#there weren’t many people there but I talked to a mother fabric / clothing artist for a bit so that was cool

[julykings]

i have some art in a little show :-))

#i love a reception I’m always so chattyyyy #there weren’t many people there but I talked to a mother fabric / clothing artist for a bit so that was cool #*another not a mother lol #but my mom was there so I guess I did talk to a mother as well

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Emp-Ire, “The Oracle.”

I had very little time to write today, but I have had people request the story behind this one, so I thought I could open it quickly today before I get swamped.

Again forgive me. I had to write very quickly. I hope you have a good day!”

The world shone like a beautiful marble beneath them, vast stretches of blue water under swirling clouds of white. The landmasses were mostly green like on earth, though there was more orange present here than there would have been on the human homeworld. 

There was not one singular landmass, or even a few large ones, but thousands of little islands clustered together like shards of broken glass scattered across the floor after one drops a plate. 

Ramirez looked out the window his hands and face pressed to the glass as they descended downwards towards the blue glittering surface.

“Remind me what the theme of this planet is.”

“Planets don’t have themes Ramirez.” Adam Said, crossing one ankle over his other knee.

“Ok yeah yeah, but I mean, what microculture do they have.”

Adam shrugged, “Some kind of Greek-Roman thing going on.”

Ramirez grinned, “Excellent?”

Adam’s brows furrowed together suspiciously, “Why?”

“You know how the Romans and the Greeks were….” Adam blinked, “No?”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, “I don’t have to give you a lecture on WHY olive oil was so popular during Roman times, do I?”

Adam stared at him for a long moment before it finally clicked, “Oh… oh…..ew.”

“What? Got a problem with that?“

“I definitely did not want that image of you in my head thanks.”

He grinned, “That means you were thinking about it.”

“You were holding me as an intellectual hostage, and I do not negotiate with terrorists.” Ramirez laughed as they lowered through the clouds .

“What is their major export?”

“I thought it was Textiles, some kind of silk though I forget what kind. I think they also quarry certain kinds of stone, but I could be wrong about that too. All I know is they have extreme restrictions on what kinds of equipment can and cannot be used planetside, so they have to keep everything…. Not medieval per se, but no emissions,and extreme infrastructure is a no go.

“Alright cool, where are we landing.”

“I think they are calling it New Athens or something.”

Ramirez leaned back in his seat, “Do you think these people actually believe all this stuff or is it just like elaborate roleplay?”

‘I think that even if it is elaborate roleplay, it won’t be for long. Soon enough people born here are going to believe it.”

The struts on the landing gear cracked and popped as they settled into place. Outside the window the landscape was mediteranian, with rocky hillsides and low lying bushes interspersed with the occasional tree-like structure. Long grass of some kind poked up from the soil, orange in the daylight which had a strange yellow cast.

They stepped out of the shuttle and onto the platform where some enterprising person headset up a vending booth for proper period clothing. The man seemed a bit miffed as the two of them passed by and into the nearby changing stalls, having already been equipped by Adam’s mother.

Adam stepped out a moment later to find Ramirez fiddling with his sandals, and Adam became aware of a slight breeze on the wind as it tugged at the tunic he wore.

As someone who had worn almost every type of clothing under the sun, he had to admit that he was familiar with the sensation of having a breeze, though that didn’t mean he was entirely used to it. 

They turned and walked down the nearby pathway sandals flopping on the ground as they made their way over the next little rise to look down on the still-being-constructed New Athens.

“Holy Shit.” Ramirez said quietly 

Adam blinked, craning his neck back to look at the massive statue rising itself into the air. A statue of what must have been Athena.

“And look, no crane.”

“No shit, and those buildings over there, I think they already finished that one.”

The two of them stopped gawking long enough to make their way down the path and onto the well kept paving stones of the city. They must have entered a market district as men and women called to them from booths on either side of the walkway. Large crowd filtered in and out, and just a few blocks away from here he could see holding pens where they were keeping specific earth animals, like goats and pigs. Strange exotic birds hung in cages, though none of them were earth birds.

Clearly they must ahvebeen native.

In a near daze they made their way up through the city and towards the marble temple erected on a hill at the center of the city. Trees shedding petals like delicate blue blossoms fell onto the street making the scene all together familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Ramirez craned his neck up to look at the still-rising statue as they passed by stepping up the marble steps and under the massive pillars that held up the artfully crafted roof of the structure.

“Wow.”

Little fountains, reflections pools and an elaborate guardian had been built up around the marble structure, and in this palace people had congregated. A couple of men were arguing, what do Adam sounded like the finer points of philosophy, while a man serenaded a crowd of onlookers with a strange and unfamiliar instrument. Humans weren’t the only ones here of course, a couple of Tesraki could be seen lurking around the stalls, and selling their wares though the population was predominantly human.

“I like their idea of exterior decorating.”

He turned to see what Ramirez was talking about, and was greeted by a very fit, very nude, marble statue of some unknown young athlete or demigod..

“Of course YOU would think that.”

Ramirez frowned deeply, “I was merely commenting on the artistic style in which they have rendered the image from stone. The detail and the dedication that it must have taken to-”

“You’re talking about his abs.”

“Yeah, I am talking about his abs, but not JUST his abs. He’s got nice calves too.”

“Calves?”

“I am a sucker for nice calves, you see that’s why you and I would never work, because you only have one real one.”

Adam snorted and looked down at his legs, which were he admitted a bit out of place in the world of knee length tunics. You could almost assume they had walked right into the past and then, boom. Advanced prosthetic leg.

“So what are we going to do while we are here?” Ramirez wondered.

“Not entirely sure yet. Sightseeing, obviously, maybe just hang out on one of the many white sand beaches, we can do whatever we want. Who knows, maybe you could go visit the oracle and ask her why the gods cursed you with such a thick skull.”

“I was thinking about asking which one of the gods is my parent since clearly I am a Demigod.”

“You seek the oracle!”

The two of them nearly jumped out of their skin turning around to find a very tall, very beautiful woman standing behind them with an entourage of admirers following behind her. She stepped forward, making it very uncomfortably close to the two of them.

“Well hello aphrodite.” Ramirez muttered

She smiled at him, “Sweet words can get you far in a place like this.” She traced her hand over his shoulders as she walked around him head tilted.

“Well there is more where that came from I assure you.” Craning his neck to see her more clearly.

She smiled, “I am Althaia devine assistant to the oracle.” She turned to look up at Adam, “And you, do you seek the oracle as well.”

She traced her fingertips down his arm, and seemed rather miffed when he didn’t react other than to pull away slightly, “How much?’

She frowned again, “What do you mean.”

Adam smiled stiffly, “I mean how much do we have to pay to see the oracle.”

Althaia Huffed, “Ten Credits.”

Adam laughed, and Ramirez frowned at him.

Althaia turned to walk away but Adam waved a hand, “Hold on, hold on. I asked how much I never said we weren’t interested.”

She trend to look at them with one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised, “Come with me then.”

The two of them fell into step beside her, Ramirez looking like one of her devoted admirers.

She turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly, “You seem familiar. What do you do for a living?”

“Just a soldier, both of us just soldiers.”

“And are you seeking…. A quest perhaps.”

He wondered what kind of touristy quest she was talking about. Probably some kind of scavenger hunt that would ring them to the edge of the city where they would find a golden fleece draped over a tree.

“Not sure yet,”

She led them up the temple steps and stopped outside two large double doors. A pair of guards, golden breastplates and blue accent feathers stood before the door. Their shields held to their chests, their spears at the ready crossing them as the strangers approached.

She turned to look at Adam and held out her arm. He smiled as he exchanged twenty credits with her. 

Althaia waved a hand and the two guards uncrossed their spears and stepped aside. The doors creaked inward and Adam and Ramirez were hit in the face by a waft of incense which floated heavily on the wind and into their faces.

“Go, go and speak with the oracle.” She said nudging them forward.

Ramirez sniffed at the air as the doors closed behind them.

He frowned, “Hold on a minute.”

Adam looked at him, “What?”

“This is not JUST incense.”

“Pretty sure that's how it used to work.”

The two of them stepped forward over the marble floor passing more and more marble statues as they walked towards the end, where a group of guards…. With suspiciously bloodshot eyes… stood before an alter, where sat another beautiful woman wearing a light fabric shift, long black hair cascading over her shoulders.

“You have come seeking the oracle?” She said her eyes distant.

He was pretty sure that’s just because she was high.

“Yes?

She looked at them eyes seeming to stare into and THROUGH them, “Two soldiers…. Two soldiers on a quest.”

She must have known who Adam was otherwise that prediction might have been pretty impressive. Either that or Althaia had an earpiece in and was feeding her information about the people coming to see her.”

“Son of Aphrodite, Son of Athena….”

Adam just smiled.

Ramirez elbowed him in the ribs, “hear that, she thinks I’m sexy.”

“Yeah and she thinks “I’ am the smart one, so Don’t get too excited.”

She eyed them shrewdly, and something in her expression made Adam feel strange. It was as if she was contemplating something very very deeply. As they watched, she tapped her fingers against the stone.

“Take a ship, tell them to drop you on the border of Laconia, and then head inland. You will find your quest there.”

Adam smiled, “Thank you, Oracle.”

She waved them away dismissively, and the two of them stepped outside Adam breathing a sigh of relief as they stepped out of the smoke and into fresh air. 

He coughed, “So, what do you think this quest is going to be.”

“I don’t know, maybe we will meet a sexy snake lady.” He elbowed Adam, “We already have a cyclops.”

“Oh shut the hell up.” Adam grumbled as they made their way down towards and towards the docks.

The ships were simple wooden constructions with large sails and lines of chairs below deck for rowing. It was almost a surreal feeling as they boarded and set off on the crashing waves. There was no salt in the air which made Adam think that this was fresh water, which was pretty convenient for the people that lived there. Once they told the captain of the ship where they were going, he gave them a strange look, but took their credits and ordered his men to sail.

Adam was getting mildly suspicious by the time it all started, but decided to go along and see where this would bring them.

On all sides small islands passed by, and on those small islands he could see cities being erected, Vineyards being tended, and the occasional strange and mysterious looking animal disappearing back into the plant life.

“Laconia.” he rolled the word around in his mouth, “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“No, why would it. Here is my thought. We show up, walk to the middle of the island and find a golden sheep or something. I don’t know maybe we meet a guy dressed up like a minotaur and have to wrestle him for it or some shit. Either way, should be fun, and then we can spend the rest of the time lazing around on the beach sunning ourselves.”

Adam nodded but wasn’t sure whether to believe Ramirez as the boat made its slow way down the straights, past other vessels which sailed with blue trimmed sails. It took them almost half a day to reach this, Laconia, which Adam still argued sounded familiar, and disembarked on the sandy shore.

The captain didn’t give them any direction, but ordered his men out once more.

Adam hd expected there to be some kind of pathway or maybe a sign marking where they were supposed to go, but there was nothing, and so he shrugged and motioned Ramirez to follow him as he made his way up the center of the island.

They were walking for a while. This island was a bit larger and so had an expanse of grassland and mountainous terrain interspersed with the occasional tree.

“I have no idea where I am going.” Adam muttered under his breath as they came up around a rock incline.

He nearly leapd out of his skin as a loud battle cry rose up from the stone and a group of what must have been five men descended on them from the rocks spears raised. Not thinking Adam ducked under the trust of one man and shouldered him in the chest. Throwing him back as he snapped upwards to grab the spear.

He wrenched it form the man’s hand as she shoulder him painfully to the ground.

He spun around in a circle, clashing spears with a second man who had come in from the left.

Off to his right Ramirez had been caught off guard and been plowed to the ground by one man holding an absolutely massive circular shield.

His spear was knocked aside in that moment of hesitation and a leaf blade appeared at his throat.

He looked up to see an absolutely massive man standing over him red cloak billowing in the wind, golden helmet with its red plume glittering in the sun. The man was so ripped with glistening muscle that he made the statues outside New Athens look practically puny.

He looked down where one of his men was slowly hauling himself to his feet, another muscle bound brute who looked almost embarrassed.

“Who are you!”

The man demanded.

Adam raised his hands, “I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m not the one with a spear to my throat.”

“Adam, and that one is Angel.”

“What business do you have on our island. Spies for the Athenians.” he snarled, and his acting was so good for a moment Adam almost believed him.

“Uh no…. No, they sent us here but, I don’t work for them.”

The men muttered angrily. Five hulking shapes, five men who clearly made a living of hitting the gym.

“Tan they sent you here to die.”

Adam frowned.

The spear pulled back.

And then a hand stopped him, “Wait…. The king should decide.”

There was a pause, “I suppose you are right.”

“King, king of what?”

The two men turned to look at him, deep frowns on their faces.

“The king of Sparta.”

[ververa]

heeello, I have a request!! Can you write a Leonore Osgood x Reader where the reader is her seamstress? ✨💗Something where Leonore starts to order more dresses as an excuse to see her more often and flirts with her at every good opportunity. I think Leonore is a very confident woman, so she may have taken the initiative to kiss the reader as soon as she thought she had a chance, not being able to withstand a rejection

thank you and sorry if I made mistakes, I'm not very good at writing in english :/

ps. I love your blog💖

“Beyond The Wildest Dreams”

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!!! I had a lot of fun writing it 🤗😅 It's longer than I intended and it's only a few of all the ideas I had for this fic 🙈 So, I actually may write a 2nd part or since I have a few requests for Lenore I may combine them

Anyways I kinda feel like it's not exactly what you wanted, but I hope you will enjoy it!! 😇

Also many thanks to @misssmephisto who always supports me and who helped me a lot with this fic!!! 💜💖💜💖💜

Lenore Osgood x fem!reader

Word count: ~5k

The moment you saw Lenore Osgoode for the first time the whole world simply stopped existing. People around you, models, photographers, former and possibly new clients, even your nervousness - caused by the very first fashion show of yours, was long forgotten, as you watched the gorgeous blonde taking a seat at the audience, right in the first row. She didn't quite fit with the rest. She was fabulous.  No other in the room stood a chance with her. Self confidence radiated from every fibre of her body, not to mention that one look was enough to tell she was an enthusiast of refined style. She was with no doubt upper class. Her outfit itself indicated that she was one of those filthy rich people. Normally you tried to stay away from them, not feeling well in their company, yet this one time you were ready to make an exception. Who could ever blame you? Lenore truly distinguished herself and looked absolutely stunning dressed in a long, red dress and a mink coat. 

She was beautiful and tall - you could put on her whatever you would want to and it would drape perfectly, only adding to her captivating charm. But clothes were more than that - for you at least. It wasn’t just about materials draping nicely or the person looking good. You considered clothes to be a person’s second skin. A layer supposed to not only cover all the imperfections, but also hide their dark secrets and sins, at the same time giving out a hint of their attitude. And that particular approach of yours combined with your skills made you an exceptional designer and  a wonderful seamstress. On the other hand though, it made you misunderstood by many people - especially your fellows - which seemed to be the dark, less nice side of your profession, but you didn’t care about it at all. You were too busy, positively bedeviled with work, to spare your precious time to think about it.

As your eyes set on Lenore you immediately knew that you wanted nothing more, but to dress her up in all the finest materials you could get. Tailor her clothes to fit whatever was her guilt, to match the darkest parts of her soul. You looked her up and down, for what felt like a hundredth time that evening, and still you couldn’t get enough. You were ready and highly likely to come up with yet another project just like that. You knew for sure it would be something different. It had to be special, exclusive, hand-selected, designed just for her and as spectacular as the woman appeared to be.

The images of Lenore in taffeta and silk kept crossing your vivid imagination. You were just having some debate with yourself on what colour would suit her best, though much to your dismay you were brought back to reality by one of the assistants working there with you.

“Miss Y/L/N, we have a little problem backstage”

You turned towards the young man, resigning from watching the blonde and reluctantly giving your full attention to the man. 

