#and sure hope jan is in a red silk one!

[hazzybat]

Anyone order a ficlet? Maybe one day I'll make it a full story but for now enjoy this little snippet

Pain blossomed near his shoulder. He knew this pain. It was an inconvenient truth of his line of work but something he did his best to avoid. He'd been shot.

He dragged himself behind a column, bullets flying past his head and hitting the back wall. His shoulder hurt. His heart hurt. Everything hurt. He took in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to stand but his legs wouldn't listen, they couldn't support the weight of his muscled body. Exhaustion slammed into him, making every muscle feel like jelly and every bone feel like lead. That wasn't good.

The bullets stopped but Nace knew it just meant they were repositioning, sneaking closer to find an angle that would launch the burning hot metal through his head. He had no tricks left. His own gun had only one bullet left and all his other tools had been used and abandoned long ago. His ears rang loudly, and he could feel every beat of his heart, each pulse making his shirt grow wetter and warmer with his own blood.

Spies are trained to not give up, not even when there is no hope left. The mission is always more important than any one life and it is part of the job description they lay theirs down for the good of the world. But if there is no way out and no chance if escape, they are instructed to think of something happy, something that will let them die in peace instead of screaming in fear.

Crimson blood spread across Nace's shirt, the deep red staining crisp white cotton, his life pushed out through his skin with every beat of his heart.

He thought of that night.

That night with Jan. With the one man on earth he wasn't meant to love. How foolish he had bean to think that he could be immune to the charms and seduction of one Jan Peteh. But even as he lay there dying, dying because of Jan, he couldn't make himself hate him. He couldn't picture that face, that soft smile and sparkling eyes and not find beauty in them.

He thought of Jan's body, his perfect skin and perfect arms and perfect ass and how perfectly he felt wrapped around his cock. Their bodies moving together like old lovers, as if that hotel room on silk sheets was where they were meant to be. He thought of Jan's kiss. Of Jan's stubble and little gasps and moans as Nace moved inside him, touch him, loved him. He thought of those eyes. Blown wide with lust and maybe if Nace pretended (and he was dying so he gave himself permission to pretend) he could almost see love in them. Some deep affection and desire to keep Nace all for himself. Maybe it was just projection though.

Footsteps echoes throughout the space, hitting the concrete floor in short, sharp intervals, sprinting across the room as bullets once again lit up the space.

Nace couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn't bring himself out of his memories of lit candles and messy black hair and warm skin. He wanted to die with the ghost of love of his lips.

"Nace!" His name was called as a body crashed into his, lanky but strong. A familiar smell swirled around him, expensive cologne mixed with something soft and homey. Safe.

"You aren't dying here, you can't die here," Nace hadn't head that familiar voice sound wet before, thick with tears. Nace blinked open his eyes.

"Janči?"

He must be dead. What else could explain the vision before him, Jan's hair falling in his face, his neat black suit in a state of disarray and his eyes wide with fear as he clung to Nace's body.

"Nace," Jan's hand was on Nace's cheek. It felt soft. So soft and warm and Nace leaned into it  nuzzling it gently. He was here. He was real. And Nace was sure he would die in the arms on the only man he ever truly loved.

With the last of his strength he pulled himself up, ignoring the almost blinding pain that ran through his body, radiating out from the bullet hole in his shoulder.

Fuck protocol, fuck his training. He had already slept with the enemy, already fallen for him and if he somehow survived he swore he would never leave Jan's side, even if it meant becoming the very person he had sworn to protect the world from.

His lips found Jan's and everything else left his mind. He didn't care that he was bleeding out or that they weren't safe or that the world was in danger. Jan's lips were on his. Jan was his. Jan was everything and Nace's world was only this.

The strength left his body and he collapsed into the warm embrace of his love, the last words he heard being a scared whisper.

"Please don't leave me Nace."

this love will kill us in the end

for my own prompt: Lips is giving me hella Bond OST vibes, so hear me out: Bond!Nace and Villain!Jan au and their intense and doomed affair

[larinah]

August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.           Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.           I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness.           By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.           My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent.           I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.           The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.           I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four.           The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.    

      It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.     

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

       I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

       I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

       From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

       I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

       It was twenty minutes to seven.

       When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

       From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.        A sudden impulse made me enter.        A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.        It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.        He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.        He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.        I apologised for my intrusion.        “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.”        “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!”        He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.        “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said.        He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.”        “Then what’s it for?” I asked.        The man burst out laughing.        “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.”        He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.        I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.        I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.        Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.        “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride.        The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.        “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?”        “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.”        He gave a long, low whistle.        “And the dates?”        “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.”        “It’s a rum go!” he said.        But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.        “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!”        Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.        “You probably heard my name,” I said.        “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?”        I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.        “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson.        His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.        I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.        We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off.        “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?”        He shook his head.        “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought.        He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?”        I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home.        “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.”        He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.        “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.”        To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.        The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.        It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.        But the heat is stifling.        It is enough to send a man mad.

[mageicalwishes]

Read on AO3: Here

Rating: Teen & Up

Chapter: 1/? (More chapters to come a little later in Dec + Early Jan!) 

Summary: A loose crossover between Carry On and parts of I'll Give You The Sun. "He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured."

Carry On Countdown, Day 10 - Crossover @carryon-countdown​

Tags: Fluff, Getting Together, Meet-Cute, Social Anxiety, Crossover, Pining Baz, Artist Baz, Space Enthusiast Simon, Star Gazing, Anxious Thoughts,  Carry On Countdown 2020 Day 10

Words: 2,145

Baz

I need to stop thinking about grey, slippery roads and black shrouds. About the purple under my Father’s dull eyes, and the red of my Aunt’s anger. I need to stop thinking about me - About my life. My head is too loud. Too noxious. I need someone else to take my mind for a while. I need to see. To paint. And so, I search for a subject. 

Dragging my binoculars across the bleak, colourless houses, I search, desperately, for even a glimpse of a hue. But the colours are slipping from the world again. They always do when I’m trapped in my head.

And then I see them - The movers - so far from colourless that I’m dizzied. They’re great work horses, both of them - One chestnut, and one palomino - Hulking a grandfather clock up the house-next-door’s stairs. I’m zooming in, before I have time to reconsider - Into the stretch of navy against the flex of their arms, the rose flush of their foreheads, the tan swath of smooth stomach revealed each time they lift their arms. And then ... Shit. 

I drop the binoculars onto the floor, my body following swiftly behind them. Because, on the roof of the house, there’s a boy pointing a telescope directly at me. Fucking Hell. How long has he even been there?

I risk a glance over the top of my windowsill. He’s wearing a tatty purple jumper, and there’s a mess of bronze curls tangled atop his head. Even without the binoculars, I can see that he’s grinning at me. Is he laughing at me, already? Does he know what I was doing? That I was watching the movers? Does he think that I’m ...? He must. Why else would I be ogling them. God. I feel the dread pinching at my throat, and try to tether my mind, so that it doesn’t get away from me again. Maybe he’s just a smiley person. Maybe he thinks I was looking at his clock. That’s equally as plausible, surely? And, I mean, he has a telescope. Dickheads don’t tend to have telescopes, do they?

Tugging at the ends of my hair, I stand. When he sees me he waves, but before I have a chance to reciprocate, he’s reaching into his pocket, drawing his arms backwards, and lobbing something straight at me. (Maybe he is a dickhead, after all). 

On reflex, I stick out my hand. The unknown object slapping hard against my skin, as I close my fingers around it. 

“Nice catch!” He yells. His voice deep and bright, with a definite Northern tinge. I decide that I like it. It suits him. 

But, I don’t know what to say back. So, I don’t. Instead, I examine his potentially dangerous ‘gift’ - Spinning the rock around in the palm of my hand. It’s small (About the size of a pound coin) and covered in irregular lightening-like cracks. What am I supposed to do with it? Do I throw it back? Why did he even throw it at me, in the first place? I don’t know, but I slip it into my back pocket for safe-keeping, anyway. 

When I look back at him, hoping for some kind of explanation, he’s turned himself back towards the sky. Too focused on looking through his telescope to notice me. Which, to be honest, is odd. I mean, it’s daytime. What could he possibly be looking at? 

Even though I’m curious, I don’t stick around to find out. I’m worryingly off-kilter, and I need to rebalance. I hadn’t prepared myself for meeting a new person. I wasn’t ready. And so, I run to the place that I know best, to recuperate - The Art Institute. Where I can carry out further recon on the studio. 

-------------------

It was a good, productive sketch session. Nobody caught me peeping through the window, and I was able to get a few decent body references down. But … I don’t feel my usual post-art calm. My mind is still racing (Although, with a different genre of thought than earlier). 

Every over time I have visited, the models have been women. Posing demurely, with a bowl of fruit or silks. Arms placed, to partially protect their modesty. I’m used to that. I’m prepared for that. But today … it was a bloke. 

I don’t have a problem with that (Not really). There’s nothing wrong with blokes. And there’s nothing wrong with naked blokes, either. I’m mature enough to handle that. A body is a body. A sketch is a sketch. And I’m an artist first, queer person second. I just … hadn’t expected it. And I don’t like to be caught off guard. So, I’m feeling slightly rattled. I just need to get home, and get back to normality. To safe things - Like a beach scene, or a self-portrait. Familiar things. No more surprises.

And yet, a few steps into my walk back home, I see the guy from the roof leaning against a nearby tree, the same lopsided-grin aimed over at me. I blink, confirming his existence, and then he’s talking. Stood, barely 3 metres in front of me, in the dirt. 

“How was class?” 

He says it like it isn’t the strangest thing in the world that he’s here, with me, where he really has no reason to be. Like it isn’t only just slightly beaten in its absurdity by me, sketching propped-up on a wall outside, rather than inside, the studio. Like we aren’t complete strangers (Because, no matter how much he may be smiling at me, we don’t even know each other's names yet).

‘Yeah, sorry, I kinda’ followed you. I wanted to check out the woods, but I wasn’t sure of the way. So … I just tagged along. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Don’t worry though, I wasn’t watching you the whole time. I was busy with my own stuff.” 

He points to an open suitcase filled to the brim with ... rocks? As if that’s normal. 

“My meteorite bag’s all packed.”

I nod like that explains something, but it really doesn’t. Meteorites? I thought those were in the sky, not on the ground. And what does that even mean? He just carries around pieces of infinity. For what?

I look at him more closely, studying his face for any sign of disingenuity. For any sign that he’s just having me on. But I find nothing. Nothing … bad, anyway. Just a deep dimple accompanying his crooked smile, and miles of tawny skin, speckled with moles. He exists in shades of orange and gold. He’s the sun. And I can’t look away.

“Stare much?” 

I drop my gaze, embarrassed - Staring down at his scuffed Nikes, as my neck prickles with heat. I don’t talk. What am I even supposed to say to that? Yes? 

“Well ... you’re probably just used to it from staring at that bloke for so long. You know … for your drawing.” I look up - Grey meeting blue. He’s eyeing my pad curiously. “He was naked?” He breathes in as he says it, like the words stole his oxygen. It makes my stomach plummet, but I try to keep my face calm. I think about him watching me, watching the movers. How he watched me, watching the model. He must know. And ... I don’t know how I feel about that, just yet. 

He looks down at my pad again. I don’t understand why. Does he want me to show him the drawings of the model bloke? It seems like he does. And some disturbed part of me wants to. But I doubt it. ‘Hey stranger, wanna’ see how I draw dicks?’ said no sane person ever. My stomach twists tight, and I’m out of control - My brain hazy amongst the moment’s tension.

“Look, man,” he sighs, half-smiling as he scrubs at the back of his neck. “I legit’ have no idea how to get home. I tried, but I just ended up back here. I’ve been waiting for you to lead the way. You don’t mind do you?”

I don’t think I mind. Do I? I don’t know. I shake my head, anyway, and point him in the right direction. 

-------------------

It’s a long way home, and we walk the majority of it in silence (Well, near-silence. The bumping of his suitcase creating a constant accompaniment to our steps). I try and resist the urge to look back at him. The urge to ask him all of my ‘Why?’s - Why did you follow me? Why are you still following me? Why are you collecting meteorites? Why were you looking at the stars in daylight? Why were you looking at me in the daylight? It would only make me more muddled. So, rather than relent, I take out my invisible brushes and start to paint behind my eyes. 

