#a pattern from 1912 that i really like and i might see about making that for the lighthouse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spn-safeandsound · 5 years ago

Text

13. Found Each Other

Safe and Sound

Dean Winchester x Original Character

Episode: 1x19; Provenance

Word Count: 9,972

Warning(s): Mature language, canon violence + gore, sexual themes

Author’s Note: I’m excited for y’all to read this! Make sure you tell me what you think! Reblog and like!

Masterlink in Pinned Post!

Julia tapped her manicured nails against the surface of the table to the beat of the song playing through the bar that she and the Winchester brothers were hanging out in. She hardly paid attention to John's journal in front of her, even though she was supposed to be looking up something for Sam. Her eyes were at the bar, where Dean stood flirting with a pretty brunette woman.

She wasn't bothered by it, not really. Yes, she liked Dean but she also thought that he considered her as his little sister. Really, the only reason she was irritated was because he had been sent to the bar to get them drinks and had yet to come back with them even though she saw the bartender give him the drinks more than five minutes ago.

If she had to watch Dean flirt with a bunch of women, she didn't want to be completely sober.

"Did you find the names?" Sam's question brought her out of her thoughts.

"Yeah," she answered quickly, pushing the journal back over to him. "There you go."

Sam studied the names—and each paragraph John wrote about the people and their death—and then nodded, tapping the page. He looked up in Dean's direction and waved for his attention. Despite the fact that Dean saw him, he continued flirting with the girl, smirking attractively.

Sam impatiently waved at him again; the smile on Dean's face dropped as he said something to the woman, grabbed their drinks from in front of him, and walked back over to the table they stole an hour ago.

Dean slid Julia's fuzzy navel over to her before setting down Sam's beer.

"Oh, look, the ice melted," Julia commented sarcastically, playfully raising her eyebrows at him while taking the straw between her fingers to stir the drink. "Just the way I like it. Thanks, Dean."

Dean winked at her. "You're welcome, Junior."

Julia popped the straw in her mouth and started drinking, enjoying the orange juice and peach flavored alcohol.

"All right, I think we got something," Sam told Dean.

"Oh, yeah, me too," Dean glanced back at the brunette he left at the bar. "I think we need to take a short leave for just a little bit. What do you think? I'm so in the door with this one."

"So, what are we today, Dean?" Sam set down the newspaper he had been studying for the past half-hour. "I mean, are we rock stars or army rangers?"

Dean grinned widely. "Reality TV scouts looking for people with special skills," he told Sam eagerly. Julia snickered and Sam and Dean joined in her laughter. "I mean, hey, it's not that far off, right?"

Sam shrugged.

"I don't understand," Julia piped in, taking another pull of her drink. "I mean, why do you have to lie?"

Dean gave her look that told her he thought that she was crazy. "You're kidding right?"

"No, I meant it in a way that you shouldn't have to lie about who you are," Julia elaborated. "You're hot and you have a somewhat nice personality. You shouldn't have to make up a story."

Dean grinned at her and rested his elbows on the table, leaning closer to her. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear anything after you called me hot."

Julia fought back her eyeroll—even when he was flirting he was such a little shit—and curled her lips seductively as she coyly played with her straw. Dean's eyes dropped down to her lips to the cleavage her white v-neck showed off, and then down to her hands, following her fingers' movements. Julia's self-esteem shot up a little bit when he bit his lip and his green eyes darkened as she pulled the straw to her lips.

The whole situation was getting intense and she could feel Dean's energy shifting into something lustful and primal. The sexual tension between them could be cut with a knife and she saw Sam look away with a small smile.

She took another drink of her beverage and then smiled at Dean, trying to diffuse the situation. "Then you might have to get hearing aids, old man."

Julia wished that they were alone so she didn't have to break up the little flirting between them. She wanted to see just how attracted Dean was to her and whether he would actually make a move or not.

Dean's light smirk fell slightly and he blinked, standing up to his full height. He took a drink of his beer, looked back at the girl at the bar, and then back at Sam.

"By the way, she's got a friend over there," he told his brother. "I can probably hook you up. What do you think?"

Sam looked taken aback by Dean's offer. "Dean...I...no thanks," he shook his head, almost shyly. "I can get my own dates."

"Yeah, you can but you don't," Dean pointed out.

Sam stiffened slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Dean shook his head and then nodded at the newspaper. "What you got?"

"Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York were both found dead in their own home a few days ago," Sam told him, recalling what he read from the article. "Their throats were slit and there were no prints, no murder weapons, all—"

Julia suppressed her smile when Sam snapped at his brother, who was looking back at the girls waiting for him at the bar. Dean looked back at Sam, paying attention again as he drank more beer.

"No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside," Sam finished.

Dean took another gulp of beer. "Could just be a garden variety murder, you know? Not our department."

"Well, your dad thought otherwise," Julia spoke up.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. "What do you mean?"

Julia dragged John's journal back in front of her and then spun it around so Dean could read the information the right way up. "John noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York," she pointed to the first victim's paragraph. "The first one was in 1912, the second one was in 1945, and the third one was in 1970."

"The same M.O. as the Telescas; their throats were slit, the doors were locked from the inside," Sam added. "Now, so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern, except for Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one."

"And now we got one," Dean stated.

Sam nodded. "Exactly."

"All right, I'm with you. It's worth checking out," Dean agreed and then hesitated, a smile slowly spreading on his face. "We can't pick this up until first thing, though, right?"

Sam gave him a confused look. "Yeah?"

"Good," Dean grabbed his beer and walked away from the table, heading back to the women at the bar. He started chatting with them right away while they leaned in him with flirtatious smiles.

Julia sighed and looked over at Sam. "We can't take him anywhere."

"No, we can't," Sam rolled his eyes. "Wanna head out?"

"Sure."

Julia quickly finished the rest of her drink as Sam picked up their stuff. She made him promise that they could stop by a pizza place—her favorite food to eat while buzzed—on the way back to their motel. Pizza, beer, and whatever movie was on cable sounded like a much better night than watching Dean go home with two women.

"So, last night..."

"Sam, come on," Julia sighed as they continued walking through the Telesca's old house. She had the EMF device in her hand as they walked down the upstairs hallway, checking the empty rooms for any evidence of what happened to the happy couple.

"What, I'm just saying," Sam shrugged as he took the lead into the master bedroom. There was a large bloodstain on the white carpet but there was nothing else in the room. Everything the Telesca's owned was now being sold at an estate sale because they had no other family. "You and Dean were getting somewhere and then you shut it down."

"I shut it down because I don't want a casual fling with your brother," Julia told him. "and I know that Dean isn't really the relationship kind of guy so I'm just gonna save myself the trouble."

"Fine," they left the master bedroom and started back downstairs.

Julia could tell that Sam wasn't finished with the topic of her and Dean but she didn't want to get into it again. She wasn't going to go there with Dean; she couldn't just have sex with him. She was someone who wore her heart on her sleeve and if she did have sex with Dean, she was positive that her feelings would grow. That's just how she was.

They left the house, locking up after themselves so it seemed like no one was there, and walked down the block to where Sam parked the Impala. Dean was still sleeping in the passenger seat when they arrived, his head leaning against the window with sunglasses blocking his sensitive eyes.

Julia playfully nudged Sam and bounded forward, leaning through the drivers' side window to reach the steering wheel. Sam grinned and chuckled as she slapped the horn, making Dean shout in surprise, jump in his seat, and take a defensive stance.

Julia broke out into giggles, laughing harder when Dean whipped off his sunglasses and glared at her. She slid back from the window and stepped to the side, opening her door to slide into the backseat.

Sam was still laughing when he sat in the drivers' seat.

"That was so not cool," Dean grumbled, resting his tired head back on the window. Julia snickered, not feeling sorry for him. He had done worse things to her while she was trying to sleep in the backseat—the worst was when he blared his music and started weaving in and out of the two lanes on an empty highway, making her fall into the space between the seats.

"We just swept the Telesca house with EMF. It's clean," Sam informed him, his laughter finally calming down. "And, last night, while you were...well...out—"

Dean smirked happily. "Good times."

Julia rolled her eyes while Sam continued as if he didn't say anything. "J and I checked the history of the house; no hauntings, no violent crimes."

"And there wasn't anything strange about the Telescas, either," Julia added.

"All right, so, if it's not the people and it's not the house, then maybe it's the contents," Dean said thoughtfully. "Like a cursed object or something."

"The house is clean," Sam stated.

"Yeah, I know," Dean gave him an annoyed look. "you said that."

"No, I mean it's empty," Sam elaborated. "No furniture, nothing."

"Where's all their stuff, then?"

"An estate sale," Julia informed him, recalling the information she looked up before they even stepped foot in the house. "It's taking place this afternoon at Daniel Blake's Auctions and Estates."

"Perfect," Dean sat up in his seat, yawning. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Sam started the car and pulled away from the curb, driving out of the expensive neighborhood that the Telescas lived in. As he turned onto the main road through town, Julia leaned forward in her seat to speak to the brothers.

"We should probably change first," she suggested.

Dean looked at her like he was crazy. "Why would we do that?"

"Daniel Blake's auction house is the best of the best," Julia told him. "We're gonna stick out like a sore thumb if we go in there in jeans and flannel. And, without an invitation, we'll get kicked out."

Dean wasn't convinced that they needed to change but Sam agreed with Julia. Once they stopped at a gas station to change into their nicest clothes, they made their way to Daniel Blake's auction house.

The lot was full of luxurious sports cars and the building was huge, with beautiful and expensive pieces of artwork, statues, and furniture. There were plenty of people mulling about and checking out the items, all dressed in very nice clothing.

"Silent auctions, estate sales," Dean muttered under his breath as they walked through the aisles of items. He stole some type of finger food from the buffet and stuffed it in his mouth. "Looks like a garage sale for Wasps, if you ask me."

Julia went to throw him a be-quiet look but a man's elegant yet distasteful voice came from behind them.

"Can I help you three?"

Julia, Dean, and Sam turned around and came face-to-face with an older gentleman, several inches shorter than both of the Winchester brothers. He wore a three-piece suit, his hair was slicked back impeccably, and there was a nasty look on his face.

"I'd like some champagne, please," Dean told him with his mouth full.

Julia nudged him with her elbow. "He's not a waiter," she turned back to the man, her sweet smile that gave her whatever she wanted on display. "Nice to meet you, I'm Julia Petersen—"

"Of the chain of sports shops?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, sir," Julia nodded confidently, holding out her hand for him to shake. The man took it, shaking it firmly yet politely. "These are my art dealers, Sam and Dean Connors."

The man gave the brothers a doubtful look. "You are art dealers?"

Sam nodded with a polite smile. "That's right."

"I'm Daniel Blake. This is my auction house," the man introduced himself. "Miss Petersen, no matter how nice it is to meet you, I'm afraid that this is a private showing. I don't remember seeing your name on the guest list."

Before Julia could say a word, Dean scoffed. "We're there, chuckles. You just need to take another look."

Julia had never been embarrassed of Dean and she wasn't now, either. She was annoyed, though. All she had to do was buy their way onto the guest list so they weren't intruding but he had to open his mouth. Mr. Blake would undoubtedly kick them out because of Dean's manners.

A waiter with a tray full of champagne passed by and Dean took a glass. "Oh, finally," he sniffed the glass pretentiously, as if it was a glass of wine. "Cheers."

Sam and Dean walked away from the man, leaving Julia on her lonesome. "Sorry about him," she tried saving grace. "We just arrived in town today and I heard about your showing. There wasn't enough time to buy tickets. Are there any left?"

Mr. Blake didn't seem as put-off by Julia as he was Sam and Dean. She owed it all to her last name and her training when it came to big events like this where her family had to mingle with the other rich people of America. When she was younger, Naomi and Maggie used to go to parties all the time but when Naomi died, Maggie started taking Julia along until she left for Stanford.

"Certainly, Miss Petersen," Mr. Blake nodded. "I'll come find you with the tickets. Please, continue to take a look around."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Blake," Julia gave him a sweet smile and then turned, heading off in the direction Sam and Dean went.

She found them in the area where the Telesca estate was being shown. The Telescas had mostly good taste, a little bit too stuffy for her, but the large painting of a family of five was horrific. She couldn't imagine why anyone would put that in their house, especially if they weren't related to the people in the portrait.

Sam and Dean joined her at the painting, each of them looking at it with furrowed brows.

"A fine example of American Primitive, wouldn't you say?" a woman spoke up as she walked toward them.

She was a couple of years older than Julia and far taller than her but she was beautiful. Her dark brown hair was pulled up elegantly and her black dress was classy enough for the showing but cute enough that she wasn't boring to look at.

Sam looked at the painting in confusion and then back to the woman. "Well, I'd say it's more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses," he stated. "But you knew that. You just wanted to see if I did."

The woman smiled. "Guilty," she admitted as a waiter came by with a tray of mini quiche that Dean eagerly took from. "and clumsy. I apologize. I'm Sarah Blake."

"I'm Sam," Sam introduced himself. "This is my friend, Julia, and my brother, Dean."

Sarah smiled at Julia, her eyes sweeping to Dean, who was shoving a mini quiche into his mouth. "Dean," she greeted him. "Can we get you some more mini quiche?"

Dean hummed with his mouth full. "I'm good, thanks."

Julia watched as Sarah's eyes immediately went back to Sam, her expression brightening. "So, can I help you with something?"

"Yeah, actually," Sam nodded. "What can you tell us about the Telesca estate?"

"The whole thing's pretty grisly, if you ask me, selling their things this soon," Sarah eyed the Telesca items and people around them. "But Dad's right about one thing. Sensationalism brings out the crowds—even the rich ones."

Sam grinned at her and hesitated for a second before asking, "Is it possible to see the provenances?"

"I'm afraid there isn't any chance of that," Mr. Blake walked over to them.

Sam gave him a confused look. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid I underestimated our ticket sales, Miss Petersen," Mr. Blake turned to Julia, dismissing Sam's question. "Therefore, you and your companions are unable to continue viewing the items. I think it's time for you to leave."

Julia raised her eyebrows at Mr. Blake; his tone was polite but his expression was anything but. He didn't want her business, it seemed, as long as she had Sam and Dean by her side. Well, that was his loss.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Blake," Julia made sure she hid her anger with the man behind politeness. "Next time I come to town, I'll book in advance."

"That would be lovely," Mr. Blake nodded. "Good afternoon."

Julia gave him a tight smile and grabbed Dean's arm, pulling him with her as she walked away. He looked like he wanted to punch the smug expression right off Mr. Blake's face but she couldn't allow that to happen. No matter how rude the guy was, the Petersen name couldn't be tarnished by unimportant auction house.

"That guy needs a fucking attitude adjustment," Dean grunted angrily as they left the building. "What a fucking asshole."

"He's not worth it," Julia tried to placate him.

Dean's temper wasn't sated just yet, though. "He's an asshole who acts like he's better than us just because he has money," he muttered as he and Julia went to their side of the car. "What a dick."

"Hey," Julia grabbed his hand before he could rip open the drivers' door and squeezed it, hoping it would help calm him down. "Don't worry about it, Dean."

Dean sighed, Julia's hold on him actually allowing him to calm down. He squeezed her back and then let go of her hand to open his door. He gave her a small, grateful smile as he slid into his seat. He pointedly ignored the way Sam smiled at him and started up the car as Julia got into her seat.

Julia pulled her duffle bags from the back of the Impala and followed Sam and Dean over to the rooms she got for them. Rooms eleven and twelve were connected—like Dean wanted them to be every time it was her turn to rent the rooms—and were the last two rooms of the front side of the motel.

"How'd you know about that stuff back at the auction house?" Dean asked Sam as he pulled out the key to room twelve. "Grant Wood and Grandma Moses?"

"I took an art history course," Sam told him. "It was good for meeting girls."

"Plenty of time to make a connection when the professor drones on and on about boring crap," Julia teased Sam with a grin, walking next door to unlock her room. "I dropped out the first week."

Dean shook his head at them. "It's like I don't even know you two."

Julia laughed and unlocked her door, stepping into the room. It was decorated in a black and white with a disco theme. There were silvery metal accessories everywhere and the walls looked like a dance floor that was made in the seventies. There were two queen beds a couple feet apart from each other, a table, and a mini bar.

She hoped that Sam and Dean had a room decorated similarly so she wouldn't have to suffer alone.

Julia set her bags down on one of the beds and walked over to the doors that separated her room from Sam and Dean's room. She unlocked hers and opened it before knocking on the one that locked on the boys' side.

Dean opened the door within seconds, peeking into her room. "Looks like Saturday Night Fever threw up all over your room, too."

"Yeah," Julia laughed as he let her into his room. "It must be a real draw to their customers."

"Mmhm," Dean hummed in agreement before turning to Sam, who was setting his stuff on his bed. "What was that providence thing you were talking about?"

"Provenance," Sam corrected him. "It's a certificate of origin, like a biography, you know? We can use them to check the history of the pieces and see if any of them have a freaky past."

"Huh," Dean nodded, impressed. "Well, we're not getting anything out of chuckles, but Sarah..."

"Yeah," Sam smirked at him. "Maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin."

"Oh, it's not Dean that Sarah's interested in," Julia drawled as she sat down at their table. Dean pointed at her in agreement, his face lighting up into an amused grin.

"No, no, no," Sam shook his head. "Pick-ups are your thing, Dean."

"It wasn't my ass she was checking out," Dean told him. "Right, Jules?"