“I’m coming” you nodded and - after glancing at Lenore one more time - you followed him to find out what kind of problem he was talking about.

~~~~

Lenore sat and watched, but she didn’t even bother to pretend she was interested. She had a sense that being there was just a waste of time. And as a worldly woman that she beyond any doubt was - she hated wasting her time, especially in places like that.  Shabby and tasteless. Full of inelegant, crude people who tended to get above themselves way too often, while in reality they had absolutely no idea what true sophistication and fashionability were. They came there to watch the show, but it had nothing to do with them being interested in fashion. It was just another way of exposing their self-importance. Lenore knew it better than anyone, but that was all right with her. She used to be like them too, though she no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. That's why for her being there was more like a torture.

If it hadn’t been for her impulsive and capricious decision to fire her tailor she wouldn’t even think of attending such a ridiculous event like a fashion show in a small, prospectless town. What could she possibly see there? Nothing. Those were simple people, not accustomed with high standards and clearly not ready for any fashion revolutions. Lenore hadn’t expected anything spectacular. There was no use in getting her hopes up, since she was there only because she needed a new seamstress. Enjoying the show was far from probable and she was well aware of it. Yet she went and stayed there. Fairly sick to death, but determined, hoping that if she put up with all the inconveniences, she would manage to find what she was looking for. 

Cheap clothes and shoddy jewellery - was all she got to see for the first hour or so and that was enough to drive her crazy. Lenore wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Those people's taste or rather lack of it - cried to heaven. Calling something like that a fashion show appeared to be some barbarous jape. And at that point Lenore was fed up and ready to leave. It was so naive of her to envisage witnessing something groundbreaking, but there was still one more line of clothes supposed to be walked out - and that was it. A real breakthrough. Something out of the ordinary. Something that Lenore wanted, but didn’t know it before.

She watched - suddenly interested in everything that was happening on the runway. Models walked down one after the other, then disappeared, but each one of them - presenting another outfit, left Lenore even more astonished than the previous one. 

Lenore Osgood had always been a material girl, but she felt no remorse about it. Clothes were her own kind of cakes and ale and she felt no shame choosing the perfect fabrics and jewelry that would suit her fancy, after all she had enough money to afford whatever she desired.

At that point all she wanted was that one particular line of clothes. The show wasn’t over yet, but Lenore already knew she was going to be the one to buy all those outfits. She kept waiting though - well aware that the last outfit was supposed to be the most extraordinary one. However she didn’t get to see it, as instead of the last model some man appeared on the runway - informing there was going to be a short break, because they had some problem. 

Lenore huffed. She had never been a patient person and so - obviously - she wasn’t going to wait like others.The heiress stood up, flicked her long coat and not paying any attention to people - who intently observed her every move, not even trying to be discreet- she headed out to the backstage. She couldn’t care less about the rules or the fact that unauthorized people weren’t allowed there. It did not apply to her - that was how Lenore perceived every prohibition she encountered. She had never been the one to care much for the commonly accepted norms. She simply did what she pleased, completely unbothered by the possible consequences. Even more so at that moment - she just needed to meet the designer face to face. After all it didn’t happen often that someone managed to captivate her like that.

How surprised she was when instead of a man - as she incorrectly assumed the artist to be a male - her eyes set on you - a young woman. That’s when her amazement doubled. 

At first Lenore stopped, slightly confused. She didn't speak up immediately. You weren’t there alone and she couldn't interrupt you and deprive herself of the opportunity to watch you working.

Some young, very tall and skinny woman stood there next to you. Lenore figured it must have been the model, supposed to walk down the runway as the last one. Lenore examined the woman’s body and immediately noticed that the dress she was wearing did not quite fit her - that was the problem apparently.

Lenore stood a few meters away. Not too far, so that she could see what you were doing, but still not close enough for you to notice her presence.

The blonde observed how your hand reached for some pins and then how you put a few of them in your mouth.

"I'm sorry, Y/N" the model said, sobbing

"Please, stop apologizing. Everything is alright" you mumbled, not really able to speak, because of the pins you kept between your lips.

"I destroyed the dress..."

"You didn't destroy anything. Now calm down and let me fix this little malfunction" you said, crouching behind the girl.

You took a seam ripper in one hand and held the fabric of the dress with the other. Normally seam rippers were used to help with occasional mistakes, but you were prone to experimenting with different sewing tools. Necessity is the mother of invention - you often said. And just like that, in one swift move you ripped one of the seams - only to pin it back together with pins within seconds. Except after that little operation of yours the dress became a bit looser. Not too excessively, but just enough to fit the model. 

“See? It’s fixed.” you said, proudly looking at the result of your work and zipping the dress “Now, stop crying. There’s no need to cry” you reassured.

“But I couldn’t put it on…”

“Because it was too small”

“Exactly… I-I… I need to lose weight” she said in a breaking voice.

“No” you shook your head “Clothes are supposed to fit you, not the other way. Now go”

The woman nodded and rushed out, passing by next to Lenore, who was standing there with a cigarette in her hand - shamelessly checking you out.

“I must say, that was very impressive” the heiress stated, thereby making you aware of her presence.

You quickly turned around and were instantly met by the blue eyes and probably one of the most entrancing smiles you had ever seen. There she was. One and only Lenore Osgood in the flesh. You couldn’t help the gasp - she looked even better up close.

“I… Umm… Can I help you, madam?” you asked, internally scolding yourself for taking so long to say anything.

“Actually, you can, darling”

“I’m listening” you said, trying to act as natural as possible, despite the fact the nickname she used made your heart skip a beat.

Lenore pulled at her cigarette, then smiled - obviously pleased with your answer.

“You are the one who designed those close” she stated, but with a hint of uncertainty. 

“That’s right” 

“Well then, allow me to felicitate you. It was a wonderful show - the last part at least” she stated, rolling her eyes as she remembered how sorely dull the beginning of the event was.

“Thank you” you beamed at her words.

“You are welcome, darling” her smile got even wider - making you wonder if she realized what effect that goddamn nickname had on you.

“Now, let’s say I have an offer for you. What would you say if I asked you to work for me?” she continued.

How could you say no to her? You would most likely be out of your mind if you had denied such a proposal. Her invitation was one of those you could not and definitely did not want to decline. How could you do it after she bought all the outfits from your new collection - paying even more than they were actually worth. Not to mention that working for her was what you dreamed about ever since you saw her.

That's how you found yourself standing at the door of Lenore's mansion the very next day. She wanted to know what other ideas you had and see different projects of yours, so you took your binder and sewing planner with you. As you nervously waited for someone to open and let you in, you held the items tight, pressing them to your chest - as if they were some precious treasure.

"Miss Y/L/N? Come in, Ms Osgood is waiting for you" an older woman informed, as she led you inside.

You followed, looking around - taking in every detail of the house interior and trying to memorize it. You always held to a particular belief of the house being the image of its owner's soul. Some people found it ridiculous, but in that case it was true. Lenore's house was as superior, noble and remarkable as the heiress herself.

"Y/N!" the blonde called and you turned round. You immediately stopped, when you caught the sight of her.

Lenore was slowly descending the stairs - looking as gracefully as ever. You smiled to yourself, when you realized she was wearing one of the outfits that you created. You had never felt such joy and pride seeing your previous clients wearing something that you designed. But to be fair, none of them radiated with such regality as Lenore. No one could ever match her dignity or a sense of majesty, and apparently that was what made your projects look even more exquisite.

"Is it alright if I call you by your name, dear?" Lenore asked, stopping for a moment to allow her little monkey jump from her shoulder to the shoulder of the woman who let you in.

"If I'm allowed to call you by yours" you smiled.

"Absolutely, darling" the blonde said enthusiastically, as she moved towards you. A smirk appeared on her face, indicating that she did not miss the way you blushed at the nickname. "Let's sit down, shall we?" she suggested, pointing to a spacious room, where a white sofa and armchairs stood.

You nodded, as you moved to sit in one of the armchairs.

"Would you like something to drink, Y/N?" Lenore asked.

"Just a glass of water, please"

"Darce! Bring Y/N a glass of water" she ordered, clicking her fingers.

You shifted in the armchair. The woman in front of you made you feel nervous for some reason, but you tried to act professional.

"You wanted to see my projects, so I brought my binder…" you said, a bit hesitant.

"Wonderful!” she exclaimed, grinning “May I?" she asked, as she reached out for the item.

"Of course" you passed her the binder and then observed, as she intently studied each page.

"Your water, Miss Y/L/N" the older woman said, handing you the glass.

"Thank you" you smiled, carefully taking the vessel from her.

"What a talent and creativity!" Lenore praised, glancing at you with a smirk on her face, not paying attention to the other woman.

You smiled, taking a sip of the water - hoping it would actually help with calming your nerves.

Lenore spent almost an hour on deciding which of your projects she would like to get. She obviously liked them all, but she needed her clothes to be different. She needed them to be extraordinary, fancy and expensive. And so you suggested creating something just for her.

You were a hardworking person - used to staying up late to finish sewing different outfits. You always went all out and thereby made your clients satisfied, but with Lenore you wanted more. Making her satisfied simply didn't seem enough. You wanted to impress her, blow her away. Little did you know that the heiress already was spellbound - not only by your projects, but by you yourself.

Lenore had never met anyone who delighted her so much. Such manners, such a style and sophistication. Not to mention you were so extremely accomplished for your age. All that impressed her in a way, but also fascinated her. She was truly enchanted by you. No wonder. You had a peculiar background, attitude and approach to the real world. You were a rare sample and Lenore happened to like thinking of herself as a connoisseur. She liked uncommon things. That's why she desperately wanted to have a taste of that extraordinary, magical power that radiated from you. A taste of that particular thing that made you so special. Though before she decided to do anything, she needed to make sure you would not disapprove of her. Because rejection was something Lenore didn't take well.

Lenore figured out that taking things slow was a good thing to do. She decided to warm you up a little and make sure that she actually had a chance. She didn't want her intentions to be too obvious. Lenore had always been a little skeptical of displaying any sort of affection. She'd rather play around. Yet she couldn't deny it felt sort of different with you.

Lenore loved teasing you more than anything. You always seemed so stressed and flustered whenever you would come to her house to deliver yet another outfit - and she found it adorable.

~~~~

At first you would come to her house once a week. Each time bringing with you a different dress and a few of new projects for Lenore to have a look and either go with them or tell you what she would like you to change. She rarely wanted to make any adjustments though. Lenore appreciated all of your ideas - only occasionally asking you to make a particular outfit in different colour or use another kind of fabric than you had intended to at first, but she never criticised you. As a matter of fact, she was always praising you. Maybe even too excessively. She complimented basically everything about you - from your creativity and ideas to the way you dressed. It appeared that she knew exactly what to say to make you blush - of which she was not only aware, but also took pride in succeeding in doing it. However, as much as you loved it, you could not quite help all the worries that clouded in your head - when you began realizing that Lenore became someone more than just your client and boss.

It had been going on for months. You grew so used to spending time with her and designing clothes for her that at some point your life turned to be all about Lenore. Everything either reminded you of her or inspired you to make another outfit that would fit her and only her taste. Lenore and even her monkey became such a huge part of your life, that you couldn't picture yourself not doing all of the things  you were doing and you definitely could not stop thinking about Lenore. To say that it scared you would be an understatement. The realization of your true feelings made you freak out completely. So much so that you did not know what to do. So much so you couldn't act the way you used to before. That's why you decided to take a break - hoping it would help you distance yourself. 

You enforced your idea immediately - as instead of informing Lenore face to face, you called her.

"Ms Osgood, I need some time off for… personal reasons" you told her.

Lenore agreed of course, though that sudden phone call took her by surprise. She knew something wasn't quite alright, when you used her full name, but she didn't ask any questions.

She kept repeating everything that had happened the past week, yet she couldn't figure out what was actually going on. You had never taken time off before and the way you called whatever was happening - "personal reasons" caused her a lot of distress. What did that even mean? Were you in trouble? Was she supposed to do something? And why was she so worried about it?

At first Lenore tried to convince herself that she didn't really care. But she did. Her little game turned into something utterly different without her even realizing it. You turned out to be far more than just her seamstress and she appreciated you for more than only your brilliant mind or skills.

Lenore truly cared about you and missed you dearly. She missed your smile and seeing you blush at her compliments. She missed listening to you talking about your projects - so passionately. 

Lenore was a grown-up and experienced woman, however she had never felt the way she felt with you. With you everything was different, new. And whatever she desired at the very beginning changed.

While you locked yourself in your apartment and lost yourself in work - as an attempt to distance from her, Lenore kept thinking of all the ways she could get closer to you. She was so desperate, so lovesick that she - the great heiress was ready to beg, even bow before for you if that was what it took.

You didn't expect Lenore to turn up at your door. It had been three days, you were sure everything was on the right track and you would manage to cure yourself of your fascination. Though, the moment you opened the door and saw Lenore in all her glory, everything came right back to you. All your feelings hit you again - that time with doubled power.

"Lenore… w-what are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too, Y/N" she said, passing by you - not waiting for you to invite her inside.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm down. How could anyone be able to make you feel so weak and yet so empowered at the same time?

Lenore walked in, then looked around your apartment. It wasn't too big, but she had to admit it was classy - you perfectly combined living space with workspace. But your flat wasn't what interested her the most. The heiress turned round to face you and offered you a cocky smile, as she took in your form. Lenore was used to seeing you in various dresses and heels, though that day you looked completely different. You were not only barefoot, but also instead of a dress, you had a white shirt and denim overalls on. Your hair was put in a messy ponytail and a measuring tape was draped around your neck - signifying that you were working.

"So, how can I help you?" you asked, not looking at Lenore.

The blonde smiled. "I was just passing by and thought I'd check on you"

"Check on me?" you repeated, raising your eyes.

"Yes" Lenore said calmly "Would you mind if I stay here for some time?"

"I-" you were about to protest, but it was too late, since Lenore sat down on one of the chairs and lit her cigarette.

"So, have you managed to resolve those personal reasons of yours?"

"Not really, I guess" you said, watching Lenore cross her legs.

The way you stared at her body didn't go unnoticed. Lenore didn't miss how flustered you got either, but she said nothing. It wasn't the right time - not just yet.

You sighed, approaching a table on which you had different materials laid. You got back to work, trying to ignore Lenore's presence. It was hard to focus on anything though. It was impossible when she was sitting there and watching you, but you kept trying anyways.

Lenore didn't speak for a few minutes. She simply enjoyed the moment - the possibility of watching you work and being around you in general.

"Is this a new project?" she asked, dragging on her cigarette.

"Actually yes. It's going to be your dress for the party that you're attending next month"

"Oh. Well, it looks nice"

You laughed at her words.

"It doesn't look like anything yet"

"I'm sure it'll be wonderful. Every project of yours is, darling"

You looked at her, not able to contain the smile caused by her compliment.

And that smile was what motivated Lenore to make the first step. 

"You know, I was thinking about you for the past few days," she began, as you focused on pinning the fabric together again.

"They don't appreciate you enough. I mean those men you're working with. They're wasting your potential. You should work for your own brand and not for theirs"

"Well…" you were about to say something, but Lenore cut you off.

"And I figured out there are two ways I could help you in"

"Yeah?" you said, but still didn't pay much attention to her words.

"Yes" Lenore stubbed her cigarette and stood up, as she continued "I could either become some kind of your patroness. This is the first option, but personally I like the second one more" she explained, as she stopped on the opposite side of the table.

"What's the second option then?" you asked, reaching for yet another pin.

"Well" Lenore smiled. You were still so oblivious "I could be your sugar momma" 

"Shit!" you cursed, as you accidentally hurt your finger with the pin "W-what?" you choked, looking at her. Your eyes were wide open, as Lenore approached you and carefully took your hand in her own. She then slowly brought the finger you had just cut to her lips and kissed it.

"I said…"

"No. I k-know what you said… I… I just…" you stuttered, not able to form any coherent sentence.

"Which option do you like better, sweetheart?" she asked in a low voice.

"I…" you gasped, staring at her lips.

You couldn't bring yourself to speak, so instead you leaned in and kissed her. You could feel how her lips formed a smirk and even though your eyes were shut at that point, you could see that damn sly smile.

"I was hoping you'd go with the second option" Lenore chuckled.

You wanted to respond to her words, but before you managed to regain the ability to think properly - Lenore lifted you up and made you sit on the table.

"Your dress…" you tried to protest, but were immediately cut off.

"I'd rather take you this time" Lenore said and captured your lips once again.

That definitely wasn't what you had expected when you accepted the job offer. You hadn't even dreamed about it. And even if you had, being so close to Lenore, feeling her warm hands on your body and her soft lips pressed against yours was beyond any wildest dreams you could ever have. 

Tag list: @midnight-lestrange, @natasha-danvers, @stopkillinglilyrabe, @welshdragonrawr, @saucy-sapphic, @yang12e, @xixxiixx, @pradababey

#sorry if this is bad #lenore osgood #lenore osgood x reader #lenore osgood imagine #sharon stone imagine #ratched #ratched fanfiction #requests

[yubsie]

Hand Me Downs

Breha gives Hera baby gifts. Which means she can pass them on to Leia for her child. (AO3 if you prefer)

No one had warned Hera that being a high-ranking member of the Rebel Alliance was going to involve ruffles. She was prepared for overwhelming odds, to risk her life against an enemy who gave no mercy. And in the early days, that was exactly what she got. A lot of sneaking around and flying and getting shot at and  wearing a flightsuit . Then she’d worked her way up through the ranks and found herself having to attend formal dinner parties that covered for high-ranking strategy sessions. The perils of being a general.

If she had a choice, she would have gone for formalwear with a bit of slink to it. But her rapidly expanding midsection didn’t lend itself well to that at all. The only dress she’d been able to find in... whatever her current size was took the philosophy that the bump could just blend in with the rest of the floof. Her attendance in her condition would surely fuel all sorts of gossip about her and the man Breha had chosen to sit her next to. Gossip was useful; it meant that everyone was speculating about her personal life instead of what they might actually be discussing. The trouble was it also meant they were speculating about her personal life and the child who hadn’t volunteered for this. It wasn’t even the worst thing to happen this week, but it felt so incredibly alien.

She wished she could talk to Kanan about it. He would have delivered some sort of over-the-top compliment. And then Ezra would have somehow still not noticed. At least she could still hope to explain to a very baffled Ezra where her child had come from.

But neither of them were here. Now she had the new constant figures of her life: Mon Mothma and the Organas. She trusted the high-ranking members of the Alliance; it would be disastrous if she couldn’t. She even liked them quite a bit. They were good people. Friends, even. They just weren’t family, and she wanted so much of that around right now.

Her glass represented their current target in the makeshift map they were drawing up on the dinner table. The fact that she was the only one currently restricted to water set it apart conveniently from the wine glasses representing rebel units. She tapped Bail’s glass. “If we bring the demolitions team in from the west, they’ll have the sanitation droids as cover.” Sabine would be thrilled, she was sure. Garbage had so much artistic merit.

Mon Mothma nodded. “And that will help minimize the collateral damage to the surrounding citizens.”

Ierlin Allston, head of their fledgling public relations department, nodded. “The benefits of that are pretty obvious.”

They probably didn’t need to consider it from the public image perspective. It was enough that it was right. But it was still a useful angle. Anything to win hearts and minds over in the fight against the Empire. While also winning key weapons factories. They had a solid plan that was sure to go out the window and require extensive improvisation, but at least they had something to build on now.

It was also as far as the plan could possibly go before that first engagement with the enemy. They were still waiting on several key intelligence reports Mon Mothma had hoped they would have in time for this session. There hadn’t been a way to postpone the dinner party that wouldn’t attract suspicion when the information. So they would have to fill the remainder of the dinner party with actual dinner party activity. Definitely not Hera’s specialty, that was more for those who had come here from the senatorial side of things.

“General Syndulla, a word?” She didn’t actually know enough about the etiquette of these sorts of parties to know if it was unusual for Breha to break away from her carefully balanced seating arrangement. They’d eaten most of the courses at this point, so perhaps mingling was entirely normal.

At any rate, when the Queen of Alderaan requested a word, one gave a word. She didn’t need to know anything about royal etiquette to realize that much. “Yes, of course.” How was she supposed to address her? They were on friendly terms, and in a flightsuit she would probably address her by name without a second thought. She really was out of her element in all these bolts of fabric. Who had bought out the store to construct this ridiculous dress? “Your Majesty?”

The queen smiled. “It can still be Breha.” She paused. “This is absolutely a personal interaction.”

Hera had almost forgotten what those felt like in recent months. They were always for family, but even the ones she could locate were scattered. Zeb and Kallus came by often, but they had their own work. It was often just her and Sabine, since Ezra vanished. And she didn’t want to put too much pressure on the girl. It wasn’t fair. “It is?”

“You know, Leia was rather unexpected.” It was obvious enough where that was coming from. No one had to be told that she hadn’t planned this. Even if Kanan had lived, they were in the middle of a war, and she still wasn’t quite sure how she was going to balance the baby with all of that. How she was going to keep him safe. He would need her to step back, especially at first, but he would also need a safe galaxy to grow up in. She had to find a way to give him a mother and a future at the same time. It would have been easier if Kanan were here to help. But she’d tried to stop dwelling on things that were well and truly impossible. She had to deal with the situation as it was.

“Wasn’t she adopted?” That was the sort of development one usually tried to plan. It didn’t just happen like having strange symptoms weeks after losing the love of her life and realizing that the Force apparently wanted more little Jedi running around. Or something like that.

Breha laughed warmly. “She was. The last days of the Clone Wars were the strangest.”

She’d only been a child then, but old enough to realize how quickly everything was changing. The galaxy suddenly looked completely different and as dangerous as ever. That was just never going to end, it would seem.

“We had talked about it, but I wasn’t expecting Bail to come home with a baby that day.”

Hera couldn’t even imagine. She was already struggling to prepare for her baby with months of warning. Having one just show up was a logistical nightmare. But she wasn’t sure where this was meant to be going. “You seem to have managed quite well. She’s remarkable.” The princess was involved in more missions of late. And she didn’t disappoint.

“There are... certain advantages to a hereditary home. The attics have more than anyone could possibly use in a lifetime. So it was easy to prepare a nursery.”

That wouldn’t really help on the emotional front, but sometimes logistics were the easiest thing to focus on. Their supplies had never been so well documented as right after the liberation of Lothal.

“I was wondering how you were doing on that front?”

“I...” She’d been trying to figure out how to care for the child. “Our usual suppliers don’t tend to trade in infant goods.”

“That’s what I thought.” She would never have expected a queen to be so practical before she met Breha. But what was government if not a giant exercise in logistics? She’d seen quickly that Princess Leia Organa had not been routinely handed off to nannies. They probably would have attempted to exert some sort of moderating influence to keep her out of the Rebellion. “Bail and I wanted to give you a few items. Some clothing, a travel bassinette. We have more spares than we could ever need. Leia could be a great-great-grandmother before we had to reuse a single item. It will go to so much better use with you, I think.”

“I...” She suddenly pictured items from a royal palace tucked into one of the Ghost’s empty rooms. The image was strange enough to bring laughter instead of the usual sadness at the state of those rooms. “That’s so generous.”

“Alderaan favours simplicity.” Translation: don’t worry, I’m not handing you something jewel encrusted to furnish a freighter. “The craftsmanship is excellent.”

Hera rested her hand on her belly, taking a moment to imagine her future. “He’ll be the most elegantly dressed baby at the spacestop.”

***

No one had warned Leia that victory would involve quite so many Functions. She should have been prepared for them, growing up in a royal palace, but after fighting a war for so long, she’d let herself forget. Now they moved more and more toward an actual government, and she had to learn an old role all over again. She’d gotten used to her days involving more strategy sessions than dinner parties.

Of course, she still had military officers approaching her. They just wore the notoriously unpopular dress uniform now. They had barely had a uniform at all when her parents first let her get involved in the Rebellion. Now there was a dress variant, and the people who wore it had no end of opinions. Even if a general would, of course, never breathe a word about it. “Senator, a word?”

Leia maneuvered herself around carefully. That was the only way she could actually move these days. Her small stature made her increasing bulk feel all the more unwieldy. “Of course, General.”

“It’s really more of a Hera conversation.” They’d known each other too long to always stand on ceremony. Right now, Leia didn’t much care for standing at all. “Can you handle the walk to the Ghost?”

“As long as there are chairs at the end.” At least they had enough history that she could admit that.

Hera nodded and started to lead the way. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said almost automatically.

Automatically enough that Hera immediately raised an eyebrow.

“Tired.” It was a completely different brand of exhaustion that the sleepless nights in a battle zone. Not necessarily worse, but unique. She’d never grown a human being before but it was taking more out of her than she was eager to admit. Especially when she was trying to convince her staff she wasn’t an invalid. “Exhausted, really.”

