequented bawdy houses or visited prostitutes or courtesans, and some made their conquests on their tours of Europe. John had been amongst the minority and had not had any sexual encounters by the time he became midshipman. A good friend and fellow officer, Gerald, knew of this and took him into the city from their barracks at Greenwich a few days before they were to sail together on duty.

Together the two men went to one of the lesser known theatres to see a play, as Gerald knew that John was more interested in culture than in drinking himself silly like many lesser men. He had led him backstage after the performance, and had engaged two comely young actresses in conversation. One thing had lead to another and before he knew it, John was in Miss Alice Bailey’s bedchamber taking his clothes off and enjoying her attentions. He had spent every night of their stay in her company, and whenever he visited the town would go and call on her again. He was not her only male visitor, but he was a favourite and she always made time for him. So it was that he learned many things about what women liked in the bedroom and how to please them as well as himself. This was a skill that not all young gentlemen acquired, and one that had benefitted Georgiana and would do so for Elizabeth.

‘So, John’ the captivating young actress said in a sultry voice ‘Would you care to view my lodging rooms? I fancy my landlady might have a spare room for a night or two, or if you are agreeable I’m sure you could share my bed’ John swallowed, mesmerised by the globes of Alice’s bosom hitched up for display by her corseted dress. Her scent was intoxicating, and he felt himself harden in his breeches. He understood what she offered, for Gerald had given him a broad wink as he had taken the arm of Alice’s friend and declared that they would take a walk in the night air. He had no doubt that he would not see him again until the next day, and he had no clue how to get back to his barracks for the night save to summon a hansom cab. He cleared his throat.

‘I am not sure that would be proper, Mistress Bailey’ She pouted a little.

‘Come sirrah, call me Alice. Your friend has gone, and who will know where you spend the night, and with whom? Will you not walk me home in case some ruffian should accost me on the way?’ John’s resolve crumbled as she made her intention even more obvious.

‘I could not call myself a gentleman if I did not’ he said firmly, and held out his arm for her. Smiling, she took up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders before taking what was offered. Out in the fresh air, he adjusted his tricorn hat and gold braided officer’s jacket and she drew her hood up over her dark curly hair. He cut a fine figure in his naval uniform with snowy white knee length breeches and fine high leather boots, and her cloak was of a fine red velvet, so they turned more than a few heads as he walked her along the street to her lodging house. The streets were dirty, though not as bad as the slum areas near the docks. The place she called home was some degrees above the slums, but not as high or fine as the middle class housing he was used to in his home town.

‘Will you take a drink with me as thanks for my safe delivery?’ she asked at the door of the lodging house. ‘I have other refreshments if you wish for something sweet.’ He hesitated a moment, but she was determined. ‘Are you afraid of being alone with me, sir?’ she asked archly, and he drew himself up, his pride piqued.

‘Of course not. Lead on, Miss Alice’ She smiled and, opening the door, took his hand and lead him inside and up two flights of stairs. There was not a soul in the hall or on the stairwell, and all was quiet. She took him into the room, taking off her cloak and hanging it on a hook on the door. The room was spacious enough, dominated by a goodly sized bed and chest of drawers, a small table and two padded chairs, and a window overlooked the street below. She went to a cupboard by the window and took out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He took off his hat, hanging it over her cloak before removing his jacket and placing that on the back of one of the chairs.

Alice approached handed him a glass of red wine, and they lightly clinked them together before drinking.

‘So what brings you to the city?’ she asked

‘I have some leave whilst I wait for my ship to dock, and Gerald thought it a fine idea to visit the theatre.’

‘You must be a midshipman then’, she said, sipping from her glass. Her tongue traced across her lips to chase a drop of wine, and with that and her soft breasts, he was mesmerised. ‘What did you think of the play?’ she asked, and he snapped back to reality.

‘It was most entertaining’ he said politely, and she laughed.

‘I know it was not high art, but I am glad to hear you enjoyed it. Do you sail soon?’

‘Our ship is refitting and taking on supplies, so it will be two or three days at least’

‘Shall you see battle?’

‘Perhaps. That rather depends on the French, and where the admiralty sends us’ She took his hand and drew closer to him, gazing into his eyes.

‘Many sailors seek the comfort of a woman before they sail on a dangerous mission’ she said in a sultry voice ‘I would be happy to provide that for you’ he cleared his throat and felt his cheeks redden.

‘I have not – that is, I…’ he started, ashamed to admit that he had never been with a woman, but she put her finger to his lips.

‘So I am your first, John’ she murmured ‘It shall be my honour to teach you the delights of intimacy’ Questions crowded his mind, but she seemed to understand. ‘I wish only to give you pleasure, and take some for myself. You need not fear siring a child, for I am barren, and I shall not demand marriage. I have other admirers and love my way of life’ She smiled, and her fingers went to his collar, unfastening his cravat. ‘You are handsome and have a good figure. I wager you are gentle and considerate. I can teach you how to please a woman, which will stand you in good stead whether you marry, or keep a dozen mistresses’

She carried on unbuttoning his shirt, but he caught at her hand and stared down at her, suddenly needing to take charge, if only for a moment. He bent his head to kiss her lips – softly at first, then with passion, her mouth opening to his. She tasted of wine and strawberries, and he could not identify her scent, but it was heady and intoxicating. He did not want his first time to be a quick fumble, but it was hard keeping control of his ardour.

‘Mistress Alice’ he groaned ‘I know not how long I will last. I pray I will not disappoint’ Like most men he knew how to handle his member, and regularly relieved himself, so knew the signs for when he drew near to releasing his seed. The lovely young woman before him was stimulating all his senses and he feared it would all be over too soon. Her hand wandered down to his breeches to feel his hardness, pressing her palm over the bulge and smiling slyly.

‘You will not disappoint, by the size of your cannon’ she laughed softly ‘But you worry about firing before the target is in range. Never fear, your first shot is a gift from me. After that, you will swiftly recover and we will take our time and reach the goal together.’

At this, she pushed him to the door where her cloak hung and knelt in front of him. He gaped at her in amazement as she unfastened the front of his breeches to fondle his privates. He groaned aloud, leaning back into the soft velvet as she moved closer, placing her warm tongue to the base of his shaft and drawing it upward. His legs trembled and his hand went to her head as she placed her lips over the tip. She quickly took him into her mouth, and skilfully applied lips and tongue for his pleasure. Before soon he knew he could not hold back for a second longer, and gave a great groan as he seemed to erupt into the wet warmth of her mouth. She stayed with him as his hips bucked, and swallowed what he gave her. His heart pounded as she sat back, licking her lips before getting up to fetch her wine and take a good mouthful. She put the glass down and beckoned him.

‘Now take off your boots and clothes and come to bed - I have much to teach you’ she purred.

@sirbeepsalot @camillemontespan @dcbbw @rainbowsinthestorm @katedrakeohd @trappedinfandoms @kingliam2019 @nomadics-stuff @texaskitten30 @princess-geek @texaskitten30 @fluffyfirewhiskey

#past times #Captain John Lykel #elizabeth and john #regency drama #regency scotland #perioddrama

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beautifuljetblackheart · 4 years

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Fight - Sam Holland

A/N: I am back... I had a BIG writers block and COVID really fucked me up, but hopefully I actually update more stories. This was a request from a while ago, I am sorry that it took a while to get it done Summary: Sam was away for about a month and after a while of not hearing from him you began to worry, especially when a big event was coming up and you wanted him there. Warnings: None, just an argument Words: 1894

I played with my thumbs as I waited until it struck seven. The studio had chosen my pictures to present, I looked around to see if Sam had shown up, but nothing, maybe he would show up late. I really want him to show up since he wasn’t able to attend the last two days and today was the last day. Besides that they will leave the pictures up for another week and take them down.

As I presented each picture and what is the meaning behind it. Every chance I got I would search for Sam but nothing. I kept sending him messages if he was going to be dropping by anytime soon but nothing. He hasn't been texting me for almost two weeks. Maybe he lost his phone and forgot my phone number.

A few friends of mine showed up and congratulated me for being lucky to have my pictures shown in the studio. Nikki showed up with Paddy, Tuwaine showed up with Harrison and Tom, the three guys approached me, “these pictures are amazing!” Tuwaine smiled and hugged me

“Thanks, I’m happy you guys came by for my last introduction”

“Is Sam here?” Tom questioned

“No, has he not returned from the trip?”

“Yeah, he got here two days ago,” my heart sunk down

“What? He- got here two days ago?” I started to feel embarrassed, my own boyfriend not telling me he was already here

“He didn’t tell you,” I shook my head no. I felt water filling up my eyes

“I thought he lost his phone because he hasn’t answered any of my text”

“I can call him,” I shook my head again. Does he have his phone?

“No, it's whatever. He wants to be like that let him,” I walked away and to the back room and started to cry. How can he do this to me? Does he want to finish things? Did he find someone else? Why didn’t he just tell me he wanted to end things. I walked to the bathroom to clean myself up.

I took deep breaths before I could walk out of the bathroom. When I got out I walked towards my pictures, “Y/N,” I turned to the side and saw a guy smiling, I would be lying if I said he wasn’t good looking, “I hope those are tears of happiness”

“I wish I could say that,” I let out a forced chuckle, god I hate myself right now

“I really liked your introduction and what the meaning behind each picture meant to you. The stories were quite interesting”

“Thank you”

“I would like to buy five of your pictures,” I was surprised

“You, would? Sorry, yeah, of course, I’ll bring the papers over, I’ll be right back,” I started to walk away but ran into a person, “sorry,” I walked to the back and grabbed the paperwork and went back out to the guy.

“I’m Ivan Goodsman, these pictures will be a good collection for my wife. She loves pictures. She loves to know what the mood was and why you took it, a picture can tell you a million words,” I gave him a nod

“I can also email you why I took it in case she actually wants to know”

“That will be perfect,” he handed me the papers back and I wrote down on top of each paper

“2B, 7B, 1C, 4C, and 5C”

“Those are actually my favorite, anyways, I’ll have them sent to the address you write down. You can do the payment either when they arrive or pay now”

“I’ll pay now”

“Cool,” the guy pulled out his checkbook and started to write down the amount. He ripped the check out of the book and handed it to me. “Thank you Mr.Goodsman,” I smiled

“Call me Ivan, I hope to see more of your work”

“Thank you for buying,” he smiled and walked away. I can’t wait to tell- no,I can be petty too. I let out a deep breath and continued walking around. By the end of the night I didn’t see Sam. I went back to my apartment, I took my shoes off and sat on the couch. I grabbed my phone and dialed Harry, as he shared the same interest.

“Hello”

“Hey Harry”

“Dude I saw that you sold some pictures that’s amazing! Who bought it?”

“A guy name Ivan Goodsman”

“Goodsman? As in the Ivan Goodsman? Holy shit they are very well known”

“He told me that his wife enjoyed looking at the pictures because they have many different meanings and stuff”

“Their kids are talented. One is in the soccer team, one is a good golf player, the other one is a popular well known photographer and the last one is a designer”

“Wow. Talented people”

“The mother, she’s also a designer, photography pictures help her get inspired. Maybe her next collection will be inspired by you. The father, he’s the manager of a hotel or something, I don’t know much of him”

“Holy crap”

“Lucky you”

“Anyways, Tom mentioned that Sam arrived a few days ago”

“Oh, yeah”

“I just need to talk to him, can I stop by?”

“He is going to hate me for this but at this moment I don’t care. Come on over,” my heart started to race, I was somewhat hoping he would’ve said no but it’s now or never. I grabbed the keys and out the door I went.

I stood in front of the Holland's house, I rang the doorbell hearing Tessa barking. The door went wide open and I saw Nikki, she smiled widely as she stepped aside, “Harry told me that you met Ivan Goodsman, how was that?”

“He’s an attractive man”

“Common Nikki she came to see Sam, stop hogging her, that was a very beautiful collection,” Dom went next to Nikki

“Thank you, is Sam in his room?”

“Yes, go right up,” I excused myself and went upstairs to Sam’s room, I let out a sigh and knocked on the door hearing a faint ‘come in,’ I opened the door and stepped inside. Sam’s back was facing me probably on his computer.

“Hi,” he turned around, finally seeing him after three weeks

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” I looked at him confused

“What am I doing here? Seeing my boyfriend that I haven’t seen in three weeks and Tom told me you arrived two days ago. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you lose your phone?

“I needed time to think”

“Sam, what is going on. You have been avoiding me for almost two weeks, you couldn’t send me a message telling me that you arrived or that you needed time to think. You went awol on me, are you mad at me?” I tried staying calm but I was getting furious towards him.

“I just need time to think and figure things out okay, I don’t need to tell you what I’m doing every single time”

“I’m not asking you to, all I wanted you to do was to tell me that you were doing okay and that you arrived home safely”

“Well I arrived safely home”

“I know. Your brother told me and thanks for coming to my opening. Your family was there, even Tuwaine and Harrison, but you weren’t. I wanted you there, since my parents weren’t able to make it”

“Opening for what?” I scoffed

“My gallery, I texted you two weeks before my presentation and you said that you will make it for the last day, I even texted you if you were on your way, thanks for showing up”

“I needed to think okay, what part do you not understand”

“I understand, I just don’t understand why you couldn’t tell me. Just forget about it. I’m going home,” I opened the door and walked downstairs saying a quick goodbye before leaving. Does this mean that we are done? I went back home. I didn’t know what to do or think.

---

I woke up on the couch, I looked at my phone to check the time and hoping Sam would’ve texted me. The only notification I had was an email on Spotify’s newest music release. I guess this means it is over between us. I grabbed my sweater and saw the check, maybe a trip to the bank will be good for me. I got ready and off I went.

After a walk to the bank I walked to the store to buy ice cream, I grabbed my favorite ice cream and headed to the check out. When I was paying I saw the one person I wasn’t expecting to see, Sam smiling with his ex girlfriend, Erica. I grabbed my ice cream and quickly left, the way back home I felt tears streaming down my face.

I ate my ice cream in silence, the tv was off my phone was on do not disturb mode. Half way through my ice cream there was a knock on the door. I got up and opened the door, it was Sam holding flowers. He had a sad face on. “What do you want Sam”

“Can we talk,” I stepped aside. He handed me the flowers and we walked to the living room and set the flowers on the coffee table.