"Sarah's into you, hotshot," Julia grinned at her best friend. "Call her up, take her on a date..."

"In other words, you want me to use her to get information."

"Don't think of it that way, Sam," Julia sighed.

"Besides," Dean added, pulling out his cellphone to hand it to Sam. "Sometimes you gotta take one for the team. Call her."

Sam sighed heavily and took the phone, walking into Julia's room so he could have some privacy to talk to Sarah alone.

Dean couldn't help but stare at her. The way her wavy hair brushed against her upper back. The way her hazel eyes lit up when someone was talking to her, giving them all of her attention. The way she wrinkled her nose when she took a drink of Dean's beer. The way her little black dress fit her just right, showing off all her assets. The way she giggled when he told her some lame joke that no one else would laugh at.

Julia Petersen was a masterpiece and he never wanted to look away.

Dean had always found Julia attractive and, of course, after that dream he had, everything had gotten more intense, more heated. But in that bar, where they decided to spend time together while Sam went on a date with Sarah, it was like everything had been turned up to an eleven. This was different than the regular old attraction that he had with Cassie or yoga-teacher Lisa. This attraction to Julia was magnetic; he didn't just want to fuck her, he wanted everything with her.

And that freaked him the fuck out because, other than Cassie—and look how that turned out—Dean didn't do relationships. And Julia wasn't just some random chick that he could hang out with for a few weeks and then ditch. This was Julia Ruth Petersen; he had known her since she was born. He had watched her grow from a cute kid to an awkward pre-teen to the beautiful, intelligent, and strong woman she was today. She was important to him and he couldn't screw her up. He couldn't bring her down.

But it was tough when Julia clearly felt something back for him. He wasn't a stranger to women and he knew when he was wanted. That gleam in Julia's hazel eyes wasn't love that you have for your brother. The way she licked her lips when talking to him about the case they were on wasn't just to make sure the sensitive skin didn't dry out. The blush on her face wasn't from embarrassment.

Despite the fact that the attraction between them was obviously reciprocated, he couldn't do it. He couldn't take that step with her and he had to tell her the truth.

"Listen, Jules," he was trying to be delicate because he didn't want to hurt her feelings—and there was also the fact that he didn't want to do this. He wanted to give in. "I-I can't do this."

Julia's face fell. "What?"

"We have something going on, right? I mean, I know you feel it, too," Dean explain. "but I can't take that step with you. I can't ruin what we have."

"What we have?"

"I don't do relationships," he told her; it made his stomach twist when her pretty lips turned into a frown. "I'm sorry."

Julia eyebrows furrowed and she shook her head. "It's fine, Dean. I-I wasn't expecting anything...I was—we were just hanging out. Like friends."

"Right," Dean nodded, his heart sinking. "Like friends."

"I'm going to get a drink," Julia forced a smile as she stood up from the table they had occupied an hour earlier. "Do you want anything?"

"No, I'm good. I still have..." Dean trailed off when Julia practically ran away from the table; from him. "Okay."

He watched as she walked up to the bar, stepping onto the ledge so she could see the bartender properly. She pulled her fake ID out of her purse and flashed him a big smile before saying something that Dean couldn't hear. The bartender winked at her and then went to start making her drink.

And then a guy walked up to her side and plopped down on the stool next to where she was standing. He was a couple of inches shorter than Dean but still half a foot taller than Julia, with dark brown hair and a medium build. He said something to Julia and she smiled charmingly back at him.

Dean's stomach twisted again and this time it wasn't because he had to reject Julia. Dean was never really a jealous guy—he didn't have a reason to be—but something in him just hated the thought of another guy smiling at Julia and making her laugh. His heart raced and his jaw clenched; when the guy placed a hand at the small of her back, he jumped from his chair.

Mine, the primal part of his brain roared as he stomped over to the bar where Julia was talking with the asshole.

He swiftly wrapped his fingers around Julia's wrist, making sure his grip was light enough where she wasn't hurt. He pulled her off the ledge and tucked her into his side, pulling her away from the guy without a second thought.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" she asked him loudly as he escorted her out of the bar and through the parking lot that connected to their motel. "You can't just drag me around like some kind of ragdoll."

"Well, you can't just go around flirting with any man who smiles at you!" he retorted like he had any right.

Julia stopped in her tracks, only a couple of feet away from their rooms. "Are you joking?" she demanded, ripping her arm away from him as he turned to face her. "Dean, you were the one who said you didn't do relationships!"

"I don't!" he raised his voice. "but that doesn't mean you can just go off and fuck the next guy you see!"

"I'm sorry, I missed the part where you were in charge of me."

"You wish I was in charge of you, shortcake," Dean snapped back. "Then you wouldn't have to fuck random guys at bars."

"Oh, like you don't have your fun?" Julia raised her eyebrows. "How was the threesome last night, Dean?"

"We weren't talking about me."

"No, I think we were," Julia countered. "I think we were talking about the fact that you think that I'm going to sit around pining for you while you get your jollies off with everyone you meet. Guess what, Dean? That's not going to happen. You said you don't want to take that step with me, fine! But don't act like I have no right to do what or who I want."

Dean clenched his jaw so tightly he was surprised his teeth weren't breaking. This wasn't a good combination; he was drunk, he was horny, and Julia was in front of him and she was everything. He was being reckless but fuck it...he could deal with the aftermath in the morning.

He firmly gripped her upper arms and pulled her to him, smashing his lips against hers. Julia didn't even try to protest, quickly returning his affection. Dean didn't believe in divine intervention or fate or anything like that, but it felt like he was made to kiss Julia. Like everything that had happened in their lives had come down to this moment and even though it wasn't perfect, it was them.

Their hands were everywhere; stroking bare arms, gliding over supple curves, gripping firm muscles. Dean didn't even know how they got into Julia's room but it didn't matter; he was gripped her thighs and she was wrapping her legs around him.

And, when they fall onto her bed, there was no hesitation or anxiety. It was trust, pleasure, and, most importantly, love.

Julia wasn't in a field this time but she still knew what was happening. Usually her dreams with her angel were never in the same place, so it was kind of relaxing to know that things were getting back to normal. She was seated in the last pew at her church back home; the church was empty and most of the lights were out but there was still a ray of sunshine beaming through one of the stain glass windows depicting the angel of Thursdays, Castiel.

"Julia Ruth," her angel greeted her.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately. "Usually when you pull me into these dreams I need guidance."

"It is needed, indeed."

"So, what's going to happen this time?" she raised an eyebrow at the window. "I mean, my brother just died and there wasn't a peep out of you. Didn't I need your guidance then?"

"I'm sorry about Levi," the angel told her, a hint of sadness in his voice. "but it might help you to know that he rests in Heaven where he belongs."

Despite the fact that her angel wasn't there in her time of need, the assurance that Levi was in Heaven—like she thought he would be—did help her. The knowledge gave her some peace that she had been missing ever since she learned that Levi died at the hands of Meg and the Daeva.

"So, what are you doing here, then?" Julia wondered. "What's going to happen that I need guidance for?"

"It's not what is going to happen but what is already done, Julia Ruth," her angel answered her. "You and Dean Winchester have found each other."

She struggled to figure out what he meant by that until she remembered what exactly exhausted her enough to fall asleep. She and Dean had sex and it was great—wait, did that mean...?

"You saw that?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't give us some privacy?"

"I am your guardian, Julia Ruth," her angel spoke as if watching her and Dean have sex was no big deal.

"Well, in the future, could you not watch?" Julia's cheeks flushed. "I'm not a voyeur."

"I do not understand."

"Never mind," she sighed. "Just, please, give me some privacy when things like that happen."

"I will try," her angel promised her.

Julia pressed her lips together and rolled her eyes; her angel sure was stubborn. "Okay, so back to why we're here..."

"Do not let Dean Winchester go, Julia Ruth," her angel commanded. "Just as you are chosen, he is chosen as well."

"Chosen for what?" he had said that she was chosen before but she still couldn't figure out what he meant by that. And, what, now Dean was chosen, too? "What does that mean?"

"Do not let him go," her angel repeated, ignoring her questions. "I will see you soon, Julia Ruth."

Julia wanted to protest but there was some banging noise coming from outside the doors that separated the chapel to the rest of the church. The light from the angel window went out as she stood up to see what the noise could be. When she opened the doors, she woke up.

It was morning. She knew that because she had forgotten to close the curtains to the front window the night before and now the sun was streaming into the room. Her eyes stung as she blinked rapidly, trying to remember the details of her rapidly fading dream.

And then there was another knock and she was easily distracted. "Julia, wake up!" she heard Sam call. "I got breakfast!"

Dean wasn't by her side anymore, though she was pretty sure he fell asleep before she did. Her disappointment went away when she sat up and saw a note sitting on the nightstand.

Jules,

Sam got the provenances from Sarah. It's that ugly painting of the family that's been going from victim to victim. We went to go burn the damn thing.

Love,

Dean

Julia got a little too excited when she read 'love'. She quickly stamped it down, reminding herself that Dean didn't do relationships.

Do not let Dean Winchester go.

She heard the whisper like someone had spoken out loud. She looked around, hoping that Sam had somehow gotten through her locked door but she was still alone. Great, now she was going crazy—crazier than she was, anyway.

"J, wake up!" Sam called again, knocking impatiently. "We're eating breakfast and then leaving!"

"I'm up!" Julia called back as she stood up, pulling a sheet up around her just in case Sam did break in and caught an eyeful of her very naked body. "Give me a few."

The knocking ceased so she guessed that Sam heard her. She grabbed a change of clothes and then hightailed it into the shower; she was sweaty, smelt like alcohol, and there was something sticky between her thighs that had her blushing.

When she was done making sure everything was washed thoroughly, she got dressed and unlocked the door connecting her room to Sam and Dean's. She didn't stop to think about any potential embarrassment that came with the morning-after with Dean. She was too hungry for that.

"Finally," Sam sighed when she walked into the room. "I've never seen you sleep that late before."

Julia furrowed her eyebrows and looked at the clock on the wall; it was almost ten. "Oh, sorry," she shook her head. "I guess I was tired."

"I bet you were," Dean spoke up from his seat next to Sam at the table, a naughty smirk on his face that his brother was oblivious to. "Hungry?"

"Yes," Julia flushed at Dean's remark but didn't let it get to her as she went to sit at the table and dig into the food they brought her. "Did you guys burn the painting?"

"Yep," Dean confirmed as she opened the container that held a bagel, cheesy eggs, and sausage; he stood up and walked over to his bed, starting to pack his bag. "In and out; easy as pie."

Julia hummed as she took a bite of her bagel, watching Sam as he frowned down at the table. "You okay, Sam?" she asked after she swallowed. "You look sad."

"Oh, no, I'm okay," Sam assured her quickly.

Julia could see right through him; something was bothering him and she would bet money that it had something to do with Sarah. His energy practically danced around him, full of indecision, guilt, and grief. Julia figured that he liked Sarah but was feeling guilty about Jess; it was a tough situation and she really felt for him.

"Shit," Dean suddenly cursed as he rummaged through his bags. "We have a problem; I can't find my wallet."

Sam seemed thankful for the fact that Dean had distracted Julia and the knowing gaze she was giving him. "How is that our problem?"

"Because I think I dropped it in the warehouse last night."

Julia looked at him in shock. "You're kidding, right?"

"No," Dean left his bed to shrug on his jacket. "It's got my prints, my ID—well, my fake ID, anyway...We gotta get it before someone else finds it."

"Dean, I just started to eat," Julia protested, gesturing down to her food.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, shortcake," Dean rolled his eyes at her. "Come on, let's go."

They got to Daniel Blake's auction house fifteen minutes later. They started at the right side of the building first, looking in and around items that were up for show. There was no sign of Dean's wallet any where.

Sam sighed, frustrated. "How do you lose your wallet, Dean?"

Dean threw his hands up defensively and continued to look, walking into the next aisle.

"Hey, guys!" Sarah walked up to them with an easy smile.

Sam practically flailed and almost fell over if it weren't for the fact that Julia grabbed his arm to steady him. "Sarah, hey!" he exclaimed while Julia waved with a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh..." Sam looked at Julia for help but she just smiled sweetly at him. "We—we're leaving town and we came to say goodbye."

Dean walked over from the aisle he was looking in. "What are you talking about, Sam?" he drawled, coming up to Julia's side. "We're sticking around for at least another day or two."

Julia and Sam gave him looks of confusion while Sarah smiled.

"Oh, Sam," Dean dug his wallet out of his jeans and opened it up, taking out a twenty. "By the way, I wanted to give you that twenty bucks I owe you. I always forget," he chuckled and handed him the money. "There you go."

Julia smiled in realization; Dean was being a little matchmaker. It was cute but, at the same time, she didn't want him to push Sam.

Sam practically ripped the bill out of Dean's hands.

"Well, we'll leave you two crazy kids alone," Dean grabbed Julia's hand. "We gotta go do something...somewhere."

Julia furrowed her eyebrows. "We do?"

Dean rolled his eyes and tugged her away from Sam and Sarah. She flushed when she realized that he just wanted to give the two of them some time alone without their presence making it awkward. Knowing Sam, though, he'd make it awkward enough without them around.

"You shouldn't push Sam, you know," Julia told Dean as he led her out to the Impala.

Dean gave her a curious look. "Why not? He likes Sarah."

"Yeah, I know he does but he's also still grieving for Jess," she explained as he leaned against Baby. "He's feeling guilty for liking another woman."

"Hmm," Dean hummed, wrapping his hands around her hips to bring her closer to him; Julia shivered, pleased with the contact. "And how do you know that?"

"His energy," she told him simply, moving to wrap her arms around his waist. "It's getting easier to read you guys since I'm around you all the time."

"Is it?" Dean raised an eyebrow, his green eyes sparkling down at her. "What does my energy say today?"

Julia grinned. "You're feeling mischievous..."

"Mmm," Dean leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"and caring..."

"Of course," he pecked the tip of her nose.

"and excited."

"I think that one's a given, baby," he kissed her lips for only a second, earning himself a pout when he pulled away. "Are you okay with this?"

"Are you?" Julia countered curiously.

Dean could see the worried look in her eye and while he was worried himself, he knew that he couldn't walk away from Julia. Not after all they had been through. Not after the previous night. Not with the way he felt about her.

"I care about you, Julia. In a way that I can honestly say I've never felt before," Dean told her. "and I'm not good at relationships but if we can take it slow..."

Do not let go of Dean Winchester, another whisper flittered through her head.

"We can take it slow," Julia agreed; if that was what Dean needed then she would give that to him. "but I need to know that this isn't going to be a one-sided thing, Dean."

"Like am I gonna fuck around with other chicks?"

Julia clicked her tongue. "Must you be so vulgar?"

"Well, that wasn't what you were saying last night," Dean smirked, causing her to blush and slap his chest playfully. "But yes, Julia, I will not sleep with anyone but you."

Julia grinned at him. "And I won't sleep with anyone but you, too."

"Good," Dean gave her another quick peck. "cause you're mine and I don't share."

"Caveman."

"I'll show you a caveman," Dean growled playfully, smushing his lips to her jaw and pretending to gnaw on the skin. Julia squeaked and giggled, coaxing a few chuckles out of Dean as she tried to squirm away.

They heard the doors to the auction house open and abruptly pulled away from each other, thinking along the same lines. They didn't want anyone to know about this yet; especially since they were taking things slow.

Sam hurriedly walked toward the car, oblivious that anything less than friendly had been happening between Julia and Dean. Julia was caught off guard by the urgent and worried expression on his face.

It didn't take long for Sam to reach them. "We have a problem," he breathed. "The painting. It's still there."

"You're fucking with us, aren't you?" Dean asked him, not taking the bait. "This is because I made you come here, isn't it?"

"What? No!" Sam shook his head. "Dean, I'm not lying. The painting is still there. Like we never burned the damn thing."

The three of them got into the Impala so no one could overhear their conversation.

"I don't understand," Julia admitted, leaning her elbows on the front seat. "How did it survive?"

"I have no idea," Dean grumbled. "but we need to figure out another way to get rid of it," he turned to Sam. "Any ideas?"

"Okay, all right," Sam gathered his thoughts. "Well, in almost all the lore about haunted painting, it's always the painting's subject that haunts them."

Dean nodded. "So, we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creep-ass family and that creepy-ass painting..."

They headed to the local library to do some digging. Luckily for them, the library employed its own local history expert named Keith who was very enthusiastic when Julia, Dean, and Sam went to him to ask about the Isaiah Merchant family. He was especially fond of Julia, gushing over the fact that she looked a little like his oldest granddaughter.

It took only ten minutes for Keith to find information about Isaiah Merchant. He slammed down two large books, one was a regular textbook while the other held old newspaper articles, down onto the table that Julia, Dean, and Sam sat around at.

"You said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?" Keith checked one more time.

Julia nodded. "Yes, sir."

Keith happily opened the book of newspapers. "I dug up every scrap of local history I could find," he informed them. "So, are you three crime buffs?"

"Kind of," Dean confirmed as he sat on the table to get a better look of what Keith was showing them. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," Keith held up a newspaper; the frontline was about the sinking of the Titanic but Keith tapped on one of the smaller articles to the side. It read, Father Slaughters Family, Kills Himself.

"Yes," Dean pointed at it. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Sam studied the article. "The whole family was killed?"