Hera smiled. “It’s like that a lot. I’m not going to lie and say it gets better, but it’s a nice sort of exhausted. Most of the time.”

“How’s your son doing? I hope he’s well.”

“He spent this last deployment with Zeb and Kallus. He’s amazing, even if keeping up with a Force sensitive child is more work than three full starfighter squadrons.”

More of a preview of her life than she meant it to be. Deep in her heart, she knew that was true, but she hadn’t had anyone who’d knowingly experienced that to talk to. She couldn’t have been that bad a child, could she have?

She probably had. “Just regular squadrons, I hope?”

Hera shook her head. “All of them are Rogue Squadron.  All   of them.” Current reports indicated that the general they were currently attached to was rapidly balding. Also making remarkable progress through former Imperial territory but in utterly exhausting and unexpected ways. “Of course, I don’t really have a non-Force sensitive child to compare him to. Sabine was already a teenager by the time she was in my life.”

She could handle it. At least she had some amount of Force sensitivity herself. Poor Han, she should warn him. Maybe have him talk to Hera, if they could stop arguing about the relative merits of their ships long enough to discuss anything else. This might actually be important enough to manage that.

Hera keyed in the sequence to open up the hatch and led the way into the common area. Which had some remarkably comfortable chairs. Well chosen. Maybe she could get Han to install something like this on the Falcon. At the very least she had to find out where these cushions came from. Maybe she could even sneak one for the next Function...

Once she was suitably settled to relieve her overtaxed feet, Hera tried several times to open a conversation. Finally, she managed, “It can be hard to stop thinking about who you desperately want to be there, with a child.”

Leia’s hand drifted to her belly. “Han’s the important part.” She’d worried a lot when he was off dealing with Kashyyyk. But he was back now and ready to be part of their son’s life. It wasn’t like what Hera had had to deal with when her son was born. She had so many others around her, it wasn’t fair to wish for the things she couldn’t have.

“A baby can never have too much family. The whole crew helped me with Jacen.” She reached over and took Leia’s hand. “And so did two people who would be the most delighted grandparents anyone could ask for.”

Hormones were completely unfair. She was a senator; she couldn’t go crying like this. “I keep thinking of all the traditions I always thought any child of mine would participate in.” There was a lot involved with being the heir to the throne of Alderaan. For all that she’d complained, she couldn’t have imagined back then things going another way. Her child wouldn’t be the heir to anything— only a field of rubble.

“I had no idea what I was going to do without Kanan. But your parents were so kind to me.” She’d been busy with her own missions and a certain amount of teenaged tunnel blindness, but she did remember General Syndulla being around more often in the months leading up to the Battle of Yavin. She’d assumed it was all about the Rebel Alliance getting more established and the longtime leaders having more work to do. But of course, a pregnancy would change the day to day activities of a general. For all that she told her staff she wasn’t an invalid, she did occasionally have to slow down.

“They were always like that.” That was why it hurt so much. The galaxy needed people who were that kind. She tried to carry on their legacy, but she could only do so much. It would never be enough.

Hera pulled two crates forward and opened the first to reveal an assortment of baby clothes. She handed Leia the top onesie to examine. It wasn’t the sort of clothes she would have expected an active rebel to pick out, but these must be Jacen’s old things. They didn’t get a lot of babies in the Rebellion, after all. She ran her hand over the fabric. “This is beautiful.” It almost felt like rannasilk. But the only place to get that was... “It can’t be...”

Hera handed her another piece of clothing. The same craftsmanship. The same material. “Your mother said she had more than she could ever dream of using.”

“I remember. We had more than we could ever need, but no sense letting perfectly good things sit by, even if they were a little bit too luxurious.” It wasn’t what most people expected of royalty. But Alderaan wasn’t like anywhere else in the galaxy.

“She told me you could be a great grandmother before they ever had to reuse any baby things.” And then all of that had gone to waste when Tarkin said fire. Except for these boxes.

Leia held the onesie to her heart. Any connection at all.

“The other crate is a few items of furniture. I assume you have something permanent set up at home, but they knew I was mostly going to be travelling.” Settling down only became a real possibility for any of them in the past year. And even that was slow going. “It would make a good shipboard nursery.”

She’d been surprised that Han was willing to make changes to the Falcon. Putting in a galley. If he’d do that for her, surely their baby would also be worth it. They weren’t going to leave any permanent marks, and there was that strange room that Lando kept referring to as his cape closet. There wasn’t much in there but junk now. They could sort through all of that and make space for the baby. Space for... she opened the crate.

A perfectly crafted travel bassinette. Just like she would have slept in for all but her very first trip to Alderaan. Artfully carved, solid craftsmanship. Though the straps attached inside didn’t look at all Alderaanian. A practical addition, but added with respect for the aesthetic. She tugged on them. Solid, that would keep a baby from going anywhere even if his father decided it was a good idea to go into an asteroid field. But also quite lovely.

“That was Sabine’s work. Alderaanian royal politics don’t tend to quite rival an active rebellion for excitement.”

“If you go far enough in our history...” There was a reason Alderaanian royals had found themselves drawn to rebellion. She’d like to think it was all about justice. But they didn’t come from a tradition of sitting quietly, no matter what her tutors had tried to convince her of at the time. “I hope they’re never necessary.”

“That’s what we all hope for our children. And we actually have a chance at giving it to them, thanks to the work your parents started.” Started. They’d all continued it. And now, her child would have more of a link to that than she’d ever dreamed.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough for this gift.” She didn’t expect anything from family for the next generation. It would have been a foolish hope. That was all lost years ago in the worst moment of her life. Except, it seemed, this one gift. Because her parents had taken the time to care for someone else. They couldn’t have known this would come back to her; they were expecting her to use the rest of the excess in the palace’s vast storage.

She would have to teach her child to be like them. Dreaming cradled in this gift they didn’t know they were giving him.

#hera syndulla #leia organa #breha organa #fanfiction #kanera #well in the past tense #i'm still a couple fics behind crossposting #apparently i must fill the breha and hera tag myself #challenge accepted #pregnancy

[beca-mitchell]

i wondered if i could come home (yours is the first face that i saw) (1/1)

Summary: Chloe works in New York. Beca works in LA. The quarantine brings them together virtually. God Bless technology.

Word count: 4,335

Read below or on AO3.

Beca had initially been ridiculously excited about the prospect of staying home. She hated dressing up just to go and sit, spaced out at her laptop.

Now she has free rein to just wear whatever the fuck she wants while spaced out from the comfort of her own home.

A quick glance around however indicates that there isn’t much to call home anyway. When Beca had moved to Los Angeles with nothing more than her laptop, twenty USBs packed with remixes and original music, and a luggage full of clothes, she had pretty much expected this.

This being the whole struggling artist thing. Her father had advised against it, her step-mother had advised against it (not like Beca really was planning on listening), and her mother was—

Well.

Beca would rather not think about it. Of course, she wouldn’t.

But she did—it was all she could think about for those first few weeks in Los Angeles. Those first few months.

When she had first made the move, she had fantasized about her mother kissing in her on her head (a phantom memory if anything) and telling her how proud she was of her for chasing her dreams.

She had imagined her mother’s arm around her shoulder as they made that final descent into LAX.

She had imagined her mother’s proud smile when she had signed the papers for her first real job in the music industry—that breath of fresh air that really cemented in her memory that she had made it. She was there in the city of her dreams. She had moved across the country from Atlanta to Los Angeles.

But eventually, with time, after one let-down after another, Beca’s USB pile grew smaller and thinner and her job became less of a temporary thing and more of a full-time thing to keep her afloat.

Are you still proud of me? She wants to ask.

She can’t quite envision the look on her mother’s face—hell she can’t quite envision the look on her father’s face or even Sheila’s face—if she were to look around her small (but cozy) apartment.

Is this what you wanted for me? Beca wants to ask.

Change just doesn’t seem to come quick enough in a city with plenty of time to spare and too many hungry dreams to fulfil.

 * * * * *

 And then there’s this.

The whole quarantine mess.

It’s a form of change, Beca supposes. Maybe not quite the one she needs at that moment.

*New Notification from Outlook You have a new message

From: Aubrey Posen

CC: Chloe Beale

To: Beca Mitchell

Subject: HR and A&R Documents and Procedure — Microsoft Teams Meeting Request

Beca groans. 

 * * * * *

 Being a producer isn’t bad. It lets Beca flex her creativity from time to time (very, very minimally) and she gets to say she’s worked on interesting musical projects.

Grumbling to herself, Beca settles down in her chair after wrestling with her hair and brush. She figures she looks moderately presentable. She even swapped out her sleep shirt for a non-sleep shirt for the purposes of this video conference.

She has no idea who Chloe Beale and Aubrey Posen are anyway, but she’s already moderately annoyed that they both insist on video conferencing when this quarantine has made evident that literally everything can be done via email.

Beca takes a calming breath. The raise is a good thing. It came at a good time. It’s a good thing to get a raise at a job she hates especially when the alternative would have been to be let go. If she has to deal with HR for the sake of this, she will.

Not like she can do anything else.

The call comes in almost as soon as Beca wheels her chair closer to her desk. She fumbles, picking up her headphones and hitting Accept.

“Hi,” Beca says, waving awkwardly at her screen. “Uh. Wow. Hi.”

Almost immediately, Beca wants to clamp a hand over her mouth. She settles on dropping her hand into her lap and clutching the fabric of her shirt to distract herself from the embarrassment rising in her.

The young woman splashed across her screen is incredibly pretty. Almost intimidatingly so. Striking red hair, loosely draped over her shoulders in comfortable waves. Soft-looking lips pulled into a gentle smile.

And her eyes—Christ, Beca thinks—her eyes are what draw Beca in the most. Startling blue. The clearest of blues that Beca has ever seen.

“Wow?” The woman smiles at Beca. “That’s quite the greeting.”

“Sorry,” Beca mumbles hastily. She ducks her head. “Surprised to still talk to people during all this, I guess,” she lies quickly. She figures saying “you’re hot” wouldn’t be the most appropriate thing to say despite how true it might be.

The red-head quirks an eyebrow at her. “I’m Chloe Beale, nice to meet you Beca Mitchell.”

Beca can’t fight the smile this time. Chloe’s voice is nice. It’s beautiful and melodic. “Hi Chloe. Nice to meet you,” Beca parrots back. “Weren’t there supposed to be like...two of you in this meeting?”

“Oh, yes!” Chloe chirps enthusiastically. “Aubrey will be joining us in just a second—oh there she is,” she says just as Aubrey’s profile image pops into Beca’s screen, cutting the size of Chloe’s face on her screen in half.

“Good morning, Beca.”

“Good morning, Aubre–”

“It’s technically afternoon for us, but anyway.”

Beca clamps her mouth shut, choosing to push her lips into a forced, polite smile. She catches a glimpse of Chloe coughing behind her hand, clearly stifling a laugh of her own.

“Did you want to run through some of the documents and responsibilities, Chloe?”

Chloe clears her throat, professional mask back in place. “Yes, sure. Well, Beca, as a senior producer—”

 * * * * *

 With half-open eyes, Beca drags herself from her bed the short distance to her desk. Foregoing her chair for the moment because she has no intent on actually sitting down yet, Beca opens her laptop and logs in to Outlook and Teams before opening Logic Pro X and GarageBand.

She has been working on some tracks for an up and coming artist as well as overseeing the production on an EP for a new artist signed to a label, so she’s kind of expecting a shitload of emails to start her day off. That can wait for the moment.

When she gets back to her computer, coffee mug in hand, Beca notices a notification marker on her applications.

*New Notification from Teams

Beca frowns. She’s not the usual recipient of messages ever. But when she sees who exactly messaged her, she can’t fight the grin. She puts her coffee down with some reluctance and opens the message fully.

Chloe Beale Hey sleepyhead, you’re finally up Thanks for sending the paperwork back yesterday

Beca Mitchell fyi i am three hours behind you timezones or something as aubrey would say

Chloe Beale Who doesn’t start their day at 6am?

Beca isn’t quite sure what to make of Chloe entirely. She’ll blame the echoing loneliness around her—loneliness being all she feels these days—but she would be lying if she weren’t totally and shallowly attracted to Chloe Beale.

But she barely knows her. In fact, Beca would go as far as to say she doesn’t know Chloe at all. Chloe could just be another faceless entity in the long string of entities in Beca’s life. Just another missed connection.

Beca sips her coffee, blinking blearily at her screen.

Beca Mitchell do you start your day at 6??

Chloe Beale It’s good for you!

Beca Mitchell coffee’s good for you

Chloe Beale i’m more of a tea drinker myself good for the voice

Beca Mitchell singer?

Chloe Beale used to be

Beca arches an eyebrow. She had known, from the sound of Chloe’s voice alone, that she was something special

(And sure, Aubrey had a nice voice too, but it had been used primarily to grate on Beca’s nerves so she’s choosing to look past it.)

Beca Mitchell whats the story there?

Chloe Beale Hmm maybe one day :)

Beca Mitchell all i have are days to spare for you

Beca hits send before she can regret it and immediately winces at how unexpectedly flirtatious it sounds. She moves to type a quick cover-up, but Chloe beats her in sending a message.

Chloe Beale i like the sound of that

Beca’s fingers hover over her keyboard. She can’t bring herself to admit the same thing, even though it’s true.

She does like the sound of that. Almost as much as she had liked the sound of Chloe’s voice.

 * * * * *

 It ends up being so easy to fall into a routine when Beca realizes that she has something to look forward to with each subsequent day.

A routine that perhaps even involves waking up earlier so she can spend more time sending Chloe dumb GIFs and debate the best bagel spreads.

It feels nice.

It feels like something Beca could get used to.

Even if Chloe is incessantly cheerful and ridiculously chipper at any given point of the day. Beca kind of likes it.

It reminds her of sunshine and a much-needed breath of fresh air.

There is the added bonus (or nightmare) of Chloe’s incessant need to abuse the video conference tool.

“Beca, make sure you have those documents signed. A&R needs them as soon as possible.”

“You couldn’t have messaged this to me? Or emailed?”

Chloe grins, blindingly so. Beca doesn’t even try to look away.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Beca tugs at the collar of her shirt (another new shirt) unconsciously before she realizes what she’s doing and drops her hand away. “And you’d know all about fun, would you?”

“Maybe.”

Beca shakes her head, mostly to hide the smile that rises on her face.

“Nice shirt by the way.”

 * * * * *

 Okay, fine.

Even that isn’t something that Beca finds herself annoyed with.

 * * * * *

 Beca bites her lip, hitting SEND before she can stop herself. The email flies away from her, an email detailing a request to video conference with Chloe for some dumb, made-up reason.

Well, no, there’s an actual reason and it’s that Beca wants to hear Chloe’s voice. That’s a good enough reason.

*You have a new Outlook Notification. Chloe Beale has Accepted Your Invitation.

Beca smiles.

 * * * * *

 Chloe Beale I’ve always wanted to visit Los Angeles

Beca Mitchell Come over here then!

Chloe Beale Maybe once this is all over

Beca Mitchell Oh right

Beca Mitchell Well if you ever need a place to stay…

Beca starts to sweat. She thinks about deleting her message, but what good would that do? Chloe has already seen it.

“Fuck,” she mutters aloud and promptly chooses to chicken out.

Beca Mitchell I know a lot of people who’d love to have you and i’ll bring you to all the best spots around town You know, me being an expert and all hahaha

“Fuck why did you say that?” Beca asks herself, resisting the urge to slam her laptop closed. She winces when she notices her unfinished work in the background.

She’s kind of more focused on the little indicator showing that Chloe has seen her message and the subsequent lack of response.

She is unfortunately sorely disappointed by Chloe’s response, despite her own attempts at haphazardly diffusing the situation.

Chloe Beale Sounds awesome!

Right, Beca mulls to herself. There hadn’t been a situation to begin with.

She lets the disappointment carry her through the rest of the day. The disappointing feeling—It is familiar but somehow more striking.

 * * * * *

 The thing about Chloe is that she makes everything easy. She never makes Beca feel bad about asking too many questions and she never makes Beca feel totally lame for taking up her time. She assures Beca that it’s fine—that she doesn’t mind at all. It makes Beca feel like a rockstar for about two seconds before she remembers that it’s Chloe’s literal job to be kind and nice to people she works with.

Right.

They’re technically coworkers. Just that. Nothing more.

And then there’s the whole...is Chloe even attracted to women conundrum. It is nice to think that Chloe is attracted to women—that Chloe would be attracted to her of all people.

It’s just such a big what if question.

(And of course the “we live 3000 miles away” issue. That issue.)

There is a strange underpinning of something else—something that Beca can’t quite place. It sends a swooping sensation through her stomach when she thinks about it. The past month or so of communicating with Chloe was rife with tense, interesting moments that make Beca second-guess herself every time.

Barring the times when she word vomits all over herself, Beca is surprised that she’s maintained a connection with Chloe for this long.

 * * * * *

 The dreams start near the end of the first month of knowing each other.

The awkward part about waking up from a dream about somebody she’s never even met in person is that Beca has no idea how to conduct herself. She barely knows how to do it in-person—conduct herself—let alone doing it online.

She tries to settle on something to occupy her mind while she works through some musical/creative block.

Her fingers type in chloe beale into Google before she can help herself.

“Fuck it,” Beca whispers, hitting enter.

She is surprised by the breadth of hits that Google returns to her. Interesting ones, nonetheless. She learns in short order that Chloe does voice acting on the side. Nothing overtly taxing, but it pleases Beca that Chloe has somewhat of a creative streak. She notes a few well-known animated series and some other gigs here and there.

An old YouTube video catches her attention.

Acapella Finals 2011

Beca can’t stop the grin that stretches across her face when she recognizes Chloe, red hair and all, front and center and singing.

She knew Chloe was a singer at heart.

She pulls up her chat before she can stop herself.

Beca Mitchell *pasted link* I see

Chloe Beale Oh my god!

Beca Mitchell Google knows all

Chloe Beale You were Googling me?

Beca’s smile drops. “Shit, uh—”

Chloe Beale Kidding! i googled you too. Didn’t think you were a taylor swift girl. All those remixes… <3

Beca blushes before she can stop herself. That had been a brief foray of fame—literally five minutes—when Taylor Swift herself had linked to one of Beca’s remixes. Beca hadn’t been savvy enough to capitalize on that in any way, however.

Beca Mitchell oh those... I wish i had more original things to say

Chloe Beale Your music is beautiful, just like you are I mean that in a totally non-weird way of course

Beca isn’t quite sure they’re saying the same things, but maybe they are. Chloe’s unwavering faith in her feels wholly misplaced more often than not.

But it’s nice.

This is nice.

Beca lets a smile consume her.

Beca Mitchell Flattery will get you everywhere

Chloe Beale That’s the hope

Beca Mitchell Back to acapella… i was wondering if i could pick your mind for an idea i had for this track i’m working on

* * * * *

 The transition to Facetime and phone calls as opposed to Teams video conferencing was a fairly recent one. Beca discovered that Chloe is an equally eager texter. Emojis and all.

“Your voice somehow sounds better over FaceTime audio,” Chloe teases.

“I was going to say the same,” Beca replies before she can stop herself. Her heart flutters. “I wasn’t the one in acapella in college, after all.”

“Oh you would have fit right in. I would have whipped you into shape, I’m pretty sure. Or maybe you would have helped us win instead. Being as talented as you are and all.”

“I wish I could have known you then,” Beca says bravely.

“You would have changed my life,” Chloe admits. She says it with a smile, but there is no hint of a joke in Chloe’s tone. “I don’t sing anymore,” she finally says. “Not after that last acapella competition. The one you sent me.”

“Oh, why not? Your voice is…” Beca trails off, struggling to find words. For all the time she spends with music—literally layering vocals and instrumentals—she cannot understand how she cannot find appropriate words to describe how Chloe’s voice makes her feel. “I’m sorry...I’m usually better at this. Why don’t you sing anymore?”

“I had to have surgery for my nodes in my senior year of university. I’ve been too afraid to sing again.”

That breaks Beca’s heart more than anything. “But your voice is okay now,” she says lamely.

“I haven’t really had an opportunity to sing again. Working for B&R Records is the closest I can get to the music industry. Not that I ever thought I’d sing professionally or anything.” Chloe sighs, then her voice softens even more. “I admire you so much for pursuing your dreams, Beca. You’re so much better than you know. I’ve listened to your stuff.”