“Y/N, I am sorry. I know what I did was wrong. I was just stressed out and we didn’t have enough time to be on our phones. I know it’s not an excuse. I saw a picture of you and a guy together and you seemed so happy”

“What guy, I haven’t been out. I’ve been working on my pictures for a month”

“I don’t know, someone sent me a picture of you and a guy,” Sam showed me a picture

“I don’t even know who that guy is, and that dress, I haven’t worn that dress for a year. I would never cheat on you”

“I am sorry. My mom came to my room after you left. She knew something was wrong. She told me how you've been working extra hard to have your pictures up and going over on what you would be saying. This morning I stopped by the studio and saw the pictures. I am proud of you and I am so sorry”

“I saw you and Erica at the store”

“I ran into her, she asked how you were doing and I told her that you were doing great since you presented your pictures and had a well known guy buy a few pictures from you. I was smiling because I was happy that you achieved a goal that you’ve had for so long. I honestly believe she was the one that sent me that photo. Y/N, please forgive me,” I let out a sigh.

“You saw my pictures?”

“Yes, they were amazing. My mom even showed me a video she took and showed it to me”

“Okay, I forgive you, but next time you are gone for a month and don’t text me back we are done. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, can we cuddle because I really missed you,” I kissed him and got up, “are we moving this to your room?”

“I am putting my ice cream in the freezer, but let’s go take a nap in my room”

#samholland1999 #sam holland #sam x you #sam x reader #sam holland fluff #sam holland fanfiction #tom holland #tomholland2013 #harry holland #harryholland64 #harrison osterfield

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0blivion-laughs · 3 years

Text

Francis Bacon

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-francis-bacon

https://www.francis-bacon.com/artFrom a small London studio littered ankle-deep with source material, bottles of fine champagne, and a cacophony of paint splatters, Francis Bacon conjured some of the most innovative and, as art critic Robert Melville once put it, “satanically influential” paintings of the 20th century. His canvases writhe with fleshy, screaming, contorted figures, from popes and famed art-historical subjects to friends and ill-fated lovers. His searing work embodies a host of post-war cultural anxieties, as well as Bacon’s personal demons and obsessions.

But what was this mighty, enigmatic painter’s secret to creating such spellbinding imagery—and, all the while, upholding his status as king of the bon vivants? Below, we pull back the curtain on who Bacon was, what motivated his deeply affecting paintings, and why their sulfurous power won’t be fading anytime soon.

Who Was Francis Bacon?

Bacon was a complex man whose work was informed by a tangled web of intense relationships, art-historical fixations, and a fair number of vices. Born in Dublin in 1909 to a domineering father, Capt. Anthony Edward Mortimer, and his much younger wife, Christina Winifred Firth, Bacon was derided as a “weakling” and, as legend has it, horse-whipped by his father during his youth due to issues with chronic asthma. At 17, he was kicked out of the family home for good when he was discovered trying on his mother’s underwear.

Francis Bacon Three Studies for Self-Portrait, 1976 Richard Gray Gallery

But despite (or perhaps because of) his asthmatic bouts and the abuse he endured, Bacon was strong-willed and resilient, with the constitution of a bull. He drank, ate, gambled, loved, and painted with such voraciousness that he rarely had time for sleep; two to three hours a night was typical. Through this haze of debauchery and hard living, and bolstered by deep friendships and aesthetic obsessions, Bacon produced a cascade of paintings that were not only disturbingly beautiful, but also boldly original. His shocking work galvanized the group of painters surrounding him in mid-century London (the “School of London”) and eventually influenced several generations of artists to come, includingDamien Hirst, Jenny Saville, and Jake and Dinos Chapman, to name just a few. What Inspired Him? After Bacon was jettisoned from his family home, he embarked on a series of European escapades that opened his eyes to art and design, not to mention other earthly pleasures, like sex and wine. Several works he encountered during his travels made a lasting impact on his work and wouldn’t leave his mind until his death in 1992. While studying French near Chantilly in 1927, he happened upon Poussin ’sgreat Massacre of the Innocents (1628–29) and was struck by the emotional agony of the scene, embodied forcefully in the screaming maw of a mother whose child is about to be killed. Later that year, he picked up a book detailing diseases of the mouth, and not long after that, he watched Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 film Battleship Potemkin, which features a scene of a howling, bloodied nurse—an image permanently tattooed on his mind. Around that time, on a trip to Paris, he was also introduced to Picasso ’searly figurative drawings. All these run-ins provided Bacon with his initial art education (he was never formally trained) and went on to influence his unique approach to rendering the human body as a malleable—and, at times, grotesque—vessel of raw human feeling.

THREE STUDIES FOR FIGURES AT THE BASE OF A CRUCIFIXION 1944 Oil and pastel on fibreboard approx. Triptych: Each panel: 37 x 29 in. (94 x 74 cm) irregular

The wide-open mouth would later materialize in some of the painter’s greatest canvases: his series of wailing popes, which he toiled over from 1949 until 1971. They show blurred, bethroned men caught in the act of an intense and seemingly eternal scream that, as Bacon biographer Michael Peppiatt has said, might have referred simultaneously to the militaristic orders of Bacon’s father, the raging rows between Bacon and his tortured lover Peter Lacy, or more simply, to a cry of fear or the climax of a body-quaking orgasm. This was the rare power of Bacon’s work: fusing a range of references into a Frankenstein’s monster of a whole, a beast shuddering with frustration, tension, and countless other, subtler emotions.

Bacon’s “Popes” also reveal another influence: Velázquez ’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1650), a painting Bacon became so infatuated with that he admitted to having a “crush” on it. Time and time again, Bacon would rework his own version of the masterpiece, although, interestingly, he refused to see the painting in person when he finally made a trip to Rome. He was embarrassed, he told Peppiatt, of his many “stupid” manipulations of the piece.

Alongside the many other great artists (Giacometti, Van Gogh, and Matisse among them) who influenced Bacon, the painter also looked for creative guidance in the work of writers and poets—namely Racine, Baudelaire, and Proust. He was attracted to their ability to pare down the complexities of human existence into succinct lines and phrases; he sought to do the same with the arresting figures rooted at the core of his canvases.

THREE STUDIES FOR A CRUCIFIXION 1962 Oil on canvas Triptych: Each panel: 78 x 57 in. (198.1 x 144.8 cm)

How Did He Work?

Reproductions of Bacon’s inspirations—like the Massacre of the Innocents, along with tattered photos of wild animals, Egyptian talismans, and more—ended up in a soupy jumble on the floors of the many studios he occupied over the course of his career. The exuberant mess was accented with paint and the occasional vestiges of parties he hosted after a long night of carousing through London’s drinking clubs and gambling houses. One of Bacon’s friends, the painter Graham Sutherland , once described Bacon’s early Cromwell Place studio as “a large chaotic place, where the salad bowl was likely to have paint on it and the painting to have salad dressing on it.” But for all his decadence, Bacon was also extremely dedicated, with his own brand of regimentation. “You have to be disciplined in everything, even in frivolity,” he was known to have said. “Above all in frivolity.” Indeed, his passion for enthusiastic and prolonged socialization seemed to fuel his work. Without fail, after a late night of partying, he would wake up at 6 a.m. to paint for several hours in the morning light. Then he’d begin dining and boozing about town, liaising with his many friends and acquaintances, from fellow painters Lucian Freud and Frank Auerbach to renowned London collectors, such as the Sainsbury’s, to one of his many lovers, like Lacy or Eric Hall. He even went so far as to say that he worked better after a night of drinking: “My mind simply crackles with electricity after one of those evenings,” he once boasted to his friends. “I think the drink actually makes me freer.”

THREE FIGURES AND PORTRAIT 1975 Oil, pastel, alkyd paint and sand on canvas 78 x 58 in. (198.1 x 147.3 cm)

There were some risks to this routine, however. On several occasions, he’d come home late at night, wildly drunk, and decide to “perfect” a painting he’d finished the day before, only to wake up the next morning and discover that he’d ruined it. After one of these episodes, his gallery began collecting his paintings from his studio the moment he finished them.

Bacon’s childhood nanny, Jessie Lightfoot, who lived with the painter until her death in 1951, and his two primary dealers—first Erica Brausen at Hanover Gallery, then Valerie Beston at Marlborough Gallery—also played major roles in helping organize his life and career. When Bacon was struggling financially during his youth, Lightfoot helped him find lovers who would also provide financial support. Brausen became a close friend and confidante; they bonded over their shared homosexuality and appetites for risk-taking (Bacon’s on the canvas; Brausen’s on the walls of her gallery). And starting in 1958, Miss Beston, as she was affectionately called, arranged almost all of Bacon’s day-to-day logistics during his most successful years. She paid his bills, arranged his calendar, made sure his apartment stayed clean, and kept him to his painting schedule. She also kept his canvases out of the trash bin, as he was known to destroy them.

Why Does His Work Matter?

Bacon brought new emotional intensity to the painted figure by representing his subjects—be they friends or mythological figures—as contorted, fleshy, emotionally open masses. He sought to reveal, in all its complexity, what was behind the human facade. “I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail leaving its trail of the human presence…as a snail leaves its slime,” he once said. Indeed, Bacon’s paintings pulsate with the dual energy of human suffering and ecstasy. They seem to unearth, in their blurred limbs and wide-open mouths, our most primal urges. (Scholars have noted that in his canvases from the 1950s, monkeys and men often closely resemble one another.)

Francis Bacon

Triptych – August 1972, 1989 Marlborough Gallery

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camptony · 3 years

Text

What Are The Odds? || Sebtony

"Don't worry, man. I'll let you know when your orders arrives." Tony smiled at the person standing in front of him and watched them walk to the door and leaving the store, the sound of the bell above the door echoing softly inside the store.

His store. The Playtone. The store he had always dreamed about having, and that was now a reality. Two years in the making, and come next Halloween a year since it opened. His little vintage store in Low East Manhattan. The little store with the apartment on top where he had lived since he bought the two-story building. The apartment he now shared with his girlfriend, Cleopatra, who also helped him run the store, along with another employee.

Yes. Life had been good. Busy and good. But on that particular day when the bell on top of the door rang again, he never expected a blast from the past to walk right into his store.

And his life.

Sebastian hummed to himself, walking through the streets of New York briskly because he was on a mission. He'd been so busy recently with his exhibition coming up, that he'd sort of compartmentalised and set aside anything else that was going on.

Including this.

Ritchie's birthday dinner. Ritchie's birthday, for that matter. Which is why he was currently walking through the streets of New York like a man on a mission (which wasn't really that uncommon for residents of New York, but he wasn't even really sure he would classify himself as that yet). He needed to find something to give him. They'd only been going out for six months so, since he first landed in New York but with how busy he'd been with the exhibition over the past few weeks, he figured he owed him a decent present, dinner and evening at least.

Every shop he walked past or walked in had nothing. He had never been a particularly good gift giver, especially when it came to romantic partners. And he knew Ritchie... at least, he thought he did. But when it came to buying him a gift, he realised maybe he didn't know him as well as he thought. But then a small store caught his eye, with the words The Playtone etched above the door. He didn't really expect much as he stepped inside of it, given that he hadn't had any luck so far, but when he saw the records lined up a thought struck him.

"Hi," he said to the young woman behind the counter who smiled in greeting, "do you have any vinyls of Broadway shows? Something classic maybe...?" She made a soft hmm sound, "I know we stock some of the more recent and mainstream shows, but I'm not sure with the classics, I haven't seen any but there's a lot of records here." She laughed, "would you like me to check with the owner? He's just in the back." "Yes, please," Sebastian said with a nod, "that would be great.

@rockcreeksmythe

Having received a full stock of vintage music tapes that morning, Tony had his hands full with making sure everything was placed in the right order, so it would all be easy to locate when they made the space at the shop for them. Cleo's voice calling him out caught his attention so he went quickly to see what she wanted.

"Vinyls of Broadway classics? I think we have some but not sure which..." The bell above the door sounded again. "You see that customer and I'll handle the Broadway one. Which one is it?" She pointed discretly, so Tony walked up to where that costumer was, of who he could see only his back. At first.

"Hey. You have a specific Broadway show in mind to have on vinyl?" he asked the man, but when he turned around he froze.

"Holy shit..." He blinked. "Sebastian?"

Sebastian hummed to himself, flicking through a box of discounted vinyls at the front of the store, his back now turned away from the direction the salesperson had walked. He wasn't sure if being so clueless over what to buy Ritchie was a bad thing but he never had been one to have a way with gifts. He just never knew how to pick the perfect gift. But he was sure he'd seen a vinyl player at Ritchie's place and he acted in musical theatre so surely something classic would be safe.

He heard the question and straightened up, turning and starting to say "I'm not s- Tony?" He looked at the other man in surprise and then in appreciation. He looked good - really good. Though that was hardly shocking, because he doubted five years would somehow make somebody unattractive. But still, he was maybe a little caught off guard by seeing him again. But still - relationship or not - he couldn't help but let his eyes appraise him, flicking up and down his body.

"Wow... it's good to see you," he said, with an easy grin, "what's it been - five years?"

The two seconds that took Tony to snap out of the surprise felt like a century, and he blinked and cleared his throat before he talked again. "Likewise, man! Ahaha, yeah... Five whole years." He gestured around with both his arms open. "Quite the difference it makes, huh?" The way Sebastian eyed him didn't escape his attention, and for a split second the memory of them having that one passionate encounter all those years again came to mind again. But he haad to shake that off and now.

"How you've been, man? Look at you, all clean up. Or at least dressing much better that you did back at that camp." He chuckled, then place his hand on the stack of vinyl records. "So, you're looking for something specific?"

Sebastian laughed, "yeah, well, I didn't exactly pack my best clothes for camp." He didn't elaborate to say he'd cleaned up in other ways, because he wasn't sure it was really a conversation to be had in a record store. And really, they weren't long time friends. They'd just been in the same place for two weeks and slept together. Though he couldn't deny he'd definitely felt a stronger instant connection to Tony than he had a lot of people in his life... most people, really. But then, he wasn't blind. He knew Tony was undeniably attractive, so he was sure it was just that.

He cleared his throat, "yeah... yeah, I've been good. Working on my art and all that. I moved to New York about six months ago." He looked around the store, "so you own this place? It's really nice ... honestly, I didn't really know record stores still existed until I nearly walked by on the street. Success is a good look on you," he said with a wink - and then remember why he was here. Ritchie. Right. "And I don't know. I'm after a present for my boyfriend but I suck at buying gifts. He's an actor so I thought maybe something Broadway."

Tony looked up at him and smIled. "So cool you kept going with your art, man. Do you have any fancy art display gallery that I can go to to see that firsthand?" He looked around and nodded. "I do. In fact, I own the building. I live upstairs. Pretty cool, huh? That way I could never be late for work." He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, they aren't many of these these days, no. So that's what makes it special, for when you're feeling a little vintage." He nodded and smiled. "Well, that's narrowminded. I mean, just because he's an actor it doesn't mean he would just go for a Broadway musical."

