Please, do come in. And I shouldn't worry too much about treading on the carpet; it's already steeped in sand, litter and entrails as it is.
L.T.B.L, if you had not already guessed, is a horror-fantasy board revolving around the fragile co-existence between several widely varying umbrella races known as Humans, Seers, Shifters and Siren. Some are part of larger factions or families, others prefer going it alone. But for the purposes of the board, all our murderous and mysterious denizens call Bournemouth - the sea-side town of tourists, entertainment and art - their home. For the time being at least.
The Endless Ones said:
"Let There Be Life"
And, apparently, never stopped to think everyone might need a closer eye kept on them.
Mad! Party
Celebrating the launch of a new tv show. Party in the park with an Alice in Wonderland theme.Weather Warning.
Thanks to one sincerely pissed off Siren an on-shore bank is about to be flooded out. Death, wonder and investigation ensues..
CREDITS
Layout, Coding, Graphics and Settings © Lexxibeth.
Canons, Grouping Titles and Subplots © Lexxi && Mae.
Video Awesomeness © BillieKIDD.
LaLa and Alex's kick ass selves © Their Respective Selves.
Untold greatness of this forum and it's stories © Various members.
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 HARCOURT, adrien james
| Adrien Harcourt |
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the. well fed ARTIST `
Group: Civilian
Posts: 41
Member No.: 38
Joined: 14-December 08
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ADRIEN JAMES HARCOURTsome people think I might be gay
but I don't swing the other way
I just wanna be a girl so damn much H U M A N . CIVILIAN My name is Adrien ,but you can call me Addsy or Haz if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. I might look like I'm well into my forties but I'm actually only thirty-five ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm 5'11" tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the scruffy side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble Sam Rockwell but personally, I don't see it... that guy's a douche. F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N SWhen people first meet Adrien, depending on what they familiar with in regards to his work, they'll be expecting one of two things. If they know of him via his private work, the stuff he has actually been able to get exhibited, they expect to meet an insightful, perhaps other worldly artsy type, an academic or at the very least a student of life. Certainly they'd expect someone in the throes of depression due to his lack of much deserved recognition, the limelight falling only on his cover girls and other commercial successes. If, however, they've come to know him only for his more renown shoots, the ones gracing the fold out issues of every major male directed publication, they're expecting a man one step away from a pornographer. A letch, a pervert and a base human being. What they are greeted by is a humble, friendly 'bloke' with a rich Bristolian accent that makes him sound like a farmer. There's a touch of awkwardness, in that he doesn't know really how he ought to present himself, what expectations he should be living up to without giving the wrong idea about who he is and how he conducts himself.
Outside of business arrangements, the awkwardness dissipates as he feels no pressure to be anyone or anything, thankfully that trait - instilled in him by his own mother - is only evident when in a formal environment. When being sociable, partying or just making his way through the world, he is just a disheveled man with a sense of quirkiness about him that never really abates. This oddness is more exaggerated to the victims of his ...er... 'scent' fetish, given that they've most likely just caught him trying to smell them, but he seems harmless once the air has been cleared and he rattles off one many excuses from his practiced dialogue. Rambling, intriguing and altogether disarming, the main thing that might put you off is his restlessness. He's a bit jittery but he has managed to develop the ability to always pick up a conversation near enough exactly where he left off. Once he's done investigating whatever piqued his interest to begin with, that is. F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N
"Oh, you know, that guy with the thing about textures."
If that crops up anywhere in a conversation, then you will know beyond a doubt that they are talking about Adrien. Corduroy, crushed velvet, silk, satin, denim, calico, embroidery, sequins. He loves the lot. Probably a remnant of his many acid trips and ecstasy dabbling, but it has gotten to be a prominent feature in his wardrobe. At least it used to be that he could co-ordinate himself, team up the correct colors or, failing that, keep everything neutral to minimize the chance of looking utterly ridiculous. But, as he has become slightly more independent from the opinions of others in his day to day life, what he likes has become more vital to him that what he suits.
For work, just because the majority of the time his commissioners expect to see a certain kind of man behind the lens of the camera and directing the shoot, he has specific outfits which he has set aside. Mostly these are ensembles he has carbon copied out of catalogues; he loathes it, but it's a means to an end and it means that no uncomfortable conversations or 'warnings' get handed out. Yes, that has happened to him before, only once, but still. A magazine editor wanted to come down in person to meet him and thought it pertinent to mention that a beaded moo-moo and crinkle-cut cargo shorts was, irrefutably, not the way to go. To avoid future embarrassment he has adopted this technique, and if caught off guard by a big society or art world event, he has numerous models and designer friends in his filafax; they think it's just adorable that he can't be trusted to dress himself.