Beca swallows.

Her heart isn’t fluttering.

It is racing, almost uncontrollably.

 * * * * *

 They talk for hours.

Beca tries not to think about it as she wakes up to her phone pressed against her cheek uncomfortably and the faintest memory of Chloe humming something hauntingly familiar.

“Shit,” she mutters, realizing that her heart has yet to stop thudding with the force of emotions she feels.

 * * * * *

  *Google search history

online dating

quarantine dating

flights to New York

amazon delivery time

online dating in quarantine

relationships in covid-19

online date ideas

 * * * * *

*iMessage Notification

From Chloe Beale install netflix party!

Beca Mitchell Already did! waiting on you...

* * * * *

 Chloe ends up being the person Beca calls when she receives yet another change request for the track she had been working on. She isn’t allowed to move on to another track until this artist is absolutely pleased with the track and Beca understands how contracts works and stuff, but holy shit, she’s had it up to her damn forehead with Pimp Lo and his incessant demands to keep his music trashy (Beca’s professional opinion).

“I want to quit,” Beca declares to Chloe. She knows Chloe is done with work for the day even though Beca has about an hour or so left in her “shift” (she has decided time is a construct and she’s signing out for the day due to creative differences).

“Don’t quit,” Chloe says quickly. “And um...don’t tell me that. Professional responsibility and all.”

She says it with a joking tone, but it still stings ever so slightly for Beca. The reminder that she and Chloe are coworkers and nothing more. She’s sure she’s going to hear even less from Chloe as time goes on and when everything kind of goes back to “normal”.

But she kind of doesn’t want to stop talking to Chloe.

“It’s just annoying,” Beca complains.

“Oh honey, I know,” Chloe sympathizes. Beca warms at the term of endearment.

“Beca, your music is good,” Chloe promises earnestly. “I’ve listened to a lot of music over the past few years I’ve been working here...just promise me you won’t give up, okay?”

Unexpected anger wells up in Beca. She identifies frustration, annoyance, and some measure of pain—all of which have to do largely with this entire situation. Somehow, she manages to tamp it all down and focuses on the sincerity of Chloe’s voice.

“I just don’t want to...have my ideas shot down like this anymore,” she finally murmurs, taking a breath to steady herself.

“I know,” Chloe promises. “It won’t always be like that though.”

“I’ve been out here for a year. Verging on two.”

“I know,” Chloe repeats, sincere understanding in her tone. “And it sucks that Hollywood just eats people up and just...I don’t know. Spits them back out like that. But...you’re special. I know you are.”

Beca shudders with her own attempt to stifle a sob. “And that’s your professional HR opinion?” she asks, trying to make it sound more like a joke so Chloe doesn’t take it badly.

Chloe scoffs, then lets out a giggle. Beca wishes more than anything she could see her face. “Yes, that is absolutely my professional HR opinion and I think you should take it. I don’t come cheap.”

It’s less than what Beca hoped for. She had hoped for something a bit more—something closer to the kind of reassurance Chloe had been giving her over the past little while. This feels like two steps backwards.

“I wish I could see you,” Beca blurts.

Chloe doesn’t say anything for a moment. A moment too long. Beca’s face heats embarrassingly quickly. She is so thankful that she is alone in her apartment.

“I’m sorry,” Beca apologizes. “That was weird. And I didn’t mean to make things weird. I’m not weird, I promise. Maybe a little. But not like that.”

Chloe laughs. “Beca, it’s okay. I know what you meant. Or what you mean.” She laughs again, this time sounding more breathless. “It’s just...I guess it’s just late and we should probably...table this for another day.”

Beca’s heart plummets.

“We don’t have to table anything,” Beca says quickly, stung by the rejection. “Forget I said anything.”

“Beca—”

“Goodnight, Chloe.”

 * * * * *

*iMessage Notification From Chloe Beale Beca, are you okay?

*iMessage Notification From Chloe Beale Call me when you can

 * * * * *

 Beca notices she has a request from HR for a video conference. There are no other details, but she knows it’s from Chloe. Her stomach tenses uncomfortably as she stares at the words on her screen. The conference is set up from about five minutes from now so she has about five minutes to get her shit together.

She hadn’t meant to ignore Chloe, she had just been a bit too absorbed into her work (as a way to avoid Chloe).

But she isn’t mad with the music she’s been making recently. She probably has Chloe to thank for that. For being an inspirational source.

She can do this.

She looks around, taking a deep breath as she takes stock of everything that she has in her apartment. Her eyes land on something by her window and she goes to grab it.

She returns to her computer just in time for the call.

“Hi,” Beca says, blinking into her computer screen. “Hi, Chloe, is everything—”

“You know, radio silence is probably the worst way to woo somebody.”

Beca thinks she might still be asleep. “Sorry?”

Chloe seems to be fighting a smile. “You don’t even know how cute you are, do you?”

“I’m not cute,” Beca says automatically.

“You are. In a hot way.”

“In a hot way,” Beca echoes. She grins. “Are you calling me hot?”

“I saw you checking me out that first day. Obvious even through webcam.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mind. I...never minded. Which is what makes this so hard,” Chloe says, lowering her head a little. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, leaning closer to her camera. “This is so weird and so hard. I didn’t expect to just...fall for somebody while we’re all just trying to figure out how to make things okay again, you know?”

“So…” Beca swallows, wondering if this is the appropriate forum for what she’s sure is about to come out of Chloe’s mouth.

“I like you,” Chloe admits. “I think you’re brave and talented and incredible. And there’s so much we still have to learn about each other, but I have been driving myself crazy thinking about how much I want to kiss you.” Chloe clears her throat and holds up a small pot of pretty, purple flowers. “These are for you. I couldn’t really go to the store to get a fresh bunch. But um. If I could, I would.”

Oh.

“Isn’t this against company policy?” Beca croaks out. She can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “Like can’t they see everything? Even videos?”

Chloe shrugs. “I don’t care. Not really. Look around, Beca. Nobody really cares anymore. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Beca covers her face with her hand. “This is super embarrassing.”

Chloe giggles. “Oh stop. I’m the one literally holding out flowers to my screen.”

“No, it’s just—” Beca holds up the potted plant she had stolen from her windowsill. “Here. I brought this for you too.”

Chloe gasps. “A cactus? You shouldn’t have.”

There is a brief silence before they dissolve into giggles. It makes Beca feel the most complete and whole that she has in while.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

“Were we even in a fight?” Beca asks aloud.

“No,” Chloe admits. “I just...thought I scared you off.”

“I think I scared myself off.” Beca crinkles her nose as she frowns. “If that makes sense.”

“That makes a lot of sense. I think it’s the most sensible thing you’ve said so far.”

 * * * * *

 Eventually, the time comes where Beca can go outside again.

Beca knows what it means to have sunshine on her face. There is no shortage of it in Los Angeles.

There is no shortage of palm trees, of warm wind, of endless beach views.

There is no shortage of too many dreams and too little opportunities for those dreams to come true.

But this—the excited yelp Chloe lets out when she pushes off the pillar she had been leaning against and the solid weight of Chloe’s body nestled firmly against her own as her arms loop easily around Beca’s neck—this is so much better than anything Beca could have dreamed for herself.

She can feel her mother’s smile, warm like the gentlest of sunrises against the back of her neck. She can feel the weight of a new pile of USBs in her bag and a fresh outlook on life.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Chloe whispers, her voice real and solid and there.

“Me too,” is all Beca can say.

She kisses Chloe like it’s the first day of the rest of her life.

fin.

#bechloe #weeklybechloe #anna kendrick #brittany snow #pitch perfect #fanfiction #beca mitchell #chloe beale #gif #my fanfic #mine #text #queue

[brideofcthulhu10]

Behold another Lost Boys holiday special! It was between this and Valentine’s day, but honestly I love writing Christmas specials, its such a cozy time despite the high suicide rates, but lets not get into that. A BIG SHOUT OUT TO @imlostinsantacarla FOR HELPING ME EDIT MY FINAL DRAFT!

Fun Fact! My husband, David (yes, that is actually his name) actually does have the bah humbug hat I mention in the head canons. He’s a heavy metal goth so when I found it at the store I had to get it for him. And you just know if our David found that, he wouldn’t be able to resist it!

Christmas with the Boys

Alright, so the whole touchy, feely and mushy feelings that surround even the topic of Christmas time is not something any of the boys will ever openly admit to enjoying. After all, they see themselves as these bad ass brutal killers who thrive off of death instead of holding hands and caroling with the goodie goodies of this coastal town. 

Yet, it's challenging for them not to get sucked into the glitz and glam of the holiday season. Everything is a big deal in Santa Carla. Dia De Los Muertos, Halloween, Thanksgiving- everything! But especially Christmas.

Christmas in Santa Carla dwarfs the frenzy craze of Halloween. The entirety of the boardwalk is decked out with red and green lights that are tightly wound around palm trees, red bulbous bows are wrapped tightly around street lamps, the reds and whites of velvety fabric swirl down the posts, creating the effect of candy canes. All the store windows are painted to appear frosted, or covered with painted snowmen whilst several rooftops are covered with white felt in which mimics the texture and sight of snow. Even the boats in the harbour are all extravagantly decorated in a sea of lights that parade around brightly at night in every color imaginable.

Between the dates of the 30th of November all the way to the 24th of December the city of Santa Carla hosts a plethora of wondrous events in it's annual Holiday Festival. Large green, white and red kiosks are erected, selling a wide range of baubles and treats, from delectable chocolate coated rice krispy Santa Clauses, elf candy apples caked in a plethora of dark chocolate and peppermint, to a variety of Holiday hats, masks and even hand made costumes by the many local artists. Even hand carved candles in wondrous scents of pine, mint, or spice.

Currently, David possesses a black fur Santa hat which he acquired on a night out that boasts the words "Bah Humbug" proudly sewn over the front. It's the only holiday attire he'll even humor. Last time Marko attempted to place reindeer antlers on his head, David had set them on fire roasting atop a pan of chestnuts. Now it's not to say that he's a grinch persay. Rather, the complex and intense emotions that come hand in hand with Christmas can leave him perpetually indifferent at best, disdainful at worst. The whole occasion leaves him displeased. After all, he was an orphan who had been almost eagerly abandoned by his hooker mother left to fend for himself from the beginning, and  of course never met his father. Even she could not identify which of her many clients may have been responsible. Most of his mortal life he had lived as a street rat, barely making ends meet by picking the pockets of tourists and Santa Carla citizens oblivious to the true dangers of the lower side of town. The rich and uppity classes who often snubbed their entitled noses his way would never suspect as he lurks between alleyways, leaving them cornered at knife point. It was scarce that he ever did see a kind face in the sea of those who had little interest for anyone that was not themselves. Back then it was rather uncommon for anyone to step outside their own little lives, which led to most interactions, outside of the other boys, having been met with great hostility, thus he had learned to be just as equally hostile in turn. Even the mere thought of anyone suddenly dawning a false kindness due to a certain time of year simply agitated David. It rattled him to the very core in a way very few other things did. Why bother with the lies? Couldn't people just face the very basic fact that they weren't nearly as charitable as they often deemed themselves to be? I mean, the young man had seen firsthand a family having previously snubbed a dirty homeless man with appalled disdain at the sight of his muddied clothes and dirt stained skin, only to then begin volunteering at a soup kitchen to purge whatever guilt they carried on their conscience once the holiday season began. The whole ordeal was pitiful! Nevertheless, - more so for Paul and Marko's sakes than his own -, he did humor these traditions amongst the holiday's festivities. Ruining a good time just wasn't his style. Unless they started fucking singing.

Most traditions David could tolerate, some he even enjoyed slightly; although he would never be caught dead admitting something as embarrassing as that! However, he just couldn't stand Christmas carols! They were the bain to his immortal existence. The repetitive nature of these overly cheery jingles left him covering his ears lest they nest in his brain leaving him humming the same damn melody for weeks. This was the case because the dynamic duo of dumbasses were well aware of his hatred for Rudolph the Red Nosed fuckin' roadkill! Stupid red nosed abomination. 

“OOOOOOH-,” Paul begins with cheerful mischief.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” David seethes through tightly clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut in indignance. 

Paul hesitates. He looks at Marko. Marko looks at Paul. Wicked grins of agreement spread wide like wildfire across their faces as their master plan comes into play. Full throttle. What’s more fun than annoying the shit out of David? One on the left, the other on the opposite side of the cave on the right. This was nothing but Divine perfection if you asked the two troublesome vampires.

“OOOOOH DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW!” Paul belted out at full volume.

“IN A ONE HORSE OPEN SLEIGH!” Marko followed in suit, the widest eerie grin plastered on his face.

“OVER THE HILLS WE GOOOO” Paul howled enthusiastically. 

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH!” David's voice hit a whole new octave it had never in all his life so far. All the while Dwayne had opted to vacate the room lest he be caught in the middle of the escalating madness with Laddie in tow. He loved these guys, but not enough to dive head first into their fuckery.

Paul thrives during the Christmas holidays! How could he not? The food, the punk rock covers of Christmas songs, the absolute babes prancing around the town in Santa hats under mistletoe?! He loved it all! You can find him sneaking under mistletoe with many sweet honeys on a constant basis, regardless of whether or not he's acquainted with them. Most do roll their eyes or laugh it off, but every once in a blue moon the guy will get a little lovin' from a beach babe in the Yuletide mood. What else could he ask for? You can bet he’ll run into the woods December first, and quite literally RIP a pine tree out of the ground to bring home like a wee carrot being plucked from the ground. The bigger the better! He may even drag Dwayne or Marko along with him if it's too big for him to carry himself. And all the boozy drinks he can concoct up? This boy is in his element! Mulled wine, spiked eggnog, candy cane vodka, butterscotch bourbon hot chocolate?! Yes! David straight up refuses to try anything that Paul creates himself (remember the concoction he made in Max's kitchen? Those poor goldfish....) which is also another reason why he has Dwayne help him. Or rather, the other boys insist the most responsible of them monitors the blonde lest he poison them with some sickly brew. That, and the fact that Dwayne's the least likely out of all of them to blow up the damn kitchen!

Dwayne is indeed the designated cook during the holiday rush, albeit a field even he tends to struggle. Avoiding the kitchen catching aflame, perfecting his craft lest he blow up the stove, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake. As previously mentioned, ever since the dreadful chain of events that lead to the unfortunate destruction of Max's kitchen, this raven haired vampire has attempted his hand at learning to use a stove properly: Although he often finds himself forgetting ingredients either in the midst of cooking or after the final product is done and he's taken a big bite. 

“Shit! I forgot the milk and eggs!” Dwayne grumbled with a mouthful of dry crumbs, a true disgrace of a cookie.

Paul always gives him crap for it of course.

“Oooh I just thought you were going for a sandy, dusty dry cookie kinda thing.”

"Yeah man, these taste like ass!" Marko would cough out in midst of choking. 

"And what, like you dumbasses could do any better," Dwayne retorts with a huff. Only Star manages to have any manners when testing his failed baking endeavors.

"Well I mean, the taste isn't that bad. Just a little dry is all."

"At least Marko wouldn't be choking to death." David would mutter from the darkest corner of the room, a little late in the conversation.

In all honesty, Dwayne's biggest motivation when it came to improving his skills was obviously Laddie. The kid never got much of a Christmas whilst living with his mom, so now that he was with the boys, he wanted to ensure that Christmas's were something that Laddie would remember for all eternity. Though granted, it is quite the mess when he was helping in the kitchen. But when the mini vamp grins from ear to ear whilst coated in flour and rapidly stirring an overflowing bowl of chunky cookie dough--the sight is too freaking cute!

Since Laddie joined the boys, they participate in Secret Santa every single year, which definitely includes Paul bursting through the entrance of the hotel as Santa on Christmas day. We won't talk about the fact that each year he almost falls flat on his face and swears, ruining the surprise for the kid. 

"Santa where are your reindeer," he'd question, to which Santa Paul scoffs

"Pff, reindeer, I don't need any fucki- Ow," cut off by a firm and covert kick to the shin from Star, Paul quickly changes his response. "Oh! Ho ho, well, you see little boy, Santa can fly too! On his, uh, uhm… magic motorcycle! Yeah, that!"

But it's okay because Laddie already KNEW (he figured it out a year or two ago after Paul's beard fell off not once, but three times), he just doesn't have the heart to tell any of them because, well Paul really gets into it. And he knows the others are playing along for his sake. But to be fair, Laddie would have to be pretty dumb to believe it was Santa. I mean, the beard Paul's wearing is hanging half off his face by this point! But anyway, just like Paul's style, the entirety of the goody two shoes schpiel is thrown out the window, replaced with sleeves that have been ripped off, muddy boots, spiked bracelets and his Metallica shirt in full view beneath his flared red coat. He calls this BIKER CLAUS!

Laddie is not a squasher of traditions! But there was the one time that David had to intervene when Paul and Dwayne thought it would be great to use Laddie as the star at the top of the tree. David practically had a heart attack. Well, that's impossible but it still felt like he was having one!  

“Ho ho ho! Now, don’t be a bitch, little David or Santa will have to give you coal.” Paul stated mockingly to David, brows furrowed. 

“Well, Santa,” David scolds, a wry smile developing on his face when setting down the eight year old now off to shake his presents beneath their behemoth of a tree. “You best be careful. You never know what's in those milk and cookies, hm?”

Each year Marko buys bird toys for the pigeons in the hotel. Well, buy is probably the wrong word. More like he liberates the stores of their stock. And then for the next six months, David has to hear the agonizing jingle of bells. David almost roasted one pigeon in particular that kept flying over him to drop the ball with a bell in it on his head. That was Paul's entertainment for the next five hours, hell, he'd try to find it if the bird lost it and give it back. Marko defends the pigeon. Between running through stores buying up surprises for his friends, he's helping Paul throw out decorations for the cave. The dollar store has some surprisingly unexpected treasures, allowing him to deck the fucking halls to the max. Tinsel here, ornaments there,  tiny light up trees to hide around the caves, a butt ton of cinnamon pine cones which he ends up throwing back and forth with Paul.

And Paul often steals his gifts or goes dumpster diving for any hidden gems. He forgets to take the tags off of them the majority of the time, which is always an indicator whether or not its new. Any time Star asks where he got them from he refuses to answer. Just gets up and walks away. But for David's gift? Well this lucky bastard has found coal in the dumpster and chucks it to David when he's not looking and he sighs deeply in disappointment because this is the third year Paul has done this. 

 "Huh? What? Who did that? Wasn't me. Somebody's throwing stuff."

Other than that he'll find a fat bag of charcoal and just tape the name David on it. David is certainly not amused. Dwayne will actually try to figure out what the others want, and has the sense to save the money taken from their previous meals. After all, they're dead, they wouldn't have much use for it anyway. He's not about to waste his hypnosis on some poor cashier. That would be a waste of time in his eyes. 

When Christmas did arrive the tree was piled with mysterious boxes crudely mashed and taped together with bows and ribbons underneath it. It's obvious which ones are from Star since those gifts are wrapped in neatly pressed paper, wound tight beneath curled ribbons that remind the boys of her hair. Marko often goes on a food run rather than allow them all to be subjected to a potentially charred turkey, no offense to Dwayne of course. So, with a table covered from end to end with copious bowls of gravy, potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, a beast of a turkey in the center packed to the brim with cornbread stuffing, the boys cram into their chairs knocking back beers and spiked cider. Keeping to their own traditions, after fattening up, they gather around the tree and play card games, just as they had over eighty years ago on that frigid night. David still slays them in poker, and Marko is an utter dark horse when it comes to blackjack. Paul insists they try Go Fish. No one ever wants to play Go Fish. Closer towards the end of the night Dwayne will slip away to Jasper's shrine and bring him a fresh glass of rum as well as unwrapping what he got him that year. While Dwayne is there, the other boys will join him - omitting Star and Laddie left unaware of the Lost Boy they'd never met - in celebrating the last hour or so of the Holiday season with their fallen comrade.