He chuckled, then turned around and moved to the next counter of records. "You could always go for RENT. Classic. I also have The Producers here I think- Oh!" He pulled a record out. "Here's a good one too. Falsettos. Interested?" At that moment, Cleo walked by and smiled at them. "Everything okay, sweetie? Did you find something for the gentleman?" He smiled at her, then looked back at him. "Working on it, hun" he said and blew a kiss at her. "We both have our significant ones, as you can see" he said with a soft chuckle.

Sebastian nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, that was actually why I moved to New York. I got a call from a gallery - the fucking MET called me directly - that they were interested in showing some of my pieces in an upcoming exhibition and if I could consider doing some exclusive works for that showing. I thought what better way to paint than to get inspiration from the city itself. It's actually opening in two weeks. You should drop by," he offered, though he doubted Tony would.

He looked around, impressed. To own any kind of property in New York was impressive given how expensive the city was, let alone a property that housed a nice store and an apartment on top. He'd honestly assumed Tony was just leasing the rental space. "Short commute - very clever," he said with a chuckle.

When Tony commented that Ritchie may not like Broadway just because he's an actor, he looked at him, aghast. "I know that I just can't think of anything else and I know he has a vinyl player so... I just thought it would be a good idea. I'm not good at gifts," he admitted. "Um..." He glanced down at the offerings Tony had pulled out, just in time for the girl who had greeted him when he first walked in to speak. He looked at her, then back at Tony but easily masked the surprise. "It seems so," he said, with a smile. Frankly, he'd assumed Tony was gay just given by the fact they'd slept together. He wasn't anti-bisexual men by any means - he'd slept with plenty in France - but he supposed he still assumed gay as the default. Perhaps he needed to work on that. "How long have you two been together?" He asked, taking the Falsettos vinyl from Tony. He was sure he'd heard Ritchie talk about the musical before - something about wanting to play Visser, he thinks, so he must enjoy it.

Tony smile brightly. "Wow, that's impressive! I mean, I never got any chance to see your work, but if the MET called, then I'll definitely take their word on that. I'll drop by, absolutely. See what the fuss is about." He winked at him playfully, then nodded. "I know, right? It was, like, the best deal ever. Problem is I never have the chance to actually be late for work, so that sucks." He chuckled and shook his head at himself for his lame joke, then gave Sebastian the chance to look at the records he had pulled out for him to check. He looked at where Cleo had walked away and smiled. "Almost a year and a half. What about you and Ritchie?" The bell on top of the door rang and a small group of people entered the store. It was a busy morning.

Sebastian chuckled, "well, I was sort of in a bit of a slump when I went to the camp. It was one of the reasons I went." Given it had been five years since they'd seen each other last - well, five years since they'd seen each other first too, when you thought about it - he couldn't quite remember exactly how much Tony and him had discussed about their lives outside of camp. Not the finer details at least. "A year and a half? Congratulations. This one, thank you," he held up the Falsettos one, "I think I've heard Ritchie mention it before but I don't think he's got it. And oh, only about six months. Since I moved to the city actually - he was a friend of a friend so I think I met him on my second or third night here. He's a good guy."

Tony's face broke in a bright smile. "Is that so? Well, you looked pretty good to me" he said with somewhat of a teasing tone, then took the rercord Sebastian gave him and nodded. "Good choice, yeah. Thanks, man. It's been quite fine, really. I never thought of myself having a relationship like this but-" He shrugged. "You never know until you know, right? Like you and Ritchie. You seem to care for him enough to buy him a present, so that's cool of you. You want me to wrap this one up for you? We do that here. You wouldn't imagine how many gifts I've sold here, for people who want to give others something special."

Sebastian smirked, "well obviously. I said I was in a slump, not that I didn't look. I always look good." Okay, maybe not always, but Tony didn't need to know that. He looked down at the record in his hands and shrugged, "it's his birthday. I think I'd be a pretty bad boyfriend if i didn't show up with a present. I mean, obviously I care for him but even if I was going to a birthday dinner of somebody I barely knew I'd bring a gift. Maybe not a record of a - yes. Sorry." He laughed, shaking his head, "I think I'm just glad I found something. I was getting worried. I'd love for you to wrap it, thank you. If I wrap it, it'll look it's been run over by a truck."

Tony's eyebrow went up so high it almost touched his hairline, then he chuckled and took the record from him. "No problem. I forgot how cute you looked when you rambled." He flashed him a bright smile, then turn around to head to the counter. "Good of you to tell me. Thus I know not to hire you as help when Christmas time comes." He winked at him, then grabbed a sheet of navy blue colored paper and worked on it skillfully. "So, does this mean you'll be staying in New York permanently?"

Sebastian laughed, "oh, come on, Tony. I'm always cute. But no need to lie, I doubt you truly forgot." He winked at him, leaning against the counter as he watched Tony gather the supplies to wrap the record. He shrugged, "I don't know if I could ever say I'm staying somewhere permanently - who knows what the future will bring. But I have no plans to leave New York now, no. I'll be here for the foreseeable future. That looks good," he added, nodding down to well wrapped record.

Tony looked up at him from under his eyelashes and gave him a warm, flirty smile. "I never said I did. Plus, I don't think you forgot either..." he said with a low voice, then focused on making the gift as pretty as he could. "That's good! Maybe we could hangout sometime soon? Maybe I could go to one of your art showings. I mean, you will have one happening, right? Because I'm gonna be honest- You left me curious when you told me about it." He looked up at him. "And if you're real good, maybe I'll invite you over to thee bar I play sometimes, so you can hear me play again." He chuckled. "Not the same atmosphere than singing at the lake shore, but still nice." He handed him the gift. "There you go. I'm sure your boyfriend will love it."

Sebastian was snapped out of the moment when Tony handed him the wrapped up record. "Right -" he cleared his throat. Boyfriend. His boyfriend. "Yeah, I think Ritchie will. Though he'll probably know I didn't wrap it, it looks way too neat," he laughed, shaking his head. "And I'd like that - really. Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and from it, a business card. It had his business details on it but he flipped it over and grabbed a pen, scribbling a number on the back of it. "That's my personal number, not my business one. I don't give that out to just anybody," he winked at him. "Call me, if you want to catch up. But the details of my opening are on my website, which is also on the card. If you're free, you should come. You can bring your girlfriend, if you'd like." He tucked the card in Tony's pocket, hand lingering for maybe a moment longer than it should have. "Now - how much do I owe you?"

Tony chuckled. "Just tell the person who wrapped put a lot of thought in it" he said, then took the card Sebastian was giving him. "Aww, you made feel special already, thanks" he told him with a smile, then followed the path of Sebastiaan's hand as his hand slipped in his pocket and grinned. "Sure, I will. If we can't catch up before the opening, in case it gets busy in here, don't worry. I wouldn't miss your big night. Oh, she will. She's a sucker for anything to do with art, so thank you for the invite." He made a double check for the price and let Sebastian know, and soon after they were done with it. "Here's your receipt. Enjoy. And just remember- If you get lucky tonight because of that gift, you will owe one." He winked at him, then offered his hand. "Nice to see you again, Seb. See you soon... again?" He chuckled.

Sebastian laughed taking the receipt and shaking his head in amusement at Tony's comment , "I'll keep that in mind. Maybe I'll have to buy another record if that's the case." He looked down at Tony's extended hand and shook it. It felt weirdly formal, given the way they'd known each other in the past. But also, Sebastian reminded himself, they weren't even really friends. They hardly knew each other, save for two weeks, five years ago. But there was something about the man that made Sebastian feel a sense of familiarity and ease. He was sure that living in the same city, they could become good friends. "Soon," he echoed with a nod and a smile. He held up the wrapped record in thanks and then ducked out of the store. With one final glance back at the door as it shut behind him, he turned and walked away ready to head home and get ready for the dinner.

END SCENE.

#para #discord

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too-old-for-fangirling-but-idc · 5 years

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My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x Reader)

Summary: Tom and you continue to text each other. And after a few weeks Tom comes up with a surprise and the dinner you still owe him.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warnings: fluff, a tiny little bit of romance, mild swearing (not actually, there is like one swearword in the story), blushing, clumsiness, shy reader, slight angst, Tom Hiddleston is a ridiculous gentleman and sweetheart, sassy!Tom

Notes: (Y/C) = Your city (Y/F) = your friend’s name It took me longer than expected to edit it, I’m sorry for that. I just hope you’ll enjoy it anyways.

Word Count: 2361

Requested by: @eye106

Previous Parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A few weeks had passed since the meeting in the art gallery, and you had managed to write almost every day. You were surprised about how much the two of you talked when he found the time to call you. He used to ask you a lot of questions and you wondered if it wasn’t getting boring for him to hear your normal life stories. But he showed genuine interest and listened to your stuttering or the difficulties you had with your job. It was as if he wanted to know as much as possible about you and that somehow made you feel special in a way you had never felt before. The simplicity that lay between you and Tom when you talked or messaged each other managed to calm you down, even if it was just a little bit. It was astonishing, what Tom had already done to you.

After a good amount of phone calls, which had lasted at least three hours each, you had started to draw at the same time, because you somehow needed to keep your hands busy and some inspiration had struck you.

You were in the middle of painting again – your fingers full of black and grey colour – when your phone rang once again. It was placed right in front of you on the table of your living room, so you would never miss one of his messages or calls.

On the other hand, he seemed to arrange his phone calls always at times at which you were definitely at home and available. Could be coincidence, but you didn’t think so. He had been too obviously asking about your time schedule, your spare time and your weekends. Consequently, he knew exactly when you had time to talk and when not. That man was a miracle. He seemed to remember nearly everything that you had already told him. Sometimes catching you completely off guard with questions about topics you didn’t even recall talking about.

“Hello?” Trying to not sound too excited about his call didn’t quite work, but it had been worth a try.

“Did I interrupt something?” Came his answer almost instantly. His smooth, deep voice sounded a bit worried. “I would be terribly sorry if I did.”

Bastard, you thought, always with his friendliness and good manners, worrying and caring about everyone but himself.

“No. I’ve been painting until now, and needed to clean my hands, that’s why it took me a moment to answer.” Unable to suppress the smile that formed on your lips, you brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. Of course, you hadn’t actually cleaned your hands, but he didn’t have to know that you had nearly spent two minutes thinking about him before picking up the phone.

“Sorry. Shall I call again later?”

“NO!” Realizing that you had just screamed at him, you were quick to correct yourself. “I mean no, it’s fine. You couldn’t have known what I’m doing right now. Thank you for calling.” You rambled a bit but didn’t care about it. Tom had already witnessed so much since you two had met. Your blushing, the squeaky toy, cursing and following squeaking, your endless stuttering. He was a very patient and kind man. Everyone you had met before had – at one point – turned their back on you. Besides your friends, obviously. But you preferred to keep your circle of friends relatively small.

You heard him chuckle and immediately longed to see his face.

“It’s good to hear that I’m not the only one enjoying our little phone sessions.”

You felt yourself blush. Tom hadn’t said something like that before, you had simply assumed that he had to like it because he had been the one to always call you.

“How has your day been so far, darling?”

Darling, you knew he called literally everyone darling, but somehow you liked the way he pronounced it when he was talking to you.

“Good, thank you. Work was a bit stressful as always, but everything has been just fine until you called.”

“How am I supposed to understand this?” He mocked gently, obviously not in the intent to annoy or embarrass you. Just childish, but sort of adorable, joking around.

“That depends on your interpretation of it.” You teased, but seconds later you were already worrying about what you had just said.

“Huh, cheeky today.” You didn’t miss the amused tone in his voice. So he wasn’t angry or upset, good to know.

“No, that’s not-! I just….!” You felt your face flushing and internally thanked god that you were just talking and not seeing each other. The sweet and deep chuckle on the other side of the line startled you out of your slight daze.

“Don’t worry, calm down, darling.” The low tone sent a shiver down your spine. “It’s adorable.”

“Yeah, sure it is.” That you sounded that devastated hadn’t been the plan, but well, now you would have to go with it.

“No need to be so self-contemptuous.” It sounded as if he wanted to say something else but he kept quiet, giving you the chance to speak again.

“So how has your day been? We have just talked about my day so far.” Somehow that sentence just made you feel even more selfish than before.

“Well, you didn’t tell me anything specific, to be honest. So, I wouldn’t count that as <just talked about you>.”

You would have punched him if there hadn’t been a distance of more than just a few miles between you and if he hadn’t sounded that cute while talking.

“I told you that I’m painting.” You bit your lip, not wanting to tell him what exactly you had talked about with (Y/F) during your lunch break. There was absolutely no need to talk with him about something so embarrassing. And wouldn’t he feel awkward, too?

“Tell me about your day, please?” It was not meant to be a distraction, you were truly interested in his days. Perhaps one of the reasons was that in his life just basically happened more than in your plain and boring one. And of course, you cared. The first time you had talked on the phone, you had forgotten to ask him how he was and had felt tremendously guilty afterwards. And worried, too.

“Luke and I started planning the coming weeks, I read through a few scripts. Nothing astonishingly new.” You could swear you heard him sigh in…exhaustion? You had never heard such a strained exhale coming from him.

“What’s wrong? You seem a bit off?”

“Nothing is wrong. Thank you, darling, for worrying.” He was smiling, you could hear that. It eased a bit of the sudden concern that you had been overcome with.

“Uhm… but if you really want to know…” He laughed his sweet and unique laugh with a slight hint of bashfulness in his tone. “There is something I want to ask you.”

Something he wanted to ask you, your brain repeated. That could be basically everything. Something bad as well as something good. Perhaps he had rethought his decision to have given you his number. Or worse, he didn’t want to talk to you anymore.

“I’m around (Y/C) at the moment and thought we could catch up on our dinner. That is, only if you want to, of course.”

You nearly messed up your painting, completely shocked and startled, not even able to answer him.

“Darling? Are you okay?” Did he really ask you that? After he had just told you that he was probably in your city, as if it was nothing?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re already here?” The sound of your voice was close to that of your squeaky toy and instantly you felt yourself flush all over.

“I’m…” He seemed to be speechless for a brief instant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It was supposed to be a surprise. I should have told you. I’m so sorry.”

The moment he said that, you felt a pang of guilt in your chest. “No I didn’t mean to – I was just surprised to hear that you’re here.” You hurried to say , the painting in front of you forgotten for a moment. Before you picked up your phone to press it against your ear, you wiped the paint off, using your pants for that. Maybe that hadn’t been a wise choice, but there hadn’t been anything else in reach at that moment. Now there were black and purple stripes all over your thighs.

