-- the hardest part /.

[byron fiennes.]

- - - In the afternoon light of Milan, Byron mused his life was quite perfect. Of course, some things could be better - his relationship with his father, the fact his mother was dead, and so on and so forth - but he was happy with how things were for now. There were things he'd change, things he wouldn't dream of changing and things he was indecisive about, but he reasoned all that was a part of the experience that philosophers had long-since decided to call 'life'. It must be noted that Byron wasn't a philosophical individual by nature, but Nietzsche's infamous statement that referred to God - henceforth known as God is dead - was one he endorsed and did not bother to ponder on. It wasn't so much a philosophical statement as it was an outright point of fact, and that was what he liked about it. There was no thinking involved, no wondering if God was alive or dead - Nietzsche said he was dead and, in Byron's mind, Nietzsche was right. Besides, what had God ever done for him, anyway? If life's events were to be an example of how much the Father believed in one of his sons, Byron thought it much easier to not believe in the man who clearly didn't believe in him - problem solved.

- - - He shifted faintly next to the island in the middle of his kitchen, an island that was currently invaded by kitchen utensils and a cookbook open on the page dictating how to make spaghetti bolognaise. It wasn't that Byron couldn't cook, it was simply that he hadn't cooked spaghetti in a while (also known as never), and so had enlisted the help of Nigella, one of Britain's favourite chefs (known more-so for her sexy voice and curvy body than anything she actually cooked) to make his meal a success. He had the pasta in a pan, boiling gently on the hob, and glanced over at the jar of Dolmio sauce he'd been contemplating on using. Nigella said it was better if he made his own sauce, but then again, Nigella had never met the extravagantly lazy Byron Fiennes. Reaching for the jar, he hummed to himself and popped the lid off, dumping the contents into another pan and stirring it idly before setting it on the stove next to the pasta. A few personally added touches later (herbs and spices, all in jars) and Byron stood back to admire his masterpiece before realising that he'd have to dispose of the evidence. This would be a challenge.

- - - Eyes roaming around the length and breadth of his kitchen, his hands grasped Nigella's cookbook securely against his chest as he hunted for somewhere to put it - somewhere a woman, particularly a woman such as Beau, would never think of looking. His gaze settled on Macaulay's bed, and, as if sensing his master's idea, the black labrador's tail began to wag and he barked from where he sat, causing Byron to grin. "Taking one for the team, boy?" the aristocrat murmured, striding over towards the labrador's bed and shoving the book underneath Macaulay's duvet, "You'll be rewarded for your contribution to Byron's love life." He proceeded to pat the canine on the head, ruffling his ears fondly before straightening his posture and wondering whether it would be worth it to clean up the kitchen. Laziness won and he decided not to, instead running a hand through his hair and humming lightly to himself. With a few hours to spare before Beau wound up at his door, he reasoned a sneaky nap wasn't out of the question and promptly returned to his settee in the living room, flicking the television on to BBC world news and settled down. Nothing sent him to sleep faster than the news.

- - - Bolognaise bubbling away on the stove and Fiona Bruce recalling the day's events in his ear, Byron yawned and flung an arm over his eyes. He relaxed for over an hour, slipping in and out of consciousness with dreams of Devon and other places plaguing him like ghosts that wouldn't go away, causing him to twist and turn on the settee in an attempt to banish them and make himself more comfortable. Part of his consciousness dreamt of love, startling crimson red against the darkness of his eyelids, and then came images of his mother and former girlfriends, people he hadn't seen in years, Harriet, Ranulph, an old family memory from when he was eight... he opened his eyes again, groaning loudly against the news report on television. Casting his head in its general direction, Byron took in the update on the credit crunch - though it didn't affect him - and more methods to getting through it. Today's suggested method? Tighten those belts. Well, that was fucking obvious. Fuck you, finance advisor.

- - - Deciding it was about time to dress down, he rose from the settee and slunk upstairs to shower and change his clothes. It took approximately thirty minutes, by which time the meal was most probably ready and Beau was sure to be standing outside his front door ringing the bell obnoxiously. He snorted at the thought; she wasn't obnoxious as much as she was beautiful, she was just... cynical. A bit like an eclair, he told himself - tough on the outside but soft and chewy on the inside. Not that he'd ever chewed her or come close. Putting a bit of music on, the Englishman returned to the kitchen and served up the food, dumping all the pans into the sink to be cleaned up later and tossing the jar of Dolmio into his recyling bin, underneath the stacks of microwave meals and cardboard boxes he'd accumulated over the week. With everything done and Byon feeling incredibly proud of himself, the doorbell ringing was practically his godsend - he ran to the door, amidst Macaulay's excited barking and opened it every part the gentleman he'd been raised to be, a boyish grin on his face as his eyes fell upon the girl he'd invited to dinner. "You owe me a hug," Byron reminded her, stepping aside to allow her into his house, "amongst other things. I think you're supposed to be giving me CPR, too."

STATUS / finished and closed for beau loveland.
MUSIC / 42 - coldplay.
OUTFIT / clickkk.
NOTES / this post failsz @ life.

