lia murphy
sebastian westwood
theo paredes

Andulka
Three Goblin Art
Xuebing Du
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tannertan36
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Love Begins

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@gloriouswhispers
lia murphy
sebastian westwood
theo paredes
Felix had to admit, privately and with no intention of recording it anywhere useful, that he may have overestimated Sebastian Westwood's capacity for concern. In hindsight, now that Sebastian appeared in no immediate rush to peel either of his sisters off a vomit covered bear rug, Felix could see where he had gone wrong. It was possible, he supposed, that having Bunny and Madi as sisters had simply ruined a man's emergency response system over time. There had likely been rehearsals. Drills. Entire ruined evenings lost to this exact genre of catastrophe.
For one brief second, Felix almost sympathized with him. "Well, of course I didn't do anything to make them cry, Sebastian. I walked by and found them howling on a rug." Felix explained, with only the faintest thread of exhaustion showing through. "There's a difference. A small one, perhaps, but I imagine the courts would respect it." and that was where the sympathy for Sebastian ended. He blinked at Sebastian, unimpressed. "I only proposed to one of them, which, if we're being technical, would make Madisyn your problem and Isabella mine." Then, Felix decided to wash his hands of the entire situation.
Fine.
If Sebastian Westwood did not care about two wailing Westwood sisters collapsed on decorative wildlife, then Felix saw no reason to be the last man standing on the sinking ship of basic human decency. He gave a single shrug, careless, then reached for a nearby drink and settled himself beside Sebastian. He took a sip. Scanned the room with bored attention before his gaze returned to Sebastian. Quietly scrutinizing. Because Felix believed that most people, like most markets, only required a little pressure before they could fall into place. "Did you know Kitty's real name is Katherine Beecham?" he asked, his tone slipping into something painfully casual, all forced lightness with a smug little hook beneath it. He let that sit there. Just for a moment. Then he took another sip and gave Sebastian another innocent shrug, which was, of course, the least innocent kind. "Madi was saying something about it earlier, but I'll admit, I don't really know much about you Brits. What are the Beecham's like? Nice?"
sebastian's smug grin stays exactly where it is as felix speaks and his eyes stay on the ranstrom over the rim of his glass, watching the mild panic move behind felix's eyes while he insists he only passed the room and saw madi and bunny in hysterics. which, unfortunately, sounds entirely believable. his sisters are very capable women, both of them, but they do have a gift for turning any room into either a tribunal or a crime scene. sometimes both.
'well, that'll do it.' sebastian says, dry and simple, mostly because he's enjoying being unhelpful far too much. felix deserves a taste of his own medicine now and then and preferably while sebastian gets to smirk into his drink. he's just about to drop the act, only slightly, just enough to admit that he simply does not have it in him to rush to his sisters' aid every time they have some overwhelming emotional bonding moment. or argument. or both at the same time, which is usually how these things go. but then felix seems to detach from the entire thing in front of him, and sebastian pauses, faintly thrown by how quickly he shifts from fierce determination to the cool suggestion that none of it has mattered to him for even a second.
and then felix says it. katherine beecham. sebastian's grin smooths out immediately into something far less smug. not gone, exactly, because pride remains a dreadful little instinct, but it's smaller. a little tighter. he looks away from felix and scans the party instead, as if the room has suddenly become fascinating. 'they're pleasant enough.' he says with a shrug, the sort of shrug a child gives when he has decided to be contrary even if it ruins his own afternoon. 'a few of them are into politics, nothing major.' which is, of course, an insane thing to say about the beechams.
he finishes his drink slowly, because rushing would be embarrassing and because he refuses to give felix the pleasure of seeing the exact moment a beecham-shaped problem arranges itself in his head. only then does sebastian turn back to him, expression light again by force of habit, the concern dressed up neatly as a curious afterthought. 'so whereabouts is this rug, then?'
sebastian and max hotel bar
sebastian leaves the meeting with his jacket still buttoned and an expression that suggests the last hour has made him want to walk directly into traffic. the event space refresh is moving along, technically, though if one more person says intentionality about a carpet sample, he may have to make peace with becoming roadkill after all. he should go back to the office. there are emails waiting, calls to return, and a document open on his laptop that he has been heroically ignoring since half ten. then he spots max at the bar, and the laugh slips out before sebastian can really help it. responsibility can survive another ten minutes without him. probably.