Keith nodded. "It seems this Isaiah, he slit his kids' throats, then his wife, then himself," he told them. "Now, he was a barber by trade; used a straight razor."

Julia wrinkled her nose. "Why did he do it?"

"Well, let's look," Keith said enthusiastically, turning to the full article and beginning to read, "People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament who controlled his family with an iron fist. He had a wife, two sons, and an adopted daughter...yada, yada, oh...There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave," he looked up to explain, "Which, of course, you know in that day and age...so, instead, old man Isaiah, well, he gave them all a shave."

Keith snickered and made a slitting gesture across his throat; Julia and Sam didn't find it very funny but Dean gave him a couple of chuckles before sobering up when Julia and Sam gave him stern looks.

"So," Dean turned back to Keith. "Does it say what happened to the bodies?"

Keith took another peek at the article. "It says they were all cremated."

Julia, Dean, and Sam exchanged pointed looks before Sam asked Keith, "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually," Keith nodded and set down the newspaper before picking up the book. He flipped to the page that he had marked, showing it to them. "I found a picture of the family."

The picture looked just like the painting that Sam and Dean tried to destroy. There was a little difference between the two, though. When Julia had seen the portrait last, the father had been looking down; in the picture, Isaiah was facing the painter head-on.

"Keith, could we get a copy of this?" Julia asked, giving the man a sweet smile.

"Sure thing," Keith nodded happily. "Just give me a second."

"I'm telling you, man, I'm sure of it," Sam insisted, pushing the picture Keith had printed for them to Dean. "The painting at the auction house had Isaiah looking down. The painting here, he's looking out. It changed."

Dean grabbed the photo and looked at it for a second. "All right, so, you think that daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like he did to his family?"

"Well, yeah, it seems like it," Sam said quickly. "But if his bones are already dusted, how are we gonna stop him?"

"If Isaiah changed in the painting, do you think that something else changed too?" Julia spoke up, lounging at the end of Sam's bed.

"Could be," Dean shrugged, getting up from the table where he sat across from Sam to plop onto his bed. "Maybe it will give us some clues."

"What, like a Da Vinci Code deal?" Sam looked at him skeptically.

Dean hesitated for a few seconds before admitting, "I don't know. I'm still waiting for the movie on that one."

Julia grinned softly and rolled her eyes before focusing on the painting. "Okay, so we have to get back in and see the painting."

"Which is a good thing because you can get some more time to crush on your girlfriend," Dean added, pointing to Sam.

"Dude," Sam gave his brother an annoyed look. "Enough already."

"What?"

"What?" Sam repeated in disbelief. "Ever since we got here you've been trying to pimp me out to Sarah. Just back off, all right?"

Dean crossed his arms and rested them on his stomach. "Well, you like her, don't you?" Sam shrugged and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "All right, you like her, she likes you, you're both consenting adults..."

"What's the point, Dean?" Sam asked angrily. "We'll just leave. We always leave."

"Well, I'm not talking about marriage, Sam!"

"I don't get it," Sam raised his voice. "Why do you care if I hook up?"

"Cause then maybe you wouldn't be so cranky all the damn time," Dean answered him calmly.

"Dean," Julia gave him a warning look while Sam scoffed in disbelief.

Dean sighed and sat up so his back was off the headboard. "You know, seriously Sam, this isn't just about hooking up, okay? I mean, I think that this Sarah girl could be good for you," Sam sighed and scratched the back of his head, looking away guiltily. "And...I don't mean any disrespect but I'm sure this is about Jessica, right?"

Julia inhaled softly, shocked to hear Dean use what she told him earlier. She didn't think he was doing it to make things worse; he looked concerned for his baby brother and was trying to give him some guidance.

"Now, I don't know what it's like to lose somebody like that, but..." he hesitated, a faraway look in his green eyes. "but I would think that she would want you to be happy God forbid have fun once in a while. Wouldn't she?"

Having known Jess for years, ever since they were roomed together freshman year of college, Julia spoke up. "She would, Sam," she whispered. "I know it hurts, I know...but Jess would be happy for you."

Sam smiled fondly, remembering how much Jess loved him and wanted him to be happy. "Yeah, she would," he agreed softly. "and yeah, you're right. Part of this is about Jessica but not the main part."

"What do you mean, Sam?" Julia asked quietly. "What's it about?"

Sam pursed his lips sadly and looked away from her, glancing down at the table. It was strange; Sam used to never shy away from telling her what was going on with him. They used to share everything; from nightmares to relationship insecurities.

"All right," Dean spoke up, knowing that Sam wasn't going to answer Julia; he laid back down. "Well, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah, so..."

Sam cleared his throat and grabbed his phone, dialing Sarah's number. "Hey, Sarah, it's Sam," he spoke into the phone. "Good. Good, yeah. What about you? Yeah, good, really good..."

Julia grinned in amusement, giving Sam a thumbs' up when he looked at her with an awkward smile. Dean snickered, whispering something about Sam being as smooth as crunchy peanut butter.

"So, ah, listen," Sam cut to the chase. "My friend, Julia, she was thinking that maybe she'd like to come back in and look at the painting again. I think she's interested in buying it...What?!" he exclaimed, standing up in shock; Julia and Dean perked up, wondering what was going on. "Who'd you sell it to? Sarah, I need an address right now."

It turned out that Daniel Blake had sold the painting to a woman named Evelyn, despite the fact that Sarah didn't want it sold so soon after the Telescas' deaths. Julia, Dean, and Sam rushed to Evelyn's house, with Sarah meeting up with them, but were too late to save Evelyn. She had her throat slit from ear to ear while the painting was posted on the fireplace mantle a few feet away from her.

The three of them left the house after pulling Sarah away from Evelyn's body, leaving the freaked-out woman to deal with the police herself. They had gone back to the motel to wait for news and do a little research when Sarah showed up, knocking on the door.

"Hey," Sam let her into the room. "Are you all right?"

"No, actually," Sarah retorted as she stomped over to the table, putting her back to Julia and Dean to confront Sam. "I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelyn's alone and found her like that."

Dean smirked over at Julia and she shook her head at him.

Sam sighed in relief. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, I'm about to call them right back and tell them what the hell's going on," Sarah snapped at him. "Who's killing these people?"

Sam looked to Julia and Dean for guidance; when they both nodded at him, he corrected Sarah, "What."

Sarah gave him a confused look. "What?"

"It's not a who," Sam elaborated. "It's what is killing those people."

From the look that Sarah shot Sam, Julia could tell that she already thought they were insane.

"Sarah, you saw that painting move."

"No...No, I was...I was seeing things," Sarah shook her head, remembering the way that Isaiah looked at her when she found Evelyn's body. "It's impossible."

"Yeah, well, welcome to our world," Dean commented.

Julia rolled her eyes at Dean and then addressed Sarah, "Look, we sound crazy, we know, but that painting is haunted."

Sarah scoffed lightly, tears coming to her eyes. "You're joking," she looked to Sam; when she saw that he was serious, she rolled her eyes. "You're not joking. God, the guys I chose to go out with."

"Sarah, think about it," Sam urged her. "Evelyn, the Telescas, they both had the painting and there have been others before that. Wherever this thing goes, people die and we're just trying to stop it. That's the truth."

Sarah inhaled deeply but came around to the idea of the painting being haunted pretty quickly. "Then I guess you better show me," she demanded. "I'm coming with you."

"What?" Sam was taken aback. "No, Sarah, no. You should just go home. This stuff can get dangerous and...and I don't want you to get hurt."

"Look, you guys are probably crazy but if you're right about this, then me and my dad sold this painting that got these people killed," Sarah said firmly. "Look, I'm not saying I'm not scared, because I am scared as hell but...I'm not going to run and hide, either."

Julia grinned at Sarah. She was always so impressed when random civilians stood up to do what was right, even if the thing they were standing up against was supernatural. Their whole lives, they didn't know things like this existed but, when push came to shove, they were there to make things right. It was inspiring; it was why she loved people and why she loved what she did.

"Well said," Julia jumped out of her seat and held her hand out for Sarah.

Sarah high-fived her and then looked at Sam expectantly, "So, are we going or what?"

Julia, Dean, Sam, and Sarah broke into the crime scene that was Evelyn's house so they could compare the painting to the picture of the painting. They discovered that the razor in the picture was closed while the razor in the actual painting was open. There was also another difference where the painting inside the painting was of the Merchant crypt.

The four of them went through two different cemeteries before they found the crypt in the third one. The Merchant crypt had an old teddy bear and the daughter's glass doll preserved, along with four urns, which meant that Isaiah Merchant had been buried somewhere else.

While Sam and Sarah sat and had a heart-to-heart, Julia and Dean went to find out exactly if and where Isaiah Merchant was buried. It turned out that the surviving Merchant family was ashamed of Isaiah so they handed his body over to the county, who buried him. When nighttime came, the four of them went to his grave and dug Isaiah up, salting and burning his bones.

Once everything was done and Isaiah was dust, Julia, Dean, Sam, and Sarah drove back to Evelyn's house to check on the painting. Sarah and Sam went into the house by themselves—much to Dean's insistence because he thought Sam should make a move on Sarah—while Julia and Dean stayed in the Impala with the motor running.

While Sam and Sarah were in the house, the door was forcefully slammed shut. Dean and Julia were unable to get it open, despite picking the lock and trying to kick it down. Sam called them and informed them that it was the daughter was the one who was killing people. When the spirit tried to attack Sam, he held her off until they figured out that the girl's doll had been made with her real hair.

Julia and Dean took off back to the cemetery to visit the Merchant's crypt. The glass incasing the doll was thick and hard to break open but Dean eventually figured out that he could just shoot the glass away. Julia took her sweet time trying to lit the lighter, which was not cooperating, but after a couple hundred tries, she managed to light the doll's hair on fire. It was just in time, too, because it turned out that the spirit was just about to kill Sam and Sarah.

The next morning, Julia did some research on the Merchant daughter while Sarah made sure that the painting was being hauled away someone couldn't buy it again. She and Dean met back up with her and Sarah outside of the auction house where they were prepared to say goodbye.

"This was archived in the county records," she informed Sam and Sarah, holding up the papers she printed. "The Merchant's adopted daughter was named Melanie. She was up for adoption because her real family was murdered in their beds."

"She killed them?" Sarah asked in disbelief.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "Who would suspect her? She looks like a sweet little girl."

"Isaiah took the blame and his spirit has been trying to warn people ever since," Julia finished. "Poor guy."

"Where's this one go?" one of Sarah's employees asked her, gesturing to the crate where the Merchant portrait was held.

"Take it out back and burn it," Sarah order; her employee looked at her like she was crazy. "I'm serious, guys. Thanks."

When the employee and his partner picked up the crate and carried it out of the show room, Sarah turned to Julia, Dean, and Sam. "So, why'd the girl do it?"

"Killing others or killing herself?" Sam shrugged. "Some people are just born tortured. So, when they die, their spirits are just as dark."

"Maybe," Dean gruffed. "I don't really care. It's over, we move on."

Sarah nodded in realization and looked at Sam sadly. "I guess this means you're leaving."

Julia looked between her and Sam and then back again before grabbing Dean's arm. "We'll go wait in the car," she told them before smiling at Sarah. "Nice meeting you, Sarah."

"See you around," Dean added as Julia started pulling him out of the building; Sarah hardly noticed them leaving. "We're the ones that burned the doll and destroyed the spirit but don't thank us or anything."

"Oh, so bitter," Julia sang teasingly. "The hero didn't get the girl this time. What ever shall he do?"

"I got the girl," Dean grabbed her hand from his arm and twirled her around, wrapping his arms around her waist. "just not the damsel in distress."

Julia smiled happily up at Dean, cherishing the way his green eyes lit up in happiness. She stood on her tip-toes and pursed her lips, giggling when Dean chased them down with his own.

(Gif is not mine)

#supernatural rewrite #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x original character

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just-another-winchester · 6 years ago

Text

Nightmares Are A Dreams Bad Day

An Endless Maiden voyage

Chapter Three

Pairing: Dean x y/n

Word Count: 2129

Summary: During a fight with a djinn you get sent into your dreams. Soon finding out Dean and Sam are stuck in your dream as well you have to find a way out of your dream before it becomes your worst nightmare.

Warnings: Angst, violence, suicide attempt (more jokingly to escape the dream) death

A/N I have to warn you this chapter is a tad droll, the 12th and 13th were rather ordinary days, I think the only thing that happened was an ice warning or two came in, however, my lovely beta has given me an idea to liven it up so day four should be a bit more exciting. Thank you all.

And as always my lovely beta @amanda-teaches

According to Sam, he’d had to come looking for you when you missed bedtime the day before.

It seems as if you’d been in the library for quite some time, so much so that you were in there overnight and all day on the 11th, feeling a little disappointed that you’d missed out on seeing Queenstown.

You knew you had dozed off here and there, but missing a whole day was extensive.

Whatever the case, it was time to get into action.

The dress you were wearing today was a checkered pattern, a soft orange sort of pink color with a pleated insert down the chest. The sleeves reached your elbows, and the skirt was much easier to walk about in. You actually liked it quite well. It wasn’t so terribly cold in the journey yet, and it was nice to feel the breeze whisk around you.

Walking the deck was more enjoyable than you expected. Although you had to remember that this was all just a dream, it was hard not to take it all in.

Dream or not, when else would you have the chance to walk the decks of Titanic, to hear her whistle blow, to see the grand staircase.

You perked up at the thought of the grand staircase. The thought of seeing it.

But, yet again, disappointment. You’d already walked a replica of the staircase, and this really would be no different.

Sam had walked on deck with you for a short while before returning to your room to dress for lunch, but you were satisfied with what you were wearing. It almost made you happy that you weren’t dreaming you were in first class. You felt that class would be a bit less forgiving of an afternoon dress at lunch.

You had to admit, it was a tad scary being surrounded by the expectations of the earlier years of the 1900s. Everyone had a role in this time of the century. People, in general, seemed to know their place, and you couldn’t help but think of how wrong you were. You really knew nothing about the culture of this era.

Your eyes scanned the sea before you. The thought of it soon swallowing the ship haunted you, as it would come to haunt the survivors.

You had two days, two days to wake them up. You hoped your idea worked, there was no reason it wouldn’t, but you did make the decision to wait on it until after lunch. After all, the idea of dining on the Titanic, even just the version of the Titanic your mind had concocted, was a dream itself.

Even in second class, getting to have luncheon on the ship was a pleasure, you were sure, and considering you hadn’t eaten in apparently two days, you were ready for some good food.

You heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Dean approaching. It wasn’t who you were expecting, but you offered him a smile, reminding yourself that he didn’t know he knows you. Still, even Dean trapped in your nightmares was more than you could ask for.

“I hope you’re less enthused with tempting fate today,” he said, looking down at you.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes.

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, I wasn’t tempting fate, I was trying to almost die so I could wake up,” you said with a matter of fact tone. “However, if you’re asking if I need to be put on suicide watch, I’m afraid not. Whether you know it or not, Sam has me well taken care of.”

“Sounds like you have a good man at your side.”

“I do,” you thought to yourself, letting out a sigh.

“Sam is my best friend, there’s no argument, but he’s not the man I love.”

“Then, why did you marry him?”

You smiled, shutting your eyes for a moment. “You’ll remember soon why I didn’t marry him,” you said, and why there’s only one man I would ever even consider marrying.”

Your cheeks turned red. You were a tough cookie, no doubt, however, even though Dean was already your boyfriend and undoubtedly the man you would love through the end, you’d never been so bold.

Dean gazed down at you with a confused look on his face.

You sucked in a breath as you looked back out at the sea, the blue waters so perfectly clear, the sun shining against it, reflecting a stream of golden waves. It was picture perfect, and you wished this would have been the memories of the Titanic, not the horrors.

“So, Dean… I’m curious. If I ever need anything, can I count on you?” you asked, turning to him with a hopeful expression.

The Winchester seemed to ponder on that for a moment before looking down at you with a soft gaze. His expression was calm, cheerful almost. It was a weight off your back seeing him so peaceful.

“Whenever you need me,” he confirmed, “I’ve got your back.”

Just after saying that, he seemed confused, his face twisted somewhat, and you looked on in concern before his features relaxed again.

I’ve got your back, whenever you need me.

That was something Dean said to you, whenever you were afraid, or worried, whenever you thought you might lose against your big bad. He reminded you that he would never not be there, that he would always take care of you.

You both stood in silence for a few moments, just gazing out at the sea. You felt so peaceful, your feelings almost betraying you for what you knew was to come.

Reminding yourself you were in a dream didn’t make the dream stop, didn’t make the ocean breeze any less refreshing against your cheeks, didn’t make your fear and concern any less evident. You weren’t in real life, this, all of this, was simply what you’d heard about the ship. Your mind had put it all together. This could be much different from what actually sailed all those many years ago, but it didn’t take away from the wonder of even the thought that you were standing on the very Titanic itself.

Without even realizing it, you found yourself standing incredibly close to Dean, leaning your head gently against his upper arm, as the large man dwarfed you in size.

Dean didn’t move, and neither did you. With your eyes closed and the sun on your face, nothing seemed impossible.

It wasn’t long before Sam came to find you. You hadn’t moved from your place beside Dean, however the Sam you were supposedly married to seemed unphased. Maybe men were less jealous in 1912.

You found that you were exactly right about lunch. It was absolutely delicious, every bit of it truly was a dream in every way. You really felt pampered by the way you were treated. The stewards were lovely and kind. If there was even a hint of a problem, they were there like magic.