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[beau loveland]

C

[/b]areless, insulting, bruising and tied off. For whatever bizarre reason Beau found the strangest of songs hiding in her iPod. It usually housed the likes of some groups like the beatles, guns n' roses, maybe others like the kooks, and her secret guilty pleasure ... Brittney Spears, but a screamo band crying about how the lead singer was cheated on by a serial flirt hadn't ever made the cut. Curiously enough, quite a few of the words used to describe this antagonistic girl were familiar to the dubious ornament of a woman. For this reason alone, she skipped the song and fell back with an overwhelmed groan escaping her supple lips. The day before she had been invited? No. She'd been told that she'd be wined and dined by someone that she'd learned to appreciate much more at arm's length. He didn't give her a very clear idea on what the dress code was for going to have dinner at his house, and despite the fact that she'd mentioned not having to dress up for being at such a routine location she still found herself doing what any other woman did before meeting the opposite sex. Thinking. Let it be known that to leave a woman to her own thoughts about life was dangerous enough, but when it came to clothing... and a cynic... It almost proved to be impossible for her to make up her mind, being that together with being a charming little pessimist she was indecisive as well. Oh, what a blessing.

R[/b]unning her fingers through her newly washed hair, she looked at the double doors that were open wide before her, screaming for her to hurry up and choose something already! Sitting up in the king sized bed, she chewed lightly on the inside of her cheek and replayed the events of the night just before this arrangement was made. Byron had a knack for getting under her skin when he wanted to. It made Beau's head hurt to think about the possibilities that he brought to her mind with just a simple conversation. So, to stabilize her own beliefs as well as continue to maintain her sanity she had turned off her latest addiction of a laptop and invited a male friend over. Could it have been guilt that kept her from even laying a hand on him? Perhaps. In the end she had forced him to settle on the couch with only a kiss to show for the night that he had spent with her, and even then she had only barely brushed the Italian's cheek with her lips and quickly made her way to her own bedroom. Now that these events unfolded again she sighed and pushed herself off of the bed toward the closet. What to wear? What to wear? Her blue eyes ran over the shirts, jeans, would she really leave the house looking so casual? No. In the end she sided with a dress. Her comment about there being no zippers to delay themselves with was apparently being thrown out the window, or at least any possibility of it holding true was.

A[/b] soap opera in the language of Italian stallion love was playing loudly in her living room. Apparently Romeo hadn't been satisfied and indulged in some comfort food (her strawberry gelatto) and entertainment. For her own reasons, Beau did not want to know why her lotion was sitting on the coffee table or delve into the significance of Vittorio's wife sleeping with his sister in the flat screen. Scowling at the overpaid actors and actresses who were invading her space, she magically made them disappear with the touch of a button on her universal remote. Throwing the thin silver device onto her contaminated couch, she made of note finding out how to get someone to come dry clean it for her before scanning the room for any sign of her guest. Her accommodations were small but full of imposing things such as lamps that she never turned on and small souvenirs from her parent's travels. Pictures of herself and maybe one of her sister's to remind her that in the end despite the lack of attention from her father, she did get the good looks. A smug smile painted itself on her lips as she narrowed her eyes at a yellow post-it that was stuck to her bathroom mirror. The writing was messy and thankfully, not in Italian. The note was written just as eloquently as it would've been expressed to her verbally: "Neverr fucking in you. Enjoye the gouch." He was a charmer, she had to give him that. Tearing the sticky from her mirror, she crumpled it in her hand and threw it in the trash can beside the sink.

L[/b]ooking at herself in the mirror, she questioned what she was wearing and debated over pulling her hair up or not. Asked herself if this would be worth all of the trouble she was putting into it and finally resolved that yes, it would be. Most of her time spent with Byron Fiennes was most definitely worth the effort put into choosing her attire... It was actually the last thing she thought about when they were face to face with one another. Just another method of distraction from the deeper problems that people liked to run away from. Life. Finally, after brushing her teeth and applying the typically low amount of makeup she wore (gloss and mascara), she made sure that the key tucked away beneath the mat was still there and locked the door before starting for the journey to flag down a taxi. Her own car sat pristine and untouched on the street only feet away from her, but driving it would mean that she'd risk her faulty motor skills and the black detailing of the German gift from her mother. No fucking way. Looking out to the street ahead of her she made a few futile efforts at getting the attention of one of the infamous driver's of a white taxi cab, Beau found herself pulling open the door and sitting next to a heavier Italian man who kept on murmuring under his breath little nothings that she didn't comprehend. By the time he decided shut up she was pushing open the door and felt his balmy hand on her elbow. Raising an eyebrow at him, the apparently unworldly girl decided to throw a few extra euros in his hand before slamming the cab door behind her and disregarding his invasive touch.

"Byron you son of a gun." She blamed him momentarily for the sweaty guy she chose and knocked just a few notches louder than she had been doing for the past minute or so. When he finally came to the door she noticed the grin plastered on his handsome face and couldn't help the smile that followed on her lips as he held open the door for her. "Are you holding me to that?" She asked, stepping inside and eying him up and down before shutting the door and glancing at him with coy smile. Beau may not have believed in love but she did like to touch people, and by far, Byron was one of her favorites to lay hands on. Reaching up and caressing his face, she brushed her lips against his cheek and across his ear before whispering, "I need your shirt first. With that, she gave the hem of his flannel a tug and like a puppy pulled him with her to find out where the source of this enticing aroma was to be found.



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[/color][/font] byronn.
done?: je ne se yes.
outfit: saucyy hott.
muzak: cuts across the land, by the duke spirit
the other goods: ew @ ur post but not really at all.
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