And, after a while, I feel myself settling back into my skin. The dancing trees and setting sun relaxing me, in spite of the moment’s unsteadiness. Or ... maybe it was him. He’s an alarmingly relaxed person (I mean, I don’t know anybody else who would just follow a stranger around, with zero self-consciousness), so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had some sort of ‘Realm of Calm’ thing going on around him. 

When we emerge from the woods, returning to our familiar concrete-laden pavements, he spins around and jumps in front of me. Ecstatic. 

“Holy shit! That is like ... the longest I’ve ever gone without talking in my life! I was holding my breath just trying to keep the words in. How do you even do that? Are you always like this?”

He’s a mile a minute, and I’m lagging behind.

“Like what?”

And then he’s laughing at me. I can tell that he’s a person who laughs a lot, from the way he lets it take him over so easily - His whole being lightening up, as the sides of his eyes crinkle, joyfully. But it’s alright, I don’t mind. It’s not a mean laugh. It just makes me feel a little bit fizzy inside (In a good way. I think). 

“Dude! Are you kidding? You do know those are the first words you’ve said all day, right?”

I didn’t, actually. But I don’t tell him that. He’d probably just think that I’m more strange than he, no doubt, already does. 

He’s properly cracking up now (Although, I don’t know what, exactly, I did that was quite so funny). “And then you’re all just like ‘What?’”. </p>

He makes an absolutely atrocious attempt at imitating my accent (Which leaves him sounding like some kind of drunken Prince Charles impersonator), and before I can stop it, I’m laughing outright, alongside him. Both of us hunched-over cackling, wholeheartedly, probably looking more than a little mad. 

Once we’ve calmed down, he starts staring at my pad again. Jesus Christ. I really wish he wouldn’t. I’m not going to show him my sketches. Not even if he begs. I’d never survive the embarrassment.

“So ... lemme’ guess. You do most of your talking in there?” He points down at my pad, and I feel the tips of my ears flood scarlet. 

“Yeah. Something like that.” My voice comes out mumbled and gruff. I didn’t mean for it to. He probably thinks I did it on purpose, though. 

He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured.

“I paint in my head sometimes,” I blurt. Dumb. So unbelievably dumb. “That’s why I was so quiet, I was painting.”

“Oh that’s cool. Saves paper, I suppose. Better for the trees, and that.” Stalling. He’s stalling. I’ve made it weird. I always make it weird. “So ... were you painting anything specific?”

“You.” Oh, fucking hell! I’ve ruined it - I’ve smeared on that last glob of un-erasable acrylic and ruined the painting. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t even mean to say it, it just ... popped out. And now he’s stood, gawping, eyes wide and face flushed. I’ve embarrassed him. I’ve gone and dumped all my greedy keenness on him, completely uninvited, and now he’s drowning in it.

Everything feels tight. The air, suddenly too humid to swallow. I’m gasping - Waves of breath crashing, loudly, in my ears. Panic. I’m panicking. I need to - I have to go.

So, for the second time today, I run. Spinning on my heels and darting back towards my house, without as much as a ‘Goodbye”. Away from him. Away from humiliation. Back to my room, where I pull the blinds shut and open up my pad - Briskly skipping over today’s work. A blank page. A fresh start. I really am no good at talking the normal way.

[senorarelojes]

Fic: Happiest Girl (Part 6)

Alan makes a bet that Dave would not be able to pass off as a woman in ladies’ clothing. Dave decides to prove him wrong. (This is set sometime during the Black Celebration era.)

Pairing: Dave/Alan Rating: Explicit Notes: Many thanks to the lovely @pinksyndication for this beautiful fanart of Dave and Alan getting ready for their ridiculous bet!  And of course thanks also to the wonderful @what-could-have-been for their own fanart and lovely ideas!

Edit: I was so swamped I knew I forgot something. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARTIN!

First part is here. Second part is here. Third part is here. Fourth part is here. Fifth part is here.

They stopped by a boutique opposite the hotel to get a black silk scarf for Dave, which helped to keep his Adam’s apple hidden. As Alan draped it around Dave’s neck, the salesperson was watching them and smiling indulgently in an ‘aww aren’t you an adorable couple’ way. She said something in German that they didn’t understand, but Alan just smiled and nodded as he paid for the scarf. Then they stepped out to hail a cab to the Reeperbahn.

Their driver didn’t seem to know a lick of English either, so Dave figured it was safe to discuss their modus operandi. “So how are we going to do this?” he asked Alan at a normal volume, dropping his voice to a whisper once he spotted the driver’s startled eyes widening at him in the rear view mirror. Fuck, he’d forgotten that he still sounded like a bloke.

Alan stretched out an arm across the backseat. “I figured we’d hit a few clubs, get some drinks and see what happens,” he suggested. 

“How do we determine who wins?” Dave thought this was the most important question. His legs kept sprawling wide out of habit, and he had to keep reminding himself to clamp them shut.

Alan looked thoughtful. “If people leave you alone and nobody suspects a thing, we consider it a win for you,” he said. “And if anyone stares at you suspiciously or asks you questions, it’s a win for me, I guess.”

“Wait, what sort of questions?” Dave narrowed his eyes at Alan. The hemline of his dress kept riding up with every speed bump they went over, and he had to keep tugging it down in frustration, much to Alan’s amusement.

Alan shrugged. “I guess, ‘Are you a bloke?’ is a sure indicator, at least. Or anything that generally sounds suspicious.”

“What if they ask me in German and I don’t understand?”

“I think suspicion is generally universal?” Alan pointed out. “If enough people stare, we’ll know the game is up. Maybe we’ll just play it by ear and see what happens tonight.”

“Fine.” Dave tapped Alan’s knee in warning. “And no running off if you see a prettier bird. You have to stick by my side.”

Alan just smiled at him, reaching out and tucking a stray curl behind Dave’s ear. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The cab dropped them somewhere at the North Side along one of the side streets, which Dave remembered Fletch nicknaming ‘Gross Free Hell’ the last time they’d passed by because it was so near the red light district. Dave stepped out first as Alan paid the driver, glancing at the street sign for the actual name: Große Freiheit. The street was teeming with people: tourists, drunk revellers, roving groups of men on their merry way to the brothels. It was warm for mid-May, but there was still a little chill in the open night air. Dave was now glad for his scarf.

Now Alan stood beside him, taking in the lively atmosphere around them. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable and want to stop, you have to tell me,” he said carefully.

Dave wanted to tell him not to be silly, but he quickly realised his optimism was really just false bravado. “Should we have a code word, then? Or a phrase?” he suggested.

Both of them exchanged a smirk. “Toast Hawaii, ” Dave and Alan said at the same time, cracking up with laughter.

“Brilliant.” Dave was still smiling, adjusting the hem of his dress.

“Great minds and all that.” Alan jerked his head towards the noisier main street. “C’mon then, let’s look for a place and get a drink.”

They entered the Reeperbahn and continued walking down the street, past the arrays of pubs, bars and restaurants. Dave had to be mindful of the way he walked, keenly observing the female half of an American tourist couple in front of them. The woman had a sway to her hips that Dave tried to mimic, her steps smaller and more careful as opposed to his usual loose stride. Alan wasn’t saying a word, but Dave could sense the silent amusement radiating off him in waves.

At one point a loud wolf-whistle pierced the air; Dave was surprised to find it came from a group of burly men at an open-air table, all of them grinning lasciviously at him. One of them shouted out something in German, which made all his friends roar with laughter. Whatever he’d said, Dave hoped that it wasn’t as dirty as it sounded.

“What an arsehole,” Alan said. Dave was on the verge of agreeing, but it would have been hypocritical; he’d yelled similar comments at girls back in Bas when he was a teenager. 

“Does it count as me winning the bet?” Dave said with a dry laugh, although it sounded a little hollow.

“You don’t get off that easy.” Alan turned back to look at the rowdy table of German blokes again, seemingly peeved. “Besides, couldn’t he see that we’re together?”

Dave shot him a flat look. “Okay, I’m not taking that bloke’s side, but--” He gestured at the distance between them. Alan was at least two feet away. “If I’m supposed to be your girlfriend, it ain’t obvious.”

Alan frowned at him. “Oh. Then...should we hold hands?”

Dave rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Al. What are we, nuns? We’re on the bloody Reeperbahn, some of these clubs have actual live sex shows on stage. Here--” He took Alan’s hand, yanking him closer and draping his arm around Dave’s waist. They were so close now that Dave could smell Alan’s cologne and the mints he’d chewed on in the cab. “There, that’s more like it.”

Walking together this close was a little awkward at first, but Dave could sense the moment Alan eased into it, falling into rhythm with Dave as his warm hand cupped Dave’s hip with a possessive hold. Dave slid his own arm around Alan’s waist, tucking part of his hand under Alan’s belt. Alan was dressed really nicely tonight; he had on his usual leather jacket over a black sleeveless top and neatly-pressed trousers. He even smelled nice and expensive, like a bloke out on the town to show his girl the time of her life.

They stopped outside a bar playing ‘Lust for Life’, and Alan must have seen the way Dave perked up. “Here then?” he suggested, steering them in when Dave nodded. 

The bar was dark and filled with cigarette smoke, the bartenders busy doling out huge pints by the trayload. There seemed to be an even mix of locals and tourists; Dave could hear snatches of conversations in German, Dutch, English and something vaguely Scandinavian. Bobbing along to the music, Dave waited patiently beside Alan, who ordered for them both. He was eventually handed a rum and coke, but it was extremely strong, at least.

Taking Alan’s hand, Dave led him further into the bar where they found an unoccupied standing table with dirty glasses. A busboy shortly came along to clear it, flashing a bashful smile at Dave who couldn’t help smiling back, feeling rather triumphant. He arched an eyebrow at Alan, as if to say, See? Alan only shook his head in amusement. He seemed determined to draw out Dave’s suffering. 

Dave accepted the cigarette Alan offered him, their faces drawing close as Alan leaned in with his lighter, his eyes flitting between Dave’s eyes and mouth. Once the cigarette was lit, Dave nodded in thanks, taking a deep drag as he brushed his new curls over his shoulder. Having long hair was a nice novelty that he’d considered at times; now he might actually try it out in the future, despite whatever Jo said about it making him look unkempt.

The music had changed to something by Roxy Music, and Alan finished his pint. “I’m going to use the facilities,” he said loudly, at which Dave nodded. He shook out a second cigarette from Alan’s pack, putting it between his lips before he remembered he didn’t have a lighter.

Then one appeared in front of him, the flame flickering into life. “Guten Abend,” a blond giant of a man said, gesturing towards Dave’s cigarette. Dave accepted the light with a small smile, casting his eyes downwards coyly like he’d seen some girls do. He didn’t think it was wise to speak much, lest his voice give him away.

“Woher kommen Sie?” the man asked. He had ridiculously sharp cheekbones and eyes that were obviously blue even in the dark lighting of the bar. Funnily enough, he was the tall and handsome sort of Adonis that Dave would have tried to get into a brawl with, back in school.

When the man saw Dave’s uncomprehending expression, he switched to flawless albeit accented English. “Are you American?” he asked, eyes dipping down to glance at Dave’s legs.

“No, from the UK,” Dave said in what he hoped was a higher, believable pitch. If the bloke seemed suspicious, he didn’t give any indication whatsoever. 

“I’m Jan,” the man said, holding out his hand.

Shit, Dave had to think of a name quickly. “I’m Martina,” he said, sending a silent apology to Mart, wherever he was. 

“Your name is beautiful.” Jan kissed Dave’s hand, making his skin crawl. “Like you.”

Dave quickly wrenched his hand back. “I have a boyfriend.”

Jan shrugged, flashing Dave a sleazy smile. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Then you need glasses,” Alan’s polite but no-nonsense voice came from behind them. A relieved Dave was never so glad to see him. “Can I help you?”

Jan merely gave Alan a disdainful onceover, as if sizing up his competition. “No, I don’t think so.”

Sensing that this bloke wasn’t going to piss off anytime soon, Dave shifted closer to Alan, pressing their bodies together as he wrapped his arms snugly around Alan’s waist. He rested his head on Alan’s shoulder, sighing in pleasure as Alan pulled Dave close to him to stand between his legs. “Would you mind, then?” Alan said, stroking Dave’s hair. 

After glaring at Alan for a good long moment, Jan told Dave: “If you get tired of him, I’m near the pool table at the back.” Winking at Dave, Jan tucked his lighter into his pocket before heading towards somewhere at the rear of the bar. Even when he returned to his table, he was still watching them, a vaguely unsatisfied expression on his face.