Although you knew that first class spent hours on their dinner, lunch was a short delight before you had to leave the dining area so the tables could be cleaned and prepared for the evening meal.

Sam had gone on to the squash court, as he told you, so you went to take a look at the grand staircase.

When you got there you just stood, looking at it in awe.

The staircase was just an empty gaping hole in the wreck of this ship, but seeing it here, part of the ship, was amazing. You didn’t even know why it was such a big deal, it just seemed so iconic, considering no one really knows what happened to it.

Trying to recall, the best you could remember was that, during the movie, when they flooded the set, the staircase broke free, and, evidently, that was what was suspected to have happened in the sinking. The power of the rushing water that flooded the ship released the staircase from its place, somehow.

That was something you couldn’t entirely wrap your head around, which is why you didn’t question it. All you knew was that the grand staircase was gone.

You found yourself attached to the upper decks, where you could stand outside and enjoy the sun and the breeze. Standing out on the deck as the sun began to set. You didn’t have long now, one day left. Your plan to wake the boys sent chills up your spine. You didn’t want to, you wanted to do anything but that, but you would simply have to suffer through.

Your plan was to wait and let the ship sink to wake them up.

You would have to face your nightmare in order to save the Winchesters, and you hoped that you didn’t get killed in the process. Your heart beat heavily against your chest, reminding you what was happening, where you were and what was at stake.

Fear wrapped you in its embrace, but you had to make it through. You couldn’t leave them, you had no idea what was going on, or why nothing you did woke them up, nothing you said. You were at a loss, you had no idea how to escape.

From your place on the deck, you spotted Dean on the upper decks, right near the wheelhouse.

“I wish you’d wake up,” you said softly, knowing he couldn’t hear you. “I need you right now, I’m afraid and I’m not sure what to do.”

Dean looked down and spotted you, a soft smile spread across his face, and he gave you a nod.

You returned the smile, a look of longing in your eyes.

Dean not knowing you left you with an ache. There were aspects of this that were genuine dreams coming true, but in the end, it was a nightmare. You knew the fate of this ship, you knew that more than half the people aboard didn’t survive, and you knew Dean, but him not recognizing you was the real nightmare.

You looked from him back up to the tip of the bow, a smile edged across your face.

You sort of had to… didn’t you?

You couldn’t help yourself, as you made your way across the deck, climbing the set of stairs to be on the forecastle or the raised bit of the deck above the well deck.

You walked to the very tip of the bow, climbing about a bit of the equipment to reach where you wanted to be.

Once you arrived, you climbed onto the railing, holding onto the bars tightly as you looked out at the open ocean.

You pursed your lips, knowing how ridiculous you looked, but also not caring as you stabled yourself on the bars of the rail and lifted your arms out.

Not that you knew what it felt like to fly, but this was your best guess, it really felt like you could just soar right now.

Unfortunately for you, this experience wasn’t like it was for Rose. You didn’t get a kiss afterward, you just got down and stood there for a while.

You watched the water as the daylight became stars in the night sky. You weren’t sure at this point of how long you’d been out there, just thinking, until you felt a hand on your back.

You turned to find Dean again, and his presence comforted you. A smile spread across your face.

“What, am I in trouble now?” you asked curiously.

“Not that I know of, but it is late, and you’ve been out here for hours. The night will grow cold before long. You should get back to your cabin.”

You nodded. “You win,” you told him. “I’ll go.”

You turned to walk away, facing back towards the ship before looking up at him.

“I know you don’t believe me right now, and I don’t know if, when the time comes, you’ll wake up, but I promise you, with a heavy heart, that this ship will hit an iceberg, and that 1500 people on board will lose their lives as the ship disappears. I wish I could stop it, change it, but I can’t. You see, at this point, my only thought is you and Sam, because I love you both and the thought of losing you, the thought that you might die like this… that’s my real worst nightmare.”

You left Dean, walking back and descending the stairs.

Your words seemed to follow you, and you felt disheartened at the knowledge of the night sky surrounding you.

The 12th was over. You had one day left, and there was nothing else you could do but hope that the ship crashing really would wake them up.

That was your last hope.

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cinephiled-com · 5 years ago

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New Post has been published on Cinephiled

New Post has been published on http://www.cinephiled.com/interview-costume-designer-anna-robbins-returns-us-sumptuous-downton-abbey/

Interview: Costume Designer Anna Robbins Returns Us to Sumptuous ‘Downton Abbey’

Like many diehard fans, I was beyond excited when I heard that Julian Fellowes’ popular British TV series Downton Abbey was following its six-season run with a full-length feature film. Taking place between 1912 and 1925, the television series had introduced us to the aristocratic Crawley family and their domestic servants who lived together in an incredibly grand Yorkshire home called Downton Abbey. Throughout the series, the Crawleys and their servants snaked their way through many of the big historical events of the early 20th century. As the film picks up the story in 1927, the Crawleys and their intrepid staff are preparing for one of the most important experiences of their lives: a royal visit from the King and Queen of England. This exciting experience will ultimately unleash scandal, romance, and intrigue that will leave the future of Downton hanging in the balance.

Among the joys in revisiting these beloved characters is seeing the amazing work of costume designer Anna Robbins (Emmy-nominated for her work on the series) which is even more spectacular on the big screen. This is a time just beyond the Gilded Age, entering the modern one, which is reflected in great detail in the costumes from Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley’s (Maggie Smith) pastel, formal Edwardian garb to the more flapper-friendly styles favored by Lady Mary and Lady Edith (Michelle Dockery and Laura Carmichael). For the latter pair, the silhouettes and color schemes reflect their outlook – Lady Mary in more angular blacks and whites for instance, and a beautiful gold flowing 1920s gown for Lady Edith, a gorgeous use of fabric and pattern and color where you can really see the texture and detail. I loved sitting down for a chat with the talented Anna Robbins about her work on the film, even if I did feel painfully underdressed.

Danny Miller: I so loved being with these characters again. And as far as I’m concerned, your work is one of the most important stars of the film. It was already so gorgeous on the TV series but am I correct in noticing that it all seems ramped up a bit for the movie?

Anna Robbins

Anna Robbins: Oh, yes, it is definitely ratcheted up a notch! We set a high bar for the show, with all the departments really pushing to elevate everything, but I think watching it on television we all thought it could be even bigger. And then along comes the opportunity to make it literally bigger which was so much fun to do.

I know, I just wanted to stare at the threads on the fabric seeing all those beautiful clothes on the big screen.

Yes, which is exactly what made it so challenging since I people would be able to see the threads and the quality of the craftsmanship in such detail. I like to use as many originals as possible and those had to be of a very high quality to withstand that scrutiny.

Wow, how on earth do you find 90-year-old dresses that are in good enough shape to look new?

For women’s wear I’d say it’s about half and half. I use more originals in evening wear because those dresses were often carefully preserved and they weren’t the kind of things to be worn every day so they haven’t worn out. Some pieces do require restoration, of course, and if it can be done to a very high standard, we do it but sometimes the fabric is simply too fragile so I might be able to re-imagine it as something else or take the fabric and rework it somehow. It’s a combination of a lot of things, but yes, I really had to raise the bar for the film and make everything even more sumptuous.

And, of course, this film includes the royal visit, so I’m sure that storyline also ramped things up.

Yes, that definitely upped the ante but it also meant you weren’t going to be exploring the most up-to-the-minute risky trends in women’s wear because there’s a very specific elegance and classicism to how you would dress to meet a royal.

I would imagine that you get to know these characters better than almost anyone. Do you have to think beyond the script to the whole of their personal histories? For example, Cora (Elizabeth McGovern) having been raised in America, do you think that influences her clothes?

Oh yes, where they came from is very important. The wardrobe’s got to say as much about the past as it does about the present day. It’s a very intimate process as well, working with an actor to find that characterization and it becomes a very important tool for them. But I have gotten to know the characters really well which meant I had a shorthand when I went onto the film that allowed me to work at pace right from the beginning without needing to do the huge amount of research that I did when I first came on board.

Shorthand like you could see something and think, “Oh, Lady Mary would never wear that.”

Yes. At this point I can walk into a vintage shop and see a Lady Edith dress across the shop and know it’s going to work.

Lady Edith is someone who really interested me in this film because, as we know, she had a big change at the end of the series. It did seem like her new status was reflected in her clothes.

I think Edith had one of the biggest journeys of anyone throughout the series. I remember in Series 5 her wardrobe was very restrictive and pared back, very autumnal colors during the period when she was estranged from her daughter and just very low emotionally. Then in Series 6 she literally blossoms as a human and finds her identity and she’s suddenly in this literary world so I created this London working woman’s wardrobe which was very different from her estate wardrobe. It still felt like the same person but she was far more adventurous and bold in her choice of prints and color.

You can literally see her self-confidence change over the course of the series and it was amazing to watch how her physical appearance reflected that.

Yes, I loved dressing her. And now in the film it was important that we didn’t lose that sense of style she had found even though now she’s no longer a magazine editor in London, she’s the Marchioness of Hexham and outranks all of them. So we took everything that she’s learned about herself including her self-assuredness and sense of style and moved it up into the position that she’s in now. But still always focusing on the level of craftsmanship in the textiles, it might be embroidery, it might be devoré, it might be printed silk. There’s always some sort of interesting surface to the fabrics that I use for Edith.

Was there at all a touch of rubbing her new status in Mary’s face with her clothes at all? A bit of showing off?

I don’t think so because I don’t think Edith has an ego like that. And she and her husband are very modern in their approach to their high positions. Remember — they arrive at Downton without a nanny. They call themselves “modern folk.”

I guess just the fact that she’s happy now is enough for her to stick it to Mary.

(Laughs.) Yes, exactly. I love dressing the two of them in their scenes together. Even when they weren’t at each other’s throats, there’s always a contrast, I always look to create some kind of dichotomy between them. Their dresses should always work with each other but create a nice contrast. And, of course, as individuals they’re very different.

I know the film takes place in 1927, which is a few years after the series ended, but do you have to think about certain characters like Violet (Maggie Smith) who may hold on to past styles in some way?

Well, Violet is a Victorian/Edwardian lady and that will never change. But the fabric choices may change. Where she once wore a fabric with an Edwardian pattern, that may become more art deco. You’re always looking for different micro trends that affected clothing manufacture, the way they were put together. And her jewelry might go from being more square cuts to show more modernity. I like to find ways to show that sense of modernity without changing her very recognizable silhouette.

Dame Maggie Smith

Did you know that there was a movie coming as the series was ending? Were things saved in a different way than they might have been otherwise?

No, we didn’t know. We hoped, but nothing was certain back then. Luckily, the main jeweler I worked with wasn’t organized enough to disband the collection and use it in other things so it was mostly intact.

Plus, the series was so popular, you could take the whole collection on the road!

Yes, we did work on a touring Downton Exhibition over the years so we’ve always been aware that there’s a life for the costumes after filming whether or not they ended up in a new film. But really getting to create new costumes for these wonderful characters was just a hypothetical dream that has thankfully now come true.

We’re talking so much about the women and my first instinct is to assume that costuming the men isn’t as interesting, but then I see their gorgeous clothes on the big screen and I’m totally fascinated.

Oh God, I love working with the men, I love tailoring. If you get that right, everything just looks so good. And the fabrics are fantastic. I was talking about using original pieces with the women, but it’s very rare that you’ll find any originals that you can use with the men.

Because men back then wore their clothes so much more often and they just wore out?

Yes, exactly, they just haven’t lasted. But the bits we do find are wonderful references for the cut and shape and how the pieces are constructed. I also work to make sure the men’s clothes complement the women’s and that all the scenes work together in composition. But the detailing in the menswear is just wonderful. And if you look closely in the film, the men change as often as the women do. I think Robert changes four times on the day that the Kind and Queen come to Downton. I was even able to design new dress uniforms for the livery staff with the Crawley insignia in the fabric, it was wonderful, those beautiful green tailcoats with silver frogging and lacing with the white breaches and stockings. Just brilliant.

Matthew Goode, Michelle Dockery, Allen Leech

So incredible. And then you leave work and go out into London and see people dressed like I am right now — it must be so depressing!

(Laughs.) I mean, I’m sure it was very hot and uncomfortable at times, so it’s good that we’ve moved forward, but those clothes do look so fabulous and I’m glad I get to spend such a huge proportion of my life with them!

Is designing for the servants more of a case of strict research on what the staffs of big houses would be wearing in 1927?

Well, there is lots of research and looking at what would have been worn but then you design touches for each character. For example, there is always a sort of very subtle floral pattern within the silk for Anna. And it may be more geometric for Baxter, with a more complicated cutting technique since Baxter is a dressmaker.

Is the implication that the servants would be mending their own clothes?

Yes, to some extent, so you’re going to see differences. They’re all designed to the character and to make them identifiable even if there’s a common look.

Lesley Nicol and Sophie McShera

I imagine at the first fittings for the film it must have been heavenly for the actors to slip back into these costumes to get back into character.

It was wonderful seeing them literally step back into their characters’ shoes. And it’s always been a very collaborative process working with them. It’s a joint effort to find the right looks. I lead it, for sure, since I have an overview of how the whole thing has to look and I know what’s going to work together in each scene such as they’ve got to start off in this setting which may be against red and then move into this room which might be green.

Oy, that seems like so much to keep track of. And it’s not like in real life we ever know the colors of every room we’re going to walk into!

Exactly, but I have to create these huge charts that allows me to painstakingly keep track of all those different elements. I work very closely with the director, production designer, the DP, and the actors. I have to think about lighting and how the colors are going to behave on camera.

I remember reading about the making of Gone With the Wind and how Selznick and costume designer Walter Plunkett tortured the actors with real corsets and other undergarments from the period even though they would never be seen. Are you a stickler period detail as well?

I am all about what makes the right silhouette but I might make the garments worn under the costumes more comfortable than the originals might have been. Remember, they didn’t have the luxury of stretch materials! Unless you actually see the underwear, as you do in some scenes in the film, then I absolutely insist on the real thing, of course.

Of course, the 1920s were more kind to women than previous eras in terms of undergarments.

Absolutely. You had underwear then that created a more boyish silhouette which could still be confining for some. But I also find that actors are quite keen to use whatever underwear creates the foundation that makes the clothing look more authentic and therefore more believable. And sometimes the underclothes affect posture and even the way you speak. I think it’s worth noting that while the girls lost the corsets, the gents were still wearing stiff-collared shirts full of starch with starch-fronted shirts. These are very uncomfortable, and you shouldn’t even be able to get a finger down the collar. So, rest assured, I still put the actors through the ringer.

I used to love the original Upstairs, Downstairs before Downton Abbey and I remember the actors talking about how they tended to be treated differently on set depending on what class they were playing. I remember Jean Marsh, who played the parlourmaid Rose, once said to the people on set, “Hey, I created this series, why is everyone treating me like I’m not as good as Lady Marjorie?” Did you ever notice anything like that on your set?

Oh, that’s funny. No, I wouldn’t say so. We were really like one big family and very equal. I think something the downstairs characters might get a bit of envy in terms of all the beautiful fabrics and costumes that the upstairs characters got to wear, but by the same token the upstairs characters had to do fittings week upon week upon week. The downstairs characters had a much easier time of it pre- and post-filming where they could just get into their cars and leave whereas I had to drag Lady Mary to do the fifth fitting that week for a new dress that she was wearing the following week.

I do feel inspired by your magnificent clothes in this film. As God is my witness, I want to start dressing better!

Go for it! The thing is, a bespoke suit can be very comfortable because it’s been made specifically for you. It molds to your body.

Thanks so much for chatting with me. I’m excited about all the Downton Abbey frenzy I’m seeing. This is definitely the movie that we need right now in this country, if you know what I mean.

Oh, trust me, we need it right now in the UK, too!

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#Anna Robbins #Costumes #Downton Abbey #Elizabeth McGovern #Laura Carmichael #Maggie Smith #Michelle Dockery #Penelope Wilton #Interviews #What's Hot

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beforedawnmuses · 6 years ago

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We NEED to see some Garcy Titanic moments tbh

I’m not entirely happy with this, but wanted to get it posted. It’s also a little longer than I expected, but hope you enjoy!

It was a trap.

Looking back, Lucy thinks that it was so glaringly obviously a trap, because what could they really change about the Titanic. The boat sinks, some people escape, and some don’t - as much as she would like to change the outcome, it just didn’t seem possible.

Yet Rittenhouse had gone to Southampton, 10th April 1912 and even Wyatt had known it would be to do with the Titanic, the ship of dreams that turned out to be anything but.

They had split up, her with Flynn and Wyatt with Rufus, in an attempt to find Emma and find out what the hell was going on here. Herself and Flynn had found Emma, but Lucy can’t say she remembers much of the encounter, only a crunch as the pipe had hit the back of her head and everything had faded to black.

She wakes sometime later and tries to sit up, but her head feels like someone’s running around like a jackhammer when she attempts the slightest bit of movement and she slumps herself back down on the pillows. Something warm rests heavily across her stomach, a quick glance to her side reveals Flynn sleeping next to her, arm curled around her waist as he sleeps on his stomach. She almost gets distracted as she studies his sleeping face, though she had now slept in his room a handful of times she had yet to see him sleep because he was always last to fall sleep and first up. She now takes a small opportunity to look at him, his face was softer, the lines less harsh as his burdens fall away. She notes that when he sleeps his mouth is ever so slightly upturned at the corners, almost as if he’s smiling.