D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G SMoles;
High on his right cheek, flesh colored.
Two on his shoulder blade.
A small, flat, dark brown one on his ankle.
Scars;
Appendectomy.
Lower left forearm, pock marks where a childhood fracture had to be set with pins.
Left knee cap where he misjudged a buzz saw. Surface damage.
Various nicks and marks on his hands, along with a couple of burn marks. Work related. W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I TA polaroid snapshot of himself done in black and gray, the roll number of his first publish photo is beneath it; Right Bicep.
Two tiny paw marks; Left Hip.
'Adrianne' in script; Across His Knuckles.. M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I NP. articular `
There are certain areas of his life in which Adrien is known to be quite fastidious, a steel rod around which the rest of his randomness clings. His clothes are always folded in a certain way, or ironed and hung up. As well known as he is for his mismatched wardrobe, he will never be hard pressed to find what he is looking for because it's in spectrum order - Red through Violet, folks - and each of those is divided up into textures. Rough, smooth, dimpled, patterned. This organization is fluent in all his walks of life. There's routines for the set up of his shoots, the temperature, the colors, the lights, the camera, the positioning, brushing his teeth and then the shooting can begin. Micro-managing started as his way of making up for his other oddities and unpredictability, and at first it did maintain a level of normalcy but, as he fixated, elaborated and obsessed, it spiraled out of control. By turns it can make him easier, and indeed more difficult, to work with, but his personal life is very limited in how much it is effected.
N. erdalicious `
That compulsiveness does have one rather substantial side effect though, one that Adrien would consider beneficial. When it comes to applying himself, he needs to know everything. He developed temporary insomnia when it came to his apprenticeship, purely because every moment he was sleeping was a moment he was not absorbing as much information as he could. In all other respects he has the worst memory possible, but it has been so long since he started out on his journey as a photographer that he cannot recall if this was always the case. {Or if retaining so much knowledge on his occupation choice just forced everything else out of his head. He has become so astute in the field that he could give a lecture hours long on it's history, process and application without ever missing a beat.
T. witchy `
Cocaine's a helluva drug. As are mushrooms, and ecstasy ... and heroine and speed and adrenaline shots. Haz has a lengthy history of reckless experimentation and it is the source of many of his eccentricities. Paranoia, for example, is a memento from his days on LSD and takes a fierce-some hold on him when he is alone and lets his mind wander. It also seems that he has an abundance of energy that cannot be blamed on ADHD and certainly could not have been forecast by his lethargic teenage years. The only explaination he can fall back on seems to be the constant top ups of 'phet he lived on during his apprenticeship; he gave it up in the end when he managed to get rid of his insomnia at long last, but the boundless energy remains. Overactive imagination, keen interest in physical activities and contant bounding around the set of his shoots.[/i]
H. umble P. ie `
Considering his success -- not all of which he feels is deserved - Adrien remains down tot earth. He doesn't put on airs and graces, nor has he tried to change too much about who he actually is to meet certain expectations, not beyond the temporary transformation for the sake of interviews anyway. In this way, he seems to be genuinely unorthodox amidst his party-hearty and fair-weather friends. However, like everyone else, he is not entirely without his vanity {more accurately, his desire for something greater} but he is a long way from being spiteful with it or thinking himself above others.
With the recognition he has managed so far, people think of him as sweet natured and warm by comparison to other photographers who laud petty publications over the heads of others. As far as Adrien concerns himself, it has a lot more to do with the rejection of the accolades he has gleaned in his commercial work; in his mind, it has ruined him, damaging any chance of appreciation for his real art. But, again, he does not wear his bitterness on the outside, knowing full well it would be laughed off by the circles he runs in.
F. lamboyant `
He wears a partial bears. He doe not seem to have ever paid more than twenty pounds for an outfit... or a hair cut. He has a broad and 'chipper' farmer's accent. Matter of fact; the man wouldn't look wholly out of place in a dock yard. So just what people must make of his graceful hand articulations and shameful floral shirts is anyone's guess. Well.. except for his mother, she being both rhyme and reason for this odd behavior. We'll get to that later though. Needless to say, he has difficulty in remember how to lead in a dance sometimes, force of habit and all that.
The lad isn't a complete dandy, being as he is he has learned how to throw a punch - and take a hit - but only ever from a reactive stand point. The wear and tear of his teenage years might have toughened him but he will never be a thug. If he wants to provoke anger in someone, he'll do it with his pictures, thanks.