“That tosser still looking?” Alan asked, because his back was turned towards Jan.

“Think he is.” Dave was too comfortable to move from where he was, Alan’s body warm and firm against his own. “Let’s just wait a while, yeah?”

To Dave’s relief, Alan nodded, his hands still stroking through Dave’s curls.

[artificialqueens]

star-uncrossed [jackie x jan] - pinkgrapefruit

A/N - this is a prologue of sorts to ‘i do like you’ but it’s mostly just more jackie and jan fluff featuring my favourite dialogue ive ever written. hope you enjoy it! <3

*

They meet on their first day of college and fall in love. Okay it’s not that simple but they do meet on the first day of college and they do fall in love.

Jan didn’t read the email properly.

(She’s from Jersey, screw it, she knows New York and she doesn’t need to read some stupid instructions to find her way around.)

She didn’t read the email properly so she ends up outside the Lillian Verge school for International Relations even though she enrolled in Tisch and quite frankly she’s just incredibly confused. And then she meets a sweet girl with dark brown hair and a loosely Canadian accent and she finds herself feeling a little bit less lost.

“You okay?” The stranger asks with a kind smile. “You seem lost.” And Jan smiles because goddamn, only she could be a damsel in distress in a city that she’s known for years.

“Just a little,” she admits as she stares at the name on the buildings signs - hoping maybe they’ll transform and she can just walk into her 10 am seminar on Performance Movement.

The pretty lady chuckles and bows her head. “What school are you in?” She asks, “you don’t strike me as an international relations student.”

Jan wants to be indignant, play the can’t judge a book by its cover card but she’s dressed in tight leggings and a pair of worn Nikes with a hoodie from her last regional theatre performance and a dance bag slung over her shoulder. She takes a second to look over the brunette and realises that if Jan doesn’t look like an IR major - she most certainly does. She has a white button-down tucked into a pair of light-wash-straight-leg jeans with a beige and red silk bandana in her hair and a leather satchel.

“Tisch,” Jan responds, doing a little twirl for emphasis because if she’s going to be seen as a ditsy blonde theatre major she might as well do it right but the response isn’t what she was expecting.

“Damn, you must have real talent.” The brunette says with genuine sincerity.

Jan decides she wants to marry her on the spot.

The woman pulls out her phone and fires off a quick text before she looks at Jan again. “I was just letting my friend know I’ll be late for brunch,” she states quickly as if it is normal to adjust brunch plans for someone you have never met before and then she grabs her wrist and starts walking.

It’s a fourteen-minute walk down ninth street followed by a three-minute walk down the second avenue in which Jan learns both everything and nothing about the stranger. She learns she’s supposed to be meeting her old pen-pal for lunch near Parsons because she’s an international student from Paris, that she’s fluent in French and Farsi and that she’s lived alone in New York for two years since she turned sixteen because she values life experiences over possessions.

In return Jan lets her know that she’s allergic to shellfish, will do anything for a smoothie and is gay as all hell prompting an in-depth discussion about the rights of LGBT people across the world, a topic that Jan was vastly underprepared to discuss at 10:03 on a Tuesday.

They arrive at Tisch with a start and out of breath but Jan has to stand there a minute longer before she can brace herself to go in.

“You look like you carry a pen,” Jan says, causing the Brunette to raise an eyebrow (although she reaches into her back pocket and produces one anyway). Jan grabs her hand and scrawls her number on it in a veritable chicken scratch before she hands it back.

“I’m Jan,” she says with a smile and an open palm.

“Jackie,” then non-stranger replies.

(Jan starts her first semester at Tisch on a negative grade. It’s worth it.)

*

Jackie texts her at three in the morning asking if she’d like to go for a smoothie tomorrow and Jan replies asking if it will be postponed due to her inhuman kindness.

(Jackie responds not to bite the hand that feeds you but she’s delirious and there is definitely a french word thrown in there somewhere.)

The brunette is laid across the end of Nicky’s bed waxing poetic about Jan’s blue eyes as she had been for three and a half hours and the Frenchwoman is getting very close to kicking her longest friend out of her dorms and forcing her to walk to her own apartment for the night but she knows there would be no point.

They’ve been pen pals since they were seven having long rambling conversations in french through decorated envelopes and sticker-covered letters. As they got older the letters for longer and they evolved into care packages too. Boxes would arrive full of foreign candies and stationery and a book here or there. One year, close to Jackie’s birthday, Nicky sent her a pair of fluffy socks and the letter she received back was tear-stained.

Nicky runs a hand through Jackie’s hair and sighs.

“”This sounds remarkable simple you know,” She offers up with a wry smile and exasperated tone.

“Yeah but it’s not,” whines Jackie in response as she rolls onto her front and lets out a dramatic sigh. “She’s cute and blonde and knows about gay rights.”

“I’m cute and blonde and know about gay rights,” Nicky reminds her.

“Yeah but you’re french,” Jackie responds with her tongue stuck out.

“God. you’re like Romeo and bloody Juliet, what was it - Star crossed lovers?” Nicky grabs a shirt out of her draw and tosses it so it lands on her friends head. “You’re making it so fucking hard for yourself. You’re basically star-uncrossed lovers. There is literally no issue.”

Jackie presses her face into the duvet and moans. “That made no sense you french son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, but you understood me.”

(She did and she’s not happy about it. The whole thing is refreshingly uncomplicated and that makes her very nervous.)

*

Jan wakes up and texts Jackie that it is raining. It’s not that she’s never encountered this before - she just feels the need to share it with someone and Jackie seems appropriate.

Jackie sends back a smiley face and a request for the address of Jan’s dorm and when Jan responds, she tacks on that she will meet her in the lobby at eleven.

Looking at her purple alarm clock, Jan has the realisation that it’s ten am on a Wednesday and she is yet to leave her bed so she rolls out of bed, hits her hand on the drawer of her bedside table, yanks her phone off the charging cable and takes herself to the bathroom she shares with the rest of the floor before deeming that her hair does not need a wash.

(It probably does but it’s dyed a much lighter shade of blonde than it is naturally so she doesn’t want it to fade and she’s not feeling a cold shower this morning.)

By the time she has dressed herself the rain bounces a few inches off the ground and the roads have turned into rivers which is why it is all the more adorable that Jackie meets her in the lobby with a massive black umbrella. She holds her hand up (she’s written Jan on it in black marker) and waves like she’s in an airport which only makes the blonde scrunch her face up in happiness even more.

“Morning!” Jan exclaims with a huge smile and an enduring positivity.

“Morning Jan,” Jackie smiles back, linking their arms and settling the umbrella above their heads so they can walk through the automatic doors and onto the still busy streets.

They banter and bicker the whole way through smoothie bowls whether it’s over the best Disney film (Jackie says Beauty and the Beast but is entirely willing to watch them all with Jan to make sure), guilty pleasure foods (Jan waves her EpiPen as she raves about cocktail shrimp) and their respective majors.

By the end of it, Jan’s learnt her fingers fit perfectly between Jackies and she’s just about ready to put down a deposit on a three-bed two-bath house in Harlem.

They wander home in the early afternoon sunshine, fingers loosely intertwined and Jackie realises quickly that they could count quarters together and she’d be entertained.

They kiss in the lobby and Jan watches the way Jackie’s eyes flit from her lips to her eyes and back down before going in for a second. And then a third. And her mouth tastes like cherry and somehow cinnamon and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get a smoothie again without recognising the taste.

*

“It’s so easy,” Jan moans with her head on Gigi’s lap. The taller girl is paying very little attention to the blonde but still cards her fingers through her hair occasionally as she sketches a blazer.

Gigi goes to Parsons but her accommodation got messed up so she ended up next door to Jan and they became friends rather fast. Gigi would define friends as someone she tolerates and Jan would define friends as her heart and soul so they both get everything they want out of the situation.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re an emotionally distant bitch,” Jan asked over pot noodles the day they first met.

Gigi smiled and said thank you and that was that so now Jan is disregarding any requests for personal space and is quite happy to just exist in Gigi’s gorgeously decorated dorm room and pilfer the french candy that she gets from a ‘friend’ who Jan happens to know is very loud in bed.

“I really don’t see the issue,” Gigi replies, looking down at the blonde with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t expect you to,” Jan states passively. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now stand up so I can measure your proportions.”

*

‘Did you know that in the war, Oscars were made of plaster?’

‘Did you know that the gestation of the Indian Elephant is 22 months?”

‘Did you know I love you?’

*

Turns out it’s absolutely that simple.

[go4blood]

you’re the one that i want - a.i.

I’m finally continuing the broadway series after 2653578 years! I’ve been having writers block, sorry about the lack of posts! This is based around Grease, y/n is Sandy, Ashton is Danny. Basically y/n is new to showbiz and Ashton shows her the ropes, friends to lovers trope, you know how we do.

2.5k words

You paced around your small apartment anxiously: it was callback day. Callback day was the most stressful time for anyone in the theatre world. Today was the day you find out if you made the cut to be apart of Grease or if you didn’t do good enough to make the director even bat an eye. You did a lot of theatre back when you lived in Chicago, but New York was different. More competitive. Thousands watching rather than a few hundred. Tourists traveling and spending hundreds on a good seat rather than some regular Chicagoans buying a ticket for twenty dollars. New York was showbiz central.

You took pride in your acting. Back in Chicago, you had countless roles you loved playing: Sally Bowles in Cabaret, Elphaba in Wicked, Zoe in Dear Evan Hansen, and more. But Chicago is way less competitive than the big apple. You knew the theatre world back home, but you didn’t know it here at all.

Your phone rang and you scrambled to pick it up and answer. You contain yourself and say a simple hello. A man's voice is on the other line. You’ve been offered another audition to further your audition process for the part of Sandy. You gladly say yes and end the conversation. You were relieved that you had another audition, but it was still terrifying. You could screw it up and lose your chance. Grease is a classic, and it has to be perfect. Callbacks were the next morning, so you went to bed early and waited for what was to come.

—

You arrived with an open mind. Around ten other girls were there. 10 girls who want to be Sandy. 10 girls who want this role just as much as you. Maybe more than you. If you were lucky you’d get a chorus member at this rate.

A tall man with light brown hair and hazel eyes walks around, greeting the girls. He has a kind smile paired with a silk red shirt and tight black pants, iced coffee in hand. You see him start to walk towards you and you’re slightly confused.

“Hey, how are you? I’m apart of the cast and could possibly end up being your Danny, and we’ll be performing some scenes together for your 2nd audition. I wanted to introduce myself, I’m Ashton.” He holds his hand out and you take it, shaking it and smiling.

“I’m y/n, it’s nice to meet you. Is this your first broadway show?”

He ponders for a moment, “This is my 5th, actually. I did stuff back in Sydney though before I came to New York. You?”

You begin to feel embarrassed. You have absolutely no broadway experience whatsoever. “This is my first broadway show… in Chicago I did stuff though. But nothing here in New York yet.”

“Well you got a callback for the lead so I think you’re in good shape, y/n.” He smiled warmly.

He was different from other actors you’ve met. Many were arrogant and were only there to do their part and leave. He cheered you on despite never meeting you. It was a pleasant surprise.

“Perhaps I am, Ashton.” He smiled and walked to a seat, and you did the same. The director handed out excerpts and began calling names. You watched some of the girls perform scenes and they were all quite impressive. You were very unsure of yourself. You kept growing more and more nervous and you didn’t know if you’d compare to everyone else.

“Y/n! Scene 11, the drive in scene.”

You stand up from your seat and take a deep breath, walking up to the stage.

Ashton cleared his throat, looking at the script then into your eyes, “Hey, you’re not with another guy, are you?”

“No, why?” Your eyes glance down at the script and back into his eyes.

Ashton acts nervous and nonchalant, “No reason… I uh wanted to ask you to take my ring.” He holds out his hand as if there’s a ring there and pretends to put it on your finger. The scene continues, and before you even have a chance to read the stage direction he kisses you. Your cheeks burn and you continue the scene, finishing it out. Ashton smiles at you and goes back to his seat as you do your singing portion of the audition to the song Hopelessly Devoted To You. You go back to your seat, wondering if what you did would be enough.

The last few girls perform and everyone is dismissed. As you put your jacket on, Ashton walks towards you with a soft smile.

“You did really good, I told you it’d be fine. You wanna maybe get lunch? There’s this place down the street you need to try if you’re gonna be a true New Yorker!”