“It’s been quite spontaneous. I didn’t want to get you involved if they hadn’t wanted to shoot the scenes here.”

How sweet of him, you thought abashed.

“What are you shooting for?”

There was a short, but amused, laugh on the other side of the line. “I can’t possibly tell you that.”

As you sighed disappointed, Tom chuckled softly.

“What about our dinner now, darling? You didn’t answer my question. We could finally see each other again, plus I could make up for having kept you waiting for so long.”

For the umpteenth time that evening, you could feel the heat rush into your cheeks and spread all the way to your ears.

“So, what do you say?” His tender voice startled you out of the sort of trance you had been in for a few seconds.

“We could go out tomorrow. Of course, that’s really at short notice, I know. It’s completely okay, therefore, when you don’t want to see me tomorrow.” He rambled a bit, but that couldn’t possibly annoy you when he was just being adorable. He could ramble on for hours and you would still hang on his lips, hungry for every word that left them. Everything on and about that man was so breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m terribly sorry. Did I upset you?”

“No, you didn’t. You just… caught me off guard.” Being honest about your feelings seemed so much easier when you were talking to Tom. “And yes, of course. I’d love…” You had to pause to gather yourself. “I’d love to go out with you tomorrow.”

“You’re lovely. Thank you.”

The following short moment of silence, you used to put the phone down and recollect yourself enough to start painting again.

“I saw an Italian restaurant yesterday. What do you think?”

“Oh my god I love pasta!” Your joyous cheer was rewarded with his typical and oh so sweet laughter.

“I guess that was a yes then?”

“Yes, it is! When are you done shooting tomorrow?”

“At five. I would suggest you give me your address and I pick you up at seven?” There was definitely a hint of mischief in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Yes, that’s a good time.” You gave him your address, waited patiently for him to scribble it down and told him to use google maps or another navigation system, because there was literally no reasonable street system in (Y/C). Tom and you talked for the rest of the evening, covering a lot of serious and a lot of absolutely silly topics, but you laughed a lot, enjoying the deep rumble of his voice when he joined in.

The next day went by too quickly. You had had barely time to think about the coming evening until you stood in front of your apartment, unlocking the door and dropping your bag and jacket to the floor to rush straight into the bathroom. The shower came first, then the make-up – you went for eyeliner and mascara, that should be enough – and after you had finished all of that plus your hair, you stood in front of your closet and were faced with the next problem. What should you wear? What were you supposed to wear on your first date? You rummaged through your wardrobe, pulled out three dresses and tried them on. Of course, you could easily go with trousers and a nice blouse, but you felt more drawn to wearing a dress.

In the end, you chose the dark blue one with long sleeves and a wide skirt that just reached your knees. It didn’t look fancy, but it wasn’t boring at all. In fact, It was quite elegant and playful at once. That was, why you liked it that much.

You quickly dressed up and hurried into your living room. Half an hour and Tom would arrive to pick you up. Only 30 minutes until you would finally see him again.

The painting you had finished the previous day, during Tom’s and your nearly four hours long telephone call, lay on the table where you had left it. You knew exactly what you were going to do with it. Especially, after you had realized that the human face, that you had wanted to draw, had turned out to be that of Tom. A face painted with rough strokes, your fingers and only three colours: black, grey and purple. You had varied the shades of each colour, but all in all it was pretty colourless.

Carefully, you placed the painting in an envelope, so it couldn’t (hopefully) be damaged, and put it into your small handbag, not wanting to give it to Tom immediately. After all, you had worked for a few weeks on that.

You sat down and thumbed through a magazine, while you were still waiting. Too nervous to focus on anything, let alone read an article or do something effectively.

When the doorbell rang, you took a deep breath, flattened the skirt of your dress and stood up. But before you went to open the door, you hastily stuffed your little squeaky toy into your handbag. Now you were ready.

Perhaps you opened way too fast, or maybe you were just clumsy, but you found yourself in Tom’s arms, after you had stumbled and tripped over your own feet. His warm, strong arms were tightly wrapped around you, holding you close to his chest.

God, he smelled so good.

“Actually, I wanted to compliment you because you’re looking absolutely ravishing, but that’s okay too.”

You blushed and hid your face on his chest.

Oh no. What had you just done?

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#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #Tom Hiddleston is a gentleman #tom hiddleston fic #SASSY!TOM #fanfic request #fanfic #original female character #tom hiddleston fluff #fluff #swearing #i wrote this instead of sleeping #my little squeaky toy #telephone call #flirting #romance

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amy-raine · 5 years

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the archipelago

i was lucky enough to just sneak onto my number one studio choice for the leeds visits in february, and hence spent a lovely morning learning about the archipelago design studio. looking at their website and instagram page beforehand, i was struck by beautiful colour schemes, clean set type and aesthetically pleasing plants. i had to go. when i visited i was amazed at the size of the studio. we were shown around by mike, a graphic designer who set up the studio after being a freelancer, and zosia, a botanical designer who runs ‘the plant room’ studio which occupies the shop at the front of the building. the fact that so much beautiful work could come out of this little space run by just two people was really inspiring.

one of the first things mike explained in his presentation was the core ideas they had established when setting up the studio, one of them being ‘pare down to the essentials, but don’t lose the poetry’. i think this is a great design philosophy to have and is very evident in their work - clean, simple and structured but still thought out, energetic and engaging.

when speaking about his design process, mike explained a technique he’d picked up from a book involving direct and indirect research and the subconscious. he said with any new project he makes sure to gather research that directly links to the venture, but also unrelated, wider research that could inspire the design process. he also explained that he likes to do all the research for a new project, but then take a break from in for a couple of days to work on something else and let his subconscious think over the research for a while before he comes back to it to begin generating ideas. it’s a well know fact that allowing the subconscious to work over ideas helps the creative process but this sounded like a great way to really make time for that to happen.

one of the most striking things also about the archipelago is the way in which it’s intertwined with the plant room. the projects cross over, they work together and they have a strong shared branding. it was inspirational to see these partnered studios not confining their practice, taking on these ambitious side projects which took them out of their comfort zone into areas like 3D structure design.

i was interested about the type of work the studio takes on, and when asked about which projects they most enjoy mika and zosia explained that they most enjoyed working in the cultural sector for clients like leeds museums and galleries, yorkshire sculpture park and the hepworth gallery. they explained that they loved culture themselves and had always wanted to work for galleries and museums and had even made a wishlist of dream clients to work with when they started out, many of which they have now accomplished. listening to them speak so passionately about this work and their lifelong love of art and culture, i could really relate. i was struck by the idea that i would be very happy working around art, theatre, music, museums and that designing in the cultural sector could be something i strive towards.

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celiamaryjoy · 5 years

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part 6

week one summary and evaluation

As I come to the end of Project Week One, I feel as though I have been extensively broadening my research, ideas and tangents.

ONE My first direction of research was to look at waste, and planetary destruction. Watching BBC’s Blue Planet and the documentary Chasing Coral, and reading saving planet earth (Tony Juniper), I explored the effects of our consumption and pollution on natural habitats (eg. impact of nitrogen on water environments, deforestation and forest fires caused by climate change and the effects of plastic pollution on marine life). I have also begun to discuss our moral responsibility as a species to the preservation of our planet and how we need to change our relationship with nature.

Where next: I plan to look towards waste systems and how our waste ends up in the natural environment. Although I don't necessarily envisage myself continuing along this tangent, I think it is important to document where our consumption goes when we throw “away”.

TWO I then went on to look very broadly at our relationship with nature. Firstly physical - the built environment juxtaposed with organic nature. I visited St Dunstan in the East where I was intrigued by the majesty of the church skeleton (burnt down during the Great Fire of London and bombed during the Blitz) which had been carefully overgrown with vines, trees and shrubs. The place had a reverent peace to it, despite being within hearing distance from a busy road and a popular spot for tourist groups. I saw lots of people come in and walk around to experience nature within a concrete jungle. The other place I watched people experiencing nature was in a plant warehouse, where overpriced plants were being sold mainly to hipsters in Shoreditch. A broad generalisation but made me chuckle (hypocritically, I also became one of these clichés. I spent £8 on a little bonsai fig tree which I lovingly repotted that evening). I did, however, observe people walk into the store just to walk around and look at the majestic plants and breath in some clean, plant purified air, the atmosphere seemed to make people relax.

THREE From there, my research took me to ecotherapy. I decided to carry out some self prescribed treatment - buying some houseplants and repotting them in some second hand vessels found in charity shops (ie. weird mugs, ceramic bowls and soup cups). The mismatch of textures and the fact that each plant and its container has its own origin made me feel warm, and I felt a personal connection to them, as I had lovingly given them a new home. I will definitely be extending my plant collection as I have noticed my room feeling brighter. The plants also have different roles (eg. Sansivieria plants detoxify the air), creating a living, breathing environment designed for positive mental wellbeing.

Where next: This ecotherapy practice is something that I will keep up during the course of the FMP and beyond as it makes me happy!

FOUR On Tuesday I visited William Morris’ Gallery in Whitechapel. I think I am inspired by his ethos more than his visual aesthetic. Although I enjoy the way his designs bring the nature into people’s homes, I find the style a bit to considered and structured and not organic or free enough for my taste. However, I was struck and pulled in by the message behind his practise. I learned that Morris did not want ‘art for a few, anymore than education for a few, or freedom for a few”, and that “with the arrogance of youth, [he] determined to do no less than transform the world with beauty”. Reading these quotes around the house made me smile as I see them as being on par with my drive as a designer. Moreover, what was particularly inspiring to me was Morris’ dedication to creating high quality products. “He admired traditional crafts from around the world and introduced many of the same techniques in his own workshop”. The Arts and Crafts era that was pioneered by Morris and John Ruskin inspired a younger generation of artist to “protest agains the effects of industrialisation and wasteful consumerism”. If only their movement in the 1800s had become a huge global way of life, we wouldn't have the problems with consumerism and its consequences that we face today. (It is important to note that the Arts and Crafts movement was about ideas, rather than a visual style, and it was about “hand crafting, designing from nature [and a] sympathetic use of material.”)

Where next: I will now look deeper into the Arts and Crafts designers to support my research of William Morris. Who else was interested in this more personal way of working? Who else shared this ethos of creating high quality products that are environmentally conscious? I do!

FIVE - A circular economy! This is probably one of my less explored areas and one which will probably thrive more during my design development phase as I respond to my research. The idea of being part of an ecological cycle with nature excites me. I am driven to design in a way that clothes can be composted and nourish the earth. The ultimate zero waste lifestyle is obviously led by indigenous communities, whose entire way of life is designed to fit in with the natural environment around them. My material choices will be influenced by this concept.

Next, I plan to research materials more, what bio-textiles can I produce?!

SIX - Exploring the projects in the book Formafantasma by stedelijk museum, I was drawn to the organic aesthetic of the projects. The project entitled Botanica was of particular interest to me. The project encompasses the “unexpected textures, sensations and technical possibilities offered by natural polymers extracted from plants or animal derivatives...experimenting with draining plants and animals in search for plasticity...reinterpreting centuries-old technology lost beneath the flawless surface of mass production”. I am interested in this craftsmanship and construction as well as the use and manipulation of natural, organic materials.

Where next: Could I create something that could be built up or grown from nature by the consumer themselves?

From this research I must now narrow and deepen my focus. I will look to organic and natural materials, experimenting with creating my own cultures and bio textile sample, using them to inform my design development. I will also look at natural dyes and organic colouring. What other artists and designers are producing sustainable materials?

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alivingfire · 6 years

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in this life

aka rachel writes a bunch of different AUs because sleep is for the weak

read on AO3 here.

In this life, you’re a painter.

Color speaks to you in a way people never could, shades more nuanced than emotions. You blend blue and green and know exactly what the result will be; you blend yourself in social situations and the same cannot be said. You hole up, you burrow. You hermit, your sister says, and she’s teasing but teasing based on truth. You’re okay with the world inside your makeshift studio, because in there you can control everything from the canvas to the ceilings.

You do like some things.

You like the sunflowers in the garden of the house you pass to get to the bakery. You like the way the afternoon light touches the scones in the display case. You like the tiny bakery tables that you couldn’t possibly be expected to share with another person.

You like the smile of the boy at another too-tiny-for-teatime-companions table.

He must be new; you’ve never seen him here before. This is a small village, you’d know if someone like this existed here before this moment. Somehow, you’d have known.

“D’you mind?” he asks, pointing to the chair across from you at the too-tiny bakery table.

Yes, you want to say. Yes, I mind. Yes, go away, I enjoyed the view of you from over there but now you’re far too close and I’m far too clumsy with the words in my mouth and—

“No,” you say. “Please, take a seat.”

There’s no reason for him to have moved to your table. The bakery isn’t even halfway full, no one needed his seat. He’s sipping tea and smiling at you like he knows a secret and thinks it’s something you’ll enjoy.

“Louis,” he says. You assume that’s his name.

“Harry,” you answer.

“Harry,” he repeats. “Your hands are blue, Harry.”

You look down: they are. Well, sort of. Acrylic paint stripes your palms, dusts your knuckles like you’d done it on purpose, trying to play the part of the painter. You didn’t do it on purpose, but you must admit you like the look. There’s blue on your hands in paintbrush-edged stripes: you’d painted the ocean this morning, and it was the same color as this stranger’s eyes.

You look at his hands, just on instinct: they’re green. Familiar paintbrush strokes, familiar colored swaths across his knuckles. Green like jade under a jeweler’s lamp, bright and light, like a high note in a sweet song. He sees you looking and holds up both hands, palms toward you, fingers wiggling.

“Seems we might have something in common,” he says.

You fall in love easier than you should’ve, Louis’ smile less safe than your routines but a thousand times more intriguing. He coaxes you into the world and you coax him into your studio in return, a balancing act of public and private. The first time your sister walks in and sees someone else there inside your sacred space, she shoots you a conspiratorial wink and even waits until Louis leaves before she pounces, demanding details.

You fall in love in the span of a summer, and you paint blue, blue, blue until your tube runs dry and your hands are permanently cerulean. You haul your canvases and brushes and palette and paints all over creation that summer, because sometimes Louis wants to paint a beach scene and a photo just won’t do, and sometimes he wants to paint the exact color of the cappuccino he got at that specific cafe in London, and it’s only three months into this whirlwind of painting all across Britain that you realize he’s slyly been dating you and you didn’t even notice.

You fall in love and realize that you’re now the type of person those too-tiny bakery tables are meant for, your knees brushing Louis’ underneath as you linger over a scone.