Although Christmas time is often about uncomfortable mushy moments and emotions that create deep, unfamiliar times for David. The entire ordeal becomes that for everyone of the boys and Star. But God forbid anyone who even mentions it! I mean, it's kinda obvious though considering he's spending it with the people he always called family, knee deep in traditions that are sentimental to himself and the boys. There's a fluster of emotions running rampant during this particular Holiday Season, and although the blonde brooding vampire decides to squint at it with skepticism he savors these moments, knowing like Jasper, it could all be swept away with a single ray of light or the foolish hand of a hunter. So as they sit, drunk, full, and laughing beside Jasper's grave he can't help but smile at the sentimentality of it all. Christmas is a pain in the ass, but… it's a pain he'll gladly sit through for his brothers.

#lost boys imagine #lost boys 1987 #lost boys #the lost boys #lost boys paul #lost boys imagines #lost boys dwayne #lost boys david #lost boys marko #christmas #holiday imagine #tis the season #lost boys head canon #headcanon #lost boys vampires #vampire boys #vampires #vampire #fanfiction writing #lost boys fanfiction #fan theory #fanfiction #fanfic

[louisa-magcd]

Reflection

From last week tutorial, I gathered that I was being too scattered and kept on changing directions too many times. This very relevant observation was difficult to realise. I wasn’t happy with the <<progress>> of the work I had made, and lost track of where I was going and what I was doing.

This week I deeply reflected on what truly interested me and what I really wanted.

My work directed towards “form over content” wasn’t made intentionally; I took that direction because of my incapacity to find a “content” that I would feel truly invested or interested in. I felt insecure towards a more personal approach to my work as opposed to something more academic.

“What is the use of creating emotion-based work?”, was a recurrent question that came to my mind.

The constant switch between visual styles was also a struggle of mine as I was paradoxically trying to “please others”, in the sense that I wanted to create something that would be liked by a bigger audience.

I felt confused by the terms “position”, “practice” and “critical position”. Do I really need to define them this soon, is there even a need to define them? Is it wrong to be or feel lost?

Maybe the sense of loss or the loss of self could be a position?

I have always been quite precious with my work and value quality over quantity, and this entire project has been difficult for me so far as the whole point of it is to produce at a high volume (which I haven’t been successful with, at all).

The reason why last tutorial didn’t go well in my opinion (in terms of what I had done), is that I tried to change direction again, out of indecisiveness and my fear of making “meaningless work”. I tried to switch the direction towards something I thought would be more lighthearted but also something that would be more accepted.

I realised this week that I had to find a way to ground myself, and after writing my essay and doing research, I realised that I was clearly more interested in personal and intimate work.

I remember being particularly confused after reading “the death of the author” and it really made me question my own position: am I an author? Is authorship really dead? Is it really impossible to be an author at all?

These questions aside, I was also wondering if it was “wrong” to create around oneself, and if it was really an egotistical and selfish act.

So instead of thinking about how people would perceive me based on the work I produce (something that holds me back a lot), I started thinking about the artists I like and the art they make or made.  

I have also been significantly drawn to my Moroccan and French heritage and how I could potentially implement elements of my heritage into my work in subtle ways, and maybe merge them together.

I have been researching around Moroccan female artists specifically.

One of them is Chaibia Talal, one of the most influential Moroccan artists of the 20th century. Her story is especially extraordinary and touching. She was born in 1929 in a small village and married at age 13; her husband died when she was 15 years old. As a young widow and mother, she had no choice but to work as a cleaner in order to sustain herself and her son. She was illiterate.

She began painting in 1963 after having a “prophetic” dream that encouraged her to start painting. Her son had a painting studio, and that is where the art curator Pierre Gaudibert discovered her art work for the first time.

Chaibia Talal was a self-taught artist and she was exhibited all around the world. Although her work wasn’t well received in her time, she is now considered as a pioneer figure of Modern Moroccan Art.

The reason why it is important for me to talk about this artist comes from a need to discover more other Moroccan female artists that I can look up to.

Her work is extremely colourful; she was influenced by the “COBRA” avant-garde European art movement, but also pulled a lot of her themes from moroccan culture, depicting moroccan women in traditional costumes. There is an evident play with figuration and abstraction, and the very consistent use of patterns is also an echo to moroccan culture and craft.

Pattern making and symbols are an inherent part of Moroccan culture, even before it was a country. The west part of North Africa was actually constituted of nomadic Berbers.

These nomadic group of people would worship different divinities and symbols would be used both as protection, directly on the skin in the form of tattoos, or on the fabric they made and wore. Clothing was especially important as it was an indication not only of social status, class and wealth but also an indication of the nomadic group they belonged to.

Symbols had associated meaning with different purposes.

Pattern making became even richer after Islamic influences arrived in North Africa. Indeed, it is prohibited in the religion to depict God or any divine figure to Man’s image. Subsequently, symbols and patterns were used to palliate to this. Calligraphy was, and still is, a highly valued form of art; Koranic texts would be embellished and treated as images as opposed to just writing.

Geometry and symmetry was seen as a high form of art as well; there is an element of repetition, interlacing shapes, texts, and symbols that is prevalent throughout Moroccan Art, and craft History.

Symbols have always interested me whether it be part of my heritage, or other new found interests, such as the occult. I have always been fascinated by how different meanings and interpretations can be pulled out of one image or symbol. How visuals can be transformed and used as a new form of language.

There is also a very superficial reason to this as well. There is something about looking at an accumulation of symbols on one images that is, to me, pleasing to the eye. Even if I can’t necessarily fully comprehend the artist’s intention behind every details of their work, I naturally associate a meaning to it based on my own experience and subjectivity.

A good example of this would be Hieronymus Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights”.  

I am aware of its religious ties, and there are extended interpretations made of this triptych oil painting. Yet, I much prefer look at it and create my own narratives out of the images and symbols I can observe from it. I enjoy the fact that there are a multitude of narratives enfolding on one big image.

In tarot as well, each card is illustrated with specific visuals that aid in the interpretation of its messages. The cards, put side by side, form a narrative that is enriched by a diversity of symbols.

Folklore too, have consistently used symbols and metaphorical analogies to express a deeper meaning.

The French fabulist Jean de la Fontaine is well known for using animals, insects and plants to convey more sensitive messages, at a time where criticising the King and his court was a real offence and a punishable crime.

After listing down all of the things that I loved, I realised that they weren’t so impossible to connect. At a first glance, they seemed impossible to link, but they all share a similarity: they all use symbols and images to attach personal meanings to them or convey certain messages or narratives.

In conclusion, I would like to develop my own “Visual Dictionary/Library”, or at least start this process.

Through this project, my aim refocused on its intended purpose, which was the expression of self through a diverse set of symbols and images.

By doing so, I go back to my very early iterations from Elaborate, where my work was more emotion-based; I intend on keeping the idea of self-reflection through making and researching, in order to develop my own visual language.

#reflections magcd

[thiswasinevitableid]

Something More (Prompt fill)

A reader requested: “we’ve been sleeping together on and off for almost a year and i know it’s angry hate sex but i got you a little gift because it reminded me of you” for Indruck.

Content notes: No actual sex, but references to past sex. Mentions of alcohol, and of the duo using less than ideal coping mechanisms (don’t worry, it all works out.)

This day has been absolute shit.

His lab was a disaster, he’s spilled coffee all over his shirt, and his attempt to talk a professor into a second go at an exam was not successful.

Yep, Duck is having the kind of day when he’s so frustrated he could scream. 

Which is why he’s climbing the stairs to Indrids apartment. 

The two of them met last October at one of Aubrey’s parties. They’d gotten along fine, Indrid even seeming a bit flirty, until the topic of fate and destiny had come up. Duck, four drinks deep, had snorted at the idea, pointed out that fate was just what naive people called luck and chance. Indrid, three drinks in, countered with the idea that fate was far more complicated than people assumed.

The lively debate became an argument, which became sniping at each other as someone drove them home, which turned into a lot “and another thing” on the sidewalk. 

Then it became a lot of grabbing and tugging and kissing, with some swearing thrown in for good measure.

Then it became the cold light of day, in which Indrid insisted Duck kissed him first and Duck growled that Indrid grabbed him before that. This lead to round two on the unmade bed, Indrid leaving the mother of all hickeys on Ducks neck, then Duck leaving as soon as he managed to find his pants. 

Which was how, walking out the door, he learned Indrid lived two floors above him.

It could have ended there, and they both assumed it would. But then Indrid knocked on Ducks door with Duck’s cat, Winnie, in his arms.

“I believe this is yours.”

“Why the fuck are you holdin my cat?”

“She was in my apartment! Might I suggest closing your window in the future so she can’t get out and walk all over my midterm project again?”

He put Winnie down carefully, and she chirped at the taller man before rubbing against his shins.

“Traitor” Duck muttered. She chirped at him and dashed into the house.

“Honestly, you should be careful, so many bad things can happen to cats outside.”

“Yeah, yeah, spare me the lecture.”

“I’m merely saying- oh, nevermind. An apology for her ruining my drawing would be nice, but I doubt I’ll get iMmmmphn.”

That argument had ended with Indrid being introduced to the concept of pegging while shoved over Ducks kitchen counter. 

The next had ended with them angrily making out against the washing machine in the basement after Indrid implied Duck had left his clothes in the one working washing machine on purpose (he hadn’t, he’d gotten held up at work).

After that, they stopped pretending there wasn’t something going on between them, even if the something was basically sporadically occurring hate sex. 

Duck hasn’t told their mutual friends about it. On some level, he knows that him seeking Indrid out when he needs to blow off some steam, or Indrid knocking on his door and snarking at him when he’s clearly amped up with nerves, isn’t the greatest call. But hey, it’s been a year and nothing’s gone wrong between them. 

So what if, when Duck thinks about it, he’s been to see Indrid four or five times a week since school started up again?

So what if, when he isn’t growling out curses in Indrids ear, he finds himself saying smooth or silly things that make the other man laugh brightly? So what if that laugh tugs at him like he’s an E-string?

So what if there have been times in the last few months where he hasn’t left as soon as it was over, or where Indrids poking at him has felt more forced than the sweet words that escaped him in the afterglow?

It’s fine.

He raps on the door, calling, “Hey, skinny, you home?”

Indrid doesn’t answer the door, merely calls back, “it’s open!”

Duck steps into the apartment and freezes.

“Jesus, ‘Drid, this looks like it got hit by a tornado.”

Papers, pens, brushes, and paints are strewn every which way, and Indrid is pacing, picking up papers and crumpling them.

“Yes, very observant.” He shoots a glare over his glasses, “what do you want, Duck?”

Duck’s about to make a smart remark as Indrids phone rings. The taller man takes one look at it, hits the mute button, and strides angrily into the kitchen to shove the device into the far back of the cabinet. 

“What’d your phone ever do to you?” Duck teases. 

“It’s not my phone, it’s my parents. They had some truly lovely things to say about my chosen career path, and once again offered to generously return their financial support if I go into a business major.” Indrid rips another drawing, and Duck sees the perfect place to nudge to get them heading towards what they both need.

“Dunno man, maybe you oughta take them up on it. I mean, some of this stuff is wild, looks like  damn crime scene in here with all the red you’re usin and-” His voice dies in his throat when he sees the look on Indrids face. It’s genuine, resigned hurt. As if he knew Duck would say that, but had hoped he wouldn’t.

It was too far. It was too far and he’s hurt him and he didn’t even mean it.

“Indrid, hey, I’m, I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to say.”

“Go.” Indrid points at the door, voice icy in a way Ducks never heard. 

Indrid turns his back, walks the few steps to the couch and slumps down on it. If Duck could get his fucking feet to move, he’d do as Indrid asked. But he’s stuck. 

There’s a sniff, then another, and Indrids arm wipes across his face. 

Duck is, in many ways, a marshmallow. He hates seeing the people he cares about unhappy, likes being there when people need a sturdy shoulder to lean on. 

It’s that instinct he blames when he steps toward Indrid rather than away from him, eyes already scanning the ground for a box of tissues.

Indrids head whips around.

“What are you doing?” He’s hurriedly wiping under his glasses, the way someone does when they don’t want anyone to know they’ve been crying.

He doesn’t trust Duck to see him like this. 

The kind, sensible part of Ducks brain, the one that he usually lets run the show, is screaming at him to admit that he’s worried. That he cares. 

The part of his brain that’s terrified of being hurt again, that panics at the thought of letting the odd artist with the pale hair under his skin, demands he say something cruel and end the whole thing. 

Unfortunately, these two parts are so busy fighting with each other that Duck forgets to say anything. His hands are the only useful part of him, reaching into his sweatshirt and pulling out a small pack with two tissues still in it and holding them out to Indrid. 

Indrid takes them, confused. Then he turns to the end table and starts pushing papers aside.

“I um, I have something for you, its silly, but I thought, that is.” He lifts a single piece of white paper, “here.”  He hands it to Duck, then curls up on the couch.

Duck unfolds the paper. 

“2 cups broth, ¾ cup shredded Gruyere, holy shit, is this the recipe for the french onion soup from the grill?”

Indrid nods.

“How did you know to get me this?” 

Indrid sniffs with a little laugh, “Anytime we’re together for more than two minutes after we, you know” he makes a rude gesture with his hands, “you talk about how badly you’re craving that soup. I thought you might like to have the recipe. The chef was happy to share it.”

This time, Duck takes the few steps around the couch and sits down. 

“Thank you.” He says softly. 

“You’re welcome. You can go now.” There’s no bite or ice in the words this time.

“‘Drid, I’m worried about you.”

Indrid looks balefully at him, “Duck, even if you switch to being sweet and concerned, sex is not on the table at all, so if that’s what you’re hanging around for-”

“No! I, just, I ain’t ever seen you like this before.”

Indrids laugh this time is bitter, “because these moments happen when I don’t seek you out for an argument and what comes after.”

Duck literally has no idea what to say, reaches for Indrids foot where it’s tucked up on the cushions, settles it on the ratty fabric instead. 

“Believe it or not, having angry sex with you after picking some silly fight is one of the better coping strategies I’ve hit upon.”

“You started lookin for reasons to pick ‘em too, huh?” Duck says, chagrined. 

“Indeed.”

Duck scoots half an inch closer, “Why’d you get me that recipe?”

“I...I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to see what happened if I tried that instead of my usual approach.”

“You wanted this to be different?”

“I wasn’t sure. I tried a few times to see what would happen.”

Duck is suddenly flooded with memories of the last few months; Indrid stopping him on the stairs to ask if he wanted to get coffee later, the mysterious little box of cat toys that turned up at his door, asking Duck is he was okay more often than usual.

With dread, he pulls out his phone and flips to a recent conversation.

Indrid: What’s that band you like again? The one with the logo that’s some sort of rabbit skeleton? JackelNope? 

Duck:  Why? Feel like givin me shit for my music taste again?

Indrid: NVM

He’d seen the listing for JackelNope’s show later that day, wished he had someone to go with, passed up buying tickets because he was broke. 

“You’re were askin me to the show weren’t you?”

“Yes. I like their music, I looked it up after you mentioned it.”

Duck drops to his knees in front of Indrid, who jolts back.

“‘Drid, I been a grade-A dipshit.” He cups Indrids hands in his own, and the taller man doesn’t pull away. 

“Yes, you have. But it’s not like I’ve been much better.”

“You at least had the sense to admit maybe we could be somethin better than we been. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the sex is fuckin amazin.”

Indrid huffs out a laugh and Duck continues, “But I was dealin with a bunch of shit when me met, and I’m only sorta done dealin with some of it, and it seemed like what we had was workin for us better than anythin I tried had. But that don’t excuse the fact I’ve only show you the shitty parts of me. You don’t deserve that.”

Indrid shrugs, “Maybe I do. Duck, I’ve never had a boyfriend or a fling hang around for more than a few months. Here we are at a year. Maybe that means this is the kind of relationship I’m meant to have. It makes sense, I’m unfocused, I talk too much, I’m a failure-” His voice catches on that last word and then he’s sniffling again. Duck draws one arm around his waist, rubbing his back soothingly, and Indrids head drops onto his shoulder. 

“Bullshit” Duck murmurs, “You’re smart and you make cool shit, you got a real good sense of humor, you got the cutest smile, what’s so funny?”

Indrid is hiccuping laughs between his tears, “I knew you were secretly a sweetheart.”

“Nah, I’m a real, uh rough-tough, uh, ah fuck it.” He brushes hair from Indrids forehead, “Yeah, I’m a big fuckin teddy bear, and if I had a lick of sense I woulda been showin you that. So, uh, what d’you say, slim? Can I give bein sweet to you a go?”

Indrid sits up, looking at him with a shaky smile, “Huh, slim. I rather like that.”

“Thanks, stole it from an old movie.”

“Ooh, classy.” Duck giggles as Indrid continues, “and the answer is yes.”

“Where do you wanna start?”

Indrid leans forward, tilting Ducks chin up and kissing him chastely.

“Thought you said none of that was on the table?” Duck grins.

“Kissing is, if that’s alright with you.”

“Hell yeah it is. Uh,” he traces a finger along Indrids cheek, “can I take off your glasses?”

Indrid slips them off, folding them and placing them carefully on the table. His dark brown eyes look almost deep red in the dim light of the room

Duck’s never seen them unobstructed before.

“Ain’t you just a sight.” He sighs, cupping Indrids face in his hands and kissing him as sweetly as he dares. 

Indrid pulls him up onto the couch and Duck settles on top of him, kissing him languidly and gently, trying to make up for all the times he should have kissed him this way and didn’t.

Eventually Indrids stomach growls comically loud, and they both pull away laughing. 

“You eaten at all today?���

“No, I’ve been too anxious.”

Duck kisses his nose, “C’mon, I got some of those pizza bagels you like at my place. And uh, if you want, uh it’s five dollar movie night at the theater. We could go catch a flick.”

Indrid pulls him into a hug before brushing their noses together with a small, happy sound that Duck intends to draw out of him everyday until the end of time, and whispers, “it’s a date.”

#indrid cold/duck newton #indruck #prompt fills #indruck discord #fluff and angst

[yasbxxgie]

Kehinde Wiley on Self-Doubt and How He Made It as a Painter The artist behind Barack Obama’s presidential portrait talks about developing his skills at a junk store

By age 12, Kehinde Wiley had a reputation in his Los Angeles neighborhood for being a talented artist. Teachers at his school recommended him for a program during which he spent the summer of 1989 in Russia with 50 Soviet kids and 50 other Americans, creating murals, learning the Russian language and culture, hiking, swimming, and picking mushrooms. “It was a strange, magical time,” he recalls.

Wiley went on to study art at the San Francisco Art Institute and Yale. He now has a studio in Brooklyn, and Barack Obama chose him to paint a lively portrait of the former president that now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.

I recently spoke with Wiley about traveling to Nigeria to meet his father for the first time after having painted portraits of him for years, dealing with criticism, and the importance of slowing down. This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for length and clarity.

***

Lola Fadulu: What was your mom’s work schedule like?

Kehinde Wiley: My mother, while raising six kids, had a number of small-business activities. The most prominent one in my memory was sort of like a junk store.

She would be away, in the earliest years, much of the day. Then she would be around more in the late afternoons, evenings. When we weren’t in school, we would be around the shop, and I remember learning Spanish dealing with a lot of the customers there.

Fadulu: Aside from learning Spanish, was there anything else you learned from those times you helped out in the store?

Wiley: I think I learned a sense of making something out of nothing, trying to dust off old items and seeing some level of value in them, recognizing that no one is going to help you.

Fadulu: Did your mom have any particular field or industry that she wanted you or your siblings to go into?

Wiley: Well, I remember as kids, we all had different passions, and she encouraged all of them. My twin brother and I would be going to art school as kids because there was a free program that allowed us to get off of the streets of South Central Los Angeles and spend our weekends studying art.

I remember my mother wanting me to go into preaching. She was taken by the fact that I was quite successful at some oratory competitions. She was going through a particularly religious fervor at that point in her life, and she encouraged me in that direction.

Fadulu: At that point, were you thinking about turning art into a career, or was it more of a hobby?

Wiley: In the beginning, it was much more of a hobby, and much more about just having an outlet for creative energy. Only later did it start to have real personal consequence.

Fadulu: When did that start to change?

Wiley: I was 12 years old. Russia was one of those programs that was a free program. It was an opportunity for me and 50 other American kids to go off into what was then the Soviet Union, and to study art in the forest outside of what was then called Leningrad, and is currently called Saint Petersburg.