Lucy shakes herself from her musings, knowing that working out where the hell she is should really be the most important thing right now. It's a large room, well decorated with the crystal lights and the expensive bedsheets – yet this still did not give away her location and she didn’t want to move quite yet with a splitting headache. She glances around the room once more, desperate to find some sort of clue and she sees it, so obvious that she wonders how she missed it the first time.

There, on one of the beautifully decorated walls, sat a porthole and its suddenly oh so clear where they are that Lucy wonders how it did not occur to her before.

They were aboard the Titanic.

Panic surges through her and brings her to life, headache quickly ignored as she sits up and begins to shake Flynn to life. He stirs with a groan and the arm around her waist tightens, any other time she would have took comfort, pleasure maybe, at his touch, but not now. Not when there’s a million things running through her head at once.

“Lucy,” his voice is hoarse and she doesn’t miss the way his brows crease in a frown when he blinks himself awake. Like she had done moments before, he goes to push himself upright before grimacing at the pain in his head, “where are we?”

She has to swallow before she can answer, panic curling around her throat like a noose because she had no idea how they’re going to get out of this one alive. “The Titanic,” she tries to keep her voice as even as possible as she says it, but it breaks anyways, and she feels herself quiver at the thought of it.

His only answer is silence, flipping himself over and staring at the celling. She wonders if they were thinking the same thing, that they had been in some binds before, but they really hadn’t been in anything this scale on something that there was no way to stop.

“I bet Rufus and Wyatt aren’t here,” he said evenly, eyes still fixated on the celling. “Emma has probably left 1912 by now, probably didn’t even have any business here. It’s rather genius, put us on the boat that’s doomed and have the other two chase their tails trying to find us while she probably goes somewhere else while we can’t chase her. And if it takes two players out the game, all the more benefit to her.”

Lucy blinks as he so easily unfolds Emma’s plan and she briefly wonders if something similar ever crossed his mind when they were on opposite sides of the war. Yet she quickly shuts down that train of thought, Flynn’s goal had never been to kill them, only to get them out of his way and well, he wasn’t entirely wrong in doing so.

“Even if we did get them to change their course and get them away from the iceberg, there’s still other problems with the ship. It’s structure isn’t sound, any stormy seas could take the ship apart –“

“So, you’re saying that we might be doomed anyways.”

“Yes.” A sigh leaves his lips at her response and he swings himself out of the bed, striding over to the whiskey decanter and pouring two glasses. He hands her one, perching himself on her side of the bed, one hand coming to rest at the other side of her legs, “at least the room is nice.”

They try to change course anyway, but their efforts make no difference. They are outright laughed at by the Captain and crew and are brushed off by passengers. She can see Flynn’s frustration as the day wared on, his jaw is clenched, and his face has taken on a hard, unreadable expression. Once it would have scared her, not being able to know what he is thinking, but now she knows that he is the calm in the storm, a rock she can cling to as they face the current.

The whole day is spent trying and failing to convince people of the ship’s doomed fate and they eventually find themselves in one of the ballrooms, their third glass of whiskey in hand. Lucy wouldn’t normally allow her guard down so much on a mission, but they were yet to find a solution to their problem and she highly doubted there was a way they could stop this. With a pang, she wishes Rufus were with them because he would be able to explain the problems with the ship better than she could and they’d maybe stand a chance, but instead she was confusing the crew more than helping them understand the problem.

She glances up to find Flynn staring at her, an intense look in his eyes as she wonders if he has perhaps snuck more drinks throughout the day – not that she could blame him for that – but its just so unlike him to be so unguarded. Ballroom music swells through the room in an almost melancholy tune and he stands up so suddenly that he jostles the table when he does so.

“Dance with me,” she blinks for a moment at his words, so surprised that they have left his lips at all. She doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey or the way he’s looking at her like she’s the most beautiful piece of art he’s ever seen, but Lucy nods her head yes and before she knows it she’s being hauled to her feet and dragged across the room to the dance floor.

The fact that he’s a good dancer shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. There’s a grace to him as he sweeps her up in his arms and twirls them around in time to the music. She had never been much of a dancer herself, but the ease in which Flynn leads her around the dancefloor makes it easy for her steps to fall in time with his.

“So,” he begins, leaning down so that his breath tickles her ear as he speaks. All of a sudden, she’s aware of his hand on her back, burning a hole through her skin and she wishes she were bolder, to close the gap that’s been between them for so long and make good use of that room given to them by Rittenhouse until the demise of the ship. At least she’d go out with a bang. “You want to go to the deck and have our own rendition of My Heart Will Go on.”

The laugh she gives is perhaps louder than the joke merits, but this could very well be their last days alive and so if Garcia Flynn wants to think he is funny, she’ll let him. “Only if in this scenario I’m Jack and you are Rose, I think I’d like to do a bit of saving for once.”

He lets out his own soft chuckle in response and his grip on her waist momentarily tightens. “Lucy,” he says her name in that hoarse way that he does, as if he’s not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer he’s releasing from his lips. “They’ll take the woman and children first, I want you to go with them. Find Rufus and Wyatt and take back the lifeboat.”

It’s now Lucy’s turn for her grip to tighten, she couldn’t believe he would even suggest such a thing. To leave him here, to drown and she was to simply just return and act as if this was a perfectly fine answer to their problem.

“No,” she croaks, her hand curling into the lapel of his suit.

“Lucy I –“

“No.” She repeats, voice resolute as she takes a step to close the gap between them. “The team needs you – I need you. The only way I’m getting off this ship is if we go together. I don’t want to hear any more ideas until you have one that gets us both off. Okay?”

He nods mutely in response and she lets out a breath of relief – at least he wasn’t going to try any heroics and leave her to return on her own. She wouldn’t allow it. She leans her head on his chest and she feels him rest his chin on her head, for now, it would have to be enough.

They pass their days in much of the same way, each days effort to change the fate of the ship as futile as the last. It had been three days already, meaning that they only had one left before they hit an iceberg, it was safe to say that things did not look promising.

At night, they cling to each other despite the large expanse of the bed. Lucy traces patterns of his chest as she wills herself to sleep, fear gripping her like a second skin making it impossible to find some peace to rest. Yet rest she does, with his strong hands stroking her back and murmured Croatian words in her ear and for a moment she forgets, and its enough for sleep to take her over.

When they hit the iceberg, Lucy is holding Flynn’s hand. She had expected it, had been waiting its impending doom for days, but she’s still shocked when the boat rocks with its impact, when the small shudders of it travel up her legs. Through it all, Flynn never lets go of her hand, fingers interlocking with hers as he drags her through the madness, through the hordes of panicking people and the crew who are trying to do something to solve this situation. His hand is her anchor, her safety in the chaos, her calm in the storm.

When she sees it, she curses her stupidity and wonders how details of it slipped her mind. She had been so focused on the impending doom of her ship Lucy had totally forgotten about the things that they can do to lessen the damage. It hits her as she sees the lifeboats neatly lined up and her heart races as she realises that she can do something, she can change the fate of these people.

“Flynn,” she has to shout over the chaos, even though he can’t be more than a foot in front of her. “The first lifeboat, it’ll only take 28 people, but it can fit more – 64, I think. And there’s enough life jackets to go around, I don’t know how much good lifejackets will do for them, but at least they’ll have more of a chance. They won’t just drown.”

The information sparks something in his eyes, an ember that was not there before and Lucy’s sure that he would find the same thing reflect in hers.

Hope.

He springs into action the same way that a fire roars to life, slowly, and then all at once. They were smart enough to come up to the deck as quickly as they could, but there’s still a small crowd between them and the crew members trying to control the situation. Flynn makes it look easy as he uses his large frame to barge through the crowd, her following hot on his heels until they reach the crew at the front.

She has no idea what Flynn says to the crew members, too focused on the mothers holding their children and pleading for help, focused on the fear in these people’s faces and the way the lower classes linger helplessly at the back while the people how had money shamelessly banter for safe passage off the ship at the expense of others. She does however catch his death stare and the young crew members nervous nod and lets out a breath of relief.

Flynn helps load the lifeboats, making sure that each one holds as many as it can before setting off, while Lucy hands out lifejackets. She starts with the lower classes, knowing that these people had the least chance of getting into a lifeboat, but at least she was offering them a chance.

She’s tightening a woman’s lifejacket when she feels his warm hand on her shoulder, she glances up to meet his face, serious and grim. “It’s the last one.”

Guilt rushes through Lucy as she looks back to all the people who’d be left, who’d be left in the freezing water, waiting for help. Sure, they all had life jackets now – but that didn’t ensure their survival. The crushing guilt is enough to make her want to stay, to allow one of them to go in her place, but Flynn’s hand is sure and steady as he takes her own and he drags her away with determination in his step.

He wasn’t letting her die tonight.

She is loaded onto the lifeboat by the same sure hands that brought her to it, but a moment passes as she catches his eye and she sees it, the thing she was sure she would find – he didn’t plan to get on it with her. Panic surges in her chest, she couldn’t lose him, without knowing it, Flynn had become everything that was safe and warm, and she needed him the same way her lungs needed oxygen.

Her hands are fast, gripping his hand once more as soon as he lets her go. He had already turned away, his intense gaze turning around to meet hers with only a hint of shock and he opens his mouth, to protest perhaps, but her grip is steel and her eyes are hard – there is no room for argument here. “You’re coming with me.”

Flynn still looks like he wants to argue, but he sighs and climbs into the boat beside her, their hands still intertwined as he curls up his legs beside hers.

The ocean is cold, but Flynn wraps himself around her as much as he can and her cold fingers bury into his shirt as he presses kisses to her hair and promises her that everything will be alright. They were safe now.

The hotel they find is dingy, but it’ll do for the night. The boat had reached the shore, crowds of people waiting with questions, waiting for the survivors of the ship that was supposed to be indestructible, waiting for people that may never come home.

They had easily been able to lose themselves in the chaos, to slip away from the crowds and into a hotel before they got too crowded. Neither had even thought of getting separate rooms, just wanting to be alone without the heavy burden of knowledge for once, to not feel the weight of everything resting on their shoulders. They still had to find Wyatt and Rufus, but that could wait until the morning because they needed a minute to breathe, for the weight to lift from their chests.

She sits on the end of the bed, wrapping a blanket around herself as she feels the phantom chill of the ocean lingering on her skin. Her thoughts swim with the faces of those left behind, of the people who only had a slight better chance because they had lifejackets – but that might not change fate for some of them and while they had gotten more people onto the lifeboats, it still didn’t feel like enough.

“We did all that we could,” his voice startles her, she did not feel him sit down next to her, didn’t feel the mattress sink with his weight or the brushing of his thigh against her own.

Lucy glances at him from the side of her eye, anger swelling in her chest as she studies his profile, his strong set jaw, his eyes that seemed to change colour in different lights, ranging from green to grey, of his broad shoulders and hands that held her so safely.

“You were going to leave me,” and she can feel the tears burning behind her eyes as she says it because the thought of not having him next to her right now physically aches and she’s so angry that he would even consider staying behind, leaving her to go on without him. “Why?”

What Garcia Flynn lacks in words, he makes up for with actions. His mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find an adequate answer, before letting out a strangled noise when words fail him. Instead, he presses his lips to hers, his warm hands cradling her face and bringing it towards his so that they meet in the middle.

Its soft and gentle, exactly what she needs from him right now, because she feels like she’s so close to breaking that the slightest thing could make her shatter to pieces. But his kiss it is healing, as if his touch is smoothing over the cracks in her soul, making her whole once more.

His answer is received, known to her as his mouth meets hers, he loves her.

He looks shocked as he pulls back from the kiss, frozen in place as his hands rest limply on her shoulders. She feels the warmth escape her as his hands slowly slide from her body and realises that he fears that he has done something wrong. Before he can leave her entirely, she leans forward and captures his face, her hands finding their way into the silky strands of his hair. It’s her response, her way of telling him what she’s too afraid to leave her lips.

She loves him back.

This kiss is different from the last, it’s open mouthed and raw; a reminder that they are here, and they are alive. His hands reach for her waist tugging her over until she’s straddling his waist and she’s not entirely sure where she ends and where he begins.

The blanket falls from her shoulders, and so does her pain.

#Anonymous #garcy #timeless #my fic

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impressivepress · 4 years ago

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The Matisse we never knew

Henri Matisse, unlike the other greatest modern painter, Pablo Picasso, with whom he sits on a seesaw of esteem, hardly exists as a person in most people’s minds.

One pictures a wary, bearded gent, owlish in glasses—perhaps with a touch of the pasha about him, from images of his last years in Vence, near Nice, in a house full of sumptuous fabrics, plants, freely flying birds, and comely young models. Many know that Matisse had something to do with the invention of Fauvism, and that he once declared, weirdly, that art should be like a good armchair. A few recall that, in 1908, he inspired the coinage of the term “cubism,” in disparagement of a movement that would eclipse his leading influence on the Parisian avant-garde, and that he relaxed by playing the violin. Beyond such bits and pieces, there is the art, whose glory was maintained and renewed in many phases until the artist’s death, in 1954: preternatural color, yielding line, boldness and subtlety, incessant surprise. Anyone who doesn’t love it must have a low opinion of joy. The short answer to the question of Matisse’s stubborn obscurity as a man is that he put everything interesting about himself into his work. The long answer, which is richly instructive, while ending in the same place, is given in Hilary Spurling’s zestful two-volume biography, “A Life of Henri Matisse.” The first volume, “The Unknown Matisse: The Early Years 1869-1908,” was published in 1998. The second, “Matisse the Master: The Conquest of Colour 1909-1954” (Knopf; $40), completes the job of giving us a living individual, as familiar as someone we have long known, who regularly touched the spiritual core of Western modernity with a paintbrush.

Spurling is a veteran English theatre and literary critic and a biographer of Ivy Compton-Burnett. The fact that she is an amateur in art matters proves to be an advantage, given that she is also unfailingly sensitive and thoroughly informed. Matisse’s greatness resides in capacities of the eye and the mind that almost anyone, with willingness, can discern, and no one, with whatever training, can really comprehend. I don’t think it is possible to be more intelligent in any pursuit, or more serious and original, and with such suddenness, than Matisse was when he represented a reaching arm in “Dance I” (1909), or the goldfish that he painted as slivers of redness in a series of still-lifes in 1912. How can intellectual potency be claimed for an artist whose specialty, by his own declared ambition, was easeful visual bliss? It’s a cinch, now that Spurling has cleared away a century’s worth of misapprehensions and canards. Take, for example, the popular notion that Matisse was hedonistic. Hedonists seek pleasure. Matisse served it, as a monk serves God. He was a self-abnegating Northerner who lived only to work, and did so in chronic anguish, recurrent panic, and amid periodic breakdowns. Picasso recompensed himself, as he went along, with gratifications of intellectual and erotic play. Matisse did not. His art reserved nothing for himself. In an age of ideologies, Matisse dodged all ideas except perhaps one: that art is life by other means.

“The Unknown Matisse” told of an awkward youth from a dismal region of northern France—he was born in the cottage of his maternal grandmother, in 1869, and was raised in Bohain, an industrial textile center. He was an unhappy law clerk when, in 1889, he began to study drawing and, while laid up with appendicitis, was given a set of paints by his mother. The effect was seismic. He said later, “From the moment I held the box of colors in my hands, I knew this was my life. I threw myself into it like a beast that plunges towards the thing it loves.” How much did he mean that? He meant it to the extent of warning his fiancée, Amélie Parayre, whom he married in 1898, when he was twenty-eight, “I love you dearly, mademoiselle; but I shall always love painting more.” Amélie assented. She “had spent much of her life searching for a cause in which she could put her faith,” Spurling writes. Her parents were ruined in a spectacular scandal, as the unsuspecting employees of a woman whose financial empire was based on fraud. Spurling attributes to Amélie’s memories of that public disgrace a cocooning “suspicion of the outside world” that would always mark the Matisse family. (If there is any reason to doubt aspects of this book, it’s the unprecedented coöperation that the author coaxed from the congenitally overprotective heirs.) Amélie and, later, Marguerite—a daughter Matisse had fathered with a shopgirl in 1894 and raised with Amélie—were strong-willed confederates of Matisse in his work, and severe critics when his concentration flagged, managing a virtual family firm of which the artist was both the fragile chairman and the slave-driven labor force. According to Spurling, “The family fitted their activities round his breaks and work sessions. Silence was essential.” Even during the years when Matisse lived mostly alone in Nice, an “annual ritual of unpacking, stretching, framing and hanging ended with the whole family settling down to respond to the paintings.” The conference might last several days. Then the dealers were admitted.

Matisse was not taught to paint; he just started doing it. His first two canvases, from 1890, are essentially consummate Old Master-ish still-lifes, the first one pretty good and the second, featuring opulent reds, a knockout. (Of the second painting, Spurling writes, “Digging this picture out of his father’s attic ten years later, Matisse said it came so close to containing everything he had done since then that it hardly seemed worth having gone on painting.” Twenty years later he had the same reaction to it, only stronger.) He had style before he had craft, which he picked up along the way by copying paintings in the Louvre and taking classes with, among others, the arch-academician Adolphe-William Bouguereau and the Symbolist Gustave Moreau. (His one art-schooled technical standby, almost a fetish, was the plumb line. No matter how odd the angles in any Matisse, the verticals are usually dead true.) Most of his early works employ a dark palette and tend to be gloomy, but each strives for an integral vision. Matisse was thirty-one years old when he began showing in Paris—in 1901, a year after Picasso, eleven years younger, arrived in town from Barcelona. (They met in April of 1906, at the salon of Gertrude and Leo Stein.) It was in 1905, in the Mediterranean town of Collioure, that Matisse, in close collaboration with André Derain, combined pointillist color and Cézanne’s way of structuring pictorial space stroke by stroke to develop Fauvism—a way less of seeing the world than of feeling it with one’s eyes.

