Fill for this prompt: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4108.html?thread=1382156#cmt1382156 Hope you like it!
For the fifth consecutive year, Nicolò di Génova has won the award for the least accessible person in fashion. Nicolò, thirty-year-old Italian, is a model for brands like Mr. Porter, Zegna and Burberry. His physical charms shine, in the absence of his conversation, forced and in the words of his companions, pedantic. The model has not been presented to receive the award, which we will be happy to keep with the other four […]
"Excuse me, Joe?" A voice interrupted him, and Joe looked up quickly, closing the magazine immediately. Nicolò “call-me-Nicky-please” di Genova was in front of him. Joe noticed the moment his eyes read the cover of the magazine, (a huge photo of Nicolò with an unflattering caption) and he smiled awkwardly, embarrassed to be discovered. He was alone in the restaurant, the last night of his work. He already wanted to return to the landscapes and the ruins, after a week of long and uncomfortable silences with Nicolò. And it wasn't for lack of trying on his part, but after the fourth time trying to speak to him and receiving blank stares and scowls, he gave up. At the end of the day, Nicolò vanished into his room, like every day, and Joe decided to enjoy the free hotel meal, before traveling the next day. He didn't expect Nicolò to show up there; he had ordered food to the room each time past. "What do you need?" He asked, and immediately chided himself, because his tone came out harsher than expected. "I was wondering if this is you." Nicolò slid an old magazine toward him, and Joe wished the earth would swallow him. The possibility of an analysis of the environment through pictographic evidence, by Yusuf al-Kaysani. Nicolò looked perfectly serious, and for that alone, Joe dismissed the possibility that the man had searched through the most embarrassing evidence of him as revenge; he would deserve it. After the first day, Joe had been reading in every spare moment all those magazines that criticized Nicolò's behavior, like an immature, cretinous insinuation. "Yeah, it's me," he admitted then, eager to put an end to it. Nicolò opened his mouth, and his eyes lit up like a child in a toy store. Shit, was it revenge? There was no other choice, he decided in the end. "Do you want to sit down?" Nicolò settled into the chair in front of him, holding a notebook and a pencil as well, which he squeezed tightly. He looked… delighted? That was strange, a lot, but those days had been too. "I wasn't sure if you were the author, I wanted to ask you for a week but ..." "What were you going to ask me?" Joe reread the first parts of the article. It was old, ten years old at least; he had written it in college, as part of the extra credits. He knew it had been published. That had won him a bet, but after leaving university and radically changing his future, he did not think to find that text again. He didn't even talk to his friends from that time anymore. "Do you think an adaptation of the analysis is possible? I understand that you propose the use of paintings as a method to see the change of the environment through the eyes of painters, but I wanted to know if it is possible to use the same postulates with another type of art." Joe was silent. Nicolò had spoken more at that time than in the rest of the week. He looked animated, with a smile that seemed to be seeking out of him through thin lips. He was obviously passionate about the subject. "What other kind of art?"Joe asked, hungry to see more of those smiles. "Graffiti, my advisor says that your analysis model cannot be used for works that are not “official” paintings. I had almost given up, but when I saw your name as a photographer, I thought maybe it was you." Joe's ego was getting dangerously high with every word Nicky spoke. But he knew it wasn't fair for him to be wasting his time. "Nico-Nicky, I have to confess something to you," he began, and he wished, not for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, he had never written that article. "That job ... I bet with some friends that they would accept me a job that I wrote drunk." Oh. Nicky's face fell immediately, and the man bit his lip almost cruelly, frowning. Joe assumed the conversation was over before Nicky asked again: "But can I use it? My advisor asks for the author's permission to do so." "It's a drunken job, Nicky." "It's a good job! I just need your permission, please." "Convince me," Joe replied, suddenly anxious, almost, almost flirting with Nicky. "Academically." Nicky talked and talked, his hands moving in fine detail, and Joe found himself enjoying the questions he asked Nicky, that were answered with an abundance of data. It was his bachelor's thesis, and although his advisor had told him that he didn't have to do microhistory because he was Italian, it was determined. The works in question were graffiti on the walls of a school that had previously been a barracks and long before, a convent. The paintings portrayed a vision of society in that small town, which went beyond the history that the city hall took as true. The town in question was the birthplace of Nicolò di Genova. Joe suddenly came across a piece of information that no magazine had come up with up to that point; Nicky was very private, and Joe understood that the gossip gazettes would want more nonpublic information. "Nicky, can I ask you something?" He dared, hours later, when they were already settled in the hotel chairs. They had switched to Italian, realizing that Joe spoke it well and Nicky was not able to express himself the way he wanted in English. Nicky nodded. "You don't want to be a model, do you? Nicky smiled softly, and leaned toward him, his eyes sparkling knowingly. "I hate it," he whispered. "But pays the bills and I'm saving to quit in a couple of years." "How did you get into modeling?" "I modeled for an art class in college, someone told someone, and a representative arrived. I've never seen so much money together and I accepted." Nicky laughed again and Joe stared at the pink lips and white teeth, pulling away when Nicky looked back at him. "But when I finish my degree, I would like to teach." "Oh yeah?" "As long as you give me permission to use your work. I have the previews in my room, if you want to see them." Joe opened his mouth and found himself speechless in front of a frankly amused Nicky. Nicky's voice had grown soft, a purr that reached his chest and left his stomach in fire. "You're flirting with me," he managed to say, and Nicky's smile grew bigger. "So that I give you the permission you need." "Not just for that, Joe," Nicky replied, rising from the couch. Following Nicky, Joe took the magazine and threw it in the first trash can he found.