We created a series of murals, and we had language classes and cultural exchange. And we would hike off into the forest, pick mushrooms, and swim. It was a strange, magical time. It allowed my sense of what was possible to blossom, at that very important age.

Fadulu: Did you know that you were a good artist when you were 12?

Wiley: Of course. That was my one bit of power in the world. That was the thing that got me positive attention, as opposed to so much negative attention that was coming at so many of my classmates at the time.

Fadulu: Would you consider helping your mom out in the store your first job?

Wiley: It was definitely my first job. I remember thinking about all of those bags and bags of clothes, and trying to figure out how to sort out different colors, and different types of fabrics, and how to organize things in terms of style and age. I remember looking at things that to me seemed like junk, but with a little bit of TLC, a coat of paint or something, is repositioned as something that people are willing to spend good money on.

That was my first job as a kid, but it wasn’t really positioned as a job, because it was just what you do. You lend a hand.

Fadulu: So, what was the first job you had that was positioned as a job?

Wiley: I think my first real job was actually going to work for the art school that I used to go to as a kid. While I was once an 11-year-old student at the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts’ Summer Arts Conservatory, which was housed on the campus of Cal State Los Angeles, I was later as a high-school student recruited, at first, as a teacher’s assistant, and then later as a teacher to teach drawing and painting to youngsters. I was 17 and 18, teaching 9- and 10-year-olds how to paint.

Fadulu: Is that when you were beginning to think about a career in art?

Wiley: My first thought was that no one makes it as a painter. I was just looking around at the landscape of contemporary art, which was pretty dry in Southern California during the ’90s. There was no modeling for success when it came to a job in the arts.

So I thought that my best option would probably be in arts education. So when I went to do my bachelor’s degree in fine arts at the San Francisco Art Institute immediately after high school, I assumed that I would probably study art and become an art teacher. While I enjoyed it very much as a high-school student, I didn’t really have a burning desire to be a teacher. I just knew that that would enable me to support my art habit.

Four years of arts education in San Francisco, then going off to graduate school on the East Coast at Yale, opened up a whole new set of possibilities. And perhaps for the first time I started to glimpse what it might mean to launch a successful career as a painter.

Fadulu: And where did you catch those glimpses of those other possibilities? I know you said you were at Yale, but what exactly were you seeing?

Wiley: What happens there is that while I’m painting in the graduate art studios, I’m also taking trips into the city with my classes, and having conversations with artists in their studios. I remember having classroom trips to art galleries and seeing actual exhibitions I was excited about. Being in the class with professors who are working artists, the light slowly started to turn on, and that sense of imagining myself as one of those people.

But still, there’s a lot of self-doubt, and there was also a really tough regime of criticism that arts education put me through, which enabled me to develop a really thick skin, but also caused me to doubt whether or not I had the chops to make it as a professional artist.

Fadulu: How did you deal with the self-doubt?

Wiley: I think a lot of it was being able to recognize the relative nature of a lot of the arguments that were being made in large classrooms. One art object could give rise to five different arguments, and depending on who was the most convincing, the success or failure of that art object would announce itself. It became increasingly obvious that it had very little to do with the art, and more to do with the environment in which the art was being consumed.

I had a strong sense that this school was an immense place to learn new ideas and histories, but also a potentially toxic place in which you can get caught up within the incredibly specific politics that each school gives rise to, and lose track of the broader target.

Fadulu: And didn’t you go to Nigeria to reconnect with your dad?

Wiley: Well, I connected, period. My father and mother broke up before I was born. He returns to Nigeria, and I’m never to see him until I’m 19. So, 1997,  I just decide on a whim that I’m going to go find him. A lot of it was a lot of buildup, emotional buildup. This constant desire to see who your father is, and just to know that connection. I think on another level it was about pushing myself, and knowing what I’m made of, whether or not I’m capable of pulling something like this off. There was a lot of teenage bravado going on there.

There was this incredible curiosity as a portrait painter, just—what does he look like? I began going to different universities asking if they knew who this guy was. I knew that he studied architecture in America.

So I would go to universities and go to their architecture departments and ask if anyone knew my father, and that didn’t work. Someone finally said that I should go, based on his last name, to southwestern Nigeria, where I then went to the University of Calabar. And his name was on the door of the department. He was the head of the architecture department. And nothing’s been the same since. There was a series of paintings that I did shortly after meeting him for the first time, where I was just obsessed with painting him, getting that out.

Fadulu: Was that trip what you thought it would be?

Wiley: No, not at all. I had this illusion that there would be arms wide open, and music would be playing, and that I would quickly and quite easily recognize this lost side of my African ancestry. And in fact, it was an incredibly difficult and exhausting process to find him. And by the time we did find each other, there was that strange moment of trying to figure out what each other and who each other was. What were my intentions as I showed up? What were my feelings toward him? It was incredibly complicated.

I think I was a bit naïve to think that all of those emotions would just simply be resolved by seeing him. In fact, it became much more difficult to come to terms with the feelings of resentment and abandonment than I had anticipated.

Fadulu: You said you became obsessed with painting portraits of him.

Wiley: There were a number of those that, to this day, I can’t find, because I sold off so much work as an undergrad. One of these days, I have to track this stuff down.

Fadulu: What was going through your mind when you heard from Obama about his portrait?

Wiley: Well, there was never really any point where I had the job. I heard they were considering a number of artists for this, and I was welcomed to be interviewed as they were down to a smaller group. But there was never any point where I just knew, until I knew. Back in 2016 even, I was in the Oval Office, incredibly nervous. And I was interviewing with the president about this potential job, still not knowing what it was going to be, but just feeling incredibly grateful for having been invited to have the conversation.

So every step along the way, it just became more and more real, and more and more possible.

Fadulu: So what was the interview like?

Wiley: Of course the president wanted to know what it is that I would bring to the picture. I spoke really honestly about what excited me about him and me being involved in this historical moment: the sense in which we both share that story of having African fathers and American mothers. That sort of journey to find the father, that yearning to try and create some sort of internationalist presence in our work.

I spoke about the possibilities, allegorically, of telling his story in a painting. And so what you end up with in that painting are some amazing botanicals that are visually captivating, but they also nod toward certain flowers that are prominent in Indonesia, certain leaves that are prominent in Hawaii, the state flower of Illinois, the flowers that are most commonly seen in the grasslands of Kenya.

All of those strange, forest-like spaces are behind him and pushing up and forward. Those were the things that I was discussing as a possibility, and I think that it must’ve set something right.

Fadulu: You said it became more real as you went through the process. Were you working at all on it before it was official?

Wiley: Oh, God, yeah. I had gone to photograph him, and that wasn’t quite right, so I went back and I photographed him again. There were months of just trying to figure out how to artificially create this type of image on the computer and approximate what it would look like, and then start doing studies and see what it looks like in the actual paint. It was a long time coming. But in the end, it was all worth it.

Fadulu: Those months of trying to figure out how to create it—were there any big lessons from that?

Wiley: Just slow down. The more important the portrait, the more nuance the likeness has to have, the slower you have to get. So I had to get smaller brushes, really concentrate on just doing small passages per day, rather than trying to do broad strokes. And so it was a very different type of painting. You can feel it, almost, when you look at that painting, it's a much more contemplative piece. But I got very familiar with his face.

Fadulu: How did you feel about its reception?

Wiley: Well, he told me, “This is what I do, I’m used to the national spotlight, the global spotlight, but you’re new to this, so get ready. It’s gonna be a big deal.” And boy, was it ever.

I’ve never seen a work of art go viral that way and become a global sensation. And, of course, you’re dealing with the culture wars, and powers and principalities, and the Republicans and the Democrats. It did come as a shock to see that people would get so excited as to start sending death notices and threatening letters and all of this.

It’s surprising, but when seen in the proper context, when seen as a type of cultural signpost, when that painting is seen as what it is, which is a moment of celebration for him and his high-water mark within our culture, then you recognize it’s bigger than you are.

#kehinde wiley #national portrait gallery #art #black art #black artist #black artists #the atlantic #interview #interviews #lola fadulu #south central los angeles #los angeles #barack obama #portrait #portraits #self-doubt #self doubt #painter #painters #black painter #black painters

[delighted-bunny]

Until I Met You [Keith x Reader]

requested: yes! this was QUITE the thing to write!

genre: soulmate!au

pairing: keith kogane x reader

word count: 3438

plot: After 17 years of seeing in black and white, (Y/N) finds her soulmate, Keith, and things become as better as they could have ever been.

warnings: death, some cursing, SLIGHT (seriously is almost nothing, I don't feel comfortable writting about this stuff hehe) sexual content and the feels man.

There it was again: a rainbow. Everyone in your surroundings had stopped in their tracks and were staring at it; some of them even taking pictures. You couldn't help but wonder, how did the rainbow look to have so many people enthralled by it? What was so special about it that it was worth a picture? And, chiefly, how did the colors look like in the rainbow?

You knew this curse you were holding was because it would be the way you'll find your soulmate. But, was it really worth it? Not being able to see the marvels of color and how they exhilarate the world's days?

For your whole life you searched for your significant other, but is was of no use. 17 years of life without being able to see the different shades of colour. 17 years of your life without knowing if your clothes were matching or not, and for what?

 The rain was not something anusual in your hometown, specially in this time of the year, where summer storms happened at least once a week.  

That day was like no other, you have forgotten your umbrella at your house so the rain had drenched your outfit, shirt stuck to your upper body, while you were making your way towards work after a long day at school. Hopefully you might have left something in your work's locker that you could change into so that the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric wouldn't have to be a burden during the rest of the day.

You were volunteering at a kindergarden until night for those kids whom parents had late work hours. It started at three p.m and ended at eight p.m. Parents had the option of leaving their kids during the whole time or fetching them when it was more convenient for them. Some kids staying until the last minute, while others leaving 10 minutes after their school hours had finished.

Being honest, you really enjoyed your work; it was what motivated you during the day. Watching the kids play with one another, smiling, and sharing laughs and giggles lightened up your mood. Maybe it was because it made you remember about your happy childhood when nothing really mattered, not even the fact that you couldn't perceive color, and when life was a blessing: no problems, all good and happy vibes.

You arrived there 6 minutes later than you should; not that it was a problem for the rest of the volunteering group, but you were already annoyed, and this annoyed you even more.

You had already changed when you heard Madison shouting your name while making her way towards you and hugging you tightly once her little legs had reached to where you were. Madison was a 4-year-old little girl. Pale skin and short golden locks. Eyes as big as plates which shone as stars but had the color of the ocean. You really couldn't see how she looked like, how gorgeous people said she was because of this, but the way her eyes showed so much elation, was all you needed for believing she was the most cherful person in the whole planet.

You were crouched to her level, so that both of you could look properly into each others eyes. She was smiling, showing the little gap between her front teeth.

"Did you know someone new is coming today?" Her words surprised you. Someone new? You didn't know people enjoyed staying up until late everyday just to take care of some children; you have always thought you were one of the few ones that did.

"No. I didn't know. Are you excited? We might have someone to add to our princess squad after all." You replied. Smiling as well. Her happiness taking away the nuisance that was consuming you moments ago.

"YES! It will be so much fun! I can't wait for her to arrive." Madison then giggled and grabbed your hand. She was taking you to your usual spot: a little playground in the back of the building that had the tower you used to pretend was your castle. There, it seemed as if you escaped the ordinary word and became the cousin of the princess of Neurlia, a made up place by Madison's creative mind, while the little girl was said princess. You both would spend hours there, laughing and creating a shield from the people around you.

"But princess Madi you can't marry a prince if you are not in love with him." You said, playing along to the story she had created.

"It's for the sake of my kingdom, Lady (Y/N), there is no other way" she dramatically said, putting the back of her right hand infront of her forhead. You held back the laugh that was about to scape your lips.

That's when Laura, your boss and organizer of this project, made her way towards you with a boy, though it was Madison who took notice of this and informed you about it. You looked up then, and locked eyes with the boy. And suddenly you felt as if your heart had stopped beating and were lost again, only that this time, not in the fantasy world of princesses and princes were Madison and you were trapped moments ago. You were lost in a world of amazement and relief. You were being able to see the color of the boy's eyes. What color they were? you had no idea, all you knew, was that it was your new favorite color.

He was shocked too. He had believed that the whole soulmate thing was all a lie and that, the reason because he couldn't see color, was because he was color blind or because of some medical condition that couldn't be cured. But seeing you there, looking into his eyes as if he had been the solution of all your problems lighted up a spark of hope in his heart. He was intrigued by you; no one during his whole life had made him feel that way.

And so were you. You were so drawned to the boy infront of you that for a moment, you forgot that you both weren't the only living people in the world. But then, you started noticing how the  color of his eyes was not the only one you could see, but also his skin and hair color, and how bright of the kindergarden was. You started looking all around you, not being tired in the slightest of this new discovery of yours.

Then, you looked towards were Madison was. The little girl was so confused about the whole situation. But you just focused in her eyes which were said to be the color of the ocean. And, if the ocean really looked like that you couldn't wait for meeting with it again. Her hair was so bright, and full of light, it mirroed the small girl's personality. Was that how the sun looked like? You looked up to the sky, but it was covered in clouds, which color was almost sad; nothing new for you to see. Nevertheless, you weren't affected by it, as the smile on your face was as bigger as it had ever been.

Laura cleared her throat, clearly figuring out that something had happened between the two of you. Her eyes fidgeting between your's and the boy's ones, which were, once again, locked into each others.

"So (Y/N)"  she said, making your head turn slowly in her direction. You realized that her hair was the color of the trees and her eyes a shade lighter than her hair. Also, that she used very jazzy make up. When you smiled at her, showing that you were paying attention to whatever she was about to say.

"This is Keith Kogane. He will be working with us during the whole the year, if not more. I was showing him around and you were the last one for him to meet." In the loss of words, you smiled again, and looked at Keith one more time while still smiling, only to find he was smiling at you too. Not even realizing that your boss was no where to be seen.

"My name's Madison. But (Y/N) calls me Madi. Would you like to play with us?" It was Madison's turn to speak up, inviting the boy who's name you had learned was Keith into the kigndom of Neurlia.

He laughed a little, and your heart melted even more.

"Yeah, sure." Keith said. Not only his laugh was melody to your ears but also his voice. Deep and rough but calmed at the same time.

Seconds, minutes and one or maybe even two hours passed by and, nonetheless to the fact that it was a little more uncomforable than those times you had spent alone with the golden haired girl, it was something you were willing to do again more frequently.

Once it was eight p.m and Madison had already been fetched by her mother, a woman in her early thirties, Keith and you made your way out of the building. An uneasy silence made it's way towards the air; both, Keith and you, not knowing from where to start talking. Should they start from the part when they both started seeing color, or from where Madi and you played together and had an amazing time recreating the scenary of princesses and princes.

"So. Umm. You are my soulmate?" He speaks, and internally cringes at how stupid the question was. But then you giggled, and an instantaneous smile appeared in his face. It was weird for him to smile, but he couldn't help it, something about you made him happy in ways he couldn't describe.

"Yes, seems like it" you replied.

Keith offered to walk you home which you gladly agreed to. During the walk you talked about what did each other like and found out you had the same taste in music and were very drawned by it for the same reasons: it was the only way you could express yourself, apart from writing. Art has never really astound any of you, but had really intrigued you your whole life, and now, that you were both able to see color and how supposedly artist could play with so easily and flowly, you organized a date at an art museum and exchange numbers to set a date.

After that day, you noticed Keith more. He was in some of your classes but you, surprisingly, have never seen him before. It was weird for your friends that you had taken interest in the loner of the school with all the boys that were trying to get your attention. But when you explained to them that he was your soulmate, thing turned around. They helped you with colors: telling you what was the name of the specific colors you asked about.

Keith and you had talked during the following day and sat together at some of the clases you shared. Conversation flowing as if the two of you had been friends since the beginning of time. At the afternoon, walking together to the kindergarden where Madison was waiting for you to go into the world of fantasy with her; it was a routine.

__

The day of your date at the museum arrived and you were thrilled. You couldn't wait for four o'clock to arrive and once it did, you rushed out of your house towards said museum.

Your parents were so amused by the fact that you had found your soulmate and told you, again, the story about their meeting once the news escaped your mouth. They had always wished for your happiness.

You arrived at the museum and catched your breath before entering the enourmous building.

"Keith! Hi! Where you waiting for me for a long time? I'm sorry if I arrived la-"

"No, no. I arrived here two minutes ago. Let's go and make the best out of this." he said, linking his arm with you. This caused your cheeks to burn and a smile painted your face.

The whole time constisted in both of you looking at paintings or pieces of art, complementing the colors and the different techniques artist used. Once in a while he would crack a joke, and you would respond with a witty remark, causing the both of you to burst out laughing earning angry glances from the other spectators.

"Oh shit, look at the time. My parents are going to murder me." you said, causing Keith to laugh.

"Let's walk you home then." and with that you left.

__

"Which was your favorite one?" you asked with hopes of creating one of those conversations that delighted you that much.

"mmm I don't think I have a favorite one. Everything was awesome. The colors, techniques. I never thought I would like art that much. What about you? Do you have a favorite one" he answered, clearly showing how much he enjoyed the time you spent there.

"Same as you. Each one of them were so amazing. I couldn't get enough of them! Though I loved the painting with pastel colors the most." You said making emphasis in the word love.

By the end of the conversation you realized you had arrived to your house and were standing at your front porch.

"Do you wanna come in?" you said "After all, none of us had eaten yet".

He smiled. "Sure, yes."

And with that, you opened the door with your keys to find your parents waiting for you by the living room.

Your face dropped and you cursed under your breath, making Keith emit a light chuckle.

"(Y/N)! How did the da- oh! You brought him home" Your mother spoke up, making her way towards Keith who was standing a few feets behind you.

You smiled awkardly, regretting having invited him in the first place. How could you forget about the exsitance of your own parents.

"So, you are Keith! (Y/N)'s been talking nothing but wonders about you. And let me tell you she was right when she said you were hansome." your eyes popped out at the sudden confession of your mom, cheeks as red as the sofa from where your dad was standing up.

The boy blushed, looking shyly in your direction. You shrugged; after all, what your mother was saying was true.

Keith and your dad shook hands, and you were surprised that your father was having a smile on his face instead of a frown or a disapproving look like most father's have when they met their daughter's date.

"(Y/N), honey, we were waiting for you to come so that the three of us could eat, but now that Keith is here, we should all eat together." you nodded and smiled, Keith doing the same as you and helped your mother by setting the table up.

Dinner went amazingly. Your parents talking about anecdotes from not so long ago or asking Keith about his life. He told them he was living with his mother and that his father died when he was a kid and how much he loved the stars. Also, that if possible, he would like to study something related to that in the future.

Once everyone finished with their meals, you dragged Keith to you back garden where you laid on you backs while watching the night sky.

"Do you see that constelation over there?" he asked, while pointing up to the sky.

"Yes. What about it?" you said, now sitting up and looking down at him.

"That's my favorite constellation. My mom used to go away from home a lot to work when I was younger and she told me that everytime I looked up to the sky and saw that constellation, wherever she was, she would be looking at it too; thinking about me while I was thinking about her." he replied. Still looking up to the stars, but now in the same position as you were. You, in the other hand, were looking at him. The way the light of the moon and stars was displayed on his face and made him look one hundread times better than usual.

And then, he turned to look at you, and found you already looking at him. Your eyes holding so much love and admiration he believed this was all a dream. You looked beautiful; hair falling perfectly, cheeks a little red because of how flustrated you were. You were everything he was looking for and that's why he started leaning in; you doing the same. Faces inches away from each other, hestitating if it was really the time to do this. Keith decided to take the risk by closing the little gap between the two of you.

His lips were as soft as pillows, and as gentle as the big hoodies you use for sleeping. Your lips, were more than what Keith had imagined; plump and sweet as candy. You both tasted of strawberries, being that what you both had for dessert, making the kiss even better.

It did not take long for your hands to travel from where they were resting in his thighs, up to the back of his head, where his hair was; exploring the mess of soft black locks you had waited to touch for weeks now. He moaned a little in the kiss, loving the feelin of your fingers in his hair while he hugged your waist.

You broke apart with smiles in both of your faces and giggles erupting from both of your throats.

__

The next monday you made it official to your friends, that were then also Keith's friends.