“Matisse the Master” opens in 1909, with the Matisse family—which now included, in addition to Marguerite, two sons, Jean and Pierre—living in a former convent on the Boulevard des Invalides, in Paris, where the artist conducted a painting school. His immense notoriety, which had been confirmed in 1905-06 by “Le Bonheur de Vivre,” a fractured fantasia that seemed to trash every possible norm of pictorial order and painterly finesse, was regularly exciting near-riots of derision in the public. (“My Arcadia,” Matisse called the picture, which established his career’s dizzying keynote: calm intensity or, perhaps, intense calm.) His huge-hipped, sinuous “Blue Nude,” of 1907, discomfited even Picasso, who complained, “If he wants to make a woman, let him make a woman. If he wants to make a design, let him make a design. This is between the two.” As usual, Picasso (then creating “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon,” his own monumental riposte to “Le Bonheur de Vivre”) was onto something: pattern was a decisive element in Matisse’s kind of picture, which applied a passion for decorated fabrics that began in his childhood. But Picasso was loath to admit that the combined effects of ornamental rhythm and blooming flesh constituted a revolutionary correlative, and not a contradiction.

Picasso and Matisse are poles apart aesthetically. Matisse told his students, “One must always search for the desire of the line, where it wishes to enter, where to die away.” Picasso’s line has no desire; it is sheer will. Form builds in Picasso, flows in Matisse. Picasso uses color. Colors enter the world through Matisse like harmonies through Mozart. Young artists and intellectuals in Paris at that time overwhelmingly favored Picasso’s analytical rigor, to the extent of attacking Matisse in print and snubbing him in public. Gertrude Stein (unlike her sister-in-law Sarah Stein, Matisse’s first major collector) enjoyed ridiculing him, “reporting with satisfaction,” Spurling says, “that her French cook served M. Matisse fried eggs for dinner instead of an omelette because, as a Frenchman, he would understand that it showed less respect.” Matisse’s intimate friends among artists were mostly easygoing minor painters, such as Albert Marquet. His temperamental aloneness made him prey to vertiginous depressions. He later recalled a breakdown that he underwent in Spain, in 1910: “My bed shook, and from my throat came a little high-pitched cry that I could not stop.”

Matisse himself precipitated the most significant and indelible controversy of his career. In 1908, in a famous text, “Notes of a Painter,” he stated as his ideal an art “for every mental worker, for the businessman as well as the man of letters, for example, a soothing, calming influence on the mind, something like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue.” At the end of “The Unknown Matisse,” Spurling writes that the metaphor “has done him more harm ever since than any other image he might have chosen.” Straining to defend it, she hazards that “this passage reflects its obverse—Matisse’s intimate acquaintance with violence and destruction, a sense of human misery sharpened by years of humiliation, rejection and exposure—which could be neutralised only by the serene power and stable weight of art.” This tack strikes me as unnecessary, on two counts. First, in general, the principle of Matisse’s armchair seems ever sounder in comparison to more stirring but ultimately vain programs of modern art. If “modernism” had any effective purpose beyond acclimating cultivated people to rapid worldly change, it was a bust. Second, in particular, the tired businessman whom Matisse most likely had in mind was no Babbitt but almost a co-producer of some of the artist’s greatest works, the Russian textile magnate and visionary collector Sergei Ivanovich Shchukin, who wrote to him in 1910, “The public is against you, but the future is yours.” “Dance II” (1910) and “Music” (1910), heraldic mural-size slabs of resonating minor-key red, green, and blue, fulfilled commissions for Shchukin’s house in Moscow, which by 1914 contained thirty-seven Matisses—“He always picked the best,” the artist said—in history’s first dedicated museum of modern art. (Lenin expropriated the collection in person but allowed Shchukin to remain, in servants’ quarters, as caretaker and guide. He died in Paris, in 1936. The collection is now in the Hermitage and Pushkin Museums.)

Among Matisse’s students was Olga Meerson, a Russian Jew who had studied with Wassily Kandinsky in Munich and, already possessed of an elegant style, sought to remake herself under Matisse’s tutelage. Her talent is as apparent as her emulation of him, in a charming 1911 portrait, that shows him reclining on a checkered bedspread, reading a book with amused eyes. Spurling writes, “She personified the pride, courage and resilience that he responded to all his life at the deepest instinctual level in his female models.” She also epitomized a period type of “self-reliant single girl,” an obsessive subject for Matisse in those years, which Spurling locates between the earlier heroines of Henry James and the later solitaries of Jean Rhys. Matisse’s 1911 portrait of Meerson shows a primly dressed and posed, tremblingly sensitive woman slashed with “two fierce black arcs—plunging from neck to thigh, and from armpit to buttock,” which resist any explanation aside from their sheerly formal éclat. Spurling loses me when she hesitates to concede a sexual relationship. The body language in two group photographs from 1911 testifies that Amélie scented the worst. (In one, nearly everyone faces the camera except Meerson, who stares at Amélie, and Amélie, who carefully gazes at nothing.) A combination of Amélie’s jealousy and Meerson’s peremptory neediness caused a severely rattled Matisse to end the connection, with a maximum of bad feeling all around. Meerson moved to Munich, where she married the musician Heinz Pringsheim, a brother-in-law of Thomas Mann. Never having fulfilled her promise as a painter, she committed suicide in Berlin, in 1929.

But the Matisses’ marriage ran afoul not of any romantic rival but of the artist’s growing will to stand, however precariously, on his own. A climax came in 1913, when Amélie sat more than a hundred times for the “Portrait of Madame Matisse,” a thunderous painting, in drenching blues and greens, of a chic and stony woman leaning forward in a chair, with a black-featured gray mask of a face. (“Saturday with Matisse,” a friend’s diary reported at the time. “Crazy! weeping! By night he recites the Lord’s Prayer! By day he quarrels with his wife!”) Spurling says that the portrait, which was the last work to enter Shchukin’s collection, caused Matisse “palpitations, high blood pressure and a constant drumming in his ears.” Such frenzy was not rare when Matisse had difficulty with a painting, but in this case it was compounded by something like exorcism. The portrait expresses no specific feeling but, rather, registers innumerable emotions, not excluding tenderness. The game tilt of Amélie’s small head, sporting a dainty ostrich-feather toque, could break your heart. He referred to the painting years later in a letter to her as “the one that made you cry, but in which you look so pretty.”

One well believes Spurling that life with Matisse could be “close to unendurable,” but enduring it had been Amélie’s vocation, through years of impoverished existence in studio-centered homes. What eroded her role was security, which Shchukin’s patronage provided, along with a big suburban house in Issy-les-Moulineaux, where the family moved in 1909, and from which Matisse was increasingly absent. (In 1930, his travels took him to the United States, where he was thrilled by New York, and to Tahiti, where his melancholic character drew comment from a new friend, the German filmmaker F. W. Murnau: “Shadows are rare here. There’s sunshine everywhere except on you.”) Matisse continued to depend on Amélie, just not enough. Sulkily, she ceded routine leadership of the family to Marguerite. The 1913 portrait was his last painting of her. The couple finally split in 1939, when Amélie tried to dismiss the coolly efficient young Lydia Delectorskaya, an orphan refugee from Siberia who, having been hired as Amélie’s companion, increasingly served the ailing master as model, assistant, and nurse. Delectorskaya reacted to being banished (among other sorrows, which included a thwarted ambition to study medicine) by shooting herself in the chest with a pistol, to remarkably slight effect. Soon the artist and his wife were legally separated and Delectorskaya was back. Phlegmatic in the face of the family’s icy resentment, the Russian said of Matisse, “He knew how to take possession of people and make them feel they were indispensable. That was how it was for me, and that was how it had been for Mme. Matisse.”

Spurling, in her preface to “Matisse the Master,” announces an intention to demolish “two standard assumptions, both false.” The first, which is, indeed, common, concerns “the supposedly exploitative relationship” that Matisse had with the women he painted. The second, which was bruited in 1992 by an American art historian, Michèle C. Cone, in a book on artists in Vichy France, is less often heard, and involves, according to Spurling, “baseless but damaging allegations about Matisse’s behavior in World War II.” In answer to the first charge, Spurling—backed by access to Matisse’s immense correspondence, among other previously withheld archives—contends that the artist, after his marriage, rarely, if ever, had sex with models, despite his keen feelings for many. In this, Spurling is up against a climate of cynical received opinion. I’m one of numerous critics on record as being certain, based on no evidence, that Matisse womanized during his decades in Nice, which started with seasonal sojourns in 1917, when he lived in hotel rooms painting naked or harem-garbed models who, Spurling writes, “were drawn from the tide of human flotsam washed up in Nice between the wars.” Matisse never disavowed, in principle, the libertarian anarchism of most of his avant-garde generation. Nor did he seem to share the wintry belief of Piet Mondrian, quoted by Spurling, that “a drop of sperm spilt is a masterpiece lost.” He would visit brothels, though apparently without enthusiasm. (“Not much fun,” he said.) But I discover ready support for Spurling’s arguments in my own experience of the Nice odalisques, who loll on chairs or chaises amid flowers, fruits, and sumptuous fabrics. Indubitably erotic, the pictures diffuse arousal. Their sensuality never fixates on a breast or a thigh but dilates to every square inch of canvas. Such is the character of Matisse’s formal radicalism, early and late: distributed energy, suspended gesture, deferred climax. Might the tension have been so precious to him, as the engine of what gave his life meaning, that its only end could be exhaustion? It may count that, according to Matisse, he never ate even the fresh food that he used for still-lifes—including oysters, from a restaurant in Nice, that were returned in time for the lunch crowd.

Spurling associates the Vichy charge with a “popular image of the painter indulging himself among the fleshpots of Nice in wartime,” which is absurd on its face. During the war, Matisse was isolated in Nice and Vence. He was old and ill with cardiovascular, renal, and abdominal disorders; he underwent a colostomy in 1941 and, a year later, almost died. Cone bases a speculation that Matisse “sided with the nationalism of the current Vichy regime” on a mild complaint by the artist, back in 1924, that people were mistaking, as French, the cosmopolitan art scene in Paris. (“French painters are not cosmopolites,” he told a Danish interviewer—an observation, largely accurate, about the Parisian avant-garde of the twenties.) Beyond that, Cone primarily cites wartime interviews, in which Matisse chatted amiably about his work, as evidence of irresponsible disengagement. It’s true that he shielded his art from politics under all circumstances—he created the reverberant domestic idyll “The Piano Lesson” (my favorite twentieth-century painting) in the summer of 1916, while death swaggered at Verdun. But there seems to be no gainsaying his at least passive solidarity with the Resistance, which swept up the two most important women in his life—Amélie, who was a typist for the Communist underground, and Marguerite, who served as a courier—as well as his son Jean, who was involved in sabotage operations. (Pierre had by that time become an art dealer in New York.) Amélie was jailed for six months; Marguerite was tortured by the Gestapo but escaped from a cattle car that was stalled on its way to a prison camp in Germany during the war’s chaotic waning months. The artist’s loyalty to the poet and leading Communist Louis Aragon, who, while on the run, spent time with Matisse and wrote passionately about him, also weighs in his favor.

Matisse was so consumed by aesthetic sensibility that his responses to life, when not baffled and distraught, were like unwitting prose poems. Asked to recommend a possible mate for Jean, he sized up one young woman as “tall, well made, limbs a bit long—sprawling movements like a young dog—intelligent, very gifted and very reserved.” His habits were incredibly regular. On a typical day in Nice, in 1917, Spurling tells us, he “rose early and worked all morning with a second work session after lunch, followed by violin practice, a simple supper (vegetable soup, two hard-boiled eggs, salad and a glass of wine) and an early bedtime.” Spurling knows her man so well that you readily tolerate her occasional reading of his mind: “By the seventeenth it was so hot he stayed indoors all day, drawing fruit, reading or dozing on the studio couch, feeling his feet swell and thinking about his ‘Still Life with Green Sideboard.’ ” (As anyone might: that quiet painting, from 1928, is one of the most uncannily ambiguous ever made; you cannot decide if you are looking at or into the surface of a cabinet door.) He had warm but awkward dealings with his sons, realizing late in life that he had burdened them with the sort of hectoring pressures to meet his standards that he had suffered from his own father. Pierre said of the boy in “The Piano Lesson,” “Yes, it was me, and you have no idea how much I detested those piano lessons.” The one person who could command Matisse’s attention was Marguerite. She had married a brilliant man of letters, Georges Duthuit, who was Matisse’s best critic in his lifetime; when Duthuit proved unfaithful to her, the artist forbade him to write about his work. Matisse is never so affecting as in his account of the two weeks that Marguerite spent with him after her escape in 1945: “I saw in reality, materially, the atrocious scenes she described and acted out for me. I couldn’t have said if I still belonged to myself.”

Matisse spoke with self-knowledge both sad and ruthless—on behalf of driven artists in general—when, in a 1941 letter to Pierre, he referred to a harrowing recent painting by his friend Georges Rouault: “A man who makes pictures like the one we were looking at is an unhappy creature, tormented day and night. He relieves himself of his passion in his pictures, but also in spite of himself on the people round him. That is what normal people never understand. They want to enjoy the artists’ products—as one might enjoy cows’ milk—but they can’t put up with the inconvenience, the mud and the flies.”

The last decade and a half of Matisse’s life, spent mostly as an invalid, was a bonus gift of time—“a second life,” he called it—in which, deciding that he had gone as far as he could with oil painting, he invented and developed a new kind of art. His compositions of paper cutouts included the 1947 book “Jazz,” and designs for Catholic vestments to go with his total design of a convent chapel in Vence—an improbable, gruelling commission, including seventeen stained-glass windows and several nearly abstract murals, that was arranged with help from a favorite former model, who had become a nun, and an idealistic young monk who came to remark, “I feel less and less Gothic, and more and more Matisse.” The project horrified not only much of the Catholic hierarchy but also a contemporary art world then largely in thrall to Communism. (Picasso is often said to have recommended that Matisse decorate a brothel instead. Actually, he proposed a fruit-and-vegetable market, to which Matisse “was proud of snapping back that his greens were greener and his oranges more orange than any actual fruit.”) But such was Matisse’s prestige, with the added advantage that the artist largely financed the project himself, that the chapel opened in 1951 in a ceremony led by the Archbishop of Nice. At first bewildered by the chapel, the sisters of the convent came to love its chaste serenity and effulgent color. “From now on,” Spurling writes, “indignant or derisive sightseers demanding to know the meaning of the stations of the cross received a firm response from the nun in charge: ‘It means modern.’ ”

Matisse’s cutouts realized a brilliant conjunction of drawing and color which had always been implicit in his art—often, as if his lines were not the container of his color but the edge produced by its expansion, like the contour of wetness left by a wave on a beach. Formed with scissors, color and shape become effectively one. In his house, luxuriant with simple amenities and living things, he “exercised dominion . . . from his bed,” Spurling writes. “Models and assistants were jealously guarded, cut off from outside contact and more or less confined to the premises.” Picasso, accompanied by his lover, Françoise Gilot, was a frequent and welcome visitor. While still fencing with each other like old duellists, they talked art. (Gilot remembered one occasion when Matisse, producing American catalogues of the work of Pollock and Robert Motherwell, asked Picasso, “What do you think they have incorporated from us? And in a generation or two, who among the painters will still carry a part of us in his heart, as we do Manet and Cézanne?”) Matisse died at the age of eighty-four, on November 3, 1954, with Marguerite and Delectorskaya at his side. Spurling reports that Delectorskaya “left immediately with the suitcase she had kept packed for fifteen years.”

If Spurling fails to make one important element sufficiently clear, it’s the connection between the peculiarities of Matisse’s life and his singularity, which is also his absolute modernity, as an artist. The key fact is his self-invention as a painter, entering art history from essentially nowhere, as if by parachute. Never having had traditional lessons to unlearn (unlike Picasso, with his incessant industry of demolishing and reconstructing the inherited language of painting), Matisse innovated on something like whim—a privilege, without guidelines or guarantees, for which he paid a steep toll in anxiety. There is even a touch of the naïf or the primitive about him, though it is hard to grasp, because his works quickly assumed the status of classics, models of the modern. You can track his inspirations, seeing, for example, that his discovery of Russian icons, during a visit to Shchukin in Moscow in 1911, informed a large confrontational painting of him and Amélie, “The Conversation” (1911). But how does this marital anecdote (the great man in pajamas!) manage to impress as an all-time symbol of creativity? Matisse couldn’t say, and no one else can, either. The circumstances of his life and time, as detailed in this appropriately capacious biography, continually distill into drops of wonder.

~ Peter Schjeldahl · August 22, 2005. Peter Schjeldahl has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1998 and is the magazine’s art critic. His latest book is “Hot, Cold, Heavy, Light: 100 Art Writings, 1988-2018.”