Fill Joe/Nicky Photographer AU
Hope you like it!
For the fifth consecutive year, Nicolò di Génova has won the award for the least accessible person in fashion. Nicolò, thirty-year-old Italian, is a model for brands like Mr. Porter, Zegna and Burberry. His physical charms shine, in the absence of his conversation, forced and in the words of his companions, pedantic. The model has not been presented to receive the award, which we will be happy to keep with the other four […]
"Excuse me, Joe?" A voice interrupted him, and Joe looked up quickly, closing the magazine immediately. Nicolò “call-me-Nicky-please” di Genova was in front of him. Joe noticed the moment his eyes read the cover of the magazine, (a huge photo of Nicolò with an unflattering caption) and he smiled awkwardly, embarrassed to be discovered.
He was alone in the restaurant, the last night of his work. He already wanted to return to the landscapes and the ruins, after a week of long and uncomfortable silences with Nicolò. And it wasn't for lack of trying on his part, but after the fourth time trying to speak to him and receiving blank stares and scowls, he gave up.
At the end of the day, Nicolò vanished into his room, like every day, and Joe decided to enjoy the free hotel meal, before traveling the next day. He didn't expect Nicolò to show up there; he had ordered food to the room each time past.
"What do you need?" He asked, and immediately chided himself, because his tone came out harsher than expected.
"I was wondering if this is you." Nicolò slid an old magazine toward him, and Joe wished the earth would swallow him. The possibility of an analysis of the environment through pictographic evidence, by Yusuf al-Kaysani.
Nicolò looked perfectly serious, and for that alone, Joe dismissed the possibility that the man had searched through the most embarrassing evidence of him as revenge; he would deserve it. After the first day, Joe had been reading in every spare moment all those magazines that criticized Nicolò's behavior, like an immature, cretinous insinuation.
"Yeah, it's me," he admitted then, eager to put an end to it. Nicolò opened his mouth, and his eyes lit up like a child in a toy store. Shit, was it revenge? There was no other choice, he decided in the end. "Do you want to sit down?"
Nicolò settled into the chair in front of him, holding a notebook and a pencil as well, which he squeezed tightly. He looked… delighted? That was strange, a lot, but those days had been too.
"I wasn't sure if you were the author, I wanted to ask you for a week but ..."
"What were you going to ask me?"
Joe reread the first parts of the article. It was old, ten years old at least; he had written it in college, as part of the extra credits. He knew it had been published. That had won him a bet, but after leaving university and radically changing his future, he did not think to find that text again. He didn't even talk to his friends from that time anymore.
"Do you think an adaptation of the analysis is possible? I understand that you propose the use of paintings as a method to see the change of the environment through the eyes of painters, but I wanted to know if it is possible to use the same postulates with another type of art."
Joe was silent. Nicolò had spoken more at that time than in the rest of the week. He looked animated, with a smile that seemed to be seeking out of him through thin lips. He was obviously passionate about the subject.
"What other kind of art?"Joe asked, hungry to see more of those smiles.
"Graffiti, my advisor says that your analysis model cannot be used for works that are not “official” paintings. I had almost given up, but when I saw your name as a photographer, I thought maybe it was you."
Joe's ego was getting dangerously high with every word Nicky spoke. But he knew it wasn't fair for him to be wasting his time.
"Nico-Nicky, I have to confess something to you," he began, and he wished, not for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, he had never written that article. "That job ... I bet with some friends that they would accept me a job that I wrote drunk."
Oh. Nicky's face fell immediately, and the man bit his lip almost cruelly, frowning. Joe assumed the conversation was over before Nicky asked again:
"But can I use it? My advisor asks for the author's permission to do so."
"It's a drunken job, Nicky."
"It's a good job! I just need your permission, please."
"Convince me," Joe replied, suddenly anxious, almost, almost flirting with Nicky. "Academically."
Nicky talked and talked, his hands moving in fine detail, and Joe found himself enjoying the questions he asked Nicky, that were answered with an abundance of data. It was his bachelor's thesis, and although his advisor had told him that he didn't have to do microhistory because he was Italian, it was determined. The works in question were graffiti on the walls of a school that had previously been a barracks and long before, a convent. The paintings portrayed a vision of society in that small town, which went beyond the history that the city hall took as true.
The town in question was the birthplace of Nicolò di Genova. Joe suddenly came across a piece of information that no magazine had come up with up to that point; Nicky was very private, and Joe understood that the gossip gazettes would want more nonpublic information.
"Nicky, can I ask you something?" He dared, hours later, when they were already settled in the hotel chairs. They had switched to Italian, realizing that Joe spoke it well and Nicky was not able to express himself the way he wanted in English. Nicky nodded. "You don't want to be a model, do you?
Nicky smiled softly, and leaned toward him, his eyes sparkling knowingly.
"I hate it," he whispered. "But pays the bills and I'm saving to quit in a couple of years."
"How did you get into modeling?"
"I modeled for an art class in college, someone told someone, and a representative arrived. I've never seen so much money together and I accepted." Nicky laughed again and Joe stared at the pink lips and white teeth, pulling away when Nicky looked back at him. "But when I finish my degree, I would like to teach."
"Oh yeah?"
"As long as you give me permission to use your work. I have the previews in my room, if you want to see them."
Joe opened his mouth and found himself speechless in front of a frankly amused Nicky. Nicky's voice had grown soft, a purr that reached his chest and left his stomach in fire.
"You're flirting with me," he managed to say, and Nicky's smile grew bigger. "So that I give you the permission you need."
"Not just for that, Joe," Nicky replied, rising from the couch.
Following Nicky, Joe took the magazine and threw it in the first trash can he found.