You fall in love over a shared canvas, something so incredibly intimate that the butterflies move from your stomach to your hands, making your usually sure strokes shaky. It’s the first of many, Louis promises, stepping back and staring at what the two of you have made together in awe. “This,” he says, “this is important.” And you know what he’s saying is you, Harry Styles, you are important.

In a gallery, twenty years later, that first collaboration hangs in a place of pride, and when someone offers a ridiculous sum to take it home, you look over at your husband, green paint smudged on the inside of his wrist and barely hidden by his suit jacket cuff, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “No, I think we’d better keep this for ourselves.”

In this life, you’re a drifter.

You were born with a suitcase in your hand, as your mother says. You have a ship tattooed on your bicep because you know the idea of home is transient, connected to people instead of places. You spent your childhood tracking mud in from your adventures through the patch of woods behind your house, your bicycle basket equipped with all your exploring necessities: flashlight, compass, beef jerky. You’d tie a bandana around your forehead to keep the summer sweat out of your eyes, and you wouldn’t return until the fireflies lit the way home.

When your friends leave home for college at eighteen, you follow them out — but not for school. You’ve always learned more from the asphalt of the open road than from textbooks. You take your hard-earned money from your high school job flipping burgers and throw it all at a Triumph Bonneville, sold to you by a neighbor who bought it new in a fit of midlife crisis. It’s shiny and warm under your thighs and you shiver as it rumbles to life the first time.

Your saddlebags are mostly empty when you leave your little hometown, but they fill up soon enough. You collect trinkets from Route 66 sideshows and you buy a couple of notebooks to keep track of what you see and do. You do odd jobs when you find them — you mow an old lady’s yard in Kansas City, you hand out flyers for a business in Seattle, you paint a few houses in Tampa. Cities are good for quick cash, but you like the small towns better: little patches of history and strangeness in the middle of nowhere.

You drive the Million Dollar Highway through the Rockies and stop off in Telluride, a boutique town framed by snowcaps and vistas. You can’t afford a hotel room here — tourist traps like this don’t tend to have a Super 8 for the poorer folks — but you do find a dive bar a few blocks off Main Street, a local haunt where regulars go to watch a game or shoot the shit without having to deal with out-of-towners. You slip onto a stool at the bar and are only jostled a little by an exuberant group of men in Broncos jerseys.

“What can I get you?” a bartender asks, and you look away from the little television over the bar — the Broncos just scored, hence the exuberation — and, suddenly, lose your breath.

“What do you recommend?” you ask. The bartender smiles, a touch of a dimple kissed into his cheek. His small, capable hands wipe a rag over a clean pint glass, and he swipes it one last time before turning and pouring you a drink.

“This is a local brew,” he says, sliding the full glass to you. It’s foaming beautifully, deep brown and bubbling like a geyser.

“What’s it called?” you ask, taking a sip. It sits heavy on your tongue, sweet on the way down.

“Face Down,” he tells you, and you can’t help it:

“Only if you ask nicely,” and his grin grows wider.

“I’m off at ten,” he offers.

“I’ll be here,” you promise.

You flirt until he’s off his shift, and then you flirt as you walk to another bar (“Can’t drink where I work, you know the drill”), and then you flirt until you fall into his bed, a little twin mattress in an apartment barely bigger than the matchbox he procures to light two cigarettes afterward.

“So, are you just passing through?” Louis asks, propped up against the wall. His bare chest shines with sweat in the light from the moon outside, windows thrown open wide to catch a breeze and cool the room. The cherry glow of his cigarette flares as he inhales. You exhale your own stream of smoke, clouding the air.

“Maybe,” you say. You’ve got your head in his lap, and you turn to quirk a smile up at him. “Do I have a reason to stay?”

He taps out his cig in an ashtray nearby and leans down, stealing your smile with a kiss. Outside, the fireflies gather to let you know: you’ve found your way home.

In this life, you’re a writer.

Or so your degree says, hanging tauntingly on your wall. You’re trained for this! it laughs at you. You paid good money to sit in front of that blank page all day doing nothing!

Words come to you in the middle of the night when your insomnia taps at your temple and the city noise drones, in the middle of a pub crawl with your mates who don’t seem to have a tenth of the worries you do, in the middle of the morning when you’re staggering out of bed, in the middle of a lunch with your sister where she, unsubtly, tells you that she’s got all types of friends she could be setting you up with. Words bombard you like raindrops at the most inconvenient times, and yet they flood away when you have a pen, when you finally dig out your phone and open a new note to try and get it all out.

You read voraciously about the greats, searching for inspiration. Cormac McCarthy struck up conversations with strangers; you try that. You make friends with people at bars, in the queue at Starbucks, online — you have a dozen conversations going at once, but none of them spark anything new. Junot Diaz had a journal; you try that, too, but when your writer’s block extends to that as well, you throw your journal out the window in frustration.

When you read that Michael Chabon suggested throwing out what you’ve done so far and starting over, you snort and, just to be contrary, save a blank word document and then immediately delete it.

You want to write a story about love and loss, about life and language and a million little things. There’s a story in your stomach and your lungs and etched on the inside of your ribcage but you don’t know how to get it out.

In a fit of pique, you go home for a weekend. Your mum always has an open invitation for you to crash with her, to get your head on straight and be coddled just a little until you’re ready to try again. So that’s what you do, packing two pairs of black jeans and a few worn t-shirts and your well-used laptop and grabbing a train north.

You’re not even there a full minute, you realize later. You hop off the train, scuffed boots barely touching Holmes Chapel pavement, when you bump into someone.

“Whoa, there, steady on,” someone says, grabbing you by the arms to keep you upright. You sway, clutching back, until —

“Louis?”

He’s aged like a fine goddamn wine, you think, somehow breathless even in the privacy of your own head. You haven’t seen him since — god, since sixth form, since your halcyon schoolboy days. Louis was the first one to tell you that you should be a writer, the two of you huddled under the blankets at one of a hundred different sleepovers, flashlight in hand as he read your shaky twelve-year-old writing.

“This is great, Hazza,” he’d praised, and you’d felt like spreading imaginary wings and pulling an Icarus. It has only been the recent years that have informed you that Louis wasn’t just your first best friend, but your first childhood crush, too, that wanting his approval was once as natural to you as breathing.

“Harry Styles,” he says, eyes bright. “What brings you back to your humble roots?”

“Needing inspiration,” you tell him, unable as always to keep him away from the truth.

“Well,” he tilts his head, looking thoughtful, “maybe I can help with that.”

The library where the two of you pretended to study and instead you wrote short stories starring Louis as a pirate or a cowboy or a spaceman that he’d act out for you as his one-person audience. The tree in the park you climbed because he told you you couldn’t do it, and when you fell and broke your arm he cried more than you did. The grocery shop where he used to work when he was seventeen, and where you’d show up to distract him when things were slow.

You don’t know how any of this is going to unlock the story in your stomach, but it’s the first time in years you aren’t worried about it. Your best friend — your first best friend, your first love, your first real critic and biggest fan — has you by the hand and is taking you on a reminiscent tour of your shared childhood: you can give up an afternoon of staring at your laptop screen in frustration for this. You’d give up a dozen afternoons for this.

“Remember this place?” Louis asks. It’s dusk now, the whole day spent together. Louis’ hand is warm in yours, and you wonder now if it should’ve been weird, the way your fingers laced together like they were sewn that way.

For the first time today, you aren’t drowning in a pool of sepia memories. You don’t recognize this place, a squat little cottage on the edge of the village. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this quaint little garden, or the apple tree in the front yard. A cat sits lazily in a window, tail flicking idly as she watches the two of you with half-closed eyes.

You don’t want to tell him that you don’t remember this cottage, not when he brought you all the way here, expecting you to remember, expecting you to know what he’s thinking. Instead, you bite your lip and turn to him, thinking he might elaborate with a story that might jog your memory.

“S’pose you wouldn’t, actually,” Louis muses, and your distress eases a little. He stares at the house, the baby blue paint and the warm glow of a lamp inside one of the windows. “Since I never did ask you what I meant to ask.”

“What?”

Louis turns to you, a rueful grin pulling at his mouth. “Remember when we were fifteen, and you said that all you wanted in life was a little country house where you could write and maybe grow a few flowers?” He gestures to the house, as though you haven’t been able to see it this whole time. “Guess I never really did grow out of wanting all your dreams to come true.”

It clicks, then. “Louis, I—” don’t know what to say, don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to thank you for things I didn’t even know you’d done — “I can’t believe this.”

“In a good way, I hope,” he says, still rueful, still sheepish, like he expects you to walk away. He bought your dream house.

It’s a common problem in your life, not being able to expel the words trapped inside you. This time, however, you’ve got another way to express yourself: you spin Louis by the shoulders and kiss him until all the air in the world has gone, and you’re dizzy and grinning.

“Take that as a yes,” Louis says dazedly.

“Ask me,” you say. At Louis’ still-stunned look, you continue: “Ask what you wanted to ask, what you never asked.”

Louis takes your hand in his, holds it to his chest. His heart pounds a tattoo onto the back of your hand, potent despite its invisibility. “Harry Styles,” he speaks slowly, like a long-memorized script he’s finally getting to act out, “don’t go to London to be an author. Stay here, with me, and write your novel here.”

“Yes,” you say, crowding into him, kissing him again, again, “yes, god, of course, of course.”

The words aren’t stuck, not anymore. The words pour out into one book, two. Your editor suggests you move to London, that way you can participate in the big city scene, be photographed with other up-and-comers.

London has a lot of things, but it doesn’t have a little baby blue cottage, nor the boy who bought it for you.

The cat still sits in the windowsill, and in the spring you plant begonias.

In this life, you’re a sports newscaster.

You’re paid to have opinions — that’s the part you like. You’ve watched football since you were a tiny lad, the Gary Pallister home shirt your father gave you falling to your knees until you hit your first growth spurt at age eight.

It’s not as though you’re a presenter, or anything. You’re not even a commentator. You’re a beat reporter, an opinion-guy who’s allowed to stray a little from the unbiased caution that the big names have to stick to. You’re known for your color commentary on social issues in sport and personality pieces, and you’re friendly with quite a few athletes you’ve interviewed. You’re also one of the first fully out Sky Sports reporters, and you’re known for that, too.

Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes, it’s a little harder.

You want to be good at your job, so you study up. You pick up the intricacies of boxing, cricket, golf, tennis. You subscribe to ESPN and start learning those major sports too — basketball, baseball, even the psuedo-rugby with the tight pants that Americans call football.

Your favorite, though, is hockey.

You don’t have a team, don’t know many of the mascots or even the cities where the teams play. You assume that “icing” means spraying someone with ice on purpose, only to find out that’s not the case at all. You took French in school but can’t understand a word that comes out of most of the players’ mouths, jumbled and exertion-slurred, athletes who are nimble on the ice but clumsy off of it.

Except one.

Tomlinson, a short, quick winger for an up-and-coming team in a small New England city you’ve never heard of. You know less than most peewee hockey players and yet even you can see how soft his touch is, how skilled he is at handling the puck, his intelligence on the ice.

And then he does post-game interviews, and those— well. Those are inspiring.

Bright-eyed and sharp-tongued, Tomlinson toes the line of brash and entertaining, waving off compliments and directing all praise to his teammates, his goalie, his coaches and the staff. He’s hard on himself when he makes mistakes but he glows when talking about his team, the hard work they put in to be successful. When a reporter approaches him about his exuberance during a post-goal celebration, Tomlinson’s eyes narrow.

“Price blocked fourteen shots on goal tonight and mine was the only one that went in,” he says, cool and precise. “Should I not be proud of that?”

You can’t help it. You’re a Sky Sports beat reporter, you don’t have anything to do with the NHL or, really, any American sports at all. You’re not even sure if your contract allows you to do this.

You tweet anyway.

@Harry_Styles — 1 minute ago @Louis_Tomlinson deserves more than just being proud of that goal. If he wants suggestions on some other ways to celebrate, I’ve got ideas.

You don’t expect a reply. You probably should’ve.

@Louis_Tomlinson — 3 minutes ago Careful, @Harry_Styles I might take you up on that

It’s not as though you have a massive fanbase, or anything, especially not compared to Tomlinson, but your Twitter followers definitely notice the exchange. You expect the call you get from your boss to be a reprimand, and are surprised instead to see that they want you to discuss Tomlinson’s quote on the show, maybe write an in-depth article. You wear your best TV suit and spend three long minutes passionately defending an athlete’s right to pride in their accomplishments, and you will your blush away when your tweet is obliquely referenced.

“All I’m saying,” you laugh, praying that you’re not bright red, “is that if the guy wants help celebrating, I’m in.”

“I bet you are,” Julian Waters says, grinning a white-toothed smile as he sends the show to commercial break. Once the cameraman gives the all clear signal, he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “Careful, there,” he says mildly. “Sport fans aren’t exactly known for being the most tolerant, Americans especially.”

“I’ve handled worse,” you assure him — though, maybe that’s not true. In all honesty, you turned your notifications off an hour after Tomlinson’s reply.

Curious about the state of things (and feeling thick-skinned today), you wade back into social media after the few days you’ve been away. Your mentions are a mess of heart-eyed teenage Tomlinson fans who either vehemently love you or hate you, and middle-aged men wearing Falcon jerseys in their profile pictures who want you to know how much of an abomination you are. You dismiss it all, retweeting the Sky Sports account link to the video of the segment you just recorded. A short minute later, your heart double-thuds at a particular notification.

Louis_Tomlinson retweeted your retweet

And then another.

Message from Louis_Tomlinson

Your hands shake as you navigate to the message, expecting simultaneously the worst and the best possible options.

Hey, thanks for the support. I know you’re getting a lot of flack, hope my reply earlier didn’t cause any problems

You tap out an answer: Even if it did, it was worth it.

Tomlinson’s return is quick, as though he, like you, is holding his phone, waiting for your messages. I’d like to thank you in person. Going to be in Rhode Island anytime soon?

You grin delightedly, a little breathless, and dial up your boss. “Hey,” you say when he answers, “how would you feel about me writing that in-depth report on the road?”

Providence is beautiful in March, chilly and frost-coated. At the airport, you spot a familiar, compact frame in the waiting area, hidden beneath a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, holding a sign that says Harry_Styles.

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” you say, and Tomlinson’s smile nearly twinkles.

“Sure I did,” he says. “Can’t neglect my biggest fan.”

There’s a blurry photograph of you at the next Falcons game, up in the box with the families of the other players. It’s nearly too grainy to make out, but there is one decently clear picture of your back, Tomlinson’s name bold across your shoulders.

When your objectivity is questioned you just smile, knowing that, at least when it came to Tomlinson, your objectivity never stood a chance.

In this life, you’re a surf instructor.