'christ, it's that time of year already?' he says, diverting with immediate ease, coming to a stop beside the ranstrom cousin already grinning. 'i wasn't planning on seeing you in new york until at least christmas.' max is easier trouble, sebastian thinks. he has no awful little talent for making him feel examined, just the pleasant suggestion that whatever he is meant to be doing can be delayed in favour of something worse. sebastian glances him over, amused. 'i didn't know you were staying here. thought bunny mentioned something about a new apartment?' his hand is already reaching for his phone, because apparently he is that predictable. 'let me sort the suite out for you. i'm guessing someone downstairs put you somewhere tragic.' @secrettyrant
sebastian and imogen rhodes club
sebastian knows the moment he's fucked it. not immediately, admittedly. in the moment itself, it was easy enough to correct. casual, harmless and barely worth thinking about. 'girlfriend's a bit strong.' he had said with a laugh, drink balanced loose in one hand while the conversation moved around them. worse still, he hadn't even offered an alternative. not a she's my date or anything remotely useful to save himself with afterwards. he simply corrected it and moved on, which in hindsight now feels a little bit like watching himself step on a landmine in slow motion.
because now imogen is outside and she didn't even storm there dramatically, which somehow makes it considerably worse. he notices her absence about ten minutes too late, catching sight of her through the open terrace doors beyond the blur of people and candlelight. right. brilliant. when he steps outside himself, the door shuts behind him with a muffled thud. people move loosely across the terrace in twos and threes, half drunk conversations drifting through cigarette smoke and the occasional burst of laughter. sebastian reaches into his coat pocket for his own cigarette, mostly just to give himself something to do with his hands. he taps one loose and glances to imogen briefly before lighting it.
he doesn't immediately mention it. obviously. instead he leans back lightly against the railing beside her, all relaxed posture and practiced composure, smoke drifting slowly between them. '...are you hiding from me specifically?' he asks after a second, voice light and conversational. 'or from everyone in there?' @dxrkenedheights
theo paredes
36
zenith capital management / legal
BIO.
some penthouse party in soho
felix ranstrom and the westwoods @gloriouswhispers
The music was abysmal.
Not dramatically abysmal, which at least might have offered the room some personality, but practically abysmal. A relentless, monotonous drumbeat that bled into every song until the entire evening began to feel like one long, expensive mistake. Deep house, apparently. Music without personality, without shame, without any clear evidence of wanting to be something, which Felix thought suited SoHo rather beautifully. A place where people pretended to be interesting deserved a drumbeat that pretended to be useful. Its only real function seemed to be producing headaches and making time collapse in on itself, though Felix supposed, if he wanted to be generous, warping time was not the least impressive achievement in the world.
Unfortunately, he had more important matters to attend to. Namely, hunting down Sebastian Westwood with the kind of sharp, undeviating focus that suggested an emergency had occurred and that someone, somewhere, had made the grave administrative error of involving Felix in it. To his credit, none of this showed on his face. His expression remained blank, the particular dissociative little mask he put on the moment he entered a room. The only betrayal was the urgency in his stare, and possibly the fact that he was approaching Sebastian at all, considering they had both done the mature and merciful thing some time ago and agreed to give each other a fairly wide berth.
"Both of your sisters are crying." Felix said once close enough. Simple. Efficient. Almost civic-minded. He did not blink. "And both of them appear to have collapsed on a genuine bear rug." he added, looking Sebastian square in the eye, because there were moments in life when a man needed to understand the full weight of his own bloodline. "A bear rug which also seems to have acquired a rather impressive amount of vomit." Felix gave a small nod, as if confirming a figure in a report. Yes, Sebastian. This is your problem too.
"Now, the one I'm engaged to, I can carry." he continued, with the calm of discussing logistics rather than a scene involving tears, taxidermy, and rather pink-colored chunky liquids. "But I can't quite drag the other one out with me at the same time. Not to mention the fact that..." he gestured vaguely around them, taking in the apartment, the crowd, the witnesses, the eager little machinery of gossip already oiling itself in the corners. "That's not quite a rumor I'm in the mood for."
ignoring felix ranstrom is a bit like trying to ignore a six foot four viking standing directly in your peripheral vision. impossible, really. sebastian sees the shift of his giant shadow across the room before he properly looks over, and he can already guess the expression waiting for him there. focused. immovable. deeply unfortunate for whoever becomes the problem attached to it. apparently tonight, that's him. sebastian barely glances at him for more than a second before lifting his drink instead, already half waiting for whatever disaster is about to be explained to him. honestly, with bunny involved, the possibilities are endless.
though admittedly, even he wasn't expecting both sisters. 'now, how on earth did you make them both cry?' he asks, like the answer could possibly be anything other than alcohol, emotional oversharing, and the general intensity that seems to overtake westwood women once they pass a certain number of martinis. he keeps his expression mostly neutral as felix elaborates further. the bear rug. the vomit. madisyn and bunny apparently deteriorating somewhere within the vicinity. all sebastian can do is sigh. 'i'm not carrying madisyn through this party while you carry bunny,' he says, already mildly horrified by the image alone. 'who, we both know, will be screaming at everybody we have to walk through.' another sip of his drink follows, entirely unhelpful.