“Sure, why not?” You walk with him to the small restaurant, talking as if you have known him your whole life.

—

“Your favorite movie is Kill Bill? I never would’ve guessed that…” Ashton was sat across from you at the sandwich shop, asking you a series of ‘get to know me’ questions.

“Uma Thurman is my girl crush,” You smirk, “what’s your favorite show?”

“Definitely Brooklyn 9-9. It isn’t deep or anything and it’s just a comedy, but it’s my happy place, what about you?”

“I love Gossip Girl… I know it’s such a girly show but I really like it.” You blush out of embarrassment, but he breaks out into a grin.

“I love Gossip Girl! I watched it with my sister all the time back home. It’s a great show.”

Surprised is an understatement. You never knew a guy could be such a softie. You smile out of relief and drink your tea as He rapid fires questions to you for the next hour.

—

You got the call the next morning. You were officially Sandy. In celebration, he’s hanging out at your apartment and he brought cheap boxed wine.

“What if I’m not cut out for broadway, Ash? What if everyone walks all over me? I don’t know anything about showbiz here in New York.” All you had in your mind was doubt.

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. People will be jealous. People will talk about you behind your back. Critics will rip you to shreds. But all that matters is your performance. That dumb, bald critic isn’t the one getting that paycheck and that standing ovation. It’s you. You have to give your all every night. But it’s always worth it. I’ll be with you every step of the way for this show. I’ll guide you. I’ll be like the guy in Pretty Woman! Guiding you through life…”

“Oh Ashton, I’m so lucky you’re my friend. I never thought I’d meet anyone here honestly. You really are the Edward Lewis to my Vivian Ward.” He laughs and clinks his glass with yours.

“First rehearsal is gonna be splendid, darling.”

—

The first rehearsal began at 7:30 am sharp. The first priority was choreography of “Summer Nights”. You met the girls playing Frenchy and Rizzo, and they were very welcoming. Now whoever was playing Jan, however, was a bit snarky. She didn’t even give you a simple hello. You decided to think nothing of it and just go on with rehearsal.

The tech crew brought out some makeshift temporary bleachers for the choreography and everyone got to work. The T Birds and Ashton went to the other side of the stage where the women were all to the other side. You held your music in hand and began your first note while also mirroring the choreographers directions. All was going well until you accidentally stepped on Jan’s foot, causing her to glare at you and yell, “Watch it!”.

You were taken aback. Everyone stopped suddenly and the pianist came to an abrupt halt.

“I’m so sorry-“ you started to say, but was interrupted immediately.

“Maybe you should know what you’re doing if you’re going to be the lead, or were you not aware that you should actually have some experience?”

You mumble barely loud enough for anyone to hear, “I won’t do it again…”

Rehearsal continued, and the room was tense for the remainder of the choreography portion.

“Alright everyone take 5!” The director's voice loudly remarked. Before you knew it, Ashton was walking towards you. His hair was a bit of a mess and his sleeves were rolled up.

“So how was your first choreography session, Sandy?” He grinned, taking a long drink from his water bottle.

You weren’t sure if you should tell him you actually were on the brink of tears. It was way too early to already have complaints, but you were sure that that one girl already hated you and you didn’t even know why.

“It was great, amazing.” You forced a smile and he broke out into a grin. You just couldn’t tell him you were already upset.

“I knew you’d be amazing! I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. We’re doing a run through of the song with everyone next. I’ll get to see you rock it.” He smiled and walked back towards the guys. You sighed, walking back to the group of girls. This would be a long 3 months of rehearsal.

—

You opened the door to your studio apartment and collapsed on the bed, burying your face in your pillow. Then the tears came. You couldn’t believe how upset you were. You didn’t think it would bother you as much as it did, but you felt like you already blew the role of your dreams. You decided to call Ashton, hoping he could lift your spirits.

“Hey y/n, what’s up?” He had his usual cheery tone of voice and you already felt better.

“I know I said rehearsal was great, but the girl playing Jan was really terrible and hurt my feelings really bad and maybe she’s right maybe I don’t have what it takes, Ash. What if she’s right?” At that point you were crying even more. You didn’t expect to cry even more, but it was happening.

“Woah woah woah. The real Sandy Olsson would never take anyone else’s shit. Y/n, you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. You’ve forced me to come over now. I’m gonna make you feel better. Leave the door unlocked and just be expecting me.” He hung up before you could even argue. But you were glad you didn’t have a chance to argue.

—

About an hour passed and your door opened. Ashton walked in, closing the door behind him. He had 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s and two 4 packs of Smirnoff in his arms. He kicked the door closed gently and sat at the foot of your bed.

“There’s my favorite broadway sensation.” You mumble from under your covers, grinning when you lock eyes.

“Here I am!” He smiled, handing you a pint of ice cream and a plastic spoon, “I also have alcohol.”

You smile, opening the ice cream and wrapping your arms around him, “Thank you for coming here… I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Well I was planning world domination but I’ll get back to that.”

You laugh mad shake your head, “Well… let’s watch Gossip Girl and get drunk then, shall we?”

“We shall.”

—

“She’s just jealous that you’re the lead! Did you see her callback performance for Sandy? It was so half assed! You definitely were the best.” Ashton was on his third drink and there was no hiding it. He was slurring all of his words and laughing at every little thing. You found it adorable.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” A blush crept across your cheeks and you looked down at your cup.

With his hand, he pushed your head up from your chin, “I’m not blind, i know a good actress when I see one, silly. Also, it’s cute when you blush,” He smirked when you blushed even more, “I mean if you want we can practice scenes together outside of rehearsal. We could now! I have my script in my bag…”

Before you could even begin to say no, he was already reading out one of his lines.

“I really like you, Sandy.”

You sigh and grab your script, opening to the right page and sitting across from him on your bed, “Danny, take it easy! What are you trying to do?” You glance down at the book, seeing what his next line is and look back up.

“Can I try something out?”

“Um, that’s not your line Ash-“

His hand comes up to your cheek and before you know it, his lips are on yours. Taken aback, your eyes widen, but then slowly close. You wrap your arms around his neck and twirl the hair at the nape of his neck around your finger and his hands grip your waist. He pulls away and you catch your breath. He smiles at you, “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes I take it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, but you were sure that you were falling. Hard.

—

“You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey…”

Everyone had gotten down the choreography to this scene, so everyone was just doing a run through without instruction. Before rehearsal even started, you talked to Ashton as usual. He didn’t even mention the night before. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was for the best. Some friendships need to stay friendships. And that was fine, but a part of you didn’t want that to be true. But what could you do? You never mentioned it again. You decided it was for the best.

-

Countless deli lunches together passed, dozens of coffee runs continued, about 100 more rehearsals occurred, months passed and the day came. Opening night. It was a full house.

You were in your dressing room, finishing up your makeup. A knock took you out of your trance, and you told them to come in.

Ashton came through the door, “Opening night! Are you ready?” He sat on the couch in the dressing room, wearing a tight white shirt and leather jacket, hair slicked back. He looked so good that it physically hurt.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” You weakly smile, “ya know I heard Rizzo has a thing for you.”

“Too bad she’s not my type… I’m into girls named Sandy.”

“Haha very funny, Ash, I mean like in real life.”

“Yeah so do I. A wise man once said, ‘you’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey.” You laugh, and look into his eyes.

He’s not drunk right now. He’s sober. He is in your dressing room, telling you he is into you.

“Break a leg, Sandy.” And then he kisses you. And this time you know it isn’t the alcohol talking.

Summer loving. Happened so fast.

[onemuseleft]

for the au meme, if you’re still taking prompts: stevetony as hosts of a tv show

This is 50% inspired by Sports Night and 50% inspired by Robin from HIMYM. I amused myself way too much wrtiting this, I’m gonna be honest with you. Hopefully you will get at least a fraction as much amusement reading it as I did writing it. :)

****

Tony looked straight into the camera and smiled as saccharine a smile as he could manage when he was still barely able to keep his eyes open. “Welcome back to It’s too Fucking Early for This Oh My God New York Go the Fuck Back to Bed.”

“Tony,” Steve said from the other side of the anchor desk. “Don’t swear in front of the audience. You never know who could be watching.”

“Steve, it’s four-thirty in the morning and the ratings show that we typically have six viewers, two of whom are in men’s prisons and one of whom is your mother.” He raised his coffee cup to the camera. “Hi, Sarah!”

“Then don’t fucking swear in front of my mom, Tony, for fuck’s sake.” Steve smirked at the camera and ignored their producer, Sam Wilson, as he bitched them both out over their ear pieces. “Hi, mom. Anyway, as we probably should have already said by now: It’s time to Get Up and Go, New York!” He paused for a moment with his hand out and sincerely hoped they remembered to put the graphics up this time so he didn’t look like a complete idiot. “I’m Steve Rogers-”

“And I’m not wearing any pants,” Tony said as he took a long gulp of his coffee.

Steve turned his head a little, just enough to get a glimpse of the shiny red silk of Tony’s favorite pair of boxers, then turned to the camera with an easy smile. “He’s really not. Announcements like this may be why thirty percent of our viewers are incarcerated felons, we’ll have to look into that. In the meantime, we have a great show in store for you today. At the top of the news, an Amber Alert for two-year-old Anna May Watson-Parker was called off late last evening after the little girl was found to have somehow crawled onto the roof of her family’s apartment building. She was unharmed and reportedly only wanted to pet the pigeons. Thank goodness,” he added and Tony pulled his face out of his coffee long enough to echo him. “Hell’s Kitchen has reports of a vigilante calling himself The Barrister. So far there are three reported cases of a masked man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, who interrupts purse-snatchings and muggings to lecture the would-be criminals on how expensive their legal fees will be when they get caught. So far no one has been hurt and one precinct is even reporting that The Barrister convinced someone to turn themselves in.”

“Doing more than the cops are,” Tony said. “Good on you, Barrister. Please do not get shot, that would suck. Also, I think the American healthcare system is even more prohibitively expensive than our legal one, so please take a page out of your own book there.”

“After the break we’ll also have our guest, Robert Drake, author of the New York Times bestselling LGBTQIA mystery series The Ice-Man Cometh, and celebrity chefs Thor Odinson and James Logan will show up how to make a dish from their upcoming new cookbook called “All You Need is a Fire: Cooking Like Real Men. All this, and our new intern Kamala Khan will be presenting today’s item on our ongoing segment Sixty Things You Never Knew You Didn’t Know About New York.” Steve flashed a bright smile at the camera. “And since Jim Rhodes is off sick today, you’ll get to see me and Tony cover the sports segment while trying desperately to pretend like we care about any sport that isn’t baseball. Back after these commercials.”

“I hate both of you,” Sam said over the intercom as soon as they cut to commercial. 

Tony blew a kiss toward the sound room. “You’d be bored without us!”

“Why aren’t you wearing pants?” Steve asked even though he knew better.

Tony shrugged. “I was running late this morning.”

“We drove in together.”

“Yeah, but then I fell asleep in the bathroom and Jan said I could have pants or make-up.” Tony shrugged and flashed Steve a grin. “No one can see my ass but you and I know you don’t have any complaints.”

“If you flash New York, I’m going to be annoyed with you,” Steve said.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tony leered at him over the top of his coffee mug. “New York gets an eyeful of The Starkster and your inner caveman goes all wild. You’d have to show everyone who I belonged to so you’d barely wait till the cameras were off before you dragged me off to an empty conference room-”

“Do I have to send you two to another sexual harassment seminar?” Sam demanded.

“I’m only harassing Steve, and he likes it.”

“Not at work, Tony, for the love of god, the interns can hear this. We’re back in ten.” 

“I will say that you not having any pants on does make things much more convenient for me,” Steve said brightly. He flashed Tony a wide smile, ignored Sam’s exasperated sigh and turned that smile back on the camera. “Welcome back! Tony still isn’t wearing any pants, and everyone here is really excited about that. Before we bring on our guests, we have a caller on the line for our City Culture segment, where we take calls from everyday New Yorkers like you, who call in to let us know about current events, neighborhood news and local fads. Caller, are you with us?”

“Hi, Steve, hi Tony.”

Tony sat up in his chair, mouth curved in a wide grin. “Jan! How’s my favorite fashionista?”

“Tired, Tony, this is obscene. I thought you did a morning show.”

“I mean, technically it is morning.”

“Hoda and Savannah don’t make me get up this early,” Jan said reproachfully. “Seriously, if we’re going to continue being friends, I need you to get a new job.”