A. tten-shun `
Or lack, there of. Adrien is by no means forgetful, and he is not - by and large - ignorant. His issues with keeping up with conversation are just because his attention is so... all encompassing. Easily sidetracked,
with an over active imagination, surroundings, people, conversation and intoxicants, they all get swapped around regularly. For example, he had, at one point, three apartments and a bedsit, and yet on a whim decided to live on the street for three days to 'try it out'. He'll often walk out of a conversation without even realizing, striding over to whatever caught his eye, observe, come back, and not quite be certain whether he dreamed it or done it for real. Frustrating for many, he attracts shallow relationships with people who enjoy the novelty of befriending an E-list freak and put up with his lack of interest because 'that's so Adrien'.
S. ecretive `
The fact is, all indications to the contrary, Adrien is always wearing at least half a mask. Certain things, like being moved to tears by poetry, art, prose, or being concerned about the latest horror in the paper, generally expressing a reactive emotion, he is at home with. That he could share with the world because, in his mind, real empathy makes him human and it's possibly why his work is considered so stand alone. But then, as an almost complete contradiction, he will never give up much of himself that might provoke reaction in the same way.
There is little he would love more than to have a best friend, a confidant, but his fear of a repeat of what happened between himself and his father is too great. The pressure is off for him to share and be genuinely open and trust in the people he socializes with because, well, they couldn't care less. He dreads being mocked for the way he thinks. He knows he doesn't act like anyone else, and has made his peace with that, but he will not risk being betrayed again. No one knows how damn much he wants to no longer rely on glamour work, how lonely he gets, how depressed he is. No wonder the man is such a tripper. S H O W . O F FAmbient music, which Adrien himself is very fond of, is something he shares a rather prominent trait with. His whole appearance and self display is so shambling and unconcerned, people find it very easy to become comfortable in his presence. His quirks, his oddities all make him quite comical, and the man himself will laugh even though he isn't entirely in on the joke.
E P I C . F A I L
Authority does not come easily to Adrien. He has no command in his voice, no solidarity in his stance and no enthusiasm in what he says. He slouches his posture when he's stood still for too long and could easily fall into the background were it not for the occasional mumbled rant or flourish of his hands - lets not forget that psychedelic wardrobe of his either!
The lad cannot articulate to save is life. He had a basic education but his interest was in the arts, not the academic. English took a back seat and he is suffering for it now. It does not help that he thinks along an entirely different wavelength to everyone else too; try as he might to vocalise the ideas and imagery rolling around inside his head, the right words evade him. At this point, not even remedial poetry and prose sessions could help him out.
T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T SAn artists intuition is perhaps his only natural 'trick'. Without even really putting a conscious effort, he can go about arranging a set and setting up his shots without going back to peer through the lens more than once or twice. It is not something he considers and, considering how long he has been a photographer now, his subjects just put it down to practice and experience. It's not something they acknowledge, not really associating with that side of the shoot. Put another photographer in the same room to observe him and they would spot it as unusual within minutes.. if only that didn't put him under pressure and cause him to start over thinking. As it is, he has never unknowingly been in the same room as another professional, so this talent has never come under a worthy scrutiny. L I K E SSkateboarding. The Beatles. Jaw breakers. The personas 'fake' people create for themselves. Sculpture. Burlesque. Trance music. The smell of development fluid. Tinted glasses. Keeping a journal. Karaoke. Hugs. Ghost stories. Tights with ladders in.TEXTURES. Laughing at things that aren't funny. Snakeskin. Mummy. D I S L I K E SHeroin. UV lighting. Motorbikes. Too much clutter. Not enough clutter. Fish. Cheese. Photoshopping models. Being asked input on a girl's outfit. Having a better female fashion sense than a straight man ought to. Militant lesbians. The look of disappointment people sometimes wear when they meet him. His father. D O W N L O W'Adrianne', the name scribbled over his knuckles, is known as an inside joke that only Adrien is in on. It is actually his confession to the world. The only woman he has ever loved, apart from his mother, obviously. And... his secret identity..
He would be happy to admit that he finds men as attractive as women and has even had one or two homosexual encounters - mostly with men who are as close to a woman as you can find. But, still, he loves his feminine shapes and forms, and the majority of his one night stands - and all his longer relationships - have been with girls.