'just lure them out quietly and let somebody else discover the vomit tomorrow morning.' sebastian adds, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a grin. 'also, i'm not sure why you've decided this should involve me at all.' he reaches over to pat felix once against the shoulder with deeply insincere sympathy. 'good luck, chap. you got this. just remember, it's what you proposed to.'
lia murphy
40
art curator / philanthropist
BIO.
sebastian westwood
29
project lead
BIO.
hey look, there’s francesca 'frankie' vaisman, a 49 year old bartender from Atlanta GA, somehow managing to be loving, wise, and protective while also being blunt, difficult, and a little too headstrong for their own good.
hey look, there’s margo harrison, a 24 year old from atlanta, somehow managing to be troublesome, mischievous, and avoidant while also being gregarious, helpful, and a little too cynical for their own good.
hey look, there’s lia murphy, a 35 year old server from nashville, tn, somehow managing to be headstrong, creative, and nurturing while also being free-thinking, avoidant, and a little too independent for their own good.
hey look, there’s santiago alvarez, a 44 year old manual laborer from atlanta, somehow managing to be practical, reserved, and observant while also being stubborn, unpredictable, and a little too intense for their own good.
SEBASTIAN WESTWOOD
Age: 29
Species: Witch
BIO.
FELICITY GRAAV
Age: 38
Species: Hunter
BIO.
thomas “tommy” kovac
27 years old
junior director, product development at kovacs ltd
bio
lia murphy
36 years old
artist / sculptor
bio.
closed starter, bar area max st. james & viveca st. james @gloriouswhispers
The invitation to Azul Veranda had Max St. James written all over it. He didn't bother reading most of the details before making arrangements to clear his schedule, which in truth was never particularly strict to begin with. Though he had a strong suspicion he wouldn't end up staying for the full nine days regardless. The look on his father's face when Max casually mentioned he would be unavailable for the next week roughly twelve hours before boarding a plane, had been enough to guarantee that something back in New York would suddenly become very important before long.
Still, a few days away was more than enough to keep him satisfied for now. Max leans against the bar as the bartender tops up his whiskey again, watching the amber catch the warm lighting of the room while the low buzz of conversation drifts around him, and he can already feel the tension of New York loosening its grip somewhere between the first drink and the second. No lectures here. No quiet reminders about representing the family name every time he decides to have a little fun. Just a few days where he can exist without feeling like someone is taking notes on behalf of the St. James legacy. And, judging by the collection of guests he's already spotted wandering through the resort, this week will almost certainly spiral into exactly the sort of chaotic entertainment he tends to enjoy the most.
So yes, Max is feeling rather pleased with himself. There's a restless kind of anticipation sitting under his skin as he glances idly around the bar, curiosity already sharpening into mischief while he wonders what sort of trouble this place might offer before the week is over. His eyes drift to the doors when he hears them open. And then he sees her. The shift is immediate, the quiet satisfaction draining out of his expression as his mother sweeps through the bar area. Max blinks, the freshly poured whiskey pausing halfway to his lips.
"No." the word leaves him flat and immediate, as if outright refusing the situation might somehow undo it. "See," he adds a second later, lowering the glass slowly while turning away from her with a faintly petulant edge to the movement, "now I'm just convinced you do these things on purpose, because there is absolutely no way a resort opening is more important than humanitarian aid, Mom." Max can't help but sigh, still refusing to fully look at her. "Let me guess, Dad's already on the next flight out too." he mutters, bracing himself for the answer.
'oh come on, max. that's a little bit dramatic.' is the first thing viveca says the moment she sees the disappointment pass across her son's face. that particular expression she knows well enough to recognize even before it fully settles there. she knows her boy. knows the way his mind works when something like this appears on the calendar. an invitation from the alvarezes, a private island, a pre-opening week that practically begs for trouble...and she can easily imagine the quiet laugh he must have given when he first read it, already picturing a stretch of days entirely unsupervised. unfortunately for him, the invitation was never meant for max alone. it had been addressed to the family.
at first, viveca had every intention of declining. the past few months have been relentless. meetings with the refugee coalition in geneva, a policy panel she still needs to prepare for in brussels, the sort of work that does not politely pause simply because someone has opened a resort in the caribbean. and benjamin, of course, is buried in his own obligations as usual. but then there was brunch with genevieve westwood. and genevieve, as always, had opinions. viveca resisted for approximately fifteen minutes. now here she is. the caribbean air still clings faintly to her skin from outside, warm and salted, and she allows herself a small, amused smile as she studies her son. the dramatics written plainly across his face in a way that reminds her so strongly of his father that it nearly makes her laugh.
'a girl is allowed a weekend to herself every now and then.' the grin that follows is a touch conspiratorial as she slips onto the stool beside him at the bar with effortless composure, smoothing one hand over the edge of the counter as she settles in. 'no, your father can't make it. and honestly, i probably won't be here the full nine days. that's a little excessive, even for paradise.' she inclines her head politely to the bartender and only after the request for champagne is placed does she look back to max, the faintest hint of amusement lingering in her eyes. 'i know what you're thinking and you're wrong. this isn't some elaborate plan to check in on you or keep an eye on things.' her mouth curves again, softer this time. 'gen talked me into letting my hair down, actually.'