Tony laughed a little. “There’s a limited number of opportunities for working with my boyfriend and not having to wear pants, unfortunately. Besides, my loyal fans at the correctional institution will be heartbroken if I leave.”

Jan made a rude noise. “Anyway, I don’t really have anything to say. Steve just asked me to call in and distract you for a minute so he could get the ring out without you noticing.”

“What-” Tony turned and froze as he saw Steve holding out a small velvet jewelry box. “What the shit-”

“Tony Stark-” Steve said and the crew lost their fucking minds. He could barely hear Sam yelling at him over all the shouting. 

The loudest yelling was definitely coming from Tony though. “Oh no!” he said “No! You did not just propose to me in front of half of New York while I’m not wearing any pants!”

Steve laughed. “I’ve been planning this for months, I can’t help it if you picked today to have a wardrobe malfunction.”

“In front of your mother!”

“Yup.” Steve waved at the camera. “By the way, mom, if Tony turns me down you’re not allowed to ever bake him another pie as long as he lives.”

Tony sputtered with laughter and finally set his coffee mug down on the desk with a heavy thud. He reached out between them and gripped Steve’s knee. “Oh my god, don’t take away the pies.”

Steve grinned and plucked the ring out of the box, then grabbed Tony’s hand off his knee to carefully slide the ring on. “No take-backs.”

“Holy shit I love you so much,” Tony said. He yanked hard on Steve’s hand, dragging him out of his seat and half into Tony’s lap. Tony grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him, quick and light on the lips. “Yes, Steve, I’m going to marry the hell out of you.”

Steve took another kiss, a little slower, a little deeper, then pulled back. He gave Tony a grin - and god help him if he looked half as ridiculously happy as he felt just then - and straightened his shirt before turning back to the camera. “You heard it here first, popular morning talk show host Tony Stark is officially off the market. We’re moving over to Sports now, where the Giants probably managed not to fuck everything up, but I don’t know for sure because I hate football and no one’s queued up the cards for the next segment yet. So we’re going to cut to commercial for just a minute and when we get back my fiance is going to put on some pants and show us how to make a casserole over an open fire. Also we’ll see if I still have a job because I absolutely did not clear any of this with my producer. Thanks for joining us, we’ll be right back.”��

[sartle-blog]

Art History Meets Fashion at the 2018 Met Gala

  Art history, but make it fashion.

  Is the Met better known for its art collection or for its luxurious annual gala? Yesterday our favorite (and not-so-favorite) celebrities appeared at the 2018 Met Gala for “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination.” The theme was one of the event’s most controversial yet, and a large number of people didn’t dress accordingly (why anybody would willingly not follow a Met Gala theme is beyond me) while others showed up in outfits featuring bedazzled crosses and halos. A few others went above and beyond to incorporate art into their outfits. Here are some of our favorite parallels to art history in this year’s Met Gala costumes.

  In the most obvious nod to art history, pop singer Ariana Grande displayed the “back wall of the Sistine Chapel” in her gown designed by Vera Wang.

The Last Judgment, Michelangelo, 1536-1541

It doesn't get much more Roman Catholic than this!  The painting that graces Ariana Grande's dress also graces the back wall of the Sistine Chapel, a building at the very heart of Roman Catholicism. The chapel is part of the apostolic palace, AKA the Pope's very own house, and is used for ceremonies such as the Papal Conclave, when a new pope is selected. Michelangelo completed this wall in 1541, some time after he finished the ceiling, and it depicts the final judgment of man in a tumultuous swirl of motion and rippling muscles. The placement of this scene on the East Wall rather than the West wall, where such scenes were typically painted to remind visitors of the coming judgment as they left, was an interesting choice; the only person who went in and out of the door on the East side in the right corner was the pope, which placed the pope's entrance directly inside Hell! (Did Michelangelo have some beef with the pope, or what?) And speaking of interesting placement, check out where Jesus is on Ariana Grande's dress! Not where you usually find Jesus, to say the least. (Though maybe one could say he is directly over her heart, which makes it a little better.)

    As always, Rihanna stole the show with her expensive pope get-up by John Galliano. Her papal tiara looks incredibly similar to one on this mosaic of Pope Clement VIII by Jacopo Ligozzi.

Rihanna's filet-shaped hat is a super-glam version of the Mitre, a type of papal hat worn since at least the tenth century after a long evolution from the Roman camelaucum. There are several kinds of mitre, each worn on designated occasions and differing from each other in level of ornamentation, from the heavily ornamented mitre pretiosa to the mitre simplex, the most plain.  Rihanna's hat is a little more pretiosa than simplex. The only people officially allowed to wear mitres are Popes, cardinals, and bishops. Ri-Ri over here probably didn't get a special dispensation from the Pope to wear that headgear, but since she was one of the overseers of the entire Met Gala this year we'll let it slide.

  Triumph of Religion, John Singer Sargent, 1916

A number of the outfits were heavily inspired by a popular type of Marian imagery called “Our Lady of Sorrows,” which is a religious devotion including specific prayers and meditations relating to seven episodes from the Virgin's life that caused her great sorrow. The standard depiction of Our Lady of Sorrows includes a golden halo or crown, prominent tears, and seven swords piercing her heart.    

  Lana del Ray in Gucci

  Lily Collins in Givenchy Haute Couture

  SZA in Versace

  (we know who really inspired the resurgence of the halo crown though)

Halo crowns weren’t the only type of headwear at the Met Gala, but they certainly did make a splash. The halo, depicted as a disc or small circular nimbus, was used in Classical Rome in the depiction of certain gods and emperors, and while early Christians tried to resist incorporating the halo into their imagery because of its Pagan origins, the Halo was too powerful an attribute to make disappear. I mean, what else could be so effective at representing holiness than this symbolic use of light? By the sixth century CE, the halo was standard in depictions of all the most important saints and angels, and even Jesus. While Michelangelo eschewed halos for his more earthly looking saints, the halo made a big comeback during the Counter Reformation, during which time the Church was using art to reinforce its own majesty and glory.   

Consider these art-inspired headpieces for your next music festival outfit.

  Rita Ora in Prada and Lorraine Schwartz

Ghent Altarpiece, Jan Van Eyck, 1432

  Janelle Monae in Jennifer Fisher

Madonna Enthroned, Giotto, 1306

  Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in Ralph Lauren and Anita Ko

Madonna of the Candelabra, Raphael, 1513

Kate Bosworth in Oscar de la Renta and Tacori

Mary with the Child and Singing Angels, Sandro Botticelli, 1477

With her golden hair parted chastely down the center of her head and covered with a transparent, fringed veil, Bosworth looks the very image of a Botticelli Madonna. While Mary is typically shown in a blue mantle over a red garment, Botticelli also liked to show off his skills by painting transparent silk. Her head covering is representative of her virginity, which according to Catholic dogma, she retained her entire life, despite her marriage to Joseph. The virginity question aside, Kate Bosworth shares the Madonna's beauty and regal bearing.  

  Sarah Jessica Parker in Dolce & Gabbana and Jennifer Fisher

The Adoration of the Magi, Giovanni di Paolo, 1460

Sarah Jessica Parker seems to live by the motto “Go Big or Go Home.” The ornate quality of her headdress is reminiscent of many late gothic reliquaries, which were often covered in gilding, encrusted with jewels, and decorated with little figures, including Nativity scenes. The red heart that tops her church of a hat may also be a reference to the Sacred Heart, a common symbol in Catholic devotion that refers to Christ’s divine love of mankind as the reason for his sacrifice.

  If crowns aren’t your thing, don’t worry- the Met Gala’s got you (mostly) covered when it comes to clothes. These outfits were not only dazzling but also took inspiration from major period artists! What more could you want?

  Lena Waithe in Carolina Herrera

The Annunciation, Jan Van Eyck, 1436

The rainbow is a powerful symbol in Christian art, denoting God's promise to never again wipe out all of humankind in a devastating flood. The insanely gorgeous rainbow wings Van Eyck gives the Angel Gabriel in this Annunciation scene may refer to that promise of old while also enforcing the idea of a new covenant God would create with man in the birth, death, and resurrection of His son. Since then, the rainbow flag has been adopted as a symbol of Gay Pride, reflecting the diversity of the LGBTQ community. And who said you can’t have pride and be religious at the same time? Certainly not the Bible.

  Emma Stone in Louis Vuitton

Mariana, John Everett Millais, 1851, Tate Britain

Millais isn’t exactly Catholic art, but the stained glass windows in his painting sure are. The painting depicts Mariana from Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," a play that takes place in Catholic Italy and grapples with Roman Catholic themes such as chastity, piety, corruption, lust, hypocrisy, and repentance. Mariana waited patiently and chastely for her ex-fiance Angelo after he dumped her when she lost her dowry in a shipwreck, only to take part in a crazy bed-swapping trick to lure Angelo into marrying her. Whether or not Mariana is a good Catholic role model is debatable, but that dress is clearly inspired.       

Jasmine Sanders in H&M

Shrine of the Virgin, anonymous, 1300, Metropolitan Museum of Art

  If this dress wasn’t inspired by this piece, there’s still an uncanny resemblance between the two--the slit in the dress is in the exact same spot as the opening for the shrine. The volume of the dress and its golden color also reflect the Marian imagery found on many shrines, including this one from Medieval Germany that was gilded on wood and opens to reveal a mystical image of the Trinity. What mystical treasures this dress conceals are for Jasmine to hide or reveal as she pleases.

    Misha Nonoo

Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia, Sofonisba Anguissola, 1599

  We can only hope this dress isn’t as uncomfortable as it looks--for both of them. You have to give her credit for going the Renaissance Noble route, celebrating the fancy Patrons who would have commissioned all the fabulous art. Sofonisba Anguissola was a rare female artist who actually worked at the Spanish Court in the reign of Philip II, during Catholic Spain's fight for dominion over the Low Countries. Anguissola was able to render her royal sitters and their fabulous clothing and jewelry delicately and soberly. Misha Nonoo, denizen of the London Fashion world and matchmaker to Prince Harry and Megan Markle, takes that classic little-black-number-and-white-ruff Spanish court look, and gives it a contemporary, more subtle edge. The Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia probably wouldn't have been able to get away with a sheer midriff, but it's a perfect update for 2018. 

Christian Combs in Dolce & Gabbana

Portrait of Jacob Boncompagni, Scipione Pulzone, 1574

  If you’re ever wondering what P. Diddy is up to these days, he’s apparently taking his son to the Met Gala. Young Christian "King" Combs is no stranger to the catwalk, and he can pull off pretty much anything. That gold embroidery on black, studded jewels, and velvet crown hearken to the most fancy armor seen in 16th century portraits, making Combs look positively kingly. Such armor, while great for getting your picture painted in, would have been far too costly to wear out and about or, God forbid, in combat. "This is just my fancy dress armor," Jacob Boncompagni would have said. "I only bust it out for things like the Met Gala."

    Zendaya in Atelier Versace and Tiffany & Co. jewelry

Jeanne d’Arc, Albert Lynch, 1903

Roman Catholic attire can't be summed up by silly hats, robes, and jewels alone. There's also a little something called "crusader chic," and it is full-on medieval. While Joan of Arc was no crusader, she is now one of nine secondary patron saints of France due to the prominent role she played in the Hundred Years' War. When just a girl, the peasant Joan received visions of various saints telling her to support Charles VII and help free France from English rule. She attended the military campaigns wearing protective armor, but after several French victories, she was captured by a Burgundian faction working for the English and burned at the stake. Now canonized by the Roman Catholic Church as a martyred saint, Joan of Arc continues to inspire, as can be seen in Zendaya's surprisingly sultry, but very heavy-looking chain mail outfit. Somebody just give her a sword already!

    Katy Perry in Versace

Angel, Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1887, Smithsonian American Art Museum

  Katy Perry looks ready to take flight any minute now. And that's because she did the right thing and went all out for her gala outfit! Despite the fact that the word "angel" comes from the Greek word for Messenger, and there is no standard description of their appearance in the Bible, Thayer's painting largely sums up the popular conception of angels: virginal, dressed in flowing white robes, and with wings, of course! There's no halo here, however, and that may be because the model for this was actually Thayer's own 11-year-old daughter, and he was trying to depict her as the personification of spiritual beauty, not specifically an angel, despite the painting's title. Thayer himself thought art was "a no-man’s land of immortal beauty where every step leads to God." And that's pretty much the same plane where traditional Roman Catholicism places Angels, majestic beings close to God.   