Holding on to memories is a natural love for a photographer. And, as many people often say, smells are a lot more effective in summoning memories than imagery. So, whether that's where the connection comes from or not, more than a handful of people have noticed that he sniffs... things. People mostly, and he can become suddenly ignorant of personal boundaries if a certain scent gets his attention. I M M E D I A T EM. other Dearest `
Gemma Louise Harcourt.
The center of his universe and the predominant influence in his life. If women aren't put off by his distance from them or his desire to try on every perfume they own, then the hours he spends on his phone to this woman would be. He gets defensive about people saying anything untoward about their own maternal figures and so help you god if you try a 'yo momma' joke on him. With a Father that worked odd shifts and spent the rest of his free time drinking, in his own mind his Dad is more like an Uncle.
So far, all the relationships that he has been the one to end, have been because the people in question weren't quite enough like his mother. Not that he's aware of it.
F. ather, where art thou `
Frank Gregory Harcourt.
A night shift worker in a factory close to the housing estate Adrien grew up on, the boy and his father have not ever really seen eye to eye. Something which long periods of passing like ships in a night started and finished with alcoholism and finally the 'discovery' of Adrianne. A gruff, poorly educated man with no appreciation for anything more tasteful than a slap up meal or a bevvy with a decent head of foam on it. Adrien has not spoken directly to his father for something like 10 years. He has never once attended an opening ceremony nor acknowledged Adrien's success. S I G N I F I C A N T____ Miller
One of the few exceptions to his 'no real friends' rule. Miller and Adrien have formed an odd sort of friendship that started out with Miller attending a gallery and expecting to see a 'hall of tits' style parade. Not that he didn't like what he saw, he would tell the man at the bar beside him, but he rather wished he had brought his girlfriend along instead of the other guys. Adrien, the aforementioned man at the refreshments bar, laughed long and hard and found it the most ludicrous thing in the world. That anyone would come down here with the expectation of a pornographic array of tit-ilating imagery, at 7pm in the evening. Well, once he had calmed himself and everyone looked away again, Harcourt revealed that he was the photographer.
Miller stumbled upon an opportunity to talk with Adrien about both sides of his 'art'. Other people discussed one and ignored the other, the art house types and a men's mag editors, equally embarrassed by the alternative face on the coin. A couple of drinks later, Miller's friends had left but he himself stayed on to talk. Adrien has com to find a confidant in him, able to talk a little more openly and any shame or awkwardness he might begin to feel is happily laughed and assured away.
Just recently, however, Miller has become.. distant. Ironic and saddening, Harcourt is feeling nervous about the state of their friendship. Paranoia is creeping in and he is starting to believe that his theories on the untrustworthy qualities of man are true after all.
Branwyn Summer
Harcourt has been struggling to be recognized for his real work, his passion, his art, for who knows just how many years. From the first time he even picked up a camera perhaps. Instead, to make ends meet, he has debased himself and works for a number of regional men's magazines. Now, don't get me wrong, he's just as good at setting up a glamor shoot as he is his own endeavors, he's no slacker after all, but one model in particular seems determined to see him come undone.
He doesn't know who she is, for she never speaks much and doesn't ask for payment. But once every five years she has come to visit him, this year will make the third time. Unlike Harcourt, this woman has not one wrinkle added around her eyes, her chest is as pert as ever and her smile is just as enchanting as it always was. Try as he might to get to know her, coax her into conversation, he always fails and can never find her until she comes for him. She is his living, breathing Dorian Grey. T H I N G S . I V E . S E E NAdrien was born into the world, a child that shouldn't have been and under the shadow of a sister that preceded him. Said sister, Adrien would later come to learn, would have been called Adrianne.
Gemma, his mother, was told even before she met her husband that childbirth would be an extremely hazardous endeavor. Abused beyond repair by a family friend, and later raped on an infrequent - and the last - night out she went on, her body's reproductive system had shut down thanks to the trauma of it all. However, when she met her husband, and he proved himself persistent and kind - where Gemma was concerned at least - she realized just how badly she wanted to have a baby. A girl, point of fact. A little girl that would grow up to be the woman she couldn't be, who would have all the protection and every opportunity she would ever need.
Arduous as it was, she went through years of physical therapy and hormone treatments, determined to bear the fruit of their marriage herself before she resorted to surrogacy. After five years and many, many failed attempts, they at long last achieved a viable baby. A girl, no less, and everything she had dreamed of. The baby was healthy and survived up until the point where it had a clearly discernible heart beat. Adrienne was in their lives for all of two weeks. Two weeks spent preparing and buying clothes and telling all the relatives. Two weeks of complete and utter ecstasy.