Things, were great. Keith would take you out on dates every so often, or sit with you in class, he would go to study to your house, which always ended up in making out, or you would even go to his house where you had met his mom. You two would share loving glances or pecks on the lips while walking down the school hallway. He completed you in ways no one will, and you completed him in ways no one could.

That day, was one of those days where the black haired boy and you were making ouy in your room even though he had went to your house to study after the volunteering hours in the kindergarden. It had been a year and a half since you both first met and it was a procedure for him to be there at your house. Your parents were out in one meeting of their work, trusting Keith and you enough to stay home alone.

The heated kiss was leading somewhere you two had never experienced, at least not together, as Keith's hands were tugging at the end of your shirt wanting it off. That's when you pulled away from him. This would be your first time, and even though you were comfortable enough with Keith, you were still afraid. Keith noticed this and smiled softly at you.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I can wait for you, as long as you want." You melted at his words and kiss him softly.

"Yes. I'm sure." you replied. And after a moment of silence he spoke up.

"I love you, you know" and then kissed you again.

"I love you too" you said in between kisses.

__

The next morning, Keith was no where to be seen. You only had a text message from him telling you that he would meet you at school.

The day went as usual only that that time you would go alone to the kindergarden because he had to go and help his mom with something.

You were there, at the top of the tower in the playground playing with Madi, feeling odd with not having Keith by your side whilst playing with her. When suddenly, the color of Madison's eyes which you were looking into, turned black again; as the rest of the things that surrounded you. And that's when you knew something had happened to Keith. The little girl might have noticed the look in your face beacuse she asked what happened.

"Keith" was all you said. "Something happened to Keith."

And with that you were running towards his house as fast as you have ever run. And were broken to find his mom, crying in her knees with her phone resting on her hand. You approached her, putting your hand on her back. Tears threatening to escape but not yet letting them do so.

When she looked at you, you knew your suspections were right. The broken look in her eyes gave it away; Keith had died. And the color in your life, is now forever lost.

#keith #keith kogane #keith x reader #keith kogane x reader #keith imagine #keith kogane imagine #keith scenario #keith kogane scenario #keith sad #keith fluff #voltron x reader #voltron scenario #voltron scenarios #voltron imagine #voltron imagines #voltron keith #lance mcclain #pidge gunderson #matt holt #hunk garrett #takashi shirogane #Allura #coran #voltron

[honeybammie]

seoul › kim namjoon

↳ in which you leave your heart in seoul, seven thousand miles away from new york city ↳ angst, but ends in fluff? sorta? you’ll see

Moving seven thousand miles away from Namjoon was the hardest thing I ever did, but in the end, I had no choice. I would’ve stayed with him in Seoul if I had been rejected from the top film school in New York, but the day my acceptance letter came in the mail, our the time left in our relationship was no more than a few grains left in the hourglass.

“I’ll wait for you,” he tried to say, but four years apart to a couple of eighteen-year-olds was practically a lifetime, and whether or not I’d ever return to Korea was one of the biggest questions of all, especially when cities like New York and Los Angeles might’ve given me a lifetime of opportunity. I broke both of our hearts and turned them into shattered pieces, and for months afterwards I pricked myself on the jagged edges that remained.  

We stayed in touch for a year, perhaps, but distance and time are a lethal combination, and fresh heartache faded to a bitter taste in the back of my throat. Gradually, we stopped answering each other’s calls, fabricating excuses that we had been too busy or too tired, but we were only too tired of pretending we could be friends. 

His features faded from time. His dimpled cheeks and dainty, sloped nose blurred among eight million faces, and with Seoul’s even larger population, Namjoon undoubtedly felt the same about me. I fell into bed with new people, as would he. I found new coffee shops and places to buy my clothes, as would he.

By the time my junior year rolled around, I stopped missing him. My phone number changed. I cut my hair, bought my own apartment with two close college friends, assimilated to the city as if I had never come from Seoul in the first place.

My greatest accomplishment was in filming, as I always hoped. Professors dipped my short productions in praise, and I scored myself a paid internship at a nearby film studio. On the internet, I attracted a small—but growing—community who motivated me to release more. Whoever first coined New York as the city that never sleeps hadn’t been joking. There was no time to sleep, between classes and the internship and filming new videos and keeping my roommates in check while trying my damnedest to maintain a normal social life. 

Graduation made the juggling process easier, but hardly. The studio hired me full-time with a generous starting salary, but if we were filming, I might be at work for twelve, fourteen hours. Art is art and the artist drives himself mad in pursuit, and I was no different, but maybe it would be nice to sleep again. My roommates pointed out that they’d go weeks without seeing me, like I was a ghost in our apartment. All traces that I had been there were still present—unmade bed, empty shampoo bottles, half-eaten dinners shoved into Tupperware containers—but I had not been truly present in some time. 

I was happy, but I missed interaction. The artist may think he can live off merely his art, but he will eventually realize he is human, too, and second to oxygen, he needs other humans.

Which is why I didn’t think twice when my parents asked me to fly into Seoul for a week during the summer. They usually visited New York a couple times a year, but they were growing older and the flights were taking bigger tolls on them, so I filled in. A trip home might alleviate some of my stress anyway, and I’d have the chance to meet with friends I hadn’t seen in half a decade.

-

The only problem with travelling a fourteen-hour time difference was the jet-lag. My first day, I passed out on the couch at two in the afternoon. The smell was comforting and reminded me of childhood and the nostalgia became a lullaby that rocked me to sleep in the middle of a conversation with my mother. She let me be, covering me with a blanket and preparing a cup of tea for when I woke. 

I tried to sleep again in the evening. My parents went to bed at midnight, but I tossed and turned for an hour to no avail. Luckily, there was always one person I could call at 1AM and expect an answer every time: Jung Hoseok. 

He picked me up not twenty minutes later, shouting on my front porch about how many years it had been and how my face matured and how hot I looked. I shushed him when a neighbor’s dog started barking, and he yanked me into his car. 

“Have you talked to Jimin yet? Or Yoongi? They wonder about you all the time,” he gushed. “We’ve seen all of your videos on YouTube, and we placed bets on how old you’ll be when you become a millionaire. I said twenty-seven, so you still have a few years, but you should probably start planning as soon as you can.”

Hoseok fired a million questions a minute, hardly granting me the opportunity to answer, but he made up for it by constantly making me laugh. Even when I tried to glare at him at a slightly-too-personal inquiry, he smirked at me out of the corner of his eye, and I forgave him in an instant. He was always the biggest personality in the room, and he was on his way to opening the dance studio he had always dreamed of as a teenager. 

“Can you believe it? We’re both achieving everything we ever dreamed of!” he beamed. 

“Well…sort of,” I said with a shrug, and he almost swerved into oncoming traffic as he whipped his head to stare at me in shock. “What? Don’t kill us, Hoseok.” 

“You’re living the New York dream life. You’re making short movies and you have your own growing fan base. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Of course, but…it’s lonely sometimes, and my roommates and I still talk, but our friendship has faded since college. I’d prefer you, Yoongi, and Jimin a hundred times over.” 

“None of us would complain if you moved back,” he suggested. “If you needed a place to stay, your parents would surely let you, or you’re welcome to live with me. I’m in a one-bedroom right now, but we’d figure something out, and—”

“That isn’t what I meant,” I interrupted. “I gave up everything to be able to make a life in New York, and I’m doing it. I’m making good money. The apartment is nice enough. I—”

“You can make good money and get a nice apartment in Seoul,” Hoseok said. “I’m not asking you to give up your life, but if you aren’t as happy there as you always thought you’d be, maybe it’s time to reevaluate your decision. That’s all. Do you want to get some drinks?”

“Do you mind if we get drinks another night?” I asked, never one to tear him away from a party, but I hadn’t walked the city streets in so long that I missed them, and I didn’t want to forget my first night home after winding up black-out drunk in the back of Hoseok’s car. “Show me the city. What’s new? What hasn’t changed?” 

“Right. I have a place for you, and luckily, we’re pretty close,” he said, taking the next left. “Remember that underground music venue we always used to go to? They sold old records and sometimes featured live artists sometimes?” 

I nodded. 

“It’s gotten pretty popular over the years. One of their guys seems to be on the cusp of making it big, so the crowd might be a little bigger,” he warned. 

“I’ve lived in two of the biggest cities in the world. Crowds don’t scare me,” I said. “Are you sure we’ll be able to make it inside, though?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” he said, parking his car on the side of the road and leading me a couple blocks down vaguely familiar streets. The memories came back to me—buying school supplies from that store over there, or makeup from the place on the corner because I wanted to impress my peers. There were a couple places I didn’t recognize at all. 

���Is this the line?” I asked at the sight of fifty or so people—mostly in their twenties—standing around the venue Hoseok and I used to slip into with little more than a five minute wait. “How aren’t they at capacity?”

“They’ve had to expand, and with the expansion they introduced VIP passes for a few of the regulars,” Hoseok said, digging a card out of his pocket as he strolled passed the waiting swath of people like he owned the entire place. 

“Are you sure that’ll get me in?” I worried, but he merely waved his hand at me. 

“Jin!” Hoseok greeted the worker, who I somewhat remembered was a couple years older than me in school, but I never spoke to him. Apparently he and Hoseok were well acquainted. 

“Hoseok! Who is your friend?” Jin asked, but upon closer inspection his eyes widened in recognition. “I remember you! You moved to New York, right? Hoseok mentions you all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” I forced myself to chuckle a little, trying my best to be polite. “Is it alright that I cut in front of all these people?”

“Normally, I’d say no, but I get the feeling Hoseok would never let me hear the end of it,” Jin tsked. Hoseok laid down a few bills in front of him, and Jin nodded for us to head inside, down the steps. 

The bar was larger, equipped with more shimmering glasses than ever, and the standing area had easily doubled in size, perhaps tripled, which a slightly lifted stage whereas singers used to stand eye-to-eye with their audience. A dim light bathed the space in red. 

“Red?” I said aloud. “Sexy.”

“Or angry,” Hoseok proposed, spending the next fifteen or so minutes chatting my ear off while people filled in around us. We weren’t near the front, but the view was good enough regardless, and in the event I would need to make a hasty exit, we were close to the stairs.

-

There was no warning that anyone was about to walk onto the stage. No announcement to introduce his presence was made, but the crowd knew. The shouting leveled to a murmur in the moments leading up to the grand reveal.

Then they erupted. One glimpse, and they became an entire stadium of fans, hands stretched into the air while lungs strained for breath. 

But for my heart, the moment was anything but worthy of celebration. 

If I thought Namjoon was handsome five years ago, he was breathtaking now, with the same sloped nose and dimples, but he matured into his features and his new confidence hit me full force. He changed his hair, too. Just like me. 

But he was so, so angry. With the world. Sometimes with his friends or himself, but mostly with me.  

“Why would you bring me here?” I shoved Hoseok’s arm. “What makes you think I’d want to see him, of all people?”

He narrowed his eyes, still moving with the music. “You broke up when you were eighteen. I thought you’d be over it by now and might want to see that he’s making something of himself, too.”

“I’m over it, but are you even listening to him? Half of these songs have been about me.”

“You were a big influence on his music. Don’t you think it’s kind of flattering?” Hoseok argued. “Most of the ones about you are from years ago, anyway, but he’s got to keep performing the fan favorites. Heartbreak resonates with people.”

He made complete sense, but that didn’t mean I wanted to admit that or stand and listen to the words coming out of Namjoon’s mouth. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said, winding my way to the steps. I shut myself in the upper-level bathroom, where the voices downstairs were muffled and thus unintelligible. 

Namjoon enrolled in a music school in Seoul, always praying that he’d be that one-in-a-million to make his music known on a global stage. He sang me to sleep so many times and rapped with more passion than most professionals. I believed in him more than myself, and he was on his way, but hearing the vehemence that backed his words made me hate him so slightly. 

When others started coming into the bathroom at a quicker rate, I realized the music had ended. I exited to find the crowd filing their way out. How long had I been hiding?

“There you are.” Hoseok took my arm and pulled me towards him. “I started to think you left without me. Look, if I crossed a line by bringing you here—”

“How can I talk to him?” I blurted out, unaware that I had even thought of the question, but it was out in the open. 

“You’re sure you want to do that?” he asked, giving me the chance to back out, but I nodded my head. “You know you aren’t allowed to hit him, right?”

“Yes, now please tell me, or I might hit you,” I threatened. 

“Go back downstairs. Off the side of the stage, there’s a hall. He’ll be in the room on the end,” Hoseok said, handing me the VIP card. “There’s a guard. Show him this.” 

“Thank you. Wait here.” I snatched the card and hurried back to the basement, following Hoseok’s set of instructions until my hand was on the doorknob of Namjoon’s room. What do you say to your ex-boyfriend who just performed several rap songs about your break-up to several hundred people? 

Apparently, you don’t have to speak first anyway. 

I only step halfway into the room when he catches my reflection in the mirror. The ice pack he was pressing to his neck falls to the floor, and he’s on his feet faster than if I’d told him the building was about to collapse. 

“You’re here,” he breathes. “I saw you in the crowd, but you left, and I thought you were gone for good. Again.”

Again. I wince at the word. “Clearly you had a lot to say about me, so I came to give you the chance to say it to my face. If you hated me so much, why—”

“No, no, no, no.” He crosses half the floor in a few steps but stops in the middle of the room because he remembers that he can’t wrap his arms around me anymore when I need the comfort. “Those songs were all written years ago. Three, four, or five years, and they aren’t the only ones I wrote. I have sappy ballads and about a dozen songs titled ‘I Miss You’ and I can perform those at the breakfast café, but this isn’t the crowd for that.”

“A breakfast café?” I ask. He nods. “How many venues do you have booked?”

“Depends how many openings a place has—sometimes two or three, but other times up to six,” he says, attempting to mask his pride, but he glows a little brighter. 

“So you aren’t angry all the time?”

He rocks his head side to side. “No,” he decides. “I’m angry some of the time, but isn’t everyone?”

“So you’re happy?” I ask. “This is what you want, right?” 

This question is, evidently, more difficult to answer. “I’m…happy with the music, sure. And the fans,” he supposes. “There’s talk that I might go to a couple cities around the country and do a few performances, but we’ll see.” 

“What about your friends? Your social life?” I ask. “How’re those things?” 

“You care?” he wonders, and I nod. “I have a few people I’ve been working with, and they’re all great. They’re so passionate about getting me off the ground, and I love them, but I miss having actual friends sometimes, and going out for drinks, or seeing concerts.”

“Filming has been kind of the same way for me,” I admit. “Weird, don’t you think? How we both went after what we wanted, but one year after graduating, we’re both stuck already.”

“I’ve seen your work. It’s phenomenal,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck. “I tried to text you about it once, but you must’ve gotten a new number and I didn’t want to bother you.”

“We both bothered each other, don’t you think?” I ask, recalling how we mutually drifted apart after all the missed calls and unread messages. “We weren’t capable of being friends. It took me two years to stop missing you.” 

“What about the last three years? Do you ever think of me?”

“I…sometimes.” I shrug, unsure of myself. “When I talk about high school, you’re usually in the mix, or sometimes when I smell peppermint I think of your house, but I had to move on eventually. We both did.”

“Right, right,” he says, nodding in agreement. “But…I would’ve still loved you, you know?” 

“You would’ve?” I ask. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“It does. If you stayed here, or if you asked me to wait for you like I offered, I think we could’ve done it.” His stage personality starts to fade and I recognize a younger, shyer Namjoon who figured out how to love someone with his whole heart when he was sixteen years old and spent two years doing anything and everything to make me happy, which included letting me break his heart and move across the world. 

“But I didn’t stay, and I didn’t ask you to wait,” I say, “so the question isn’t a matter of whether you would’ve loved me, but a matter of if you still do.”

“I beg to differ. It’s not a matter of if I do, but of if I can,” he corrects me. “Because I can’t be in love with someone seven thousand miles away. Not again.” 

 “Haven’t we been over this before?” I mutter. Five years ago, I said the same things. I couldn’t survive a relationship and distance, so I chose the latter. 

“When you said you weren’t sure you’d ever come back, but here you are,” he says, gesturing to me and he was giving us both a little more hope than we knew what to do with, bringing forth all the memories of when we were just teenagers in love and what could possibly be more convincing than that? Didn’t we deserve that again?

“My entire life is over there.” I shake my head. “How long has it been since we last spoke? And you’re talking about being in love? We have to most past this eventually.” 

“You were the one who asked me if I still love you,” he points out. “Do you still love me?”

Of course I do. 

The thought springs into existence as easy as air, even if it had been years since I last thought it. I’d always love him, even when I hated him so slightly. 

“Does it matter?” I ask, pushing the feelings down, down, down into the pit of my stomach. “You said you can’t be in love with someone seven thousand miles away, and I can’t, either. That’s why we broke up.”

“But you aren’t seven thousand miles away right now.”

“So what? I’m here for a week,” I sigh at my growing headache. Namjoon always had been one to throw aside logic in a desperate attempt to keep what he wanted. 

“Then we have a week,” he says.

“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him, but he knew that already. He had to. 

“Maybe, but you aren’t saying no.” He catches onto me, and I swear at him in my head. “You haven’t walked out, either, which you used to do when you didn’t agree with me.” 

“Storming out of rooms is too teenager-esque for me,” I say, but he’s crossing the room again. I either want to slap or kiss him, but I’ll figure it out for sure in the moment. “You really think we can pretend this is a good idea for a week?”

He nods. “I really do.”

“Good enough for me.” 

I grab the collar of his shirt with both hands and pull him to me, his lips meeting mine in a less than graceful collision but our love had never been pretty in the first place. 

In a week, I’ll regret the decision. I’ll hate myself for kissing him. I’ll hate myself for asking to see him. I’ll hate myself for turning down Hoseok’s offer to drink ourselves into a stupor, or for leaving my parents’ house in the first place, but not yet. Not when Namjoon is standing right in front of me and his hands are in my hair and we’re eighteen again. 

For the next six days, we have all the time in the world.

a/n: have i mentioned how much i love kim namjoon bc i love him with my entire heart that’s all 

#kpop drabbles #kpop au #kpop reactions #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fluff #kpop angst #bts drabbles #bts au #bts reactions #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts angst #bts #kim namjoon #namjoon #rm #bts rm #bts namjoon #bts namjoon angst

[tillymint7]

Ines Danjak and John Barker 🙌

On 9th Oct 2019 we had the great pleasure of attending a lecture from international artist Ines Danjak and writer John Barker.

It was quite hard to hear due to mic problems, coughing from students dying from freshers flu combined with my hearing still recovering from freshers flu so don’t quote me on any of the following info because I probably got the facts and info completely wrong. 🤦🏻‍♀️🙃

Ines and John discussed their ongoing collaborations and their book ‘Loomshuttles, Warpaths’ Ines collected 48 Andrean textiles from across Latin America over a 35 years period. Ines did extensive research around Andrean culture and was fascinated by the sacredness, rituals and care taken with each textile. In comparison Ines is interest in how far removed Europe and the west is from their use of clothing. Western clothing is disposable only created for short lived fashion trends and for covering our bodies.

Ines’s and Johns work highlights the sacred links that the Andrean people have with each garment, but also highlights colonialism, the colonial gaze, the gender divide and how war, politics and capitalism of the western world has blood on its hands with regards to the treatment of these people. People are still suffering to this day at the hands of capitalism and the textiles industry.

In Andrean culture textiles are mainly traditionally produced by women. These women are deeply respected by their community. They even have their own social structures depending on their skill set each one considered an independent business women in their own right.

Over the centuries the west has ignorantly judged many cultures as primitive. The South American social structure show the Andrean people are far more progressive than most cultures.

Each Andean garment created is considered a vessel for the spirits of their ancestors. Each garment is valued and repaired, patterns is both sacred and practical, each pattern is linked to a particular family. Other garments or objects are used specifically for ritual celebrations. During carnival celebration social boundaries are set aside, both enemie and fore can come together in the beauty of celebration, tradition and culture.

This object below was passed around for us to touch and observe. The item was corse and deceptively heavy, it seemed to be made with a mixture of twine and wool, there is animal hair amougst the fibres and I’m not sure but it felt as though it was coated in some sort of substance, the item seemed quite strong and stiff. It looks like a cup or a vessel apparently it is something that is traditionally passed round during traditional celebrations.

