Sep 13, 2024
•I want to be Legendary•
seen from China
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from Greece
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Singapore
seen from India
seen from China
seen from T1
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
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•I want to be Legendary•
“.. these choices seem … a bit weird ..”
Samuel I want your babies
“.. uh.. like what I create ? Cause your gonna have to wait till the beta phase of Eden is done with for that …”
He's going to sit him on his lap and scrub those peetz. "So dirty~"
Oh his favorite place to be !! Alastor’s lap! He purred and wrapped his tail around his waist as the other scrubbed at his paws .
Giggling every now and then, “hahaha— Al that tickles ~”
When the younger man had walked into his gallery, Martin had been charmed almost immediately. He had humored any and all questions; he was always patient with strangers for the most part, but Julian had made more of an impression than anyone else had in Martin’s life in quite some time. Perhaps he was lonely. Perhaps that was why he’d invited Julian to take a look at his works in progress at his studio, mediums including clay and marble, ice and stone. He’s a bit embarrassed by the mess when he leads the way inside, but he believe it will be a decent ice breaker between them.
“If you’re seriously interested in curating, I thought you might want a look at the process… if you want the experience, I could use some help part-time at the gallery.” Martin’s tone is nonchalant; it’s not that big of a deal. Really.
Happy Birthday
I'm the kinda friend that tries to write smut for characters' birthdays if I can remember them. It's 4AM, there are numerous typos or grammatical errors in this I am terribly sorry.
The day arrived without even the slightest acknowledgement from Daniel, and it seemed that his brother had retreated from any celebratory attempts as well. Martin had plans to utilize Daniel’s foul mood and special occasion for his own means. He slipped into Daniel’s office, where the poor man had taken to hiding in his work in order to escape another year passing through his existential clock.
Martin closed the door quietly, eyeing the architect bent over designs at his desk. They’d been doing a dance for a few months now. Heated, hungry, rough kisses. Desperate hands and rushed groping. But no true consummation had taken place between the two men. At the heart of it, Martin knew that Daniel was afraid. The poor fellow seemed to be afraid of a lot of things.
“Let’s go out. Get some drinks,” Martin suggested in a nonchalant tone. Business associates got drinks together often in Rapture. There wasn’t anything out of place in doing so, but Martin was asking a hollow request anyway. He knew full well that Daniel would refuse.
“No. M’busy.”
“Course you are.” The sculptor continued over to the desk. He walked around the desk to Daniel’s side and, in one agile gesture, lifted a leg to push the chair back out of his way. An arm reached back and pushed the blueprints to the side, which rolled up into the shape they’d been stored in without Daniel’s hands holding them spread open. Martin replaced the blueprints with himself, sitting on the desk before Daniel, looking down at him. “Let’s go to my place, then.”
Travertine Foundations
Martin didn't like being a messenger boy. He didn't like having to hop back and forth between the whims of men that thought they were better or more important than he was. Ironically enough, that's exactly who he worked for. Cohen had grand demands and grander ideas and even grander ways of telling people said demands and ideas. And poor Martin was usually the one stuck listening.
He had listened when Cohen had begun voicing his ideas for his galleries in Rapture. He had listened when Cohen had become frustrated at trying to talk to the Wales brothers about his ideas. He had listened when Cohen started making demands and, when the demands started to get pointed in his direction, Martin had gotten to his feet and complied.
Martin didn't mince words. He didn't waste time. That was probably why Cohen had made him responsible for talking to the Wales brothers about the development of the galleries. It had nothing to do with his experience or talent, his knowledge of masonry and his education that was equal parts art and construction. Cohen wanted a problem solved quickly and didn't care about the "dull" details that honestly intrigued Martin.
He strode into the offices of Wales and Wales, dressed in the remnants of a suit like a man who didn't have time for ties or shirts buttoned up all the way, his sleeves cuffed up and the blazer jacket meant to go over the top missing from his ensemble. He looked to the secretary and asked her if they were in. She barely had time to explain that Mister Daniel Wales was in his office before Martin was walking over to the door with his name on it and inviting himself in.
"Mister Wales, we need to talk." Martin addressed the man behind the desk, looking irritable. His brows were knit together-- which was the way they were almost always, and arms toned from years of inflicting chisel and hammer on stone crossed over a broad chest. "Sander Cohen has been trying to reach you and your brother for weeks now about his commission of you for the construction of his galleries."
ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｉｏｎｉｓｍ
Martin worked at the Artist's Struggle often, but he had a private studio of his own. The only real drawback to his own studio was that another person had a key and could waltz in whenever he felt the need to try and wrap Martin around his finger again. Cohen was an eccentric narcissist that got on Martin's last nerve more often than not, but he was his backer. Putting Cohen on his back as payment wasn't too terrible a price.
He was in a mood. He missed the surface simply because marble wasn't next to impossible to get topside. He only had one block in his studio and he'd been saving it and working with plaster, clay, and other manipulable materials instead of something he could chip away at.
The knock at the door pulled him out of his scowling, resentful reverie, the body of clay on the table before him unfinished. It resembled strong, taught muscles, an arched back slightly twisted as though the man hiding within the clay were reaching back for something... Martin grabbed a wet rag and cleaned the clay from his hands. He tossed it over his shoulder and it landed with a plop on the edge of the table.
He didn't bother grabbing a shirt to throw on, since he figured it was that crazy grape stopping by-- he was sick of Cohen ripping off buttons and not buying new shirts. Unceremoniously, he opened the door, only for a look of surprise to fall over his features.
"Oh. Hector... I wasn't expecting you."