#matisse #artist biography #painting #the new yorker

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my-dearest-angie · 7 years ago

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A Ship of Dreams

Pairing: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson

Genre: Romance, Angst

Rating: Teen

Chapter: 2/?

Summary: (Titanic AU) Thomas was the son of a floundering lawyer. Alexander was an orphan with a sharp tongue and a knack for making enemies. They met at the bow of a ship…

1912

Thomas Jefferson opened the carriage door into the crowded dock, hopping the last step and narrowly missing a puddle of grime. He stumbled for a moment, scuffing his shoes, before using an ornate cane to right himself. Sniffing at the air, he turned back to the carriage where his little brother, positively green with motion sickness, was fumbling for the door latch to balance himself.

“Do you smell that, Jemmy?”

James looked up, eyes bleary as he stood, hunched, trying to settle his weak stomach.

“The salt and manure?”

Thomas smirked. “Exactly. They can dress it up however they want, but this old wreck’s no better than any other.”

He heard a scoff behind him.

“Your fiancee is far too difficult to impress, Miss Schuyler.”

Angelica smiled tightly as Aaron Burr, her father’s reserved, yet polite, business partner extended a hand to help her down from the carriage. She frowned as he gripped her hand a moment too long. Drawing it back slowly, she moved towards a second carriage where her younger sisters were emerging. His eyes followed her.

“Indeed. You boys needn’t resign yourselves to fates of boredom. Titanic shall be quite a marvel, I promise you.”

The younger men turned at the booming voice as James Madison, the Elder, stepped from the adjacent carriage. Smiling warmly at his sons and wrapping an arm around each of them, he turned towards the hulking ship.

“You two can be blasé about many things, but not about Titanic.”

The pair exchanged a look. They took that as a challenge.

“It is the largest and most luxurious craft at sea, unmatched by any before.”

“They say it is unsinkable.” The small, steady voice drew their attention to the youngest daughter of Philip Schuyler as she peered at them, inquiringly. Mr. Madison chuckled deeply.

“Indeed Miss Margaret, God himself could not sink her.”

Thomas rolled his eyes at his father. “Any decent storm could sink her.”

“You needn’t be so spiteful, Mr. Jefferson.” Thomas glowered as he met Burr’s hard eyes. He would be as spiteful as he wished. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his “fiancee” and her sisters grinning at his obvious pout. He crossed his arms, causing Angelica and Eliza to chuckle softly, and he almost swore he heard Peggy snort. Thomas smiled in spite of himself.

He had befriended the rambunctious trio at the age of eleven, often finding himself gossiping mindlessly with little Peggy, being softly scolded by Eliza when he spoke carelessly, and debating with Angelica for hours on end. He loved them like sisters.

As Angelica approached him, he extended a gracious elbow. She looped her arm through his and grinned as they walked a little distance from the others.

“You are insufferable, Tom. If you are to antagonize Mr. Burr for the whole of the voyage, he’s liable to toss himself to the sea.”

Jefferson mumbled lowly. “What a crime that would be.”

Angelica scowled, slapping at his arm playfully. “He’s a decent man, Thomas, and he’s done you no wrong.”

“You’ve said yourself, you dislike him.”

Angelica glanced over her shoulder and whispered, conspiratorially. “I dislike all associates of my father. They are all too often arrogant asses with too much ambition and too little ability.”

“They’re lawyers.”

“Your father is a lawyer, Thomas.”

“And for all I love the man, he is no less incompetent.”

“Ah, but a good man he is.” Angelica paused as her smile slipped. “Something in Burr unnerves me,Tom; more than any other. Perhaps it’s how little he speaks, but it always seems as though he is watching. Watching and waiting. For what, I do not know.”

Thomas growled in the back of his throat. “He seems to have taken a liking to watching you.”

Angelica raised her eyebrows at him. “Why, Mr. Jefferson, I never took you for the jealous type.”

They both laughed at the thought. They both knew where they stood in that regard.

“And what are you two laughing about?” Mr. Madison approached, James in tow.

“The likelihood that barnacles have already attached to the ship.”

Madison rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his son. “Well then, we might as well go and see how many we can find.” He gently pushed the pair towards the ship as James walked at a leisurely pace behind while the two younger Schuylers scurried after them, their long gowns catching about their legs. From behind them all, Aaron Burr watched.

—

As Thomas boarded the ship, his family and their baggage in tow, he found himself grudgingly accepting that Titanic was indeed grand. Sweeping staircases loomed around him in dark patterns of mahogany. Gleaming marble clicked beneath his heels and chandeliers shone brilliantly, reflecting the light of the glass dome overhead in thousands of crystals. He passed doors en route to his quarters that seemed to open into larger and larger richly decorated atriums of dining and dancing and other respectable activity.

Yes, Titanic was indeed a marvel. Not that Thomas would ever admit it.

He squinted, trying to find flaw in the sconces above, as he distractedly rounded a corner. A sudden solid weight slammed into him, wrenching his arm from Angelica’s and sending him sprawling to the floor. He caught a pair of wide, flashing eyes and a shock of dark auburn hair, before the figure that had so gracelessly landed atop him was up and running again with a murmured apology. He huffed as his father helped him to his feet and James began fussing over the state of him, all the while barely concealing a snicker. Peggy did not even attempt to hide her laughter, even as Angelica chided her.

Thomas heard his father mutter something about, “young fools,” and, “bloody pickpockets,” as Burr quickly ushered them along, not wishing to make a spectacle.

Jefferson wasn’t sure what compelled him to glance over his shoulder at the space where the assailant had been.

—

Thomas flung himself onto the soft mattress of his bed, half dressed for dinner, and bemoaned his fate.

“Is this all that life will be, Jems? Parties and riches and pre-destined engagements?”

James rolled his eyes, his back to his brother as he adjusted his bowtie in a mirror and coughed into his sleeve. “There are worse fates to be had, Tom.”

Thomas sat up with a huff. “I know, James, I know. Angelica and I have an arrangement of sorts and shall maintain our freedom, such as it is. I just feel as though I will be…missing something.”

He stood up to grab an ivory comb and ran it through his impossibly bushy hair in an attempt to tame it.

“Why did father not choose you to marry?”

James turned at his brother’s hushed voice. Thomas’s gaze was vacant. When his eyes snapped back, he offered a small smile.

“Not that I really mind Jems, Angie is a lovely woman, after all. I just…wondered.”

James turned back to face the mirror. “You are the eldest, Tom”

“I’m adopted, James. You’re his true-born son, his real legacy.”

James sighed. “Father never—He hasn’t much faith in me is all. You’ve always been the leader, Tom, and I, the follower.”

Thomas snorted. “And what of when you inherit the company, Jemmy?”

James shook his head. “I would lead the business to ruin. Besides…father does not expect me to live long enough to see that day.”

James caught the reflection of his brother’s stricken face in the mirror. “You needn’t look so shocked, Tom. We both know the state of my health will scarcely see me through another year.”

Thomas cringed at the matter-of-fact tone as his brother straightened his jacket.

“Don’t say that.” The words came out in a broken whisper, startling James into turning his head. “Don’t ever say that.” In a few long, quick strides, Jefferson had his brother enveloped in a firm hug, desperately squeezing his eyes against burning tears. James patted his back gently, and Thomas hated how patronizing it felt. As though he were simply denying the inevitable.

At length, he stepped back, firmly grasping his ailing brother’s shoulders and looking him dead in the eye.

“You will outlive us all, James, you will—“ The words caught in his throat as he saw the resignation in his baby brother’s eyes. Eyes that were far too tired for a man of his scarce years. A sob began to build in Jefferson as James stepped away with a small smile, quietly suggesting they finish getting ready before dinner.

—

Thomas was sullen and quiet as the pair made their way towards the grand dining saloon, a firm grip on his brother’s elbow, as James stumbled like a newborn colt. Righting himself, James wondered at his elder brother’s behavior. Even prior to his adoption, he and Tom had been friends, and James had always been such a sickly child. Surely, Thomas had known…

James shook his head sadly, finding the slight movement made his head spin, he closed his eyes firmly, grasping Tom’s forearm to steady himself. He released a breath that he had meant to keep level, but came out like a death rattle. He opened tired eyes, glancing up at his brother’s heartbroken expression. He had never seen the man so helpless. He tried to smile reassuringly, but he was sure it came across as a forced wobble of his lips. James tugged at Thomas’s arm weakly to force them into movement again.

Thomas obliged.

They slipped down a hallway, back into the vast, domed foyer where richly dressed aristocrats meandered in the general direction of a pair of mahogany and brass doors, held open by bowing crewmen with stiff backs and stiffer smiles. James nodded kindly as they passed the men who would likely hold the door all their lives and never themselves be invited in.

A loud voice called from across the dining hall drawing the attention of the two men towards a table on the far wall. A hulk of a man half-stood, staring down his long, pointed nose at the pair. Philip Schuyler cut quite the imposing figure. As a child, James had feared Mr. Schuyler was a giant who would feast upon his bones, despite dear Eliza’s reassurances. As a man of slight stature and nervous disposition, James found the presence of Mr. Schuyler, who towered over even Thomas, unnerved him to this day.

Sitting beside the prominent lawyer, their own father appeared weak and small. At the sight of his father, James quickly released Thomas’s arm, hobbling towards the table under his own power. It would not do to appear weak in front of father and their guests. Behind him, he could sense Thomas’s frown. Rather than acknowledge his brother’s concern, he faced the others, smiling brightly. Father grinned back, but his eyes were set on a point over James’s shoulder.

“Ah, Thomas, my boy, glad you could join us! Take a seat, son.”

James kept his gaze downcast as Thomas took a seat beside their father, sitting by Tom himself. Across the table, Eliza sent him a questioning look. He shook his head softly. No need to involve her.

His Eliza.

James sighed quietly. No point in entertaining the thought. No point at all. The best he could hope for, was seeing those he loved most, happy and content with someone who deserved their love.

Angelica, he knew, would find her own happiness and little Peggy was still young and may yet find her own way. And Eliza, tenderhearted Lizzie, who was, in James’s mind, as perfect as the dolls they’d played with when they were small; she could find happiness in the darkest of places.

It was Thomas he truly worried for. In Angelica he would find companionship, but not love. Social as he was, even in a room full of people he would seem to be entirely alone. He opened his heart to a select few, guarding himself carefully against loss as he had suffered after the fire that had claimed the lives of his parents and siblings.

James counted himself lucky to be one of the individuals Thomas loved and trusted. He wondered now if Thomas regretted that decision. He wondered if everyone had. James subtly pushed away the bowl of hearty soup, finding he had quickly lost his meager appetite. He opted instead to sip at a glass of water, avoiding Eliza’s concerned gaze and ignoring Peggy’s attempts to get his attention by kicking him. He stared out past the delicate bronze lattice-work of a window, into the open sea. In the moonlight, the waves undulated, silver and dark and deadly as the tide picked up. Most would hardly notice the slight rocking of the ship that followed, but to James, the ship may as well have been caught in a storm.

James gripped the edge of the table, hard, his throat burning suddenly with water and bile. All at once he felt feverish and cold, his head spinning. He stood from the table, quickly made his excuses and stumbled from the room onto the deck. He barely registered the sound of footsteps following.

—

Thomas cut himself off mid sentence as James abruptly stood, his face ashen. His brother mumbled incoherently before turning towards the exit, tripping as he went. Thomas watching him with mounting concern. Beside him, their father sighed, embarrassed into his brandy.

“Boy’s got a weak stomach.”

Mr. Schuyler grunted in response. Thomas scowled darkly before standing to follow his little brother. Stepping outside, a cold breeze buffeted his face, his hair drifting into his eyes. He grumbled, pulling it back away from his face and stuffing the majority of it into the collar of his dress shirt. He scanned the shadowed edge of the dock, finding the odd passenger, but no sign of James. He set of at a brisk pace, sparing no time for pleasantries with those who greeted him. No small amount of panic came over him as he neared the end of the deck, only to hear painful retching. Anxiety rolled in his gut as he bounded up a short flight of stairs to see a hunched figure gagging over the railing. Heart aching with pity, he slowly approached the younger man, rubbing his back soothingly. James tensed for a moment, before glancing back gratefully. Thomas smiled sadly, as he began to retch again.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Thomas jumped, startled, as he whipped his head around to see a man emerge from the shadows. He was small, smaller than James even, his patched, faded-green coat nearly swallowing him in its folds. He gazed at the pair nonchalantly with tired eyes, his hands stuffed in pockets with bits of old paper sticking out of them. He quirked his head, and a strand of tangled auburn hair fell into his eyes.

Thomas huffed. “Pardon me, sir, but this is really none of your business.”

“I’m serious.” The stranger meandered casually towards them. “At this speed and with these winds, you could be pushed right over. I recommend you go find a big silver bowl to vomit into. By the looks of you, you can afford it.”

This man was truly staring to annoy Thomas. “Sir, I don’t—“

A sharp wind blew at their backs. James gasped as he lost his footing, grabbing desperately at Thomas’s shirt. The sudden weight made him stumble, his foot catching on the base of the rail. Thomas and James screamed as they fell.

#hamilton #titanic au #jamilton #james madison is a precious baby #feelings #fanfic

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manekiniki · 7 years ago

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Kizuna Summer Box

Hi again! Today I’m going to go over and review my Kizuna Summer Box. You should know that this was the first Kizuna box that was a complete mystery to me. The previous box I ordered from them was a box a few months old, and I’d seen pictures of things included. This time everything inside the box was a complete mystery! All I knew was the theme, which was summer! My excitement went unmatched, and I couldn’t wait to get home from work to delicately open it and see everything inside!

The pamphlet in this months box talks about how the summers in Japan are hot and humid, but its still a time you should visit the country as there are many festivals to enjoy. After a few minutes of advise on what to do in Japan during the summer: mountain hiking, watermelon splitting, and visiting the breathtaking sunflower seeds; the pamphlet entices you to read on to see the items you’ve received while unraveling them.

The first item I fished (no pun intended) from my Kizuna box was the Goldfish Scooping Game Display set. Goldfish Scooping is a game that is popular at Japanese summer festivals. It involves players scooping goldfish with a paper scooper. The pamphlet also states that this was an original origami project from their team for the subscribers. I find the display set adorable and I’m amazed to find out that they took the time to create the goldfish for who knows how many boxes?!

The next thing I pulled from the box were the snack items! There was 1 Bourbon Petit rice cracker pack, and 2 eel pies. Both are things i have never tried before. The bourbon Petit rice crackers came in 1 of 2 flavors: Yakisoba (stir fried noodles) or Karaage (fried chicken) I received the Karaage flavor and I can’t wait to give it and the eel pies a try! They even add that both snacks are delicate and apologize if they don’t make it in one piece. Mine arrived in really good shape. Only one of the eel pies were broken, and only in one spot; hardly noticeable.

The next item I pulled out was this beautiful Goldfish ceramic plate. It’s a Mino-yaki piece from the Gifu Prefecture; and it’s gorgeous! I love the colors and how it just brightens the area that it’s near. That and the goldfish are just adorable. Speaking, of adorable goldfish; that brings us to the next item I got from the box.

A Goldfish washi note pad and Goldfish washi tape. I’d like to first point out that both of these are going to come in handy for a person like me. I’m constantly jotting down little notes of things I need to remember, and the washi tape will play a nice part in the scrap book. The note pad is made of Echizen Washi and produced in Kyoto. Also, a fun fact I learned from the pamphlet and wasn’t aware of: Washi is commonly made from bark fibers of the gampi tree, the mitsumata shrub, or the paper mulberry. It’s appreciated for it’s unique texture and durability.

A Hamamonyo Tenuhui handkerchief. Though I personally tend to use these to line the shelves that hold my collections, you can also use this as a handkerchief or a lunch mat. The pattern you see on it is inspired by water yoyo or mizu yoyo, which is a popular Japanese festival game.

The second to last item in the box was a sunflowers and lady postcard. According to the pamphlet the postcard embraces the vintage romance lifestyle and fashion developing in the Taisho era (1912-1926), intended to evoke a sense of nostalgia. I find it to be super pretty, and have already added it to my scrap book. If you came here from my instagram, you may have noticed it in the video telling you this post was up!

Last, but Certainly not least is this Seto-yaki wind chime, or Furin. This isn’t the first furin I own, and it probably wont be the last. The reason being is the sound they produce is beautiful, soothing, and soft. Wind chimes I’ve heard my whole life have always bothered or annoyed me, but Japanese Furin simply bring me peace. This is, hands down, my favorite item in the box. I even might have danced a little when I realized what it was. Now, the pamphlet informs you that along with the goldfish, wind chimes are an icon of Japan’s summer. It’s also stated that Seto-yaki (seto ware) refers to a type of japanese pottery produced in and around the village of seto in Aichi Prefecture. Seto was the location of one of the six ancient kilns of japan. The Japanese term for ceramics from Seto (setomono) is used as a generic term for all pottery.

And there you have it, the Kizuna summer box! Once more Kizuna box brought Japan to my door, and I wasn’t disappointed in the least bit. I wasn’t sure if I could be more pleased that I was with their last box, but they have indeed proved me wrong. Both boxes, and all items included made me feel like I was part of the Japanese community; if only for the moment. If you’re interested in having your own experience with Kizuna box I’d entirely recommend it! If wares aren’t your forte, but snacks are; they have a snack box as well! Just take a look. You can find them on instagram and facebook, just search Kizuna box.

