A Sibyl with a Book (copy after Anton Raphael Mengs) (1761). Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820). Oil on canvas. Ferens Art Gallery.
After original of 1761, three-quarter-length female in Renaissance rustic dress of brown cloak and white linen dress beneath, with a turban headdress turns to her right to look at the viewer, leaning her head on her right hand, and her left is in her lap holding an open book.
Here is my contribution to these lovely, beautiful days before Christmas. :) I hope you cry. :)
Also thankyou to madartiste who did a quick checkover!:)
Have you ever wondered what happened to our beloved Natsu after Igneel left him? During those lonely days where he had no one to keep him company but himself? No father, no friends, no Fairy Tail. Well, I wondered too. Here’s my take on it.
I have called you children, I have called you son. What is there to answer if I'm the only one? (x)
On the first day, which was a day like any other, young Natsu Dragneel woke up with love in his heart and adventure in his veins.
Igneel was gone. Natsu wondered what he might be up to, and what great feats he had planned for today. Would he teach him some new moves when he returned? Would he bring some food? Meat, hopefully.
Natsu’s little stomach growled with an appetite far ahead of his years. He had to become strong, after all. He would be a dragon just like his father.
After he had scrambled to his feet, he stretched his tired limbs, and a big yawn slipped from his mouth. He scrunched up his nose. There was still enough food left for him, but the stacks of dried meat and the occasional veggie didn’t tempt him much. Fresh meat, roasted dangerously black beyond recognition by Igneel, that was his favourite.
He would wait until he returned.
Only when the sun was beginning its descent did Natsu finally grab one of the dry, stringy slabs of deer.
On the 3rd day, Natsu started to worry. Igneel had never been gone for so long. One day, sure. Two days, maybe. But three? It had never happened.
Of course, he was alright. Nobody could hurt Igneel; it was a fact to Natsu, as sure as the sun rose behind the mountain each day anew. It did so now, too. The first rays of light were already filtering through the thick branches of the forest and deeply into the spacious cave.
But then, what was he up to? What was keeping him? Why had he not returned?
An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, and whatever he did to distract himself, he couldn’t seem to shake it. Nonetheless, he decided to start his training alone, as he had done the two previous days. It just seemed to be so much less fun without his dad to give instructions and to praise him if he managed a particularly strong attack.
The weather was sweltering, and soon sweat dripped off his small body and onto the dusty ground beneath. But Natsu persisted, his feet stirring up dust as he moved arduously, following his routine like the hand of a perfectly manufactured clock.
It proved harder than usual to keep going, but he blamed it on the lack of fresh meat. Really, Igneel should hurry. When he returned, Natsu wanted to surprise him by how strong he had gotten. This time, when he challenged him, he would definitely win.
The sun shone into his eyes, merciless and bright.
At some point, he didn’t know anymore if what was covering his face was sweat, or his tears.
That evening, Natsu fell asleep beside the crackling fire - a poor substitute for his father’s hot scales - mumbling Igneel’s name as sleep carried him away into hopeful dreams, where he woke up to his father’s golden eyes and wise smile.
Title: Nice Work If You Can Get It Rating: Mature (Steve/Tony, background Pepper/Natasha) Summary: Steve swore he’d never be a kept man, but a lot can change in five years. Notes: This is a sort-of, could-be sequel to Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do, my cop-and-gangster AU set in Chicago in the early 1930s. This isn’t necessarily what did happen after – but it’s what could have. Written for @wandererriha and @scifigrl47, who asked for it.
It’s less porny than you wanted, I’m afraid. :D
Afterward, Steve wished it had been more dramatic – he wished he’d stormed into the commissioner’s office, or the mayor’s, and thrown his badge on the desk or something similar. He should have, he reflected. But instead, he simply cleaned out his desk (never very cluttered to begin with), typed his resignation letter, and left it on the blotter. He didn’t know who found it or who turned it in to the commissioner, and he was sure he didn’t care.
He should have sent a copy to Clint. Clint would have published it in the paper, and Steve’s vitriolic excoriation of Chicago’s civil service could have maybe had some effect. But he didn’t think of it until later.
He just resigned from the force, viciously and permanently, burning his bridges behind him the way Steve tended to do.
The corruption of the Chicago police department has been known to me for some time, but I could no longer collude with it when I became aware of the extent of the graft and the abandonment of any thought of civil service at its highest levels. I resign in vocal protest over the behavior of the Chicago police and the Chicago mayor’s office and its morally reprehensible refusal to serve the people to whom it swore service.
It was noon when he resigned, a brisk, chilly Friday in September of 1938. He walked out of the precinct with a few valuables in a satchel – a framed photo of himself with Tony and Pepper, a small booklet of news clippings, a favorite pen – and went to the Iron.
“Good afternoon, Detective Rogers!” called the maitre’d, as he shed his hat and coat in the reception room of the best restaurant in Chicago. “Get you seated in just a minute, I’ll have someone lay out your table.”
“No need,” he said, giving her the best smile he could muster. “I’ll just have a sandwich at the bar. Check this for me, would you?” he added, handing her a satchel. “I’ll pick it up next week.”
She looked perplexed, but nodded. “However you want, sir. Mr. Stark’s on the premesis, shall I let him know you’re here?”
“Sure, tell him I’ll be up after I eat,” he said, giving a nod to the mirrored glass of the Iron’s second-floor office, overlooking the dining room, just in case.
N’coppa a Posillipo, white background, brown stripes shirt
Cotton/linen shirt beloved by the Neapolitan gentleman. Soft spread collar to be worn with a solaro suit.
Pure mother-of-pearl buttons are sewn using the crow’s foot technique.
A peculiar detail is the sleeve stitching, that is not in line with the side seam because the sleeve is sewn only after the side has been closed. This step is unique and can be done only by the skilled hands of our artisans. Finally, the ironing and the folding are made by hand too.
Haku has lately gotten into the habit of letting us know when he’s hungry by wedging himself between the glass of his vivarium door and the plexiglass substrate barrier,* eager to see us. It’s like absolute clockwork since we feed him every Tuesday/Wednesday. After he’s had his two pinkies, he disappears back into the flowers and vines until next week’s dinner time. Typical teenager.
*(This made more sense back when we tried to use typical substrates, which his prissy ass hated. Since then, he gets nice cotton and linen towels that get switched out every other day. I bought that brown linen napkin for Thanksgiving, god damnit. Now it’s just a place for a snake to hide and poop.)