One of the main dyes exported from South America is indigo. Indigo is a sacred dye only said to be able to be produced by women who weren’t pregnant, which the Andean believe allows the indigo to gain its deepest blue. In the past people caught producing and using indigo without permission were imprisoned, tortured or even killed.

(The image below shows when capitalism increased the production of indigo, menual labour was used to produce the dye the men were worked hard all day in these large vats. The substance was so toxic that the workers normally died within 7 years)

(The images above shows some of Ines and Johns Posters from their exhibition ’The Archives’)

The posters above linked to each of the 48 individual textiles stating the date they were made and showing political images of protest and riots as well as.historical events and the atrocities that these poor people suffered in the name of western capitalism. The posters to me also depict the people’s strength and resilience despite what they have been forced to endure.

Ines attended one of the traditional Andean carnivals. Dressed in a costume she designed thats was covered in eyes. It was a nude body suite with a hood and mask, which looked very bizare amoungst the traditional brightly coloured costumes. To me it stated she was a respectful observer but also depicted the colonial gaze. Ines said at first she felt strange, like she didn’t belong, she even questioned herself, but then she realised as the carnival carried on that people were smiling at her, they started talking to her. She felt as she was accepted and the people seemed to realise why she was there and what message she hoped to convey.

Sadly in 2017 the news broke that one of the largest factory fires on recorded had taken place in South America in the very place Ines and John had visited . Female workers were locked inside and left to burn alive. Completely saddened by this Ines and John decided they had to do something more to let the Andrean people know they cared as well as to let the west know what their mindless consumption and greed was doing to the people of South America.

Ines decided out of respect for the Andean people she would create an art video performance with native dancers, the costume she created for her initial performance art pieces as well as traditional carnival music. To me this video is vibrant and powerful it shows Ines’s love and respect for the Andean people.

In the west people through blinkered ignorance don’t want to think about how a product is produced so cheaply, or about why companies outsource to cut cost and what that actually means. Even in that statement it makes me feel sick to even say ‘product produced so cheaply’ the cost of human life is the highest immeasurable cost that should never be sacrificed for a cheap garment! This makes me so sad to think of these poor people are worked to death for our gain.

I believe as consumers we have a responsibility to make sure the produces we use are created with respect and are repaired rather than thrown away, but also the companies have to be held to account! Their products should not be allowed to be sold in unless they are produced safely by workers who are paid a fare wage. The workers should be able to live with the humanity, respect and the standards they deserve.

To me this are a very extreme example of the modern day slavery. I believe all the under paid poor working class unable to feed their family’s due to slave labour wages is something that is so familiar across the world today. Sadly even in Britain we have seen a rise of food banks and in work poverty, but for the poor people in Souths America forced to work such horrendous conditions in the desperation to provide food for their families is beyond comprehension.

I loved that Ines completely immersed herself in her work, the research is extensive and extremely respectful and thought provoking. I really respect their dedication to highlight such an important issue as well as their passion to envoke change through their work. It’s definitely something that speaks to me as an artist, a woman and a mother.

Ines has begun to produce her own clothing line called ‘Not Dressed for Conquering’. During her exhibitions viewers are encouraged to wear the garments and touch the artwork. The ability to be completely immerse yourself in artwork really speaks to me as an artist. It takes away the detachment. During the lecture Ines was wearing a suite made from the fabrics she designed after her experience at the carnival. I thought she looked so stylish. She brought in the camouflage print that was used on the war ships in World War 2. The camouflage to me seems to represent who the people in the carnival are disguised, they blend in with each other, no one stands out, they are all one, they are all equal.

I felt extremely honoured to of been able to meet Ines and John. The Q&A was wonderful so lovely to have a more intermate meeting with them both after the lecture. We discussed their working relationship, they did not know each other before this project, to me they seem like a very respectful married couple. You can see the closeness they are gained through working together, you can also see they both have very strong personalities and are not shy at sharing theirs views. We also discussed further about their book ‘Loomshuttle, Warpaths’ which I’m looking forward to reading.

Ines and John states there is always something to add and always more to create and highlight. We even had to chance to see some new textiles Ines had created. One textile showed dead flies on fly paper, which we thought she could relate to the tichie flies that consume the cattle as they are worked to death in the field. Ines did say she is still working on other projects outside of their collaboration, all of which have a beginning and an end which allows her space for her other ideas to grow.

I was thinking about what Ines said in relation to my own work. There always seems to be something else I want to add. It’s not about what the viewer thinks, it’s about what your draw to create as an artist, you have to allow yourself to be enveloped inside your own creativity. I’m really looking forward to seeing more from Ines and John in the future.

I’m relation to my own work I’m definitely draw to social and political issue, but like Ines it’s not something I have to create all the time but it is important to produce work around subjects and issues that you are really passionate about. Becoming an activist for such an important cause through art is a very honourable thing to do, but I believe artist should only do this if it’s something they want to do. I do think it will be something I will continue do within my work as I have created works with social and political threads before but being unknown they have a lot less impact. The exciting thing is once your work is notice even by a few people it can be a powerful tool to create awareness. Iv always been draw to highlighting injustice in one way or another but it’s more about sharing my fears and worries as a person and a mother, art for me is a more impactful and helpful way than just shouting and protesting.

[smhtxmhxlland]

The Man Who Can’t Be Moved

Artist: The Script

Relationship: Peter Parker X Reader

Summary: She’s terrified of commitment.

Warnings: Mention of Prostitution, drug mention, abandonment.

Word Count: 2,298

I just got done watching Pretty Woman, so that’s where this is coming from....oops.

Want a Song?

I was broke. Literally. My heart was shattered in my chest. I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I always thought school was stupid. Sitting at a desk everyday, listening to nonsense coming out of some old man’s mouth. Quite ridiculous.

Now, though, I had been screwed over by yet another man and was left on the corner of the street. He kicked me out. Stupid, stupid girl.

I was walking down the street, my only belongings fitting in a small paper bag from a local shop. 

He’d been boyfriend number 5, or I guess client number 5. I was new to the whole “selling your body” thing. I wasn’t very good at it, but it brought in some good cash. I guess....I sort of just kept getting attached.

So, no, they didn’t really just dump me on the street. This corner was my home. I had no other place to go. This was where I earned my money. My mother would be so proud. 

I fluffed up my hair with my empty hand, moving it down to my face to wipe away the tears. I fooled myself into loving them every time they came around. I fooled myself every damn time. I was getting tired, but I had no other source of income. How would I eat?

I found a nearby bench, set my stuff down, and sagged into the wooded seat. I put my face in my hands and sucked in a huge breath. 

I felt a rush of wind and looked up. A figure in red appeared and I jumped up suddenly defensive. Grabbing my back I stared as he stared back at me.

“Are you alright?” He spoke.

I knew what I looked like. Tattered clothes and in dire need of a shower. The second half wasn’t true. I had showered at the last house I had been in, which was....two days ago?

“Yeah,” I choked out, my voice failing me. “I’m perfectly fine.”

I was a little disturbed at the fact that this person had literally appeared from the sky and had a black spider sewn into the fabric on his chest. What was with the mask?

“Are you sure? You look like you’re lost....or something.”

I shook my head. “I’m perfectly okay. This is exactly where I’m meant to be.”

He wasn’t moving. I didn’t know what to do at this point. Standing here in front of him was getting extremely uncomfortable. 

“I’m gonna go now. I’ve got business to get to.” I started walking down the familiar street now, leaving the weird masked man-boy back there. 

I didn’t look back, but I could feel him staring directly at my back. I turned a corner, into a dark alleyway, just to get his heated stare off my body. I couldn’t think clearly with that feeling following me down the entire street.

I groaned then, realizing I had gone into my ex’s territory. He was a part of a gang. Not my brightest moment. I had tried to avoid this spot my entire life, but I had accidentally stepped right over the safety line.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while beautiful.” A disgusting voice drawled from further back in the alley.

I didn’t think it was too late to leave, so I immediately turned on my heel and made my way back to the street. Unfortunately, at this point, his little posse had cornered me. I was screwed.

“Leave me alone.” I growled.

“Aw, come on. We always had fun when we were together. Let’s relive it.” His smile made my skin crawl. Disgusting.

“No thank you. I make people pay for fun now.”

He chuckled at this, a low menacing sound. “Of course you do sweetheart. I’ve got all the money in the world.”

I was frustrated that my plan didn’t work. The last time I’d seen him he had been in the dumps. Scrounging up money just to fulfill his drug addiction. He’d obviously been more successful than me in the real world.

“Please, just leave me alone. You know why I left you.”

He nodded. “I do, but I’m not like that anymore, and I want to be a paying customer. Help my favorite girl out.”

I felt gross, his hand wrapping around my arm. I was stuck.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but a blinding figure swung in and knock him to the ground. The black spider logo guy appeared and began destroying the entire gang. He knocked two of them off their feet, shot webs out at another’s face, and webbed my ex to the wall. 

They all seemed to be intact as the guy finished what he was doing. They were all breathing, although some unconscious. This crazy guy had just saved me from utter humiliation.

“I was fine!” I yelled at him.

He laughed, a beautiful sound. “Of course you were. I just decided to bring the attention on me. Sorry, force of habit.”

So he was funny. “Okay...”

I was at a loss of words. I hadn’t been fine and he’d known that. Why had he saved me though? That was the question. 

“I gotta go.” I said as I began to speed walk back to alley. 

I was spooked by what had happened. The fact that he had just swooped in and rescued me. I could still feel my ex’s grimy hand on my arm too. Quite an unpleasant feeling. 

“Wait!” He called, stopping me in my tracks. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” I simply replied, walking back over to my usual corner.

I sat down and looked at him. He walked over to me, his stupid, tight legging things clinging tightly to his body. 

“Home?”

I nodded, a grin on my face. “Can you take that damn mask off?”

“Uh...oh yeah.” He ripped the thing off, his dark hair flopping messily over his forehead.

Gross, he was cute.

“You live on the corner of the street?”

I shrugged, a satisfied smile on my face. “Or in someone else’s house. I’m sort of like a parasite.”

He had offered my to come to his house that night. He lived with his aunt in an apartment just down the street. His aunt seemed nice enough and I didn’t ask many questions about the living arrangement. Everyone had their own story. 

Unfortunately for me, he asked about mine.

“Well, I dropped out of high school because I hate teachers. I hate school in general. It’s really gross. Also, I had way too much confidence in myself.”

He nodded, now in regular attire. He was wearing loose sweats and a geeky tee. He was way too cute, way too out of my league. Even for a nerd.

“So....how do you get money again?”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “Why don’t you get creative and take a few guesses?”

I had stayed with him for a few months. His aunt didn’t ask many questions, so I assumed Peter had told her about my situation. My mother refused to let me back into my house. He probably told her I was kicked out because my mom was crazy. Which isn’t that far from the truth, the only lie was that I’d been kicked out. I actually chose to leave, but it was okay that he lied.

I had become attached to him very quickly. It was so weird to be around someone without them paying me to be there. It was a new feeling to actually be wanted. I loved it.

I stayed in his room while he went off to school. I stayed in his room when he went off to save people. I stayed in his room at night, on the floor. I stayed in his room almost always, except for dinner.

His aunt and I got really close over the span of a few months. She was a glorious woman. She cared deeply for him and I began to get attached to her too. I think she was beginning to like me.

Peter came home one night especially stressed. He had been crying, his eyes red and swollen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him, sitting on the bed. 

He was sat in his rolling chair, my usual place. He wiped his face, another tear sliding down his cheek. 

“Tony took my suit away.”

My heart yearned for him. It had only taken me a week to learn that Spider-Man was the most important thing to him. He talked about it all the time. He was so proud. He worked hard for it. Working out on a daily, making sure his grades weren’t slipping so his aunt wouldn’t be concerned.

It was admirable. 

“Come here.” I said, opening my arms to him.

He got up reluctantly and sat down next to me, leaning his head into my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed his back. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise you.”

He didn’t say anything. I continued to rub his back. He pulled back a little and I brushed the hair from his face. He gave me a slight grin, his eyes flicking down to my lips. I froze, all of my instincts telling me to run.

He leaned forward, his hand on the back of my head, pulling me gently toward him. I let him place his lips on mine, but stayed frozen for a moment. 

I broke eventually, letting my eyes flutter close and allowing myself to melt into him. It was the best feeling I had ever felt. However, when it was over, I felt guilt wash over me. I was too far deep. I needed to get out of here.

“I have to go.” I said, rushing out of the room.

I heard him call my name, aunt May too, but I kept going. I ran down the apartment stairs, tears glistening down my cheeks. I had fallen for him and it was terrifying. I fled the scene. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be with him. 

So I left. Forever.

Peter’s POV

I went back everyday to the same spot. The same corner I had met her the first time. Her home.

She told me it was where she lived when she didn’t have a couch to crash on. She slept on the park bench underneath one of the few trees on this street.

My heart hurt.

I ended up staying there for a week. Maybe I had been missing her. Maybe in-between my visits to school and being Spider-Man, she snuck back and I had missed her. I needed her. I loved her.

I was awoken by a prodding in my side. I rubbed my eyes and looked up to see a police officer standing over me.

“Sir, you can’t sit here.”

I sat up, blinking at the sun coming through the leaves of the tree.

“Sorry, I’m just waiting for someone.”

He nodded at me and left without another word. I had been waiting for months now. There was no trace of her.

Every now and then someone would offer me money. I always turned them away telling them I wasn’t homeless. They had a worried look in their eyes as they left. I wondered what was on their minds. What did they think of me?

I was a broken man on a park bench. Who wouldn’t offer me money? I probably had the perfect heart broken face. Except, this face wasn’t fake. She had taken my heart with her and it felt like she continued to stick needles into it. 

Month two and I decided to start asking people. I pulled up a picture of the two of us on my cell phone and showed pedestrians walking by.

“Have you seen this girl?” I’d question.

The answer was always no. She had disappeared. 

I stayed there though. A deep feeling in my chest told me that one day she would wake up and miss me. She couldn’t just leave me like that. A person just doesn’t lose feelings. 

I had hope that she would come back here. Come back to her home. The place we had first met. She told me she’d lived here for years. It was a comfortable spot and she knew when police patrolled. She avoided them at all costs. 

My heart yearned for her. 

Eventually I became Spider-Man again. My suit had been returned to me, but I had also become the man who could not be moved. I would hear people talking about me as I sat on the bench.

It was everyday after school. I would just sit. I became a known spectacle. They named me.  Aunt May had eventually told me to come home, telling me she was gone. I didn’t believe her and I didn’t tell her about sitting on the bench after school. I just hoped she wouldn’t see me the next time she went to the grocery store.

I was the man who can’t be moved, even the police had stopped asking me to leave. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t doing any harm or asking for money. Maybe it was simply because I looked like a beaten down dog. Maybe it was because I had cried the last time they asked me to move.

Either way, I was here. I was here hoping she would come back, return the heart she had stolen and destroyed. Hoping she would come back to the place she called home. The place we had first met.

I hoped she would see me on the news, I had made the headline of the paper last week. Maybe she’d come running back to me tomorrow.

Hope was a dangerous thing, for it was the only thing that kept me here. 

The man who can’t be moved.

#peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #the script #music #song #sad #left #depression

[wear-did-you-buy-that-blog]

Meet Selam Fessahaye, the Stylist and Designer Making Change on the Swedish Fashion Scene

https://www.vogue.com/article/designer-profile-selam-fessahaye-swedish-eritrean-fashion-designer-stylist

BY: Laird Borrelli-Persson

Selam Fessahaye is a Swedish-Eritrean costume designer who launched her first ready-to-wear collection in August 2018. “It was for me,” she says of her Fashion Week Stockholm debut. “It was time. I just had to feel absolute freedom in my creativity.” Those were very busy days: As she was prepping the clothes, Fessahaye was filming a four-part documentary series, with producer-director Mela Tesfazion, about her life and work (it aired on Sveriges Television in September). “My main reason for doing the documentary,” she says, “was thinking, This is exactly what I would have needed to see growing up to just make my path a lot easier and 10 years shorter.”

After Fessahaye’s sophomore show, presented in February, she was proclaimed Sveriges modemirakle, the country’s fashion miracle. “It totally feels like they are talking about someone else,” she says of the title. For the record, this miracle was 17 years in the making—and it didn’t come easy. “As a black woman in Sweden, everything I do is political,” Fessahaye states. “Who I am is political; I don’t even have a choice not to be political.”

Fessahaye’s debut was powerful on many levels and in ways she couldn’t have anticipated. In the gilded, Old World interiors of Stockholm’s Grand Hôtel, she presented garments that were an explosion of color, sparkle, and silhouette. She cut neon-colored tulle into utilitarian shapes (some of these have been worn by Kindness, aka Adam Bainbridge, the buzzy British singer-songwriter/DJ/producer who is currently on tour with Robyn). There were romantic asymmetric gowns with trains, spangled looks for men and women that took the Kirakira effect to the next level, and hyperbolic tailoring. These dramatics were presented on a cast of clients, friends, and friends of friends, the majority of whom were people of color. “I thought, I’m showing at fashion week and I’m showing in these rooms and I’m going to bring my world with me,” the designer says. “[I wanted to show] what’s beautiful to me.” There weren’t many dry eyes by the end. “I’m amazed people got the feeling of it, and I felt it was much needed,” remarks Fessahaye. Indeed: There had been a neo-Nazi rally in the capital just days before.

Many members of Fessahaye’s fashion family walked in her sophomore show and appear in the fashion film she created, with director Sheila Johansson, to tell the story of it; clips of the film appear below. Cast members are dressed in looks from Fessahaye’s romantic new collection, which references Asia and Victoriana. Though the silhouettes are familiar, Fessahaye offers novelty in the way of textiles (including upholstery fabrics, which were used for the looks worn by Drake’s favorite twins, Elizabeth and Victoria Lejonhjärta). These aren’t clothes that could make an immediate transition from the runway to retail (at this point Fessahaye is taking personal orders), but the lineup delivered on other fronts and in ways that resonate with what’s happening in the fashion world outside of Sweden. When the cast posed for an assembled portrait at the end of the show, only the composition was classical; the casting was diverse. “Representation matters!” says Fessahaye. As a black female designer, she approaches inclusivity from a completely different perspective than someone like Valentino’s Pierpaolo Piccioli, who, just weeks earlier, had presented a glorious couture collection that reimagined Cecil Beaton’s famous Vogue photograph of models in Charles James gowns, recast with women of color. Still, it might be possible to find a thread between the two; both are rewriting familiar narratives to make them more inclusive.

Fessahaye, now 35, was born and raised in Uppsala by parents who preserved their Eritrean culture. “My name means peace,” says the designer. “It was given to me after 20-plus years of war—where women have fought side by side with the men for the freedom of the people—in the hope of seeing an end to it, and that’s only the beginning of the impact of my heritage.” Fessahaye can be counted among the “third culture kids” (children raised in a culture different than that of both of their parents), who are contributing so much to Sweden’s cultural scene. “I think we are a generation of being in between,” she says. “We’re not our parents, who came from war or have seen something else, but we’re not Swedish—nobody will see us and just think, Okay, this is a regular Swede, so we’re just trying to find our own middle way where we can exist. That’s a big part of everything I do.”

Fashion has been a big part of Fessahaye’s life, too. At 7, she started sneaking into her mother’s closet to find pieces that might not be missed, and she reworked them. “Fashion’s always been the most natural way for me to express myself,” says the designer. While Fessahaye’s family accepted fashion as a hobby, she was expected to aspire to a “real” profession—like being a doctor or a lawyer. “I was often told by the community around me that my parents did not come to this country so that I could jeopardize my future with a hobby that wouldn’t go anywhere.” She showed the naysayers: Among her clients are IKEA, Max Factor, and award-winning artists including Seinabo Sey, Tove Styrke, and Jireel.

Is fashion really becoming more inclusive? Fessahaye does see progress in regard to diversity in the Swedish fashion industry, but she is frustrated at the pace. “The world has been so far behind for such a long time, sometimes it’s like, ‘Yo, this needs to go faster.’ Also, we need diversity on every level,” she says. “A mostly white setting using nonwhite models is far from the kind of diversity I want and need. There needs to be diversity at all levels, from the models walking the floor to the people behind the curtain controlling the show.” Fessahaye is determined to do whatever she can “to not be a part of anything else but change.”

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