It’s not easy, your job. Sure, you live in a tropical paradise, have a saltwater miracle of a view right out your back door, spend your days oceanside or out catching waves with your friends. But for every eager customer there’s a sleazy one, some guy who assumes that “surf instructor” is actually code for “paid beach girlfriend,” who is only there to stare at your chest as you explain the difference in board lengths.

For the most part, you handle your own. Only a few guys push it far enough that you’re uncomfortable rather than just annoyed, and you’ve been taking self-defense lessons for years. You keep pepper spray under the counter and, according to the contract the customers sign, you are authorized to use it if you feel threatened.

Most of the time, you love your job. Saltwater is where you’re meant to be, and your tiny salary comes with enough perks to keep you content forever. You have a hut on the resort beach where you stock boards and wetsuits, and that’s where she first finds you.

“Can you teach beginners?” she asks, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear.

You grin. “I can teach anyone.”

She challenges your confidence, though. The first day, your stomach feels bruised from repeating the motion of pushing up off the board and hopping to your feet, over and over and over again. You have sand in your bikini bottoms and you forgot a hair tie, so the ocean breeze whips the salted ends of your hair into your eyes.

Somehow, Louis looks even worse for the wear. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promises, and while you want to believe her, you’re not so sure she’s right. Most people don’t want to put this much effort in during their vacation — she never even conquered the motion of paddling correctly. Usually, this means you won’t see her again.

She seems to live to challenge your beliefs, though.

Bright and early, she does arrive, hair pushed back with an elastic headband and no-nonsense purse of lips firmly in place. An hour in, she’s mastered the push up. Two hours in, you’re on a board in the shallows, demonstrating how to paddle out.

You have one rule. Well, actually, you have two: the first is pepper spray first, ask questions later. The second, which is more applicable here, is that you don’t get attached to guests.

The resort and the surf lessons are your whole life, but that’s not true for anyone else. Guests are only in your life for a few days, maybe a week at most. In the beginning, you’d promise to keep in touch with those you clicked with: now, a few years in, you know better. You’ve seen too many early friendships wither and die.

So, when Louis asks if you’re doing anything after her lesson one day, you regretfully lie and say you have plans.

You don’t want to. You want to take her to your favorite local spot, wear your tiniest sundress and dance close on the warm sand. You want to trade sangria sweet kisses on a moon-bright beach, and wake up tangled in salty sheets.

But she’s leaving eventually, and you can’t fall for someone who has to leave.

Even if it’s already started.

But… she keeps coming back. Day after day, for a week, then two. You wonder if she’s an extended stay guest — you’re not up on your pop culture, maybe she’s famous. She doesn’t say anything that hints at an end date, and at this point, maybe you don’t want to know.

You don’t go up to the main resort often — no need to, when your customers come to you. But one day, there’s an issue with your check, and you have to sort it out. You throw an extra large tank top over your bikini and call that good enough, not even bothering with shoes. After a short walk up to the resort hotel, you step inside the bright, clean lobby — and freeze.

“So, you can leave the beach,” Louis teases. You’re used to seeing her in her athletic one-piece swimsuit and salt-wild hair; behind the counter at the hotel registration desk, she’s in a simple, pure white shift dress and her pixie cut is tamed, smooth and shiny.

“You’re not a guest,” you say, words feeling dumb even as they leave your mouth.

One side of her mouth quirks up. “Astute of you.”

“You live here.”

“Just as of recently, but yeah, that’s true.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Let me take you out,” you say.

There’s a small, awkward cough. You look over to see a small family, all wearing variations of palm frond and flamingo patterned shirts, the dad waving awkwardly. “Is, uh, is this where we check in?”

“Yes, it is,” Louis says, transitioning easily to a professional smile.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the dad says, pink-cheeked.

“That’s no problem,” Louis says, waving you on, and grinning at your impatient look. “She can wait.”

That evening, she shows up at the hut, grin still in place. She teases you all throughout dinner for assuming she was some sort of tourist, playfully mocking the way your mouth dropped open when you say her behind the desk, but you find a way to stop her jokes pretty easily, her lips soft and yielding against yours.

The next morning, you shake her awake at dawn and take her for a sunrise surf. She rides a full ten seconds before crashing, and she pulls you into the water to celebrate her progress.

Your kisses taste like ocean, and you send her off to work with an unfocused, blissful smile, a bruise the shape of your mouth hidden under her perfect white dress.

In this life, you’re standing on the X Factor stage, and you’re shaking.

Four other boys — four boys you barely think you could recognize, let alone name — are there with you. Tears have dried tacky on your face, your lip still trembling. Sixteen, and flayed open for the nation to see — that’s showbiz, you guess.

Nicole Sherzinger is holding a microphone at the judge’s table, surveying you. “We have decided,” she says slowly, theatrically, “to put you together as a group.”

Your mind blanks. Your heart crashes in your chest.

A boy you barely know jumps into your arms in joy.

Out in the lobby, out of the view of the cameras, he smiles shakily at you, wild-eyed. “I’m Louis,” he says.

“I’m Harry,” you answer.

In this life, you find him early, and you don’t ever let him go.

#MAMA I DID IT! I PUBLISHED SOMETHING!#but.... a few notes #yes i know that hockey louis is basically jack + bitty from omgcp #no i still don't know anything about hockey #no i don't know anything about surfing either #this was written from 8 pm to 3 am and i am Grump today #but i wanted to put something out for the first time in a while #it's on AO3 too if you wanna bookmark!#drabbles #i mean lbr not really #it's 5k

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raeliyah · 5 years

Text

Exalted Secret Santa 2018

First, snippet -- with full descriptions, reference pictures, and links under the cut. Anon-asks should be enabled so feel free to ask me anything if you need more info!

If none of these guys strike your fancy, I also have the rest of my exalted characters, with reference images and descriptions, here:

https://refsheet.net/redkite7

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith Dawn Caste Solar Exalt of the South, longrider lawman, Righteous Devil gunslinger, Badlands Gentleman with a heart of battered gold, giant flirt

Qismet ibn al-Nusar, The Veiled Eagle Night Caste Solar Exalt of the west, self-appointed judge and executioner of corrupt supernaturals, leader of the Brotherhood of the Righteous Death, terse and broody

Zaela Tokari, Queen of Adrelith, of the Meridian Isles Zenith Caste Solar Exalt of the East, friend of Dragon Kings, precious cinnamon roll, youngest daughter, too young to be queen, too young to be Exalted, mousy and self-effacing but will stand up to everything from Deathlords to Elder Lunars in defense of her friends (no art yet)

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith

Dawn Caste Solar Exalt

Caleb’s Pinterest Inspiration Board

Caleb’s easy. Think of every western trope and smash them all together. He’s a cowboy bounty hunter; a self-proclaimed lawman in a land where there is no law, riding circuit on a handful of towns in the South he considers his and protecting them from whatever evils lurk in the desert.

Physical Description

Caleb stands at 5′11″ and is on the leaner side at ~185 lbs. He’s fit, like a brawler (been in significantly more than his fair share of bar fights) or a ranch hand - someone who works at hard physical labor most days.

Caleb looks like he’s in his early 30s

Being the son of Northern immigrants, Caleb’s complexion is mostly pale, a reddish-burned tan anywhere the sun would shine - arms to the elbows, back of the neck, face mostly.

He’s also freckly across his face, shoulders and upper back, mostly from sun.

His eyes are clear honey-colored brown, more gold towards the pupil from the influence of exaltation.

Hair is black at the roots, growing out into sun-streaked brownish blond. He usually keeps it cut pretty short but if it goes too long without a trim it gets curlier. He likes a clean-shaven face but given his lifestyle he’s pretty much always got a day or three of scruff.

Caleb… basically looks like Chris Pratt.

He’s always got a smile of some stripe - warm, mischievous, leering, insincerely-wide - something.

He’s also very mouthy, and usually has something to chew on, whether it’s a piece of straw, a match, a toothpick, a cigarette (50% chance of it actually being lit), a twig - something. He’s never met a lollipop or chewing gum but he would love them.

Scars, see reference image: He's got a fair few that have never healed all the way. Added to that a nose which was broken in some bar brawl and never healed straight.

Left arm, from wrist to elbow: long nearly parallel white lines.

The remnants of pressure cuts through his right eyebrow, right side of his lips, and the left side of his chin, leaving gaps in the scruff.

A bullet-scar just above and to the left of his navel.

The remains of various slashes and stabs decorate his ribs. Most of these fade to nothing quickly, but he’s in fights often enough there’s always something.

The upper portion of his back is a mess of scars look like they were left from him getting dragged quicklike backwards over rock (because he was). A stylized rattlesnake tattoo on his right shoulderblade is only half-seen through the scars.

Caleb dresses in layers - shirt sleeves, a vest/waistcoat, and either a faded blue or red serape tossed over his shoulders or a brown longcoat. Pants are either canvas or faded denim, and boots are less cowboy-style and more combat- or motorcycle style with a heel for riding. He does wear spurs, but they’re blunted. He’s usually covered in trail dust and sweat, sometimes blood, despite efforts at cleanliness. Feel free to embellish the standard Cowboy gear with arabesque/middle eastern ornamentation, because it is Exalted…

He always carries two modified flame pieces (six-shooters… he’s got six-shooters) on his hips, and the belt’s buckle is large and obnoxious, mostly because he keeps a couple extra rounds of ammunition within it. He also has an artifact rifle (based on a Winchester M1873; lever action, but otherwise unspecified) named Medicine Man that is either slung across his back or is in a sheath on his horse’s saddle. He makes his own ammo for all his weapons. He is a student of Righteous Devil Style, having mastered up to the form charms, but his sifu disappeared and he’s not found another, nor is he skilled enough to pick it up without tutelage.

He does own chaps but whether or not he wears them on any given day depends on how hot it is and how much hard riding he’s anticipating. He has a hat he’s rather fond of, but it’s not anything truly special.

There may or may not be a bandana around his neck/on his person at any given moment, and he often wears a chip of blue crystal with an antelope petroglyph etched on it around his neck on a leather cord. It’s a token from his friend, a springs goddess named Rivela, and a reminder of a partner he lost.

He rides a buckskin warhorse named Dirt who he pretends not to be particularly attached to, but in fact he really really is. Dirt is his horse. Dirt adores him and is always trying to steal his hat. Dirt will also steal anyone else’s hat nearby, but he prefers Caleb’s.

Anima: Caleb’s anima banner is a hailstorm of bright burning metal, like large forge sparks, raining down on him and even appear to bounce off his skin and clothing. Golden smoke and flame rise from the ground at his feet wherever the sparks fall.

Full Description including Personality, History, Art, and links to Fic and Character Playlist Here.

Qismet ibn al-Nusar

Night Caste Solar Exalt Revenge-driven assassin, self-appointed judge jury and executioner of supernaturals who prey on innocents. Leader of a band of mortal assassins with the same motives.

Qismet's Pinterest Inspiration Board

Qismet's Character Playlist

Physical Description:

Qismet is shorter than average at 5'9" built lean and tough like an acrobat at around 150 lbs

he’s kinda touchy about his height

Qismet looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties.

He's darker complexioned, bronzed from a lot of time under the Western Sun

Examples: (Oded Fehr)(Cristian Codrin)(Avraham Aviv Alush)(Francisco Randez-also his face inspiration)

His hair is so dark brown it might as well be black, cut close but still has a bit of a wave to it.

Style example:(One)(Two)* Eyes are the same: so dark brown they might as well be black. Tend to go lighter, almost honey-colored, when he's channeling essence.

Qismet has fairly narrow features, a generous mouth with cupid's bow lips (see reference images) and a crooked nose, somewhat overlong. He would look great if he smiled but he hardly ever does. Eternal Brooding Face

Face Inspiration: Francisco Randez (One)(Two)(Three)(Four)

He has a thin blade scar vertically through his lips on the right side

Tattoos: One, on his right shoulder, the symbol of his assassin's order. Two, on his left bicep: a greenish kraken crossed out by two black swords (indicative of his vendetta against the Lintha).

Clothes and Accessories:

Qismet has two distinct "modes" -- his working guise, as The Veiled Eagle, equal parts vigilante super hero and feared villain, depending on who's looking, and his regular everyday self. The Veiled Eagle's identity is an open secret on his home island but if he's not in 'costume' the folk there know not to bother him as anything more than Qismet.

The Veiled Eagle:

As the Eagle, Qismet wears long open vests and tunics and leather armor (cuirass, pauldrons, greaves) in shades of charcoal to dove gray, with a hood and mask over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, though the skin around them is usually darkened with greasepaint and charcoal. This outfit is patterned roughly after the Assassin's Creed styles. (Inspiration Images: (Mayan Armor)(Original AC Outfit)).

There is a single splash of blood red among the grays as a sash: normally wound around his waist or crossed from hip to shoulder.

Weaponry:

As the Eagle, Qismet also carries a lot of weapons. Most notable are his two artifact Moonsilver Bracers, the Eagle's Sheathed Talons. These artifacts are made of black siaka leather and covered with moonsilver filigreed plates making the shape of a mantling eagle. They extrude a long knife in combat and also serve as armor for his arms (they're basically Hidden Blades with Exalted flair).

He also wields the paired soul-steel short Daiklaves, Anguish and Agony (see reference image in refsheet.net gallery). He struck a deal with the spirits within when he took them from their former owner. They spend a night and a day of peace within a consecrated temple on the nights of moon dark every month, and in return he will never be chained by sorcery or necromancy until his Task is complete. If he fails to give them peace, they'll turn against him.

As Qismet:

When he's not 'working', Qismet tends towards sleeveless cross-front tunics and vests, loose-cut trousers and short fitted boots, thin-soled for good climbing. He still wears the red sash around his waist, knotted on one side, and always has the artifact bracers.

He tends towards cool, de-saturated colors (because they're cheap), but isn't picky: if it's free of obvious dirt and won't get in his way, he'll wear it. His lieutenant/lover Samira has been slowly stocking his wardrobe with nicer things since ostensibly he's an important figure in their region of the west and should occasionally look it. Really, have fun with clothing design.

He very occasionally wears a shark-tooth pendant, but he's not big on jewelry or adornment in general.

Anima:

A ghost-white and violet sea-eagle, whose head obscures Qismet’s face and whose movements echo the Solar’s.