Emilia Clarke in Dolce & Gabbana Alta Moda

  The Triumph of Galatea (detail), Raphael, 1514

  The Mother of Dragons always slays, no matter what she's wearing. With its elaborate, curvilinear gold embroidery and frolicking putti, this dress looks like it came straight out of the Rococo. While Putti were originally found on Classical Pagan sarcophagi, the motif was revived during the Renaissance in Italy, where it was utilized in paintings of classical myth, and was adopted into Christian Iconography. What was once a little cupid underwent a conversion experience into an angel (along the lines of a cherub). In the Rococo, Putti also became symbols of leisure and playfulness, which is why Putti often scream of wealth and excess. Dolce and Gabana clearly know that, like leopard print, putti are most tasteful in small doses.

    Stella Maxwell in Moschino and David Yurman

  “Tenderness” icon of the Mother of God, 1521

  Wow. Where do we even begin talking about this beautiful dress? This mosaic-styled gown features various images of Mary that you’ll only be able to find in churches and on prayer candles. Indeed most, but not all, appear to be inspired by Byzantine icons of the Madonna. While most strongly associated with the Eastern Orthodox Christian tradition, such radiant and opulent images could be found in pre-Renaissance (and therefore Catholic) art in Western Europe as well. Images like this were meant to be venerated as conduits to saint Mary herself, who could then intercede for you. "Our Lady of Tenderness" is one such icon that was depicted, either with the Christ child in her arms, or with her hands over her chest in that heart-felt position.

  Migos in Versace

  There’s too many references in these matching sequin outfits to count! One jacket is covered in solely Christian images while the other two primarily feature classical Greek and Roman artworks. We were able to spot the Venus de Milo, The Victorious Youth, and several variations of Madonna and Child currently exhibited by the Met (shown below).

    Madonna and Child, Duccio di Buoninsegna, 1290

Madonna and Child, Berlinghiero, 1230

Madonna and Child, Giovanni Bellini, 1480

Salma Hayek in custom Altuzarra

  Garden of Eden with the Fall of Man, Peter Paul Rubens and Jan Brueghel the Elder, 1617, Mauritshuis

The branch of parrots and white horse trotting in the background scream this classic Brueghel/Rubens collab, even if Adam and Eve are nowhere in sight. The Garden of Eden and the Fall of Man that took place therein are central to Roman Catholic dogma, so this makes a fabulous choice of subject for the evening. Jan Brueghel the Elder and Rubens were both Catholic and their artwork shows the influence of the Counter-Reformation, during which the celebration and cataloging of natural phenomena (such as flora and fauna) was used as a way to understand the divine revelation of God. Nature was how God revealed himself to man, so observing it carefully was good for one's spiritual health. But don't forget, this is the 17th century. Don't get too scientific now--stay outta here with your gravity and Capernican Heliocentrism. You can keep that nice, zoological dress, though.

With so many options for themes, ranging from Roman Catholic dogma, to Bible stories, to priestly vestments, to works in museums and churches, and the patrons who commissioned them, this sure has been a fruitful year for fashion creations. Kudos to all those designers out there getting really funky with it, sacrilege be damned.

  Today’s lesson: if you’re heading to a museum to look at art, the best outfit to wear is art itself. Let us know what your favorite Met Gala looks were this year!

By Alannah Clark and Jeannette Sturman

[aurumacadicus]

Anyway Bucky screenshot all of Jan’s tasteful modeling photos as soon as he heard about them. He honestly didn’t care about the brall beyond “will Tony be wearing one when I rip his jeans off his body.” In fact, both Tony and Jan deserved medals because he was pretty sure he could pound nails with his dick right now. He was also pretty sure he broke the sound barrier sprinting to Tony’s tower as soon as he realized 1) it was Tony in the pictures and 2) Jan usually sent him home in whatever he modeled. He was banking on Tony being too embarrassed to stop anywhere and take it off.

“Bucky,” Tony said shrilly when he landed on the roof. “What a surprise to see you here! Let me just go freshen up—”

Bucky had no intention of letting Tony sneak out of the brall. Tony seemed to realize this, because he yelped and tried to kick back off. But Bucky was a man on a mission, so he snatched him out of the air and immediately muscled him to ground.

“I can’t believe you’d humiliate me like this!” Tony wailed, but he also wasn’t telling him to stop, which Bucky took as a good sign. “DON’T FUCKING RIP MY JEANS,” Tony added acidly, bonking him on the head with his fist when Bucky made no effort for the button and zipper, instead grabbing the waistband on either side in preparation to just tug them apart.

“Ow,” Bucky said, but obediently if mulishly let go to fuss with the button and zipper.

Ultimately, he was glad he obeyed, because then he got the full experience of the tease—silk straps cutting over sharp hip bones and dipping down, down, down, red-shimmering-gold as Tony shifted his hips to help him get his pants off. The way the fabric curved under Tony’s pretty half-hard dick, little pieces of silk poking out from behind it. He carefully cupped Tony’s cock in his metal hand, taking a moment to listen to his overwhelmed mewl, then moved it up, unable to help a guttural groan as the silk cups cradling Tony’s balls finally, blessedly came into view.

“…You just gonna stare?” Tony asked after a moment, disgruntled. “Gotta say I’m okay with being the only one with my dick out, but not on the roof where any other flyer can see it. If Jan or Sam see this I will simply pass away, I just want you to know.”

“You talk too much for someone who’s going to get his balls sucked on until he comes,” Bucky replied.

Tony scoffed. “All talk, no action, I don’t even feel moderately threatened by that—”

Bucky bent down without another word, scooping Tony’s thighs up over his shoulders. He took a moment to bask in Tony’s startled yelp, then clenched Tony’s hips in his hands so he had no hope of wriggling to get his way. He couldn’t help a whimper of his own when he saw the fabric joining behind Tony’s balls, traveling up between his plump cheeks. That wasn’t fair. Tony knew he was an ass man and loved to see him in thongs. And now this one was even better, because his dick was out and his balls were cradled in lovingly-made fabric and—

“…Is everything okay?” Tony asked hesitantly, trying to peer between his legs at him.

“You are targeting me specifically,” Bucky choked out.

Tony scowled. “Who else do you think I’d show the—”

Bucky lunged in before he could really begin complaining, tonguing over the fabric of one brall cup until it was soaked before turning to the other. He basked in Tony’s startled scream, teeth pulling at the edge of one cup and letting it snap back in place, then leaned back, grinning like a shark. “I’m gonna use my mouth on you until you can’t even move.”

“Okay,” Tony gasped, chest heaving. “Just mouth stuff that’s fine.”

“Doll,” Bucky scoffed. “Who said just mouth stuff? I’m gonna fuck you after that.” He smirked. “Maybe stuff this pretty brall in your mouth while I do it.”

Tony whimpered, hips jerking uselessly in Bucky’s grip. Bucky took that as agreement.

.-.

“What’s in your pocket?” Steve asked, pointing to the scrap of reddish gold poking out at Bucky’s hip.

“Tony’s brall,” Bucky replied, shrugging.

“Oh,” Steve said, casually reaching out to strangle him.

Bucky tried slapping his hands away frantically. “YOU ASKED!”

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO TELL THE TRUTH,” Steve shouted back.

A bra for your balls

[valdomarx]

the last best hope of earth

ults stevetony, for the “last chance” square on my stony bingo. warning for internalized homophobia and shame issues

When he first meets Tony Stark, Steve thinks that he is everything that is wrong with the modern world. Tony is loud, and crass, and has no respect for authority or for anything else.

He drinks too much. His personal life is a mess. He lounges around wearing the kind of silk robes that would be indecent on a woman, let alone a man. He constantly smells of vodka, or sex, or both, and Steve has to swallow down a feeling of disgust whenever he gets close enough to pick up on his scent.

Steve is unsurprised when he hears rumors that Tony is a queer. Any man who flaunts himself like that is clearly some kind of sexual deviant.

Despite his disdain for Tony’s personal life, Steve has to admit that he is a boon to the Ultimates. Tony has a quick mind and good instincts which still seem to operate under the blanket of booze that he covers himself with. After a while they even develop a rapport on the battlefield, Tony knowing where to be to support Steve, or give him a lift, or to protect his back.

They’d been sparring together this morning, and Tony had pulled a few maneuvers which genuinely impressed Steve. Even in the armor, he’s not as strong as Steve is, but he’s fast and creative and unpredictable. It makes him a fun sparring partner, and there had been a moment when Tony had landed a solid blow to his sternum and he’d had to take Tony’s wrists in one hand and pin him bodily to the floor.

Tony had slid the faceplate up and winked at him as he left, telling Steve that he’d enjoyed his moves. Steve had no idea what to make of that. It was probably just some modern sarcasm that Tony was using to make him feel stupid.

Steve is feeling on edge. He has been getting persistently getting hard all day, and it’s an irritation. He has bigger problems to think about right now, and he doesn’t need to be distracted by his damn libido. He stalks off towards the shower, hoping to wash away the filth of the day.

When he steps under the spray of the shower, he feels some of the tension ease off. His shoulders come down from around his ears, the steady thrum of the water on his skin bleeding some of the anger out of him.

He takes himself in hand, a feeling of relief spreading through his body. For a moment, Gail’s face flashes before him, smiling at him with her pretty red hair and her ample bosom. But thinking of Gail makes him sad, and then lost, and then resentful. He pushes the thought of her aside.

He thinks about Jan, her hip cocked in her tight uniform. He strokes himself, thinking about her short dark hair, clever eyes, confident smile. The way she would move against him, so comfortable in her body. But that memory is tainted now too, a burst of anger rippling through him when he recalls how things ended between them.

Unbidden, a different image enters his mind: Tony, on his knees before him. That infuriating mouth wrapping around his cock, sucking him down hungrily. Steve imagines pulling back, splattering his release across Tony’s face, the streaks of white dripping down his cheek and through his goatee like a brand of ownership.

Steve gasps and grabs at the wall of the shower as he comes, self-disgust coursing through him. The shame stays with him long after the pleasure has worn off.

After the tsunami hits New York, after they have have held back the chaos for another day and saved as many as they can, it is time to count their dead. Jan and Thor and Peter, Stephen Strange, so many of the X-Men, even Hank Pym, damn the sneaky little bastard. All dead. All gone.

Steve has seen plenty of death before, but he has never felt so powerless. His impotence in the face of disaster feeds his fury. He remembers the first moments of the attack, when the water closed in over his head and he was sinking into the depths. He remembers thinking that this was a pathetic way to die, but now at least he could be free.

And then he remembers seeing a flash of red and silver, and strong metal fingers closing around his wrist. He is shocked that, of all people, Tony is the one who saves him, who pulls him close and drags him back into the light.

Now the fighting is over, and only the emptiness remains. He’s been running on adrenaline since the attack, his anger condensing into a solid lump in the pit of his stomach. Tony has found him once again.

Tony’s hand is on his leg, stroking at the inside of his thigh. “You want to relax, is that it?” he asks, voice sultry and smooth. “I can help you with that.”

Steve grunts and balls his hands into fists.

On the next stroke, Tony’s finger brushes up against his cock, and Steve can’t suppress the full-body shiver that goes through him.

Tony grins lasciviously, as if this were fun. As if it were some kind of damn game. “You’re real sensitive, huh darling?” he purrs. “That’s nice.”

“Will you shut up, Stark,” Steve snaps.

Tony jerks back like he’s been shocked and pulls his hand away.

Steve grits his teeth. “I didn’t say you should stop,” he says carefully. “I said to not to talk so damn much.”

Tony’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering him, and Steve tries not to squirm under the observation. Steve takes Tony’s hand and places it back on his thigh without meeting his eye.

“We’re going army-style, is that it? A quick hand in the dark and no looking at each other’s faces?” Tony’s lips curl into something that could have been a mocking smile.

Steve is about to launch into a defense of the brave men who fight for this country and deserve more respect than Tony is showing them, when Tony cups him through his uniform and Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

Steve leans back and lets Tony unzip his pants. He closes his eyes while Tony jerks him off, slow and leisurely like they have all the time in the world.

He scrunches his eyes tight when he comes, Tony’s fingers playing along his cock and squeezing out the last of his orgasm.

He doesn’t look at Tony as he cleans himself up and walks out.