After the miscarriage, Gemma was destroyed. She slept in the nursery, on the floor, curled up beneath the elegantly decorated crib that was to be for her princess. She would weep for hours, wrapping her arms around her sides. Gemma would pick up the plush animals that lined the cradle and nestle them against her, closing her eyes and imagining her swaddled child. It would take two years before she was ready to try again, resuming her therapies whilst riding the waves of Frank's optimism. She had none of her own.
3 months and they were pregnant, another few and they found out it was a boy. Gemma wore a smile and glowed with the joy that she ought to have done. But it was still a boy by her second scan, then again come her third and all the ones she paid for herself when the NHS would no longer cover it. A boy. A little boy with a little winky who would grow up into a man who could fend for himself and would want everything to do with his father and nothing to do with his mother. Or so she thought.
Before they could prepare themselves, they found that, having spent all their savings trying to conceive and then creating the nursery to perfection - not to mention a redecoration - all of a sudden the bills were hard to meet with a third insatiable mouth to feed and an ever growing back to clothe. Frank was forced to take another job with better pay, which meant that with his limited skills, it was just going to have to be a change in shift. He would work nights, all week and most weekends, to provide for his wife and his first born son. If Frank was honest, the only thing he begrudged was the loss of time. He had gotten what he had always, silently, wanted, and would have a child to carry the family name. Let Gemma call him Adrien, if she wanted, Harcourt was the part that mattered to him.
Adrien, then, would grow up under his Mother's sole ministrations. They would play the games she knew how to play. Would hop scotch, would skip, would sew, would play with dolls. And... they would play dress up. Gemma could not see the harm it would do, to have her son wear the occasional dress or to wear his hair a little longer. Adrianne, oops (she really had to stop calling him that), ADRIEN seemed to be happy and she certainly was. She was getting to raise a daughter after all, in a small way, and no one was ever the wiser. What with the lack of Fatherly presence, and the careful lessons Gemma embedded to make sure Adrien's extracurricular activities never came to the attention of his class mates and teachers.
As he moved into young adulthood, fending his way through school when he was the last to kick up a fuss about having to learn dance as part of phys ed, or to cycle through the design technology classes and did well in textiles and cooking, the only glaringly obvious feminine traits he had were his sensitivity and kids do not really become aware of such things until they venture into their teens. His secret was safe. He could go on enjoying silk and lace for a couple more years.
Aged 16, Adrien left school and, as he had always suspected, college was not really an option. His father, who was still working nights, was no longer so content with being the sole breadwinner. Not when, on his rare days off, his blessed Son didn't know how to kick a ball and expressed no interest in rugby, not even watching a game on the television. He had needed something else to fill his time, and the off licenses never seemed to close. This drinking habit meant money was even tighter, neither Gemma nor the lad had the stones to step in and yank the bottle from Frank's mouth, and Adrien didn't dare tell his Dad he wanted to study Art. So, he started working.
In time his resume would read like a what's what of bizarre jobs. God knows why, maybe it was just his unorthodox upbringing, making his mind work differently. There was nothing he shied away from, fish monger, wood plainer, blow up doll factory worker, stapler of magazines. Some of the jobs, like bin man, paid remarkably well (probably because nobody wanted them) leaving him with cash enough to contribute to the house bills whilst leaving him petty cash for his own ends.
Well, let it never be said he didn't pick up anything from his Dad. Addiction, for instance. Adrien had dabbled in drink, but, as always, he wanted to try everything. Like with jobs, he began hopping from one to the other, starting off fairly small scale and working his way through. Unfortunately, the circles of people he was introducing himself to were not really interested in making real friends, just someone to sell to on a regular basis. It wasn't too long before he was introduced to his worst nightmare. Heroin.
One hit was all it took and he was no better than his Father. Stopping out until all hours, caked out on some stranger's floor, his eyes rolled back up into his head. He stopped being so careful about his 'secret', drifting through the world and touching things, smelling things, even tasting things - although that last one is something anybody would outgrow quickly. He would wear stockings under his trousers, silk scarves around his wrists in case he got the urge to stroke something soft. He would laze around the house, much to his mother's despair, and would eventually be caught in his bedroom, trussed up in a bra and thong when his Father boomed into the room with the intention of staging an intervention.
Placed into rehab, his Father hoping against hope that what he had seen was just a byproduct of the drugs. Adrien didn't know what he was more ashamed of. Once he was sober, he was damn certain of how sorry he was to his Mum, recalling the horror on her face, but where his Dad was considered, he felt sorrier for himself.