Further Reading:

The Eagle and the Marionettist

Infectious - Drabble, features several characters

Silver Sun Era - Storium Game

A History of the Brotherhood of the Righteous Death

Zaela Tokari, Solar Queen

Zenith Caste Solar Exalted - Mousy former-Princess given Divine Power - Too Precious for this world - Too young to be Queen and feels it

Zaela’s Pinterest Board

Physical Description

Slim and willowy at 5′4″ish and 120lbs-ish - built like a dancer or musician

Medium-brown hair at the roots and lower layers, bleached gold by sun (and anima) light, with those instagram beach-style waves. Comes down to about her shoulderblades

Turquoise eyes, that fade to nearly white when she channels essence

Heart-shaped face with expressive eyes

Her complexion is tan with a bit of a copper tone to it

She exalted at 17 and still looks it

Zaela wears draping gowns in vaguely greek or ancient egyptian-esque fashion, in cool greens and blues and golds and white, accented with delicate jewelry wrought from gold and gems and flowers (natural or artificial). They are usually of light materials, silk,mist linen, and brushed cotton, suited for her jungle island kingdom.

She usually wears her hair in multiple loose braids, or half-up and adorned with tropical flowers (or whatever’s in season, if she’s travelling far from her home Isle). Nothing in her appearance would mark her as anything other than the favored daughter of a well-off family, but she does on occasion wear the orichalcum, white, and green jade lotus crown of her kingdom. It’s a little too ostentatious for her tastes.

Anima:

A flock of tropical birds, in jewel tones limned with gold, who spiral and swirl around her.

Fun Fact:

The ghost of her former shardholder, Prismatic Lotus, used to reside in their royal family chapel, trapped there during the Usurpation. Lotus fled to safe harbor within Zaela when the chapel was attacked and Zaela exalted--she now carries the spirit of her ancestress with her. Lotus acts as mentor, guide, sometime-posessor and obnoxious First Age brat in turn. But mostly she is helpful.

tagging @shiftingpath for secret santa organizational purposes -- thank you for all the work you put in to this every year; I very much appreciate it! and you! I will probably be editing this to make sure all the links are working properly and everything’s formatted correctly so apologies in advance

#exalted #exalted rpg #exalted secret santa #exalted secret santa 2018 #shiftingpath #my characters #I really need to make one up for Fiera on Refsheet too #next time #six is certainly sufficient options right #oh gosh and Senka #who else am I missing

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welove-nms · 7 years

Text

When Soujiro had initially confessed to you, you had rejected him politely, telling him that you appreciated the compliment but that you didn’t really know him very well and would like to start off as friends first. He had complied and treated you as sweetly as before, inviting you to his shows and leaving notes for you under the tea tray to discover when you cleaned up his table.

By the end of the school year, you knew that you loved him. How gentle he was with you, his patience with everybody he met, the way your heart fluttered when he gave you a soft smile. But the timing of realization couldn’t be any worse.

Graduation was right around the corner and he was insanely busy with his schoolwork and a gallery showing for the week after. You had been seeing less and less of him and the times that he did have a minute to come by the cafe, he had been ordering to go, his hair slightly frumpled, strands escaping his hair tie and drooping around his face. When you tried to start a conversation, he would give short replies and would escape as soon as he could. You wouldn’t lie to yourself, you worried that it had taken you too long to reply to his confession and he had moved on. The thought made your chest hurt, but you continued to smile brightly for him.

The days crawled by and you busied your thoughts with studying for your own exams, going over notes and study books in the cafe between orders. However when Soujiro would come in, you would give him your full attention, much to his friend Hajime’s interest, who would often accompany him.

Once, you had slipped and left the honorific off Soujiro’s name and though he didn’t seem to notice, Hajime gave you a raised eyebrow and a smile, leaving you a blushing, stammering mess. When they left, you watched out the window to see Hajime bring a hand up and slam it on Soujiro’s back, causing him to stumble and nearly drop his cup. Hajime’s laugh could be heard through the thick glass.

The final week came and went in a flurry of tests and endless coffee runs. You felt the days slip through your fingers, hyper aware of the lack of time you had left to tell Soujiro your feelings before the graduation ceremony. It was a few days away when inspiration struck. You were up late that night and the next, placing sleep as second in comparison to your gift for Soujiro.

It was the day before the graduation ceremony and the final exams for the third years were wrapping up. The cafe was busier than it had been all month, all the senpai coming in for desserts and celebratory drinks. You were running around, trying to keep an eye out for the one boy you were truly interested in talking to, giving everyone else passing smiles and greetings as you kept yourself busy.

The door chimed as it opened once again and the booming voice of Hajime saying hello to some of his classmates caught your attention and you twirled your head around to confirm that Soujiro was with him, looking visibly more relaxed than he had been for weeks, though a bit tired. Your heart began to beat furiously in your chest and you forced yourself not to run to the counter to meet them.

“What can I get for you Soujiro-senpai? Hajime-senpai?”

“I’ll take some macarons if you still have some!” Hajime said with a smile as you nodded.

“Soujiro-senpai?”

He gazed at the list of drinks and desserts that you had printed out on the counter, looking but not really seeing. It wasn’t until Hajime nudged him that he cleared his throat and glanced up at you, ordering his usual tea.

“If you want to find a seat, I’ll get that ready for you.” You reached into the dessert case next to the counter and used a pair of tongs to pull out a few macarons, placing them in a bag. “Here you are, Hajime-senpai.” You thanked him when he gave you a few coins in payment and stepped into the kitchen to get the tea ready.

With trembling fingers, you placed the kettle and teacups on the tray. Taking a deep breath, you set a sealed tube on the side. You picked up the tray and stepped back out of the kitchen, the cafe noticeably emptier than before. You eyed Soujiro at a corner table and took a deep breath, taking determined steps to place it on the table in front of him.

“Here you are, Soujiro-senpai.”

“Thank you, Kouhai-chan.”

You took a step back and waited for him to notice the extra item on the tray. It wasn’t until he had already poured himself a steaming cup that he paused and set the pot back down, picking up the tube.

“Is this…for me?”

“Y-Yes.” You cursed yourself for stuttering in this moment.

He slowly popped off the cap and pulled out the canvas inside. Giving you a short glance, he rolled open the sheet, smoothing it out, revealing the contents. Your heart roared in your ears, the thumping all you could hear.

Over a hundred origami sakura flowers shaped the kanji for ‘love’, the same one that he had painted for you. You hadn’t trusted yourself to paint it as smoothly and effortlessly as he had, but you knew you could place the paper flowers just where you wanted before gluing them down.

A heavy silence bore down on the two of you as he stared at the sheet, unblinking. The dark emotions of self-doubt and being unwanted creeped in the back of your mind the longer you waited for a reply. Maybe he had moved on. Maybe you had taken too long to reciprocate. Maybe he had mistaken his feelings of friendship for love and he didn’t actually want to be with you in a romantic relationship. Maybe…

“Soujiro-senpai, I…”

“Kouhai-chan, I…”

You both started to speak at the same time and stopped, waiting for the other to continue. The seconds felt like hours. He was still staring at the flowers and his normally steady hands were trembling. It was this that finally broke you.

“I…I’m sorry, Soujiro-senpai. Please do whatever you want with it.” Knowing your voice was shaky and there were tears pricking your eyes, you turned on your heel and dashed into the kitchen before anyone could stop to talk to you and ask what was wrong.

You hung up your apron and rubbed the tears from your eyes with the back of a wrist as you gathered your bag and keys, leaving the cafe through the back entrance. If anyone asked why you weren’t in the cafe the next day, you would tell them you had suddenly felt ill and didn’t want to kick everybody out. It wouldn’t really be a lie.

—-

You arrived at the graduation ceremony. You were anxious that you would run into Soujiro. He hadn’t contacted you at all since your confession and you had no idea what you would say if you were to interact with him today. But you had many other friends who were graduating today and you wanted to be there to support them.

You sat with your grandmother near the middle of the auditorium where they were holding the ceremony. The seating filled quickly as the teachers and principal lined up on stage to congratulate the students as they received their certificate. The house lights began to dim and your grandmother took your hand, smoothing out your fingers that had been fidgeting with the bottom of your skirt.

“I’m sure you will miss your friends, my dear,” she whispered. “But remember that this is a big day for them. Be happy for the time spent with them.”

Even though she was misinterpreting your anxiety, the words were appreciated. She had been here year after year for the graduation ceremony back when she ran the cafe, after all. You gave her a smile and turned back to face the stage as Ren stood at the podium to give a speech as the salutatorian. You had to hold back a laugh as he said a mere paragraph before slouching back to his place, always saying the minimum amount as possible. Honestly, you were surprised he had gone up at all. Touru took his place as the valedictorian and you settled yourself in for a much longer speech.

As Touru continued to drone on about how proud he was for all of them and how he hoped they would all do well in their future college studies, you found yourself glancing over the other third years who were sitting in the seats in the very front of the auditorium. Even though you told yourself not to, you found yourself staring at the back of Soujiro’s head, his signature bun holding your attention. He turned his head slightly, whether because he could feel your eyes on him or because he was whispering to one of his cousins sitting next to him, but it was enough to startle you into listening intently to Touru once again as though you had been doing so the entire time.

After Touru wrapped up, the principal stood and gave a few lines before moving the podium back and handing the mic to his secretary, who began to list the names, leaving the principal open to shake hands and give the students their graduation papers. The students stood and made their way to the side of the stage, each stepping out and having their picture taken with the principal as they were called.

You held back a laugh as Jéan gave an exaggerated wink to the audience and let out a relieved sigh when Itsuki received his diploma, a huge smile on his face as he saw you, gesturing to the bright blue suit he was wearing for the occasion. Both Yamato and Suzuki looked tired, but happy that they were there. You almost didn’t recognize Takahiro without one of his work uniforms, wearing a fitted suit instead.

When Soujiro crossed the stage between his cousins, you held your breath. You could tell he was searching the crowd for you, but ran out of time before Sousuke’s name was called. You let your breath out slowly through your nose, closing your eyes and trying not to think too hard for the rest of the ceremony.

The principal gave a few final pieces of advice before dismissing everyone, the applause still ringing in your ears when you squeezed out the doors leading to the field outside. Your grandmother had stayed behind to chat with a few of the faculty that she had good relations with, telling you to go out and say goodbye to your friends before you left.

Peering around the groups of family and friends that had come to support their loved ones, you moved to a less crowded area in the grass, wondering who you should try to find first to congratulate. You had finally made a decision when you heard your name being shouted from a hundred feet behind you. You turned around to see Hajime, Sousuke, and Hinata.

The twins unfurled a banner spread between two poles once they saw you had faced them and Hajime shouted, “He says yes!” You felt a heated blush burn across your cheeks as you read the text on the banner in familiar handwriting.

I love you.

“They are most embarrasing sometimes.” You turned around to see Soujiro standing a couple steps away, a sweet smile on his face. “Hajime insisted.”

“S-Soujiro-senpai?”

His smile turned bashful as he reached out to take your hand in his. “I feel that I came off as a complete idiot yesterday. I made the very smart decision to stay up late to work on some pieces for the gallery next week and didn’t realize that I had left myself no room to rest for the night before the final exams. Thankfully I was able to pass them, but it left me very little brain power for the rest of the day.” At your expression, his face turned serious. “I do not like to make excuses for myself. When I saw the absolutely beautiful confession you made to me, I have to admit that I was startled…and also very flattered.” His voice dropped and he looked down to watch his thumb stroke your knuckles. “You remembered that sakura flowers are my favorite.”

“Of course I remembered,” you said, your heart fluttering in your chest at his touch, what his words were leading to. “I remember everything about you.”

His cheeks turned pink as he looked up again to meet your gaze. “I would like to say it myself.” He cleared his throat with a slight cough. “I love you. Will you accept my feelings?”

“Yes!”

He beamed and pressed his forehead to yours. “I am the happiest person in the whole word, having the chance to be with you.”

You closed your eyes and etched this scene into your memory. The smell, the sound of the crowd around you, the warmth of Soujiro’s breath on your face. You knew that you were smiling as wide as he was. “I love you, Soujiro.”

“I love you, too.”

—–

~ChiefofPigs

#soujiro senpai #soujiro #thank you for your story!!#submission

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jobsearchtips02 · 4 years

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What it’s like staying at Hyatt, Marriott and InterContinental hotels during COVID-19

Michelle Gross

2020-07-06 T18: 31: 58 Z.

The author, Michelle Gross.

Michelle Gross.

The couple made the drive with their two pets and remained at three hotels along the way: Hyatt’s Peculiarity Hotel Charlottesville, Virginia; The Alexandrian, a Marriot hotel in Alexandria, Virginia; and the Kimpton Arras Hotel in North Carolina, an InterContinental Hotels Group hotel.

After taking notes and pictures to document each hotel experience, Gross says that remaining at a hotel was really various during the pandemic, however that hotels are working more difficult than ever to keep visitors safe.

In compliance with state and county laws and CDC guidelines, every hotel has their own new set of cleaning protocols and procedures to ensure that visitors’ health and safety is focused on.

It wasn’t some extensive moment of clearness or any sort of breaking point. When June rolled around and my household road trip from Paris to Provence– long because scrapped as an outcome of the coronavirus pandemic– loomed more detailed on my calendar, the weight of 95 days (and counting) spent quarantining in a one-bedroom home in Jersey City began to take its toll.

While the lavender-fringed fields and long rosé-filled lunches would need to wait, with COVID-19 cases perceivably on the decrease by mid-June, and cities and states resuming in phases around the nation, my partner and I felt the time was ideal to self-isolate somewhere else and decided to head south by vehicle to North Carolina.

Taking a trip right now is a highly personal choice and I know complete well that it is still a dangerous proposition at that. I’ve been reporting on how the travel market and hotels in particular have been running in light of COVID-19 According to a recent research study by The American Hotel & Accommodations Association (AHLA), while domestic travel has actually continued to tick up in recent weeks, hotel reservation in smaller markets and towns are also rising. Hotels are taking employees and visitors security seriously, developing new cleaning protocols and speaking with leading health specialists to reduce possible direct exposure and risks at every turn.

Knowing we ‘d require to separate our journey, this was as excellent an opportunity as any to do some legwork and see just how hotel brands are measuring up to their commitment to keeping visitors and employees safe. After much consideration and numerous conversations of the “should we, or shouldn’t we” variety, in the days and weeks leading up to our journey, we plotted our route in an excel spreadsheet so carefully that every pit stop and potential bathroom break were represented, together with a tab for local and state laws between here and our last destination.

After testing unfavorable for the COVID-19 virus, my partner and I, together with our two canines, struck the roadway. We stayed in 3 hotels in 3 villages: a Hyatt, an InterContinental Hotels Group (IHG), and a Marriott. While we still brought plenty of our own supplies including masks, gloves, and enough Lysol wipes to last a lifetime, we discovered that every hotel is running differently and has their own distinct set of cleaning practices and procedures.