When he’s elected president, there is a moment when Steve thinks that this could be his chance. To prove himself, to make the world how it should be - in spite of all the chaos and the fear, and the broken mess that is their country. The people have called on him to serve, and he will do his best to protect them.

There is a moment when he thinks that he may have found a place in the future after all.

After his inauguration and pulling together a tentative peace with his bare hands, he returns to the ugly underground bunker which is serving as his temporary headquarters. There is, as always, paperwork to do.

He pushes open the door to his private office to find Tony sitting in his chair, feet propped up on the desk.

“What is it, Tony?” he asks, not quite able to keep the weariness out of his voice. The last thing he wants right now is another crisis to deal with.

“Nothing bad,” Tony reassures him, and Steve hates that he sees his weakness. “I thought we could celebrate your recent success.”

Tony waves a bottle of what he is sure is both very expensive and very rare liquor at him.

“I don’t want a drink,” Steve says, feeling more tired than ever.

Tony puts the bottle down and regards him quizzically. “What is it that you do want, then?”

Steve looks at Tony, the amused glint in his eye, the slight part of his lips. A kind of restless anger burns under his skin at the thought that he is now probably the most powerful man in the world, and yet Tony sees straight through him and can disarm his with a handful of words. He says nothing.

Tony kicks his feet off the desk and stands up, stretching the long lines of his limbs provocatively. He rounds the desk and moves towards Steve, placing a hand on his chest. Steve’s breath quickens.

“I’m here to… what’s the phrase? Serve at the pleasure of the president,” Tony says, running his hand down Steve’s chest. “Does that sound good to you?” he asks, very close to Steve’s ear.

Steve doesn’t trust his voice not to betray him. He gives a jerky nod.

Tony smiles and drops to his knees, unzipping Steve’s uniform pants with what seems to be practiced efficiency. Steve wonders how many men Tony has offered himself to in this way, whether he has any standards at all, whether he will get down on his knees for any man walking by.

He wonders whether the other men Tony has been with were comfortable with themselves, and kind, and if they treated Tony better than he has.

When Tony bends forward and takes Steve’s cock into his mouth, Steve stops thinking altogether.

They know that Galactus is coming. The world eater. A force as ancient and powerful as the universe itself. Some people have called it a god, but Steve won’t stand for that kind of talk. There is only one God, and this beast is certainly not him.

Still, it is a danger utterly unlike anything they have faced before. The sheer scale of the threat makes Steve feel tiny and insignificant. It occurs to him, perhaps for the first time, that there might not be a way to win this fight. That they might all die, here and now.

The thought is less distressing than he would have imagined. If this is to be his last week on earth, he can accept that. But there is something he must do first.

He walks calmly down the corridor and knocks on Tony’s door. Tony opens it, bags under his eyes, hair in uncharacteristic disarray. Still, he smiles when he sees Steve.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Cap?” he asks.

Steve opens his mouth, tries to find a way to say what he means, and fails. He has never been one for speeches - always better as a man of action. He reaches out, cradles the back of Tony’s head, running his fingers ever so gently over the scar tissue there. He thinks about how close he came to losing Tony, and of how hollow and terrified that made him feel.

He leans forward, not caring that they are standing in a corridor where anyone could walk by. Softly, delicately, he kisses him.

Tony freezes, pulling back and regarding Steve with eyes wide with shock. “Not that I’m complaining,” he says, “But what brought this on?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Steve says with a lopsided smile. “It’s the end of the world.”

He doesn’t have the words to say more. Instead, he wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, pulls him close, and kisses him like it’s his last chance. It may well be.

As they fall into bed together, Steve doesn’t feel guilt, or disgust, or anger. He feels like he has finally arrived to where he was always supposed to be.

On the Helicarrier, the Ultimates scramble to defend the planet as Galactus appears overhead. They’ve pulled in every reserve they have, and every favor, called on every hero and even a few villains to mount their last line of defense.

“We need more time,” Tony says, and his face is grim. Steve doesn’t stop to think, running to one of the SHIELD planes and launching himself into the stratosphere. His team, his people, his planet - they need his help. Tony needs his help. There is no question of what he should do.

His plane rounds on Galactus, the impossibly large monster looming over the city. Steve knows that he cannot create the technology needed to fight this beast, that the powers of a soldier out of time are useless in the face of something so vast.

What was it Lincoln said? “The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present.” He is inadequate, but the others will find a way. He just needs to buy them a few minutes.

He zips around Galactus, aiming weapons at the eyes and ears, which he assumes to be weak spots. The beast seems to barely notice him. He rounds the plane for a final attack run, throwing everything he has into the fore weapons array.

The monster flinches back and roars in pain. Fire ignites the atmosphere as the weapons hit their target.

“Steve-” a voice crackles over the comms.

“Tony,” Steve says, a swell of warmth and gratitude bubbling through him. “You’ve got this, Tony. You’re going to save the world.” He doesn’t know how he is so certain, but he knows this is true.

“I can’t do this without you.”

“You can,” Steve says with surety. “There’s no one I trust more than you.”

Steve hears something that could have been a sob over the line.

“Be good to yourself, Tony,” he says. “You deserve to be happy.”

Steve feels an explosion rip through his plane, and the air around him bursts into flame. For a moment, there is pain, and then the light fades and everything seems distant. As his life drifts away, Steve's last thought is that he is glad he got to speak with Tony one last time.

[slutforfairytail]

My Dear END

Summary: (ONE SHOT MAYBE) Since they day she was born her fate was sealed. Once she reach 17 she'd be the lover of the younger son of the Devil and bare a child one day, after her father made a deal with him if he gave him wealth. Now she lays with the END feelings his hot body on hers. (Sucky summary but pls read)

Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Lucy H., Natsu D. - Words: 1,603 - Reviews: 11 - Favs: 33 - Follows: 20 - Published: Jan 3 - Status: Complete - id: 12306782

I stare out the window dress in nothing my a silk yellow robe that hung below my shoulder. The bird passing by and the streets busy with people.

My name is Lucy Heartfilia, I'm 19 years old, and I've been the lover of the Devil son for two years now. You're probably wondering how and why. My father when he younger and didn't have a penny to his name and my mother who was pregnant with me made deal with the Devil that if he helps him become one of the richest man in the world he'll do anything for him. So after 17 years he was the richest and it was my birthday and you'd think the devil will have horns and skin as red as blood but no you look likes just like you and I. He wasn't the original one that my father had made a promise to but his oldest son who taken over and the plan was for me to be the lover of the youngest and bare a child one day. My father had handed me over. I hated that he chose his money over me and mother who had died three years before was probably crying in heaven.

I haven't seen father since that day and now I don't really care to see him. I'm allowed to continue with my studies and attend school, but most head back immediately after school hours. It wasn't the life I picture for myself there's nothing I can do.

"Miss. Lucy" I turn my head and see the little maid with her hair tried in a tight bun at my door and I knew what that meant.

I got up from my chair and headed to the door following Wendy the maid name to his bedroom which was only a few doors down from me.

"I'm good here Wendy" I smile and she nodded before heading back to do her chores. I sign and knock on the door waiting for permission to come in.

"Come in Lucy" I hear and I pull open the door before closing it and walking towards him. He was at his desk with work all around him and a cup of whiskey resting on the desk with ice cubes floating peacefully.

It wasn't peaches and cream all at first. I wouldn't leave the room for weeks and i barely ate. I remember our first encounter I fought with him and everyone who dare try to give my virginity to the devil son just cause they wanted me to. But after spending sometime with the pink hair man. You'd wouldn't think he had the ability to suck the soul out of you with the snap of his finger. He was charming, funny, and quite the looker. It may be his tricks, they say don't dance with devil but I took his hand anyways and the first night I felt myself melt away at his fingertips.

Etherious Natsu Dragneel turns his chair around and pulls me into his lap his hand caressing my back.

"How was your day?" I ask watching as pulls his glasses off his eyes and resting them on the desk.

"Stressful" he whispers slowly biting his lip pretty sure he picturing what he wants to do to me.

"Tell me h-ah-ow" I moan as his covers my nipple with his mouth teasing me through the robe.

"I rather show you" he says against the wet fabric before giving it a light blow.

He takes off my robe showing the marks of the last time we were alone. He pulls my face down and begins kissing me and I kiss back feeling my body ease in.

He grips my ass and stands up my legs around his waist as he walk to the bed placing me down on my back still kissing me.

I broke the kiss needing some air giving him the chance to rip his t-shirt off and throwing it somewhere. I watch as he bites his bottom lip and heads for my breast, sucking, biting, and licking on them making me moan a song.I brought his face back to me tasting him like there was no tomorrow.

My hand travel down his stomach into his sweatpants feeling his throbbing member against my fingertips. He moans into my mouth and and I smile before I began to stroke him feeling it heat on my palm.

He pulls my bottom lip with his teeth.

"Aren't you little playful today" he chuckles my hands still in his pants.

I pump him hearing him groan and moan in my ear his member getting harder in my hand. I feel a little pre cum and i want to do more but he whisper me to stop and listen pulling my hand out.

He leans in gives me a tap kiss before sending it down my stomach to my thighs. I feel him smirk against my inner thigh, knowing how impatient I am.

He kisses it and leaving more marks as I whimper.

"What do you want me to do Lucy?" He hummed against my leg looking up me with his eyes.

"I want you to devour my soul" I said feeling a blush creep on my cheeks.

"You're wish is my command" He whispers before bring his face to my private and I let out a deep moan as he lick my clit sending pleasure all over.

"Ahhh" I left out as continues playing with me my hands grip the sheets and my legs trap him as he made me scream.

He plugs a finger inside of me making my back arch.

He moves the finger making me squirm as he hit my g-spot.

"Nats-ah" I cried as he added another finger quickening the pace while still tasting me. I gripped his hair bringing him closer to my folds losing my thoughts.

"Shit I'm going to cum" I moan as he grab my tit trapping the nipple in between his pointer and middle.

He pulls his finger out and plugs his tongue in me and tasting everything

"Fuc-" I moan feeling the butterflies fly my toes curling and my hands grip the sheets.

"Tasty as always" he says licking his lips and then his fingers looking at me. My hair stick to my face, neck and arms and my breathing was slow.

"You sure are beautiful" he says pulling his pants and exposing his member positioning himself in between me.

He traces my lips with his finger and I slightly lick it tilting my head to size as he looks at me with greed.

He place one in and I suck on it rolling my tongue around it looking him in his eyes.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting" he says pulling his finger out a thin line of saliva connecting my mouth and it.

"Now my dear. Let's begin"

I felt him tease me with his tip before sliding it in completely us both moaning.

He starts off slowly thrusting his hips into me gripping my waist telling me he'll quicken the speed making us both cry in pleasure.

"Come here" he said pulling me up so that I'm on his lap.

"Move" he orders and I slid up and down his length feeling my wall tighten around him.

"Shit" he moans gripping waist and making me go faster

"Natsuuu" I purr wrapping my arm around his neck

"Shhhh" he says wrapping his hand around my neck and giving it a squeeze in between a moan and bite my lip as he stares at me with lust and passion thrusting even deeper inside my walls hitting the spot that made me scream his name.

I move along with him as his other hand play with my breast flicking my nipple making me just want him more.

I could feel my stomach fill up again and my mind was getting fuzzy with some more thrust I orgasmem and so did he quickly pulling out and leaving his seed on my stomach as I lay there breathless.

He wipes me off with a wet towel before popping down next to me and wrapping his arms around my naked waist burying his face in my neck.

"You never seem to fail me" He said before falling within a deep sleep

"I hope I never will my dear END" I then fall into a deep slumber.