Rehab was another door opening for Adrien. It gave him an opportunity that had previously been denied. Working for a living, suddenly having cash to splash, college and his ambitions had been forgotten and left behind him. Whilst in his institute cell, time to contemplate, he had learned to appreciate the value of memories and always keeping hold of something. He had started sketching again, and painting. When the councilors spotted his particular flair as something as a ray of hope, setting him up with a meeting of sorts with a local photographer was the natural next step.
The end result was an apprenticeship where Adrien got to be equipped with the knowledge he needed whilst being a lackey and running back and forth around shoots of swimsuit models and topless babes. After all, it was all practically applicable to whatever type of shoot was being set up. He was given a little freedom to construct his own sessions and eventually give his input on lighting and arrangement on his own mentor's shoots without getting his wrists slapped.
At this time Adrien was still living with his parents. When he had gotten out, his Mother had been the exact same. Idolizing her fragile baby and chalking it up to that old addage; 'boys will be boys, after all.' Frank, his Father, would not be so convinced that the phrase entirely applied, still haunted by how he had come upon Adrien the day before he was shot off to rehabilitation. His Father, subdued and spending more time at home than the pub for the first time in who knew how many years, was going to be keeping a close eye on his son. {The coniditions of Adrien's release meant that he was either at work or at home at any given time and it was none negotiable.}
Dress up sessions with Mum had stopped a long time ago, phased out shortly before primary school - aged 11 - but continued on a regular basis without supervision. The rules of his release were smothering, but it would not keep the lad, now some 20 years old, from his first love. He would bound upstairs straight after work, truss himself in his finest for an hour or two, just to flounce around his bedroom, and then change back in time for dinner with - usually- just his Mother.
However, as previously mentioned, Frank was spending more time at home these days, concerned for the state of his tiny family of three without him around to look after them.
About a week before the incident was when Harcourt had first met Summer, he had been alone in the studio after a celebratory party held by his co-workers, supporters and mentor, cheering his successful debut gallery. She had come to find him, had her picture taken, bewitched him. And left. He had become so smitten, so lost in a world of thoughts and ideas brought on every time he envisioned her face, the way she moved, the sound of her voice, even her body scent. Maybe that was why he had simply not thought to bother with the lock on his bedroom door when ,given a half day off from his mentor, he had gotten home.
He had not been listening for footsteps on the landing either. Had not paid attention to the breeze created as the door sailed open on it's hinge.
All hell had broken loose in the Harcourt household. With his Mother out at the shops, there was no one to stop this first, only, yet long time coming instance of domestic abuse. Adrien's face had been pummeled, bones broken and this room and all his personal belongings ruined. Within half an hour he had gone from promising photographer on her other side of his apprenticeship, mostly clean and happily besotted with a scarf left behind by a mysterious brunette.. to an inch from death and homeless.
Beyond Mother, Father and Son, the best that anyone knew was that some old dealer of Haz had come looking for him, and - for fear of a repeat scene of the carnage - Adrien had left his family home for the sake of his parents. His mentor, deeply invested in Adrien, was the only one who didn't delve into these rumors. Instead, without question or ceremony, he let the lad live in the flat above the studio until he could get on his feet again. Whatever he thought the story was, he kept it to himself.
H E R E . A N D . N O WStriking out on his own following a successful 'solo' career in the glamor industry, Adrien also managed to get one or two of his own galleries showcased around London and Bournemouth along the way. However, that hasn't been enough to separate him from association with his mentor. Because of his glamor based career, Adrien's artistic one is being held back, he tried to move away physically, making a transition from Bristol to the another seaside city, Bournemouth. That didn't change the fact that his name has been credited in countless regional men's magazines, not to mention he has masses of model friends toting his flag to their agencies. He cannot seem to escape his past and so, because he can't complain when there's money in the bank, he ploughs on silently.
He's back into drugs, though he steers clear of heroin these days, and spends his free time with either a camera in his hands or a tab of lsd on his tongue, thinking wistfully of the woman who has now visited him twice. She hasn't aged a day, and all his best ideas and revelations come to him when he thinks about her face.  You can call me lexxi and I'm in the GMT time zone. You guys suckered me in with the beautiful canons... which more people should take. and I guess I'll be sticking around to post sooo many times per week. Tell you something though, you bitches need to take more canons!
the. well fed ARTIST ` R P . SA M P L ESee Thane Hunter, Fiona Buckley and Amadeo Nicci.
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