#review #kizuna box #kizuna #summerbox #summer box #goldfish #furin #windchime #japan #summer #japaneselifestylebox #japanese lifestyle box #subbox #subscription box

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littlerachelbee · 8 years ago

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laundry day.

Getting better at writing before it’s due! If only I cared this much about my homework...

Once again, written for the weekly challenge by @officerparker

Wyatt started it.

It had been a few weeks since Lucy had essentially moved in with him, and they were folding laundry while a James Bond movie played on the TV. Wyatt, only half paying attention, was helping her fold all of her button-up shirts that she wore back when her only profession was teaching.

He chuckled suddenly, and Lucy raised an eyebrow, curious as to what was so funny. He glanced up at her, nodding at the shirt in his hands. "You have a lot of plaid shirts, Luce," he teased, gesturing to the small pile that had accrued in the laundry basket. "I can't tell which of these are yours and which are mine." Lucy rolled her eyes, yanking her shirt out from his hand, folding it neatly and placing it in her pile.

"I'm sure you'll be able to tell once mine are folded and neatly put away and yours are crumpled up and tossed in your drawer," Lucy mumbled as she picked up a pair of jeans and began meticulously folding them. Wyatt feigned offense, frowning deeply at her and placing a hand over his heart.

"I am military," he huffed. "My clothes are folded more neatly than yours." Lucy shrugged, knowing he was probably right. "Anyway, we can fold the rest later. If I know Emma, she'll be up at the crack of dawn, heading out to wreck history." He nodded toward Lucy's room. "You should get some rest." Lucy frowned.

"Why do I need to get some rest?" she asked. "Why me specifically?" Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You finished all the coffee this morning, and I've seen you half-asleep with no caffeine. You'll need all the rest you can get to make it to Mason alive," Wyatt teased, taking the shirt she was folding from her hands and dropping it into the laundry basket. "Come on, Luce, get some sleep."

Lucy sighed, but relented, whispering goodnight as she made her way to her room, already stifling a yawn.

Wyatt Logan was psychic. Or, psychotic. Lucy decided he might have been a bit of both.

Like clockwork, Lucy had only been asleep for three hours at most when Wyatt gently shook her shoulder, mumbling sleepily about Emma. Lucy wordlessly shuffled into the living room in her tank top and sweatpants, grabbing her favorite shirt from the pile of unfolded laundry and slipping it on. She met Wyatt at the door, her eyes still half-shut as he helped her into her coat and she slipped her shoes on.

They were out the door and on their way to Mason in under five minutes; they'd become semi-professional at this in the past few weeks.

Lucy was only half awake for the brief from Agent Christopher, and Wyatt had skipped the brief in favor of searching for coffee for him and Lucy to inhale before they left. She heard something about 1912 and a Rittenhouse founder's relative and was quickly shooed away to change.

Rufus and Jiya were snickering as Lucy yawned, running a hand through her hair. She pushed her sleeve back up, wondering why it was so loose. She must have stretched it somehow, she realized, and began to roll up the sleeves, cuffing them at her elbows.

"Here," Wyatt yawned, pushing a hot paper cup toward her as he shuffled next to her, breathing in his own cup of coffee as she rifled through the racks of clothing. "I'm not saying chug it, but we do still have to get changed." He glanced up at her, lightly blowing on his coffee. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"1912," Lucy mumbled as she gratefully took a sip of her coffee.

Ahh.

She was almost completely awake, now. She began reiterating to Wyatt what Agent Christopher had said, as Rufus and Jiya continued to watch them, both wearing matching smirks. Lucy ignored them, focusing only on her coffee and telling Wyatt about the mission at hand. Once she was halfway done with her coffee and feeling much more awake, she pulled an outfit from the racks, telling both men that they should get changed.

Rufus followed after her and Wyatt, chuckling as he caught up to her just outside of her changing room.

"Luce, whose shirt is that?" Rufus asked, nodding at Lucy's top. She turned, frowning.

"What do you mean?" she asked, glancing down. "It's mi-"

Oh.

It wasn't hers.

She didn't recognize this shirt at all. It was a dark green plaid shirt, flannel, just like her personal favorite. This one was much too long, though, which would explain the sleeves being too loose earlier. The pattern was darker as well, with navy and gray instead of the light blue and silver in her favorite shirt. She didn't know whose shirt this was.

Wyatt cleared his throat, and she glanced up, noticing his cheeks were suddenly redder than usual. "That's, uh, my shirt," he mumbled, not taking his eyes off of the shirt. Lucy felt her face flush with embarrassment as she realized what Rufus thought.

"Oh," Lucy squeaked, turning back to Rufus. "I must have grabbed his shirt instead of mine. I just grabbed from the pile of laundry," she explained as Rufus smirked, nodding slowly. "We didn't finish folding the laundry last night, and I just assumed it was my shirt on top."

"Okay," Rufus said, grinning like the Cheshire cat as he turned and escaped into the men's changing room. Lucy sighed, turning back to Wyatt, who still hadn't taken his eyes off of the shirt.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, noticing Wyatt hadn't really said anything. He glanced up at her and her breath caught as she realized how dark his eyes were.

Wyatt nodded, wordlessly grabbing Lucy's hand and pulling her into the women's changing room. He closed the door, spinning Lucy around and pushing her up against it. Lucy squeaked in surprise as her back collided with the door, the sound tapering off as she noticed the almost primal look in Wyatt's eyes.

"Wyatt," she breathed as he stared at her, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was afraid it would burst. "What are you doing?"

His response was to groan, so low she almost missed it, as he pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes slipped shut as his hand reached up to cradle her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, his other hand gripping her waist, bunching the fabric of his shirt in his fist. Lucy moaned softly and Wyatt groaned again, coaxing her mouth open with his own. She willingly obliged, her fingers migrating from gripping Wyatt's shoulders to tangling themselves in his hair as their tongues tangled.

Wyatt pulled away all too soon, breathing heavily as he stared at Lucy. Lucy opened her eyes slowly, taking in how Wyatt looked. She wanted to remember him like this forever. Lust-blown eyes so dark she couldn't see the telltale blue anymore, face flushed, lips slightly swollen from her. She'd done that, she realized with a hint of pride.

"You look really good in my shirt," he groaned, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before pulling Lucy away from the door and ducking out of the changing room.

Lucy stayed with her back to the door, still catching her breath. If she was sleepy before, she was definitely wide awake now.

Wyatt had started it, she realized as she started changing into her outfit for 1912.

She only hoped he had the decency to finish it.

#weekchallenge #lyatt #timeless ff #here's a thing that i wrote

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whitelabelseoreseller · 5 years ago

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How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

Your brand inhabits a challenging world in which its consumers’ words make up the bulk of your reputation. Negative reviews can feel like the ultimate revenge, punishing dissatisfactory experiences with public shaming, eroded local rankings, and attendant revenue loss. Some business owners become so worried about negative reviews, they head to fora asking if there is any way to opt-out and even querying whether they should simply remove their business listings altogether rather than face the discordant music.

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

I’ve just completed a study of consumer behavior as it relates to negative reviews becoming positive ones and I believe this blog post will hold some very welcome surprises for concerned local business owners and their marketers — I know that some of what I learned both surprised and delighted me. In fact, it’s convinced me that, in case after case, negative reviews aren’t what we might think they are at all.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

Your company winds up with a negative review, and the possibility of a permanently lost customer. Marketing wisdom tells us that it’s more costly to acquire a new customer than to keep an existing one happy. But it's actually more far-reaching. The following list of stats tells the story of why you want to do anything you can to get the customer to edit a bad review to reflect more positive sentiment:

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

A typical business only hears from four percent of its dissatisfied customers, meaning that the negative reviews you rectify for outspoken people could solve problems for silent ones. — (Ruby Newell-Lerner)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

The Better Business Bureau was founded in 1912. The Federal Trade Commission made its debut just two years later. Consumer protections are deemed a necessity, but until the internet put the potential of mass reviews directly into individuals hands, the “little guy” often felt he lacked a truly audible voice when the “big guy” (business) didn’t do right by him.

You can see how local business review platforms have become a bully pulpit, empowering everyday people to make their feelings known to a large audience. And, you can see from reviews, like the one below, the relish with which some consumers embrace that power:

Here, a customer is boasting the belief that they outwitted an entity which would otherwise have defrauded them, if not for the influence of a review platform. That’s our first impression. But if we look a little closer, what we’re really seeing here is that the platform is a communications tool between consumer and brand. The reviewer is saying:

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

This month, I created a spreadsheet to organize data I was collecting about negative reviews being transformed into positive ones. I searched Yelp for the phrase “edited my review” in cities in every region of the United States and quickly amassed 50 examples for in-depth analysis. In the process, I discovered three pieces of information that could be relevant to your brand.

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

In this first example, we see a customer who left a review after having trouble making an appointment and promising to update their content once they’d experienced actual service. As I combed through consumer sentiment, I was enlightened to discover that many people treat reviews as live objects, updating them over time to reflect evolving experiences. How far do reviewers go with this approach? Just look:

In the above example, the customer has handled their review in four separate updates spanning several days. If you look at the stars, they went from high to low to high again. It’s akin to live updates from a sporting event, and that honestly surprised me to see.

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself, and this edited review typifies for me the reasonableness I saw in case after case. Far from being the scary, irrational customers that business owners dread, it's clear that many people have the basic understanding that mistakes can happen… and can be rectified. I even saw people forgiving auto dealerships for damaging their cars, once things had been made right.

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

The customer apparently isn’t “always right,” and some of them know it. I saw several instances of customers editing their reviews after realizing that they were the ones who made a mistake. For example, one rather long review saga contained this:

“I didn't realize they had an hourly option so my initial review was 3 stars. However, after the company letting me know they'd be happy to modify my charges since I overlooked the hourly option, it was only fair to edit my review. I thought that was really nice of them. 5 stars and will be using them again in the future.”

When a customer has initially misunderstood a policy or offering and the business in question takes the time to clarify things, fair-minded individuals can feel honor-bound to update their reviews. Many updated reviews contained phrases like “in good conscience” and “in all fairness.”

Overall, in studying this group of reviewers, I found them to be reasonable people, meaning that your brand has (surprising) significant power to work with dissatisfied customers to win back their respect and their business.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Remedy — Some type of fix occurs, whether this results from intervention on the part of the brand, a second positive experience outweighing an initial negative one, or the consumer self-correcting their own misunderstanding.

Restoration — The unhappy customer is restored to the business as a happy one, hopefully, ready to trust the brand for future transactions, and the reputation of the brand is restored by an edited review reflecting better satisfaction.

Now, let’s bucket this general pattern into smaller segments for a more nuanced understanding. Note: There is an overlap in the following information, as some customers experienced multiple positive elements that convinced them to update their reviews.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

This correlates well with the findings of an earlier GatherUp study demonstrating that 57 percent of consumer complaints revolve around customer service and employee behavior. It’s critical to realize that nearly three-quarters of these disasters could be turned around with subsequent excellent service. As one customer in my study phrased it:

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Well over half of the subjects in my study specifically mentioned that the business had reached out to them in some way. I suspect many instances of such outreach went undocumented in the review updates, so the number may actually be much higher than represented.

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

You’re being given a second chance if you get the customer’s ear a second time. It’s then up to your brand to do everything you can to change their opinion. Here’s one customer’s description of how far a local business was willing to go to get back into his good graces:

“X made every effort to make up for the failed programming and the lack of customer service the night before. My sales rep, his manager and even the finance rep reached out by phone, text and email. I was actually in meetings all morning, watching my phone buzz with what turned out to be their calls, as they attempted to find out what they could do to make amends. Mark came over on my lunch break, fixed/reprogrammed the remote and even comped me a free tank of gas for my next fill up. I appreciated his sincere apologies and wanted to update/revise my review as a token of my appreciation.”

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Firstly, not one of the subjects in my study mentioned that the business requested they update their review. Perhaps it went undocumented, but there was absolutely zero suggestion that restored customers had been prompted to re-review the business.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

With a nod to the Twitter poll, I think it might be alright to mention you’d appreciate an updated review. I’d be extremely choosy about how you word your request so as not to make the customer feel obligated in any way. And I’d only do so if the customer was truly, sincerely restored to a sense of trust and well-being by the brand.

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Someone trusted your business and was disappointed. Your brand needs to equip itself to ride to the rescue. I was struck by how many reviewers said they felt uncared-for, and impressed by how business owners like this one completely turned things around:

In this light, review platforms are simply a communications medium hosting back-and-forth between customer people and business people. Communicate with a rescue plan and your reputation can “sparkle like diamonds”, too.

Reviews-in-progress

I want to close by mentioning how evident it was to me, upon completing this study, that reviewers take their task seriously. The average word count of the Yelp reviews I surveyed was about 250 words. If half of the 12,584 words I examined expressed disappointment, your brand is empowered to make the other half express forgiveness for mistakes and restoration of trust.

It could well be that the industry term “negative” review is misleading, causing unnecessary fear for local brands and their marketers. What if, instead, we thought of this influential content as “reviews-in-progress,” with the potential for transformation charting the mastery of your brand at customer service.

The short road is that you prevent negative experiences by doubling down on staff hiring and training practices that leave people with nothing to complain about in the entire customer service ecosystem. But re-dubbing online records of inevitable mistakes as “reviews-in-progress” simply means treading a slightly longer road to reputation, retention, and revenue. If your local brand is in business for the long haul, you’ve got this!

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0 notes

theinjectlikes2 · 5 years ago

Text

How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Reviews-in-progress

from The Moz Blog https://ift.tt/2ORFjJn via IFTTT

#IFTTT #The Moz Blog

0 notes

nutrifami · 5 years ago

Text

How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Reviews-in-progress

0 notes

localwebmgmt · 5 years ago

Text

How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Reviews-in-progress

0 notes

kjt-lawyers · 5 years ago

Text

How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Reviews-in-progress

0 notes

epackingvietnam · 5 years ago

Text

How to Get a Customer to Edit Their Negative Review

Posted by MiriamEllis

“When you forgive, you in no way change the pas — but you sure do change the future.” — Bernard Meltzer

But hang in there. Local business customers may be more forgiving than you think. In fact, your customers may think differently than you might think.

Let’s study this together, with real-world examples, data, a poll, and takeaways that could transform your outlook.

Stats to start with

57 percent of consumers will only use a business if it has four or more stars — (BrightLocal)

One study showed that ~1.5-star rating increase improved conversions from 10.4 percent to 12.8 percent, representing about 13,000 more leads for the brand. — (Location3)

73.8 percent of customers are either likely or extremely likely to continue doing business with a brand that resolves their complaints. — (GatherUp)

89 percent of consumers read businesses' responses to reviews. — (BrightLocal)

The impact of ratings, reviews, and responses are so clear that every local brand needs to devote resources to better understanding this scenario of sentiment and customer retention.

People power: One reason consumers love reviews

“The business has to do right by me if I put this on Yelp!”

What they’re communicating isn’t nice, and may well be untrue, but it is certainly a message they want to be amplified.

And this is where things get interesting.

Brand power: Full of surprises!

Surprise #1: Many consumers think of their reviews as living documents

Brands should see this as good news because it means an initial negative review doesn’t have to be set in stone.

Surprise #2: Consumers can be incredibly forgiving

“What really defines you is how you handle the situation after you realize you made a mistake.”

Surprise #3: Consumers can be self-correcting.

How negative reviews become positive: Identifying winning patterns

In my case study, the dominant, overall pattern of negative reviews being transformed into positive ones consisted of these three Rs:

Reach — the customer reaches out with their negative experience, often knowing that, in this day and age, powerful review platforms are a way to reach brands.

Key to review transformation:

70 percent mentioned poor service/rude service rectified by a second experience in which staff demonstrated caring.

64 percent mentioned the owner/manager/staff proactively, directly reached out to the customer with a remedy.

32 percent mentioned item replaced or job re-done for free.

20 percent mentioned customer decided to give a business a second chance on their own and was better-pleased by a second experience.

6 percent mentioned customer realized the fault for a misunderstanding was theirs.

From this data, two insights become clear and belong at the core of your reputation strategy:

Poor and rude service seriously fuel negative reviews

“X has since gone above and beyond to resolve the issue and make me feel like they cared.”

Proactive outreach is your negative review repair kit

Outreach can happen in a variety of ways:

The business may recognize who the customer is and have their name and number on file due to a contract.

The business may not know who the customer is but can provide an owner response to the review that includes the company’s contact information and an earnest request to get in touch.

The business can DM the customer if the negative review is on Yelp.

What a great example of dedication to earning forgiveness!

Should you actively ask restored customers to edit their negative reviews?

I confess — this setup makes me a bit nervous. I took Twitter poll to gauge sentiment among my followers:

Respondents showed strong support for asking a customer who has been restored to happiness to edit their review. However, I would add a few provisos.

Secondly, I would want to be 100 percent certain that the customer is, indeed, delighted again. Otherwise, you could end up with something truly awful on your review profile, like this:

Suffice it to say, never demand an edited review, and certainly don’t use one as blackmail!

So what are negative reviews, really?

In so many cases, negative reviews are neither punishment nor the end of the road.

They are, in fact, a form of customer outreach that’s often akin to a cry for help.

Reviews-in-progress

#túi_giấy_epacking_việt_nam #túi_giấy_epacking #in_túi_giấy_giá_rẻ #in_túi_giấy #epackingvietnam #tuigiayepacking

0 notes