Sorry for any mistake~ FF.net

[leyhejuhyunghan]

The Met Diamond Mountains Jeong Seon (Korean, 1676–1759) General View of Inner Geumgang, Mexico Mask, Egyptian Face from Statue, museum, library, Landscape architects, GREEN INFRASTRUCTURE, environmental architect, Rembrandt

The Met Diamond Mountains Jeong Seon (Korean, 1676–1759) General View of Inner Geumgang, Mexico Mask, Egyptian Face from Statue, museum, library, Landscape architects, GREEN INFRASTRUCTURE, environmental architect, Rembrandt https://www.facebook.com/juhyung.han.5/posts/1699280493464451 https://artnouveau19com.wordpress.com/2018/02/14/jeong-seon-korean-1676-1759-general-view-of-inner-geumgang-mexico-mask-egyptian-face-from-statue-museum-library-landscape-architects-green-infrastructure-environmental-architect-rem/

Jeong Seon (artist name: Gyeomjae) (Korean, 1676–1759), 謙齋 鄭敾 金剛內山全圖 (謙齋鄭敾畫帖) 朝鮮 General View of Inner Geumgang; One leaf from the Album of Gyeomjae Jeong Seon, Joseon dynasty (1392–1910), ca. 1740s, Album leaf; ink and light color on silk, Image: 8 11/16 × 21 3/8 in. (22 × 54.3 cm), Lent by Waegwan Abbey, North Gyeonsang province (National Museum of Korea)

https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/view?exhibitionId=%7b819ce136-609d-427a-9d49-2d5ddd39ac7f%7d&oid=761908&pkgids=472&pg=0&rpp=20&pos=5&ft=*&offset=20

This overview composition was an innovation of Jeong’s to which he returned throughout his career. His repeated experimentation with the format—varying the size, orientation, sites included or accorded prominence, complexity of brushwork, and degree of stylization—evidences the depth of his artistic and intellectual interest in its inherent possibilities. The horizontality of this piece presents a looser and less compacted experience, encouraging the eye to meander through the scenery. Here, the dark shading around the rocky peaks gives a more pronounced chiaroscuro effect. This album had been in the collection of St. Ottilien Archabbey in Germany for some eighty years until its return to South Korea in 2006. As with all works in the exhibition, this painting is making its North American debut.

The Met‏Verified account @metmuseum Feb 7

More "Diamond Mountains: Travel and Nostalgia in Korean Art" opens to the public today. The exhibition is part of a celebration marking the 20th anniversary of the establishment of The Met's Arts of Korea Gallery. http://met.org/2nLK1rb

https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2018/diamond-mountains?utm_source=Twitter&utm_medium=tweet&utm_content=20180207&utm_campaign=diamondmountains

The Met‏Verified account @metmuseum Feb 8 Lacking holes for eyes and nose, this mask could not have been worn over a living face, but there are attachment holes along the edges by means of which it might have been used as a costume element or adhered as a face to a mummy or a sacred bundle. http://met.org/2E96nOn

Mask, 900–400 B.C., Mexico, Mesoamerica, Olmec, Jadeite, H. 6 3/4 x W. 6 5/16 in. (17.1 x 16.5 cm), Stone-Sculpture, Jade, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/310279?utm_source=Twitter&utm_medium=tweet&utm_content=20180208&utm_campaign=collections

The Met‏Verified account @metmuseum This quartzite head once belonged to a composite statue made of several different materials. Based on the color of the stone (red being the conventional color for men), the owner was originally identified as Akhenaten. http://met.org/2F2dXaV

Face from a Composite Statue, probably Queen Tiye, New Kingdom, Amarna Period, Dynasty 18, reign of Amenhotep III-Akhenaten, ca. 1353–1336 B.C., From Egypt; Probably from Middle Egypt, Amarna (Akhetaten), Quartzite, H. 13.3 cm (5 1/4 in.); W. 12.5 cm (4 15/16 in.); D. 12.4 cm (4 7/8 in.) H. of face 11 cm (4 5/16 in.), The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/544693?utm_source=Twitter&utm_medium=tweet&utm_content=20180214&utm_campaign=collections

From Sight to Light The Passage From Ancient To Modern Optics A. Mark Smith The University of Chicago Press, 2015 https://www.instagram.com/p/BfKwUQdBrkg/

IFLA‏ @IFLA Jan 20 Congratulations @Valletta2018, European Capital of Culture 2018! With #libraries, everywhere has the potential to become a capital of #culture #ECoC #Valletta2018

https://twitter.com/IFLA/status/954639637489770497

https://www.ifla.org/node/25586

American Society of Landscape Architects‏ @NationalASLA Feb 1 More Landscape architects plan, design, and build green infrastructure systems. GREEN INFRASTRUCTURE: CITIES

Cities need as much green infrastructure as possible, given how dense and impermeable they tend to be. In the urban environment, green infrastructure covers everything from parks to street trees and green roofs to bioswales -- really anything that helps absorb, delay, and treat stormwater, mitigating flooding and pollution downstream. Green infrastructure also creates oxygen, sequesters carbon, and creates wildlife habitat. Urban greenery has also been proven to improve mental health and well-being.

Every city should have its own green infrastructure strategy and actionable plan to make it happen. Philadelphia and New York City are leading the way with model-breaking green infrastructure plans. In Philadelphia, a comprehensive green infrastructure approach is estimated to cost just $1.2 billion over the next 25 years, compared to over $6 billion for "grey" infrastructure, a term used for the concrete tunnels created to move water. With this plan, 250 people are expected to be employed annually in green jobs. The city is expecting up to 1.5 billion pounds of carbon dioxide emission to be avoided or absorbed through green infrastructure each year, the equivalent of removing close to 3,400 vehicles from roadways. With improved air quality due to all the new trees, green roofs, and parks, communities will benefit on the social or health side, as well. The city estimates 20 deaths due to asthma will be avoided, and 250 fewer work or school days will be missed. Deaths due to excessive urban heat could also be cut by 250 over 20 years. Lastly, the economic benefits are also outstanding: the new greenery will increase property values by $390 million over 45 years, also boosting the property taxes the city takes in.    

New York City’s green infrastructure plan is projected to cost $1.5 billion less than a comparable grey infrastructure approach. Green stormwater management systems alone will save $1 billion, at a cost of about $0.15 less per gallon. Also, sustainability benefits in NYC range from $139-418 million over the 20 year life of the project, depending on measures implemented. The plan estimates that “every fully vegetated acre of green infrastructure would provide total annual benefits of $8.522 in reduced energy demand, $166 in reduced CO2 emissions, $1,044 in improved air quality, and $4,725 in increased property value.”

Spotlight on urban forests

Cities have forests, too, which are an important component of urban green infrastructure systems.* Smart urban policies are needed to increase the use of appropriate or native tree and plant species and reduce the presence of noxious and invasive ones. Using native plant communities contributes to place-making and identity; native vegetation also generally requires less maintenance and irrigation. In all cases, urban trees should be chosen for durability and resilience, character, growth habit, and aesthetic value. Urban forests should also include a diversity of species to avoid mono-cultures, which reduce biodiversity and are less resilient to pests and other environmental factors that can harm or kill trees. Plant and tree professionals, advocacy groups, and government agencies can facilitate sound plant selection and planting practices. Good design blends artistic and scientific best practices to create a healthy growing environment.

Recent federal legislation recognizes the many benefits of urban trees. The Energy Conservation Through Trees Act, authored by Congresswoman Doris Matsui (CA) of Sacramento, would establish a grant program with electricity providers to plant shade trees to insulate residential buildings and minimize home heating and cooling costs. The legislation would require an education and information campaign to encourage residents to maintain their shade trees over a long term; require monitoring and reporting of tree survival, growth, overall health, and estimated savings; and require tree recipients to provide stewardship and care of the trees.

*They are not, of course, the only component of urban green infrastructure. Be sure to see our sections on constructed wetlands, green streets, and green roofs & walls.

https://www.asla.org/ContentDetail.aspx?id=43535

FEB 2, 2018 Get to know Dr Phillip Roös, world-leading environmental architect

Dr Phillip Roös hopes to see more architecture embrace 'deep sustainability', where design enriches place, considers people, responds to local character and culture, and creates a healthy environment.

Dr Phillip Roös has worked all over the world, including in Africa, Europe and Australia. He now teaches architecture at Deakin University, where he had developed a unit called 'Ecological Cities and Futures' that examines ecological urbanism and design that considers the relationship between humans and nature. Roös hopes to see more architecture embrace 'deep sustainability', where design enriches place, considers people, responds to local character and culture, and creates a healthy environment.

As a senior lecturer in Architecture at Deakin University, what research projects that you are involved with could have a positive impact on the future of architecture?  

A research project called ‘Biophilia and a Regenerative Pattern Language’. This research looks at the human-nature relationship (biophilia) to inform optimised design processes based on a regenerative pattern language system. This potentially can result in a new architecture and planning method that re-establishes our wholeness with nature, creating healthy built environments, and considering the vulnerabilities of a changing landscape.

https://www.therealestateconversation.com.au/profiles/2018/02/02/get-know-dr-phillip-roos-world-leading-environmental-architect/1517522364

Museum Rembrandthuis‏ @RembrandthuisMore Happy Valentine’s Day to all lovebirds from Rembrandt and his Saskia! #ValentinesDay

https://twitter.com/Rembrandthuis/status/963686943514091520

[theartofflyingartist-blog]

An amazing aerial silks duo from the flier perspective

Alex Charman makes up one half of an amazing aerial silks duo along with Sam Matthewman with Vertical Insanity Circus. She is also one of my current aerial teachers at Circobats Community Circus. I wanted to create a portrait of Alex and Sam’s duo performance and thought that since there are two of them, that I would create two pieces of artwork. I also decided to interview both Alex and Sam. So for this post I will focus on Alex and the first portrait of their duo. Coming soon will be the second portrait and a post focused on Sam.

‘Wrapped with each other’: Duo aerial silks portrait of Alex Charman and Sam Matthewman

Inspiration

I love taking class with Alex and trying all sorts of aerial apparatus including silks, lyra, trapeze and cloud swing. Alex does an excellent job catering for the varied skill levels in the class and keeping it fun. Currently, Alex is performing in Edinburgh with Sam in their show Hoopla International.

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Hoopla International 2017 Edinburgh Promo Video

Only 24 hours until Shaz and Baz jet overseas to Edinburgh Fringe Festival to spread the benefits of the patented "Hoopla International Aerobic Workout". Massive thanks to Chantelle from the costumes to filming us you are the best! Here is our amazing promo video PLEASE SHARE it with all your friends to help support us on our biggest adventure yet! Vertical Insanity Circus CircoBats Community Circus

Posted by Hoopla International on Thursday, July 27, 2017

Videographer Chantelle Smeda

Side by side comparison of the reference image with the ‘Wrapped with each other’ artwork

Q&A with Alex:

What made you decide to try aerial?

I loved the idea of being up high and my mum encouraged me to try it!

What were the best qualities about some of your teachers when you were getting started?

I had some wonderful teachers who where very experienced which made their teaching methods so precise and technical. They were also extremely encouraging. Which is by far the best quality I have connected to in a teacher.

What is your favourite aspect of aerial?

Feeling like you are flying and doing things normal people can’t.

What is your favourite type of performance?

Silks or trapeze on a stage as a part of a full show. Something that will make the audience feel in awe

Has the things that you like about aerial changed from the time you started to now?

I can appreciate the strength and skill behind each skill a lot better

How did you get into teaching aerial?

Train, practice, write down small aspects that make the tricks work for you which could help others, do workshops to keep learning and improving

what do you hope your students get out of your classes?

That they learn that no matter what there ability is if they keep trying they can achieve anything they put there mind to

what is your favourite aspect of teaching aerial?

The sense of accomplishment that arises when a trick or skill is achieved

how is working in a duo different from performing a solo aerial act?

There is a lot more trust involved and team work to make sure the skills are safe and perfected

Reference Image

I chose the reference image of Sam supporting Alex in a back balance because I love the beautiful elongated shape that their bodies create. The contrast between the red silk and their predominantly black costumes adds to the drama of the performance shot. I also love their beautiful elegant hands and pointed toes in the pose. I only wish that Sam’s left foot was also in the shot to complete the composition, but this would have been an extremely difficult move to capture because of the length.

Photographer Nicholas Warn

Progress photos of ‘Wrapped with each other’

Artistic process

I created this piece at the Henley and Grange Art Society mixed media group. I used an easel and large white paper to allow for large free flowing application of marks. Michelle Stratton teaches the mixed media group and suggested that we try for a free and abstract style using Charcoal mixed with either ink or watercolour.

I wanted to focus on the general shapes of the figures rather than the intricate detail with charcoal. The red and black colour scheme was maintained from the reference image. I did this using red and black ink and red chalk pastels in addition to the charcoal.

Close up of ‘Wrapped with each other’ techniques

The background was created by dampening the paper with a spray bottle and then dripping black ink down the page. I avoided the area within the figures so that they would still stand out, but did not stop the drips if they naturally came into contact with the figure.

I like the effect of the black and red and white to create this dramatic abstract portrait.

Alex and Sam will be performing next in the Perth world Fringe in Jan/Feb 2018

An amazing aerial silks duo from the flier perspective was originally published on the art of flying