Here’s a take a look at what our experiences at each hotel required.

The very first stop on our journey was to the recently opened Peculiarity Hotel Charlottesville in Virginia.

Michelle Gross.

The Peculiarity Hotel Charlottesville is an 80- crucial store that’s a part of Hyatt’s loyalty program.

Prior to arriving at the hotel, I was sent an e-mail from Hyatt Hotels & Resorts with an online check-in invite.

Michelle Gross.

The online check-in invite allowed me to update all of the info for our stay including my verification number, approximate check-in time, hotel address, and contact number.

We came to the hotel late Friday afternoon and upon check in were directed by the valet to the self-parking lot throughout the street.

Jess Gabba, the Quirk front office supervisor, wearing a signature Quirk mask.

online check-in invitation.

The valet was using gloves and a signature Quirk mask which was a thoughtful touch. We we’re informed valet service would not be offered to limit the possibility of contamination, which I valued.

After parking our cars and truck in the parking area, we went into the lobby to gather our space secret.

Michelle Gross.

Monitoring in at the front desk, we were welcomed by the front desk manager who supported a plexiglass wall. In addition to our room key, we were provided a handout that consisted of the hotel’s procedures and cleaning treatments, which the front desk clerk quickly walked us through.

In the lobby leading up to the front desk, there were shown floor markers reminding guests to maintain social distancing while inside the hotel.

Michelle Gross.

When we got to the elevator bank there was a little table with a sign and a box of tissues that was to be used for pushing elevator buttons.

Michelle Gross.

The hotel is serviced by 2 elevators, and we saw there was the same table-tissue established on each floor of the hotel by each subsequent elevator bank.

When we came to our room on the 3rd floor, we discovered there were no ornamental pillows or blankets on the sofa or bed.

Michelle Gross.

Pre-COVID, these are always the first items I get rid of whenever I get to my hotel space as they’re infamously harder to keep clean, so I was alleviated to discover that Peculiarity had made the conscious decision to remove them.

The hotel, which is committed to sustainability, set up shampoo, soap, and conditioner in addition to lots of towels.

Michelle Gross.

As part of their COVID-19 cleaning procedures, housekeeping would only be readily available upon demand and we would need to vacate the space in order to receive service.

While the hotel’s primary on-site dining establishment remained closed, the rooftop restaurant was serving food and drinks outside at a minimal capacity and with all tables at a minimum of 6-feet apart.

Michelle Gross.

When you show up off of the elevator bank, you’re greeted by a poster-size sign that warns about limiting the danger of COVID-19

Food and drink menus were just readily available using a QR Code to remove making use of printed menus.

Michelle Gross.

The roof serves specialty thin-crust pizzas, wood-fired dishes, and drinks. We selected the house specialty, an Appalachian-inspired pizza which comes topped with BBQ sauce, and in your area sourced veggies and meats.

The hotel is also house to an on-site art gallery that starts in the lobby and extends throughout the ground flooring.

Michelle Gross.

It is among the coolest functions of staying at a Quirk Hotel and supplies such a terrific way to experience and value art in a safe and controlled environment.

The hotel likewise houses a cafe and breakfast location and offers lots of outside seating with tables spread out apart.

Michelle Gross.

After Peculiarity, the next hotel on our journey was Kimpton Arras Hotel in Asheville, North Carolina.

Michelle Gross.

The Kimpton Arras Hotel is located in the heart of Asheville.

When we inspected in, we were greeted in the lobby by a plexiglass front desk area and markers on the floor along with signs and plenty of hand sanitizer.

Hotel personnel greeted us using masks, and we were handed a guest sheet laying out the hotels COVID-19 protocols and top priorities from behind the plexiglass shield.

Michelle Gross.

In the primary elevator bank, you have to pick your flooring number on a keypad that will direct you to the matching elevator.

Michelle Gross.

There was an indication on the outside of the elevator bank advising guests to limit the elevator use to 2 individuals or one household. When inside the elevator, you don’t need to push any buttons.

When we got to our room, we discovered the screen queued to IHG’s “Clean Promise” which was readily available to check out at our discretion.

Michelle Gross.

The details offered on our handout noted all of the very same information however was a nice tip for how our stay would look a little different because of the current climate.

In the bathroom, there were no features save for a single bar of soap on the counter for rinsing hands.

Michelle Gross.

There was an indication next to the soap stating we would need to contact us to request any other features during our stay which would be delivered and dropped off for a contactless deal, totally free of charge.

That evening we had light dinner and drinks on the outdoors patio area of the hotel.

Michelle Gross.

The primary restaurant location was closed, but menus were offered on big TV screens on the right-hand side of the dining establishment.

I had a look at of the hotel on my phone after being sent my folio.

Michelle Gross.

In the lobby, there was a big bowl offered for contactless key return, along with an indication about the secrets being sterilized.

The last stop on our journey was The Alexandrian in Alexandria, Virginia.

Michelle Gross.

A majestic Autograph Collection hotel in the heart of Alexandria, Virginia, the hotel belongs to Marriott’s expansive portfolio. We used our Marriott Bonvoy points here, however $125 per night is the rate we were estimated, plus a $25 per night family pet fee.

There’s no valet choice here, so after self-parking in the garage, we made our method to the lobby.

As Soon As once again in the lobby we were welcomed by a large plexiglass barrier at the front desk and handed a one-sheet discussing the hotel’s cleaning protocols and treatments.

On the flooring throughout the hotel’s grand lobby, floor markers highlighting social distancing were positioned strategically throughout.

Michelle Gross.

In the elevator, an indication about Alexandria’s physical distancing was a good touch.

Michelle Gross.

When we got to our space, I was elated to find a handwritten welcome note in addition to a plan of Autograph Collection branded antibacterial wet wipes and masks.

Michelle Gross.

This was the only hotel on our journey to use this type of amenity, which I believe is a great touch.

Our room was as large as it was charming and without decorative pillows and blankets, I was alleviated to find.

Michelle Gross.

Our space was dealing with the hotel’s inner yard and looked down on the on-site dining establishment that had actually simply resumed for outdoors dining just.

Michelle Gross.

On the last night of our trip we had supper at j20, the hotel’s southern themed restaurant and whisky bar.

Michelle Gross.

While staying in a hotel may look and feel different in the wake of coronavirus, there’s something to be stated about taking pleasure in a bit of normalcy in times like these.

We’re back in Jersey City now, going on Day 7 of a state-mandated 14- day quarantine.

Loading Something is packing.

COVID-19 resuming Journey Quarantine

Chevron icon It shows an expandable section or menu, or often previous/ next navigation choices.

%%.

from Job Search Tips https://jobsearchtips.net/what-its-like-staying-at-hyatt-marriott-and-intercontinental-hotels-during-covid-19/

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blelt · 4 years

Text

Bringing meaning to other’s lives

I was fortunate to stumble across a particularly moving piece of artwork last week. The piece in question was a 3D rendition of the beloved Animal Crossing Froggy Chair. It was poorly made. The grain of the wood had not been raised before the artist applied paint. The coloring was too saturated. Despite the flawed outcome and bad craftsmanship, this little Froggy Chair struck me like a particularly heartfelt hymn sung in church might.

I considered why might this ugly little Froggy Chair have found so much power over me and concluded: while the piece was unattractive itself, it served as a testament of the pure form of love the artist showed for the circumstances in which the piece was created. The artist was struck in the same way as many other by the original Animal Crossing Froggy Chair. The artist was in a place where they could create a piece of art, representing stability in their life and contentment in their soul. The artist had created the piece, and they had looked at it in all its ugly little glory and decided it was worth sharing with the world, regardless of any criticism that could come from the millions of people who would see it. I realized that when I saw the piece, I had felt the love the artist had for it and had, for that moment, fallen in love with the soul of the artist as portrayed by this ugly little Froggy Chair. This was when I realized I want to focus my project on finding meaning in life through art.

I have been reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. He backs up my claim that one can find the soul of the artist in the artwork that they loved while they made. “Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals himself” (pg 7).

I would go as far to say that it is the pieces where the soul of the artist is revealed that have the most effect on us. I went to the Cincinatti Art Museum on the 9th of February to test my hypothesis. I concluded that there are two types of pieces. There are pieces that are created from the soul of the artist and pieces that are made mercenarily.

At the museum I found awe inspiring and heartfelt pieces. I also found the pieces made by artists that were pretentious and obnoxious. One of the main differentiators between my reactions to the pieces was the risk taken by the artist in the creation of the piece. If the artist put the risk of showing their soul into the piece, I appreciated it. If the artist refused to take any sort of risk and only focused on protecting their soul, I found the piece worthless.

The flaw with using the museum as research, though, is that it is a curated gallery. Many people have decided what art to include and to exclude. My project will not have this problem.

Within the category of finding meaning in life through good art, I plan to design a structure with which I can provide people with a platform to express their souls and to have used it at NKU. Within the next few years, I plan to have made this structure an integral part of NKU’s community. I can consider this project over after I have found a way to structure it so it is a self-sufficient process and can be implemented in any community.

This project should primarily serve to bring the community together. It should also serve as a way for people to demonstrate themselves to their community. In the case of NKU, it should serve to implement a sense of community within the campus. NKU feels empty. Students stick to their factions. Events are poorly attended. The campus is lifeless. There is no sense of community at NKU. I will be doing my part to change this.

My project should give rise to a platform for people to connect with one another. Students will have the opportunity to get to know each other through the creation process of the art. Students will also be able to form a sense of community through the resulting public demonstration of their art.

I would also like my project to have the effect of getting individuals in touch with themselves. I have found that I can find my bearings in life only after participating in an earnest creative endeavor. I would like others to discover some form of art that they can use as an escape.

My project should help people get in contact with others and themselves through the power of meaningful art. This will form a sense of community through relationships that will be able to bring a sense of life into NKU. Thinking even further, this project should be structured in a way that it is easily replicated throughout the years and is also feasible to introduce to other communities.

The first goal of my project is to create the structure on which this project can succeed, and to test run it at NKU. This paper will provide the outline of the structure, so we can focus on the second part of my first goal. As with any project, I would need to set achievable deadlines. First, the pilot of the project would need to be over and done with by the fourth week of April. The exhibition phase would need a period of nine days to maximize its potential. The creation phase would happen over the course of three weeks. This means that marketing for the event would happen mid-March. Finally, I would need all the logistics of the project figured out and approved by the beginning of March.

To slap some dates on these deadlines I have concocted, logistics will run from now to the 17th of March. Marketing for the event would run over the course of ten days, the 18th of March to the 28th of March. The next day, March 29th, participants would begin to create their pieces. This would run until the 18th of April. Setup of the gallery would happen on the 19th of April. The show would go until the 28th. Teardown would happen on Sunday, the 29th, and the project would be gone by the 30th.

Logistics involves finding the support needed for the project, getting the approval from the right people, acquiring the means by which to procure the materials for later phases. It will also involve securing a venue for the final exhibition.

Marketing will involve all forms of spreading the word, whether it be through fliers and handouts, media, or word of mouth. For this phase I will need to have found other people willing to help me with this project. I have learned that marketing is hard when one is alone. An important note to include now is that this event would unfortunately not be free. I am considering a five-dollar entrance fee. This would cover an artist's supplies as well as spot in the final show. Also, I would need to emphasize that this event is not focused towards art students but is more for those who need to find a way to express themselves. It certainly can include art kids but is not exclusive to them.

Creation is fortunately not something I would have to worry about too much. I would provide a space with plenty of materials for artists to create. It would have a welcoming atmosphere and be open to creation during normal campus hours. I want it to mimic the same feelings that I felt in middle school art classes; creating and getting to know those around me.

Exhibition would just be the nine day long event where people can wander through the venue I will have found to observe the creations made by the artists. It would be open to the public. After the exhibition is over artists will take their pieces and I will clean up whatever mess is left.

I have chosen April for this project for the same reason authors use spring as a symbol. Winter in college brings loneliness and depression. For a student, winter is bleak on both the inside and the outside. Hopefully, my project brings forth such emotions of goodness and recovery that participants one, have an excellent experience, and two, want to participate again in the future. If both goals are achieved this project can become part of NKU culture and serve as a beacon to students lost in the depression of winter.

This project should serve to bring the NKU community closer together and lay groundwork for future events like it. It should also help participants come to know themselves better. Hopefully this structure is fully functional and will not require much tweaking overall for the success of the project.

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mackenziezim · 4 years

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Week 5- History of Design

The three examples I chose come from three different styles just as they correlate to how I interact with design in three different ways. First example from page 182 that has to do with the De Stijl movement in design and specifically architecture. De Stijl meant “the style” and it was based on simplifying everything down to geometric shapes and colors. The primary colors as well as squares and rectangles were key identifiers in De Stijl. The specific project I found was The Schroder House by Gerrit Reitveld in 1924. It was designed just using rectangles and squares to complete the interior as well as the exterior facade. This relates to what I see in design today because it is largely the style I used as inspiration for my current architecture project. Our prompt was to design an art gallery with an emphasis on light. My design involves multiple skylight systems that include a geometric pattern. I got this idea because my own personal aesthetic is greatly based on geometry and repeating geometry. While pattern wasn’t so much a factor in De Stijl it was more focused on the randomness of shapes which is exemplified in my layout.

Second example came from the trend I found in collage during the Russian Chapters. These pictures struck me because while they were all hand made, they had such a clean and cohesive quality that made it stand out. Specifically I looked at The Man with the Movie Camera by Georgii and Vladimir Stenberg in 1929. This poster is surreal and fantastical in a way that draws you in like all of collage. We have since moved away from scissors and tape and we can now do things digitally with Photoshop and Illustrator but the idea of collage is still very much a current one. Collage can be used abstractly to portray a feeling or a message. Some examples of collage I see around me today are works from designers like Matthew Jung, Brandon Woelfel, and Cerin Kilic. Other than individual artists and designers that I see on Instagram, I notice a lot of magazine covers use a form of collage to graphically arrange a scene.

Last example is the political propaganda noted in the readings. I will use the well known Rosie the Riviter example for this last topic. With the war looming and ecomony just starting to improve designers used posters and propaganda to motivate the public into a better society. This has not changed from present day although the location of the media has changed from print to social media. With the growing concern for the presidential election and the various movements for human rights, politics in the media has reemerged. This can be seen as marketing for a particular cause or as a critique on a part of our culture.

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too-old-for-fangirling-but-idc · 5 years

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My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x Reader)

Title: My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x reader)

Summary: Tom and you continue to text each other. And after a few weeks Tom comes up with a surprise and the dinner you still owe him.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Notes: (Y/C) = Your city (Y/F) = your friend’s name (repost from my old blog)